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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

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the way we were / the way we are - chapter 14 - nothing left for you

summary: Austria is beautiful, you stay out of Ultron’s way, and things take an unexpected turn.

warnings: angst, angst, and more angst

a/n: oh I remember writing this and ACHING I just want bucky to be happy

| series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 |

Late the next morning, the team departs for the African Coast, and you’re ready to leave for Europe as soon as inhumanly possible.

The plan is a long-shot, and you know it. When you tell Steve, his face is nearly unreadable, but he gives you the go-ahead. “It’s a start,” he tells you.

Sam is hungover, but agreeable enough, and you nearly fall over when Tony hands you the keys to one of the Quinjets. “Just don’t make a mess of the seats, okay?”

You hug him hard in response. Then they’re gone, and so are you.

The flight to Austria is quiet, and you spend most of the ride studying the files again. You can feel Sam watching you out of the corner of his eye, but the look on his face is mostly of concern.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” he shrugs. “Steve just asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t think he meant literally.”

Sam’s brows raise. “Someone is touchy this morning.”

“Sorry,” you say, blowing out a breath. “I’m just…anxious.”

He goes quiet, just giving you a tight nod. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again. “You really think he remembers you? After…everything?”

You pull at your bare knuckle. Its become a nervous habit, of sorts.

“I do.”

When the Enhanced slips into his mind, shows him the dance hall in Brooklyn, Steve’s knees nearly give out.

The place is full, jammed with some faces he recognizes, others he doesn’t. A familiar song echoes through the hall, and as he walks through, his eyes land on two familiar figures on the dance floor.

He blinks, and a spotlight appears, illuminating the two of you. You’re smiling and laughing, as beautiful as you were the day you married Bucky. Steve remembers every detail, your pretty white dress, the gold rings you’d exchanged, the beaming grin that didn’t leave Buck’s face the whole day.

The two of you sway in the spotlight. Bucky holds your hand in his own, clasped to his chest, and there are easy smiles on both your faces.

You were perfectly matched, in every sense.

“Steve?” a familiar voice calls, and he turns to see Peggy Carter standing before him, dressed in blue, her lips painted a sinful red colour. “Are you ready for our dance?”

The music cuts off, and when Steve looks back, you and Bucky are gone.

“The war is over, Steve. We can go home. Imagine it!”

He turns back to Peggy, but she’s gone too. He spins on his heel. The dance hall is empty.

Something glints at him in the middle of the dance floor, and he runs over to it quickly.

There, in a small pile on the floor, sits a set of silver dog tags, and two golden rings.

Not long after the Quinjet touches down in Austria, a message comes through from Maria on your phone. News articles and videos, depicting the destruction caused by the Hulk and Iron Man in Johannesburg. They haven’t called for Banner’s arrest, is the message attached. Yet.

A text from Steve comes in a little while later, while you and Sam are canvassing the streets, searching for any clues, any signs, any trace of Bucky. Laying low. Any news?

Nothing yet, you type back. Heard you took a hit.

I’ll shake it off, is his only reply.

You start with a few of the safe houses, but each of them is empty. Completely. Not a book out of place, not a speck of dust shifted. After that, frustrated as anything, you and Sam make your way to where the HYDRA facility had once stood. It’s surrounded by forest now, but Steve had marked it perfectly on your map. You take a path through the trees on foot, while Sam scouts overhead, commenting multiple times that your revamp of the Falcon suit is much more comfortable than the army issue.

All that’s left of the facility is rubble, and Sam continues to scout while you pick through it, looking for anything Bucky might have left behind. If he was even here.

Sam keeps circling overhead, and you make your way to the tree line that circles where the facility once stood. “What exactly are you looking for here?” Sam asks, his voice loud through the com link in your ear. “What kind of sign would he have left you?”

You let out a sigh, bracing your hands against a tree. “I don’t know,” you respond finally, feeling defeated.

What if him leaving the tags behind was his way of saying goodbye? What if you’re wrong, and he doesn’t want to be found?

You spend a few days in Austria, using the safe houses to your advantage and keeping your eyes peeled. Vienna is beautiful – you’d always wanted to see it – and you and Sam wander the city, taking in the sights. Steve keeps you updated on the Ultron problem as best he can, and Tony checks in to make sure you’re keeping your distance. Seoul is far enough not to pose a threat, but when things start to turn sour in Sokovia, they both want you the hell out of dodge.

But you’re not ready to give up.

“I’m staying put,” you tell Tony. “If Ultron gets any closer, I’m gone, but I can’t leave. Not yet.”

Tony grumbles, but yields. “No sign of the hubby?”

“Goodbye, Tony. Be safe.”

It’s a few more days after that, and you watch most of the fight in Sokovia unfold over the news, Maria sharing updates when she has them. You nearly fall over when Fury shows up and saves the day, you and Sam watching everything unfold from the security feeds on your tablet. Steve checks in when they’ve returned to New York, mostly intact, and asks when you’ll be coming back. You’re still hesitant, but you’re half sure Sam is ready to throttle you for being so stubborn. So you promise to get on the Quinjet the next day.

You leave the safe house that night for a snack, heading for the little bodega around the corner you’ve been frequenting. Sam is already asleep, unsurprisingly; you’ve been quite the night owl lately. As soon as your hand twists the knob, a piece of paper slides through the crack beneath the door, hitting your boots. You wrench the door open, but there’s no one there.

You pick up the piece of paper; it’s folded in half, clearly torn from a book. The title of the book is printed on the front, and it makes your heart leap in your chest. You unfold the paper, and written inside is an address. Right there in Vienna.

You take a gun with you, just to be safe. Just a precaution, nothing more. You’ve gotten in the habit of having one on you, and the repulsor suit Tony had made for you wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. It didn’t fly, and it wasn’t fire engine red, but even still.

The address leads you to a bookstore in a quiet part of the city, the streets empty and silent. You can’t stop yourself from grinning. You pull your hood up, stuff your hands in your pockets, try to look as normal as possible. The few people that are on the sidewalk don’t really glance your way, and you kill time inspecting the display in the front window. You can’t make out any of the titles; you don’t speak German.

You’ve been standing there less than five minutes when a figure appears a few steps behind you, his face obscured in the reflection.

“You need to stop looking for me,” an all too familiar voice murmurs. “I’m not who I used to be. I’m not who you think I am.”

Bucky. You can feel the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

“You are. I know you are. I saw it in your eyes, that day in D.C., after you pulled Steve from the river.”

“After I shot you?”

You turn, slowly, carefully, like he’s a scared animal. He is, in a way. “You didn’t shoot me. That wasn’t you.”

“But I still did it.” Your heart breaks in your chest. He’s wearing a black jacket, a dark green shirt peeking out from underneath. There’s a hat on his head, the brim obscuring his eyes, and he’s got both hands stuffed in his pockets. For a moment, you’re mirror images of each other, holding the same stance, silently inspecting each other.

There’s a tingling in your fingers as you pull one hand from your pocket, lift it in the air between you. He flinches at first, and you pull back, your shoulders bumping the glass. But you watch as he pulls his (flesh) hand from his own pocket, reaches up and pulls the hat off his head. His hair is long, but half of it is tied up, tendrils brushing his shoulders and curling against the back of his neck.

And he’s…broad. Broader than you remember, broader that he’d looked in that assassin’s outfit back in Washington. The muscle on him is on par with Steve, and you have to stop yourself from reaching out and dragging your hand down his chest.

But what really gets you, is the eyes.

Blue fire.

“I know,” you say quietly, your voice shaking. You swallow, try again. “I know what they did to you.”

“How are you alive?” he asks, and it’s nearly unnoticeable, but he shuffles a few inches towards you.

You can’t look away from his face. You’re scared if you blink, he’ll disappear. “It’s a long story. I was asleep for a very long time.”

He looks confused, but accepts the answer. “How do I know that…that they didn’t send you?”

You blink, and then it dawns on you. HYDRA. “I’d offer you something that only you and I would know,” you say, choosing your words carefully, “but I don’t know what you remember.”

“You’re the only thing I remember so far. You and…” He trails off, brow creasing. “Him. Sort of. More you than him.”

“Steve.”

He nods. “Steve.”

You chew your lip for a moment, scouring your brain. Then it clicks. “The night before you shipped out, we went dancing. You asked me to look out for Steve – he was a lot…smaller back then – and I got mad that I was losing you to the war. And you told me that you-”

“I told you I wasn’t in the business of breaking my promises,” he finishes, closing the distance so you’re standing nearly toe to toe. His hand reaches for the one not in your pocket, and your fingers thread through each other easily. It steals the breath from your lungs. “Especially not to you. Never to you.”

Slowly, you pull your other hand from your pocket. You hesitate, hand hovering in the air, but he gives you a slight nod, and your palm cups his cheek, your thumb swiping across his skin. You can feel his jaw tense beneath your hand, but he doesn’t back away.

“You were the first thing that came back,” he murmurs, and it takes you a second to realize that your hands are shaking. “You were the only thing that stayed. Always. No matter what they did to me.” His hand tightens on yours. “What happened in D.C., I…”

Your thumb drops, brushing over his mouth, and you don’t miss the way his breath hitches in his throat. “It’s okay. It wasn’t you. I know that.”

“But it was,” he says, and you can see the pain in his eyes. But they’re still blue. He’s still him. “It’s like…I can’t explain it. He had control, he was pulling the trigger, and I had to watch.”

You nod slightly. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I learned how to defend myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says, and your chest pangs again. “Not from me. And I…I don’t know if I can control it. I don’t know if…he’ll come back. What if I’m not strong enough?”

You pull your hand from his grip, lift it to his face so you’re holding his head between your hands. His hair is just brushing your fingertips, and when you feel a hand on your hip, a zap of electricity zips down your spine. “You are strong enough. I know you are. You’re James Buchanan Barnes, I married you in the March of 1943. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved; the only man I will ever love. And I-”

“My name is Bucky,” he whispers.

Then he’s kissing you.

All at once, it’s like every nerve in your body is set alight, fireworks exploding behind your eyes. Seventy years, you realize, it’s been seventy years since you were last kissed. Since Bucky kissed you. Since he held you, since you felt his body against yours. Seventy years.

And yet, it feels like it was just yesterday.

His mouth is soft and warm against yours, and he tastes the same as you remember. The hand at your hip snakes around you, palm flattening at the small of your back and pushing your body into his. It pulls a quiet gasp from you, and he swallows the noise, tongue slipping between your lips, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. Your hands dive into his hair, nearly yanking it from the half bun it’s in and you can’t stop your hips from sliding against his.

It’s been seventy years.

He pulls back, both of you breathless, and his other hand braces against the window behind you, metal fist resting on the glass. It glints in the streetlights and catches your eye. You let go of his face with one hand, reach out and brush your fingers along the metal. It seems to react under your touch, the metal plates whirring and adjusting.

“Can…can I see it?” you ask, and you can see the muscle in his jaw twitch. “The arm.”

He nods, leans in and brushes his lips against yours for a moment. It’s sweet, fleeting, everything you’d been missing. “Not here.”

You walk through the streets of Vienna, and the entire way, Bucky refuses to let go of your hand. His skin is nearly clammy against yours, but you don’t care. You let him lead you, following him down back alleys and through empty streets. It’s nearly half an hour from the bookstore, but you don’t care. You’d follow him anywhere. lol l

The apartment he’s staying in clearly belongs to someone else. It makes sense, you realize; you’d been checking HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. safe houses, while Bucky had been hiding in plain sight. “They’re on vacation,” he supplies as he lets you inside. “I checked before I let myself in.”

You nod, glancing around the darkened space. “Smart.”

He’s cleared some space for himself in the living room, and there’s a pillow and a blanket spread across the floor, a large backpack sitting beside it. Ready to go at a moment’s notice, you realize. In case the wrong person comes looking.

He’s quiet as he locks the door behind you, pulls a heavy chest of drawers in front of it. Then he walks over to you, shrugs out of his jacket, and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing them both aside.

You inhale sharply, and press your fingers to your lips.

The arm is impressive, but you’re more preoccupied with the broad expanse of his body. There’s a smattering of hair across his chest, deep lines defining his stomach, and you can’t deny the desire that’s been building since he appeared at the bookstore. He’s…glorious, but your eyes are quickly drawn to the metal, where it’s implanted into his shoulder, and the scarring around the edges. They’re thick, angry scars, and your stomach falls into your feet when you realize…

They look like claw marks.

You remember what you and Steve had concluded, that day in the car.

It took twenty years to break him.

Bucky is silent, watching you look him over. His jaw is clenched, and his hands are fisted at his sides. Slowly, carefully, you take a step towards him, your hand lifting again. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Not so much anymore. Sometimes, but not always.” His eyes dart from your lifted hand to your face and back again, then he reaches up with his flesh hand and takes your wrist. He tugs lightly on your arm, and presses your palm against his chest, right over his heart. Your fingertips just brush the metal plates, the scars ridged beneath your skin.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs, and you have to blink hard against the tears that spring in your eyes. “You were the only thing I remembered, but I thought you were gone.”

“So did I,” you admit, and he presses his lips to your forehead. “I thought I lost you too.”

“You still haven’t told me how you’re still here.”

Your hand flexes against his chest. “It’s a long story, but I…I went into the ice with Steve. I got the same serum he did, as it turns out, and it kept me alive. I was weak when I woke up again, but Tony found a solution. And here I am.”

Something in his face changes. “Tony?”

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “Tony Stark.”

Bucky steps away from you, his gaze going dark, body moving out of your reach. “You have to go.”

You blink. “What?”

“You need to leave, Y/N,” he says, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him say your name in seventy years. “He can’t find me. Him or Steve.”

You’re confused as all hell, but the response is instant. “Then I won’t tell him,” you say, taking a step towards him. “I won’t tell Steve, or Tony. I won’t tell them where you are. Just let me stay. Let me stay here with you.”

“No.”

“We could leave,” you continue, and you can hear the pleading in your own voice. “We could just go, disappear, find some island in the middle of the ocean and just live.”

Bucky shakes his head, eyes looking past you, refusing to meet your own. “This isn’t the life I wanted for you,” he says.

Your jaw drops. “You think I wanted this? I wanted Brooklyn, in 1945. I wanted to go home and grow old with you. Instead I got seventy years on ice and you got…” You trail off, not sure what to call it.

“Don’t,” is all he says.

“I just want to be with you, Bucky. That’s all.”

He shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous. I could hurt you, or someone else could, and I-”

You cut him off. “I’m not some fragile little thing anymore. I’m just as strong as you are.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” you throw back, “you’re just choosing not to.”

He shakes his head again, picks his shirt up off the floor and pulls it over his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t make me leave.”

His eyes meet yours finally, blue and wet with tears. “I have to. Steve will…Steve will take care of you. I can’t.”

Your gaze hardens. “I can take care of myself.” It’s a losing battle, you realize. He’s not budging. “I won’t tell them where you are. But you should find a new place. It would be easy enough to trace me here. Tony knows how.”

He just nods, hand fisting at his sides once more.

Before you can say anything else, before you can throw yourself back into his arms and refuse to let go, you turn on your heel and stalk towards the door. You grab the drawers blocking the door with one hand, shove it to the side, and it topples over, slamming into the ground. You hear Bucky’s sharp inhale, but you don’t look over your shoulder. You can’t.

Sam is awake when you return to the safe house. “Where’d you disappear to?” he asks. “Find something?”

“No,” you reply instantly, shaking your head. “I didn’t find anything.”

—————

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#the way we were / the way we are #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes smut #the winter soldier fic #the winter soldier smut #bucky barnes x y/n #my fics

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yeet-me-dad-dy · 3 years

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Happy Birthday Mammon, '21

Warnings: Smooches

Summary: You take Mammon to the human realm for his birthday.

Characters: Mammon x GN Reader

Fandom: Obey Me! Shall we date?

You woke early the day of Mammon’s birthday, before anyone but Lucifer was up, and padded on bare feet to his bedroom. The door was cracked, and soft orange light spilled lazily into the hall. You pushed the door open, stepped in, and closed it silently behind you. Lucifer stood in front of his wardrobe as he got dressed.

“Morning,” you greeted with a yawn.

“Good morning,” he replied as he turned toward you with a lazy smile.

“Is everything set for today?”

He nodded and finished buttoning his shirt, then reached for his vest.

“Barbatos is expecting you before dinner tonight, and then tomorrow around noon. My D.D.D is on and charged, should you need anything or Mammon gets into trouble, and my brothers have been instructed to be nice to him… As nice as they can be, anyway.”

You smiled and released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. If Lucifer was confident that all was prepared, then you could relax. You just really wanted Mammon’s birthday to be perfect.

“Thanks for helping me with this, Lucifer,” you said.

“Of course. Mammon may be the scummiest of us, but I suppose he does deserve a good day now and then.”

You frowned and crossed your arms over your chest. You hated when they said things like that about him.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “That’s a habit I’m actively trying to break.”

“You’re forgiven,” you chuckled.

You didn’t need to get into another fight about how the brothers treat Mammon. You’d already thoroughly ripped into each of them more than once. Gratefully, they seemed to be trying to be nicer, at the very least.

“Mammon is very lucky to have you, you know,” Lucifer said, suddenly serious. “You’re good for him. You make him happy, and I’m very glad that he has you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily you knew that he didn’t need an answer. You thanked him one last time before you returned to your room to make some phone calls.

You made the brothers a human world breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage, and fresh fruits. Afterward, Mammon sheepishly invited you to go out to the casinos and shops with him, which you gladly agreed to. The demon never stopped grinning, even when he lost money, and he was much handsier than normal, from linking his arm with yours, to pulling you onto his lap while he played at the tables, to hugging you when he won big. He even bought you some things. Very un-Mammon-like.

“Man, I’m feeling GOOD today!” he exclaimed as you left the casino hand in hand.

“Well, it is your birthday,” you chuckled.

He laughed and swung his arm back and forth like a child, taking your hand with it.

“Nah, I think it’s cuz you’re here. You’re like my lucky charm.”

You smiled and tried to hide the blush that dusted your cheeks. You quickly checked your watch, and your stomach twisted with both excitement and anxiety. It was time.

“C’mon, Mammon, let’s head to Diavolo’s castle. I have a surprise for you.”

His eyes went wide and his face lit up.

“Don’t tell me ya got him to give me one of those big expensive artifacts he keeps chained down so that I can’t steal it!”

You laughed and pulled him along behind you.

“Sorry, not this time. I think you’ll like what I have planned, though.”

You walked hand-in-hand through the city, beneath colorful lights and past beautiful architecture. The Devildom truly was beautiful. Finally, the castle loomed menacingly before you, but instead of fear, you felt comfort and a sense of home. After all, Diavolo was the only reason you had come to the Devildom to begin with. You pushed the heavy front door open and Mammon followed you in. Barbatos was waiting for you, just as Lucifer had said he would be. Mammon eyed him, confused.

“Is Barbatos my present..?”

The steward laughed and shook his head.

“Happy birthday, Mammon. Come with me please,” he greeted.

There was a bounce in Mammon’s step as he followed eagerly after. Barbatos walked so quickly, you nearly had to jog to keep up with him. You supposed he had to be quick if he was going to do everything he had to do in a day in a timely manner. He led you and Mammon into the Hall of Doors, stopping before a door you recognized immediately. It was big, made with crimson wood and intricately carved. Beautiful stained glass made up the majority of the upper half of the door, and an iron door handle with a classic keyhole had an old key sticking out of it. Your key.

“What are we doin’ here?” Mammon asked, now even more confused than before.

Barbatos simply gestured toward the door. Mammon looked to you for a mix of permission and comfort, which you provided with a nod of your head. He stepped up to the door, reached for the handle, and turned the key. The door swung open silently on its hinges, revealing a stunning dark wood and white marble entryway.

“Where is this?” he asked hesitantly, though his eyes were bright as they followed up the double staircase, to the balconies above, then the huge crystal chandelier, crown moulding, and gold accents. His breath caught in his chest.

“It’s my house,” you said, and he turned to look at you so quickly that you were sure he gave himself whiplash.

“You’re jokin’,” he said, expression blank.

You smiled and shook your head.

“You can go in. You’re gonna stay in my house with me tonight.”

His eyes widened once more as he gazed back through the doorway. He stepped inside. You thanked Barbatos, took your key from the door, and shut it behind you.

“Welcome to my world,” you chuckled.

You watched him fondly as he wandered around the foyer, touching everything he could.

“This would sell for so much…” you heard him whisper as he picked up a small bust of Achilles from the antique table against the left wall.

He turned to look at you, bust still in hand.

“You never told me you’re rich!” he exclaimed.

You smirked, shrugged, and strode toward him.

“I didn’t want you to like me for my money.”

He nodded and begrudgingly put the bust back in place.

“Ah, Master Y/N, you’re home.”

You both turned to acknowledge the newest presence in the room. An old man with dark skin emerged from the archway across the room. His hair was cut short, balding and white, he had white stubble on his jaw, deep laugh lines painted his face, and his silver eyes sparkled with the memories of a life filled with joy.

“Jacobi,” you greeted as you jogged forward to envelop the man in a hug.

You motioned Mammon over to introduce him.

“Mammon, this is Jacobi, my steward. He’s worked for my family since he was a young man. He raised me.”

The demon reached out to shake your steward’s gloved hand.

“Well, ya did a good job,” he told him. “Ya raised Y/N right.”

Jacobi chuckled, his eyes nearly closing with the size of his grin, revealing more deep creases in his face.

“Well thank you, sir,” he replied. “That means a lot to me, hearin’ you say that.”

His voice carried the usual crackliness that human voices tend to do as they get old, and he was soft spoken, but it was the kind of voice that demanded you stop and listen.

He turned his attention back to you.

“You’re right on time, young master, dinner is ready to be served.”

He gestured toward the archway in between the two staircases across the room. You clapped him gently on the shoulder, rested a hand on Mammon’s lower back, and led the demon into the dining room.

“Dinner?” Mammon asked as he regarded the long dining table and high-backed chairs with deep red cushions.

“Yeah. Lucifer told me you’d never had Italian food, so I had my chefs make some of my favorite dishes for you to try.”

“You have personal chefs!?”

You chuckled and nodded.

You sat at the head of the table and Mammon sat to your right. There was a black lace table runner along the length of the dark wooden surface. In the very middle of the table was a centerpiece of candles, fruits, bones, feathers, and other natural materials like moss and pinecones. He noticed one fruit that looked surprisingly similar to a human heart. He also took note of the chandelier above, the dark baseboards on white walls, and the grand stone fireplace set into the far end of the room, with wolves and ravens carved into black wood and affixed above the mantel. All in all, he was feeling equal measures of wonder and unease.

“Did you choose these decorations?” he asked as servants filed out of the door behind him with platter after platter of food.

You nodded in response to his question.

He waited for the platters to be set down and the servants to leave before he said, “It’s very… dark. Guess that’s why ya like the devildom so much, huh?”

You laughed and shook your head, then reached forward to serve yourself. Mammon followed your example and piled his plate high with a little bit of everything.

“The Devildom is my home, Mammon. And I don’t like it there because it’s dark and spooky, though that does help. I like it there because you guys are there. My favorite demons. My family.”

Your gaze caught his and he turned away to hide his blush. Then, the greedy demon that he is, he ate and ate and ate until you had to stop him.

“Easy there, Mammon. I have more planned for tonight. Don’t make yourself sick.”

He stopped with his fork in his mouth and looked at you with a brow raised.

“More?” he asked around his food.

“Mmhmm. What, you didn’t think I brought you here just for dinner, did you?”

He finally swallowed, put his fork down, and then washed it all down with some red wine.

“I didn’t know what to think. No one told me this was planned.”

You smiled, your sparkling eyes never leaving his, and he felt his heart skip a beat.

“It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if you knew about it, now would it?”

He smirked.

“I guess not.”

You checked your watch and then pushed yourself away from the table.

“It’s almost 9:30pm. C’mon, I need to go to the bathroom and then we can leave. I don’t want to be late.”

“Go?” he asked. “We’re not stayin’ here?”

He hopped up and followed after you, back into the foyer and then up the stairs and down a hallway. He waited for you to finish in the bathroom, then stuck to your side like glue as you led him out of the house and into a garage filled with expensive cars. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide as his brain malfunctioned from the sheer value of what was before him. He’d never seen so many fancy cars in one place, let alone all belonging to one person. He nearly sprinted over to the nearest car, a blue and black Lamborghini, and peered in the window.

“Pick one to take,” you said as you strode up to him.

He was overwhelmed. There were so many! Finally, he picked the lamborghini. He hopped into the passenger seat, vibrating with excitement. You started the engine, and Mammon beamed when you gave him control over the music. You made him buckle up before you would leave, and then pulled out into the night. It was warm out, with a sweet-smelling cool breeze. Mammon gazed out his window like a child going to DisneyLand as you drove him through the city streets toward your destination. You finally turned onto a road where Mammon could see towering structures and bright, colorful lights at the end. He turned to you, eyes wide.

“A carnival?” he asked.

You smiled and nodded, and his excitement only grew when you parked the car on the side of the street and got out. He scrambled after you, taking your hand instinctively as he saw the sea of bodies awaiting within. It was a habit he had taken up without realizing it. Whenever there was a crowd and he was afraid to lose you, he would take your hand in his. Sometimes, if it was really crowded, he would put his arm around you and pull you close to him so that you didn’t get separated.

He breathed in deeply, taking in all of the smells of the human world, from popcorn, cotton candy, and corndogs, to the sweat of the people, the hot grease from the food trucks, and the stench of the outhouses. He couldn’t be happier. You glanced at your watch again.

