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tenspontaneite · 3 years

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Across Shared Skin (Chapter 2/?)

“This is the worst possible way this could have happened!”

(Chapter length: 3k. Ao3 link)

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The back of his hand still ached from where she’d hit it. He couldn’t quite draw his mind away from that, couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t get away from it. The back of his hand hurt, because that was where his soulmark was, and she’d hit hers, and of course it had carried over, that was how soulbonds worked.

She was still standing there. Still with those swords in her hands, though she’d lowered them now. Still standing over him, though she’d backed away a little, as if someone had shoved her. Still wide-eyed, still aghast, still an elf, still his soulmate-

“Shit,” she said again, more emphatically, and staggered further backwards. For a moment it seemed like she was trying to lift her hands, to bury her face in them – but then she saw her swords and flinched, shuddering in a violent motion that terminated with her fingers so tight on the weapons’ hilts that they trembled.

She had white hair. All the books had said that Moonshadow elves had white hair, but it was one thing to read it, another to see it. And those horns, too, and the ears – she was – she wasn’t human, she really wasn’t, and for all that he’d spent years trying to imagine what that would look like, it still fell short of reality. It was her. It was really her. This was what his soulmate looked like. “Rayla,” He said again, testing the name, feeling his pulse race so fast that his head swam. She flinched again at the name, eyes jerking back towards him, so plainly distressed that it made his gut twist.

Her eyes were purple. He’d seen that before, of course, when she was standing over him with that sword, but – somehow it mattered more, now that he knew who she was.

“No,” she uttered, despairingly, like it was a reflex response to hearing her name from his lips. Her expression twisted as if to hold back some unbearable emotion.

Ezran was frozen at the portrait hole, and hadn’t moved. Callum was only peripherally aware of that. Mostly, he was aware of the thrum of his heartbeat, and the look on his soulmate’s face, and the part of him that was still tense and terrified in anticipation of death. In those moments, it was all confusion, a conflicting tangle of his shock and his fear. But then – he looked at her, and his mind began to catch up. She’d been this nameless, frightening elf mere minutes ago, but he’d seen her hesitate even then, seen her listen to him – and now she was Rayla, and he knew Rayla, and-

In a sudden, decisive moment, it was like something clicked into place. The elf who’d threatened him at swordpoint and the elf who was his soulmate were the same – and as that knowledge reconciled itself, he felt his shoulders slump with unthinking relief. All at once he understood, without reservation or doubt, that she wasn’t going to hurt them. He knew. He’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

“Rayla,” he repeated, steadier this time, secure in that knowledge, and slowly went to stand up.

She recoiled, flinching backwards as he rose. “No,” she said again, and then again, and again- “No, no, no, this isn’t – this wasn’t supposed to-“ She whirled around, pacing in broken and aborted steps around the office, like she wanted to flee but didn’t know where to go. Her shoulders were so tense it looked painful, and – she snapped towards him, suddenly, one of those swords suddenly up and pointing accusatively his way. “This is the worst possible way this could have happened!”

The way she’d said it, it was almost like she blamed him for that. Like he’d decided that these should be the circumstances of their pre-ordained meeting. “…I’m…sorry?” He offered, weakly, looking back at the bristling affront that had come over her in that moment. She seemed angry, right then, but – then she saw the blade she was pointing his way, and it all crumpled away at once.

“I was going to kill you.” She said, voice tight and haunted, and she looked up at him blankly. Her eyes slid to his brother, still frozen motionless in the mouth of the secret passage. Quiet, she added “…I’m supposed to kill you.”

He swallowed. “Yeah, you said.” He acknowledged, remembering his terror when she’d said she was here to kill his brother, his absolute certainty that he could not allow it to happen. That felt so long ago, now. “You’re…an assassin,” he tested the words, looking at her, looking at the swords, the armour, the wiry muscles tense along her arms. He remembered years and years and years of seeing her write about her training. “You’re an assassin, and you came here to kill Ezran.” He tilted his head at her, a little solemn. “I guess whoever sent you probably wouldn’t mind if you got another human prince, too.”

She barked a harsh laugh. “If you got in the way? No. No, they wouldn’t.” Again, her eyes flickered to Ezran. She exhaled. Again, she said “I’m supposed to kill you.” It was strangely bleak, this time. Defeated.

Ez flinched a little, but Callum didn’t falter at all. Not anymore. He took a step towards her, and she rocked back on her heels as if to lean away from him. He stepped again though, with a confidence that surprised him, and said “You won’t.”

She didn’t move back this time. Just watched him, rigidly still, expression twisting. Her fingers clenched on her weapons. “You sure about that?” Her voice was low.

He stepped again, and again, until he was directly in front of her. Close enough for her to run him through with either blade. Close enough for her to reach out and break his neck. But she wouldn’t. “Yeah. I’m sure.” She watched him, so wary, so conflicted. There was something in her expression that made her look startlingly vulnerable. With utter certainty, he said “You’re not going to hurt us.”

She closed her eyes, then. Exhaled. When she opened them, her hands flexed on the weapons. He didn’t even flinch as they moved, convinced beyond the possibility of doubt that she would never threaten him with them again. And, sure enough, the way that motion ended was with the blades flipping away, melding by some mechanism back into their handles. Sheathed. Safe. “No.” She agreed, finally. “I’m not.” There was an edge of self-recrimination in her eyes as she looked away. “I couldn’t.”

Finally, Ezran seemed to sense an opening in that tension. Cautiously, he stepped out of the portrait hole, creeping a few steps forward until her eyes fell on him. He looked up at her, wary but interested, Bait held tightly in his arms. “You’re Callum’s soulmate,” he spoke, like he just needed to say it, to get it out there. “Rayla. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her expression twisted, like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “And you’re his brother. Prince Ezran.” Her hand went to one of the silvery ribbons she wore around her wrists. “I’ve heard plenty about you, too.” She exhaled, shakily. “I came here to kill you.”

Ezran crept a little closer, surprisingly confident, as if some of Callum’s certainty had bled into him. “Why?” He asked, curious and almost calm, as if this were some matter considerably lighter than one of life and death.

“You’re the son of a king who killed our king and his son.” She answered, bleakly. “We’re supposed to pay it back. Blood for blood. Justice for their deaths. Make it right.”

Callum hesitated, then reached out. His fingertips grazed her forearm; the first time he’d ever touched her. She flinched as though burned, eyes snapping to his. “Revenge isn’t the same thing as justice, Rayla.” He told her, quietly. “You know that.”

