#if it makes you feel better i still have radiation burn scars from that!

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader requested by multiple: doctor visit

The pediatrician's office is very bright.

Bright walls, bright furniture, bright toys. The hallway is painted a bright blue, dotted with wispy, spongey clouds, spiraling in patterns from floor to ceiling.

The exam room is not much better. It's yellow. Supposed to be soothing, you tell him. It's anything but.

The bright colors unsettle him, but he shoves it down. Swallows the gnawing anxiety brewing in the back of his mind, forces away the spiral attempting to swallow him whole. He falls back on what gives him comfort, what allows him to sleep at night, what makes him feel whole. The only one who doesn't make him feel torn to shreds. The one who can touch his bare skin without making him shake. You.

You're nervous too. It started when you got the baby undressed, and has only gone downhill from there. He can see it in the way you pace back and forth in the room, holding Ry to your chest, bouncing him, rubbing his back. There's dread scrawled into your expression, grim unease radiating from your bones.

"C'mere mama." He reaches, pulling your forearm and tugging you close, resting his chin on top of your head. You relax, but barely. "Everything's going to be alright."

"He hates shots."

"He's a baby, course he does. Can't blame 'im. Huh bub?" He strokes Orion's chubby and round cheek, tilting his head to press a kiss to your temple.

Someone knocks on the door, and it creaks open.

"Hi!" A young woman in a white coat smiles at them, giving Simon an odd look before stepping forward. He swallows the acid burning the back of his throat.

"Hey, Dr. Marsh." You greet weakly, face pinched. She says hello, and washes her hands, keeping a stream of chatter until she's seated on a rolling stool with an iPad in her hand.

"How's our big man?"

"Still big." You quip drily, and she laughs, glancing up at Simon. You look at him too, and then your mouth drops into a little o. "Sorry, this is Simon. Orion's dad." She stands, extends her hand. He takes it, careful to not squeeze too tight before letting go and hanging his own rigidly by his side, tense, like he's priming for a fight of some kind.

"I guess we know where he gets his size from." Fingers tap across the screen, and then she sets it on the examination table. "So, how is it going?"

"Fine, good, I think. He's still feeding every three hours. I feel like he's gained ten pounds since our last visit." She nods. "I've been trying to pump as much as I can but... there's just... not as much."

"That can happen. If you're still happy with breastfeeding, I don't have any concerns. Of course, if you want to stop, that's more than okay. As long as he's getting what he needs, there's no wrong way to feed him." You nod, rubbing his back. Dr. Marsh asks about any other concerns, and after you say you have none, she reaches for him. "Let's see if our guy is still a ninety nine percenter, huh?" Simon frowns.

"Ninety nine percenter?"

"He's uh, in the ninety nine percentile. Very big."

"Very big, and very tall." Dr. Marsh says from over her shoulder, where she's now got Orion on the baby scale. "Born at what mum, four and a half kilograms?" Simon blanches. Bloody hell. You haven't really told him too much about the birth, and he hasn't pushed you on it. Maybe this is why. You don't have a c-section scar, and he winces thinking about you giving birth, naturally. He should have been there. Should have held your hand, told you how amazing you were. How strong. The familiar feeling of regret resurfaces, and he gives you an apologetic look. You shrug with a little smile.

"He looked like a giant in the nursery, next to all the... regular sized babies." Dr. Marsh laughs, but Simon grimaces. Guilt settles in his stomach like a rock.

"Sorry, mama." He apologizes sheepishly, squeezing your hand, and you rub your thumb over his knuckles.

"It's okay, I kinda," your eyes sweep over him from head to toe, "expected it."

"Alright, so," Dr. Marsh brings Ry back over, handing him to you, but Simon intervenes, pulling him into his arms. He worries about your back. She smiles again, types something into the tablet, and then clears her throat, "growth is slowing down."

"Is that bad?" You sound alarmed, and she shakes her head.

"Not bad, considering he's been outperforming in height and weight since he was born. This happens, it's normal, there's nothing to worry about. However, he's still in the nineties. Just shy of eight kilograms."

"What's normal?" He's curious now, wondering how big his son is really, compared to others. He'd even feel proud, if he wasn't worried about the trauma having him may have caused you.

"Fiftieth percentile is around six. Now," she rests her hands on her thighs, and levels a serious look at you. "How are you? Sleep getting any better? Are you keeping up on hydration?" Simon peeks down at you, lips tugged into a firm line.

"He still feeds every three hours, and I'm the source so... not really."

"Any more dizzy spells?" What? His head snaps your direction. Orion gurgles, and he pats his back absentmindedly. Dizzy spells? Why haven't you said anything?

"Uh, not really. Maybe a few."

"Breastfeeding can take a lot out of you. It uses a lot of metabolic energy, so try to make sure you're eating enough and drinking a lot of water. It's normal to feel exhausted or fatigued, but taking care of your nutritional needs will go a long way. I know I sound like a broken record but, I think it will help. You might also try talking to your OB, since you know... I'm only a little human doctor." You swallow.

"Okay." She gives you a serious look, and you nod.

"Alright then, let's move on to everyone's favorite part."

He holds Orion for the entirety of the rest of the visit. He squirms and screams as he gets his shots, crying at the top of his lungs, and Simon closes his eyes at one point to take a deep breath. He's okay. He's safe. They're both safe. They're here.

You take him afterward, lips to the top of his head, eyes closed as you whisper. "Shhh, I know baby, I know. It's over now. All done. You were so brave." Simon's heart aches. It hurts to know you're struggling, that you see yourself as a failure, when it's so blatant that you're anything but. He's going to fix that.

You stop at the reception desk, lingering until the girl behind it gets off the phone. "Um, can we update Orion's emergency contact list? I want his dad to be on there, too." Simon looks down at you, momentarily dumbstruck. Sweet, sweet girl. Sweet little kitten. The receptionist smiles brightly, taking the information he provides, phone number, back up phone number (work cell) and his name.

The two of you head towards the elevator, and you give him a hesitant look as you step inside. "You don't mind right? I didn't want to overstep but... you're his parent too, I thought you might want to be-" You don't get to finish before he's swooping down with a hand at the small of your back and another on the baby's head, slamming his lips to yours so fiercely your breath hitches.

"Mama," he kisses your forehead, and then cups your chin. "You and Orion are my family now. You're it for me, and I'm chuffed you'd think to put me down as an emergency contact." You jerk back at his words, eyes wide. Too much? Too soon? Too strong? He doesn't care. He needs to start easing you into it, getting you used to the new reality, before he's moving you and the baby out of your flat and giving you a new last name.

"Simon." You whisper, but he shakes his head.

"I told you. I wanted you the night we made him, and I still do. You're everything. You're mine. You and our boy." You don't say anything, and the silence kills him until you reach for his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. "An' we're going to have a talk about you getting dizzy and not saying anything to me. Alright?" You gulp.

"Alright."

[cntloup]

Ex-Husband!Simon takes you to his place from the hospital

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

When you arrive, he gently carries you into his home and sets up his room for you, insisting that he sleeps on the couch. 

He takes a few days off, spending them on making sure that you’re ok, well-fed and healthy.  

He cooks for you, cleans your wounds and changes your bandages and even helps with simple routine tasks if you still have any pain or feel dizzy. 

As days go by, you can feel the remnants of love between you revive and you grow closer and closer.

But the sorrow of the past and fear for the future grow along with it.

And one night, you end up on the couch in his arms, talking about everything and nothing, telling stories and reminiscing about old memories, going through the motions together, smiling and cry-laughing your asses off. 

Until a heavy silence settles in the room. 

“Si?” you lift your head off his chest to see that his eyes were already on you. 

“What is it?” you ask, concerned look etched on your face. 

There's longing in his eyes as they roam across your features. 

A few moments pass and his eyes are still locked on you, mesmerized, drinking in your beauty. 

“I love you.” he finally blurts out. 

“What?” you ask, widened eyes glaring into his. 

“I fuckin’ love you.” he repeats firmly, emphasizing each word.

And you can see it in his eyes. You can feel it radiate off him.

“Si...” you start, the shock of his sudden confession engulfing you. 

"Just tell me one thing... Do you still love me?" he implores, sad eyes burning into yours, yet a slight glint of hope is present.

His heart crumbles in his chest and his stomach churns, expecting the worst. 

“Of course I still love you.” you respond with a warm smile and tears in your eyes as you take his hand in yours.

“Yeah?” he sighs in relief while a faint smile forms on his lips. 

“Yeah.” you lean in slowly. 

He wastes no time to connect your lips together, all his bottled-up emotions in such a long time pouring into the kiss. 

You pull away breathless, rest your forehead against his and shut your eyes.

“I love you, Si... so fucking much.” you whisper as you feel a tingle behind your eyes and soon, droplets of tears slide down your cheeks.

"But I'm scared. What if it doesn't work?" you ask him, caressing his scarred cheeks.

He wipes your tears away softly with the pad of his thumbs.

"Can we take it slow for now?" you whisper, resting your hand on his.

“ 'course, dove. Anythin' you want..." he reassures you and captures your lips with his once again in a sweet loving kiss, "We'll make it work. I'll do better this time. I promise."

comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated ♥ 

[yandere-romanticaa]

Dabi is such an interesting character to me. I find it so fascinating how he says that he does not care about some things, how he could not give a single crap about anything that's going on. With his easygoing attitude and flat tone, no one could blame you for thinking that way.

It was one of the many reasons why you wanted to break up with him.

Falling for Dabi to begin with was beyond unexpected. The man positively reeked of trouble. The second he stepped foot in your favorite coffee shop, you know that the only thing that guy could bring was chaos. The way he carried himself was a dead giveaway, even if most of his face was covered. You had no idea that he was a wanted criminal at the time and perhaps that was one of the reasons why you approached him to begin with.

Besides, life was just dull. Nothing was going on in your life, no sparks, no excitement. Every single day started to feel like the same shade of grey, the old colours of the world morphing into something so forgettable that it made you want to pull out your hair. So what if talking to this guy was a possible mistake?

It was better than nothing, you told yourself.

You can still recall his strong smell - smoke with a hint of some cheap cologne, perhaps a vain attempt to cover up that third metallic smell which couldn't be hidden no matter how hard he tried. Beneath that dark hoodie of his you could see his lips twitching and just as he was going to tell you off for bothering him, you introduced yourself.

The rest was, as they say, history.

Dabi was a bit of a weirdo but you didn't mind. You enjoyed his quirks and even liked to compliment his appearance from time to time, which made the villain wonder just how sick in the head you really were.

He never made any moves to shoo you away though.

And that stone cold fact was something which the League would often make fun of him for it. Dabi would usually end their jabs and jeers with an annoyed scoff and just leave the bar, hands in his pockets but no one was buying it.

Dabi wasn't sure if he wanted you near those clowns. The thought of someone else oogling you, in the same manner as he did, set him off. Dabi started to make the effort of seeing you more, whether or not you knew he was actually there was up for debate. He stuck to the shadows, tailing you day and night and he would reveal himself only if he saw fit.

Dabi wasn't sure why he was doing this, wasting his time with some weak little civilian.

When the day had ended and the sun was setting, Dabi would lazily walk back home. His mind would be rushing with thoughts of you, his knuckles in a tight grip as he kept them hidden in his deep pockets.

He could kill you whenever and however he damn well pleased.

Dabi had the terrifying ability to snuff the life out of you, and that thought gave him a rush of adrenaline, dare he say confidence.

Your life really was in his hands.

You often felt the need to explain away Dabi's red flags - he's just tired, that's why he's so cranky! Oh, he got mad that you went out with someone else? Well, um... There are so many bad guys out there, it makes sense that he would be worried. Because that is what a good boyfriend did - worry about his precious baby.

Dabi was smart (even a little kind) enough to keep his burn scars hidden away from you but the ones on his face were impossible to conceal. The villain would often find himself enchanted by your gentle touch as you'd trace your delicate fingers across the rough flesh, a stark contrast to the sheer softness you radiated.

He was often torn between two options - does he keep that softness safe or will he sink his fangs deep in your neck, claim you all for himself?

Day after day, the second opinion started to sound so much more appealing.

Dabi's love was all over the place. There would be times when you would hardly ever see him. No calls, no texts, no nothing. For all you knew he could have been dying in a ditch somewhere and you'd be none the wiser. You tried countless times to open up to you about his job but he would just shut you down in record speed. He would never get annoyed or angry with these questions but that did not ease your worries.

And with the prying eyes of friends and relatives, it got even harder to keep yourself so delusionally in love.

None approved of your relationship with Dabi. You shed countless tears due to their harsh protests, which often meant that you would run away straight into the arms of the main issue. Dabi would hold you in your bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you. His shirt would be covered in your tears and snot. Perhaps he would grumble about it later but not at the moment.

He was not a good person, but he did not want to be a complete monster towards you.

After these incidents, almost everyone who was ever close with you would start dropping like flies. All died violent, brutal deaths with the main cause usually being severe burns inflicted on the victims of various parts of their bodies. Sometimes the scarring was so deep that even days later the corpse would radiate heat, the disgusting smell or rot forever sticking to your nostrils.

To describe the experience of being forced to identify those bodies as "traumatic" would have been the understatement of the century.

The walk back home was excruciating, perhaps even a little otherworldly. There was no left in the world who cared for you anymore, no one you could run to for safety and comfort.

The only one who you had left was Dabi.

Maybe, it wasn't so bad, being with him that is. Yeah, he could be a little mean sometimes but he would always make it up to you. Dabi would call you his doll and pepper your face with gentle kisses, which often made you giggle. Sure, not knowing what Dabi was doing at the dead of night made you worry so much that you would sob until the cracks of daylight but that was okay because he would always cross the threshold of your home in one piece.

You only had Dabi to worry about, and that was... Odd to manage.

Gone were the walks with friends, meals with family. There was no living soul on this Earth which cared about you, wanted to see you happy and thrive.

Dabi was the only person left in your life.

And that was when the horrible realization hit like a bucket of ice cold water.

Dabi was the only person you had left.

Every single complaint, he had memorized them, each and every one. You knew that this was the case as he would sometimes bring up the most random things you had said months after you said them to begin with, proving the fact that he actually was paying attention.

The door opens with a powerful slam which startles the man. He asks you what's the problem but all hell breaks loose.

You scream, shout, cry. You accuse him of every possible crime he could have committed and he says nothing. Dabi sits on the sofa, his legs crossed as his cheek rests on the palm of his hand. You go on and on and Dabi doesn't bother to stop you.

Not until he lets out a deep chuckle.

Took ya long enough, he said to you. The tips of his fingers ignited with blue flames, a silent threat to keep you from screaming. You couldn't even bolt towards the door and there were no other escape routes.

He finally had you where he wanted you.