“We got here in good time,” you told him. “We can go on some rides and play games if you want, but at 11, I want us to go on the ferris wheel.”

He agreed with no protest, so you found the nearest token machine and fed it a few bucks.

“All yours,” you said as you handed him his half.

He grinned and enveloped you in a hug.

“You’re the best!”

You squeezed him back, then he pulled away.

“C’mon, let’s play games!”

He dragged you from game to game, ride to ride, reveling in the sights and sounds of the human world. He had been to your realm before, of course, but never for something like this. Never for something so fun.

As 11pm rolled around, the two of you made your way toward the ferris wheel, giggling like children. Mammon was holding a big stuffed dragon plushie you won for him at the water gun game in one arm, and he had your hand in the other. There was a long line for the ferris wheel, full of people hoping to be at the top when the big event starts. You led Mammon past the line, however, and to the ride operator at the front. His expression was irritated and stern when you approached, but softened when you handed him a ticket. Then, he opened the door to the bucket and you pulled Mammon inside. You sat on the same side as him, despite the tilting of the bucket, facing the water.

“What was that?” he asked as you checked your watch again and the ride began to move.

“There’s an auction for that every weekend night. The winner gets to be at the top of the ferris wheel when it starts.

“When… what starts?”

You chuckled.

“You’ll see. Give it a minute.”

Mammon waited, almost anxiously, for whatever it was that you had brought him here for. As casually as he could manage, he slipped his hand into yours. You gave it a soft squeeze and smiled over at him. The ride brought you two to the top of the ferris wheel, and then stopped, the bucket swinging gently as its momentum died out. There was a change in the music below, and while he couldn’t quite hear the lyrics, Mammon could tell that it had slowed down, morphed into a melody much softer than the alt rock from before. You moved your hand from his so that you could link arms with him, and then you wiggled closer, squishing yourself against him so that you could rest your head on his shoulder.

He looked down at you, his eyes beginning to tear up as your proximity and the reality of the current situation made his heart clench. You were so beautiful, staring up at the night sky with stars reflected in your eyes. So perfect.

This is where you are meant to be, he thought. Here, with me.

Never in his very long life did he think he would ever love a human. Hell, he never considered even liking a human. And yet, the first time you two met, his heart had skipped a beat and butterflies erupted in his stomach. Mmammon didn’t believe in soulmates, but if he did, he was sure that you were his.

He was so lost in you that he jumped in surprise when the first firework exploded over the water, illuminating your face in a brilliant shade of orange. Another firework followed, and then another, and as each went off, his heart beat just a little bit faster. He rested his cheek on top of your head as he watched the show with a smile. More tears were threatening to spill over, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t try to hide them. He didn’t need to. Not with you.

“Happy birthday, Mammon,” you whispered, and that’s what finally sent him over.

He pushed you away just long enough to free both hands so that he could cup your face, and then he dove forward to capture you in a passionate kiss. Your lips were soft, and you opened them to allow his tongue to snake into your mouth and tangle with your own. His hands tangled in your hair, and your arms rose to lock around his shoulders. You tasted like cotton candy. His tongue explored every inch of your mouth, as if trying to memorize its layout, going so far as to graze along your teeth.

You hummed and pulled away to breathe, your chest heaving with each deep breath, and as soon as you were ready, you pulled him back in. You forced your tongue into his mouth, dominating the kiss as you moved to straddle him. The bucket tipped dangerously, but neither of you cared. The sky flashed in a myriad of colors as he held you in his lap, arms wrapped around your lower back, holding you flush against him. He only pulled away when his heart ached and the tears that were threatening earlier finally spilled over. He closed his eyes tight and buried his face in your chest to choke back a happy sob.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered as the fireworks lulled and died down.

You carded your fingers through his hair and held him tight.

“I love you, Mammon. More than you can ever know.”

That only made his heart ache more as all the love he had suppressed over the millenia came flooding in all at once. The ride jerked and began to move, and you leaned away from Mammon so that you could take his face in your hands. You brushed his tears away gently with your thumbs, and then trailed one across his lips before giving him one last soft kiss. Finally, as you reached the bottom of the ride, you slid off of his lap and back around to sit next to him. You took his hand and he held onto you like a lifeline.

You were his human. His. You had chosen him, and he would be damned if he let you go now.

Bonus:

Before leaving the fairgrounds to return to the car, you led Mammon to a booth near the entrance. The person behind the window lit up when they saw you, and for a moment, Mammon thought that he might have to show the guy exactly who you belonged to. That wasn’t necessary, however, as the man slid a photograph toward you. You picked it up and handed it to Mammon with that same soft smile that you had graced him with earlier. The photograph was of the two of you at the top of the ferris wheel. The camera had captured the moment you had put your head on his shoulder and he had rested his cheek on your head. You were both looking up at the stars, smiling and holding each other close.

#obey me mammon #obey me mamon x reader #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me mammon's birthday '21 #mammon x MC #obey me mammon x MC

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the-broken-truth · 3 years

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A Returning Heart - Alcina Dimitrescu x Male Character

Summary: The Bloodline of House Dimitrescu has been destroyed by Ethan Winters, but will it remain that way? A cloaked figure approached the castle with one thing in mind - Can love transcend death?

Quick Note: The Explosion didn't destroy the Castle or that area of the village. Also, the male will not be given a name.

"Here are your purchases, My Lord." The Duke smiled as he handed 4 horizontal boxes out to the cloaked figure before him who took them in his arms but set the 3 smaller boxes down before opening the longest box. The cloaked man opened the long box - the Duke could see a long smile on the man's face as he gazed into the contents of the box before sealing the lid on it again.

"Perfect. What can you tell me about the other lords? Do you have their remains as well?" The man asked.

"But of course - after Ethan Winters killed the lords, he sold their remains to me for a fair amount of Lei. Would you like theirs as well?" Duke asked with a smile.

"Not at this moment. Once I make sure everything is in order, I shall come back for the remaining lords. And what of Miranda & the mutamycete?" The man asked.

"No longer in existence, My Lord. Ethan Winters and his company completely destroyed them - as well as the other Lords' Domains with the limitation of Lady Dimitrescu Castle and the Central and Northern Villages." Duke said.

"I'll take care of that as well." The man said as he reached down and gathered all of the boxes in his arms and started his way up the path to the grand castle that still stood.

"This is going to be interesting," Duke said as he got his notebook to make note of this. "It's not everything someone like that comes to the village."

[At Castle Dimitrescu]

The figure pushed the metal door of the castle open with one hand while the other held the boxes to his side. He looked around the room he now stood in before cracking a smile.

'Not much has changed.' He chuckled to himself before he made his way through the castle until he reached Castle Dimitresc's Hall of the Four (The Location where the masks go.). He opened the first box and gazed upon its contents before reaching in and pulling out the crystalized remains of The Royal Dragon - Alcina Dimitrescu, herself. He smiled at the crystal remains for a while before he placed them in the center of the room before going back to the other 3 boxes and opened them - showing 3 crystals torso that was small than Lady Dimitrescu's but each one had a gem placed in their chests - the first one he picked up bore a red gem.

'Bela.' the man thought as he placed the red-gemmed torso next to Alcina's. He back to the other two and picked up the second one - which bore a yellow gem.

'Cassandra.' He thought before placing it next to the other two in the center of the hall. He rose to his feet again and gathered the last one - a green gem in the chest of its chest.

'Daniela.' He echoed in his mind before placing it with the others.

Once they were all in place - he lifted his right hand which was engraved with runes of an unknown language. He cleared his throat before he spoke in Romanian.

"Din amurg până în zori. Din carne, sânge și os. Din aceste fragmente fragile, poruncesc - întoarce-te la care ai fost odată și mergi din nou pe acest pământ." The runes on his arm began to glow a blinding white light when a circle surrounded each of the remains and consumed them in a pillar of blinding light. The man watched and waited until he saw the remains float and take new form - this made him smile widely.

[About 3 Hours Later.]

A feminine groan filled the air of the Castle Main Hall has eyes began to flutter open, revealing a gold hue. The woman allowed her eyes to readjust to see - she was on a familiar floor. She pushed herself off the ground before groaning again and placing her hand on her head.

"My head...What happened? The last thing I remembered was..." Her eyes widened as memories began flooding back in her mind.

The meeting with her family.

Her daughters bringing her that Man-Thing.

The man-thing escaping and killing her eldest.

The pain she felt of loss.

Hunting that man-thing over and over again before he killed her last two daughters.

Tracking him to the chapel but getting stabbed with the dagger.

Then...dying.

"He killed me... I know he did, but then..." She looked at her hands. "How am I alive?" Alcina wondered as she tried to find an answer. Sudden movement at her right made her eyes dart and widen - instant tears filled them.

"My head...What happened?" the young girl asked.

"BELA!" Alcina said as she scurried to her daughter and engulfed in her a hug; surprising the girl who returned the hug.

"M...Mother?" Bela asked as she looked into Alcina's golden eyes.

"I'm here, little one; Momma's here now." Alcina said as she held her daughter more.

Bela looked behind her mother and her eyes widened.

"Mother - Cassandra and Daniela!" Bela said making Alcina look behind her to see her middle child and youngest also wake up. Alcina and Bela gathered the other two in hugs and all of them hugged and cried for at least 30 minutes before rising to their feet.

"I don't get it." Daniela began. "That man-thing killed us. How are we here?" She asked.

"Dani's right - I remember dying." Bela said.

"Then I ended up dying trying to avenge Bela." Cassandra said.

"And I died the library when that man-thing got the Iron Key." Daniela finished.

"That accursed man-thing stabbed me the Dagger of Deaths Flowers and managed to defeat my dragon form. How are we all here? Did Mother Miranda bring us back to life?" Alcina asked.

"I'm afraid Miranda had nothing to do with this - she can't do anything now that she's dead." A male voice called out. The women looked at the top of the stairs leading to the foyer and saw a figure dressed in a cloak with his face covered - only having the lower part of his chin showing.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my castle?!" Alcina demanded as she called forth her dragon's claws.

Broken Truth: That's what I like to call them. The whole 'A Rat can't escape the dragon's claw' was one of my favorite lines in the game; along with 'CASSANDRA!'.

"Calm yourself, Lady Dimitrescu." the male said as he raised his hand to silence her but that only made her angrier.

"You don't tell me what to do in my own castle, you stupid man-thing!" Alcina snarled.

"Geez and here I thought you would be grateful to the one who brought you and your daughters back to life." That made all their eyes widen.

"You brought us back?" Bela asked.

"Wait - why would you do that? Where're the other lords? Where's Mother Miranda?!" Alcina demanded to know.

"As I have said before - Miranda and the other lords are dead, just as the mutamycete no longer exists. Ethan Winters killed you, your daughters, and all the lords before taking out Miranda and destroyed the mutamycete before taking back that which was his." The man said from his place at the top of the stairs.

"That's impossible... All of our hard work - undone by a stupid male?!" Alcina snarled. "That doesn't explain why you brought me and my daughters back to life." Alcina said.

"Let's say - I was bringing back that which was once mine." The man said as he slowly started his way down the stairs. "A long time ago - I took up residence in this place as a loyal servant and became something more but short-minded humans came here to destroy you and those you held dear but I refused to let that happen and to save 4..." the male stopped at the bottom of the stairs and pulled the hood off - revealing his face: short brown hair, with emerald green eyes, and a familiar scar across his face. "I threw myself on the blade to keep my loved ones safe." He smiled at the wide eyes on the daughters' faces, as well as the tears that began to build in the dragon's eyes. He held his arms open in a welcoming manner. "I've returned to you, my family."

"FATHER/PAPA/DADDY!!!" The shouts of the daughters rung out as they ran into the male's arms, who held them as if they were something precious.

"It's okay, girls. I'm here now."

"I don't understand..." Alcina said as she tried to hold back her tears. "I saw you die - you threw yourself on the sword to save me from getting killed." Alcina said as she walked over to the group.

"I've been reborn since the time I lost you - while in this body, I attended a school and learned about dragons; that reminded me of you, awoke the memories of my past life and my bond to you. I was determined to return to you but I knew I had to become more so I trained myself in the arts of magic. It was a good thing too - when I learned about what happened, I had the skills to return that which I lost back to the world of the living." He explained.

Alcina looked into his eyes - those eyes darker than the tree's leaves during summer - the last time she saw them, they were as dull as sandstone but they were before her again.

He was here.

He was with her again.

And he gave back what she lost.

"MY LOVE!" Alcina fell to her knees and hugged the man and her daughters in one hug. She didn't want to let go of him; scared that this was all a dream and she was never going to see him again, that all of this would fade away and she would be back in the nothingness again.

"Shh...It's okay, Alci." He said as he began to wrap his arms around her neck to hug her for the first time in centuries. "I'm here, My Dragoness, and I shall not leave you or our daughters again." And this time - he was intending on keeping that promise.

Translation

"Din amurg până în zori. Din carne, sânge și os. Din aceste fragmente fragile, poruncesc - întoarce-te la care ai fost odată și mergi din nou pe acest pământ." - From dusk until dawn. From flesh, blood, and bone. From these fragile fragments, I command - return to which you once were and walk this earth again.

#alcina x oc #alcina dimitrescu #resident evil 8 #alcina x male #lady dimitrescu x reader

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sleepdeprivedadngay622 · 3 years

Text

Fuck Jkr, let me give u some grishaverse headcanons instead cause I’m on a roll. And for the record I’m listening to Good Old-Fashioned Love Boy while writing this.

grishaverse characters in hogwartss:

-Nikolai is 100% Gryffindor and NO one can change my mind. He’s also a teachers pet except for that one teacher who would most likely be Snape that absolutely hates him.

He is also definitely a head boy along W Zoya. And all the first years think he’s so freaking cool.

-Right now we have Zoya. She would be head girl. gonna have to go w Ravenclaw for Zoya I don’t think that needs elaboration

Anyways. She’s super scary and all the first years r terrified of her. And she would also be the one to give out to Nikolai and others for doing rlly stupid pranks and what not.

Also a straight A student. And the teachers are low-key scared of her.

-KAZ! so he’s kinda like the scary version of Remus. He would be the mastermind behind all pranks and literally everything but no one ever suspects him. Him and Zoya kind of have a mutual understanding that if either of them r caught out of bed or the restricted section they won’t say anything.

Whenever something does happen the professors do think that Kaz has something to do with it but r too terrified to say anything. A Slytherin at heart, and the adoptive parent of Wylan m

-Jesper my man. He spends literally all his time in detention.

Definitely a gryffindor. Him and Kaz r best friends w Nikolai and they will literally stay up till three in the morning talking about whatever the heck they want.

This also includes Jesper (and Nina) giving Nikolai some questionable dating advice for a certain head girl.

The only time Jesper dosnt get caught is when he acc listens to Kaz. But whenever something happens the teachers don’t even hesitate to blame him.

Also Minerva has a soft spot for him. how could she not

-Inejjjjjjjjjj. her, Nina and Jesper are the Gryffindor trio

Continuing.... she is always out of bed after hours. spends most of her time on the astronomy tower just thinking and looking at the stars and sometimes is accompanied by Kaz.

Always passes her exams. And her and Jesper r best friends which involves a lot of teasing on both sides. she is top of the class in DADA and seeker of the Gryffindor team

-Wylannnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!! he is in fucking awe of kaz, and was so terrified when he got sorted into Slytherin. kaz adopts him and no one gives him any shit. he is top of the class in Potions and him and Nina always team up when Jesper isn’t there

His robes r always perfectly ironed, to try and make himself seem more distinguished. except for that one time he came into charms class rather dishevelled with a laughing Jesper behind him. He was also blushing ALOT

He tutors Jesper in potions and Jesper helps him w history of magic which is literally the only reason he will pay attention in that class.

-Ninaaaaa!!!!

what even is the dress code?? Cause Nina has never heard or her. No way. She always finds away around the dress code. All the teachers hate it but thanks to Kaz there is always a loop hole. Also the biggest flirt in the school. Her and Jesper r an iconic duo. Probably 4th year when her and Matthias start dating which causes an uproar with the rest of the students. They r the most talked about couple for at least a month. But then Jesper finally asked Wylan out. And we all know how taht ends.

Nina aces her charms class. And is the one everyone form all houses goes to for advice. Can usually be found out of bed after hours with Inej. Just having a good time. she is a Gryffindor at heart and would rock the red and gold colours

-Matthias. might be controversial but ima say he’s a Hufflepuff

He is the kinda kid that will study but still cram. He always gets good grades and participates in class and is just kind of overall good at all subjects.

And after their friend group got together. Him and Wylan could only talk about school together. Literally nothing else.

Always found by Ninas side or taking to a teacher after class. He is terrified of kaz, but he once found Kaz at a Quiditch game with Wylan both of them wearing the Hufflepuff house colours Matthias plays keeper

feel free to add onto this and have a great day :))

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ficsilike-reblogged · 4 years

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Death & Dowries

Summary: The Iron Bank of Braavos will always have its due. But dowries make things…complicated and the pride of men knows no bounds. A bargain is struck between a Keyholder of the Iron Bank and Tywin Lannister and the life of an adventurous woman is suddenly uprooted as she is made the newest Lady of Casterly Rock. But the wedding of King Joffrey Baratheon and Lady Margaery Tyrell brings a familiar face to King’s Landing and a Braavosi woman always has a backup plan.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand/F!Reader, (arranged) Tywin Lannister/F!Reader, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand

WARNINGS: Spousal abuse, death, murder, lite smut, my over-use of italics, mentions of child birth and babies (please DO NOT read if any of this will upset you)

Word Count: 12.1k (heavy sigh)

(banner by my love @starlight-starwrites )

A/N: The italics denote the “present” time. Circa Season 7 Episode 7. I’m going to throw a lot of ASOIAF lore at you so, if you have ANY questions, please just ask!

You can read this on Ao3, if you prefer!

She had hoped to never step foot into this wretched city again. But Cersei had called and she knew she must answer to keep the unstable queen from looking too closely. And, of course, she wanted to see a dragon.

What she did not expect to see was a familiar shade of yellow and orange while a recognizable laugh rang in the tense air. She froze at the entrance and her handmaiden smacked into her back. “I am so sorry, my lady,” she whispered.

The sudden noise drew attention and soon Oberyn and Ellaria were standing from their seats, kind eyes locked on her.

Westeros was nothing that her father had promised when he set her on the ship and sent her away from home. It was supposed to be exciting and new and beautiful and everything she wanted in a home. Instead, she had been gifted a cold castle filled with portraits of a woman who she was supposed to be replacing and an old man for a betrothed.

But even the Keyholders of the Iron Bank of Braavos knew of Tywin Lannister. "He is a powerful man. You will be well-cared for and loved by the people you govern, my sweet," her father said, his smile not quite touching his eyes. "That is all I want for you."

It was a lie. A pretty lie, but a lie all the same. Her father and a handful of other Keyholders all had daughters of the marrying age and had created a terrible, unspoken game between them. Everything had a price. Especially to the men and women who controlled the keys to the Iron Bank.

Dowries for their daughters were boasted and bartered. Whomever paid the most, bragged that their line was as coveted as a princess.

It was all ridiculous. A stupid game. Especially for people who usually wanted to protect their coin.

Y/N was thankful she had no sisters so that they would not be subjected to this prick-measuring game, too.

Whispers had spread through Braavos when her father had set her betrothal.

It was a dowry worthy of four princesses of old, surely.

But Tywin Lannister would not see a single coin.

An almost flawless plan, Y/N thought. Her father would pay half of the Iron Throne's debts to the Bank in exchange for Y/N becoming the new Lady of Casterly Rock. For as large as her dowry was, Y/N was only slightly amused at how small her wedding festivities were when she arrived at King’s Landing. A handful of people, mostly Lannisters and their bannermen, and the three handmaidens she had brought with her from Braavos. The furnishings were fine and the food was almost salted correctly but it was small. Tywin wrapped her in a crimson red cloak and kissed her with unmoving lips and she had become Lady Y/N Lannister, a lion of the rock.

And that was it. Little fanfare and her life was completely uprooted. And as the days continued to pass, she doubted she would ever find a bit of happiness in her new station.

She had to keep herself from yawning as Tywin rutted above her, grunting like an old boar. But he finished soon enough and rolled off of her and grabbed his robe. As soon as it was fastened around his waist, he strode out of her chambers without a look back.

The door opened soon after and her small horde of handmaidens quickly entered, already bringing her a steaming pot of tea and a balm for her skin where her lord husband always clutched too tight.

She had given up on telling him it hurt after the first fortnight and considered herself at least a little lucky that the old man still knew how to move his hips.

“How do you fare, my lady?” One handmaiden asked in the lilting tongue of the Braavosi dialect of High Valyrian. She quickly pressed a cup of tea into Y/N’s hands.

“Better, now that you are all here with me.”

One took to changing the bed coverings and another helped her stand and quickly began to wash her skin with steaming water scented with roses. The tea was bitter on her tongue but she quickly drank it and let another handmaiden take the empty cup from her hand as soon as it was finished.

“Have the kitchen maids asked what the tea is again?”

“Not since we told them it was a magical potion to guarantee a boy and that it was filled with the blood of a calf and ash from the Doom.” One of them smiled, remembering how the nosey maids nearly fainted at the sound of their lie. It was an ingenious ruse, if she was being honest. Y/N knew that most of the servants in Casterly Rock reported to Tywin about her movements and the company she kept. Thinking she was a witch who relied on bloodmagic easily discounted anything they whispered to her lord husband. And it also kept them from truly investigating her tea—not that anyone on this stupid continent would be able to name it anyway. The root her handmaids boiled for her every time Tywin visited her chamber was not anything magical or arcane.

It was an old recipe from the famed pleasure houses of Braavos—to prevent pregnancy. And it was working remarkably well. The maester had confirmed her fertility so she knew Tywin was probably doubting his own ability as the months continued to trickle by and she was yet to become pregnant. The thought made her laugh. As did the truth that Tywin would never get he had anticipated with the betrothal agreement he had signed with her father. She had decided that as soon as he had sneered at her on their wedding night and said, “I suppose you will do,” before taking what he needed from her body without care for her at all. And whenever he visited her bed, his hands were always too tight, too rough and would not relent even when tears pricked at her eyes and slid down her cheeks. He never stopped. He never cared. Even when his dislike of her as a person evolved to curling his hands into her arms and leaving her with swollen eyes and tender skin. He always made sure they were alone when he raised his hands to her, but he seemed fond of doing so whenever she ever disagreed with him.

She knew that other Keyholders thought her father foolish for her hefty dowry—a steep price to pay for pride. But her mother once said that while blood will open the door, clout will get you a seat at the table.

Her father had the gold to spare, she supposed. And she always wanted a kingdom of her own.

Now…now one was finally within her grasp. Even if it came with such a poor consort. That was what she told herself, anyway.

Just as she was dressed for the day, her chamber door opened again and a servant strode in, eyes darting around the gaggle of women as if searching for something to report. His mouth opened and he informed them all that Lord Tywin had been called to the Riverlands and left her in charge of Casterly Rock. She had heard whispers of the War of the Five Kings from high and lowborn alike. It was a shame that she was kept so far from the action she was so accustomed to at least witnessing with a spyglass from her chamber windows. The Keyholders often had a stake in the wars fought around Westeros and Essos. Having allies in positions of power meant they were in positions of power—and funding their successes meant that they had bargaining chips in collecting debts. Plus interest.

She almost smiled. Finally, a bit of intrigue.

Y/N took her seat under the canopy after dismissing her handmaidens and guards, telling them to treat themselves to a well-earned drink at a nearby inn as she noticed the incoming crowd of Dothraki, ‘escorted’ by a band of knights. She only let her eyes move to see Oberyn and Ellaria, the Dornish envoy, for a moment. Their reaction to her arrival had been just as unexpected as their presence. Dangerous. Dangerous.

This whole game was dangerous. And now the King in the North and the Dragon Queen had called for a temporary armistice for some strange reason.

“They tell me that the Westerlands have been flourishing.”

The voice at her side almost had her jumping. It was Tyrion, looking far more bristled than the last time she had seen him, when he had been carted away to the Black Cells. “Yes, well. Apparently I’m quite suited for the task.”

Tyrion’s answering smile was small and he nodded just once. “Yes, I suppose my father would have taught you well-”

“He had nothing to do with it.”

Casterly Rock was a delight to have to herself. Even the servants who would whisper her movements into her lord husband’s ear seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when each raven stated Tywin would be away from his seat of power for another fortnight and then another and another. When the Westerlands were being raided by Northmen, led by the adorably pugnacious King Robb Stark, she was happy to open the gates to allow some of the children and ladies of sworn houses to take shelter in the fortress and to give food and water to the knights and bannermen who made camp outside their walls before setting off toward battle.

She arranged marriages between houses and presided over small disagreements brought before her to settle. It reminded her of the time she spent with her dearest friend Bellegere at her famed pleasure house in Braavos and how Bellegere managed each and every bit of everything under her roof and made it all seem so effortless.

That was her kingdom.

And now Casterly Rock was Y/N’s, and she would let no one take it from her.

No one.

“You are happy, my lady,” one of her handmaidens said as they retired for the night. It had been two moons since Tywin had left her to play at war. “I have not seen you this happy since before we left Braavos.”

Y/N hummed and let her wipe the day’s dirt from her skin with a roll of silk dampened with cold cream. “I suppose I should start finding some sort of happiness, no?” She sighed. “Are you happy here?”