“Do I?” Her voice sounded almost tired.

“Killing Ez to make up for what happened to the Dragon Prince wouldn’t solve anything. Wouldn’t make anything better.” He looked at her, exhaling softly, and could finally speak a truth he had never been allowed to write: “Just like…King Harrow killing the Dragon King, to make up for what happened to my mom, didn’t solve anything.” He saw her recoil at that, and added quietly “Didn’t help me, and…didn’t help the world, either. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Your mother,” she whispered, like she was abruptly reconciling Callum the prince with Callum the soulmate. Like it had just occurred to her what that meant. “Queen Sarai. The – Dragon King killed her?”

A twist of pain gripped his chest. “Yeah.” He studied her eyes, her expression. “You didn’t know?”

“No.” With that awful understanding on her face, he couldn’t doubt her. She shuddered and looked away, hands clenching on her sheathed weapons. When finally she looked back, she seemed so horribly uncertain that it made his heart ache. “Callum…” she said, finally, the first time he’d ever heard her speak his name. “What am I supposed to do?”

He hesitated, then. He wanted to say don’t murder anyone, but she didn’t need telling that, and…that wasn’t an answer to that question. Not really. She was here in the heart of the kingdom, and could have killed him, and could have killed his brother, and – surely, she wasn’t alone. Surely they’d not have sent only her. There had to be others, and that wasn’t something he knew how to answer.

Ezran, though... “You should follow me,” he said, plainly, finally approaching enough to insinuate himself beside them. “If this is about the Dragon Prince…” he nodded towards the open portrait hole. “Then there’s something you need to see.”

She stared down at him with obvious consternation. She glanced at Callum, as if to check with him, and he shrugged helplessly. “You sure, Ez?” he asked his brother, dubious, and received a very firm nod in return. He sighed. In a situation like this…he had to trust that Ezran wouldn’t mess around. “Alright,” he accepted. “Lead the way.”

‘The way’, apparently, was into the secret passage connected to Lord Viren’s study. Ezran and Bait climbed back into it, but Rayla hesitated before following. She went off to the side, picked something up, and pushed it into his hands. “You dropped this.” She said, quiet. “When I knocked you over.”

It was Harrow’s letter. Callum swallowed past the lump in his throat, and held it close. “…Thanks.”

Ever-so-briefly, and so lightly he hardly felt it, she rested her hand on his arm. Her eyes met his. Then she turned away, and walked off into the dark.

Callum followed.

---

Ezran had been right. They had needed to see this.

“The Dragon Prince is alive,” Rayla breathed, eyes wide, fingers shaking. “This – this changes everything.”

After a little discussion, though, it transpired that some of that ‘everything’ might be a little harder to change than the rest. “So there are more of you.” Callum concluded, voice tight, as she finally admitted that the ‘others’ would be coming.

“Five.” She agreed, voice just as terse as his . “I – was supposed to stay behind. I didn’t. I came early, so they wouldn’t stop me, but-“ She glanced up at the stone ceiling, as if she could see the sky even through a castle’s worth of rock and air. “But they’ll be coming once the Moon rises. When we’re strongest.”

“…Can we stop them?” He asked, carefully controlled. He’d known he had a Moonshadow elf for a soulmate for years. He’d done research. He’d asked people. He knew how powerful they were supposed to be at Full Moon.

She looked at him, uncertainty plain on her face. “If we show the egg to Runaan-“ She started, falteringly. “He…might call the mission off?”

He could see how unconvinced she was of that. “You think?”

She exhaled. “No. But I think we have to try.” She stood. “I know where he’ll be. We should get there as soon as possible.”

Ezran picked up the egg, and the three of them prepared to set off.

Except that was when Claudia arrived.

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Not much later, with a primal stone in his hands and the exhilaration of magic still fresh in his veins, Rayla turned to him for a moment and smiled. It was a tentative thing, but- “Preferred that to all your sword lessons, didn’t you,” she observed, and he stopped short, strangely breathless. There was something about the reference to their history, to the things she knew because she was his soulmate, that – that was just – kind of amazing.

“So much,” he agreed, heartfelt, and felt his face break into a grin at her. She went a little pink around the ears, but huffed at him with a friendly sort of humour. She patted him on the shoulder.

“Well, magic’s plenty good for defending yourself, so just keep that spell in mind and you’ll be fine.” Her lips twisted thoughtfully for a moment. “Don’t suppose you know that lightning spell too? Looked proper useful, that one.”

“Er,” he said, eloquently, and thought. “I remember the rune. Is that enough?”

“No, you’d need the incantation too.” She frowned.

He tried to remember it, but…in the end, his memory was mostly only good for things he saw. “…Finalous?” He guessed, knowing it wasn’t right. “Culminus? No…”

She scowled at the wall for a second, holding up a finger to silence him. “Fulminis.” She concluded, decisively, after that moment. “I think.” She glanced back at him. “Try it.”

“Now?” He blinked, taken-aback. “Shouldn’t we be going to find your assassin leader?”

“It’s related.” Her teeth gritted a little. “Try it.”

He exchanged a glance with Ezran, then shrugged. “Alright.” He lifted the stone in one hand. Drawing the rune was easy; it lit up with sparks, magic surging at once, impatient for release. And then the incantation did turn out to be right, because saying “fulminis” unleashed a bolt of lightning from his fingertip that crackled loud and bright into the wall he’d aimed it at. He beamed.

Rayla noted this with a sort of grim satisfaction, and said “Good.” When he looked askance at her, she exhaled, and admitted “He’s probably going to try to kill you.”

It took him a second to think of who she meant. “…Your leader?” He questioned, confused. “Because…I’d get between him and Ezran?”

“That too.” She looked away. “Mostly, though, because you’re my soulmate. My human soulmate. And we’ve only just met, so…” She glanced back at him, troubled. “Well, you know.”

Oh. Right. He could imagine how ‘human soulmate’ and ‘only just met’ might be a recipe for violence from a murderous, concerned-for-Rayla elven assassin commander. He winced. “Yeah. He’d…what, want to kill me before it’s ‘too late’?”

She scowled, expression tightening, and inclined her head. “I wouldn’t put it past him to think I’d be better off that way.” Her shoulders straightened, and she reached out to tap the primal stone. “So keep this handy. And defend yourself, alright?”

He swallowed, and nodded. “What about you?” He asked. She looked confused. “He’s – you’re Moonshadow elves. The mission is supposed to be everything, right? You’re supposed to act like you’re already dead, even, so it doesn’t matter if you die to pull it off?”