Dabi wasn't stupid. He knew that you planned on dumping him for a while now. He could not allow that, not now. Not when you had forced your way deep into his heart and made a home there. Dabi had nothing in this world and he made sure that you had nothing either.

Now, you had each other. And to him, that was more than enough.

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

On a rainy afternoon, Voldemort walks in on Harry fresh from the bath, water still beading at the ends of his hair. He must’ve been out flying and, like a fool, hadn’t come back before the storm that had been threatening made good – his sodden clothes trail like breadcrumbs across their bedroom floor.

Voldemort would give Harry yet another lecture about leaving his things all over the place, but. Harry. In just a towel. He has his priorities in order.

Harry takes his baths at ungodly hot temperatures, and while Voldemort avoids the water, he thoroughly enjoys pressing up against his flushed, warm husband afterwards. Harry grins at him, accustomed to his predilection for wrapping around the younger man’s back and basking in the heat practically radiating off him.

The near-boiling water also emphasises where Harry’s many scars mar his body, the shiny whites and textured purplish-browns standing out against his skin more than usual. 

Voldemort adores Harry’s scars. He’s unashamed of how many he caused, directly or indirectly – they’re a part of their history, after all. He’s been marking Harry as his from the start, though the intention was very different when the famous lightning bolt he’s tracing with his finger was first formed.

Harry, well used to Voldemort’s fascination with his scars, sighs with long-suffering amusement and lets him continue his exploration. 

(It had taken a long time for Harry to feel comfortable with Voldemort’s attention on his body; even longer to let Voldemort look at his bare skin with the lights on. There were still days when the younger man would shift self-consciously under his appreciative gaze.

It remained a work in progress – one to which Voldemort would happily apply himself whenever given the chance.)

He knows Harry’s body better than his own by this point, but it never ceases to captivate him. This body withstood his many efforts to destroy it (avada kedavra, basilisk fang, ritual knife, locket horcrux), his worthless relatives (latticeworks of fine white lines decorating his hands and forearms and shins, shiny patches from untended skinned knees, rough splotches from burns), and the tender mercies of Dumbledore’s machinations. 

Voldemort runs his fingers gently over each mark he finds, pressing his lips against Harry’s shoulders, throat and jaw as he pleases to distract his boy.

When he gets to the back of Harry’s right hand, the other man tenses briefly as he always does. How odd, that of all the scars on his body, this is the one that lingers in his mind – that causes him shame and anger when reminded of it.

Voldemort draws the hand up to his mouth and nips at the scar before continuing on, not giving it any special significance and hoping Harry will learn to do the same.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Later, once Harry’s shaken Voldemort off long enough to get dressed, they’re curled up together on the library couch under a blanket and a gently snoring Nagini, watching the rain fall in sheets against the windowpane.

“Did you have scars before?” Harry asks so softly it’s barely audible over the crackle of the fireplace.

Voldemort thinks back to the cuts and scrapes he’d get at Wool’s that would heal practically overnight, with nary a trace remaining thanks to his magic. He remembers bloody fingers from trimming quill ends and learning the difference between slicing, dicing, mincing and chopping potions ingredients and the effects of each method – he’d acquired a bottle of dittany to take care of those. (If the matron didn’t want students to wander off with her supplies, she should’ve guarded them better.)

He thinks of the sixth-year Slytherins who’d tried to carve ‘mudblood’ into his back when he was twelve. They’d just finished the U when he’d mastered the shock and pain enough to lash out with his wandless magic and make them regret being born.

“I did.”

That wound never healed properly. The scar tissue would tug if he twisted a certain way.

He certainly doesn’t miss it.

(And perhaps he understands Harry’s hatred for the scar on his right hand – there’s something different about having letters incised into you. A revulsion; a degradation.)

Harry turns his head to press his temple against Voldemort’s cheek, offering silent comfort.

Voldemort feels the faintest flicker of rage at the memory, but he draws Harry closer and lets the anger drift away. It’s not important anymore.

[junkiepunkie]

Post-Prank realization -Remus Lupin oneshot

[remus wakes up in the hospital wing post-full moon, brutally hurt and still bleeding, no one is there. Madame Pomfrey is busy with a patient loaded with dragon pox so he excuses himself, saying he needs to go to the loo, and hobbles back up to the gryffindor common room, on the way Snape and him collide]

"oi! Watch where you're..." Remus cut himself off, seeing the petrified, yet slightly sympathetic look thrown by Snape, who looked seven shades too green to be feeling fine "...going... You know what never mind"

Snape gulped heavily, his eyes looked almost glassy upon seeing Remus and his hand was clutching something so agressively in his hand that Remus could see the tension radiate throughout his whole body.

"Snivil- Severus, what is that?" He asked tentatively, in that moment the hatred for Snape faded to increadible concern. He looked like he'd seen a ghost- or well, an unplanned ghost.

The words had no sooner left Remus' mouth than Snape had lunged forward, grabbing Remus' forearm and harshly yanking up his sleeve.

"hey! What the fuck-" an unholy scream wracked Remus' entire body, cutting his complaint short. In that moment Remus turned the same green as Snape. He knew that burn well, dispite the rarity of feeling it, the few times he had had left their scars, just as incurable as those made by his own claws. 

Silver.

Shit.

Now, Remus was smart enough to know that this could only be bad, Snape could tell the whole school, his clueless friends, Snape could probably get Remus expelled.

"I'm not going to tell anyone" He hissed, quiet as a doormouse but with the power of an army.

For the first time in his life, Remus truely felt he understood why Lilly called Snape a great wizard, he had a drive behind his eyes, hidden in all aspects of life apart from his fits of rage. In this moment -though it sickened him to say it- Remus knew Snape could very much kill him. "I'll say nothing because it wasn't your fault, it was theirs, and, though I hate your guts and your friends, I have a slither of respect for you. But don't believe that I'll deny it if anyone asks, and do not test me, because that layer of respect is thin and extremely fragile. Now run along and for the love of god get new friends. See you later, Moony."

Ouch. Both from the silver and Snapes mouth, Ouch.

Remus turned away the second Snape lifted the silver to reveal a burning red knife shaped mark on his arm that Remus knew would not fade for a long time. He all but ran into the fat lady's portrait, spitting out the password as He fled inside. He went straight for the staircase, hoping to make a beeline for his bed and tell the marauders everything, maybe he could even have a cry with Sirius later on, anything to distract him from thoughts of Snape's speech and whatever he meant by 'it wasn't your fault, it was theirs'. Unfortunately for Remus -and his plans for a quiet night in- no sooner was he up the stairs to his dorm than Sirius was dashing past, sobbing his grey eyes out as if someone had died. Shit what if someone's died. Remus groaned at the thought. Today was not the day. Despite Remus' urge to ignore all commotion and just try and sleep off the sting of silver, this was Sirius and he needed to make sure he was ok. Immediately. Remus turned on his heel and went to follow after his friend/sexual tension partner/much needed emotional crutch, but James had his arm out, blocking Remus from descending any further as Sirius dashed from the common room, quicker than Remus had ever seen him.

"James move! I want to check that he's ok!" Remus exclaimed, anger slowly bubbling due to a mix of his increadibly rough full moon and the Snape commotion.

James continued to hold Remus back, both boys thankful that the common room was abandoned at this early sunday hour. 

"listen mate, we- erm- well, you'd better sit down" James stated. A few steps down Peter nodded sadly, too afraid to speak lest the words come out wrong.

Remus laughed coldly

"you're telling me! I just saw Snape and look what the cock did!" he rolled up his sleeve as he finally caved and let James lead him up the stairs. He was cluttering at almost indecipherable speeds "you know what that means right? Snape knows! James, Snape knows what I am and-"

"i know Remus... Remus if you'd just listen-"

"and then he had the fucking nerve to somehow blame you guys! Like what the fuck even was that?! Fucking batshit am I right?!?"

"REMUS!" James exclaimed, quickly catching himself and swallowing thickly as though it would help him develop some very called for empathy and patience. "Moony... Mate... It is our fault, or, well.."

"its Sirius" Pete butted in. Turning vivid pink as he realized what he'd done. Turning on his heel he exited the room.

Remus breathed shakily and sat on the edge of his bed, the forgotten aches caused by the injuries he suffered the night before hitting him like a ton of bricks. The entire right row of broken ribs and his fucked up calf were now gruelingly aparent. 

"what did Pete mean? How could Sirius be responsible for me being a werewolf?! That’s just dumb” he laughed nervously.

James closed his eyes and took in a deep breathed, before talking. Remus did the same but It seemed to do nothing.

"Remus, you know that none of us were there last night don't you?" he started "well, thats a lie, Pete was -and he tried his best- but a rat and a werewolf.. It didn't make much difference. After two hours he knew It was better to just leave"

Remus wanted to interrupt, say that he was fine with no one coming because It wasn't their responsibility to look after him and, if thats why Sirius is upset then he should know that it’s fine. He wanted to say all that and more, but he didn't, he just sat and listened.

"well, we were coming, we really were, only Sirius told us there was something he had to do first and, well, he'd had an argument with Snape earlier that day and something didn't feel right, so I decided i'd wait for Sirius before I followed Pete into the whomping willow." Remus nodded along, although he really wasn't sure where this could possibly be going.

"he turned up an hour after the full moon came up, I- well I had to listen to you screaming the whole time while I couldn't do anything about It like i usually would, so i was pissed off when he showed up, more so when i realised he'd brought Snape. And way way more so when i saw him show Snape the knot on the tree..."

If Remus could rank pain, silver would be an 8.5, transformation would have to be a 9. But this.. This implication, the silence in which Remus realised what had happened last night, the moment in which his whole would came crumbling down around him and everything made such painful sense. Well, this was a clear ten. 

Dispite this, James continued.

"So I jumped in, just as Snape was about to follow Sirius, I screamed that he had to leave when Sirius turned back and started telling Snape It was all fine, that It was just you studying in there. I- well, I tried to think on my feet, so I petrified Snape and I- I punched Sirius in the face, kicked him too, started proper fucking him up. He started crying and I was going to leave him and join you, but Pete came out and me and him had to carry Snivelous back in. But Remus before I petrified Snape we all heard you howl and- well…"

Remus bit his gum hard and forced himself to adopt an eerily calm demeanor . He sat and breathed and waited for James to say something, anything, but he didn't. Dispite himself Remus closed his eyes and asked the only question that mattered to him, the one question he wanted to ask. Unfortunately, It would be the one that hurt him the most.

"is he alright?" the question was caring and quiet, but the tone was scathing.

"what?" James asked, stunned.

"Sirius. Was he ok?" 

James faltered, pausing for a long time before answering, when he did his voice was soft. As If he was talking about someone dead. To Remus he might aswell have been.

"eh, I knocked him out, broke his nose. When he woke up this morning It look him a while to even remember what happened. When he did he freaked right out, you saw him, he's-"

"James humour me and just tell me he's alright" Remus snapped, the calm had gone now and in its place was rage.

James did that singular breathy chuckle one does when shocked and frustrated before speaking.

"alright, moony, physically he is fine"

Remus nodded meekly and collapsed back so that he was strewn across his bed. James followed his lead, laying himself directly beside Remus on the bed. In a moment of solidarity the two boys elbowed eachother, both offering the other a weak unhappy smile. Remus had said It once and he'll say It as many times as he could: James Potter is a fantastic friend.

As soon as the moment of content came, It was gone, both boys letting out defeated sighs as they turned to look at eachother, no funny buisness, just words and two pairs of honest eyes.

"I'm going to hate him forever now, you know?" Remus stated. It was true, he could never see things going back to how they were ever again. Sirius had gone and fucked It up, all of It.

James smiled again, a small, sad smile, but there was an undetectable trace of some genuine happieness.

"maybe you’ll hate him, but you'll forgive him eventually Moony." he said, as though it were plain as day.

Remus raised his brows in unfriendly challenge.

"I will not. He's fucking ruined it all James. This is- I mean, it's unforgivable!"

James nodded "oh yeah no, it's the worst thing he's ever done. It was dangerous and inconsiderate and down right psycho and he deserves no mercy, but let me ask you this Remus. Tell me why I think him 'ruining it all' means more to you than if I were to do the exact same thing he did?"

Remus sat bolt upright, the crushing pain in his chest strinking him as insignificant at that moment in time.

"what’s that meant to mean?" he asked defensively

James smirked as he too sat up. The smirk he gave was still tinged with unhappieness, but now there was a slight playfullness behind it.

"it means Moony, that I don't think that your friendship with me and Pete makes you feel the same as-"

"of course it makes me feel the same! Why wouldn't it, we're all good mates -great mates- we're family! I feel equally about all of you! So don't be- don't be so fucking daft Prongs! What was that even supposed to mean?!? Haha" Remus was panicking, badly. His hands were sweaty and his heart was all but palpatating. He could feel the green colour from earlier making a comeback.

James' face returned to its previous state of severity but his eyes stayed kind, welcoming. They were an ocean of comfort against his deadly serious features. He seemed to manage to make his face both intimidating and strict while also staying reliable and homely. He never once looked away from Remus as he took his hand in his, giving it a much needed reassuring squeeze.

"it means that I see the way you look at him when he can't see you. And I hear how to hum his favourite song when he's not around. I notice when you wait for him to agree to things before you make up your mind, and i've seen how he can calm you down when you're about to change on a full moon and you cry" He said each word gently, never letting go of Remus' hand, even when Remus began to tear up in fear that he'd be rejected

"He's your Lilly" he continued "and Moony -Remus- that is absolutely fine by me."

Wow. Hearing those words, not feeling any loss of contact dispite what James now knew, it triggered a full on breakdown. Remus collapsed into James' arms like a bundle of rags, his head resting on James' shoulder as his body wracked up and down violently. James didn't hesitate to hug Remus tight into his chest, patting his back as he cried and humming gently in an attempt to calm him down. Remus recognised the song "love reign o'er me" by the who, one of Sirius' favourites. It should have made his blood boil, but It didn't, not at all, no it just made the poor boy tired, so much so that he calmed down almost instantainiously. James sighed happily as Remus' sobs faded to cries, the whimpers before dying completely, leaving him just breathing shakily.

"this doesn't change anything James" Remus spoke up after a while longer being cradled by his friend, for once in his life feeling a sense of platonic understanding. "I'm still dead set on hating Sirius"

James smiled "thats fine Moony"

"and you know we're not dating" Remus yawned, his eyes fluttering closed, blinks becoming slower and slower.

"still fine Remus" 

"and the fact I like him, and that I'm gay doesn't mean i'll put this all behind me" Remus eyes shut fully now, his words turning to soft mumbles "anyway, he doesn't like me and now I don't like him. So we're even..."