Her handmaidens nodded, varying degrees of smiles on their faces. “You know that we had no happiness in Braavos. You have given us hope, just as you have given these strange people hope, too.” They helped her into her sleeping gown and Y/N remembered the places she had plucked her handmaidens from. Cruel noble homes, cruel lowborn homes, temples with dark corners, merchant shops filled with bright tapestries, pleasure houses. Each of them found a new place beside Y/N. And she found friends with them, security and safety.

“We can find a home here,” Y/N whispered to each of them before bidding them goodnight. And she hoped it was true. She needed it to be true.

When the raven came, telling her to come to King’s Landing, she was hesitant to pack her trunks and arrange for the castellan to oversee the governance of Casterly Rock. But she had duties. And, despite knowing she was actively keeping herself from completing one of them, she knew she could not refuse Tywin Lannister. Especially after the Realm (or at least part of it) was hailing him as a hero for breaking the siege on King’s Landing and managing to gain the allegiance of the Reach—such a stupid name for a kingdom—for the Crown. So, she had her trunks packed with her fine gowns and made sure the guests she had allowed to stay in Casterly Rock would be looked after before having the traveling party readied for the trek across the continent. One of the knights, a man who reeked of strongwine and needed to trim his beard, spoke animatedly about the battles Tywin won across the Westerlands and Riverlands on behalf of his grandson, Joffrey. “For the betterment of the Realm,” the knight would finish each story. She doubted it. But she pretended to listen anyway. Y/N truly did not care to listen to the finite details or commit most of them to memory. What she did, however, notice was the distinct smell of piss and soured bread as soon as her wheelhouse and travelling party crested the hill just outside the city gates after several weeks of being confined to the wheelhouse or stuffy inn rooms.

“My lady,” one of her handmaiden’s muttered, “we are going to suffocate.”

Y/N patted her hand with a sigh before spilling a bit of perfume onto each of their kerchiefs to hold under their noses. “Perhaps they will have a garden where we can escape the stench.”

When they arrived at the Red Keep—and such an unimaginative name—she was almost pleased to see that most of the royal family and quite a few courtiers and servants had come to welcome them. Cersei, a face she knew well from the many portraits in the halls of Casterly Rock, only offered a quick sneer and an insincere, “welcome, Lady Lannister, to King’s Landing,” before she quickly left. Joffrey, the brat-boy-king if the whispers were true, looked suspiciously like his mother and also offered a sneer. Tommen was far kinder and offered to show her to her chambers but she declined, knowing that having a prince show her around like a servant would only gain her more ire from the queen dowager.

And then that left…

“Lady Stark,” Y/N said, stepping to the redhead’s side. Yes, she knew of Sansa Stark. The sad little Northern girl who saw her father’s head put on a spike—and apparently one of her brothers was one of the Five Kings running around causing amuck. How fun.

The younger girl curtseyed and murmured a soft hello. “I hope you find the capitol pleasing, my lady.”

She hummed and reached out to take Sansa’s and, wrapping it into the crook of her arm. “I doubt I will. But I shall like it if we were to become friends.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flittered across Y/N’s face and then to the small hoard of handmaidens behind her. “Whatever you wish, my lady.”

Weeks trickled by and Y/N found herself actually enjoying the company of the little wolf pup. She detested the Lannisters and had a quick but sweet wit when she was not in the company of Cersei or Joffrey who seemed to terrify her to no end. Y/N found it funny that Cersei assumed she would report anything and everything Sansa did while in her company. “What would you have her do other than enjoy a bit of tea and some lemon cakes? It is not as if you have given her duties beyond looking pretty.” Her handmaidens even told her that Cersei requested they report back anything they heard Sansa say.

“The poor girl,” they mused. “She is alone here.”

“Yes,” Y/N agreed, “and so are we.” And they were. They were still whispered about by servants and courtiers alike, their movements watched like a mummers’ performance and then hissed into the queen or the new Hand of the King’s ears. The only time they found themselves truly alone was when they were in the company of the Tyrells. Margaery and Olenna were gratuitous social climbers but at least they were smart and she did not feel the need to continue to play the dutiful Lady Lannister in their presence. They had no real love for the Lannisters aside from realizing that the golden lions were the true power in this stupid kingdom and knowing that they needed to at least have a few of them on their side. And Sansa seemed a little relaxed in their presence as well. After her betrothal to Joffrey was broken in favor of Margaery and the Tyrell gold, the young redhead was a tiny bit more…unclenched, especially after being pressed to detail the abuse she survived at the hands of the brat king. Y/N remembered gently wiping the tears away from Sansa’s cheeks after they left the Tyrells. Sansa had recounted her abuse at the hands of Joffrey and his mother. “It is over now, little pup. He shall not harm you again. I promise you that.”

Sansa only nodded and was still very guarded and it was smart to be so but Y/N was happy to see her smile a little more freely.

The smiles stopped when Tywin announced that Sansa was to wed Tyrion.

The girl cried and cried and cried. But only when they were alone and the lemon cakes she’d taken from the kitchen were only crumbs. Shae, Sansa’s handmaiden, always lingered after being dismissed. Y/N was sure she was another spy—but not for Cersei. But it did not matter. What mattered was the crying wolf pup in her arms.

“I can’t do it. I can’t,” Sansa cried, tears wetting Y/N’s dress.

Y/N could only shush her sobs, knowing that Tywin always had his due—well, almost always. “I will make sure you are safe, pup. I promise you that.”

Y/N stood, as she was expected to do, when Cersei entered the Dragon Pit and curtseyed as Cersei moved in front of her to take her own seat. The air was tense. Everyone was staring at each other, measuring threats with bated breath.

Y/N had been surprised to see Theon Greyjoy present—after all, it had been a Greyjoy fleet that had destroyed the ship that was carrying little Princess Myrcella back to the Red Keep from Sunspear. It had been a Greyjoy that had given the final push for Cersei to descend into her carefully curated madness. But, then again, Cersei had a Greyjoy of her own, too. Verbal volleys were made and Y/N might have enjoyed listening to the traded barbs but she continued to feel someone’s gaze on the side of her face.

She knew who was looking at her—it did not take any stretch of imagination or serious thought.

She knew.

And a dragon roared overhead.

“Take this, pup.” Y/N curled Sansa’s shaking fingers around the small bottle with an even smaller smile.

“What is it?” Sansa was beautiful in her golden wedding dress—beautiful and sad. Handmaidens had just finished twisting her hair into the ridiculous braids Cersei was so fond of and then scattered when Y/N and her flock of Braavosi women arrived. They had taken to dashing away when the Braavosi women arrived after Y/N had all but screamed at them when they would not let Sansa have a moment alone after news of the tactlessly named Red Wedding had reached King’s Landing. Her entire family—gone. Y/N would not see the little pup suffer for another moment.

It had earned her a busted lip and a sore wrist from her dear husband.

“It is a gift.” Y/N patted Sansa’s hand. “One drop will give you a night’s reprieve from your husband. The entire bottle will give your husband…a reprieve of his breath.”

Sansa turned and turned and turned the bottle in her hand. “Poison?”

“Yes, pup. And it is merely a precaution. I would not have you fear for your life in your marital bed.”

“Do you think Tyrion would hurt me?”

“He is the gentlest of his siblings, but it is never unwise to have a dagger up your sleeve.” Y/N stood and took Sansa’s hands in hers after watching her carefully tuck the bottle away into the folds of her dress. “Come, I am allowed to escort you to the Sept.”

“We’ve been here for some time,” Cersei said through gritted teeth.

“My apologies.”

Y/N almost snorted at the complete lack of care in the Dragon Queen’s tone as she addressed Cersei for the first time but held a finger under her nose, attempting to hide her smile instead. But Oberyn did openly laugh, only stopping when Ellaria placed a hand on his thigh. When Y/N looked at them, eyes drawn to the pair like a moth to the flame, their smiles grew.

The sound around her died to a low roar. Y/N knew she should be paying attention—the meeting had been called with the premise of saving the Realm—but all she could see was them.

“I am not some lowborn trollop, husband. I will not be seen in anything other than the color that denotes my station.” Y/N stared down at the garish red and gold dress that her husband’s servants had placed on the featherbed just a few moments ago.

“Your station is cemented as my wife—Lady Lannister. You will wear your house’s colors and you will never fight me on something so frivolous again.”

“Oh? And what am I allowed to fight you on?” She retorted, feeling her upper lip curl in a sneer. “If not my clothes, what else? You have decided every bit of my life since I have arrived. Am I not allowed one bit of my home?”

Tywin reached out and struck her across the face. Pain bloomed from her eye to her jaw, throbbing in time with her hammering heart. “You would do well to hold your tongue. I have had enough of listening to your ungrateful words. You are the Lady of Casterly Rock—not a sniveling brat. You will wear this gown and I will not hear another word of it. Am I understood?”

Y/N only nodded, hand cradling her cheek and then Tywin swept from the room.

Silence washed over her like a wave in the big room. She stared down at the red dress. Gold lace lined the sleeves and there was even more of the gaudy lace around the neck—it would probably reach just below her chin.

It was a collar. Soft and expensive. But a collar, she realized.

“My lady?” She turned to see one of her handmaidens stepping in, a frazzled look on her face. “Are you ready for us to help you prepare for the wedding?” The girl’s eyes searched her face as if knowing something was wrong. “My lady?” She asked again when Y/N did not answer.

Y/N sucked in a breath and nodded. “Yes. And I believe we are running late.” She removed her dressing gown and let them start to tie her into the hideous gown. It itched. It did not move like the soft silks of Braavos. It was stiff and uncomfortable. It felt like a cage.

Perhaps that is what it was—a cage and a collar.

But she said nothing as she met Tywin outside his chambers and allowed him to grasp her hand and tuck it into the crux of his arm as he escorted her to the Sept. She said nothing as she took her place in the crowd. She said nothing as the stupid vows were exchanged and Joffrey named Margaery as his queen. She said nothing as she was led out to the grounds for the wedding feast. But she plotted. And her cheek throbbed.

She was seated on the raised dais at Tywin’s side but found herself slightly and strangely comforted by the fact that Sansa was within eyesight. When Tywin left her side to speak with someone—and she truly wasn’t listening nor cared who it was—Y/N quickly stood and walked to Sansa’s side, taking Tyrion’s vacated seat.

“How are you, pup?”

Sansa almost smiled. “Alive.”

“And that is half the battle, no?” She reached out and touched the girl’s hands. “Has he been kind?” Her head tilted just so to indicate Tyrion.

Sansa nodded. “I have no use of your gift yet.” They both sighed and looked out over the crowd. “Weddings are supposed to be happy occasions.”

“Yes, I suppose they are. But we have yet to attend one that is capable of making us smile.” She sighed again and looked back at Sansa, eyes catching the pretty, purple necklace around her throat. The jewels glinted…

“Careful with those, my love,” her mother chided as she pulled the little vials from her daughter’s childish fingers.

“What are they, Mama?”

“It was a gift,” Sansa said, providing an answer for the unasked question.

“From whom?”

“Lord Baelish.”

Y/N hummed and twisted one of the jewels between her fingers before letting it drop back against Sansa’s throat.

Y/N listened to Jon Snow blather on about saving the Realm, about how an army who doesn’t leave corpses was coming and could not be bargained with. Cersei had a few quips of her own and Y/N pondered if she truly needed to have shut herself into a wheelhouse for weeks to travel here just to listen to Cersei complain and foreign monarchs hardly disguise their contempt. But then Sandor Clegane emerged from the underground tunnel with a large crate on his back and the Dragon Pit grew quiet.

He set it down and…nothing happened, even as he removed the lid.

But then he circled back and kicked it over. With a scream, a creature emerged and ran at Cersei. Bone and dried skin and glowing blue eyes. That was all it was.

That and the terrifying scream.

“You look exquisite, child,” Lady Olenna said as she approached Sansa. “The wind has bit at you though.” Olenna glanced at Y/N in acknowledgement, bowing her head just a fraction before focusing on Sansa again, tugging at the ends of her pretty red hair. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding? Horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing?” An aged finger traced against Sansa’s cheek. “As if men need more reasons to fear marriage.”

Y/N snorted into her chalice of wine and earned a wink from Olenna over Sansa’s head. But it was the next movement that truly caught Y/N’s attention. Olenna fiddled with Sansa’s necklace before inviting her and Tyrion to Highgarden just as the lion in question approached. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it is time to enjoy this food I paid for.”

Y/N pulled Sansa back into conversation as Olenna departed and noted that one of the strange little gems was now missing from the necklace. What was Olenna planning? Whatever it was, it was sure to be more entertaining than the pretention of this wedding feast. She stood and had Sansa do the same. “Come, pup. It is time we acted like Lannisters, no?” She linked their arms together and led them toward the obnoxiously decorated grounds filled with more food and entertainment.

They both found little enjoyment in the contortionists or the musicians who insisted on playing and replaying The Rains of Castamere on a variety of instruments. But the food was mostly seasoned well.

“Tyrion tells me that a Dornish Prince is in attendance. He’s traveled all over Essos, perhaps he has been to Braavos?” Sansa asked as Y/N found her some lemon cakes and they sequestered themselves away in a dark corner while Y/N sipped on a bit of sweet wine.

“Oh? It would be nice to hear of my home from someone who knows it.” She almost smiled. “I must take you across the Narrow Sea, introduce you to my home. And maybe I can know Winterfell, too.”

Sansa’s smile was small but genuine. “I would like that.”

“But tell me, what is this prince’s name? Perhaps I’ve met him when my lord husband was parading around.”

Sansa wiped the crumbs from her face. “Prince Oberyn Martell.”

Jon Snow was a bigger idiot than Sansa had ever said he was in her missives. Openly proclaiming that he had sworn the North and bent the knee to the Dragon Queen while trying to broker a tentative agreement with an unstable lion was very, very stupid. He could have, should have lied and just agreed to the terms Cersei had laid out, keeping her in the dark about his true allegiance.

But no.

Apparently he had more Stark in him than sense.

Everyone had separated after Cersei had stormed away and Y/N found herself walking toward one of the few places she hadn’t seen anyone retreat to but then-

“Mama!”

Y/N turned and caught the child that had leapt into the air, knowing his mother would catch him.

A soft murmur of her name had her freezing.

He looked so similar. Barely anything had changed since the last time she had seen him, all too briefly nearly a decade ago. The same self-assured gait. The same sparkle in his eyes. The same charming half-smile that had her mirroring the expression without a thought.

“Hello, little Titan.”

And with the next breath she was younger, visiting her friend Bellegere on her mother’s fine barge, evading her duties for the day. “You are not who I was expecting,” came a voice behind her.

Y/N turned and arched a brow at the young man looking in the doorway. “Nor was I expecting you.” He was either lost or an esteemed guest if he had found his way to Bellegere’s private rooms. With his fine clothes and self-assured smile, Y/N wagered he was the latter. “Who are you?”

He introduced himself with a growing smile and kissed her on the back of the hand before turning her hand over and pressing another kiss to her palm. And the first time in months, Y/N giggled.

The prince was eventually greeted by Bellegere’s mother and he was just as flirtatious with her but did not seem too preoccupied with bedding the famous courtesan as many of her other clients had been lately. In between meetings with the captains of the Second Sons mercenary company, Oberyn was found frequently upon the barge—and Y/N always found herself invited, too. Whether it was by Bellegere or Oberyn, they always seemed eager to pull her away from her duties again and again.

Bellegere had been calm, as she always was with her mother’s clients (Bellegere knew she would one day be the Black Pearl of Braavos and took her training very seriously), but Y/N saw how the Dornish prince had her smiling into her hand after whispering something into her ear, a far cry from the demure tilting of her lips her clients usually coaxed from her while buying her attention and company.

Anyone who could make Bellegere, with all her practiced manners and carefully curated gestures, smile like that was truly a force to be reckoned with. But even when he was on Bellegere’s arm, he took care to include Y/N in their conversations, wanting her opinion. “I like the sound of your voice, little Titan.”

And that wretched, silly nickname. While he called Bellegere by her name, or “my Pearl,” he called Y/N his “little Titan,” a play on how Braavos was known for the hulking statue of a titan at its gates. She was not sure if she loved it or loathed it.

“Have you two been introduced?” Sansa’s question pulled Y/N from her reverie.

“Yes,” Oberyn answered for her with a wink. “We met years ago in Braavos.” It was an understatement. Every time the Second Sons were within a handful of leagues of Braavos, Oberyn made it a point to visit Y/N and Bellegere. There was nothing overtly carnal within their relationship. In fact, they all seemed to be closer friends than anything else. Bellegere was free to be herself in his presence and Y/N was, too. Oberyn was always happy to be their escort around the city and pay for their attentions as if he were any other client, but largely they spent their time laughing and speaking of the world beyond Braavos. He disappeared a few years later only to return to Braavos, older and angrier, to meet with Illyrio Mopatis on business he could not discuss with them. But he had been just as kind with them as he always had been—always a dutiful friend. The last time she had seen him, he had whispered about the death of his sister and her babies, of how she was cruelly killed while trying to protect her children.

It would not be until Y/N reached King’s Landing that she learned that it was believed that Tywin gave the order for his loyal dog, Gregor Clegane, to kill the Princess and her babes.

If Y/N had known that, she would have taken Bellegere’s offer of working on her barge instead of allowing her father to barter her away to Tywin. She never would have betrayed Oberyn like that if she had known. Truly.

But it was too late.

Y/N noticed the beautiful woman at Oberyn side. Surely there were songs sung about her gentle eyes. “But I have not met your lovely companion, my prince.”

Oberyn’s smile widened and he took the woman’s hand and pulled her forward just a bit, obviously filled with pride to have her at his side. “This is Ellaria Sand, my paramour.”

Ellaria curtseyed, “my lady.”

Y/N returned the gesture. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ellaria.”

The woman glanced at Oberyn with a smile. “It seems you are one of the few who share that sentiment.”

Y/N waved it away. “The Westerosi have strange conceptions of honor and status.” She made sure to pat Sansa’s hand. “But there are a few who make it bearable.”

But then a noise drew all of their attention. It started with Queen Margaery screaming, “he’s choking!”

Joffrey heaved with stuttering breaths before collapsing. And the pieces were falling into place.

“You idiots! Help your king!” Olenna shouted. She was a good actress.

Movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention and she watched a poorly dressed fool grab at Sansa’s arm and try to lead her away. Without moving her head, Y/N reached out and snatched Sansa’s hand. “Stay, pup. You know not what you do.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flittered between the Fool and the Lion on her arm and then pulled out of the man’s grip.

Satisfied, Y/N turned to watch Cersei scream and scream and scream as her firstborn turned purple in her arms and Tyrion was carted away by a pair of white cloaks. What a pretty painting that would be. She took another sip of wine.

“It is almost as if you were avoiding me, Little Titan.” He still smiled as if no time had passed since their last meeting. But the easy expression faded as he looked down to the small boy in her hold.

Slowly, Y/N set her son down and brushed a bit of dirt from his cherubic cheek. “This is my son, Morgan Lannister.”

Oberyn’s hand shook as he reached out a hand toward the dark haired boy. “Pleased to meet you, little lord.”

Morgan smiled up at Oberyn, bright-eyed, as Oberyn’s finger traced over his brow. “You are Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell! Mama tells me stories about you—about your adventures across the Narrow Sea. And how you slew a mountain!”

“The Mountain, my dear boy,” his mother gently corrected.

“Hardly appropriate bedtime stories,” Ellaria chuckled.

“He likes to know when the hero prevails.”

Little Tommen looked so small when he sat on the throne. He was so…kind. So little. That stupid chair was too rough for his gentle soul. But she clapped when he was proclaimed king and smiled when his bright eyes caught hers, a nervous smile on his lips.

“He will be a fair king,” she heard someone whisper as the clapping and cheering continued. “Kind.”

He would be ruled by Tywin. Y/N knew it to be true. The young king was far easier to manipulate—and perhaps Olenna was anticipating that detail, too. Hm. Olenna versus Tywin in a battle of wills. That would be interesting to watch.

“You are contemplative, Little Titan.”

Y/N smiled at the sound of Oberyn’s voice whispering in her ear. They had frequently sought out each other’s company for the last handful of days, meeting in the sunny gardens to reminisce about their time together in Braavos and learning of their adventures during their time apart. Ellaria had proven to be a true, steadfast friend and Y/N was grateful to know her and hear her stories of her childhood at Hellholt in Dorne. And she wanted to hear what Oberyn thought of this newest pretentious display of power but her eyes darted to see Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys far too close for her liking. While she could rely on knowing where the various servants and Westerosi handmaidens to always whisper the ludicrous stories she had concocted into Tywin and Cersei’s ears, she was not sure how to handle the two men who were arguably more intelligent. “We have a new king,” was all she said. “Long may he reign.”

Oberyn’s nose wrinkled for a moment, confused by her response, but nodded as he noticed Pycelle glance in their direction. “Yes, long may he reign.”

She wanted so badly to simply speak with him. She was alone in the capital. Tywin had dismissed her handmaidens and sent them back to Casterly Rock, replacing them with women from the Westerlands who had once been Princess Myrcella’s maids. He was making sure she was alone. Y/N rolled her shoulders as she watched Tywin approach her. He held out his hand for her to take and she dutifully placed her hand in his, letting him guide her up the small set up steps and dais toward the ugly throne. Tommen’s face broke into a smile as she approached and curtseyed. “Lady Lannister.”

“Your Grace,” she replied. “May the Seven bless your reign,” she repeated the words she had heard droned over and over, knowing the little king found comfort in them even if she thought it ridiculous.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Tywin squeezed her arm and she bit back a wince as he led her away. His grip only tightened the further away they were from the mass of celebrators and they only slowed to a stop for a moment, in a dark corner of the hall for him to hiss in her ear, “you will retire to your chambers, immediately.”

Over his shoulder, Y/N spotted Oberyn slipping into the hall, his dark eyes narrowed at the scene. “Of course, my lord.”

But his grip only tightened. “I will not have you making a spectacle of yourself and my house’s name.” Tywin’s long fingers finally pulled away from her skin and he signaled for two white cloaks to flank her on each side. “Make sure she is waiting for me. Do not let her leave the Tower of the Hand until I have come for her. Am I understood?”

Y/N could only gape at her husband as two pairs of unfamiliar, armored hands grasped at her arms and started to pull her away.

And when she was all but shoved into her chambers in the cold tower, Y/N knew she would be facing the old lion’s wrath.

Time trickled by slowly. The tower she had been told to call home was quiet. No servants. No handmaidens (she would not be surprised if they had been told to vacate that morning). No lower-ranking Lannisters begging for a bit of attention.

She was alone.

And she waited.

A glance outside her chamber’s window let her know that the two guards were still standing sentinel at the entry to the tower. Maybe she had become a character from one of those songs children were so fond of—a princess in a tower, waiting for a knight to rescue her.

But she was not a princess.

She was a daughter of Braavos. And she was tired of waiting for something to happen to her, for continuing to allow things to happen. She was going to make it happen.

“My lady, I am so sorry,” an out of breath handmaiden sprinted to her side and looked down at the little lord. “He ran off when I turned for just a moment.”

Y/N looked down at Morgan who offered a guilty smile. “I missed you, mama.”

“I was only gone for a moment, little one,” Y/N murmured before pressing a kiss to his cheek and winking at the handmaiden, letting her know there was no harm done. Her son was hard to contain on the best of days. “We have talked about being patient, no? I will never leave you alone for long.”

“But Septon Martyn said you were…umm…” his little face scrunched up, searching for words. “I forget.”

“That’s okay, little one. You’ll remember later.”

“But did you see a dragon?” He nearly screeched, dark eyes lighting up.

“I did. And it was beautiful.” She bent and set him back on his little feet. “But you have to promise mama something, yes? You have to stay with Septon Martyn and Tyanna until I am finished.”

Morgan’s bottom lip jutted out and his gaze moved to Oberyn who was looking down at him with an intense fondness that made her sigh. And Ellaria was at his side, a gentle and curious affection in her gaze. “But what if I want to stay with Prince Oberyn?”

Y/N knew to protect her head even before she passed the first stone step. Down, down, down she fell, limbs smacking against the stairs and bannisters until she came to an abrupt stop on the cold ground. The ceiling swam as she finally opened her eyes.

Within a handful of pained breaths, blood coating her teeth and tongue, she watched Tywin loom over her. He had leisurely walked down the winding stairs, uncaring of how he had tried to kill her just moments ago. But perhaps he knew she would survive. This was simply a warning.

“You are a disgrace. You are my wife. I will not be made a fool of any longer. You will not be seen dallying with some Dornish tart prince or his whore. You will not cavort around as if you truly belong here. You do not. You have not earned your place yet.”

“What do you want?” She asked, tongue heavy in her mouth and blood coating her throat. “What do you want?”

“What was promised to me. I do not know what potion you’ve conjured or trick you have conceived, but I will be given an heir. Or I will have your head on a pike.” His thin lips curled into a sneer, the closest she had ever seen to him smile, before he stepped over her crumpled form and out into the sunlight.

And she let herself wallow for just a moment, only until the ceiling stopped spinning and then she rolled onto her side with a wince and grunted as she pushed herself up onto unsteady feet.

“If you want an heir, I’ll produce an heir.” The vow was snarled into the quiet air of the tower.

Y/N watched little Morgan toddle away, his hand firmly clasped in the handmaiden’s, babbling excitedly about dragons and princes. And then her eyes once again found Oberyn and Ellaria, both also watching the little lord walk away.

“He looks like you,” Ellaria said with a smile.

“Yes. A small blessing, I suppose.” She watched Oberyn’s smile widen and he unsuccessfully hid it behind his hand.

A sudden movement caught their gaze and they realized that Cersei had come back, apparently ready to parley with the Dragon Queen.