Rayla stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“He’s been reading about you guys forever.” Ezran offered, and her eyes turned his way. “And talking to anyone who’s ever met Moonshadow elves or knows anything. Aunt Amaya, Lord Viren, everyone.”

At her expression, he shrugged self-consciously. “I knew you were a Moonshadow elf. I wanted to know what that meant. And – you weren’t allowed to talk to me about that. So I had to ask other people.” He shook his head. “That’s not important right now, though. What I mean is – you’re going against the mission, right? You’re trying to stop him. So…” Carefully, he looked at her. “Are you going to be safe?”

She was quiet for long enough that the silence was an answer of its own. Finally, she said “Probably not. I don’t think he’d actually kill me. But…” She shrugged.

Callum set his jaw, and clutched the primal stone close. “I’ll be ready.” He promised grimly.

Rayla looked almost startled at that response, though he didn’t know why. Wasn’t it obvious that he’d try to protect her, if he could?

“We should go.” Ezran said, nervous, looking between the egg in his hands and the ceiling. He glanced around at them. “We’re going to the roof, right? There’s a pretty quick way there. Follow me.”

“How much time have you spent in the castle secret passages?” Callum asked, exasperated, already following.

Ez smiled a little, smug. “A while,” he said nonchalantly, and opened a hidden staircase in the corridor beside them like it was nothing.

They were in a doorway opening out to the castle battlements when Rayla stopped them, suddenly tense. “He’s out there.” She said, terse. “Or he will be soon. I-“ She hesitated for a moment, then said “I’ll try to get him to call off the mission. I might call you out to show him the egg. But if he won’t stop…” She exhaled, hands drifting to where she’d hung her sheathed blades. “I’ll have to stop him myself.”

Callum, meanwhile, was very resolved that she absolutely wouldn’t be doing any assassin-stopping by herself. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He fixed the spell into his mind, gritted his teeth, and waited.

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End chapter.

Notes: also a cliffhanger! I guess! But the story wanted it, so. Who am I to argue.

Canon is going to get drop-kicked off of a mountain next chapter, FYI.

Thank you everyone for the response. It’s been flattering to hear from those of you who read this in the zine first, who are looking forward to the story continuing. I hope it continues to do justice to the concept!

Worldbuilding stuff of note in this chapter: if you’re curious about what Callum and Rayla meant about the ‘only just met’ and ‘too late’ stuff, the answer is: soulmate mechanics! Gonna tease this for a bit, but you’ll see what it’s about in ch4.

#rayllum #tdp fic #soulmate AU #tdp callum #tdp rayla #tdp ezran

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capsized-heart · 5 years

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l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

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official-weasley · 3 years

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Charlie's Helping Hand

A/N: For all who don't know @am-i-space and I are (healthily obsessed) with freckled gingers who steal your heart because they are adorable and pure! Two of those are the one and only Charlie Weasley and Commander Gren from The Dragon Prince.

We have made up quite a few stories about them (separate and together) and about a month ago we came up with Charlie being friends with Gren and Amaya. @am-i-space had the idea for a drawing of the 3 of them at once and without really knowing we were doing it, we started working together on this little project below my rambling!

After definitely not losing their mind about the eyes and Charlie's hair EVEN ONCE and me finally getting the inspiration for how to bring Charlie into a different universe, we are ready to post it!

As you might've figured by now the drawing below this author's note belongs to the beautiful, talented and amazing @am-i-space who pleasantly surprised me with every draft piece I received of this drawing and the story behind how this drawing "came to be" belongs to yours truly.

PS. Read to the end to find out how this beautiful piece of art came to existence in the story 💙🖤

“Charlie, you are going to love Katolis.” Gren grinned at his friend as they were walking up the path that will take them back to Gren's homeland.

“I love traveling so I think I will have no problem with it,” Charlie smiled back at him, “and besides you said that it's full of magic and dragons just roam free. It's like you are describing a dream.”

“It wasn't always like that. Dragons were feared and people and magic folk didn't know how to live together.” Gren sighed, remembering the days before their land became one.

“Right, king Ezran and his brother were running away from an elf assassin and they found an egg and joined forces to return it to its mother.” Charlie narrowed his eyes, trying to get the facts straight.

—

It's been almost two years since the great battle at the Storm Spire. The dragon queen has awakened and Zym was finally reunited with his mother. She took care of him, taught him how to fly better – even though Ez did an incredible job already. She also showed her son how to roar and how to use his electric breath.

Xadia was one land again and it thrived like never before. The magic spread to the Five Kingdoms and the people and the magic folk could move freely without sneaking around and fear each other.

Everything was perfect until one day when the dragon prince went flying and got caught up in a giant storm. Because he was still struggling to control his wing movement – when the winds were strong – he got caught up in a whirl and got smashed into a mountain.

Azymondias was found by his mother after she went looking for him as he didn't return home. At first, he appeared to be fine but when the queen wanted to take him flying she noticed that one of his wings was damaged. She sought help from the king of Katolis and his friends.

King Ezran's heart was broken when he found out and gathered a party to visit Zym at once. He couldn't believe it was even worse than he imagined it would be – all of Zym's bones in his left wing were broken and no matter how many elves and how many mages they gathered, nothing could mend his wing.

It seemed that all was lost and that the dragon prince will never be able to fly until one night when Commander Gren was finally ready to talk about his experience of being locked up in the castle dungeon by lord Viren.

He told his best friend general Amaya about everything he heard and seen happening. With his help, they were able to find the coins in which Viren stored souls and with the help of a high mage from the kingdom of Duren their lives were restored and Runaan was safely returned to his husband Ethari and his adopted niece Rayla.

Because Gren found it hard to talk about the whole situation and would gladly completely forget about the horrid experience, he decided to visit Runaan at his home in Silvergrove.

Every time Gren woke up in the middle of the night, having a nightmare that he was back in that dungeon, he felt like he was missing something. He knew that Viren was going down there for a reason and not just to interrogate Runaan. The thoughts kept him awake and he tried his hardest to remember where he was going and if he heard any noises that would help him figure it out.

As Gren expected, Runaan wasn't keen on talking about his experience in the castle of Katolis either but when Gren explained his feelings and the need to talk about it and to help him find out what was happening while they were there, Runaan put his feelings aside and decided to share his part of the story.

When Runaan told Gren about the weird questions Viren was asking him about a mirror and what does it do and how important it had to be for the lord because he seemed very frustrated when he didn't get his answers, Gren decided that it was time to put his fear aside and head down to the dungeons once more.