"still fine Remus," James looked down at the sleeping boy in his arms and moved to gently lay the boy down so he could sleeping properly. "but just so you know sleepyhead, i've also seen how he looks at you when you can't see him"

Remus didn't hear that last sentence, and if he did he probably wouldn't have believed it, but James knew that it was a fact that made all the difference, whether Remus knew it or not. Remus may be stubborn, but Sirius was more so, he would try to make this better until Remus cracked and let him.

That night, Sirius limped back in to the dorm, eyes red and puffy, one stained purple and black from the night before. The first thing asked was how Remus was doing. James had only just begun to explain how Remus was first defeated and then angry, and how his chest seemed dented from his rough night, when Sirius snapped and said:

"James humour me and just tell me he's alright!"

James could have laughed. Yeah, he thought, everything was going to be just fine.

[astarions-darling]

Your Eyes Can Be So Cruel

Raphael x GN!Reader I hate how there is no cutscene whether you win or lose against Raphael. Anyway, this is just a little drabble for if you lose (part of it was inspired by Labyrinth and I've borrowed some dialogue and altered it a bit) no real warnings but he is a Villain™

“And now down here comes the claw.”

You stares at the devil, his face twisted in glee as he stands above you. Lying on your stomach, you try to push yourself up on your elbows even though every muscle in your body screams in protest. Everything aches. Your skin is scorched and bleeding but the little strength you have left is used to sit up, your legs splayed to one as a hand stay firmly planted on the cold marble ground. Exhausted and bone-weary you sigh. It had been a long battle—a battle that has now been lost.

“What a clever mouse you thought you were,” says Raphael as his body shifts, the human disguise returning—not a hair out of place as he smooths down the front of his doublet. How you despise it when he appears so, and you feels he knows this. It makes him too soft and appealing, trustworthy. It’s harder to remember the devil he is with those warm eyes and soft lips. And those lips are dangerous, for his honeyed words spill so effortlessly from them and it’s all too easy to believe them. “But this is my house you’ve been scurrying around in and I’m afraid you aren’t leaving with my cheese. In fact, you will not be leaving at all.”

“Please, Raphael, I need the hammer! A deal—“

His face contorts, the unbridled rage from earlier returning, how it twists his handsome face. “No deals! I’ve been more than generous up until now.”

“Generous?” You can barely speak through a bloodied lip but you manage it. There is still the desire to fight burning low in your belly. You will not lie down like some obedient dog waiting for its master's forgiveness. Your words come out in a hiss between your teeth. “What have you done that’s generous?”

“Everything!” he roars, his eyes burning like the hells. You know his grip on control can only be held for so long, you feel the power radiating off of him. “Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that I help you with your tentacle problem and I did. You demanded that I translate your little vampling’s scars. I did. I have offered numerous times to help you. I gave you an easy and painless solution, and yet you decide to come into my home and steal from me—destroying my house in the process." He sucks in a shuddering breath through his nose, eyes hard as he stares down his nose at you. "I have not crushed you like the ungrateful vermin you are. Isn’t that generous?”

“Please, let my friends go.” There is only desperation now and you are begging. It hurts you, more than the pain inflicted against you from his earlier wrath.

“Oh, I shall let them go,” The sudden change in his voice, from sneering rage to eerie calm is more terrifying than anything else. You feels your stomach turn to knots. “Even better, I'll return them to their masters.” There is something pressing against your sides and then suddenly your body is hoisted up. You can't move your body, arms pinned to your side. The cambion slithers up behind you silently before his hand is under your chin, forcing you to look at your fallen friends before you. Your back is pressed against his and your body yearns to fall against it, you are grateful that you are frozen in place and can't submit to the whims of your weak mortal flesh.

Raphael's other hand extends before you and you watch his long fingers snap, fire and magic uncoiling from their tips. There is nothing you can do but watch, horrified, as Karlach disappears in a flurry of ash. You had promised Karlach that she would be free. You had promised.

“Zariel will be happy to have our dear Karlach back.” The words are felt against your neck and they make you shudder. His fingers click again and you watch as Shadowheart disappears as well. “I hear Shar can be quite unforgiving but I’m sure the girl will survive.” You know what is next and your eyes land on Astarion as he lies crumpled and bleeding on the floor, his pale hand outstretched toward you. “And our little vampling—“

“Don’t!” you beg. You try to break free of his hold but the pain is insurmountable when you attempt it. “Please, don’t!”

A slight squeeze at your throat. “Perhaps this can be a valuable lesson.”

The third snap of his fingers rings in your ears, the smell burning your nostrils as the vampire disappears in a cloud of ash. You know you’ll never see him again, knows that he will die. There is a yearning chasm deep in your chest as your despair eats away at you. Astarion had escaped once, you tell yourself…maybe he will escape again. Maybe they all will. But you have little hope, in fact, you have none. Your tired eyes fall on Hope, her body lifeless and face blank.

“How sad it is for our adventurer when Hope is gone.” Raphael sighs, his face now coming to rest next yours. His voice is low and tender, and his cheek is pressed against yours, how it burns your skin. “Luckily for you, my little mouse, your master will be much more forgiving than those of your rabble." The spells suddenly ends and you collapse to the ground, limbs smaching against the hard floor as tears fall down your grimy cheeks. The devil circles you slowly, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room, until he is standing before you.

Your glance up at him, and how you wish to fall into the blackness that lingers behind your eyes. His sneering face regards you. "Yes, I have been more than generous with you. But I can be cruel." The only sound is your laboured breathing as you scowl at the devil. His lips twitch into a smile. "Now kneel.”

[goszixx]

Evergreen

✧༺♡ ༻∞ ✧༺♡ ༻∞ ✧༺♡ ༻∞

Note ❈° ≫ Yes, there will be a part two.

Warning ❈° ≫ humiliation, degrading, dom sukuna, sub reader, grinding cause why not, I think that’s it for now.

Part 2

✧༺♡ ༻∞ ✧༺♡ ༻∞ ✧༺♡ ༻∞

One finger traced around the edge of the folder beneath them. The vanilla scolded your stare, knowing what had to come next. It’s the only way. You keep telling yourself that over and over and over again. But, that still didn’t change the tingle curling at your nerves. You could almost taste it, the evergreen mint that always overwhelmed your senses.

One bulb lit the room, a long black table was placed in the center. The one sided glass being the only thing that consumed your attention. The man on the other side sat still, his body hunched over as his hands rested behind the back of the chair. Even in chains the cockiest smile rested on his face.

Ink traced along his skin, leading down his face and disappearing in a prison jumpsuit. He shifted, his chin pointing up as if he knew you were looking at him. A smirk spread across his busted lip as he opened his legs a little wider for your viewing pleasure.

Your stare held its cold tension. But you couldn’t help your teeth tearing into your bottom lip. The precinct was closed. Only you and him stood in the building. Your own morals were crushed by what you were about to do. It pulled at your heartstrings but was scorched whenever his eyes met yours. Even though he can’t see you, he can feel you.

Need. You need him. For your case of course, nothing else. To be fair, your fate was skewed ever since your life got tangled with the info broker years ago. How many times have they met like this? Five? Maybe six. It always ended in one way.

A heavy sigh left your lips as you picked your body off the metal chair. Your morals were isolated in the room as soon as you shut the door behind you. A burning heat spread across your chest, you wanted to blame it on guilt, but you knew the truth.

Your fingers wrapped around the metal door knob, the silver sent a spark through your skin. Cold air hit your face along with the hungry stare belonging to the infamous Sukuna. “How long as it been? 2 years?” Sukuna scoffed in amusement. His smirk only grew from the death glare you sent his way.

“I see your ugly mug hasn’t changed…” He trailed off as his eyes traced around the curves of your body. Oh how he missed your figure.

You kept your scowl, even though the air held his intimidating aura. “How’s prison life, Sukuna?” You leaned against the wall in front of him, crossing your legs and making the heel of your boots tap the ground.

The prisoner hummed, his hands gently tugging at the cuffs that held him still. “Could be better. But let’s cut to the chase, what information do you want from me? Or have you missed our sex that much?”

Your tongue clicked the roof of your mouth in annoyance. Maybe if he stopped speaking you could try to bare his presence. “Kenjaku, I want to know his where abouts on October 19th.”

Sukuna blinked a few times before his lips stretched into a grin. “That's pretty top secret information, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You cringed at the name, your teeth grinding together as your hand buckled on the small windowsill behind you. Exhaling, and unballing your fist you spoke, “I’m aware.”

Your hands fell by your side to bunch up the ends of your shirt. You pulled the black material, getting a surprised hum from the prisoner. But, he was intrigued nonetheless, “want to get straight down to business, I see. Did your prissy personality change or did you miss milking me that much?”

Amused laughter radiated from the prisoner, but you kept your composure. Your boots and jeans came off next. Sukuna’s eyes stuck to you like glue, your exposed skin teasing him too much for his liking. You trudged closer, taking in more details about the man. The small scars littering his neck, the slight bruise of his bottom lip.

Water droplets scattered in the messy pink locks from his shower. The water droplets also ran down the ink on his chest. You pulled at the jumpsuit until it exposed as much of his body as it could. The black rim of his boxers peeked out while his chiseled abs stretched before you.

Taking a finger, you traced down the ink. Your touch ran across his flesh, down his chest to the first mound of muscle making his abs. The heat stimulated his hot skin, making him hiss as it contracted with the cold feel of your digits.

Fabric hung high on your waist, the pretty lace gracing your skin In a mocking way. “Sit.” The words grumbled in the back of his throat. They dripped off his tongue, giving away the pure lust bubbling up inside him.

Blush spread across your cheeks from the command. Your legs shifted together as the lace on them seemed to get tighter. The urge to bite back was so apparent it made Sukuna smirk more. But, he knows you love it. The humiliation, the lack of physical touch he’s given you. The nickname.

“Sit on my lap, Sweetheart.” He repeated, putting the nickname to add more to the fire. Begrudgingly, you sat. The curve of your ass squished off the meat of his covered thigh. While adjusting yourself, Sukuna’s eyes trailed down to the small wet patch growing on your panties. The panties he bought you. The ones he makes you were before and after he fucks you.

Seeing your plush thighs all but shake in anticipation on his lap made him lick his lips. “Kiss me.” Another command, but this one stung you less then the rest.

“Yes, Sukuna.” Your voice came out timid, strained in nervousness. Six years and you couldn’t get him to drop this rule. Every time he gives you a command you have to respond with that. At first you thought it was because it turned him on, but.

Your legs tried to shuffle together as embarrassment leaked to your core. The chill of your palm pressed on the curve of his shoulder, sliding up to his neck while the other pressed flat on his abs. You leaned forward, Sukuna watching as the window behind you caught the wall your back arched. Before your lips met, Sukuna’s minty breath consumed your senses.

Damn that evergreen. “No grinding on me, understand Sweetheart?” Your lips parted in embarrassment as the heat of his mouth engulfed yours. He took advantage of your shock, forcing his tongue past your lips. The softness of his tongue slid past your own, causing you to whimper. Your nails dug in the curve of his abs as your legs shook on his thighs.

It was torture. His mouth invaded yours with so much ease. Touching every part of your mouth as if he owned it. It took all the willpower you had to keep the movement of your hips in check. Your back arched more the longer the kiss continued.

He’d only let you breathe when he felt like it, causing you to pant with your tongue lolled out, a dazed stare meeting his. “Did you like it that much? You're panting Sweetheart and we haven’t even started.”

You didn’t give an immediate response, you couldn’t. Sukuna clicked his tongue, his amusement cut short. He picked up his thigh, causing it to grind right into your soaked core. A choked moan broke through your lips in pleasure as you pressed your chest against his. He kept his rhythm until your face buried into his neck, your whimpers filling his ear. “Ye-s Sukuna. Y-yes Sukuna.”

The movement stopped, leaving your legs quivering on his thigh in need. Sukuna’s stare drifted around your body. From the grip you had to his skin to the arousal leaking from his panties. His eyes then flickered to the bra he bought you, how he made it a tad too small so your boobs would spill out whenever you made the smallest movement.

Once again, the prisoner licked his lips. “Are you ready to continue, Sweetheart?”

[thewolvesof1998]

Writing Poll Tag Game Results (18+)

So both You make bad days infinitely better and Mafia Buddie AU won so here are the snippets from those WIPS:

You make bad days infinitely better:

Sophia crumples in on herself, her sobs cutting through the night's air and into his heart. Before he can register that he’s moving his knees are hitting the ground in front of Soph’s chair and he’s pulling her into a hug. She's shaking like a leaf, so tiny in his arms, clinging to his shirt and tears soaking his shoulder like she used to do when she was young. His knees start to ache but he doesn’t let go not until her breaths even out and her grip loosens. When he finally pulls back he notices that it’s not just her checks that are wet, her hand comes up to pat his wet cheek.  “Look at us,” She sighs “We’re a mess.” “This is why I hate coming home.” He wipes at his cheeks before finally standing up, knees cracking, Sophia using the opportunity to half-heartedly mock how old he is trying to restore an air of normalcy that Eddie appreciates. Eddie settles back in his chair and happily accepted the tequila bottle when it’s offered.  He takes a few mouthfuls, steals himself and admits, “I don’t even know if I’m,” he waves unable to say the word which is something he was still working on with Frank.  “Gay?” “Yeah I just, there's this guy…Do you remember Buck?” “Hmmm Buck, Buck?” She teases, tapping her chin exaggerated like a goddamn cartoon, “Oh yes! Your best friend, the person my nephew, Abula and you can’t stop talking about?” “Shut up,” He says ducking his head and hoping the dark hides that he’s blushing furiously.   “And does he like you back?” Eddie hesitates, thinking back over the last few months, all the moments that left him wondering if just maybe his feelings are returned but then he remembers past girlfriends and no hints that Buck’s into guys. He sighs, “I don’t know.”

It's inspired by this post for @bucksbirthmark​. You can read some more of it here, here, here, here and here and here's the mood board.

For you mi amor, I choose Death / Mafia Buddie AU:

Eddie’s fingers trail over the long-healed scars on his back and Buck can feel the barely restrained fury radiating from him. He turns his head to look at Eddie and places a kiss on the only thing within his reach, Eddie’s bicep where it holds him up. It's enough of a distraction to pull those whiskey eyes he loves so much away from the marks his parents left to Buck’s own gaze.  Eddie sucks in a breath, “If Bobby hadn’t already-” “I know.” “If someone even lays a hand on you like that again, I’ll kill them.”  There’s a promise of brutal violence in his tone, it sends a shiver down Buck’s spine and a vicious sort of pleasure soaking through his body. Buck can’t help the grin that spread across his face, he probably looks like a love-sick fool but he couldn’t care less. He leans up on a forearm and reaches his other hand up, threading his fingers into Eddie’s hair and pulling him into a filthy kiss.  He pulls back far enough away to whisper “I wouldn’t expect any less,” against Eddie’s lips.  Eddie groans and places a quick kiss on the corner of his lips, “Of course, you’d be into that.” Buck catches Eddie’s bottom lip between his teeth and gives it a tug in the way he knows will have Eddie moaning before pulling away, “If anyone lays a hand on you, I’d kill them too,” He tightens his hold on Eddie’s hair, “You’re mine and I’m yours.” “Eres mi mundo y me has conquistado,” You’re my world and you have conquered me Eddie murmurs, quoting the love note Buck has burned into his memory. Their lips meet in a bruising kiss that doesn’t stop as Buck rolls onto his back, pulling Eddie along with him until he’s on top of him, every naked inch of him pressing Buck into the mattress in the way he loves. Buck slings a leg over his hip and uses the leverage to roll his hips up into Eddie’s. He groans, his dick hardening with the friction.  Eddie chuckles, “So soon again, amor?” "Only for you."