A cold cloth was pressed to the swelling of her cheek.

“How cruel, to hurt someone so beautiful.”

The scent of the pleasure house was almost comforting; filled with expensive perfumes and burning incense, it was a welcome reprieve from the stench of the city. But all Y/N truly cared about was how soft Ellaria’s touch was and how gentle the other woman was, even after Y/N had bodily climbed in through the window of their room and collapsed onto the floor.

In a strange stroke of luck, the pair had not been entertaining themselves with another person’s (or multiple people) talents and time. And perhaps she truly did look worse for wear if the pained looks and surprised noises they let out when she lifted her head were any indication.

Ellaria had quickly called for a servant to bring what she needed as Oberyn easily hid Y/N’s crumpled form in their warm bed from any prying eyes.

“I am sorry…” Y/N said, “I am so sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Oberyn asked as he took a seat beside her. Gentle fingers pressed at broken skin at her hairline and he frowned. “You escaped your gilded cage and sought safety with us—there is nothing to apologize for in this instance, Little Titan. You have trusted us. There is no higher honor.”

Ellaria hummed her agreement and continued to clean the cuts and calm the swelling around her face. “But how you managed to evade all those gold and white cloaks is surely a tale to tell.”

Y/N smiled but regretted it when pain bloomed across her entire face and Ellaria tutted as a bit of blood bubbled from a scab. “I do doubt it is anything worthy of repeating. Just a bit of Sweetsleep in some wine and hoping for the best.”

“It took you five days to think of Sweetsleep?” Oberyn teased but there was still a clear undertone of concern in his voice that made her heart clench. They cared.

She had a plan, true. And if they agreed vengeance could belong to all of them. Tywin had taken enough from them. “It took me five days to muster the courage to come to you.”

The simple sentence took the air from the room. Ellaria’s gentle touch paused and Oberyn grasped her hands, careful of the injuries. “Tell us, Little Titan. Tell us what you need.”

Y/N looked to Ellaria first and then Oberyn. “It is my lord-husband.”

“I knew it,” Oberyn said, looking to Ellaria who nodded. “I knew he would. He destroys everything he touches. Everything.”

“And I need to let him think he has—just for a few moons longer.”

“Why? Why wait? I can kill him now and be done with it-”

“I want to kill him,” Y/N said, voice steady. “But I want to take away everything he has created. Everything he has worked for, killed for. I want it all. And you are the only ones who would be able to truly take it from him, the only ones I trust.”

Ellaria and Oberyn looked at each other again before turning back to her. “What is your plan, Little Titan?”

She knew Cersei was lying when she said that she would send the Crown’s forces to aid in the fight against the Night King. But it seemed Jon and Daenerys would take her at her word.

Stupid mistake.

As the small crowd dispersed and Y/N continued to play the dutiful peon with a final curtsey, her mind churned. While Cersei had most of the Westerland armies at the capital, some had been allowed to keep to their posts in their homeland. They were Y/N’s to command. And she knew they would listen.

She would not stay in the capital. She did not care if Cersei had expected her to stay. She did not care if the polite thing would be to at least graciously decline the rooms probably readied for her presence.

She did not care.

Her son was in the city. And a war was coming.

The Dragon Queen and Jon Snow were trustworthy. Y/N did not care if the wrath of Cersei was turned on her after this—she could handle Cersei, if needed. But the Realm needed Dragons if they wanted to survive. Daenerys seemed much more reasonable and willing to listen than Cersei ever did so she would not mind if the petite Valyrian sat on the Iron Throne after the dead were dealt with. But that came first.

The small entourage Y/N had arrived with was waiting dutifully by her wheelhouse, also tired of the city, it seemed.

“My lady,” A soft voice said, gaining her attention.

Y/N turned to see Ellaria waiting patiently just outside the Dragon Pit. “Yes?” She took a moment to glance around and see that they were largely alone. Everyone was too preoccupied with their own retreat to pay them any mind.

“We must speak with you.”

Y/N gave one last look to her son, watching him laugh so easily at something a handmaiden whispered into his ear. For now, he was safe.

Y/N turned and linked her arm through Ellaria’s, once again finding an easy comfort in the other woman’s warmth. “I am all yours for a few moments, my lady.”

“Lady Lannister, what a sight you are!”

Y/N bit back the snarl at Maester Pycelle’s exclamation. Despite tending to her bruising, swelling and broken skin for nearly a fortnight, she still looked a fright. She knew it. But it was another thing for an old man in tattered rags to announce it so loudly.

“It is nothing. A servant spilled a bit of wine near the stairs and I did not see it. A careless mistake.”

Pycelle nodded. “Yes. Careless. But you should thank the Seven that you are still able to fulfill your earthly, wifely duties.”

Y/N felt her hands curl into fists and tucked them behind her back, ignoring the ache the movement caused. “Yes. Duties.”

Tyrion’s trial had finally started and Y/N was expected to attend. She retrieved Sansa from her locked chambers—a stark contrast from the Black Cells where Tyrion was kept—and had escorted her to the Great Hall, half a dozen kingsguard surrounding them. She had only a moment alone with Sansa in her chambers before she knew she would draw suspicion from the guards waiting outside the door. “You will need to lie, pup.”

“But-”

Y/N grasped Sansa’s chin in a loose grip but her eyes were hard. “You will lie, Sansa. Your life depends on it. I can only keep you safe if you do.”

“What would you have me say?”

“That you knew of Tyrion’s hatred of his nephew but you did not think he would go so far as to poison him.”

Sansa’s blue eyes watered but she nodded. “I can do that.”

“Good, pup. Then you shall be just fine.”

The entire Great Hall was packed with spectators and she took a seat toward the front, near the dais as Margaery’s side, and Sansa had been relegated toward the back, being treated like another accused instead of a witness. The whole thing smacked of Cersei’s bias.

But Y/N held her tongue, watching as Tyrion was escorted into the hall in heavy chains, and stood as Tommen did, following the rest of the crowd. Tywin briefly looked at her, a smug look on his face as he saw the black and red gown she wore—the stupid garment had been the only garment in her chambers that morning. He was not subtle.

“I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, first of my name, King of the Andals, First Men, and Rhyonar, lord of the Seven Kingdoms, hereby recuse myself from this trial. Tywin of the House Lannister, Hand of the King, protector of the realm, will serve as judge in my stead. With him, Prince Oberyn of the House Martell, and Lord Mace of the House Tyrell. If found guilty, may the gods punish the accused.”

As Oberyn moved to take his seat, he caught her eye for just a moment—and that look was all she needed to remember to breathe.

As person after person provided “evidence” against Tyrion, Y/N started to wonder if she would ever be able to leave this stupid hall. There was a slight reprieve in her sheer boredom when Sansa was called forward and she gave testimony that Tyrion did not care for Joffrey but she could not be sure if he truly poisoned his nephew. Her blue eyes glanced toward Y/N for her final words, “but I would not be so bold as to completely clear him of guilt or conspiracy.”

And that proved enough for Tywin to dismiss the little pup and let her retake her seat—without the small troupe of guards surrounding her. Sansa had been deemed innocent.

But this farce of trial was far from over. It continued on and on—and even included an appearance from Shae, who was apparently Tyrion’s lover. How quaint. Oberyn easily saw right through her lies and made nearly everyone present squirm with a double entendre. Y/N hid her smile behind her hand and ignored the blood bursting from her healing lip.

But the joy was short lived when Tyrion exclaimed, “I demand a trial by combat.”

Oberyn was waiting in a dark hollow of the dragon pit’s crumbling walls and drew both Ellaria and Y/N into his arms. He kissed Ellaria slowly and then pressed his warm lips against Y/N’s pulse. It sent familiar shivers down her spine.

“You are planning something, Little Titan.”

“As are you, my prince.”

Ellaria sighed. “You two are impossible.”

Y/N ducked her head with a smile. “A fair assessment, my lady, but I do not think you would enjoy us half as much if we were not constantly scheming.”

“You know the lioness will not honor her word,” Oberyn cut in quickly. His grip tightened around them.

“Of course not. She will wait for the Night King to both wipe out her enemies and then try to fight him herself, or attack after the battle is won and their numbers are depleted.” While Cersei thought herself Tywin’s true heir in manners of warfare and plotting, the only true manner she had inherited from her father was her inability to forget a slight. “I will not stand by and wait for the dead to reach Casterly Rock. Not while my son is…” the words died on her tongue.

But Ellaria grasped her hand and squeezed it tight. “You have something to fight for. We all do.”

“Dorne will fight beside you. We will fight for the living.”

“It is for luck,” Y/N said with a small smile. “Even the bravest in Braavos drink it. I have not seen a single man who drank this fall to his opponent.”

“I do not need to drink your potion to kill the Dornishman.” Of course, Ser Gregor Clegane would say something like that. His reputation and his (stupid) moniker of The Mountain might have been well earned but that did not mean Y/N any higher of him. In fact, his inability to think for himself when Tywin gave an order only made him smaller in her eyes.

Easy prey.

But that did not mean she would let Oberyn handle him on his own.

Y/N raised the cup a little higher, pressing a worried expression to her face. “It is more for my nerves, my lord, I assure you. I have heard of your prowess even across the Narrow Sea. But please,” she reached out to place a hand on his arm, a pretty picture of genteel worry, “calm my heart.”

Gregor nearly sneered as he took the cup and drained it in one gulp. “For you, Lady Lannister.”

Y/N reached out to take the cup back with a quick dip of her chin and another smile. “I thank you, Ser Gregor.”

She handed it off to a handmaiden and then let herself be escorted to her seat under the canopy, sitting aside her husband. She watched Oberyn and Ellaria speak to Tyrion under their own canopy, happily drinking wine and eating berries. The confidence they had in Oberyn was palpable—and for good reason. But Y/N never did like to watch an even match.

It was too boring.

Pycelle prattled on about how the gods would decide the fate of the trial by combat and soon the two men were engaged in battle.

Oberyn delighted in each blow and catch of his spear into the Mountain’s hulking form and made sure Gregor knew who his opponent was. “I am the brother of Elia Martell. Do you know why I have come all the way to this stinking shit-pile of a city? For you.” Another catch and parry. “I'm going to hear you confess before you die. You raped my sister. You murdered her. You killed her children. Say it now and we can make this quick.” Another clash of blades. “Say it. You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.” Y/N watched Clegane stumble, nearly fall to his knees, as Oberyn landed a kick to his hulking form.

“You murdered her! You killed her children!” Each word out of Oberyn’s mouth grew louder and louder.

Even over the din of the crowd starting to roar, Y/N heard Gregor’s shuddering breath as he struggled to his feet and his grip seemed to loosen on his broadsword.

Oberyn sank the end of his spear into Gregor’s side and quickly gave another, dodging a loose-gripped swipe of The Mountain’s sword at his neck. He stepped back only to watch the giant of a man stumble with a smirk. Oberyn charged at the Mountain to give him one final blow. Blood spurted out of Gregor’s mouth as Oberyn pulled his spear back.

The earth itself seemed to rumble as Gregor finally fell to his knees.

“Wait. Are you dying? No, no, no. You can't die yet,” Oberyn mocked. “You haven't confessed. Say it. Say her name. Elia Martell. You raped her. You killed her children. Elia Martell. Who gave you the order? Who gave you the order?!” Oberyn lifted a hand and pointed toward Tywin.

And for the millionth time since Oberyn had arrived in the city, Y/N had to hide a smile.

“Say her name! You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children. Say it. Say her name. Say it!”

Y/N did not move her gaze from the ring, uncaring of Tywin’s reaction. She would remember how the crowds gasped and started to murmur. In a single moment, the rumor that had almost been forgotten had been reignited. She was not surprised to learn that Oberyn had declared himself Tyrion’s champion when Gregor was called in for the crown.

And she wanted to make sure Oberyn was given at least a small bit of justice.

But Gregor could not answer. He fell forward, more blood pouring from his mouth, arms shaking to keep him from completely collapsing.

“Tell me!” Oberyn roared. “Tell me!” He leaned down to listen to something The Mountain said, whispered only for him to hear. But when he stood, Oberyn swung his spear and buried it into the Mountain’s head.

Y/N, Ellaria, and Oberyn plotted to move their loyal forces for only a little longer, keeping both the Dragon Queen and Crazed Lioness from overhearing. But soon-

“Mama! Mama!” And for the second time that day, Y/N was nearly leveled by her son throwing himself at her legs.

“We must work on your patience, my love. I was nearly finished.” She hauled the squirming boy into her arms and kissed his cheek. “We shall have supper at the inn but the hill when I am finished, hm? They have that pie you like.”

Morgan happily nodded and squirmed again, wanting to be let down. As his little feet hit the broken stone, he turned to look up at Oberyn and Ellaria, smiling wide. “Hello again, Prince Oberyn!”

Oberyn smiled and leaned down to Morgan’s level before gesturing to Ellaria who smiled fondly down at him. “This is Ellaria Sand, the love of my life.”

Morgan’s little hand reached out to Ellaria and he pressed a quick peck to her fingers, much to her delight. “My lady.” His following bow only continued to earn giggles.

Y/N watched Oberyn as he observed the little scene. His face was serene yet sad. And she knew why.

“You have a viper’s eyes, little lord.”

Morgan preened at the compliment despite not knowing what it meant. “Thank you, Prince Oberyn!”

King’s Landing was a powder keg.

After ‘the gods’ deemed Tyrion innocent, he fled in the night. But Cersei continued to rage and rage and rage, still offering a hefty sum for Tyrion’s head on a platter. Tommen and Margaery were married in another lavish ceremony and the Tyrells continued to press their influence over their city and the new king, only pushing Cersei further toward the edge. Tywin would hold daily meetings with the Small Council and with Lady Olenna, trying to keep the precarious balance of power decidedly in his favor.

And all that distraction proved very fortuitous for Y/N.

“Oh please, please,” she gasped as Oberyn continued to move.

Ellaria chuckled above her before moving Y/N’s mouth back to between her thighs. Y/N had always been very talented with her tongue. It was something Ellaria was happy to learn.

“Patience,” Oberyn said in a breathy huff. “You are always so greedy.”

But Y/N simply buried herself further into the soft patch of curls between Ellaria’s thighs as Oberyn canted his hips just slightly, letting her feel him nearly in her stomach.

They had done this every day—and almost every night—as Tywin was distracted.

Oberyn’s warm, calloused hands curled over Y/N’s thighs, anchoring them around his waist as his pace grew faster and faster. And Ellaria sighed, holding Y/N’s head still as she found her high and coated Y/N’s lips with her release—sticky and sweet.

“Are you nearly done, my love?” Ellaria’s voice was raspy and she did not move from her seat on Y/N’’s mouth, even as she shook with overstimulation. Y/N was greedy—Oberyn had rightly branded her so. And Ellaria tasted so good. “You do have a meeting to attend.”

Oberyn huffed but his pace did increase and the coil in Y/N’s belly wounded tighter and tighter, for the third time that morning, and then finally snapped as Oberyn groaned before leaning forward to press a kiss to Ellaria’s kiss-slick lips. Warmth bloomed and Y/N shook.

Yes. King’s Landing was a powder keg. But it was delicious.

And when Y/N passed the Small Council chamber later that morning she nearly snorted as she heard Tywin say, “You look tired, Prince Oberyn.”

And Oberyn, ever the viper, responded, “yes, my lover and I are trying for another child. I have heard you are trying for another heir, too, no?”

When the next morning came and Tywin left her bed, let him be for a moment before readying herself for the day. She slipped into his chambers and put on her dutiful-wife mask, one she had worn so well for the past handful of moons.

“I will be speaking with the Maesters this morning.”

“Oh?” Tywin responded, buttoning his tunic.

“Yes, I have been feeling poorly and I have missed my last moon blood. I am hoping I will have good news for you soon.”

Tywin was quiet for a moment before he hummed. It almost sounded happy. “You will tell me immediately what they say. Do you understand?”

“Of course, my lord.” She pulled his Hand of the King pin from atop one of his trunks and handed it to him. “I would have Sansa as a ward. King’s Landing has only made her a scared little thing—she will cow in front of the Northmen she’s supposed to rally to your grandson’s cause.”

“And you believe you may shape her into something-”

“Someone who will command respect and is loyal, my lion. Your daughter, for all her charms, was not suited to mold someone as gentle as Sansa. Her children were born with a steel core. Little Sansa needs a gentle, shaping hand.” Y/N slipped her arms around Tywin’s shoulders as he adjusted the pin over his heart. “I know you have an allegiance with Lord Bolton who you have named the Warden of the North in the Starks’ absence. The Northmen’s loyalty to them is tenuous at best. I know you strive for peace. If you could arrange for Sansa and the Boltons to find common ground, I know it would give you a small bit of reprieve to know you no longer had to worry about the North revolting. Again.”

Tywin froze—just for a moment. “Perhaps you aren’t as useless as I had been beginning to suspect.”

Y/N only smiled.

And after having the Maesters confirm that she was with child, she knew Tywin would come to her bed chamber again. She offered him a cup of wine in celebration and watched him drain it as he smirked. And she let him undo the laces of her dress. She let him pull her chemise over her head. She let him press her down into the pillows.

And then he paused. His eyes screwed shut with a pained groan. Tywin fell to the side and Y/N happily climbed over him.

“What…have you done?”

Y/N felt the slash of a smile grow across her face. “I have taken everything from you.” Her hands folded over her stomach. “You have only moments to live. But life grows within me. And your line has ended.” She watched the light fade from his eyes before forcing tears into her own. She let a few trickle down her cheeks for maximum effect before climbing off her husband’s lap and pulling on a dressing robe before dashing to the door and flinging it open. “My husband, please! Please someone help my husband!”

“Does he know?” Oberyn asked quietly as he helped Y/N lift little Morgan into the carriage. The child had fallen asleep at the table, nearly tipping over his prized pie. A day full of excitement had worn him out. He had caught a single glimpse of a dragon as their traveling party departed the city and had animatedly recounted the story to anyone and everyone who would listen. Oberyn and Ellaria had quietly followed.

“He knows his father is a brave, strong man. Who is loyal to his word, devoted to his family, and a hero for the ages.”

“Does he believe it is Tywin?” Oberyn asked, his fingers brushing the dark hair away from his son’s forehead.

“I believe he is smart enough to understand it is not.” She paused. “He is heir to the Lannister seat of power. He will hold everything Tywin worked so hard to build and protect. But the Lannister bloodline has ended. Yours will continue—yours will hold his seat of power until the gods deem this world finished. House Lannister is now your blood—your son.”

“But will he know the truth? Will he ever know me as his father?”

“Of course,” she said with a small smile. “When the time is right, and I know he can keep this secret, he will know your name as his true father. He will know you, love you.”

“And you? What of you?”

“What of me?” She repeated. “What would you need of me?”

Oberyn and Ellaria locked eyes for a moment before their penetrating gazes moved back to her. “We will want you as well.”

“Me?”

“We will always want you.”

Y/N sucked in a breath, trembling for the first time in decades. “Will you ever forgive me?”

Gone were the washes of gaudy crimson fabric and she was once again permitted to drape herself in black. She was a widow now. Perhaps that suited her. And now that Tywin was dead, she saw no reason to stay in King’s Landing. Tywin, before his tragic death of a bad heart, had announced to the court that Y/N was with child. It had only cemented her status as the true ruler of Casterly Rock.

Before she departed, Cersei called her into her chambers for tea. It was the most civil Cersei had ever been toward her and it was still laced with unsubtle threats and verbal barbs.

“The newest Lannister. A new brother,” Cersei mused, her eyes pointedly looking at Y/N’s stomach. “I hope they look like father.”

“I do doubt they will look like Lannisters.”

“Oh?” Cersei said, mouth tilting just so. “Are you so sure?”

“I do not look like a Lannister, your grace. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

“Yes, but the seed is strong-”

“Not strong enough. I assure you. The babe will look like me. After all, it seems you have taken all the luck and used it on your children—all of them, green-eyed and golden-haired. What are the chances? Hm?” Y/N finished her tea and stood. “I thank you for the company, your grace. But it is time for me to leave.” And Y/N turned and left without being dismissed, a smile on her face all the while.

And she left. She left without saying goodbye to Oberyn and Ellaria—her only friends in the city. She left knowing it would hurt them. But trying to find a moment to find them, to explain, would only cast suspicion on the paternity of her child. Because she knew she would not be able to stop herself from falling into their arms one last time.

Sansa gave her a small smile as they both settled into the wheelhouse and soon they were off.

Months slipped by and the pregnancy was largely uneventful.

She had kept her distance when she had heard of the Greyjoy attack on Myrcella’s boat and the princess’ death. She kept all the sword hands she could within the borders of the Westerlands when Cersei seized power from the Tyrells after the mysterious death of Tommen. She declared herself queen and threw Margaery into the Black Cells, threatening to send her head to Olenna if the Reach rebelled. She had played the part of careful, dutiful Lady of the Rock very well. She had kept Cersei’s eye off her kingdom and focused on the threats she perceived from across the Narrow Sea or the North.

Sansa had been a dutiful student. When Lord Bolton asked if Sansa would be willing to marry his son, Ramsey, she accepted, even knowing the boy’s reputation to be cold and cruel. Crueler still after the mysterious and suspicious death of his father.

But he never touched Sansa. No. On their wedding night, Ramsey fell ill and then never woke.

But Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell again—a Stark was in the North.

And it was so easy for the North to rally to her cause and the North rose up in revolt again. It made Y/N laugh.

But soon the baby was coming—far sooner than she had anticipated. With a final scream, it was over. A baby’s cries filled the air and a bloody, squirming infant was placed in her arms, wrapped in black silk.

“A boy, my lady. A healthy boy. Have you thought of a name?”

Y/N felt tears start to gather in her eyes as she looked down at her son—her beautiful son. The spitting image of her—but then his eyes opened. And he had his father’s eyes. Viper eyes. “His name is Morgan.”

Y/N’s lips still burned from the kiss Oberyn and Ellaria left her with before they departed.

And her heart was lighter, too. They had forgiven her—had said there was nothing, truly, to forgive. “You were protecting your child. My child.”

Morgan stirred in her arms as the wheelhouse rode over a bump. “Mama?”

“Yes, my love?”

His viper eyes opened and she smiled, seeing them shine in the low light of the evening. “Will we see Prince Oberyn and Lady Ellaria again?”

Her smile widened. “Yes. I can promise you that.”

Please let me know what you think!

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#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #oberyn martell x ellaria sand x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #asoiaf

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marigoldsandbuttercups · 3 years

Note

How do the fellswap gold, undertale and underfell boys annoy their brothers? Every sibling has their petty moments ;)

I went a little too far with this-

How Do They Annoy Each Other

Sans:

- Will go into Papyrus' room while he's there, looks around like he's some sort of inspector, only to push his brother down onto the bed (where he had placed a whoopee cushion prior) and book it, with his brother screaming in the background.

- Will mimic Papyrus in everything he does, all the way down to the way he speaks. He can do an insanely good impression of his brother but insteads just does the goofiest voice to annoy him instead.

- Will absolutely noogie him on the head, despite the height difference. Those shortcuts aren't left to be used for going to different places alone-

- You know that one meme, where the girl is followed by her bro playing the trumpet? That's exactly what Sans does to Papyrus whenever he hears Paps talking about him being lazy as ✨ 💕 payback 💕✨

- Also will low-key moves the objects when Papyrus is busy, but it's so subtle that Papyrus doesn't realize it until he's reaching for the marinara sauce for the sixth time in a row and he can hear Sans wheezing from the next room.

Papyrus:

- Likes to start random snowball fights and never fails to hit Sans straight in the face with one everytime. Little dude could be chilling at his sentry station and the last thing he'll hear is a distant "INCOMING" and WHACK his vision is clouded with snow.

- When Sans is being an ass, Papyrus plays the baby brother card. And by that, he will pull out the puppy eyes to have Sans do his bidding and Sans is annoyed that it works Every. Time.

- And of course, with only Sans raising him for most of his life, Papyrus is exposed to many embarrassing moments. And boy, does he like to recite the time Sans tried to goof around with some snowballs and got them stuck in his sockets because they were parts of the snowman word for word.

- Will deliberately write the most absurd stories and forces Sans to read it every time for him because Sans is his number one supporter, right? He knows what he's doing, and what's a good way to show brotherly love than to subject them to some story that doesn't even act like a story, more like an inner monologue of Papyrus and sans is concerned-

- Along with that, he also will make Sans his personal guinea pig for when he wants to try cooking something new. And oh boy, did he enjoy watching Sans eat up his ketchup and snow sundae and watch as his beloved older brother goes through the five stages of grief before telling Paps that he loves it.

Red:

- Any snarky comment that Edge has is instantly retaliated by Red. He can and will mess with his brother and make him even more annoyed when he wins the battle of wits that day.

- He's a bit of a bully. And by that, being a bully means he has absolutely no qualms about mimicking his brother when he gets on his nerves. Think of that one Spongebob meme and replace it with Red, it's Edge's worst nightmare because Red. Won't. Stop.

- He also likes to find the most cursed and obscure memes and send it to Edge with little to no explanation. You can imagine how great his annoyance was being called "Dababy" by Red for two weeks straight and being sent surprise messages that, upon opening it is that stupid, starsforsaken image!

- Though, they do have.... Brotherly wrestling to get all that anger out of their system. And when this happens, Red likes to do a wet willy and boy, he always sticks a mean one into Edges ear every damn time. Edge does try to prepare for this when they fight, but that bastard seems to have his ways. F in the chat for Edge-

- Red also likes to do that thing where, on occasion, he just flips off Edge for no reason at all with a "ya stink". Cue one angry skeleton and one that can teleport who, upon dodging everytime, says "Ya stanky ass" and proceeds to piss Edge off even more.