After telling Amaya everything and informing her of his plan to go and investigate – being so sure that the guards missed something when they rescued him – Amaya wanted to go with him.

She knew Gren more than anyone and it still pained her to this day that she was so far away when everything Viren was doing back at the castle went down that she simply couldn't allow him to relive that alone. She knew Gren was brave and just about the most optimistic and cheerful person she will ever have a chance to meet but she also knew that behind his bubbly personality Gren was hiding all the negative feelings and the trauma of what he went through in those few weeks while being down there.

She knew there will be no way of stopping Gren from going because he has never been so sure that something Viren was hiding down there could help Zym so instead of arguing with her lieutenant she decided to go with him.

As always when they go on a mission they geared up – better be too safe than sorry – and headed to the dungeons.

Before they opened the door that led to the lower parts of the castle, Amaya turned to Gren one more time.

Are you really sure you want to do this? She signed.

I am. I have to see what is down there or I will never have a peaceful night's rest. Gren signed back, his brows furrowed in determination.

Amaya just nodded, admiring how brave her best friend was for facing his problem head-on, and opened the door.

They walked down the stairs and came to the place where Gren was cuffed.

Amaya gave him a worried look while Gren avoided looking at her and the wall he was chained to. Taking a deep breath he first headed to where he knew Runaan was kept. They only found an empty cell with a small window with bars on it so they headed in the other direction.

They have been looking around, opening doors to empty cells for about half an hour until Gren tried turning the knob of a wooden door and it didn't open.

He exchanged a look with Amaya who nodded to him that he should force-open it with his foot. Gren did as he was told but the door still didn't move.

Amaya frowned – not liking when something didn't go her way – so she stepped next to Gren and counting to 3 on her fingers they repeated the action together. The door gave way to their force and they stumbled inside.

The room was a bit bigger than the others they have found. It was windowless making it completely dark with only a small wooden table, a chair, and something covered with a cloth.

Is this it? Amaya signed at Gren who was observing the covered artifact with his mouth slightly opened.

Gren could only muster a small nod. Amaya knew that this was hard on Gren and even though her curiosity was growing she gave him the time to make the step toward it and uncover the object.

The commander shook his head to collect his thoughts and swallowed thickly before approaching it. He lifted his arm slowly, grabbed the cloth, and pulled it down. Amaya and Gren both gasped, not prepared to see a mirror in front of them.

At the first glance, it looked like any other mirror, but then something shone inside it and their reflections disappeared. They saw what looked like an empty office or a library. They knew at once that this was no ordinary mirror and that it would be best if they don't meddle with it but call in someone who might better know what this mirror is for or better yet what it does.

After a month of searching and inviting the best mages in the whole land, including elves from all parts of Xadia, they figured out that the mirror served as a prison in another realm for a startouch elf. They were able to find an elf that knew of startouch elves and who they were.

The only one of their kind the king of Katolis and his aunt Amaya knew was Aaravos who they had to fight to keep Zym alive at the battle that brought them peace. Since lord Viren was associated with Aaravos it was only reasonable that he was the one who was inside the mirror.

King Ezran wasn't delighted to find out that this wasn't the last they would hear of the elf and wanted to resolve the mystery behind the mirror at once.

“You mean the little bug that turned into an elf with a bigger bug around his shoulder?” Soren asked, perplexed when Ezran was telling him, Callum, Corvus, and Opeli what was going on.

“Do you know anything about him?” Ezran gasped, encouraging Soren to tell him more.

“Well, not really. Father was very secretive about him. I remember when we were marching to Lux Aurea he was talking to the little bug on his ear. If my memory isn't deceiving me, Viren was telling him about how he and your dad, Ezran, defeated the dragon king.” Soren said, rubbing his chin and trying to remember more.

“Why would Aaravos want to know about that?” Opeli failed to understand.

“Perhaps he was trapped in the mirror when that happened?” Corvus suggested.

“Viren sounded very proud of his accomplishment, speaking with the voice he uses when he brags about something to someone for who he thinks he did them a favor.” Soren continued.

“Why would killing Zym's dad be a favor to Aaravos?” Ezran thought out loud.

“No!” Callum gasped and stood up.

“What? What did you remember?” Ezran wanted to know.

“No, it's too farfetched.” Callum swung his hand for them to stop paying attention to him.

“No, no. Do tell,” Opeli encouraged him, “perhaps you are onto something.”

“Well,” Callum cleared his throat, “would it be possible that the dragon king had something to do with Aaravos' imprisonment inside the mirror?”

“Get aunt Amaya and gather the elves and the mages again! We have to discuss this!” Ezran stood up and gave the order to Soren and Corvus who nodded and rushed out of the throne room at once.

“It would be possible for the dragon king to entrap the elf inside a mirror.” The high mage of Bel Dur said after hearing the proposal from prince Callum.

“However,” a mage from Neolandia cut in, “in order to do that Thunder would need someone from the realm on the other side of the mirror to help him, making your idea invalid.”

“Why?” King Ezran wanted to know.

“Well, to do that sort of powerful magic, the dragon king would have to have a dragon on the other side of the mirror from which to draw that kind of power.” The mage explained.

“Why would that make my idea invalid?” Callum asked.

“Because there is no such thing as dragons in other realms,” the mage said confidently.

“An hour ago you didn't even know there were other realms and now you are trying to convince us that in those other places dragons can't exist?” Opeli raised her eyebrows.

“Alright,” the mage sighed, “let's say that a place where Aaravos was entrapped does have dragons, how exactly does this help us with the dragon prince's wing?”

“Don't you get it?” Ezran stood up. “Nobody in Xadia can help Zym and this other realm could be full of dragons. What if there is someone who could heal Zym? What if they possess just the magic we would need to help Zym fly again?”

“You do have a point, your majesty,” the high mage of Bel Dur bowed to the king, “however...”

“However, how do we know whoever lives on the other side isn't a threat to us? To the dragon prince, to our kingdoms? Who is to say that they would be willing to help us?” The mage interrupted him.

King Ezran decided to call a meeting with the dragon queen to ask her if she could confirm their speculations and wasn't all that surprised when she told him that it was the dragon king who imprisoned Aaravos in a realm called Earth where magic works differently than in Xadia and despite Aaravos being the strongest and the most ancient of elves, he wouldn't be able to use their type of magic.

After much deliberation, king Ezran has decided to take the risk and explore the realm on the other side of the mirror.