If you want to know a little bit more about this fic here a post I made about it!

Tagging people who voted or interested in these fics: @wikiangela​​ @wildlife4life​ ​ @alyxmastershipper @prince-buck-diaz @spotsandsocks @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33​ @heartbeatdiaz @bekkachaos @buddierights @forthewolves @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @eddiediaztho @your-catfish-friend @hannah-ruth-990 @malewife-buck @i-ghostgirl @mrevanbuckley @sammy-souffle @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese  @brokenribsdiaz @idealuk @princehattric @gunsknivesandplaid @name-is-loading @sarcastic-nerd @weewootruck

[raccoonfallsharder]

꧁･:☁︎⋆. cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂ chapter two. ambedo. [new 3/4] ❤︎❤︎

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 2/25 | wip | word count: pending.

the monster makes his intentions known. wyndham’s bride proposes an addendum. DARK chapter. see below for warnings & notes.

No matter how she twists and stretches on the floor, she can’t get her hands on the once-raccoon digging his knee into her spine. Anything that might have reached him is batted away easily. Thunder groans, and her captor chuckles behind her. The sound is dark and broken like gravel, and far more dangerous than the storm outside. His claws let go of her ruined chignon for just a second and she scrambles to her knees, still twisted and trapped in silk like a net-tangled butterfly.  He snickers, and his fingers clamp like a vice on her ankle, bruising and prickling even through the diaphanous layers of fabric. He jerks her toward him with such force that she sprawls again, the air slamming out of her lungs as the momentum sends her skidding her back to him and beneath him, dress sliding on the polished wood floor as he hauls her under his wide-spread legs. There’s the renewed skitter of pearls across the floor, and before she can draw a breath, he flips her — easily — onto her back. Her lungs are slammed against the ground, airless all over again. Her ribs strain. “Nuh-uh, pretty pearl.” He laughs down at her, teeth and eyes all bright and sharp in the darkness.  “W-wait,” she tries again, but he’s already dropping to his knees and straddling her torso, knees squeezing in on her ribs so hard that she can feel them creak. He’s so warm, though — a furnace — and heat radiates from his thighs and groin where they press snugly against the underside of her breasts. The part of her that aches for warmth and for touch batters against her weary survival instincts, willing to put up with the pain and the threat of imminent death if it means lying beneath him for the next few minutes. Then she remembers that he needs to leave and she thrashes against him frantically, but it’s too late. His clawed fingers are circling her neck and they tighten, claws sinking in at her nape. His tail lashes behind him: a dark plume, painting the shadows. She flies her fingers to his wrists, trying to peel his grip away even as bright spots swim back into her eyes like little supernovas and moons. Her hips buck beneath him instinctively, wriggling, lips parted and bloody and begging for air. Tears burn in her eyes, streaming into now-loose curls at her temples, and she kicks and tugs helplessly as the hands that shouldn’t be this strong, but are. There’s another skeletal flare of lightning, and she can see him again: narrow, scorching red eyes, teeth bared and gleaming, all scars and wet fur. Metal flashes in the electric light. Horrifying, yes. Not in and of himself, of course — but what it all means. All the pieces that had come together the moment he’d entered the little halo of golden candlelight.  Herbert had kept her in the dark, but now she knows.  Now she knows. And her thudding, panicked heart is broken.

read chapter two. ambedo. on ao3 :･꧂

WARNINGS: arguably one of the darkest chapters. things will get better before the chapter’s end. dubcon (wyndham’s bride is very into it but there’s definitely an argument for coercion here), lots of non-affectionate degradation and name-calling (slut, whore, etc), bad dom/sub dynamics, choking, hair pulling, pussy slapping, spanking, overstimulation. single, brief threat of mutilation. use of claws. continued references to non-sexual child abuse and grooming. animal/pet death. canon-typical violence.

sorry babes, this chapter is mostly a direct pull from the og oneshot. it's also almost twice as long as a normal chapter because i couldn't find a good place to cut it. but i hope you enjoy anyway?? enjoy seems like a weird word but yeah

꧁･:☁︎⋆. masterlist, notes, & moodboard .⋆☁︎ :･꧂

some explicit statements or references ✩ abbreviated explicit sequences ❤︎ detailed/prolonged explicit sequences ❤︎❤︎

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

[icarusignite]

An Eye for an Eye (part 31)

A/N:  Aemond is allowed one F-bomb here lol. Man's a whole simp and Daenys is not having it. Not rlly proofread, so if you see any typos (no you didn't).

Hope you enjoy the chapter, leave your thoughts in the comments <3

Word Count: ~4.3k

All chapters: MASTERLIST

AO3

Daenys stirred, her mind still foggy and a slight pressure building between her eyes. She felt someone's hand on her forehead, pressing a cold, damp cloth against her skin. A soft, soothing voice whispered in her ear, and she felt a sense of calm wash over her. Slowly she opened her eye, and the world came into focus with some difficulty. Her gaze flickered, trying to get an idea regarding her surroundings. She was in a room she did not recognize, lying in a bed that was not her own, buried under a pile of blankets.

She blinked.

Then she saw him. Aemond sat beside her, his head propped up on his palm as he looked down at her with concern. His fingers were still working the cool cloth over her cheeks and forehead.

"Good morning," he said softly when he noticed that Daenys was awake. "How are you feeling."

Daenys's eye widened in panic and she tried to scramble into a sitting position. Her vision swam and it felt like someone was repeatedly slamming a sledgehammer into her skull. It throbbed behind her eyes, making it impossible to focus on anything else and it took her a few moments to realize that Aemond had his hand on her elbow, helping her to sit up properly.

"What...where am I?" she croaked out, her throat was dry and tasted like ash, and her stomach churned with nausea.

Aemond hesitated before brushing a strand of hair that was stuck to her forehead and tucking it behind her ear, "You were crying again, I was just trying to help."

He raised the cloth in his hand and let out an imperceptible sigh of relief when she did not immediately flinch away from his touch.

"Are you alright?" he repeated.

She nodded, the pain radiating from the base of her neck as she did so, making her groan.

"Here, you could probably use some water."

Daenys gratefully took the cup from him and he went a step further and helped her to lift it to her lips and drink. Her mind bristled in indignation but her traitorous body did not have the strength to push him away. As she felt the cool liquid slide down her burning throat, she felt the stabbing pain behind her eyelids decrease ever so slightly.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

She caught sight of the morning light shining in through his windows and tried to clamber out of bed, swinging her legs over the side and standing up too quickly. The world tipped precariously and her knees buckled. When she threw her arm out to grab the bedpost, the sudden movement made her scarred eye throb and her hand slipped. Aemond was there instantaneously, his fingers entwining with hers as he helped her regain her balance and then gently pushed her to sit back on the edge of the bed. He handed her another glass of thick red liquid. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"For your hangover, it works miracles" he explained and then chuckled. "One of the few useful things you learn with Aegon as your brother."

Daenys took a tentative sip and instantly grimaced.

"What the-"

"Drink up!" Aemond tapped the bottom of her glass.

"By the gods, what is this?"

"Aegon's specialty brew. Can't tell you what's in it as I have been sworn to secrecy."

Daenys squeezed her eyes shut and gulped down the rest of the sweet-sour drink, gasping for breath once she put the vessel down. She had to admit that it made her feel slightly better, her stomach settling enough so that she didn't feel like throwing up her guts anymore.

"What?"

"You've got a little something."

"Where?"

Daenys hastily wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and Aemond shook his head at her, lips twitching in an attempt to suppress a smile. When she tried and failed once again, he knelt in front of her and leaned in closer, taking her chin in his hand. With his thumb, he gently wiped away the smudge at the edge of her lips, momentarily savouring the softness of her skin against his. When he pulled away, he gave her a playful grin and, without breaking eye contact, put his thumb in his mouth.

Daenys's cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and she avoided his gaze, her eyebrows furrowing in a slight frown. The moment she looked away, Aemond's smile dropped.

"My apologies...I didn't-" he interrupted himself with a sigh. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah, I'm alright," she mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

"Do you perhaps...have any recollections of last night," he watched her carefully, fingers itching to smooth away the wrinkles in her forehead.

"I-"

The words stuck in her throat as flashes of memories came back to her. The dancing, the excessive drinking, passing out in the hallway. Her nightmares returned in scraps too, not quite entire images but the memory of grief still echoed.

And then there was the kiss.

Oh gods, the kiss.

She jolted up, head slamming into Aemond's chin as he hovered above her. He let out a pained grunt and she mumbled a hasty apology as she darted out the door.

"Are you sure you're quite alright?" Aemond inquired, fingers working at his bruised jaw.

"Yes, I am perfectly fine. Thank you for uh...the drink I guess," she whisper-yelled behind her, and then she was gone.

________________

The hot Dornish sun beat down on the jousting field, casting long shadows across the grassy plain. The air was thick with anticipation as the sound of hoofbeats echoed across the jousting field. The arena was set up with a long, narrow strip of land, with raised wooden stands on either side. The stands were filled to the brim with spectators, their faces painted with excitement and curiosity as they cheered.

The nobility was seated in their domed royal stand, draped in flowing silks and jewels. They chattered animatedly amongst themselves, commenting on the current political affairs of the kingdom and gossiping about the latest scandals as they waited for the competitors of the tourney to ride out. In their midst sat Prince Qoren Martell with his three children. Cassandra Baratheon was seated right beside Coryanne Martell, and although the princess engaged her in entertaining conversation, her thoughts drifted toward the Velaryon princess whom she hadn't seen since the previous night. Cassandra regretted not seeing Daenys to her room despite her drunken state, and she wondered guiltily if her friend was alright. She had visited her chambers first thing this morning, only to find them empty and her bed neatly made as if no one had slept in it the night before. She had spent a better part of the morning looking for her but Daenys had left no traces. She was brought out of her thoughts by the raised voices that erupted from around her.

The trumpets sounded, and the competitors rode out onto the field one by one, dressed in their finest armour and livery. Their horses snorted and pawed at the ground, sensing the excitement of the crowd. The first to ride out was Lord Edgar himself, his helmet held in his right arm as he led his horse to stop right under Princess Aliandra's seat in the royal stand. He cut an imposing figure, with broad shoulders and chiselled features and his armour polished to a gleaming shine. First, he bowed low to pay his respects to Qoren Martell and then he turned toward his wife who preened under his attention.

"Princess Aliandra Martell, if I may be so bold as to ask for your favour?" he smiled up at her.

"I wish you the best of luck, my lord," Aliandra responded, tossing a crown of olive leaves down onto his lance.

"What need have I of luck, when I have the favour of the esteemed princess...who is also my beloved wife at that."

He put on his helmet and raised his lance in the air, saluting the crowd before urging his horse into a canter. Across from him was a young squire, fresh-faced and eager to prove himself. The two contestants met in the middle of the field, their lances shattering on impact. Lord Edgar emerged victorious, knocking the squire from his horse and sending him tumbling to the ground. Aliandra gave him a blinding grin for his triumph and he felt his heart swell for her as he flipped up his visor to return her smile.

Coryanne looked toward her sister and rolled her eyes before leaning in to whisper in Cassandra's ear, "Poor Lord Edgar, he is completely smitten by my sister's charms."

Cassandra laughed, "She seems equally smitten so good for them I suppose. I hope they remain this happy for the remainder of their days."

"I suppose so. Speaking of love matches, anyone here you find particularly charming Lady Cassandra? How about that young squire there, Alden Blackmont?"

"The kid who just got thrown off his horse?"

"Ah well, I do suppose his frame is quite childlike, isn't it? He was no match for Lord Edgar, poor sod. So do you find him to be any good?"

"Princess Coryanne, he looks to be as old as my younger sister!"

"Ha, it's just as well. Rumour has it that he was seen exiting the chambers of the eldest Lady Briar. Three nights in a row at that!"

"You really are a rumour mill aren't you?"

Coryanne threw back her head laughing and then winked at her companion, "When you get around as much as I do, trust me you learn quite a lot."

"I don't even want to know at this point."

"Oh but there's more. Now the lady only ever wears very loose-fitting gowns. I am convinced that she is hiding a swollen belly under there."

"It is excessively hot. Perhaps it is just for comfort," Cassandra reasoned.

"Perhaps..."

Lord Edgar had gone through several more opponents during their conversation and suddenly Cassandra felt someone grip her hand, making her look up to meet the older Dornish Princess's eyes.

"Does my husband not look dashing Lady Baratheon?"

"He really doesn't" Coryanne mumbled. "I am sure you could easily defeat him if you decide to participate in the archery round of the tournament."

"Hmm I should participate, shouldn't I...it would be quite fun to beat Edgar."

The jousting tournament was reaching its peak, and there was a new palpable excitement among the spectators. Cassandra followed their eyes and found them to be fixed on the entrance of Prince Aemond Targaryen. He rode in on a magnificent black stallion, his silver hair flowing out from under his helmet and Cassandra could feel his piercing gaze examining the empty seat next to her. Her heart sped up with worry then, because when her search for Daenys had become futile, she had foolishly hoped that she might have been with her husband. Not that the thought brought her any comfort, but at least her whereabouts would have been known. It sent a strange feeling through her chest, her heart clenching with something akin to despair. It was foolish really. Daenys was married. She had a husband.  A husband whom although she claimed to despise, was still drawn to her, if last night was any indication. He would win her back surely, Cassandra thought bitterly and then chastised herself. As the princess's friend, she knew that she should wish for her to be reunited with her husband and end the strife that divided her house, but Cassandra found herself desperately hoping that Daenys would never forgive him. That she would never go back to being his wife and living with him. He didn't deserve her, not after he had hurt her. Cassandra still remembered that strange stormy night when Daenys had shown up at her doorstep, bruises on her skin and in her heart. She remembered the promises she had made to her, of running away to Volantis and leaving behind all their responsibilities. In another world, she would have liked nothing more.