Edge:

- While he won't do this in public for obvious reasons, he will pick up Red and make fun of him for his height when man's just minding his own short business- it works everytime-

- Also has a huge amount of prime blackmail material just to bully Red into silence when he's being an ass. Just a casual mention of peeps (yes, the candy thing) and Red goes silent with an angry glare.

- While he doesn't pull dirty tricks like Red does, Edge will tug on the shorter monsters clothes if he was being rather annoying that day. It is the norm for them to roughhouse often so don't be surprised when one of them suddenly shoves the other and snickers loudly to rub it in their faces.

- Also has a tendency to noogie Red just for the sake of it.... Well, somewhat. He's gotten past the days of throwing monsters and people alike out the window. Usually, the noogies are what would prompt the wrestling matches cause Red can't let this slide by-

- Also, this is only when he's feeling ✨extra annoying ✨, he will send one of the hounds to hang out with Red. Hanging out is used very lightly when he throws a bone at the conveniently placed sentry station, almost always getting it into Reds clothes. Ah yes, watching the look of terror on his face as the massive hound rushes through the snow is delectable.

Wine:

- Can and will cry whenever Coffee is about to do something. He's usually Coffees biggest hypeman but stars, he can't help but embarrass his sweet baby brother as well and knows full well that the younger skeleton will take revenge on him-

- That one meme with the Kardashians and the mom going "You're doing great, sweetie"? That's Wine to a T, and he will do this sometimes ironically even when Coffee is eating or doing something with the other skeletons just to tease him and the rest of them.

- Oh, and if Coffee has a fit and talks back? Cue the dramatics as Wine falls to the ground, sobbing like he was in a telenovela and his rent was due tomorrow so he's doing his best. Holds a hand up to the sky, pulls it back and let's out a small, broken sigh. This is a weekly occurrence--

- If Coffee was being a butt that day, Wine would also bring out the baby pictures, saying that he could not believe this young skeleton would do him "so dirty" like this, and the way he says it makes Coffee cringe so bad like no pls stop-

- On top of that, he really, really likes misusing current slangs. If he hears Coffee using any of them within a five mile radius, you bet he's misusing the shit out of it for the next week or so just to mess with him.

Coffee:

- If Wine was being a bit too... Enthusiastic that day, Coffee is definitely hiding some of Wines things. And the man is incredibly good at stashing away things.

- Since he's the baby of the house, Wine, in a way, is not his only older brother anymore. And Coffee knows this irks Wine more than he'd like to admit. And it especially gets him when Coffee goes to Red for some brotherly bonding.

- If Wine or really, any of the more affectionate skeletons go in for a hug, they're gonna be greeted with a gross raspberry and trust me, they hate it so much-

- He also likes to trolls his brother with the ever sophisticated "jebaited". It occurs at random moments when Wine gets a text, thinking Coffee is going to be nice to him only to see that, cue a very frustrated screech.

- If Wine had been a little overbearing, Coffee will come home and head for his brothers bed first, sparing nothing, not even the pillows as he rolls around in them. This is because Wine is a bit of a neat freak and doesn't like it when people lay in his bed before changing their clothes. Oh, Coffee is already in glee at just hearing the tired sigh in his brothers voice.

#I had too much fun with this-#sans #papyrus #undertale #undertale sans #undertale papyrus #underfell #underfell sans #underfell papyrus #fellswap #fellswap sans #fellswap papyrus #undertale imagines #undertale headcanons

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frostahesmegabite · 3 years

Text

DWC Day 1 - Reunion - Daily Writing Challenge Entry - Mega Goes Home

[ This scene takes place after a two year storyline between the FBC Guild that I’m the GM of and a personal storyline between Megahes and his Fiance, Naturasu. During this time, Megahes was cursed by a Cultist to slowly die from an agonizingly painful hex that was slowly killing him and all hope of its curing/removal was stripped away when this Cultist was killed during the conflicts. Ammaelin came to save Megahes (and acquired some ‘favors’ along the way) by using fractured shards of a Naa'ru to force Megahes into becoming Light Forged in a sense. This process took several years thanks to the manipulation of time via magic and while Mega felt the strain of three-four years of work, for everyone else it was roughly eight to ten weeks before his return. ] The Zeppelin ride to Orgrimmar was agonizingly slow, probably more than any other ride Mega had ever had on one before in his entire life. It was enough to drive him mad and the longer it took in combination with the closer it got to taking him home to Naturasu the worse it became. The goblin fidgeted, tugging at his clothes and making sure all the buttons on his shirt were done properly. His sleeves still crisp and the ironed lined still present. Hell, he even fought with the rolled up sleeves and their buttons that kept them pulled up to his biceps. The wait on returning home was killing him. What was Nat going to say when he walked in the door? This reunion between her and him played in his head a thousand times just today alone, he couldn’t even count the amount of times that he played out similar scenarios while he was away. “Nervousness does not become you Mister Frostbite.” The voice was formal and flat, its source coming from a blinding armor clad Blood Elf that stood several feet higher than himself. Crimson red hair blowing in the breeze thanks to their mode of transportation. Ammaelin, the Blood Knight who was responsible for the absence that proved to be a miraculous, and most likely a very heretical, healing process. If one could butter their bread with his smugness, one’d choke on it just from looking at him. “I’m aware, but that doesn’t make it any less. I been gone for three years now.” He quickly brings up a hand to stop the Elf, they’ve had this conversation several times before already. “And I know, I know. Months for her, for everyone else. Years only for You, Me and the others. But still years for me…” “We did what needed to be done, especially in regards to our agreement. You would have surely died otherwise.” Ammaelin’s head turns if but barely, just enough to cast a glance down upon the golden metal that was imprisoned into Mega’s flesh near his wrists. “You are lucky that you had those shards hidden away. Had any other Paladin known you held those, my brother's curse would have been the least of your concerns. I have no doubt the Church or the Draenei would have come marching on your doorstep…” Megahes’ face contorts as draws upon sarcasm to mock the Elf. “I have no doubt…” Mega blows a massive raspberry in the Paladins direction, which causes him to turn and look back upon the horizon, not giving in to Mega’s provocations. “Look. I know how risky tha thing was and I appreciate what you did and I get that I owe ya. But… all’a that aside. I’m just nervous man. What if…” He just stops and breathes, voice quivering a bit as his eyes begin to moisten, forcing him to stop and look back over the side of the Zeppelin once again. “If she doesn’t approve or she’s moved on due to thinking you dead or not coming back?” “I mean, I could have put that in better words, but yeah.” “I think perhaps you worry too much.” Megahes grumbles and sighs, running his hands up and down his face several times before they slide into his hair, where he just grabs hold of himself and pulls out of frustration only to realize he’d fucked it all up. His head shakes and he sets out to fix his hair as best he can, a nervous tick, to be sure. Mega was about to open his mouth to retort, but the Paladin stopped him by pointing to the horizon. Pandaria’s Jade

Forest. Pillars of tall stone began to rise and fall down into gorgeous forests, rolling hillsides and lily and reed filled rivers. The air was crisp and something about it just filled one's body with a rejuvenating sense of purpose and peace. “We’ll be at your domancile shortly, Mister Frostbite. I suggest you gather your things and we’ll drop you off directly.” If Mega wasn’t nervous before this, he sure as hell is now! His nearly trips… Well, he does actually, right over his own two feet and in a fluster, he looks about for something that wasn’t there before he speedily heads towards the cabins to gather his bag. He’d had this ready hours ago. It wasn’t much, he had no time to prepare for this little ‘retreat’ of his, which he was thankful for now as he threw it over his shoulder. He pauses and looks over at Ammaelin. “For as big of a pain in tha ass ya have been these past couple of years, thank ya. Truly. If it wasn’t for you and them Priests, I wouldn’t be makin’ this trip back.” Ammaelins’ face during this brief statement was a rollercoaster! Disdain and irritation appearing quickly was soon replaced with an oddly peaceful smile by the end of it. “Our time has taught us much, Mister Frostbite, about a great many topics. It has been… enlightening.” His choice of words being an intended pun and irony placed upon Mega. There were no hugs, no great exchanges of physical emotion. The two just look at one another before Mega turns and descends into the bowels of the Zeppelin so he can board the loading platform and get lowered down to his home. Their home. Gold, this was excruciating. The platform lowers slowly, painfully so, at least to him. Each inch makes Mega’s ears pound so hard that he can hear them in his ears and if it got any higher in his throat, he’d choke. “I’m gettin all nervous for nothin’, she probably ain’t even home. Probably in Orgrimmar havin’ some drinks or workin’ at the Knot.” He blows through his lips with enough strength to cause a slight whistle. Stress and worry, all self-induced of course, at how this was going to go. He was happy, no doubt, but worry came natural. The lift jerks as the ground makes contact, nearly sending him sprawling down to the floor of it just for him to look up in utter irritation, sending up a solid middle finger at the crew whether they could see it or not. “Ain’t no wonder these things fall out of tha fuckin sky so much…” He grumbles, straightening himself and clambering off before they end up actually managing to kill him somehow. Once off, the Zeppelin began to hoist the platform once more as it turned to head off towards its next stop. Mega’s red eyes watch it drift off for a moment, offering an overhead wave in case Ammaelin was on deck and looking down upon him. Given time, Mega turns away from it, looking at his pandaren styled home. The smell of the Arboretum orchids wafting through the air hit his senses and caused him to smile and for a moment, peace was welcome until he began to pick up his feet, swearing they are encased in lead the closer to home he became. Much like a scene from one of those cheesy romance books he kept hearing people go on about, he freezes at the door, hand up and ready to knock but nothing comes. No, instead he pats himself down and takes the key out of his shirt pocket and uses that instead. Quietly, creeping open the door slowly as if he expected to walk in and find his place full of cobwebs and everything cold and abandoned. The sight he gets is quite the opposite. Everything was nearly just as he left it. Albeit, more golden now. Naturasu loved her gold and it was a miracle that everything they owned wasn’t gold or khorium at this point in some facet or another. The sight brings a small smile to his face, sucking him into the house where he quietly closes the door behind him, fingers tracing over chairs and couch arms before he lets his pack slide down into the floor where it was quickly abandoned. Quietly, he walks through the house, almost scared to break the silence just to realize that that’s all there’d be

but a sudden clattering coming from the kitchen broke what he hadn’t dared. “Oh gold… what is she remodelling in there now?” It was a good question to ask! Not one that he had malice towards however, as the modifications they’d made thus far were phenomenal. His feet take him into the doorway where Nat can be seen in her usual home attire of thigh-high socks and underwear along with a set of tools, some powered and some not, as she was working on some of their retractable steps that allowed the two of them to cook shoulder to shoulder despite their obvious size differences. And it was this image that made him choke in silence and just stare at her. She was still here and all of his fears, irrational or not, just vanished and all he’s left being able to do is croak out a cough and throat clear. Nat’s voice calls out in irritation as the work clearly wasn’t going as planned. “Just leave tha rollers and frames there on the floor Sugah, thanks.” She must have thought he was someone from the Contingents Engineering or Supply Staff. Had this been any other time, Mega probably would have played into this mistake and taken up the chance to pretend to be said person and elicit some lewd scene, but, no, not today… Well, at least not right -now-. “Sorry, I uhh… must have forgotten them back at tha office. I can go back and get them if ya like.” Mega’s voice quivered in a nervousness that refused to leave his bones that were joining with both excitement and happiness. Naturasu on the other hand, froze entirely just to drop the wrench that was in her hand to the floor. Slowly, she wheeled about, perhaps not sure if she heard the voice correctly or if it was just her senses fucking with her. Whatever her reasoning, the moment her copper colored eyes hit Mega’s own crimson hues, time stood still for them both. No words came, they didn’t need them. Naturasu hit her knees and before she could even get her arms outstretched entirely, Mega was across the room, pinning himself to her and locking his own behind her in an embrace so strong that Titan Steel couldn’t have broken it if it tried. The two remained conjoined and just wept. [ Thank you again for reading my entry to the @daily-writing-challenge ! This is Day One (09/19/2021) and today's words were #Reunion and #Afterlife. I had the choice of using one or both, but decided to run with only Reunion today just in case I decide to pull out some deathly stuff later in the month. ] [ Edit Addition: I apologize if there's some formatting issues. I tried to implant a couple of images to help convey things but Tumblr just wasn't having it, so I had to remove them. I've tried to correct the errors I did find, but I may not have gotten them all. ]

#dwc2021 #Megahes Frostbite #Reunion #Going Home #day12021 #dayone2021

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ffangirlingsince2001 · 4 years

Text

Nothing Alike: VII

Description: Geralt of Rivia has been tasked with taking out a fellow Witcher who has decided to settle down in a town. She has no intention of leaving and Geralt is forced to take matters into his own hands.

Geralt x Reader

Warnings: VIOLENCE, gore, smut, language, sadistic reader

MASTERLIST

She was silent for three days. Plotting and planning while the prison cart jostled her around like a sack of vengeful flour. Geralt tried to talk to her. He asked her if she was alright. She only ignored him, offering him the most persistent cold shoulder he had ever encountered.

The man dressed in the fancy suit also tried to talk to her. He apologized, he dragged her from the cart, and he threatened to cut off her fingers, but she never uttered a word. Even as the knife was held over statuesque fingers, she didn’t utter a word, the cogs in her mind only spin faster.

He didn’t actually cut off her fingers; it was more difficult to sell a slave when she didn’t have fingers. However, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his fingers around her throat until her lips turned blue and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Even then she didn’t speak, so, in a fit of rage, he threw her back into the cart and ordered them onwards.

On the fourth day they pulled into a town and she was sitting up straight, the mask of an exhausted, weak prisoner covering that of a bloodthirsty mastermind.

“It’s a wonderful morning, don’t you think?” she asked through trails of crocodile tears, Geralt was so surprised she was finally speaking that he was unable to answer before the cart came to a bumpy halt in the center of town.

He was surprised about the number of people milling around a slave trade but at the sight of their streets and the gnarl to their smiles, he realized this wasn’t just the black market, this was a black city. Slashed across every home was a stripe of red paint, marking their payment to those above them. And as they were unloaded from the cart, shackled, and bound he found the payment.

Children and women were shackled just the same as they were, heads hung low as a man in a hood brandished his whip through the sky. They all seemed to flinch in unison, waiting for the thin wire to meet its mark. He and Y/N were added to the line, but she didn’t seem at all worried. It hadn’t seemed to sink in that it was too late. Any plan she had was nothing more than a suicide mission.

“Don’t,” he whispered, hoping she would listen, begging whatever god was listening that she would heed his word. She didn’t react, but the smug pep in her step never faltered. She was practically skipping as they led them towards city hall.

She definitely hadn’t listened.

At the steps of the building, a man who he presumed was the auctioneer, was collecting weapons from the wealthy. It seemed this auction had problems with unhappy customers. He eyed the iron as he was pushed past, wishing that at least one had fallen into his hands.

Once inside the building there were at least a hundred more wealthy individuals, watching with apt fascination as the prizes of the day were led around the room. Each slave was positioned against the wall. A time for the buyers to shop around, see what was worth spending their money on. And it seemed Y/N was the most interesting thing they had seen in a while. A crowd quickly gathered around her. Geralt strained to hear what they were saying, even seeing her reaction would have been enough, but the crowd was too large and a man who apparently hated Witchers was standing in front of him.

“I’d only buy him to kill him,” he informed whoever was willing to listen. Geralt eyed the scrawny man and had to refrain from rolling his eyes. The only thing that man looked capable of doing was pouring himself a drink at the local tavern. “You hear me Witcher, I’m gonna kill you.”

Geralt rolled his eyes that time.

It wasn’t until half an hour later when the crack of the whip sounded, and the slaves were moved to the stage. Somehow Y/N had ended up at the end, the prize of the evening. She looked solemn and a soft crocodile tear was rolling down her cheek. She even sniffed to add to the whole charade. Frankly, it was more ridiculous than the man who had spent the last half hour threatening him.

He stared out into the crowd as the few dozen slaves before them were sold off. Children sold for more than adults, and women sold for more than men. Every time the gavel slammed against the oak podium the slave winced before being dragged off the stage and handed to their purchaser. Some children sobbed for their mothers and the men fought, but the women were always quiet, resigned to their fate.

And then it was his turn.

Geralt was shoved to the front of the stage and caught the eye of the man who had been speaking to him throughout the viewing. He was clearly itching to rid the world of a Witcher. The moment it was open his hand was in the air and Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Butcher of Blavikan was sold for three gold pieces. It seemed witchers were not a popular purchase among the wealthy.

Truly, an insult to his life.

He was roughly dragged out of the room, but he wasn’t going to leave her behind, no matter how much she annoyed him. He struggled against the hold of the man leading him towards his buyer but something blunt caught him in the back of his head and he was on the ground, blood leaking from his scalp. The world grew dark and then there was nothing.

When Geralt awoke he was sure he was dead, and while that was inconvenient, he couldn’t help but chuckle about how mad the man who had bought him would be that he hadn’t been able to deed himself.

Hell was certainly not what he had expected, though he wasn’t sure he had really expected anything other than darkness. There was no fire and no brimstone; in fact, it was rather chilly. He was covered in blood, and he wasn’t entirely sure who it had once belonged to, it certainly wasn’t his, there was far too much of it. Hell seemed to be the same room he had been killed in, an annoying reminder that he had been bested by a clobber to the back of the head. The room stunk of death, and he wondered if it was his own corpse. He sniffed his arm, just to check.

And then he heard what truly made it hell.

“Planning on getting up anytime soon?”

His head shot up, making the room spin, but the fact that his hell contained the Witcher he had made the mistake of latching to his belt made him question if mercy had ever existed.

She was covered in blood too, far more than he was. She was absolutely soaked, and he wondered if the blood in his hair was hers. The hell version of her had no similarity to the whimpering act she had been displaying moments before his life was cut short. She looked unnervingly smug, like she had won some wonderful prize. Maybe tormenting him was her prize.

And then he noticed the bodies.

One hundred bodies were spread across the floor, completely drained of blood, their wealthy white clothes no longer worth a cent. He swept his eyes across the carnage and then back to Y/N, and then to the auctioneer who he hadn’t noticed until now.

This wasn’t his hell; this was her heaven.

“I saved you one,” she announced, her voice snapping the silence in half. He only shook his head. It felt unnatural to speak hear, like he would be haunted if he dared to say anything in the presence of the once lively room. “Suit yourself,” she shrugged before turning towards the auctioneer who screamed beneath the gag she had once worn. She tossed the sword she had been holding to the ground and slunk forward, “More fun for me.”

Geralt looked away just as she dug her fingers into the auctioneer’s eyes. The screams were agonizing, echoing off the puddles of blood as he begged for mercy. That was all Geralt could make out through the terror, the word ‘please’. Had the sound not been so awful he would have laughed at the irony. After listening to the pleas of those he had sold, ignoring them with a grin, the last words the man would ever say were in perfect symmetry. And then with a gurgle he hit the floor, silent once more.

He allowed his eyes return to the Witcher as she stood in all her glory. She hopped down from the stage and wandered towards him, swinging the keys about her pinky finger. She unlocked his shackles and watched as he slipped around in the blood.

“Come on, you need a bath,” she informed him as she headed towards a door with minimal carnage.

“We need to leave.” She spun around, a dangerous glint in her eye.

“And why is that?”

“Someone will have alerted the authorities?”

“Who? The slaves I freed or one of the corpses? Or maybe you’re going to tell them?”

“You could have missed one,” he said ignoring her accusation.

“I didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Would you like to count the bodies? Because I did, before the auction as they groped me and gawked at my face while I stood on their pedestal, and then I counted them again as I removed their organs from their pompous chests. Now have you counted someone I might have missed, or are you going to join me for a bath? Even if you do leave now, you’re a walking target. Who are they going to suspect, the man covered in blood or the one who recently had a bath?” He didn’t respond, simply followed her up the stairs and into the small apartment above the auction house.

She stepped into the bathroom and smiled at had once been a wealthy man’s bath. The water had heated the water, tendrils of steam beckoning him forward. He watched as she shed her clothes. Even the skin beneath her clothes was stained crimson. Her dips and curves sunk into the water, instantly muddling it with her sins. She turned around, moaning at the feeling of warmth.

“You’re not scared, are you?”

“Of what?”

“Me.” It was a taunt, a ploy to get him in the water, and he knew it. It got him in the water, nonetheless. He quickly shed his clothes and joined her, sinking beneath the steaming surface. Beneath the water he opened his eyes and was met with equally golden eyes. Blood was drifting off the pair like the steam above them, swirling around like liquid rubies to match her treasure chest eyes. He quickly surfaced, the water burning his eyes, and watched as she scrubbed away what remained of her fun.

“How did you do it?” He didn’t want to know.

“When one of the men grabbed me, I stole the knife he had snuck in. The rest was as easy as gutting a pig. I let them buy me and the moment they removed the shackles, he was dead. No one noticed until the doors were locked, and then they were all mine. Each one of them begged for mercy and I only laughed, mercy for those who rape and pillage, certainly not if I’m the executioner.”

She seemed so pleased with herself, like she had eaten the best feast in her life, not killed a hundred men and women. He didn’t feel sorry for them, quite the opposite, but that didn’t change the fact she had killed them with a smile. He knew she had killed before but seeing her in action made it so much more real, so much more sinister.

“What happened to you?” he asked her softly and she quirked an eyebrow.

“Did you not hear me? I killed them, Geralt, they couldn’t have touched me if they tried.”

“No, not today. Before you could kill with a smile.” The smugness faltered.

“Some of us are just born this way.”

“Liar.”

“It’s none of your business.” She had the dangerous glint again, but this time it was directed at him. When he didn’t continue to pester it faded and she approached him slowly, still stained hands pulling her forward until she climbed into his lap. Something deep within him said he shouldn’t, but it died the moment she kissed him.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. Her fingers tanged themselves in his hair and a spare hand lined his length up with her entrance. She sank onto him without warning, the pair groaning in unison. She snapped her hips forward, lips still pressed to him as she fucked herself on his hard on. He bit her shoulder and she howled with delight, nails digging into his scalp.

The act was almost like a murder of its own. The pain and the release felt just as damaging as a knife wound. She was a banshee as his hands found her hips and slammed her against him. Water spilled across the floor as they rocked their own hurricane through the bath. He wasn’t sure when her orgasm ended and when the second began, but he did his best to match each peak of pleasure. It wasn’t until after the third that she slowed her angry pace. She nuzzled her face into his neck, hips still pushing forward with the help of his hands.

“You’d kill me with a smile,” she whispered, and he stuttered, but she kept the rhythm going. “If you could bring yourself to do it, you’d kill me and grin all the while.”

“Y/N-.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not the first.” The questions flooded his mind, but he remained silent as a soft moan filled his ears. She was close again and he joined her as her muscles tightened and then released with uncharacteristic softness. She pulled away, clearly not in the mood to say anything more. “We should head out soon.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m bored.” She’d had her brains fucked out and she was already bored. Typical. He climbed out of the bath after her and waited for her to return after the promise of clean clothes. They quietly dressed and then she led him down to the stables where Roach was waiting patiently. He climbed on and hauled her on after him.

And then they left it all behind.

Taglist: @stuckupstucky @aurora-sweet @holyhumorliteraturelight @dreams-of-sunlight-and-starfire @auds24

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yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

Note

PLEASE pluck Ricky from obscurity like you did Zach!!!

Right so you are all fairly keen on this guy because I also got these:

Pick You Up

Ricky Hauk x reader

Word count: 1700 ~ Warnings: None really. Light angst. Kissing.

Lovely gif by @ithinkwehitametaphor

You’ve not lived in this town long. The first time you use the gas station, the tall, skinny guy behind the counter glances at you from under his ball cap, the red brim only serving to bring out the slices of amber in his soulful brown eyes. There’s a crease in his cupid’s bow, the thumb print of a God proud of his work. He rings up your service, gives you a collection time.

When you park up back at home, you see it. A note under your unused windscreen wiper.

Autumn in her eyes

Her hair ropes of burnished gold,

Kissed by corners of the

Falling leaves. Will seasons pass

Before I look upon her

Once more?

The poem was from him. You know it. You know it because the next time you bring your car back, when winter’s starting to bite chunks out of the temperature, you see him write something on your receipt in the same loopy scrawl. He sees you looking. Ricky is embroidered on his navy blue overalls. A flush creeps up his cheeks, and you wonder how old he is. Twenty? You could cry over his perfect cheekbones.

“It should be more than that?” you ask when he rings you up.

The corner of his mouth curves up. “Returning customer discount. No one will miss a few quarts of gas.”

There’s a worn, tattered book propping up a wonky corner of the cash register. A Poem for Every Day of the Year.

And when you arrive home, there’s another scrap of paper under your windscreen wiper.

Winter’s grasp is far-reaching

Fingers dug in tight

But footprints thaw frozen ground,

A smile melts frostbite

Inch by Inch

You fold the paper carefully, tuck it under a magnet on your fridge, next to the one you already have. Wonder what it means. If he writes poetry for all his customers.

iii

Before Winter ends, your exhaust pipe crashes off the end of your car and you narrowly miss swerving off the road in shock at the huge bang it makes. You drive right to the service station, and like a dream, there he is, the huge roller door of the workshop open, and he’s bent over another car, his ball cap on backwards, overalls half-unzipped. Heat is pumping out of the workshop interior and you park your car. As you shut the door, Ricky looks up, and his face goes slack for a second, before he plasters a polite query on the handsome canvas. “Uh, hey. Can I help you?”