“We have to help Zym. No one in the whole Xadia could mend his wing and we have to try. We can't have the dragon prince not be able to fly. I know it's dangerous and a lot of you will think that I am making a rash decision based on my feelings and me being a kid, but this is how I decided and I am willing to take the risk for Xadia and our kingdom.” Ezran said, his brows together in determination. “We needed years of war and conflict to unite our lands together again and if we aren't willing to help and take the risks needed to move forward then we are back at the beginning and I will not allow that to happen.”

The crown guards and the king's advisors nodded, agreeing with him, while some of the mages from other kingdoms had their reservations.

In the end, it didn't matter as only a day later were they gathering a team courageous enough to walk through the mirror and seek help.

You want to do what? Amaya was signing as fast as her fingers allowed her, frowning at the idea Gren just proposed.

I need to go. I feel that I need to go. I had the feeling about the mirror and look where it brought us. Gren tried convincing her.

You did enough, Gren. Amaya pleaded.

It's been so nice to have him by her side again after being separated on so many occasions during the war and now it will happen again and Amaya wasn't sure she can let it happen.

Soren is going. I have to try. This could be my chance to prove that I am not only good at interpreting.

Nobody is saying that Gren, and you know it.

You never protested so much before, what has gotten into you? Gren wanted to frown but his expression softened instead, looking at his best friend.

I guess I got used to the fact of you being by my side again. Amaya moved her fingers slowly as if she was hesitant to admit this.

“Oh.” Gren breathed out loud before stepping closer to Amaya and pulling her into a hug.

I know. I feel the same but please give me a chance to do this. I will be back before you know it.

Gren bestowed Amaya with one of his warming smiles to which she never could stop her lips from curving too.

Alright, but promise me you'll be safe and cautious. She playfully nudged him in the ribs before hugging him again and saying goodbye.

The next day Gren, accompanied by 5 of Ezran's most trusted crown guards – including Soren – and a mage made their way down to the dungeons once again to walk through the mirror and seek help from the other side.

It took 7 mages to figure out how the mirror works and how to get the crew through it. They warned them they will have a small window to do this that's why they couldn't take more people.

Gren was standing in front of the mirror – the last one to be transported through it.

“Here we go,” he whispered to himself, took a deep breath, and without turning his head to see his best friend one more time, disappeared.

—

“And this is where I come in.” Charlie wiggled his nose, trying to hide that he was nervous as Gren told him the story for the fourth time.

“Look, I know it sounds insane.” Gren sighed. “We found a mirror who entrapped the most powerful elf that ever lived in Xadia and then we went through it, followed the roar of a dragon, found the Sanctuary, and for some reason you were mad enough to say yes to our proposal.”

“In my defense, you said that a baby dragon... No, no, let me correct myself – a storm baby dragon – which is a myth here on Earth, needed help and then you said that you are not from Earth at all but from another realm so you tricked me.” Charlie sniggered.

“Well, my hidden talent to know when someone cares for something deeply has finally come to use.” Gren smiled proudly.

“Just don't get your hopes up. I might be a dragonologist but you said that no wizard...”

“Mage.” Gren corrected him.

“That no mage could help Zym so I am not sure how much I can do.” Charlie bowed his head.

“I know, but it is admiring that you are willing to try and I believe that you will be able to do something, if nothing else advise us what we can do to help the dragon prince,” Gren said cheerfully, looking at his friend.

He and the guards have only been on Earth for a month and they are already going back – needing far less time than Gren or anybody expected them to need to figure out how the people on Earth could help Azymondias.

They were lucky enough that the late dragon king set Aaravos' prison near the Carpathians mountains which also happened to be the secret hideout of the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary.

They were walking for 2 days before they heard a dragon roar and followed the sound for another day before they arrived in front of what looked like an abandoned gate. The mage tore down the enchantments and without thinking twice about it, they entered.

To say that the people working in the Reserve were in shock and not really sure what they were looking at was an understatement. It doesn't happen every day that a group of people with armor and swords walk straight through the gate.

Luckily, dragonologists are very simple and open-minded people – Gren has noticed – so it was easy to explain what was going on.

The second they said that a dragon needed help, a bunch of them volunteered but Gren knew that they can only take one person back so he asked the kind people if they could stay for a few days to observe their work and then pick the one that seemed the best suited for the job.

Charlie stood out to Gren immediately, because he was one of the few that simply raised their hand to volunteer instead of being loud and jumping in the air. His calmness suited him and he intrigued Gren the second he followed him around the next morning and saw how he handled the dragons.

The fellow red-haired dragonologist reminded Gren very much of king Ezran and how he talks to animals. The second Gren decided that this business was too urgent for him to be shy and not talk to him, he approached the dragon tamer and asked him about his ability to talk to dragons.

Charlie cocked an eyebrow at him and laughed a little, thinking the commander was joking, only to compose himself a second later when he saw just how serious Gren was.

With observing his work and asking him all sorts of questions Gren deemed him perfect for the job.

He wasn't even that surprised that he got Charlie on board without any effort.

The second the sun rose the next morning and Charlie said goodbye to the dragons and his co-workers, they made their way back to the mirror.

—

Gren, you are back! Amaya was waiting next to the mirror for them to come back and hugged her friend the second he came out of it.

I'm alright. It went pretty smoothly. Gren smiled proudly.

Who is this? Amaya signed, nodding at Charlie and scanning him from head to toe.

This is Charlie Weasley, he's a dragon tamer back in the other realm and he is here to help Zym. Gren explained.

He's cute. Amaya winked at her friend.

I thought you were in a committed relationship with Janai? Gren giggled.

I meant for you. Amaya nudged him, making Gren's face as red as a strawberry.

Without replying, Gren rushed everyone out of the room, making the excuse to see Zym as fast as possible.

Amaya sent a squad to bring Zym to Katolis so that Charlie would have the time to settle in and get some rest and that he wouldn't get too overwhelmed by his surroundings.

The second he saw the dragon prince and heard his cheerful squeaks despite having an injured wing, Charlie's eyes glowed and he felt like all his dreams came true to see a dragon that not only doesn't breathe fire but can zap you with electricity.

Gren explained to him to the best of his abilities why they call Zym the dragon prince but when he bowed to the young dragon and heard the people behind him giggle, he knew he took it too far. With his cheeks turning scarlet, he cleared his throat and asked everybody to give him and Zym some space so he could do a proper check-up on him.

Amaya, Gren, Ezran, Callum, Soren, and Opeli all watched as Charlie sat down next to the dragon and started whispering something to him. It only took about a minute for Zym to trust him which – with everything Gren saw back in the Sanctuary – wasn't surprising at all.