As he made his way to the center, Prince Aemond looked around for a glimpse of Daenys. A foolish part of him had hoped to receive her favour before he took his place on the field, but she was nowhere to be found. He supposed he should have been grateful for her absence, as it saved him from potential rejection. This morning had seemed pleasant enough before she rushed out the door with no explanation. He wondered if that meant that perhaps she might have given him her blessing for the tourney. His naive desire reminded him of his very first tourney when he was fifteen. Daenys and her family had made a surprise visit for Helaena's name day and he remembered the way his heart had soared when he spotted her face in the stand, her eyes shining with admiration. When he had approached her after the tournament, she had reached up to take the ribbon from her hair and tied it around his wrist. He had worn it for a week like a giddy child, although it was kept hidden under his sleeve, and still that blue ribbon resided in his drawer back home. He grew increasingly worried for her now; she was severely hungover only an hour or so ago and now she was not in attendance at the one event he expected her at with her companions.

He didn't have much time to dwell on his worries though, for he was soon called upon to joust against Lord Edgar, his most formidable adversary. Aemond readied his lance and took his position, his eye fixed firmly on his opponent. As the signal was given, they charged toward each other at breakneck speed. The sound of their lances colliding echoed through the arena, and the spectators held their breath as they watched the two men clash.

In the end, it was Prince Aemond Targaryen who emerged victorious, having knocked Lord Edgar from his horse with a well-placed blow. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause once again, and Aemond watched Lord Edgar brush himself off and send a smile toward his merry wife who blew a kiss at him in support. He felt a sudden pang of jealousy at that, a flash of longing for Daenys's presence, wanting to catch her eye and bask in her admiration of his success, admiration he knew he would likely never get.

A curious murmur went through the crowd at the arrival of the next competitor. A mysterious figure had appeared at the far end of the field, clad in black armour with no emblem to identify him. The figure sat astride a silver stallion, his face obscured by a dark visor and the herald made no move to announce his name or house of allegiance. He rode over to the royal stand and surveyed the ladies, almost all of whom had already given their favours away. The knight didn't speak but Cassandra felt his eyes on her and she hesitantly got up from her seat to lean over the railing and look down at him. When she saw the single violet one through the narrow slit in his visor, she almost laughed out loud.

"What in seven hells are you doing?" she mouthed.

The knight shrugged and raised his lance toward her, asking for her favour and she rolled her eyes. They would be having words later, but for now, she retrieved her wreath of flowers to give him. Coryanne wiggled her eyebrows at her as she did so, making her roll her eyes yet again.

"So, you do have a secret admirer after all!"

"I do not- it's not what you think," Cassandra protested.

"It is not what I think my dear Lady Baratheon, it is what I have just witnessed. You have a dashing admirer. You must speak to him after the tournament. Get to know him perhaps!"

Shit.

Cassandra's fists clenched. She had forgotten that her mysterious knight would have to actually joust, against Aemond Targaryen of all people.

As the knight rode to the end of the field, Aemond scrutinized his competition, looking for his weaknesses. His attention was drawn to the knight's armour. It seemed ill-fitting, almost as if it was borrowed or hastily put together. He frowned, noticing that the knight's movements were not as smooth and controlled as they should have been. Something about the way he held himself suggested that he was not as experienced or skilled as he pretended to be. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the horn, signalling the start of the joust. He spurred his horse forward, his eyes locked on the mysterious knight as they charged toward each other.

The impact was brutal, and Aemond felt a jolt of pain as his lance shattered against the knight's shield. He saw the knight wince in pain, but he remained seated on his horse and they each circled back with new lances. Aemond could see the knight struggling to keep his balance and he knew that victory was within his grasp. On his third hit, the knight was thrown off his horse to land facedown in the dirt. Aemond scanned the stands for his wife once more, hoping she had seen this victory at least. What he did not notice was the fallen knight's call for a sword to continue in a fight of arms. Aemond was impressed at the knight's determination, he didn't think he had it in him to get back up after that last blow.

As they clashed swords, Aemond couldn't help but notice the clumsiness of his opponent's movements. He was skilled with his weapon to be sure, but the armour seemed to be getting in his way and his left side was a clear weak spot as he made a constant effort to keep Aemond on his right. Aemond blocked each blow with relative ease, but it was clear that the knight was fighting with more emotion than skill, his blows coming down fast and angry and Aemond wondered if the knight had some personal grudge against him. As their fight continued, he couldn't help but notice that something about the way he moved seemed familiar. The way the foreign knight pulled back slightly before bringing down his sword, his feints and parries, and his intricate footwork. He just couldn't remember why they seemed familiar. He tried to catch the knight's eyes but the shadows were too deep and he could barely make out anything.

Still wanting to preserve his reputation as a warrior, Aemond pressed his advantage, raining blows down on the knight's shield with his sword. In a sudden burst of movement, the knight lurched forward, his sword slashing toward his exposed arm. Aemond managed to block the blow, but he hissed in pain as the blade cut into his armour. He lunged forward and swiped his sword under the knight's legs, knocking him on his back with a thud and pressing the tip of his sword to his throat, effectively ending the competition. A roar of approval rippled through the crowd and Aemond held out his hand to help the knight up, a hand that he completely ignored, pushing it away to haul himself up on his own. Aemond was ushered to Qoren Martell to receive the Prince's blessing and the knight was called for soon after.

"Prince Aemond Targaryen! I must say that I am impressed with your display of strength today."

"Thank you, Your Grace, it was an honour to participate," Aemond tipped his head toward the Prince and then toward Aliandra. "And congratulations on your marriage Princess."

Prince Qoren eyed the mystery knight curiously, "And will we finally learn the true identity of your competitor Prince Aemond?"

"I am afraid I haven't the slightest idea who he may be."

"Well go on then Ser whoever you are, reveal yourself."

The knight knelt in front of Prince Qoren and removed his helmet. A hushed murmur passed through all those in the royal stand and Coryanne Martell let out the most undignified snort.

"By the gods!"

Prince Qoren chuckled, "I thought your movements seemed familiar. I have seen Daemon Targaryen fight. You take after him."

"He taught me most of what I know, Your Grace," Daenys stayed on her knees until the Dornish Prince bade her to rise.

Daenys let her eye wander, taking in everyone's reaction with a bit of relish, enjoying the varying looks of disbelief and surprise. She avoided the gaze she felt boring into her side. It added to the already sweltering heat and she felt like she would cook inside her heavy armour.

Aemond Targaryen could hardly believe what he was seeing. He was hit with a surge of anger. She could have died. Tourneys were often dangerous affairs, and many contestants would not have been satisfied until they had drawn blood or killed their opponents. Then he felt guilt flood him; he had gone quite hard on her. There was a trickle of blood at her temple and she avoided putting weight on her right side where the point of his lance had hit her directly.

"As the winner of the jousting tournament, you have the privilege of crowning one of the lovely ladies the Queen of Love and Beauty, my prince," Aliandra's eyes twinkled mischievously as she handed Aemond a crown of bright orange blooms.

Without hesitation, Aemond stepped up to Daenys and placed the crown on her head. She had her head bent, examining the floor with great interest and when he pulled away from her, she just turned her head away. The crowd rejoiced at the conclusion of the event and began to disperse, Prince Qoren departing as well as Aliandra stood up to take Daenys's arm.

"Come princess, we simply must relieve you from the confines of your armour," she said, leading her away, Princess Coryanne and Lady Cassandra trailing behind them.

Aemond sighed and followed them too, wanting to have a moment alone to speak to Daenys. He stood in the doorway of her chambers watching as the handmaidens helped her out of her armour. The flower crown had been handed off to Lady Casandra who was seated on the bed and the Martell sisters were draped across the lounge chair chatting animatedly.

"I heard that Lady Aris and Lord Garth have entered a secret betrothal," Coryanne whispered in a hushed tone.

"Truly? That is impossible," Aliandra retorted. "Is Lord Garth not already publicly engaged to Lady Elayne? I heard he made a very elaborate proposal to her when he visited her two moons ago. They were all anyone could talk about for the longest time."

"That is what I heard."

"From who?"

"I am not one to reveal my informants dear sister."

"Lady Elayne should just leave Lord Garth then, if he has proven himself to be a disloyal ass," Daenys grumbled, massaging her sore arm. "Why put up with him or the rumours?"

"Perhaps she loves him?" Lady Cassandra interjected.

"Love is not enough Cassie."

"Oh hush Daenys! You cannot dissuade others from love. Our dear Lady Cassandra has her whole life ahead to explore the intricacies of emotion. Why, I was convinced her match had been made with our mystery knight," Coryanne smirked.

The room erupted with laughter.

"Oh yes, our mystery knight. Why-ever would you do such a thing Daenys, I was baffled when you came to me with your request?" Aliandra inquired, gesturing at the heap of discarded metal at Daenys's feet. "We were not even able to find you any armour that properly fit."

"You knew about this sister?"

"Of course I did. Who was I to deny our friend some fun."

"I was very worried when I could not find you all morning you know. I would prefer it if you did not partake in such dangerous activities," Cassandra pulled Daenys to sit down beside her and dabbed a wet cloth at the dried blood on her temple.

Daenys winced, "I shall remember to take your advice in the future."

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Aemond cleared his throat from the doorway and stepped forward, "May I speak with my wife?"

Daenys's face instantly soured, "I have nothing to say to you."

"Daenys, please."

She turned her gaze to her friends, pleading with them not to leave. Aliandra stood and dragged her sister out of the room, beckoning Cassandra as she did so.

She shot Aemond a wink, "We'll give you two some privacy."

As soon as the door closed behind them, Aemond crossed the room to where Daenys was sitting, "What the fuck Daenys?"

"Excuse me?" she met his gaze defiantly.

He stepped closer to her, his voice laced with anger. "Why did you do it? You could have died! I could have killed you!"

"You should have! It would be one less bastard to threaten your brother's rule would it not?"

"What is wrong with you? This morning you could barely stand on your own. What possessed you to do something so rash?"

She looked up at him with a stony expression, "I did it because I wanted to fight you. I wanted to hurt you."

"If your intention was to cause me pain, you have succeeded," Aemond's tone softened.

Daenys gestured toward the blood seeping out of his injured arm, "That is not nearly enough compared to what you deserve."

"That is not what I meant."

"You do not get to stand here and pretend that I am the one being cruel to you! That I am being unfair. You don't get to do that."

"I was worried about you. You left so suddenly this morning and then you were nowhere to be found. Do you have any idea how concerned I was?"

"I am not really any of your concern though am I?"

"Why were you here then? Why were you outside my chambers last night? Why did you kiss me?" his voice was tortured.

"I was drunk! You've spent enough time around Aegon, haven't you? You should know that drunk people are prone to doing stupid things that mean nothing. That's all it was. Perhaps it wasn't even you I thought I was kissing!"

Aemond felt like he had been slapped.

"I am trying, I am trying to make it right and you-," he broke off, feeling completely lost.

"That's not good enough," she snapped, her eye blazing with anger. "You cannot make up for it. Nothing you do will ever make up for it."

"I still love you," he blurted, his voice barely above a whisper. "No matter how much you despise me, and how many others you find to replace me, I will always love you."

"Clearly that's not enough either."

___________

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[motherfuckingmaneater]

How comfortable around the dark Lord is Bellatrix?

She’s lounging, looking like a tigress at ease in her den, sated on her latest kill, grey eyes fixed on her next. Only, he has never been prey. On the contrary this tigress submits to one persons will only. The outfit she has on is dangerously provocative, a long-line emerald green night gown cuffed with black Chimaera fur at its neck, wrists and hem which falls lazily around her slender, naked calves. It’s by his will that she’s where she is but he’s not paying her near enough attention to what she’d like. Still, Bellatrix can cope if only to be in his presence. 

“It’s handsome my Lord,” she says in her usual low purr, propping her chin on her palm, elbow resting on the bed as she relaxes on her side, long inky hair tumbling down her shoulders and back and onto the silk sheets beneath her, “but the emerald green suited you better.”

His brows are furrowed a touch as he scrutinises himself in the mirror. This new tailor is good enough, he is expensive and Lord Voldemort deserves nothing less than the best. He tailors for the Blacks exclusively, a French wizard with so much pomp and arrogance he’s surprised he’s not one of the Blacks himself if it weren’t for his blonde hair dyed cobalt blue, twisted moustache and raucous style. 

“Which?” He says as he turns back to her and the foot of the bed where multiple handsome cloaks are laid out. She rests a long finger on the top of the draping emerald green adorned with exquisitely crafted silver stitching forming the shapes of snakes enchanted to twine in rhythmic movement beside one another.

They’re sublime — but they’re too much for him. The Blacks are drawn to exuberance, fine stitching imbued with dark magic and protective enchantments which suit their distinct style of magic — stars, endless and ethereal. Lord Voldemort has created his own brand of dark magic and so none of these feel in tune of that. Bellatrix perhaps is the only one of the Blacks who feels familiar to him, whose magic is welcome. 

She yawns, a tigress ready to prowl, dragging long perfectly manicured claws through her hair, raking back tresses.

“Am I boring you, Madame Lestrange?” He asks without looking up at her and rather scrutinising the cloaks between them. 

“On the contrary my Lord, I'm merely impatient for you to take it all off again.” She quips back equally as dryly, though she smiles a little as she watches the corners of his mouth twitch up for a moment, suppressing his own amusement at her cuttingly flirtatious remark. She continues, pointing out with a raised brow, “but you have had me up since dawn.” He glances at the clock and hums quietly. It’s close to midnight. He makes a single movement of his hand and the cloaks are drawn from the end of the bed and suspended in the air, the lights of the room dimming until only four braziers remain lit, “get in bed.” She’s up in an instant not yet smug, not yet overly excited. She leans towards him from the end of the bed, palms pressing to the mattress on her hands and knees. He can feel lust radiate from her and it burns down his spine, her magic pulls him, forces him to turn back to her. As he paces closer quietly she looks between the cloaks suspended around him, gesturing to the emerald once more, “it really is the nicest.” “I’ll take your word for it.” He says quietly, fingers coming to her hair as heavily lidded dark grey eyes turn their gaze up to his scarred face. All cloaks save for the emerald are banished without so much as a gesture and she leans just a little into him, encouraging his grip to tighten in her tresses. She smells like dark magic; a sublime concoction of star dust, peony, venom and pine. He is intoxicated. He studies her face for a moment, she is a beauty; strong jaw, full lips, dark eyes, darker hair. Her hair is soft beneath his calloused, long fingers. He does not kiss her despite that he knows she wants him to, despite that he wants to. He clicks his tongue, “no need for more patience, hm?”