“Exhaust pipe fell off on the highway,” you sigh. “I know she’s a hunk of junk, but I just can’t afford to replace her, not yet.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.” Ricky holds out his hand for the keys, a smear of grease on his thumb, and you stare at his palm for a moment, wondering what his hands would feel like on your skin. If he’d leave a fingerprint of grease behind.

You wouldn’t mind much, if he did.

You have to leave the car overnight, eventually. Ricky comes into the tiny office with the noisy watercooler and tiny wall-mounted TV that only shows one God-awful news channel. His hands are shoved into his overall pockets and there’s a streak of engine grease on his cheek.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but she’s gonna have to stay in until tomorrow. My boss has gotta check the weld, and he’s stuck in the snowstorm one state over.”

“Okay.” You’re not cross with him. What would be the point?

Ricky looks from the clock to you. He probably has a hot date you’re keeping him from, you think with a little sadness. “Um, I’ve gotta lock up now. I can drive you home. If you want.” He jerks his thumb at the window to his right. A beaten up red truck sits outside.

“Thank you. That’d be great.”

The snow has started to fall in earnest. Ricky locks up the gas station and pockets the keys as the shutter finally closes up tight. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you’re safely strapped in before he gets in on his side and starts the engine. “You’ll have to direct me.” He tugs off the ball cap and stuffs it in the glove box.

“Wait,” you say, as his hand hovers over the stick.

He glances at you with an eyebrow raised, that poet’s mouth set solemnly, his tiger iron eyes so large in his face, larger somehow with his thick hair sticking up at all angles, and he looks so young but like he has an old soul. Like he’s seen so much; too much, and he is so tired.

“Why did you write me those poems?”

Ricky looks away, chewing his bottom lip.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“So what?” he throws back, still not looking at you. “I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you wanna hear?”

Your heart cracks down the middle. “No, it isn’t. They were beautiful. I kept them.”

His gaze shoots to yours. “You are beautiful,” he says, very soberly.

And you lift your hand to his cheek and then he’s kissing you, earnestly, his lips soft and sweet and unpracticed. Not that you’re experienced, but you estimate yourself as perhaps half a decade older than him. He groans into your mouth and desire skitters through you. You part your lips for him and he finally touches you, just a hand on your thigh, his palm warm through your worn, old jeans.

The drive to your house is full of thick, syrupy tension. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the way Ricky subtly adjusts himself during the ten minute trip.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to help him out with that.

He parks outside your building, and you kiss him again before you leave, nipping at his tempting lower lip, making him curse, low and sweet in that sinful, husky voice, still a little thready with youth.

“I’ll work on your car first thing tomorrow?” he half asks, half informs you, as you open the passenger door. The cold wind arcs in, biting at your skin. “I could pick you up. Early. If you want.”

You nod. “Okay. Thanks.”

Ricky catches your hand, tangles your fingers. “Guys like me write poetry about girls like you because it’s the only way we’ll be with you,” he mutters, and there’s something so sad and resigned in the depths of his butterscotch gaze.

You don’t know what to say, and if you kiss him again you run the serious risk of being arrested for indecent behaviour in his truck.

He’s early the next morning. You’re not ready.

“Come up,” you say through the buzzer, and in a matter of moments you’re opening your apartment door to him. He holds the service station ball cap in his hands, wringing it nervously, and his overalls are half-unzipped to reveal a plain white t-shirt. He smells of cheap cologne and minty toothpaste, and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Want a coffee?” you ask. “I’ll be five minutes.”

“No, thanks. Uh, I’m fine.” He stands by the door, like he needs permission to sit down.

You rush around, calling your boss to remind him about your car situation. He’s stuck at home anyway due to a snowdrift, so he doesn’t chew you out.

Pulling on your winter boots - hopefully they’ll see you through to March - you step out of the bedroom. Ricky’s leaning over your kitchen counter, scrawling something on a post-it note. He jerks up, guilt sketched on his angular face.

“Sorry.”

“Not at all.”

He folds the paper over. “Don’t read it.. Til later.”

He turns to face you, hesitates, wariness and want and need laid bare in those gorgeous hazelnut eyes.

“Could I… kiss you? Maybe?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and Ricky cups your face in his broad, callused hands, and lowers his mouth to yours, and the kiss starts soft and sweet, explorative, and then you slide your hands up his shoulders and tangle your fingers in his thick, tattered-silk hair, and he backs you into the wall, his lips urgent on yours, licking into your mouth, and you drink him in like you’re starved for the taste of him. He groans against your lips, one hand slipping down your back to palm your ass, and-

And your phone rings shrilly from your bag. Your work mobile.

You and Ricky spring apart.

“I’d better get that.”

It turns out to be a shitty sales call, but the moment’s been broken. You mostly manage to ignore the distended shape of Ricky’s jeans, but his face is red the whole drive to the garage.

When you arrive, a man who you guess to be Ricky’s boss is already there, opening the shutter. Ricky turns to you, his hand hesitant on your thigh. “Maybe…. Maybe you’d wanna see me again?

You cover his hand with yours, link your fingers. “I’d love to see you again, Ricky.”

His smile lights up the dreary winter day.

*****

Special thanks to @dornish-queen without whose watchlist, this fic would never have happened.

Tagging the Pedro pals! @gamingaquarius @a-seeker-of-imagination @songsformonkeys @alldatalost @dornish-queen @lackofhonor @alienprincesspoop @beccaplaying @cryptkeepersoul @keeper0fthestars @winters-buck @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @jaime1110 @nelba @heatherbel @thewayofthemandalorian @agirllovespasta @seawhisperer @holographic-carmen @mrschiltoncat @mourningbirds1 @emmy-dandiliom918 @trippedmetaldetector @starlight-starwrites @oloreaa @thegreenkid @tomhardydallasstarsgirl @buckstaposition @pedropascallion @pajamasecrets @knittingqueen13 @skdubbs @opheliaelysia

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magicalicefairy · 3 years

Text

𝔹𝕖𝕪𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕄𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔸𝕘𝕖𝕤 - ᛒᛖᛃᛟᚾᛞ᛫ᛗᛃᚦᛋ᛫ᚨᚾᛞ᛫ᚨᚷᛖᛋ

Chapter 1 “The Beginning”

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornsson x OC / Tyr x Persephone

Warnings: strong language

Word Count: 3.8k (sorry, not sorry)

Chapter 2 AO3 Wattpad

The floor I was sitting on was wet, cold, and slippery. The room was dark and I could barely see my surroundings. How long have I been down here? Two days? Curse this priest! Thinks I'm a witch just because I know how to take care of wounds and heal light illnesses by mixing a few herbs. “Witch!” He screamed and then locked me down here. Now I am waiting for my execution, which fortunately has not been approved yet. Apparently King Alfred had better things to do than sentence young women to death for mixing herbs. If I ever get out of here, by the gods, i will strangle this priest with my bare hands. But how i high are the chances that I would ever see daylight again? Was it the day I was brought to the scaffold? But I couldn't think any further, because my thoughts were disturbed by the ringing of the bells in the church above me.

I heard screams. What was going on here? I moved a little to slide closer to the dungeon door, but I couldn't get very far because iron chains were holding me to the wall. I heard hasty footsteps and trampling outside. Clinking noises, metal on metal. It was a fight! The soldiers of this abbey seemed to be fighting off a battle. Hopefully the attackers didn't come down here, because then they would surely give me a quick death, but before that the bandits would surely assault me. I heard footsteps coming down the corridor and the rustle of a bunch of keys. The priest! That bastard! What was he doing down here? Trying to hide? I heard nervous rustling at the door lock, hasty steps behind him and the roar of angry men. The next moment the door flew open, slammed against the wall with such force that it fell off the hinges and crashed onto the floor with a loud thump. The priest who held me prisoner flew through the door and a bearded northerner with an ax followed him. Blood dripped from the weapon and the silver seemed to light up the dark room. The north man pressed the priest against the wall.

"Where do you hide your treasures?" He said aggressively while holding the ax on his throat.

“You stupid pagan! You will burn in hell! ” He just screamed and wanted to insult him again, but the blood was already spurting from his throat and speckling the ground with red paint. The lifeless body fell to the ground like a sack of flour and lay there like an empty shell.

"That's what I wanted to do," I said, without even thinking about what was going to happen next. The north man noticed me for the first time and if I hadn't said anything, then I would probably have remained hidden in my dark corner.

"That would have been a bit difficult for you" He pointed with his bloody ax at my hands. These were still chained to the iron.

He took a few steps towards me and I had to admit that my heart was racing with fear.

"They have a big chest with treasures down here in the crypt," I quickly gushed out.

He just grunted something unintelligible and then he came closer to me. I pressed myself against the wall and watched every step oh him.

"Why are you locked up here?" He said to himself rather than to me. "You must be special" he knelt next to me and I could smell the blood that was all over his clothes.

"The priest" and I nodded my head to the sad piece of meat that lay lifeless on the floor next to us. "Thought I was a witch just because I know how to treat sick people and I mix herbs"

"I understand. You can heal wounds. So you are a kind of a healer? ”He asked, tilting his head. I hardly recognized him, but he seemed to have light eyes.

"Yeah, I think i am something like that." I replied, trying to sit up, not wanting to show my fear.

"I have a friend who needs help with a stab wound, can you treat something like that?" He turned the ax in his hand.

I paused for a moment and wondered if I could help him, maybe he'll let me live and I can go? Or he would kill me afterwards, but what choice did I have? To remain chained here while the bodies of at least 20 priests and two dozen soldiers rotten in the sun above. No, I had to take the chance and assure him of my help, that was the only way to get out of here alive.

I nodded and held out my hands to him. "If you have a solution, then I'll be happy to help." He grinned and showed me his silver ax. Was he really going to use it to break the chains? Is he insane? That’s going wrong. Never and eve-

I heard a loud clink and already felt the chains slip from my wrists. He did cut the iron with one precise blow. I rubbed my hands and got on my legs. Getting up quickly made me dizzy and i staggered a little.

"Are you okay?" The man held my arm to support me.

I just nodded. “Yes, I just got up too quickly and my legs are a bit shaky, but otherwise I'm fine.

"Good," he muttered and let go of me. "If you take care of my friend, you're free to leave" I nodded in agreement.

We went to the door and climbed the stairs. The light of the sun hit me like a blow. My eyes ached from the brightness, but what else should I expect?

I haven't seen the sunlight for two days and now I was exposed to it ruthlessly. Little by little, my vision improved and I saw the appearance of my Savior for the first time. He was a little taller than me. He had blond hair that he had tied in a braid and the sides were shaved. His clothes were covered in blood and he had a few splatters on his face. His blue eyes fascinated me, they were deep blue and reminded me of the waves on the sea, wild and untamed. He seemed to be staring at me too and I looked away.

"Follow me" and pointed to the massive wooden door at the end of the room. It led into the front yard of the abbey and when we got outside I inhaled fresh air for the first time in a long time. But there was not only the smell of fresh flowers in the air, no, there was also iron, blood, to be precise. And then I noticed that a few dozen corpses were spread out in the courtyard. This man's men had done a neat job. We went out of the garden, down the hill to the river. The huts of the priests and sisters burned and the smoke rose far into the sky. The fire could be seen several kilometers away. I heard the men before I saw them. They stood together in a group. The treasures of the abbey, gold and silver, which could certainly be sold or used well, passed through their hands. A man was sitting on a bench not far from them, his hand on his lower stomach. That had to be my Savior's friend that I was supposed to help.

"Eivor! There you are! ”His call sounded pained and his features cramped, but he tried to smile. The blond rescuer responded to his call. So his name was Eivor.

"Dag, I brought help with me" and he pointed at me.

The man named Dag looked me suspiciously.

"She's a healer, she can look at your wound," said Eivor, kneeling next to Dag.

“It's nothing, believe me. It's just a scratch. It'll be all right soon. ”But he was still holding the wound and it was definitely not just a scratch. The blood was on his clothes and on his hands. The wound seemed to be deep.

"That looks bad to me," I said to him and also knelt next to him. "I have to look at it, otherwise it could get worse."

"Is she one of the nuns here?" He looked at Eivor and raised an eyebrow.

Eivor was about to answer when I said: "No, as he had already said, I am a healer and not a sister."

He growled like a bear. Eivor assured him that I just wanted to help him and Dag agreed. He raised his hand and immediately blood came out of the wound. It was deep, but it had been stabbed clean. I should be able to treat his wound with a couple of bandages, but we weren't in the best situation for wound care. Materials for treating the wound were probably burning in the houses around us.

"We have to get him out of here, there are no clean cloths or clean water to treat the wound with," I said while looking at Eivor.

Eivor looked around and decided I was right.

"We have to get Dag out of here, let's go home!" Eivor roared through the crowd and pointed to two men who helped Dag up and took him to the river shore.

I wasn't sure what to do. How far was their home from here? How would it go on for me? And would they kill me after that? I had to take care of this man because I owed something to Eivor, he had taken me out of the dark dungeon and saved my life.. But Eivor didn't seem like a man who killed innocent women, since he got me out of there, he had been quite neutral, if not friendly, to me. I decided to follow them. Eivor walked by my side and we arrived at a large longship. The men helped Dag in and he sat down. Eivor stepped into the water and I followed him. The water was freezing and I got goose bumps. I pulled myself awkwardly into the boat and sat down next to Dag. I tore off a piece of my dress and folded it up.

“Here take it, press it on the wound. It will stop the bleeding temporarily. ”I held out the folded piece of cloth. He still looked at me suspiciously, but carefully slid his hand away from his wound. I immediately pressed it onto the open area, took his hand and pushed it onto the fabric.

"The wound looks bad, but I can manage it" I smiled at him and tried to give him some courage.

He just mumbled a little thank you and turned away.

I looked around and saw Eivor standing on the stern of the ship. The men took their places and hit the river bank with the huge rounds. We drove downhill and the abbey got smaller and smaller. By the gods, what exciting minutes those were.

"Are you scared?" I heard Eivor ask and he pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Well, you've just robbed an entire monastery of its soldiers and the treasures too. I was helpless and unarmed, and even with a weapon I would certainly not have been of great help. Of course I'm scared. I wonder what will happen after i helped Dag. ”I looked at Dag, who was watching me with a curious look. I'd prefer to get out of this alive. ”I look at Eivor seriously.

"You really think that after I got you out of there and you helped my friend, i'm going to kill you?" He seemed amused. "I could kill you on the way to the river or leave you in the dungeon"

He was right about that. He was still smiling at me. Did he find the whole thing funny?

"What's your name anyway?" He asked.

"Ella, my name is Ella" I replied.

"Ella? You're not from England, are you? "

"No, neither are you," and I showed my sarcastic smile.

He laughed and agreed with me. I let my gaze wander over the water. The river was dark and the water was clear. The drive wasn't long and I saw a village approaching in the distance, but it wasn't really a village. It was more like a bunch of tents and run-down huts. The boat docked at the dock and the men began to heave the chest and boxes out of the ship. I climbed out of the boat and followed Eivor into the village. In the center was a large oak, the branches of which hung heavily. She looked just beautiful. Behind it you could have a look at a very large longhouse. It seemed well preserved. I suspect the northerners hadn't been here long. There were a lot of different people here. Men worked in the harbor, women chased their children around. We passed a house where a tall man was working on a sword.

"Ahh Eivor, back again? I hope you found something nice, ”he laughed.

“Gunnar! Yes, we found a lot, you are welcome to take a look at the longship. Dag is injured, we'll take him up to the longhouse. Ella ”he pointed to me“ will take a look at the wound ”

Gunnar’s gaze wandered from Eivor to me and a smile formed. He seemed like a warm man to me. “Welcome Ella! Nice to meet you! "

"Nice to meet you too" I replied with a smile.

Eivor and I said goodbye to Gunnar and went to the longhouse. As soon as we entered it, I noticed the long tables and the benches. At the end of the hall on an elevation stood a single chair. It was adorned with furs and appeared to belong to the leader. Where was he? Would he tolerate me here? If not, could Eivor prevent that? How high was his position here so that he could change the mind of the leader? Again I was torn from my thoughts. Dag sat down on a bench and Eivor called me over to him.

"What do you need for the wound?" He asked.

"I need a bowl of clean water and clean cloths, please," I knelt next to Dag and took the provisional wound pad from him. It was not bleeding as badly as before, but I should quickly make an envelope.

Eivor ordered one of the men to fetch the required utensils. He apologized and disappeared into the room behind the throne.

Dag was breathing hard, probably because of his pain. After a short time the man appeared with the requested materials and I started my work. I cleaned his wound and made a poultice that I put on him. “So that should be enough for now, but I would need a few more herbs to cleanse the wound and take some of the pain away from you. You shouldn't try so hard now. "

"Oh, I'm fine," said Dag, trying to get up, obviously in pain. But he slumped back on the bench. "Okay, maybe not"

He looks up at me and I raised an eyebrow.

"I told you"

"Yes, yes, I know," I heard him say grimly. "Thanks"

I looked down at him and nodded. "With pleasure"

I heard footsteps behind me and saw Eivor approaching us, accompanied by another Northman. He was tall, illegally tall. He was almost two heads taller than me, had rust-red hair that, like Eivor, wore in a long braid. There was a tattoo on his forehead, as well as on his shaved sides. He had a beard that was neatly trimmed. His eyes were a beautiful light blue-gray. They had something like bright rain clouds. I don't know how tosay it, but this man knew how to an appearance. I knew right away that this man was in charge here.

"Dag, you don't look really good," he patted Dag gently on the shoulder.

“I'm fine Sigurd, just a small stab wound. But thanks to Ella, that will soon be a thing of the past. He whispered and looked first at Sigurd and then at me.

Sigurd followed his gaze and now noticed me for the first time. His gaze made me shiver. A smile played on his lips. “Yes, Eivor mentioned you. Got you out of the abbey. I am Sigurd, the Jarl of Ravensthorpe, ”he said. "Thanks for helping Dag"

So he was actually the leader. The Jarl. I knew it.

“Eivor saved my life. I owed him something. And my name is Ella. ”I explained. "But I still have to treat the wound with herbs."

"Where do we get them from?" Eivor asked. I could hardly avert my gaze from Sigurd. He just looked impressively handsome.

“I have some in my hut. But I don't know whether it is still there. After the thing with the priest. ”I said, looking at Eivor.

“Where is your hut located? Is it far from here? ”He asked.

I told Eivor that my hut is near Grantebridge in Grantebridgescir, but that the Danes had been evicted there.

"I suppose my house was ransacked, but it would be worth a look." I look from Eivor to Sigurd and he clapped his hands.

"Well, off to Grantebridgescir!" He said to the group.

Eivor seemed confused and said: “Are you coming with us? Isn't it better if you stay here? "

Sigurd shook his head. "The more the better" and he looked at me with a grin. What was going on in his head right now? Eivor agreed, with the look from Sigurd to me and we made our way to the longship. We took the ship for a while and the crew sang a beautiful Nordic song. I didn't understand a word of what they were singing, but I thought it was very good. The landscape passed us. Green and Fresh. The sun warmed my face and I enjoyed the wind in my hair. Eivor and Sigurd were talking about something, but I couldn't hear what they were talking about. I watch them for a while until they both looked at me. I smiled and looked at the water, embarrassed to have been caught staring at them.

After what felt like an hour we arrived at the Scir and after a short time we were standing in front of my hut. If you could still call it a hut. The roof had burned down, the door kicked in, and the front yard trampled. It looked worse inside. Every chest and cupboard was cleared, items were scattered on the floor, and some of my notes were torn. I knelt next to a torn recipe and slowly picked it up. What kind of men rob a woman of all her possessions just because she helps people. This priest deserves what he got. I let my gaze wander around the room sadly. I didn't live here for long and I didn't build a real life here, but I had something and now that had been taken away from me. I tried to gather the remaining pages when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Eivor had knelt by me and was helping me collect the scraps of paper.

"I'm sorry about what happened here Ella," he said sincerely.

“It's okay, I wasn't really at home here. It's just a shame cause all of my recipes, but I can still use some of them. So it isn't that bad ”I assured him and gave him a grateful smile. He replied. It didn't seem as bad as I initially suspected. Where was Sigurd anyway? His presence makes me nervous and I didn't know why.

"Do you have what you need?" I heard Sigurd call from outside.

"We'll have it in a moment!" Replied Eivor and stood up to hand me the pages.

I folded it carefully and put it in the bag that i found in a corner of the room. Fortunately, it was still intact. I opened it and discovered dried herbs that I could still use for Dag’s wound. Unfortunately, the rest, including the one in the front yard, had been completely destroyed. Eivor had already gone outside and I looked around again. To say goodbye, I think, because I couldn't stay here. The Saxons would get me back and probably kill me right away. I looked one last time at the broken furniture and decided to go outside.

Eivor and Sigurd were talking when I stepped into the sunlight and they saw me, they both fell silent immediately.

"I have everything, we can go." I let them know, pulled the strap of my bag tighter around my shoulder and held it tight.

Both nodded. We were silent on the way to the ship, nobody said anything. Until Eivor broke the silence.

"Ella? Where will you go after you helped Dag? ”He asked.

That was a good question. Where should i go now? I had nothing left. No family, no friends and no home. I would probably have to look for work somewhere. so i don't have to sleep on the street.

"I dont know. I can't go back. The Saxons will look for me and then probably kill me. ”I said and my steps felt heavy.

"I see" Eivor stopped. “You know, Sigurd and I talked earlier. Our settlement is still young. We only got here 3 days ago and we could use a healer like you. You'd have a roof over your head and food in your stomach. In return you help the people in Ravensthorpe.

"What?" i looked surprised from him to Sigurd, who just nodded. I didn't know what to say. First he saved me and then he gave me a home. "I don't know what to say .."

Sigurd laughed and said, "How about yes?"

I had to smile and Eivor held out his hand. "Deal?"

I didn't think twice and accepted. Sigurd held out his hand to me and I took it too. When our hands touched, I could literally feel the sparks spray. My head was buzzing. It felt like I was in a different place. I saw golden fields of wheat, green meadows and I felt like i was at home. Then I was in a city, made by gods and a man held my hand. He smiled and then I was back on the river bank with Sigurd's hand in mine. I let go of him and looked at him. Did he just experience the same thing as me? His look said nothing, but something just happened between us. This is going to be interesting. I was sure.

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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years

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the year i turned twenty i stopped waiting for someone to save my life and started eating more vegetables

in the winter of 2018 i got a root canal done on the molar in the upper left-hand corner of my mouth. it had been on the verge of death for a while now; two years prior to that a visiting government-sponsored school dentist had taken a look at it, frowned, and then spent the next two hours wheedling all the rot out of that tiny black hole with a drill. unfortunately the solution he imposed was both extremely painful and temporary, and so two years after the initial incident i found myself once again at the dentist's (this time at a clinic; school dentists don't like to deal with the extra-gritty stuff and are not paid enough to do so). they stuck a needle in my gum, numbed three-quarters of my mouth, then drilled a hole through the center of my tooth and ripped the withering shred of nerve-tissue right out of it.

my dentist helpfully explained all of the above to me during our consultation session in the same office in which he would rip the top half of my tooth off a week later. he was a balding, smiling man whose speech did not, unlike many medical professionals i had met over the years, have an edge of condescension to it. i liked him. i would have liked him more were he not planning to essentially castrated my tooth.

several weeks later i went to another dentist who specialized in helping people in post-root canal limbo, and she stuck a shiny metal crown on what was left of my molar. we then scheduled a series of check-ups to ensure that the crown had not flown off its liege while i attacked an ice cube or something similarly bad for my teeth and mental health, which stretched on for so long that she became, more or less, my primary dental care physician. at first the check-ups were a month apart. then two. time passed. her hair grew longer and our conversations less awkward; she was beautiful and snarky and looked like she would shoot god without hesitation if he stepped into range of her gun. she wore her hair short, red tinged with gold, in a pixie-cut that fell over half of one eye. for a while i thought i was in love with her.

'do you floss?' she asked me on my second check-up.

'no,' i said.

'well.' she broke off a length of dental floss and began to wind it around her fingers. it looked like a death threat and she looked ready to kill, though her eyes were smiling. 'you should.'

for the first year after having an utterly destroyed tooth brought back from the brink of death via a grisly temporary solution that would, at best, buy me one or two decades of peace, i didn't. i didn't floss because when she did it for me in her tiny examination room my gums bled so much it took hours for me to wash the bitter taste of iron out of my mouth. blood is a nice concept and a nicer motif in writing. but it smells awful, and it's worst on the tongue. so i didn't floss my teeth, and i went through life with the kind of casual detached disinterest with which i had approached most things up until then. at my next check-up she asked once again if i had been flossing and i lied that i had. after poking and prodding around in my mouth for a few minutes and taking a scan for good measure she gave me a look and said dryly, 'you haven't been flossing at all, have you.'

disappointing your parents, your favorite high school english teacher, or even your best friend is nothing compared to the sheer embarrassment that comes from knowing your beautiful dentist asked you to do the bare minimum, and you failed to deliver. her voice was arid but we had known each other for long enough by then for me to detect a thin undercurrent of disappointment. i had done it. i had lost the support of the only person in my life who could be counted on to support me. because i paid her for her services. and she was also very funny in a quiet sarcastic way. and she was beautiful.

having had my ego wounded beyond description i resolved to floss from then on and succeeded in dragging my poor aching gums past the bleeding stage to a point where they were merely post-workout sore. then i lost interest and forgot about the white, sterile-smelling clinic that was a fifteen minutes' drive from my house and the little pack of dental floss on the bathroom counter faded into obscurity. two weeks before my next appointment in 2020, an alarm on my phone went off to inform me of the approaching day of judgment. i panicked.