Zym let Charlie position him in a way to have full access to the wing, while constantly murmuring something under his breath.

“So, did you manage to find out how to help him?” Ezran asked the second Charlie stood up and walked to them.

“I...uh...” Charlie stuttered not knowing how to begin.

“What? What's wrong?” Callum put his hand over his little brother's shoulder.

“I don't want to be rude so I don't know how to say it.” Charlie was embarrassed.

“Hey, we trust in your expertise so don't worry about it.” Gren encouraged Charlie to speak.

“Well, his wing is broken, you got that right but because dragons here and on Earth are magical creatures, magic can't help them much.” Charlie shook his head.

“So, there's nothing we can do?” Ezran was on the verge of tears.

“Quite the opposite, this is very good news. I thought that we would have to mend his broken bones with magic.” Charlie said in a cheerful voice to put Ezran in a better mood.

“And we won't need to use magic?” Soren got curious.

“No. Because Zym is still so young and will need years to grow fully, we would just have to immobilize his wing as much as possible until his bones mend themselves.” Charlie explained.

“It's that easy? ” Amaya signed, looking impressed and Gren interpreted.

“Yes. Zym is still growing and like with children it's easier to have a broken bone when you are young than when you're an adult. If Zym will be a good boy and obey when I put bandages on him, he should be better somewhere from around 6 months to a year if he is like the dragons we have back at home.” Charlie couldn't hide how proud he was of all the knowledge he had on dragons and healing.

“How are you going to wrap him up?” Ezran was beyond happy to know that his friend is going to be just fine.

“With magic, of course.” Charlie pulled out his wand.

“You made a mistake of trying to heal his wing with magic directly, that simply doesn't work with one of the most powerful beings in the world. In cases like this, you have to turn to the good old remedies.”

He walked back to Zym who extended his wing as much as he could for Charlie to do his magic.

Gren and his friends couldn't quite decipher what Charlie said for pieces of cloth to start flying out of his wand and bandage Zym's wing for him not to be able to move it.

“So our mission was all for nothing?” Gren bowed his head.

“On the contrary, commander,” Ezran grinned at him, “if you hadn't brought Charlie here, we would worry about Zym for years and his bones could regrow in a wrong way, and from what I can see, you wouldn't have made a friend.”

“True.” Gren gave the words of his king some thought.

“Also, I think that mister Weasley doesn't mind meeting another species of dragon.” Opeli giggled.

Gren turned around to where Charlie was trying to make Zym hold still so he could cast the spell with bandages on him a few more times and smiled to himself.

“Yeah, you're right. It was completely worth it.” He observed his friend doing his job for a few seconds more before the heat on his cheeks became too much and he turned to Amaya who winked at him with a smug expression on her face.

Gren playfully rolled his eyes and walked to Charlie.

“So, after you do this, how long is it going to last?” He wanted to know.

“Well, Zym is a very energetic and jumpy dragon and these bandages have to be tight for as long as possible so I would have to change them a few times per day.” Charlie chuckled when Zym let out a happy squeak.

“Meaning you will stay here?” Gren tried sounding normal but was bad at hiding his excitement.

“Would that be okay?” Charlie scratched the top of his head. “I mean I don't know how realms work or if this is even allowed?”

“We can ask the mages but since we stayed on Earth for a month, I think it wouldn't be a problem.”

“Well, I love traveling and would love to help Zym for as long as I can, so I wouldn't mind at all.” Charlie couldn't believe how lucky he was to embark on this amazing adventure.

“What about the people back at home? Won't they miss you?”

In the time Gren spent with Charlie, he had the opportunity to get to know him very well and it became evident early on that Charlie was a man who would do anything for his family and his loved ones.

“They will,” Charlie shrugged, “but they are used to seeing me only a few times per year and besides, it's work-related and they understand how much my job means to me.”

“In that case, I would...” Gren cleared his throat. “...I mean we would love to have you.”

“It's settled then. I am staying. I would just like to ask if there is a way for me to send a message home?”

“I am sure that can be arranged.”

Charlie and Gren turned around to the voice and saw king Ezran smiling at them.

“I would like to thank you personally, mister Weasley...”

“Please, king Ezran, call me Charlie.”

“Only if you stop calling me king,” Ezran giggled, “my friends call me Ez and I think it's safe to say that you are now a friend. Wouldn't you say so, Gren?”

“Exactly!” Gren exclaimed.

“As I was saying, I would like to thank you for doing this. You have no idea how much this means to the magic folk, to us people, and me personally.” Ezran walked to where Charlie was kneeling next to Zym and wrapped his arms around him.

Charlie let out a suppressed chuckle, not expecting a king to hug him, but then returned the embrace before standing up.

“I will need a place to stay.” Charlie giggled nervously as they were standing in front of the castle door, waiting for the guards to let them in.

“You can stay with us,” Gren said and pointed behind him.

Charlie turned around to see Amaya signing to Gren for him to interpret.

“I think you will fit in with us just nicely,” Gren translated while Amaya sent Charlie a wink.

No amount of freckles could hide the dragon tamer's burning cheeks as he couldn't believe just how nice everyone in Katolis was.

Gren and Amaya took him to the garden the second he came from the much-needed shower from all the kisses and licks Zym gave him. They were sitting on the bench and conversing – Charlie trying to take in as many signs as he could because he was determined to learn sign language.

“Charlie, I bring good news!” Prince Callum came out of nowhere. “Ez told me that you want to send a message home and asked me to talk to the mages. They can prepare the mirror for you tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Callum. That is indeed great news.” He grinned at the prince, relieved that he will have a chance to explain to his family where he has gone to.

“Now that it's official and you're staying I think we have to give you a rank.” Ezran appeared next to Callum.

“A rank?” Charlie tilted his head in confusion.

“And armor!” Callum exclaimed.

“What are you two talking about?” Gren chuckled at how excited they were and glanced at Amaya who just giggled as if she was hiding something.

Amaya, what did you do? Gren's curiosity got the better of him.

Well, since Brandon retired last year I am without my third in command so I am giving that position to Charlie. Amaya explained.

“To me?” Charlie jumped in his seat after Gren told him what was going on. “But I can't fight!”

“You are doing admirable work, worth of a title.” Gren interpreted.

“I-I don't know what to say.” Charlie was left speechless.

“Oh, I know what you could do!” Callum gasped loudly before running away from them.

Not even 5 minutes later, he came back with his sketchbook in his hands. Without saying anything he ordered Gren, Amaya, and Charlie – who were sitting on the bench – to stand up.