The cloak pools at his feet and buttons of his shirt come undone with magic as he releases her. She drinks him in even as he turns, tracing the scars across his body with memory in the dimness and shadows of the room. He can feel her glittering grey gaze, a combination of worshipful veneration and starving lustfulness dripping from her. The exuberance of cloaks is exchanged for a sleeping shirt he tosses to the bed. Bellatrix has settled — for now — eyes still hungry. 

“This one is your favourite, is it not?” He asks as he watches her. She touches the soft fabric beneath her fingers and pulls it closer. Bellatrix grins as she plucks it from him and nods. He watches with vague amusement, but amusement soon turns to surprise as she sheds what she’s wearing. He takes time to admire her, slender toned limbs and gentle curves, her gown pooled atop the thick duvet to guard from the cold winter nights. She pulls on his shirt and he almost scoffs, “I didn’t say you could wear that.”

She throws him a wicked grin over her shoulder, one which he catches in the candlelight and moonlight and which urges him closer as she climbs under the duvet - one which he can not help but be summoned by. His hands are reaching out for her and he follows as she draws back towards the pillows, “then come and take it off me, my Lord.” 

[punchdrunkdoc]

Chapter 15

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

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

Chapter 15

“Thank you, Counsellor,” the Judge said, after Matt finished speaking. “Prosecution, please call your first witness.”

Matt took his seat and blew out a breath. Foggy gave him a quick pat on the back. “Good job, buddy,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” Matt whispered back. The opening statement was done. His voice had held out, and he’d gotten his message across to the members of the jury. He’d sensed a reaction in some of their heartbeats as he’d described the terror Margaret had felt while in the grips of the drug, so he was hopeful a least a few jurors were open to his argument.

Calina’s angle - playing to their fear, instead of their empathy - had been the right call.

He breathed deeply, sorting past the various smells of the courtroom - the earthiness of the wood panelling, the oil from the bailiff’s gun, the too-strong aftershave of the prosecuting attorney - until he found the fragrance he was looking for.

Strawberries and sea salt.

Calina was here.

He’d picked up the scent the moment he’d walked into the room - she was somewhere at the back of the public gallery - and he hadn’t been able to stop the small smile that had formed at the realisation.  Foggy had noticed straight away. “You’re looking strangely optimistic,” he��d commented.

Matt had shrugged. “Maybe I feel good about this.”

Foggy had scrutinised him closer. “You look good, too. The zombie-ness has worn off a bit. Are you getting more sleep?”

“Yeah. Actually I am.”

Last night’s experiment - Calina reading to him - had worked better than expected. It hadn’t just helped him relax and clear his head for a while…it had put him straight to sleep.

A deep, restorative, dreamless sleep.

He’d woken as dawn had approached, still on the couch, feeling rested and refreshed, despite the slight crick in his neck.

And the unfamiliar weight against his shoulder.

It had been Calina, fast asleep, her head leaning against him. Loathe to disturb her so early, Matt had relaxed back into the couch. He could afford to take a few minutes, to enjoy the novelty of this feeling - unlike most mornings, he wasn’t waking in pain from a fight or a fall. He wasn’t still tired from a restless night of tossing and turning. He wasn’t shaking off the lingering grief from a dream about Elektra.

He felt…good. Content, even.

And it was all down to Calina.

For some reason he could sleep around her. Soundly. For hours at a time.

And she could sleep just as soundly around him, judging from her deep breaths and the slow, steady thrum of her heart. That soothing cadence - and the warmth radiating from her - was almost enough to lull him back to unconsciousness. He felt the urge to tip his head to rest it against hers, to breathe in the scent of her and feel the silkiness of her hair against his cheek…

But he needed to get up. He had to drop by the office to gather some more files, and he wanted to make sure he got to the courthouse early. He didn’t want to give Foggy any reason to doubt him today.

He started carefully shifting out from under Calina’s weight, trying not to wake her, but the movement stirred her anyway. She groaned as she straightened up, and the book she’d been reading from last night clattered to the floor. The sudden noise seemed to startle her fully awake. She glanced around the room in confusion before seeing him next to her. “I fell asleep again, didn’t I?” she moaned, covering her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

She jumped to her feet and straightened her clothes. “Your apartment must have soporific powers, or something,” she joked, her voice shaky.

“I thought that was you,” he replied.

“Hmm?” she asked, collecting her book from the floor.

“I’ve had more sleep in the last few days than the last couple of weeks combined, thanks to you.”

She paused as she gathered her bag. “I don’t know whether to feel pleased about that or insulted.”

“Insulted?”

“If I keep putting you to sleep, I must be really boring company.”

Matt laughed, getting to his feet. “Not at all.” He stretched his arms above his head, the joints of his back cracking loudly in the quiet room.

“Ouch,” she winced. “I’m sorry again. You really needed a night in a proper bed before your big trial-”

He grabbed her hand, wanting to put a stop to her self-recrimination. “I needed rest. And you helped me get it. Please stop apologising. I meant it when I thanked you just now.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I should thank you too. I seem to sleep better here than in my own apartment.”

They stood there, hands clasped, as the unspoken admission - that they only seemed to get a good night’s sleep in each others’ presence - hung between them. Neither of them wanted to comment on the strangeness of that fact.

Or what it might symbolise.

“I- I’ll let you get ready,” she said, breaking the spell of the moment. She pulled away from him and headed for the exit. “Bye, Matthew.”

“‘Matt’. Call me ‘Matt’,” he replied, in what was becoming a familiar refrain.

This time she definitely heard him. She paused at the door - just a fraction of a second between one footfall and the next - but said nothing as she opened it and walked away.

———

Calina slipped out of the courtroom as recess was called for lunch. Coming here this morning had been a spur of the moment impulse. She’d heard Matthew’s opening statement a dozen times over the last few days as he'd rehearsed and refined it - to the point where she could have given the speech herself.  But she’d wanted to see him in action in court, and to offer some silent moral support.

So she’d battled the rush hour horde of commuters and arrived at the courthouse just as the other members of the public were filing into the gallery. It had been worth the effort.  Matthew was so different here. He held authority in this room, and confidence radiated from him.

It was fascinating to watch.

He held his audience in the palm of his hand. They chuckled when he made a self-deprecating blind joke as he got to his feet, putting them all at ease. Their eyes were fixed on him as he gave his impassioned defence. And she could see more than one person react as he asked them to imagine themselves in his client’s position.

His speech was working.  And she felt more than a hint of pride at the small role she'd played in shaping it.

It had been unexpectedly fun, to help Matthew with his work. And surprisingly easy, to imagine the best way to convince a jury of the truth. But it really shouldn’t have been a surprise. It was just another form of manipulation, after all. It was something she’d been taught all her life - how to find the right words and the right arguments to make someone do what she needed them to.

At least now she was putting those skills to use for a good cause - for a woman who'd been forced into violence against her wishes and without her control. It was another reason why it had been so easy to help craft Matthew’s speech - she didn't need any help empathising with Margaret Posen.

“Calina!”

She turned as a familiar voice called out her name. Matthew strode towards her, a smile on his face. Behind him she could see Foggy and a tall blonde woman. The woman frowned and said something to Foggy, but Calina was too far away to hear it.

“Hi,” Matthew said, reaching her.

“Hi,” she replied. “How did you know I was here?”

“Oh, Foggy saw you as you were leaving, and he let me know.”

Calina wondered if that was the truth. Or if his senses had detected her hiding at the back of the crowded courtroom. Were they that finely tuned?

“I hope you didn’t mind,” Calina said. “Me being here, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m glad actually. I wanted to thank you again for your what you did over the weekend - looking after me, helping with the case. It meant a lot.”

She ducked her head, uncertain how to react in the face of so much gratitude. Especially when her actions hadn’t been entirely altruistic. She’d wanted to spend time with him. Talk with him, eat with him, sit with him in comfortable silence…

And she’d loved every second of it. Despite her reservations about being close to him. And despite the awkwardness of waking up in his apartment after falling asleep.

Twice!

She couldn’t understand it. She’d been trained to always be alert. To be aware of her surroundings at all times. Falling sound asleep in a relative stranger’s home for hours at a time just wasn’t like her.

She could blame it on exhaustion - maybe after so many restless nights, she’d hit a threshold of lethargy, and was liable to fall asleep anywhere now.  But deep down she suspected there was another explanation.

She trusted Matthew.

She knew him to be a good man, with a good heart.

And she felt safe with him.

Perhaps that was at the root of her insomnia. Beneath the nightmares, and the way her brain played out her sins on a loop…maybe she felt unsafe. It would make sense - she was so far from her sisters and the only life she’d ever known. She was out on her own in the world, with no one watching her back. No one to stand guard while she let herself sink into unconsciousness.

No one…except for him.

Matthew knew how to fight. He was better at it than almost anyone she’d ever known. He was a man that could handle anything and anyone that might come at him. Which on some subconscious level must make her feel safe. Safe enough to close her eyes and rest.

“I just wanted you to know that,” he continued. “In case I don’t see you much this week. The case is going to keep me occupied all hours of the day and night.”

“I understand,” she said.

“But I have some free time now. Do you want to get lunch with us?” he asked, gesturing behind him to his two colleagues. Foggy noticed the action and gave her a small wave. She waved back. The blonde woman just stared at her with cooly assessing eyes.

“Thanks for the offer, but no, I can’t today. I have a class starting in twenty minutes.”

“Dance?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, enjoy. And thank you, again. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Matthew.”

He tilted his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “Are you ever going to call me ‘Matt’?”

Yes, she wanted to say. If I no longer have to lie to you. If you ever discover who I really am. If you still want to be my friend, after all that…then I’ll have earned the right to call you that.

“Maybe one day,” she replied instead.

———

Calina studied her outfit in the full length mirror.

The sequinned dress was fun, and it flattered her figure. It was a tank-style silhouette - sleeveless, with a racer back - and it draped loosely over her willowy frame. She didn’t suit tight fitting dresses - she’d never had the curves for them to cling to - but she suited mini dresses like this one, the hemline showing off her long, shapely legs. Which appeared even longer, in the four-inch stiletto heels she had on her feet.

But something about the look wasn’t working.

She twisted in front of the mirror, trying to work out what was wrong. The woman in the department store had assured her that the outfit was suitable for going to a nightclub, but it just didn’t feel right.

She felt too…styled. Too prissy.

Too much like a ballerina.

She stared at the tight bun that she’d scraped her hair into. That was definitely giving off ballerina vibes, but the shop assistant had recommended the style, saying it would emphasise her cheekbones and her long neck.

It did…but she didn’t feel like herself.

Calina smiled at the realisation. She was starting to know her own style. Not only what suited her, but what she felt comfortable in. And what impression she wanted to give the rest of the world. She was learning that clothes could be an expression of who you were inside…

And this wasn’t who she was.

Not anymore.

She wasn’t the cold, aloof ballerina with perfect posture. She was a street dancer now.

Calina grinned as she kicked off her heels and shoved on her white converse high tops instead. Then she shook out her hair and pulled it back in a messy ponytail.

The woman in the mirror grinned back at her.

This felt right. This was her.

She looked young, and carefree and ready to have fun - three things she had never felt before. Her smile widened.

She checked the time on her phone - 7:20. It was almost time to go. Her heart started fluttering with anticipation. She was going out. On a Friday night. Clubbing. With a friend!

The invitation had come after dance class on Tuesday. Michelle had started attending the sessions around the same time as Calina. They had been the two novices amongst the more experienced regulars and had gravitated towards each other in the lineup. They shared rueful smiles when they messed up the choreography, and thumbs up when they mastered a difficult step. Occasionally, Michelle would chat with Calina as they cooled down, and twice now they’d walked part of the way home together.

She was a 25-year old grad student, studying anthropology, and she lived with two roommates. Her boyfriend had recently dumped her, and she was online dating and ‘rebounding all over Manhattan’, as she’d put it. She was chatty and outgoing, and didn’t seem to mind when Calina barely shared anything of her own life.

But despite all that, Calina hadn’t really considered they were becoming friends. Until earlier this week when Michelle had cornered her after class. “Are you busy this Friday?”

“No,” Calina has said. “Why?”

“It’s my birthday, and a bunch of us are hitting the town. Do you wanna come?”

Calina must have looked as taken aback as she felt, because Michelle rushed to reassure her. “No pressure! It’ll just be a quick dinner then dancing - it’ll be a chance to show off our newly acquired skills.” She offered her phone, the screen open on a blank contacts page. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the details.”

Calina had, and the text had come through half an hour later with a time and place and an opt-out clause:  ‘If you can make it, great! If not, no worries.’

‘I’ll try to make it’ had been Calina’s reply. She’d wanted the option of backing out, in case she lost her nerve. But as the week crept on, she found herself looking forward to the idea of going out on the town. Especially since her late night stalking of Daredevil seemed to be on hold while Matthew was busy with his trial.

True to his word, she hadn’t seen him much over the past few days. Except for this morning, when they’d shared the elevator down to the lobby. He was on his way to court, she was heading out for her morning run.

“How are you feeling?” she’d asked.

“Much better, thank you.”

He didn’t look it. The congestion in his voice was gone, but he seemed tired and run down. She wanted to ask if he was sleeping, but that seemed like such a personal question.

He had none of the same reservations. “And you? Are you sleeping okay?”

She’d shrugged. “Same as usual. How’s the trial going?”

“Nice change of subject,” he replied with a smile. “It’s going well, actually. Foggy’s giving the closing arguments today, then we’ll probably get a verdict next week.”

“Good luck,” she wished him as they walked down the steps of the apartment building and onto the street. They should have parted ways there and then, but they both...lingered. Calina made the excuse of stretching out her arms, and Matthew slowly opened up his cane, as if he too was stalling for time. He played with the stick for a few moments, twirling it between his fingers, and her eyes were drawn to his hands. His lovely, strong, graceful hands...

"Are you okay," Matthew asked.

Realising her breath had quickened - and that Matthew had picked up on it - Calina stammered out a reply. "I'm fine. I-I'll see you later." Then she took off running.

Literally.

Thinking back on the encounter, Calina blushed in embarrassment again. Then debated if she should bring Matthew lunch tomorrow, just like she had last weekend. Given how hard he’d been working, his fridge was probably woefully understocked again.

She wondered where this urge to take care of him came from. And was it just restricted to him - the vigilante-lawyer who worked all hours of the day and night to help the people of this city, but too often neglected himself?

Or would she feel this caring instinct towards any neighbour in need?

Was she a mother hen, just as Yelena had joked?

She shook her head. Those were thoughts for another time. Tonight she had somewhere to be.

She smiled as she gathered her purse. Then paused, eyeing up the bright red coat in her closet. The one she'd bought on a whim months ago but had never quite had the nerve to wear. It felt too...daring. Too conspicuous for someone trying to live an inconspicuous life. But judging from the cold breeze wafting through her bedroom, the temperature had dropped again tonight. She’d pushed the window wide open earlier to let out the steam from her shower, and now a chill was spreading through the room.