'have you been flossing?' my dentist asked as i lay back in the faded green chair and she put on a pair of new gloves.

'yeah,' i said.

five minutes later, she removed her army of dentistry equipment from my mouth with a satisfied hum. 'i see that you have.' her eyes were smiling. 'your teeth look fine. i'll just clean them a little for you.'

i celebrated impressing my favorite dentistry professional in singapore by forgetting to floss for the next two months. soon after that i got on a plane to america, and then two more for good measure in case i hadn't grown sick of sitting and burning in my own skin already, and then twelve weeks of insanity ensued, the details of which we are surely all acquainted with by now. late nights, walks in the forest, afternoons spent in the sun. mismatched footsteps and strange acquaintances. an elaborate circus act staffed entirely by misguided but well-meaning teenagers. a ring of fire.

two weeks ago i bought a box of dental floss for ninety-nine cents. i think this might be what the anthropologists call 'adulthood'. i was at target with a friend and we were getting toothpaste, which we had both nearly run out of, when i saw the little flat box of dental floss hanging from a hook on the wall. my teeth weren't particularly disgusting (they haven't been, not since i learned how to brush them properly), but they weren't beautiful. it had been a while since i had been on my own mind. for the last three months, others' pain had been my main priority, and now that we had eliminated most of them from the picture, i found myself with more time in the mornings to stare at myself in the mirror and wonder how, exactly, i was doing.

how are you doing? i asked. and the answer was i felt like shit.

while i've stayed in dormitories before for extended periods of time i always got out of doing laundry by either submitting my dirty clothes to an on-campus service which disappeared them into a hole in the fabric of reality and returned them to you a day later, cleaned and folded outside your room so the first time i did laundry by myself in america, a week after arriving on campus, i felt invincible. buying an iced chai from the cafe on a thursday morning and then settling down to work on my laptop until my first class started at noon, i felt like a character in a career advisory ad, like someone who knew where they were going and how they were going to get there. standing in front of the bathroom mirror of my summer dorm, winding a strand of dental floss around my fingers, i felt like i had aged fifteen years in the span of just one, and that just this once, it was for the better.

according to my adult friends, no one ever fully feels or recognizes that they are an adult. adulthood is an ideal that all grown children strive towards the way body-builders aim for more and more muscle mass until there's nothing left of them but a pair of well-toned biceps. there are several industry-approved ways to be an adult, but there are no suggested ways to feel like one. this is part of the gaping maw of inadequacy our generation has fallen into. this afternoon i melted butter in a pan and beat two eggs, milk, salt, and garlic powder together in a bowl. pouring the egg mixture into the pan i began to scrape the edges frantically towards the center with a spatula. the whole process took no longer than two or three minutes. by the end of it my hand was shaking.

according to my adult friends you just wake up one day and start looking for ways to re-organize your pantry and that's when you realize: i'm getting old, aren't i? and i'm getting old, aren't i? twenty's just the start of what a friend recently told me her parents refer to as 'the decade of pain'. but the beginning of something is included in the timeline of its accomplishments, too, and it takes more blind faith to start something than we give ourselves credit for. i have never used a saucepan up until today. in my younger years i often boiled broccoli or cauliflower in a small pot over an electric stove. but the butter, the eggs, the smell of fat sizzling on a pan- this is new to me. this entire life is new to me.

leaving the familiar warmth of your family home, it suddenly occurs to you how fragile life is. how everything your mother has done for you until now has kept you on the path forward, and now you have been given the keys to the basement you have to remember to buy laundry detergent before you run out. it all comes together like this: the humming laundry machines, the hand towels, the fridge full of fruit and cheese. it keeps you alive.

and it's awful. our generation doesn't know what self-care is because we're too busy trying to care for a world which tries, time and again, to kick us off the carousel of life and move on without its ephemeral teenage charges. we are bad at this 'living' thing because we often forget that we are alive at all. look out the window and the world's burning. look into the kitchen, and- quiet. this past year has done nothing to improve the paintings on the wall. we've all known hopelessness. we've all known what it's like to wake up and feel nothing at all.

and yet my flatmate has a new york times cooking subscription that she says we're welcome to borrow if we want to look up a recipe for something like paella, brownies, whatever. the other day she made shrimp scampi and when she knocked on my door and said 'i made food, if you'd like some' i remember thinking living with other people was worth it if you could sit around a table and twirl pasta noodles around your fork in silence. tomorrow i think i'll go to target again and see if i can find more acai. i miss it. i miss singapore's overpriced acai places and their stupid too-high chairs.

and i am living life clumsily, but who cares? a life is a life; all you have to do is live it. the rest can come later, after the dust has settled on the windowsill.

06.09.21

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bad-bitch-beauchamp · 4 years

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Songs About Me: Chapter Four

How Claire found herself inside Jamie's bookshop, and what happens when Jamie finally gets inside to watch her perform.

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The Alleys of Beacon Hill, Boston; Early October, Mid-Morning.

Following a very intense conversation with Joe and Geillis in which Claire repeatedly tried to express that there was absolutely nothing going on with that guy from the night before, peppered with lines like, “Oh bullshit, Claire! Jamie couldn’t take his eyes off ye!” from Geillis and “Seriously. It was disgusting. And romantic. Something’s there!” from Joe, Claire eventually succeeded in getting them to let the topic lie… for now.

Outside in the daylight, Claire felt refreshed. She would find a place to sit and write, and decompress. Strolling down her tree-lined street, breathing in and out slowly, she savored the way autumn here made her feel. The brick townhomes was trimmed in white with shiny red and black doors, covered in wild ivy and window boxes with trailing flowers. Mums in classic pots lined the front porches, and stone walls raised courtyards and gardens above the worn-brick sidewalks. Tall trees, oak and maple and elm, towered as tall as the buildings and brought a soft green and yellow glow to everything below their canopies. Everything felt old, here. There was a history, here. Under normal circumstances, Claire could’ve never dreamed of living here in Beacon Hill, but because of Lamb’s will, his love, his generosity, she was now able to call her favorite place, home. She was a woman who placed very little weight on material goods, but if the townhouse and her greenhouse were the only things she claimed, she would die happy. Boston was the first place that Claire felt she could create her own history. She wandered through the winding alleys of Beacon Hill, admiring how green changes to gold on every leaf and living surface. She stopped at the coffee house that knew her name, left with an earl grey latte a few minutes later, and was back outside at a wrought-iron table and chair on the sidewalk, her black leather notebook and cheap pen drawn from her purse. She admired this little courtyard, tucked just off an alley. Across the close was her favorite bookstore. She often wished to had more time to visit the physical shop, but with running a business of her own, she didn’t have as much time to peruse all the fellow small businesses around her. When she moved to Boston in 2015, she stopped in the little bookshop, and left with nearly more books than she could carry. The man behind the desk told her she could place orders online as well if that would be easier for her, smirking as the top book of the stack Claire was balancing slid off the top. The bookshop took residence in a historic three-story brick building, with the shop taking up the bottom two floors. An open staircase in the middle of the shop gave way to an open loft filled with shelves and leather chairs. The downstairs was completely open, making it easy to work your way around the shop in a u-shape. For any other type of store, it might seem like a bit much. For the bookshop, however, it was the perfect mix of historical and charming and quaint and magnificent and absolutely beautiful. It had been awhile since she had been able to physically make it in the store, and she missed it and it’s comfortable grandeur greatly.

Today was different though, as Claire had given herself the day off while Geillis worked, and she would spend it adding new books to her collection. She savored the last time of her latte and stood when she glimpsed a man inside the shop putting up a poster in the window.

Local Musician Wanted. Claire approached the sign after the man finished taping it to the window. In smaller letters, it read: Come share your talent, play for the community, and grab a good book when you’re done. Call or inquire within.

She had promised herself to have more fun, and karaoke had turned out to be a blast in the years she and her friends had been going. Music and gardening are what made her feel alive, made her heart bloom… Why not give this a chance when she wasn’t working? Claire’s heart rate sped up and she started to sweat when she thought of going inside and introducing herself as a musician. Deciding she’d call and arrange a time to come in with her keyboard, she started to turn away. The morning sunlight caught the lettering on the window, glittering just at the edge of her vision. She’d never paid much attention to the store’s exterior before -- or really even the name, since she’d long been calling it just “the bookshop” for years now -- but today, the gold paint drew her attention. Fraser Literature. Her breath hitched, her pulse raced, her head lightened. She couldn’t look away from the sparkling name on the glass. It couldn’t be… could it? Her pulse raced, her head felt light, the brick and cobblestone around her began to swirl.

With one shaky step and an attempt at a steadying breath, she pulled open the heavy wooden door.

Fraser’s Literature, Beacon Hill, Boston. Mid-Afternoon.

Jamie stepped through the doorway and tried not to jostle the small crowd that had assembled at the front of the shop. He just wanted to glimpse her, convince himself that she was real, that this, was real. That she was here in his shop, playing her music, just for him. He slowly, carefully, made his way to back of the crowd and found a small bit of standing room directly in her line of vision. She’d play a song with no lyrics, only instrumental melodies followed by quiet chords braided with thoughtful verse and chorus. The sunlight was streaming in the shop’s window now, lighting the crown of her head with rivers of auburn and gold. God, she’s ethereal. After each song, the small crowd would quietly clap and she would politely nod, cheeks turning rosey with shyness when her eyes fell back to the keys -- like she hadn’t even noticed they’d been there. She’d occasionally look up and look around the crowd, but only for a moment. Come on, lass. Look up. Find me. See me. As if she heard his plea, she held a long chord with both hands on the keys and looked up, straight into his eyes. Jamie gulped. She was singing, in French. She was singing, to him. He hadn’t expected it to work, the calling for her. He didn’t expect to be shocked into stillness by the whisky of her eyes and the dark shimmering curls around her head. He didn’t expect to feel this way after one night with a lass he barely knew… But here he was, enthralled by her. A gentle hand cupped his shoulder then and he jumped.

“Ye look completely enamored for a man who just met the lass a single night ago. Like a lovesick puppy,” said Rupert. Claire had gone back to her songs, but both men continued to watch her.

Angus had joined them now. “Ye never want to seem too eager tae please a woman, ye ken? It gives them too much power.”

Jamie watched as Claire finished another piece. He had to physically keep his feet rooted in place when she glanced his way, quirked a corner of her mouth up in a smile, and quickly looked down, tugging her cardigan tighter around her chest to hide the pink bloom erupting there and moving up her neck. “Aye, I’m completely under her power,” he smiled softly at her, “and happy tae be there.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Jamie tried to work, he really did. He refused to work in his office, since it was the furthest place from the front windows, and the furthest place from Claire. He went around with a polishing rag, trying to be inconspicuous with his meanderings until Rupert whispered, “I can practically see ma reflection in that shelf. Maybe move yerself along?” He tried to water the plants, only to remember he’d already done that when the pots started to overflow. He would run his hands through his hair just for something to occupy his time. Eventually, Angus suggested he bide his time making sure the rare and first-edition copies that sat on the highest shelves were dust-free.

“Aye, that’s a good idea! I’ll just be up on the ladder then if ye need me.” Angus laughed and shook his head as Jamie ascended the first rung. “Come get me, will ye,” Angus turned to look at him with a smirk and raised brow, “if she… uh, if anything happens.”

“Yeah yeah, get tae work. I doubt she’ll be leaving without saying hello if her looks meant anything at all -- and they definitely did.”

Jamie placed the last book at the end of the row back into its place and started his way back down the ladder to slide it to the next tall shelf when electricity pulsed up his calf. He lost his footing and came to a crashing halt on his back on the floor.

“Fuck fuck fuck… Fuck! are you okay? I shouldn’t’ve spooked you!” He tried to shift himself up, but couldn’t. “Don’t try to move; here, I’ll try to keep you still. Is your head okay?” It took Jamie a moment to get his bearings. His head smacked the hardwood floor when he landed, and his wrist tried to take the fall. Neither of those things were of much concern to him now though, since Claire was kneeling over him. Not just kneeling over him, he noticed. She was on top of him, a knee on either side of his torso. His brain was short-circuiting. She was in light-wash high-waist skinny jeans, a goldenrod cardigan, and a white tank top and she was on top of him . He couldn’t stop tracing her with his eyes. “Jamie?? I’m going to need you to respond or I’ll have to call the squad. Can you hear me? Can you say something, please? What hurts??” Dear God in heaven, nothing hurts. Nothing a damn thing. Her face came closer to his and he noticed the way her curls fell forward, how the sun was still lighting her from behind, how she was absolutely incredible. He blinked. Her brows knitted and her hands came to his face. Her touch revived him and he remembered how to speak.

“Claire,” he watched her, reverently. She smiled as her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Oh, thank god. You scared the shit out of me with that little stunt, you know,” she said as she began touching near and watching his eyes. Touch me again, never stop, he thought to himself. “How do you feel? Any ringing in the ears, nausea, blurry vision, dizziness, light sensitivity? Wait, you’re not bleeding, are you?”

Jamie smirked. “Actually, there’s some pressure on my abdominal region.”

“Your stomach? I don’t understand how that could have…” She blushed when she realized she was still straddling him, right on the storeroom floor. “You mean me.” She climbed off of him as quickly as she could manage and turned a shade of red Jamie hadn’t known was possible. “I am SO sorry about that, I didn’t know if you’d be injured and you wouldn’t stay still so I--”

“It’s quite alright, lass. Thank ye for looking after me. Truly.” His hand came out to hold hers. His thumb brushed her knuckles.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Honestly? I feel terrible.”

“I’m jes’ fine, Sassenach.” He made to stand up then, using his arm to prop himself when he stood. He came crashing back down with a grunt.

“It sure wouldn’t seem like you’re “jes’ fine”,” she replied in her best mocking tone. He smiled, sheepishly. “Is there somewhere we can go where I can have a better look at it?”

“Does up in the loft work for ye? It’s usually quieter, and better light than in the office.”

“Sounds perfect.” She extended a hand to him. “On your feet, soldier.” He looked at her then. How could one woman go from tugging on his heartstrings with soft melodies and French words to making him fall for her with demanding medical questions and authoritative requests. He watched her outstretched hand, her long fingers, her gentle bones. He watched her eyes, watch him. He grasped her hand, and she led up him up the stairs to the loft. She led him. In his shop. Seeing her lead him, he decided he’d let her lead up anywhere for the rest of his days.

She motioned for him to sit in a velvet wingback chair and took his wrist in her hands. He tried to breathe normally as her fingers probed the dips in his palm and traced down the veins in his forearm. Surely, she would feel his pulse. Surely, she would know she was the one that made it race. In the distance, Jamie heard her ask him some questions about pain and discomfort, and he’d nod or not depending on his response. He couldn’t form words. He was still in disbelief she was even there, in front of him, kneeling at his side.

Claire sat back on her heels. “Will you tell me if it starts to hurt? You could have a sprain, you know. That was a pretty nasty fall.”

His mind was working overtime but he finally found words to use. “If ye didna find anything wrong, I’m sure I’m jes’ fine.” He dipped his head to meet her eyes. “Yer a verra competent doctor, Claire.” He grinned. A tear fell from Claire’s face. “Och lass, what is it? Did I do something wrong?” She sniffed. She wouldn’t look at him. “Please, Claire. Please talk to me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not a doctor, is all.” She wiped away a tear with the sleeve of her sweater. “I actually… I quit medical school, a few years back.”

“I’m sorry, I didna know…”

“It’s honestly fine,” she replied hastily. “I’m really happy with the decisions I’ve made in my life, and I don’t have any regrets. Honestly. It’s just… sometimes it hits me that the plans I made my whole life didn’t work out. It gets me sometimes.” Jamie watched her, listening. “Oh my god, I just keep rambling!” She sat back on her hands, legs out in front of her, ankles crossed. “I’m so sorry about that, I really am fine.” She smiled at Jamie, and reached down to hold her hand.

“I understand the feeling of missing things that didna come to pass. I feel it myself sometimes.” Claire watched their hands intertwine. “Ye can always talk to me, Claire. I’m always here.” I’ll always be here.

She laughed then, and looked up at him still sitting in the chair. “Next time, I’d like to see you when one of us hasn’t nearly killed ourselves with a fall.” She giggled, and Jamie followed suit.

“Ideally, that’d lovely,” he replied with a laugh of his own. “What brings ye to the shop by the way, if ye don’t mind me asking? I never expected to see ye here today.”

“Oh, I came here for the first time after I moved, and I try to make my way in again whenever I can but work makes that a little difficult. It’s one of my favorite places in Boston though. It’s so quaint and quiet, but somehow still enchanting, and then today I saw a poster in the window asking for musicians and…” Jamie was absolutely beaming. “Wot?”

He laughed then at her absolute Englishness, and brought his free hand up to join their combined ones. “I’m jes’ glad ye like it here so much is all.”

She looked down at their hands. “To be honest, I was going to come today anyways, but then I saw the poster, and I remembered what the name of this place is, and well, I took a chance.”

Jamie was watching her intensely. “And ye took a chance.” He, too, looked down at their hands. “I’m glad ye did.”

The conversation was heavier than Claire thought it would be. She didn’t expect this. She cleared her throat and asked, “So, how long have you been here?”

“Me, or the shop?”

“Both, I suppose. The shop has been here as long as I have.”

“I moved here from Scotland--”

“Shocking, the accent didn’t give anything away,” she joked, and he pinched her forearm before continuing.

“--back in 2015--”

“Hey, that’s when I got here, too!”

“--and I’ve been here ever since. When I graduated my undergraduate studies, I went back home to the highlands and spent some time with family. Wandering the cobbled streets, the little shops, reading about the history… it was the only thing I wanted to do with my life. Some things happened back in Scotland -- some family things and some ex-girlfriend things -- and Boston seemed as good a place as any with history to start over. So, here I am. I started the shop, hired the lads when they came over a bit after me, and that’s the story.”

“I feel like there’s more to the story you’re leaving out,” she said with a grin, “and I do love a good story, Mr. Fraser.”

“Ye got the Cliffnotes version. Tell me yours,” he nodded at her.

“Well, I nearly didn’t survive medical school. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t coping, and my mental health was kind of in the gutter,” she looked at him, and he gave her a sympathetic smile. Maybe he understood the feeling better than he let on. “I decided to drop out during my junior year and leave it behind. My uncle used to live here and left me some property, so I moved, and started over. Geillis and Joe came over after they graduated. Joe continued with medicine, and Geillis joined me, and as you said, that’s the story.”

“And where is it you started over at? What is it ye do?”

“Oh, I opened a plant shop here in Beacon Hill. It’s exotic houseplants, non-traditional bouquets, that kind of thing. It’s small, and eventually I’d like to run a greenhouse and garden, but right now, the shop is perfect. Besides, Boston isn’t exactly conducive for having that, is it?” She laughed, and tried to hold her pipe dreams at bay. “Geillis offers zero-waste products, and makes some of the macrame hangers and planters in the shop. It really is the most lovely place. If you ever want to visit and make sure I’m not the one to fall off a ladder, it’s just over on---”

“Garden Street. Aye, I know the place,” said Jamie, smiling to himself. His eyes were positively twinkling.

“You know the shop?”

“Where d’ye think all the plants in this place came from? Aye, I know yer wee shop and believe me, Claire. It’s a dream. I had no idea it was you behind it all.” He paused, watching her. Drinking her in. “We’ve just missed each other for years now, it would seem.”

All she could do was nod. Her mind was racing. How had they been so close so many times, but had never met? How had only two days with the man made her feel like her heart was beating outside her chest? He moved to the floor to sit next to her, his hand on her thigh. Suddenly, he turned to her. “I think yer verra brave, Claire. For starting over like that. For following your dreams.” Her pulse slowed with his comforting words, and her hand rested on top of his. “I could say the same about you, you know.”

They stayed that way for a while, watching the people down below, touching hands, touching legs, moving closer into shoulders and sides. Jamie leaned back into the shelves. Claire sighed.

“Since you own the place, I guess I should let you get back to work.” She stood, smiled, and started down the stairs. Jamie launched to his feet, unwilling to let what happened the previous night repeat itself.

“Claire! Lass!” He reached for her hand and she stopped a few stairs below him, turning to face him. His mouth was dry.

“I dinna think I can’t wait a week to see ye again. I didna think I could stand it this morning and then ye dropped out of the clear blue sky into my shop and ye sang yer songs -- oh, and I didna know ye knew French! I do as well,” Claire blushed at that but Jamie continued on, “and ye showed up and mended my wounds and ye told me of our shared histories, and… and I willna wait to see ye again.” He descended a step. “That is, if ye want to see me, too.”

Claire was overcome not just with Jamie’s declaration, but also with everything that had happened today and the last five years that led them here today. She could only smile at his nervousness, and admire him. You’re beautiful, James. His simple navy t-shirt was pulled taught across strong muscles, the red curls she daydreamed of were just combed straight back with the exception of a single lock that escaped with his chase of her down the stairs. His ocean eyes bore into hers with a plea, with an guarded passion Claire was increasingly desperate to unlock. She reached in her crossbody bag to retrieve a pen and finding no paper, offered up a Dunkin’ Donuts receipt. She brought the receipt up to his chest, just above his heart, and wrote her name and number.

“I’ll be waiting for your call,” she said, and turned back down the stairs, not waiting for a reply.

She reached was reaching for the door when a voice echoed down the stairs, “I promise ye’ll hardly be waiting at all, Sassenach.”

His phone rang then, and a woman’s smiling face shone up at him from the screen. As soon as he could, he would call Claire. He sighed, and hit accept on the call.

#songs about me fic #in which tessaactually tries fan fic #outlander fan fic #outlannder prompt exchange

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softowlhours · 4 years

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by the lakeside

bokuto koutarou(horror!AU)

it should’ve been the perfect summer getaway. you were both in need of some down time away from your busy careers. but things get a little eerie when there’s a voice in your head that isn’t yours and you find out that you’re not alone in that pristine white house on the hill.

genre: horror, angst, fluff if you squint

tw: descriptions of drowning, asphyxiation, strangulation. suggestive sexual situations.

a/n: i promise i’ll proofread this later and also write an epilogue but until then please enjoy this story it took me way longer than necessary to write. i’ve read it so many times that i don’t find it scary anymore. but i hope you do! :)

word count: 6k

my body feels like an empty shell sometimes, a carcass I am dragging around. when I look into the mirror I don’t recognise myself. i don’t recognise him, either.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

bokuto’s hair gleams silver in the glorious morning light. wind blows through your own strands as you zip past the lush green meadows. you could see the sheep dotted on the grassy planes like puffs of pure white clouds. far away, there stood giant mountains. their high peaks looked like they were breaching the baby blue ceiling of the sky. you only notice your gorgeous surroundings with half a mind, because your eyes keep trailing back to the man besides you. you admire his profile, the sharp slope of his nose, the chiselled cheek bones and jaw line. you zero in on the plush of his lips and it is then that you notice his teasing grin.

‘admiring the view?’ he asks.

‘mhmm. a sight for my sore eyes.’ and he truly is. your gaze drops a little lower. his toned chest peeks from where the buttons of his shirt have come undone. his biceps flex and strain against the fabric as he manoeuvres the steering wheel. he looks like a movie star, straight out of the golden age of film. the red vintage convertible he drives only adds on to your day dream. you can’t help but feel like a heroine starring in your own block buster romance. heat rises to the tip of his ears and the back of his neck at your shameless appraisal. bokuto notices the way lust is barely concealed on your face. he fucking loved the way you looked at him, like he was the guiding star you were always attuned to. the one for whom you’d always search for in an endless night sky.

‘your eyes are sore from staring at your computer screen all day everyday.’ he ignores your attempts at flirting, and instead addresses what has been eating away at his mind lately. he’s been worried about you. you often called him out for pushing himself to the point of breaking when it came to volleyball. but, you never noticed how you were inclined to do the same when it came to you own work; buried under papers and ink, day after day as your work ethic kept you confined to your study room. you being a best selling author, him a pro volleyball player; you truly were the power couple worthy of everyone’s envy and admiration, but your lives could get stressful at times.

‘kou, I’m sorry ‘m dragging you away from your routine. the game season starts in two months. you should be hitting some balls right now.’ you withdraw your hand, and he instantly misses your touch. you appear a little crestfallen as you opt to idly fiddle with the lace bordering your sundress.

‘hey,’ his voice is silky, tone slightly chastising. ‘don’t apologise. this was my idea anyways. we need some time away. from everything.’

‘you know that,’ he continues, ‘i’ll never be too busy for you, right? it makes me feel lonely when you just withdraw from me... shut me out.’ his face eyebrows furrow a little. ‘for you I’ll always carve out time.’

bokuto had a way with words that always left you stupefied. they weren’t embellished and gaudy, like yours. all you ever did was spin fairy tales. Yes they were beautiful, but they were also false. unlike you, he always spoke from his heart, and you wonder if that was why his sentiments without fail reached others.

‘oi- don’t fall asleep.’

‘i’m not sleeping!’ you snap out of your reverie. ‘i’m sorry i… never realised you’d feel that way’ puffing out a sigh, you lean back lazily on the leather seat. ‘i haven’t been feeling much inspiration lately, and when i do write i just hate every word of it.’

‘maybe I should retire,’ you muse. ‘never write a word again. let people remember me as the genius author I’m not.’

‘but you are a genius writer!’ bokuto insists. ‘give it a fifty years and they’ll be teaching your work as a part of the curriculum. i’ve never read anything better!’

‘that’s because you rarely read!’