“We will celebrate with your official portrait,” Callum explained his actions.

The trio exchanged a look and then turned around when they heard someone clear their throat.

“Callum, you can't draw them without Charlie being in his new uniform.” Soren shook his head and handed Charlie a package.

The redhead was looking at it in awe before being rushed to the closest bathroom to try it on.

“Oh, look at you!” Soren and Ezran said together, admiring the scales on Charlie's chest.

“You look...” Gren's mouth fell open, lost for words.

Dashing. Amaya signed and winked at her best friend.

“Uhm, yeah.” Gren nodded.

Come on, Gren. Say it to him. She encouraged him.

“Dashing. Uhm, you...you look dashing.” Gren knew there was no way to hide his strawberry freckled face but seeing Charlie blush at his words too, he no longer cared.

The trio positioned themselves in front of Callum who drew them and as the crew watched him hard at work, sneaking looks at Charlie, they knew their group gained a new friend.

#tpd #the dragon prince #harry potter #charlie weasley #tpd gren #the dragon prince gren #tpd amaya #the dragon prince amaya #commander gren #general amaya

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junipersdragon · 4 years

Text

Hey guys! This is a short fic about Winston Pratt and Callum Tredwell from Marissa Meyerr’s Renegade’s trilogy. This is inspired by the cannon divergence created by @healing-winston-pratt and @honey-hippie-harper. If you like this, please go check out their stuff because it’s really awesome!

Living in Wonder

A year and a half had passed since the second fall the Ace Anarchy, this time for good. Things were back to normal, and changing for the better. Normal, however, was an understatement in this world. After the supernova, everyone all over the world had been granted uncanny and extraordinary abilities. However, not all abilities were created equal, and that was especially true for Winston Pratt.

Winston groaned softly as the alarm from his phone woke him. He sat up, ginger hair mussed and eyes groggy. Shutting off the alarm with a yawn, he got up and made his way to the bathroom. He had work at the therapy center today, as he did every Wednesday, and had to be there early to set up all of the art supplies for the children. Once in the bathroom, he flicked the light on and winced at his reflection. Pale face, red circles on his cheeks, and black lines drawn from the corners of his mouth down to his chin, as though he was a marionette.

He wasn’t immune to the supernova. No one was. Despite the fact that he had been neutralized by Agent N, his powers still came flooding back to him without his knowledge when he was recovering in the hospital. He had gotten so used to his own face, his real face, with its soft pink undertone and freckles dotted across his nose, that he almost screamed when he saw his face in the mirror the first time he saw the faux makeup again.

The young man shook his head, clearing his thoughts before getting into the shower to get clean for the day. The fact that his burdenous power had returned was upsetting, yes, but that's why he had make up.

Once he was clean and dry, dressed in his clothes for the day, he set to work covering his face. Nova had helped him find a foundation that was the exact color of his real skin, one that was heavy coverage to cover up the lines on his chin and the dots of red on his cheeks. He thought of this almost like painting, a way that he could express himself as who he truly was. Once the foundation was laid, he gently blushed his cheeks and used a bristle brush and some watered down liquid brown eyeliner to create the freckles on his face that he missed ever so much. Setting the makeup with a mix of spray and powder, he looked at himself in the mirror again and smiled.