She should wear a coat.

She should wear that coat.

It was time to live the life she wanted, on her terms. And if that meant being visible in a show-stopping red coat, that's what she would do.

Calina slipped the garment of its hanger and slung it over her arm. Then she grabbed the top of the heavy sash frame of the window and started to shove it down...only to cry out in shock at the sudden sharp pain just below her rib cage.

She jerked back and glanced down. A metal tranquilliser dart was embedded in her abdomen.

She quickly yanked it out, but it was too late.

The world went hazy…then dark…

And she collapsed to the floor.

———

Her mind was sinking.

She could feel consciousness rising - the sounds of the street outside getting louder, the feel of the bed beneath her back more tangible - but at the same time, her mind was slipping away from her.

Falling down, down, down…disappearing, like a stone dropped into a dark well.

She knew this feeling. She recognised it.

They were taking her mind away again.

It would recede from her body until she was nothing more than a bystander in her own body.

Controlled by outside forces.

Compelled to do their bidding.

Calina's heart started racing at the thought, and the adrenaline surge burned off the last of the tranquilliser. She was fully awake now. She could feel the sharp edges of the zip tie that bound her right arm to the metal frame of her bed. She could feel the pinch of the cannula in her left elbow where the serum had invaded her body. 

She could hear the steps of the man pacing the floor of her bedroom.

“We’re almost done,” he said, his english heavily accented. “Another five minutes and the neural uplink will be complete.”

She slitted her eyes open. He had his back to her, a tablet in his hands and a bluetooth speaker in his ear. “Yes, that’s right,” he said to the person on the other end of the phone call. ”I’ll be able to monitor her responses, but yours is the only tablet with executive function, as we agreed. You’ll be the only one in control.” He tapped on the screen as he continued the conversation.

She tuned him out. Tried to calm her pounding heart as she worked through her options.

Five minutes.

Just five minutes until she disappeared.

Until she became nothing but a weapon, programmed to hurt.

To kill.

Just five minutes.

She had to make them count.

“Nice doing business with you,” the man bit out, ending the call. “Mudak,” he spat, cursing the other party in Russian. He tossed the tablet onto the bed by her feet and turned towards her.

She took her chance.

She whipped both legs up and hooked her feet around the back of his neck, jerking him closer until he stumbled against the side of the bed. She readjusted her hold, wrapping her thighs around his neck and clamping them tight.

Then she squeezed with every last drop of strength that she had.

He struggled against her grip, trying to pull away. Her back left the mattress, the only thing keeping her in place the hand that was bound to the frame.  She ignored the bite of pain as the plastic tie dug into her wrist. She ignored the ache as he pummelled his fists against her thighs. She ignored the sight of his eyes bulging as he struggled for breath...

And she ignored the nauseating guilt pervading her body as she took his life.

Her world narrowed to the horrible feel of his thick fleshy neck between her legs and the clench of her muscles as she compressed his airway.

After what felt like hours - but was barely two minutes - he went slack, his blood shot eyes now sightless. She released her hold and he collapsed to the floor, his head colliding with the hardwood floor with a sickening thud.

She didn’t spare him a second glance.

She brought her right arm down in a sudden, sharp movement, breaking the tie. She tore the cannula out of her arm, grabbed the man’s tablet, and the phone stashed in her beside drawer and raced for the front door.

———

Matt was feeling good.

He always got a buzz from trying cases in court.  He enjoyed the chess-like strategy of anticipating his opponent’s tactics, and the art of trying to charm a jury. He loved delivering arguments to a hushed room, and the skill of distilling weeks of research and evidence into an eloquent line of questioning that would persuade 12 people of the truth.

And, of course, he loved the thrill - and sheer relief - that came with those two words: Not guilty. He just hoped he’d done enough to get Margaret Posen that verdict.

But it was out of his hands now. The prosecution had rested their case, Foggy had given a killer closing statement, and now it was up to the jury to decide.

Which meant he was free to resume his other duties. His cold symptoms had disappeared, and he didn’t have to work late strategising with Foggy or get up early tomorrow morning for court.

Matt Murdock’s obligations were over…now it was Daredevil’s turn.

The lawyer had tried Margaret's case in court...now the vigilante needed to find the source of the drug that had led to her arrest.

He’d just pulled his tie free of his collar and loosened the first few buttons of his shirt, when a frenzied banging sounded at his front door. Frowning, he moved towards the hallway, stretching his senses out.

He felt panic. Desperation.

Abject terror.

And it was coming from Calina.

“Matthew!” she yelled, continuing to pound with her fists. “Please! Matthew!”

He was at the door in an instant, yanking it open.

“Thank God,” she sobbed, stumbling into his apartment. She slammed the the door closed and rushed passed him into the living room. “You need to help me,” she said, gulping for breath. Her voice was frantic and her heart was hammering in her chest. “You need to stop me.”

He grabbed her arms to steady her. He could smell a faint tang of medicine in her blood, and a strange metallic scent clung to her. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

She dropped something to the floor and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, as if to anchor herself. “I’m not going to be me. And they’ll make me do things.” Her words tripped over each other, the meaning lost. “Horrible things. And I don’t want to. I can’t go through that again.” She started to hyperventilate, and the grip on his shirt tightened.

“Calina,” he called, rubbing her arms, trying to get her to calm down. “Callie! Just breathe!”

She took a couple of deep breaths. "That's it," he murmured. "Now, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Th- there's no time.” She thrust something at him, and he grabbed it on instinct. It was an old fashioned flip phone, the kind often used as burner devices. “Call Yelena,” she explained. “Speed dial 1. Tell her to come with the counteragent.”

“Calina, I don’t understand-”

“I know. And I’m so sorry - for all of this. But I need you to stop me. Don’t let me leave this apartment. Please.”

“I won’t-”

“Promise me!”

“I promise.”

“You need to do whatever it takes, Matthew. Do you understand? Whatever it takes, you need to stop me. I need Daredevil to stop me.”

------

CHAPTER 16

Taglist: @hollandorks, @yanna-banana, @stilldreaming666, @tearosearts-blog

If you’d like to be added, let me know!

[myfairstarlight]

Tearful Angel Scars

AO3 Link.

Rated: G

Length: 1.2k

Canon compliant: Missing scene / Hurt/Comfort / Post-Scene: s2e2 Job minisode.

⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He doesn’t recognise the sounds at first, so foreign coming from a celestial being made of love and everything good She has ever created. After all, Crawly had witnessed the holiest of angels have their wings turn to a dusty grey at the smallest hints of doubts or anger in their souls before they were cast down into the sulphur pits of Hell.

But Aziraphale is crying and the angel doesn’t even seem to realise himself.

“Angel, you’re crying,” Crawly states, perhaps a bit dumbly, because he does not move from his spot and watches from a safe distance instead as the angel startles, idle hands immediately reaching for his cheeks.

Aziraphale chuckles wetly, half-heartedly wiping away the tears with the back of his hands. “I apologise, they just don’t seem to want to stop now. I’ve been so good at holding them back before…”

Crawly frowns at the statement. “Should I…?”

“Not to worry, it will stop eventually. Let us just enjoy the sunset.”

Several moments pass. The tears still refuse to stop pouring and Crawly can feel his corporation itch to move slightly closer.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale laments, promptly hiding his face again and radiating such confusion and fear that even Crawly’s demonic soul shudders at the stench the feelings exhume into the air. “I'm fine.”

“You're lying, angel.”

“Well, I can get better at it the more I do it, then,” the angel huffs, trying his best to look pompous but failing miserably.

Crawly groans — it is only for the facade because inside, he can feel his soul break at the sight before him. Carefully, he stands up and lets his feet drag onto the sandy dirt as he walks towards the angel, leaving him all the time needed to distance himself if desired. Instead, Aziraphale stays put although he doesn’t even look up.

“Here,” the demon says as he kneels down and through a demonic miracle, a piece of dark cloth appears in his hand that he presents to the angel.

“I cannot—”

“Shut up, angel,” Crawly sighs and with his free hand, he gently grabs Aziraphale’s chin and starts wiping his tears with the cloth. The angel’s breath hitches and almost at once the tears finally stop pouring.

Silence envelops them once more. Aziraphale’s eyes are looking anywhere but at him. At the same time, Crawly feels quite grateful for the shades currently hiding his gaze for it cannot be taken away from the angel’s gentle star-shaped freckles spread across his cheeks and nose. Nebula dust still clings to his eyelashes and Crawly’s heart aches as a distant memory fights to resurface in clear images.

“You’ll be alright,” the demon says, breaking the silence when he’s wiped away the last tear, “crying doesn’t suit you.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

Crawly just looks at him and their eyes meet in a first silent conversation of many more that will come over the thousands of years. And then, Aziraphale smiles and suddenly Crawly finds himself pulled into warm angelic arms.

The demon squawks, out of instinct. “You’re suffocating me—”

“Shut up, silly serpent.”

And so he does and breathes in the smell of sunshine and sea salt upon the angel’s skin as Crawley’s face finds shelter in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. To his own surprise, his body relaxes against the tension he hadn’t even realised he was fighting, and he melts right into his angel.

His angel. What an odd thought.

Ah. He needed the comfort too, he realises, as he breathes in and feels Aziraphale squeeze him ever so closer. Slowly, he brings his arms to hold Aziraphale back, fingers clinging to the soft fabric of his robe. A part of him feels like it is suddenly burning, but the gentle, warm and comforting kind of burn, like bathing in the midday sunlight and waking to the quiet sunset.

It almost makes him go back on his own words, that selfish part of him wanting to cling on and bring this angel with him to Hell so he can never stop feeling this warm and lo—

He snaps out of it at once, pulling back abruptly and upon the look of utter disappointment and hurt Aziraphale gives him, Crawly awkwardly coughs and pretends to be looking around while he urgently makes his way back to the other rock he was previously sitting on.

“You’ll be alright as well, dear,” Aziraphale says eventually and he sounds so sincere, Crawly almost believes it. “We’ll be alright. I hope.”

We. Crawly could not dare to even think about it. This angel… this naive, surprising, stupid but oh so lovely angel, who looks at him with no fear or disgust but utter trust and devotion. Who just went out of his way to disobey God directly, having full faith that Crawly wouldn’t have killed either goats or children instead.

The demon wonders how he could have ever doubted him, back during the Flood. The fussy angel who just sat back and obediently followed orders was so unworthy of, so unlike the angel who gave away his divine flaming sword so two humans could be comfortable. Perhaps something else must have happened back then that made Aziraphale so compliant, Crawly muses and now he feels slightly guilty for being so quick to judge.

(That was Her thing, to judge unfairly.)

“Now, how do I know if you’re not lying?” Crawley teases, or at least he hopes his tone doesn’t sound accusatory, and fortunately Aziraphale chuckles lightly.

“I guess you will have to trust me, as I do you.”

The demon almost smiles. “Trust you.” Demons don’t trust, it’s in their nature.

It turns out, just as Aziraphale isn’t a typical angel who shouldn’t be able to even be able to express sorrow or regret, Crawley isn’t a typical demon either.

Suddenly, a flock of crows fly over their heads. Both angel and demon look up, the latter wondering if he forgot to turn some of the goats back into, well, goats, when one of the crows seems to falter, wings failing it as it falls. Aziraphale gasps and, with no hesitation, leaps forward with his own wings sprouting out of his back so he can catch the poor animal. Then, gently, carefully, Aziraphale sits back down on their shared rock, soothing the poor creature.

“There there, dear, I will heal you, don’t worry.”

As he watches the angel’s delicate fingers caress the damaged feathers of the crow now happily curled up in his lap, Crawly ponders some more, eyes lost in the sight before him.

He’s been thinking of changing his name for a while. Crowley may have a nice ring to it, he decides and hides his smile behind his palm. Yes. He’ll tell the angel next time they cross paths, for now, he’s quite content just sitting in silence and admiring the glorious setting sun shining just behind the angel’s head, brighter than an actual halo.

Ah, quite a lovely sight. Crowley secretly hopes he will get to gaze at it for eternity. He does not voice the wish out loud, nor will he ever.

(Later, Crowley will rub his hands as he finds odd patterns all around them, lightening the skin yet emanating not even an ounce of pain. Scars born out of angel tears, he would guess and marvel at the flickers of gold etched into his skin. His colleagues will assume he confronted an angel who was brought to tears and won a glorious battle. He will not deny nor will he confirm. His toughest battles would be of another kind altogether, but involving the same angel anyhow and tears. Many, many tears.)

[fair-night-starry-tears]

Since “I’ve got strings to control” won! Allow for the best context! I had chatted with @adrianasunderworld about Penne and how she’s supposedly friends with her town “riff raffs” and how she is always belittled for her “naive and innocent” behavior. So. Let’s just say, the little girl is all grown and became the exact opposite she was looked and seen to be.

- Penne is much rn 18 years old and joining the Twst blue fairies guidance (meaning she would be like them)

- there will be exactly genuine violence but also justified karma

- this is also kinda the future of Penne.

- main and many inspirations was Lydia the hard song of villain Belle (which will radiate Penne in a way)

——————————————————————————

It was all so very simple, a cute and fun polite little girl. Destined to be humanity epitome of hope. Their guidance of light. But. What happens if they stained her view. What happens when they push that little girl, into a fearless mage? Well… they have certainly a new leader to obey… and to not disappoint her.

——————————————————————————

Today was a very special day, Penne Striae, a once happy cheerful little girl. Now dawn a new look. Wearing a dark violet dress, her hair grown to her waist though her partner, her true heart beloved, Ludder styled her hair so beautifully. She was doing herself some final touches. As today was her blue fairy ceremony. She was taught everything to become the new guidance, a new symbol for the better hope. The ginger spoke, as he finished styling his dear love hair. “There. I think you’re ready.” He spoke. Smiling so calmly to the girl, as he peck her cheek. Making Penne cheek fluster a blush. As Penne calmly smiled to her reflection. “I believe I am.” She said. As the duo head out, standing outside were the girl parents and her guardian of conscience. They were all ready for Penne coronation. As well as the town, as Penne and her family and friends walk to the center. Where the two main holders as the title “Blue Fairy” stand. Holding a violet star wand. For their newest recruit. Everyone was cheering her name, all were praising and were shouting songs of her commitment. But…. She still keep the rage that burns in her heart. As she must keep the act up.

All the time….. so many times she was berated. Scarred. Fighting for her dear friends. And feel helpless. Because no one. No One. Came to save her from her true troubled life. So many times she was told “advice” and “truth” her life will crumble with the lowlifes. Many times she must stay pure and innocent. So much pain. And it felt like, her childhood was miserable from the day she was let out to school. Everyone was the monster. She was the victim. Her family. Her friends. They are victims. And it’s about time. She return the favor. She waits so patiently, for the time to await her certified justice.