‘i am a picky reader,’ bokuto shrugs, cocking an eyebrow as he looks at you haughtily. ‘so congratulations that your writing actually piqued my interest.’

snorting, you pinch his thigh.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

it’s almost evening by the time you drive past a small sleepy town. the few houses have their curtains drawn. there’s a small supermarket and a polyclinic but you notice how the streets are mainly empty, save for a couple of children who play seven tiles on the roadside. fifteen minutes and more grassy meadows and sheep later, you arrive at what looks like the edge of the world. surely you’re being a little dramatic calling it that, but the road winds up the gentle slope of a hill and on top of it sits a pristine white house. bokuto pulls up the car in front of massive wrought iron gates, a chain holds it shut.

‘okay, but when nori said ‘vacation home’, this is not what I had in mind. Is he actually the heir to a conglomerate or something?’ you observe, definitely appalled.

‘uh- knowing his stingy ass, i’m not sure?’ bokuto sounds and looks puzzled as well, so you know he wasn’t expecting it either. he reconfirms the address konoha had messaged him. ‘do we climb the gates? because he never gave me a key or anything. he said the place has a caretaker who’d-’

‘how can I help?’

your heart leaps to your throat, and both you and bokuto snap your heads to your left to look at a man who stands on bokuto’s side of the car. neither of you had seen him approaching and it was as if he were a magician, materialising out of thin air. old, sinewy and dressed sharply in a suit, he’s hunching to be at your eye levels. upon closer look the fabric of his clothes looked worn out and they fray at the edges. his hair is slicked back and he wears gold rimmed spectacles, its lenses the shape of half moons. his smile is serene, demeanour dignified but there’s shrewdness in his tone.

‘um- hi.’ bokuto greets recovering first. ‘i am konoha’s friend. i assume you’ve been expecting us?’

a beat passes.

‘indeed. allow me to show you around.’

bokuto parks the car under a shed close to the gates and you walk down the stretch of the garden. it is immaculately kept, and roses of all colours bloom neatly in rows. a giant sycamore tree stands close to the house, its branches brushing the roof. when you stand on the porch of the house the gate seems miles away. bokuto wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to his side. he sneaks a soft kiss under your left ear as the caretaker opens up the door for you.

the inside of the house is splendidly furnished and it leaves you awestruck. simple but gorgeous, a modern castle of sorts. a cream colored leather sofa sits in the centre of the living room, the rug in front of it is white and fluffy. There is a box television- the kinds popular decades ago, and you wonder if it actually works or if it’s just for show. the chandelier above is a million crystals and an open kitchen makes up the far end of the living room. a stair case winds its way up. but, what truly catches your eye are the massive french doors which open up to the stretch of a green lawn. calling it a backyard would be a bit inadequate; for the trimmed grass meets the surface of a great lake, its water like molten lava reflecting the evening sky. you can see the outline of ducks waddling away, probably on their way home. the lake stretches out for almost a mile and after that you see nothing but the thicket of the woods. it is almost the end of july, so while the days are warm, the temperatures tend to dip quite a bit at night. you shiver a little and snuggle closer into bokuto’s side. the caretaker, in his monotonous voice, explains to you how your room shall be upstairs, the one to the right. there were four other rooms which were mostly empty and locked for the sake of easy maintenance. you tune him out when he moves on to the instructions regarding the heating and locking systems.

you’re entranced by the house, and standing there in its magnanimity you feel like you’ve been drawn into a picture book. you can imagine breakfasts every morning on the front porch. afternoons spent lolling on the grass besides the lake. you would keep a vase filled with freshly cut roses from the garden, in the centre of the kitchen table. spend the nights sitting in front of the fire place when winter laid its thick blanket of white snow outside. your high flying careers felt like a distant dream. your laptop back home could collect all the dust it wanted to. you could just stay here forever wrapped up in each others arms.

i’m lonely. i hate how you’re always away from home because of volleyball.

bokuto notices your distant look , the slightest way your lips are set in a grimace. it tugs on his heartstrings. makes it difficult for him to breathe.

bringing his mouth close to your ear, he whispers your name bringing you out of your head. you blink, biting back the ugly realisation that had just intruded your brain. you had never felt that way before, you had forced yourself not to. it was long ago when you had decided that you’d never make him choose between you and volleyball. or maybe that loneliness was something you’d always felt. but because you were afraid of it; you had hidden it under your skin, in between your bones.

if i could, i’d steal you away and keep you all to myself. in a cage just for me and you.

too afraid that he’ll somehow read your mind, you step away from him, disoriented by the venomous voice of your subconscious as you look around for the old man.

‘he left while you were zoning out, princess. said he’s going home.’ he pulls your back against his chest, long fingers begin snaking up a well known trail up your thighs. your cute little sundress does little to stop him. ‘he’ll be back by noon tomorrow, to tend to the garden and all that.’ bokuto speaks in between the kisses he’s placing along the side of your neck. ‘apparently, he lives in that town we drove by earlier.’

‘mhmm.’

‘want to live in a house like this someday.’ he asks you, his voice hushed. you rest your head back on his chest, as love and lust pools in your stomach and clouds your thoughts.

i’m scared someday you’ll leave me behind.

“me. you. maybe a dog. maybe… children?” he continues and your eyes widen at that.

‘you want all that?’

‘with you? yes I want everything. i’ll take everything that you can give me.’

liar.

you turn around and pull bokuto into a heated kiss. his chapped lips meld into yours and your teeth clack a little from the suddenness of your movement. by now it is completely dark outside and the living room is dimly lit by a lamp. bokuto seems unaware, too lost in you to be notice space and time. but, a weird sensation surrounds you. you feel the whisper of a cool breeze, a murmur disturbing the stillness of the house. with one hand, bokuto cups your behind. the fingers of his other rake through your hair. it’s a buzz now, like a thousand bees hovering over your heads. you feel dazed, you’re needy, you’re confused.

there’s someone else here. the two of you are not alone.

‘ow,’ you yelp in pain.

bokuto jumps away from you, but his hands are badly tangled in your hair.

‘I told you to tie your hair in the car!’ he is laughing. ‘it’s a nest in here!’

the buzzing dies down. the silence that follows is deafening. you wonder if you’re delusional with the lack of sleep.

as bokuto carefully weaves his fingers out he places a chaste kiss on the little crease in between your eyebrows. he finds you so cute, it physically hurts him.

‘don’t worry, babygirl,’ his voice drops a few octaves. ‘windswept looks sexy on you.’

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

later that night as you are lie under the drapes and canopies, you notice how the bedroom is much like the rest of the house- fit for royalty. bokuto snores softly, but you lie awake with your head on his chest. his heartbeat is a mind-numbing rhythm. a thin sheet of sweat covers your bodies and you try to ignore the wetness in between your legs. you should probably change the sheets as well, but your body refuses to move and you don’t know where to find any new ones. sleep evades you so you let Bokuto’s question roll around in your mind. a forever with him. of course you would say yes. there was nothing more that you wanted than that. but the dread from earlier which you had managed to keep at bay with lust, slowly begins to resettle in the pit of your stomach.

he promises you an eternity now, but he’ll leave you behind soon.

you somehow clamber out of bed, making sure not to awaken bokuto. picking up his shirt from where it lies on floor, you put it on. the bedroom has identical doors from the living room, made of glass, and they open onto a small balcony. you draw open the lacey curtains and step out into the chilly night air. the sight that awaits you makes you gasp. a fine mist rolls over the water, but the lake itself is still. its surface is like taut cellophane. beyond the lake where the woods begin, it is pitch black darkness and you cannot tell where the woods meet the moonless sky. it’s a new moon night, but where you expect to see the stars is an empty hollowness. its eerily silent. too silent. no insects trill. no wind blows. you stare intently into the water for so long that you swear you see something lurking just underneath its surface. the mist that hovers slowly inches towards the house, coiling like endless bony fingers.

that pool of velvety darkness, i wonder what it’d feel like against my skin.

come to me then. feel it for yourself. your voice, no, her voice purrs.

you whirl around to see bokuto. he’s standing a feet away from you, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

‘whoah! easy,’ bokuto exclaims, surprised by your jumpiness. no way it had been him who had spoken moments ago. ‘what are you doing outside?’ he asks. ‘i nearly got a heart attack when I saw someone standing out here.’

you look back towards the lake, and you’re utterly confused. the mist seems to have instantly vanished. you can even hear the water now, softly undulating. it appears akin to a creased sheet of silk.

had you been hallucinating? dreaming with your eyes open?

you fight down the growing panic and instead walk over to him, squishing his cheeks. you softly kiss his pout. ‘aww. baby’s scared?’ you coo.

he grumbles something about you catching a cold but tugs you inside and you decide to let it all go. you’re tired and tomorrow will be a new day.

had you turned around, you’d notice how the stars were glittering like cold hard gems in the night sky.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you were pleasantly lazing about in the sun. the lake was a glittering blue and the woods looked benign during the day. they weren’t as dense as they appeared to be in the absence of light. from where you lay, the house looks like an entity of its own. imposing and regal. bokuto is dressed casually in a t-shirt and sweatpants as he plays around witha volleyball, tossing and spiking it all by his lonely self. you didn’t remember seeing him pack a volleyball, but then again somehow he always seemed to miraculously have a one at his disposal. today, he hasn’t gelled his hair up in its usual style, so it flops onto his forehead in a way you wished he’d leave it more often.

‘y/n! nice receive!’ he hollers at you.

he spikes the ball aiming straight for your stomach and you somehow manage to block his assault. thank god he hadn’t used a quarter of the strength he usually puts into his spikes.

your strong and annoying man.

‘you trying to murder me or what?’

he pulls you up to your feet. ‘i’ll be teaching you how to spike, drama queen. it’s insane how you’ve been with me for all these years and haven’t learnt a thing or two about volleyball. people would die for a one on one training session with me.’ he brags as he fetches the ball from where it had rolled off to.

you try to copy his motions, but what he can effortlessly pull off is an impossible feat for you. you send the ball upwards and jump as you try to match your timing to spike it. but before you can hit the ball it lands on your head.

bokuto is losing his shit, doubling over with laughter. and you try to look angry but end up giggling with him.

‘i give up!’ you complain. plus my boobs jiggle since i’m not wearing a sports bra,’

‘babe, thats kinda the point!’ he beams.

a perfect spike lands on his face.

‘owww, that’s foul play, y/n! ’ he yells. rubbing his nose, he walks over to you.

‘you should be punished!’ he scolds you, but places a kiss on your temple. his hands wander downwards to unzip your dress. he lets it fall to the ground. you know where this is headed. you think he’s going to kiss you so you close your eyes and lean towards him but before you can react, he’s bending down and suddenly you’re being lifted. he has you over his shoulders and your peals of laughter warm his heart. he hadn’t heard that sound in a while.

bokuto marches straight into the lake and dumps you in. the water is cool and refreshing, just as you had imagined it. it’s shallow enough so you’re chest deep in the water when your feet are planted at the bottom. his body glistens with dampness, hair a floppy wet mess. he was so beautiful, that even though it was irrational you felt a little bit shy. you’re splashing each other with water, the atmosphere’s light and bubbly with amusement. bokuto tries to catch you but you slip out of his reach. he is being his loud and dramatic self as he falls face down into the water, complaining as he comes up with his eyes screwed shut.

‘i swear i’d rather be blinded by your beauty than this water.’

you shake you head, feigning disdain and then you’re swimming away from him, towards the safety of the house. it must almost be noon, and you vaguely remember its time for the care taker to come around. you did not want to be seen in your wet underwear. bokuto calls out to you, apologising. there is water in your ears, it laps all around you as you swim. it dulls all sound and every other sense until the only thing you hear is your thumping heart. when you come up for air, you can see the blue sky, when your face is in the water you can see the stones and pebbles littering the bottom.

but, when you come up for air again, the sky is overcast. laden with dense gray clouds.

the water runs icy, lead flows through your veins. your body is sinking like a ship. it feels like you’re trying to move through viscous jelly. when you try to pull up for air you cannot break through, the surface traps you like its the cellophane you remember seeing the night before. a tight grip on your waist, abruptly pulls you under. your flailing hands try to grasp at nothing in particular. you wonder if its bokuto just messing around, but you know it isn’t. you don’t feel his presence anywhere. your fingers suddenly entangle into something. your eyes burn when you try to open them and look. jet black strands of hair, a bone white face, a mouth that is open like a gaping wound. you scream and nothing but gurgles and air bubbles escape you. you try to pull back but your hands are stuck in the weedlike hair. Funny you think of the evening before, when bokuto’s fingers had entangled in your messy hair the same way.

‘kou…koutaro!’ you try calling for him. you hear your disembodied voice, feel the water flood your mouth, your nose. but you feel all alone with that woman straight out of nightmares. fear has you in its grip, your minds a mush.

you hate him so damn much. you hate him, you hate him, you HATE him. a voice repeats the same words in your head. you wonder if it sounds like your own or someone else’s. you cannot tell the two apart.

you feel a hand wrap around your arm, its large and warm and it feels like home. as it drags you out of the water the ashen face seems to quiver and distort. her eyes flicker open. they roll in their sockets but when they fixate on you, you see eyes just like your own. but they are transparent like marbles; burning with betrayal and accusation.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you wake up with a start to screams piercing the air. they are shrill and blood curdling. your hands are on your ears as you try to block out the sound but it only gets louder. it takes you a moment to realise that the screaming had been you. bokuto holds you in his arms, you can feel him shaking underneath your palms that grapple at his back.

he’s crying.

no! why is your bokuto crying? you pull away a little just enough to look at him, but the way his features are twisted in melancholy punctures a hole through your heart.

‘y/n, babe… babe,’ his lips quiver stealing away speech but he forces himself to speak. ‘ i looked everywhere in the water but I couldn’t find you. you were swimming and then you just stopped. i thought you were fooling around but you were down there for too long. so i come over but... I couldn’t see you anywhere at first. i panicked! holy shit... i was panicking.’ he shifts away from you, an arms length away. leaning back on the sofa, he stares up at the ceiling. ‘You weren’t even struggling, just stopped moving. Do you remember what happened?’ bokuto drags a hand down his face. he’s visibly distressed.

‘i don’t know what happened,’ you croack. ‘it felt like I was stuck. my feet wouldn’t come lose. as if someone was there with me in the water, holding me down…’ a sob escapes you.

bokuto pales a little at your description. but there had been no one but the two of you in the water. hell he hadn’t even seen any fishes.

he had pulled you under in the first place hadn’t he. there’s no one here but the two of you.

you remember not being alone in the water. you remember the heaviness. but nothing else.

bokuto opens his mouth to say something, but you cannot concentrate. the urge is too strong. before you can think, before you can answer. you are bending over and puking your guts out.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you spend the rest of the day, clinging to bokuto. and he doesn’t mind. he seems to be craving that constant feeling of your skin on his. something to remind him that you were okay, that you were here now. he makes his way around the kitchen with you stuck to him like a little koala.

“sit down on that chair just for a minute, y/n. i can’t find the plates!” he tries to loosen your chokehold on him but you only tighten it and bokuto booms out a laugh.

‘i swear you’re lucky you’re cute.”

‘just consider this weight training.’

bokuto had put together a light meal. you reckoned you’d be unable to stomach anything too heavy.

‘we were supposed to be having fun. i feel like i’ve ruined everything.’ you mumble gloomily. you’re sitting on the chairs you pulled up around the kitchen island. a make shift dining table.

‘it’s okay. its enough to just be together.’

‘oh no been away from you for a five whole minutes.’ your expression is of mock worry as you rush over onto his lap. you immediately bury your head in the crook of his neck, his familiar scent calms you down. he chuckles at your antics.

‘do you think we can just go home?’ you ask apprehensively, still feeling bad about having spoilt your perfect little getaway. ‘i don’t feel like staying here anymore.’

‘sure, baby girl .’ bokuto replies in a heartbeat, and you wonder if he feels the same unease in remaining here any longer.

‘we can leave tomorrow morning.’ he suggests. ‘it might be a bit too late to leave now. plus, caretaker-san didn’t even show up today.’

‘is it okay to just leave?,’ you ask.

from where bokuto sits on the dining table in the kitchen, he can see the doors in the living room that open up to the porch. it’s around three in the afternoon. the weather was beginning to turn awfully gloomy.

clouds slowly fill the sky eclisping the sun that had shined all day. it leaves everything in shades of gray.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you wake up alone in bed. the remnants of an eerie dream still lingers in your mind. you had been combing your hair, which was unusually thick, dark and long. you kept brushing the silky smooth strands, on and on and on, until they started coming loose in your hands. shuddering as you recall it, you turn around to see the wall clock read nine p.m. where was kou? at some point you had fallen asleep although you did not remember coming upstairs to the bedroom. he must’ve carried you from where you and him had been lying on the sofa downstairs, idly chatting.

your body is still heavy with exhaustion but you force yourself to sit up. hearing the water running in the bathroom, you call out to bokuto. ‘kou?’ you pad your way over to the bathroom. when you open the door there is no one inside. water drips from from a leaky tap into an empty bath tub. strange. where had the sound been coming from then?

you find yourself mesmerised by your reflection in the mirror right across from you. when you step inside the bathroom, the tiles are dry and frigid underneath your feet. the lights are off, however, the bathroom is faintly lit up by the light filtering in from the frosted windows. the bags under your eyes are dark and puffy, your lips look ashen. you look like you had lost a tonne of weight over the span of the past few hours. tracing a finger along the outline of your reflection, you notice how your eyes were a forlorn abyss. hollow like the dead.

mine. stay with me. don’t leave me alone. a voice whispers to you and you listen, enchanted.

you see the corners of your lips quirk up in your reflection. your expression twists into that of deranged happiness.

so, you’ll stay?

you don’t feel the smile on your face.

you’re backing away slowly. a scream dies in your throat.

that isn’t you. it’s her.

you’re running full speed out of the bathroom and you make it just in time as the door slams shuts behind you. the edge of your thin white slip gets caught in between but you yank it loose with enough force. bursting out of the room like a bat out of hell you’re hurtling downstairs. you have to look for bokuto. you must leave. now!

you’re me, i am you. he doesn’t love you, so just stay with me. I’m lonely.

you try to call out to bokuto but you cannot find your voice.

and then you see him. sitting on the sofa. the relief you feel is momentary. the old television is on, and the screen is grainy with static but bokuto’s eyes are intent on it. he’s still as if he were carved out of stone. he doesn’t acknowledge your presence just keeps staring ahead with an owlish gaze. you place a shaky hand on his shoulder and he finally turns to look at you.

his eyes that usually are like pools of golden honey are dark and murky like cheap kerosene. his features are sharper, more cunning. a devil in your lover’s skin. the mist outside thickens, appearing as if they were pale white walls surrounding the house.

i told you to just stay with me. you should’ve stayed with me in that cool dark water.

he doesn’t love you, i do.

suddenly bokuto is stalking towards you, his movements hypnotic like that of a panther, sinuously fluid, predatory. a feral look glints in those foreign eyes. he slams you against the nearest wall, his hands tightening over your neck. your head meets the hard surface with a thud. those large arms that have always felt like home suddenly feel empty and cold like a prison cell.

you’re just a prisoner in his cage. he doesn’t love you like I will.

black spots fill your vision, as your air supply is slowly being cut off. ‘kou- please don’t.’ you whimper. a flicker of recognition flashes through those eyes, but the grip around your neck only tightens. ‘kou-’ you call again softly. tears fall freely down your face. your hands go limp by your sides and in the process you knock over a vase that had been on table besides you. it falls to the marble floor with an obnoxious crash. the ceramic splinters into a hundred pieces. bokuto’s eyes widen and the darkness from his face lifts. it is as if a thick patch of clouds obscuring the moon had drifted past, letting its pure light fall to the earth once again. he’s your bokuto once again.

horror struck he lets go of your neck and catches a glimpse of the angry red fingerprints left behind like a morbid necklace. you collapse to the ground.

a door bangs shut somewhere in the house, startling you both. bokuto is about to crouch down next to you when suddenly the volume of the television is cranked up. the harsh static sound grates your ears, like a drawn out growl. there’s thumping coming from behind every surface of the house- the walls, the floors, the ceilings. every door, every window swings open only to shut back with a bang, over and over until shards of broken glass lie like a carpet all over the floor. the house is alive with the breath of countless souls that live in its every crack and crevice. you both look on with horror as heavy mist begins to pour into the house. bokuto’s teeth chatter with fear, and he tries to get you to stand. he follows your gaze which is fixed to where your bedroom had been. and he sees it then. on the door which opens into the room, there’s a shadow of a woman. he can discern the long straight hair which she combs on and on and on.

‘f-fuck!’ he spits.

he harshly pulls you over his shoulders but transfixed you crane up your neck to continue looking at the shadow. hastily he manages to grab the keys which he had hung on a hook by the main door. the shadow grows darker, more defined as if whoever it belonged to was coming closer. he feels you struggling and you scream to be let down.the main door to the house is already open so with one last glance at the chaos behind, you are both bolting out of the house.

‘y/n, run! to the car. hurry, hurry, hurry!’ he shuts the door, hoping it would buy you some time. he’s not really sure what he’d just seen or what any of it meant. but thinking would come later. he grabs your hand as you start the mad dash across the front garden. you notice despite your compromised vision due to the mist, how the roses look wilted. the grounds gooey and wet underneath, and your feet sink into the soft mud making movement sluggish. but you don’t stop. moments later, the door behind you flings open with enough force that it comes loose from its hinges. the whole house seems to be angry.

come back here.

don’t leave me alone.

an overgrown root coils around your calf and yanks you back. your hand slips out of bokuto’s and he turns around, horrified, to see you being dragged into the ground. like you were falling into quicksand.

‘hold on to my arm,’ bokuto bellows, ‘and just don’t. let. go!’

the circulation in your leg is being cut off and you cry in pain. you can feel the disgusting way the soft earth keeps parting further to let you in. you want to let go, give in to the struggle. maybe it’d be better to just lie buried here, decomposing till you forget whats fear, whats pain.

your name is rolling off bokuto’s tongue like a chant. his muscles burn with strain. the sweat and slick makes his grip on you weak and he notices how you’re letting go. he reads the resignations on your face. but why are you letting go? why are you trying to leaving him alone?

bokuto loses his footing and falls backwards and almost loses you, but he manages to interlock your fingers. he’s grunting with effort, and roars with frustration when it doesn’t seem to be working. it is then when you see the blood covering his feet, the glass splinters buried deep into his soles. in your haste to get away you never noticed how he had walked all over the shards with you over his shoulder. the ache in your heart swells. you know he’d never leave you behind. it was the two of you, or none of you who’d make it alive out of here.

the thought of bokuto buried deep into the ground, lips blue and crusted with mud gives you a renewed conviction. with the last spurts of energy you hold tight onto bokuto��s arm with one hand. the other digs into where you find soft but solid ground. you attempt to claw your way out and fight the drag of the noose around you ankle that tries to pull you in the opposite direction. away from bokuto. bokuto is inching backwards, his voice hoarse with all that screaming as he does his utmost to haul you out.

rain begins to pour in heavy cascades even though there hadn’t been a single cloud in the obsidian sky. and suddenly you feel earth’s hold on you go slack. bokuto and your efforts come to fruition as your foot comes loose and you tumble straight on top of bokuto’s body. but its too early to celebrate. a loud thunderclap spurs you both into action and you run and run, fighting the burn in your lungs until you reach the car. bokuto, is grateful, infinitely grateful that the keys had remained in his pockets during that struggle. he hands you the keys and with no time to waste you’re running to the car, afraid that something inauspicious might happen again if you didn’t hurry. bokuto notices with relief that the iron gates are not chained shut like they had been upon your arrival, and with some effort he swings them open. bokuto clambers into the passenger seat and you floor the gas as you drive straight out of the gates, into a calm quiet night.

it takes you a moment to notice that the rain had stopped.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

the two of you are covered in dirt, in blood. absolutely shattered with exhaustion. bokuto finally feels the pain that had been dampened by adreneline. it now ignites like an inferno. he almost tears his lip trying to bite back a whimper. in the rear view mirror, you catch a glimpse of the house. it looks regal and imposing, as it had when you’d first arrived. you can see the dimly lit bedroom, the curtains billowing gently in a slight breeze. the glass on the doors is intact. the garden is immaculate once again and you can see patches of soft grass spread out where the mud had almost eaten you up alive just a few moments ago. a shaky laugh escapes Bokuto, and before you know it, feeling delirious, you’re laughing with him.

bokuto’s phone rings and the sound cuts short your hysteria. with some effort he retrieves it from the dashboard where he’d left it two days ago. he had planned on not letting anything distract him from you on this short getaway. he puts it on loudspeaker.

‘they picked up!’ you hear Konoha say to someone and the collective sighs of relief are audible.

‘dude, where have you both been? we’ve been calling you all day. ms. nakamura told me that you never made it to my vacation home?’

‘ms. nakamura?’ bokuto rasps.

‘yeah, the caretaker I told you about?’

‘the caretaker was a man!’ you snatch the phone with from bokuto with one hand while other remains on the steering wheel. you’re yelling at the receiver like a mad woman. ‘we came to your villa, but that man opened the gates. listen, there’s something wrong with the house and lake behind it is-’

‘what lake? there are only corn fields behind my house. which is, by the way, a traditional japanese one. where the fuck have you both been?!’

you and bokuto look at each other in confusion, and you hit the brakes. you glance back at the house which is now far, far away. if you squint your eyes you can see the outline of a man at the gates. the lamp in his hand glows golden like a distant star.

a woman’s shadow is dark and lonely against the delicate lace of the bedroom’s curtains.

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