Biding her time. As the girl completely zone herself, as her father lightly tap her cheek. They have arrived. Being lost in mind do pass time, it was a gentle small stage, but those few steps up the tiny stairs made Penne see something in her wisest guardians eyes. They know her true intention. Why she accepted their request to join them so easily. Revenge. A neutral taste of it. The twin began to speak, saying simple light hearted praises. How they believe Penne, was the exact design of a perfect human. One who can learn, one who is wise to cast harsh judgement, and they know. She will do great things for them. They bestow the girl her very own wand. It was a beautiful sight. Glistening with glitter and sparkles, Dawn with ivory vines, as the stick itself was a soft violet and the star glow a beautiful light of purple. And that glint in her eyes shone. Now….

Through the roars of the applause, Penne held a hand high. Pursing her lips with her index finger. Silencing the crowd. “Thank you, thank you. I couldn’t get here with my dear family. My sweet papa and wise mama. My friends. Fellow, Giddel, and Sheldon. And my dear…. Ludder.” She smiled. “Though. As my first job. I need two special guests.” she said. Glancing to the crowd, and her eyes widen with the brightest glint of … madness. There was the two. She wave her wand, and summoned two grown men. A tall man, with tan tone skin and dark raven hair with matching eyes. And the other, an tall older fellow. Who hair was dark brown but the strands of grey were in place, with bright green blue eyes and the warmest “smile”. “I believe you two deserve this first.” But Penne smile was not that of an innocent one. No. It was malicious and prideful. She turned the man with the dark raven hair. Into a wooden puppet. Ceasing all chances to move and be a man. “You always wanted the best puppet for your shows….. now you’re it.” She laughed. And she looked at the man, dawning a red coat. “And you….” She said. Her face was serious. But a grin creep in on her face. “You deserve the worse….. you filth.” And waved her wand. Fast before the man could respond. And the man, stood standing up. Lunging position. As a golden statue. Penne laughed wholeheartedly, “ooh my!!! Look at them! Aren’t they soooo happy?!” She giggled and jeered. She faces the crowd. “I am going to have lots and lots of fun….. good luck.” As the crowd was now silent and muttering in fear. Where is their angel of hope? Where is she? They only saw.

An Angel of chaos.

——————————————————————————

PENNE MINI VILLAINESS/REVENGE ARC IS REAL

@adrianasunderworld @mangacupcake @writing-heiress @the-weirdos-mind @skboba-stars @nproduction626 @rose-tea-and-strawberries @anxious-twisted-vampire @luxstring @yukii0nna

[sound-of-the-cosmos]

𝕎𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕡 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕥 𝕨/ 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥 #𝟛

TW: talking about Suicide and self harm, implications of abuse.

I'm sure if you're looking into whump as a whole, this sort of thing isn't unusual-- however, if you aren't in the headspace for this sort of thing, stay in tune for the next post <3

Take care of yourselves <3

-Sage

It has been about a year since Whumpee has been rescued. Caretaker was kind, supportive-- everything they needed to start to heal.

What Caretaker couldn't see, however, was how the trauma wasn't much better. Dehumanization and breaking one's sense of self down isn't something a year can fix. Physical injuries heal. Mental injuries take much, much longer.

After stepping out of the shower, Whumpee avoids their reflection. Their form was still filthy, and they didn't deserve to shower. Nonetheless, their eyes drifted to the mirror. The scars scattered about their small frame made them cringe. However, their gaze locked onto the brand of Whumper's name. Tears pricked at their eyes, before they turned away, wrapping themselves in a towel. Hide it. Get rid of it. If you can't see it, it isn't there.

Even so, Caretaker was kind enough to help them start a schedule to do it. They were kind, considerate, but they didn't deserve it.

They could see the pain in Caretaker's eyes when they responded with "Sir/Ma'am" out of instinct, then cowering back out of fear as they knew it was wrong. The strain in their voice as they talked them out of a flashback.

No matter how kind their Caretaker was, Whumper's words whispered in the back of their mind.

"Does it kill you, knowing you can't do a damn thing to stop any of this?"

"You were always too soft. Really, you should thank me for helping you to fix it."

“I didn’t make you this pathetic mess of a creature, you were just born that way.”

“You’re a waste of air.”

"No one will ever want you."

“You’re useless.”

Fighting the burning in their eyes, Whumpee pulled the towel around themselves tightly. Whumper was right. They were useless. Worthless. Too soft before all this happened. Pathetic. A waste of space. Warmth trickled down their cheeks, tears dripping onto their legs.

Scars littered them, too. It wouldn't take much to reopen them, would it? Take care of Caretakers problems? After all, they were just a thing to take care of. Not even human anymore. A creature. Nothing.

There was a shaving razor on the edge of the tub. Reaching out with a shaky hand, they bit their lip. Their vision was blurred with tears. Just a few, deep cuts, and it would all be over.

A knock resounded on the door. "Whumpee? Are you ok??"

Their body jolted, and they dropped the razor. Grabbing at their hair, they curled in on themselves. "I'm sorry, I-" Their voice hitched. Pulling at the towel, at their hair, at their own skin, just to become as small as possible. The door opened, and they shrank in even farther.

"Whumpee.." Concern radiated from the Caretaker's tone, but it morphed into the Whumpers.

"Whumpee, whumpee, whumpee... How many times have I told you, this doesn't save you from anything?"

A hand placed on their shoulder made them jolt once more. "I'm sorry, I'll be good, I promise, I wasn't-- I won't--" Hiccupping, their world shifted. The dank, mouldy basement of the whumpees facility wafted into their nose. The shackles biting into their limbs.

"..pee? Whumpee, please, look at me--" A gentle hand on their chin bringing their gaze up stopped them in their place. Caretaker was here. Really here. They didn't deserve them, but yet... they were still with them. Tears blurred the whumpee's vision, but they could feel the Caretaker's tears too.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't get to you sooner... I know you're still struggling, and I'm so proud of you-- you've made it so far, and it's ok to step back a little," They sniffed, and began to hug the whumpee, ensuring they didn't seem uncomfortable before doing so.

"It's ok. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. You're safe here. I'll be damned if I let anyone even so much as look at you in the wrong way ever again." They pulled back, cupping whumpee's cheeks in their hands. They carefully wiped away one of the tears, and gave a somber, yet genuine smile.

"I promise. I'm here, and I won't leave you. Anytime you need anything, I'll be right there. When things get tough, I'll be by your side. All I need is for you to let me, when you're ready." The Whumpee finally broke down into a sobbing mess, holding onto the Caretaker.

Maybe Whumper was wrong?

Maybe things would be ok after all.

Only time would tell.

[wintersandthebeast]

28. Horizon

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Link to Master List

The sky threatened more rain during lunch, but the grey clouds didn’t make good on the promise.  Karl was absent from the table while everyone else ate together, and it only took a pointed look and thumbing motion from Maricara for Ethan to know the engineer had left on the front of the house, where the trail led to the once-factory overlook.  The once-everything overlook, really.  

Ethan walked with his hands in his pockets, eyeing the windy horizon suspiciously, but he found Karl sitting on a rock staring down into the canyon with something in his hand.  As the blond approached he saw that it was the Heisenberg factory key.  Karl was rubbing his thumb over the metal, his glasses on his face, his eyes hidden.  

He didn’t move when Ethan took a seat beside him on another jagged rock.  Winters stretched his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, and put his hands back into his pockets.  He glanced from Heisenberg, down to the spot where the factory had once been.  Parts of the bridge into the village still stood, and beyond them a rainy fog obscured what was left.  

Most of Chris’s explosives had been planted at the factory.  Ethan left it unsaid that even Chris’s notes couldn’t find a link to the factory and Miranda’s work, but both men had been in agreement--the cavern of horrors needed to go.  Ethan almost felt remorse, seeing the way that Heisenberg looked over the area while holding the key.  Even though he couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he could feel the radiating sadness.  

When it became clear that normally talkative Karl had nothing to say, Ethan removed his hands from his pockets, crossed his arms, and sighed heavily.  “She…Miranda.  Pretended to be you in a dream.  I thought it was you.” 

Karl’s head turned slowly.  He said nothing still.  

“She was uh…trying to be physical.  With me.”  Ethan’s face was a light shade of green, and now Karl’s head snapped the rest of the way.  

“Christ....fucking bitch,” Karl growled, and clenched the key so hard that Ethan thought it might break.  His scarred lips were pursed, a sure sign that he was imploding emotionally, and Ethan heard the buzzing of a transformer nearby.  He stared into the grey afternoon.  

“I knew it wasn’t you when she…looked at me,” he said, tilting his head. 

This made Karl snort, an odd noise given the circumstances, and now the engineer gazed rather invasively at Winters.  “Did she…?”

“No,” Ethan said, maybe too quickly.  “She didn’t….before…. You came in.” 

Karl nodded thoughtfully and stroked his beard in silence for a moment.  Then, a simple, “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

Ethan blushed.  “I just, don’t know why I reacted the way that I did.  I was ashamed of that, and just…that I couldn’t stop her.  That I needed help, I guess.”

Karl took off his glasses and raised one greyish eyebrow.  “You sure took that 1911 I gave you, plus all the other help,” he said in a humored tone.  

Ethan scoffed, remembering the lycan at the window--if he’d known at the time that it was Karl who left that note, he would have punched him for it the next time they met.  Still, the weapon had been his favorite, a lifesaver, and he knew that Karl was responsible for far more help than just the handgun.  

“It’s a different kind of shame,” the blond said quietly, and now Karl’s golden eyes pierced into him.  The other man pocketed the key and withdrew a cigar.  He paused, and held one out to Ethan, but the blond smiled and shook his head.  As Karl lit the cigar he muttered, “That’s right, gotta watch yer health, bein’ mold an’ all.”  Ethan rolled his eyes, but he smirked at the joke.  A sarcastic Karl was much better than a quiet Karl. 

After a puff of smoke was exhaled, the other began in a more hollow voice than usual, “She’s done it before.” 

Karl swallowed, crossing one ankle over his other knee, and Ethan stared at him again.  Those words were too deep-meaninged to decipher, so he just frowned at Karl until the brunette spoke again.  

“Men in the village, thinkin’ it was some…I dunno.  Pub gal.”  He scoff-laughed again.  “Had a whole arsenal of disguises she liked.  Men and women, actually.  She’d leave the village an’ do it too.”  He stared at the cigar.  “Us too.”

“Us?” Ethan said in a too-shrill voice. 

“Her Lords ,” Heisenberg said in the same annoyed tone he’d used when on the horse.  “Sometimes she’d erase…”

At this Heisenberg paused, smoked, looked vacantly over the expanse on the horizon.  

Ethan realized that his own horrified expression probably didn’t help things, and he struggled to control it.  When he tore his eyes from Heisenberg, not wanting to cause a scene, the other shot, “I told you I put up with her for years.”

Ethan’s hand found Heisenbergs, and he moved to be closer to him.  He embraced the stony engineer by putting his head on the other’s shoulder, hugging the arm that was free of the cigar.  “I’m so sorry.” 

“If she tries that shit on you again, I’ll split my fucking head open if it means getting into the Mold and choking the fucking life out of her,” Karl said casually, but his expression did not match his tone.  

“I’m glad you were close,” Ethan said honestly, and then added, “I think no matter what happens, you’ll sense it, and can...wake me up?” 

Karl continued to smoke in a comfortable silence, until Ethan lifted his head and stared at the other.  “Wait--you don’t mind that I…well, after?”

“Mind what, you comin’ onto me?”

Ethan’s curious gaze turned into a scowl.  Karl grinned as if making Ethan scowl was one of his life’s goals.  It might have been at this point. 

He flicked the remainder of the cigar to the rocky ground, crushing it beneath his boot.  “I’ve been there, I told you, there’s no right or wrong way to act.  She’s the fucked up one, Ethan, not you.” 

Ethan considered this, the scowl melting.  Just as he was about to accept the answer, Heisenberg stood.  “Well, I mean, you are pretty fucked up.  But--”

Ethan kissed him on the lips, and then broke the kiss, the now-familiar hunger present in Heisenberg’s eyes.  “Shut up,” Ethan said in a light tone, and walked past the engineer to get back on the trail toward the manor.  He heard Heisenberg’s growl of arousal and smiled back at the other. 

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

The clouds parted by mid-afternoon, and Ethan grabbed an old camera he’d bought from the Duke at the ‘funeral’.  Karl had fixed it for him only several days earlier, and he wanted to get back to documenting Rose as he had before.  Ethan preferred film cameras, had taken extensive photography classes in college.  Now Rosemary and her goat toddled in the back gardens, exploring everything that had been hidden under blankets of snow until recently, as Ethan followed her with the camera. 

He couldn’t be prouder, or happier.  The man inhaled the crisp mountain air, glancing toward the setting sun and feeling a chill on his skin.  Maybe he was technically dead, but he’d never felt so alive.  Karl had promised him a rough night later, and the warm light of the dining area bled onto the grass in the garden where dinner would happen soon.  

Even Miranda couldn’t fuck up his happiness in this present moment. 

Ethan raised the camera, eyeing Rose through the viewfinder.  He purposely didn’t get her attention, wanting to capture her candid innocent fascination with--currently, a crispy leaf--but as her hand closed on it, something happened.  Ethan peered through the window of the camera.  Now she opened her hand and the leaf was gone.  Something…white? 

She brought it up to her mouth, as she did with most things, and Ethan rushed forward.  “Oh, no, Rose,” he said patiently, plucking whatever it was from her little palm.  He froze, realizing it was a small crystal.  

“Where did you get this?” he said in an awestruck voice, and looked around.  The leaf was gone, with no traces in her hand.  Ethan’s eyebrows rose as his daughter babbled at him.  

“Did you…make…this?” he asked, turning the little white rock in his hands.  He searched around and picked up a pebble.  He handed it to her, feeling very stupid.  

“Can you make another?” he asked in hopeful-dad voice.  The girl’s pudgy hand closed, then opened, and she squealed.  In her hand was a tiny pointed crystal.  

“Holy shit,” Ethan said, and he blinked them both into the liminal space.  “Eva?  You around?”

Saying her name always seemed to summon her, and she was agile enough to travel fast.  It was moments before the girl stepped into the glitchy-edged world, and she now stared at the two crystals that Ethan held out to her.  

“One was a leaf, and one was a rock,” Ethan said in a slightly nervous tone.  “What does this mean?” 

“She made them?” Eva said, her blue eyes lighting up.  “Not found them?”

“Made them,” Ethan nodded.  Just as he’d feared, Eva looked taken aback. 

“What, what? What does this mean?” 

“These are powers of creation,” Eva said, shocked--an unusual emotion for her.