“There I am…!” He breathed out, the weight on his chest lifting at the reflection. Once again, this daily ritual helped him turn from his worst nightmare into his true self in a matter of minutes.

~~~

The therapy center was a lovely little building near the midwest part of Gatlan City, the size of a small clinic, and was a beacon to Winston, even in his darkest times. When he had been neutralized by Agent N, the staff at the clinic had made him feel whole again and helped him through his unresolved childhood trauma. They even were the ones who offered him the job to do art therapy at the clinic with at risk children, and he couldn’t have been happier.

“Good Morning, Winston!” The receptionist, Calli, greeted him as he walked in. He gave her a bright smile in return.

“Good morning, Miss Calli Cat! You’re looking as lovely as ever! Though, I’m sure your wife tells you that every morning.”

Calli chuckled and slid the sign-in sheet towards him. “You’re such a charmer!”

The ginger-haired man shrugged and signed in. “What can I say? Seeing you in the mornings brightens my day!” He said and slid the signed sheet back towards the woman.

“Oh! Speaking of brightening days, we have a volunteer in to help you with the kids today! I know they can be handfuls sometimes, so I’m hoping having an extra set of hands will help you out!”

“Oh? Why, thank you Miss Calli.” Winston said, though a slight twinge of jealousy made his cheek twitch a bit. The kids that he did art therapy were his life, possibly even his best friends, and someone else was going to come in here and try and take that from him?

Winston shook off the thought and took a deep breath before letting it out slowly again. No, that’s not what was happening. Someone who cared as much for the kids as he did was coming to help them, that’s what was happening. He was grateful for the extra help, especially when it would come time to clean up.

“I’ll see you around lunch time?” Calli offered with a gentle smile. Winston nodded.

“Yes, of course. I’ll see you then.” He said, offering her a quick smile back before walking through the doors into the therapy center.

Once he made it inside, Winston sighed with relief at the familiar surroundings. The clinic was clean and welcoming, but didn’t smell of the strong chemicals normal doctor’s offices usually did. There were plush chairs and books to read while you waited for your appointment, coloring books and fidget toys to calm you down if you’re stressed, and even some actual toys for younger children to play with. The sight made Winston smile as he re-adjusted the messenger bag on his shoulder and made his way to the Create Center.

The Create Center was pretty much exactly as it sounded, a little class room that was full of art supplies of all different art forms for kids to use for their art therapy, or even for kids to use who were waiting for their parents while they were in their own sessions. It was colorful and welcoming, with murals on the walls and pictures the kids made hanging from the clothesline overhead to dry and display.

Once Winston made it to the Create Center, though, he was surprised to see the lights shining through the large windows and a young man, not much older than he was, bustling about and setting up art supplies at each station. The volunteer, he assumed, and shrugged before walking inside.

The young man with brown hair stopped and turned to Winston, a smile instantly alighting his face as he put down the cup of colored pencils and walked over to him.

“Hi there! You must be Winston!” He greeted. “I’m Callum, Callum Tredwell! I’m going to be your assistant today!”

“Callum…” Winston repeated and took his outstretched hand, surprised when the boy shook it with enthusiasm. “Right. It’s nice to meet you..!”

“It’s so good to be here! I’m really excited to meet the kids and get to know them! Oh, and to see what they create! Art Therapy is so interesting, and I’m so glad we have a place in Gatlan that allows kids to have such a healthy way to express themselves!”

“I… I agree…!” He replied, surprised by this young man who was so full of hope and optimism and… wonder.

“I hope you don’t mind that I already started setting up!” Callum said, and pointed at the blue cotton apron he was wearing. “These aprons are so snazzy, I couldn’t resist!”

A snort of a laugh came from Winston’s throat and he covered his mouth in surprise. “N-no, it’s no mind at all..! I’ll, uh, put on mine and help you with the rest before the kids get here.”

“All right, Boss!” Callum agreed, the smile never leaving his face as he went back to organizing and setting up the stations.

Winston’s cheeks burned as he opened the closet and took out his own apron, covered in colorful paint splatters and clay, and replaced it with his bag on the hook. Why was his heart beating so fast all of a sudden? He wasn’t feeling anxious, like he normally felt when this sort of thing happened. No, instead, he felt light, and giddy, almost like when Nova and him used to play as children. He felt so extraordinarily happy in Callum’s presence, it was like there wasn’t a care in the world that could bother him.

The feeling, of course, passed, and soon the Create Center was full of kids, ages ranging between four and twelve years old. There was an art therapy teacher who took the kids that were between thirteen and seventeen, but Winston was glad to be with the younger children. They were so much more lively and happy, he noticed, and much more open.

“Winston!!!” A little voice squealed in delight. A little boy with curly brown hair ran up to him, a huge smile showing off his missing front teeth. “Look what I made!” He said, holding up a drawing for Winston to see.

The drawing was of the little boy, curly brown hair haloing a small stick figure's head, and of Winston, the taller stick figure with orange hair and a big smile on his face.

“Why, that’s lovely Daniel!” Winston said, praising the boy. “I’m so honored you would draw a picture of me! You’ve come a long way, and I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks!” He said and shoved the picture into Winston’s hands. “It’s for you to keep!”

Winston’s heart fluttered and he practically melted at the gesture. “Oh, thank you…! I’ll cherish it forever.”

The young boy giggled and ran off to go draw something else, leaving Winston to fold up the picture and put it into his pocket. He then started to make his rounds, looking over kids’ shoulders and praising them for their work. But he then stopped when he saw Callum, crouched down next to a twelve year old boy who was sitting at the paper craft station, his piece of paper untouched and the boy sitting with his arms folded and a sour expression on his face.

“What’s going on here…?” Winston asked Callum as he approached them.

“Ah, well, Titus here doesn't want to do anything.” He said, worried. “I’ve tried everything, but he won’t budge!”

“Leave me alone…!” Titus harrumphed, glaring down at the piece of paper in front of him.

“See?” Callum said, looking at Winston.

The young man sighed, shaking his head. “If he doesn't want to craft, he doesn't want to craft. We can’t force him to do anything. Perhaps he doesn't feel like it today.”

“Feel…?” Titus asked through gritted teeth. “You wanna know how I feel?” He said, snatching a pair of scissors off the table and standing up, eyes burning with rage. “I. Feel. Angry!!!” He shouted, and made a move to stab Callum with the scissors.

Out of pure surprise, Winston let out a shout and called up his power, golden strings sprouting from his fingertips and wrapping around Titus, stopping his hand inches from Callum’s shoulder.

“Titus!” Winston said, then sighed in relief. “Please, hand over the scissors.” He said. And the boy did, his body under Winston’s control but his mind free from suggestion.

“I’m very sorry that you are angry, Titus.” He said, keeping the boy’s eyes locked to his own. His voice was steady, but firm “But we don’t hurt others here. Hurting others will only hurt yourself.”

Titus huffed softly, but then moved his head in a subtle nod. Winston released his power from the boy and gently put a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we do some painting? You can paint how you feel instead of trying to hurt others. Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah, I guess…” Titus grumbled and allowed Winston to lead him away from Callum and to the painting station.

Later in the day, as the children left and it was time to close down the Create Shop, Callum approached Winston when they were finally alone.

“You’re the Puppeteer?” He asked, though it sounded more like an accusation.

Winston looked at him and sighed, frowning. “I was the Puppeteer. I’m not anymore. Just because I have my powers back, doesn't mean I want to hurt anyone else.”

“But… they’re letting you be around kids? Without anyone to stop you from controlling them?”

“When I was Neutralized, I went through therapy and learned that the reason why I was hurting and controlling children was because I was hurt and controlled as a child myself.” He explained. “I never thought that I would get my powers back, but when I did… I was mortified. These powers are a burden, and I hate them, but I use them only if a child is endangering themselves or others.”

Callum and Winston stood in silence for a long moment before Callum nodded, slowly.

“I see…” Callum said, and then offered a smile. “I’m sorry, I misjudged you. I can see that you really care about these kids.

“I do.” Winston agreed, looking back into the room. “What I’m doing here, for these kids, is what I would hope someone would have done for me. I would never dream of hurting them.”

“What you’re doing here, Winston… it’s wonderful.”

Winston looked at Callum and smiled sheepishly. “You really think so…?”

“Of course!” Callum said, his grin returning. “Wonder is my speciality.”

Then, a warmth spread through Winston’s chest, and he looked around the small classroom, almost as if he was seeing it in a new light all together. This place, this opportunity he was giving kids, was wonderful! And he got to be there and experience that wonder, watching the kids grow and create and heal from the things that hurt them. He was given a second chance to be able to grow and create himself, after his own childhood was taken from him and he hurt so many people. He was living in a world where everyone had the chance to live and change and grow and find happiness. He looked back at Callum in awe.

“Is… is this what you feel like all the time?” He asked.

Callum smiled and put a hand on Winston’s shoulder. “Yeah. I think, why live in a world that’s so full of darkness, when you could be living in wonder?”

#renegades by marissa meyer #winston pratt #callum treadwell #short fic #fanfiction #wholesome

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raayllum · 2 years

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Yes, please, write the rayllum aspec meta. Aspec rayllum is one of my favorite head canons.

Will happily do so as it's one of my favourite headcanons. I'm also going to be talking about TDP and how it does romance in general in a way that I think is very refreshing and consistent, which is to say:

TDP Doesn't Rely on Blushing, And It Does Wonders

Now, I love blushing in my fiction as much as the next person. I am very fond of those pink circles or six italicized vaguely squiggly lines. It can be cute, adorable, and downright exciting. I’m also not saying that blushing and aspec people are like, exclusive — we can and do blush! So can aspec characters.

However, what I am saying is that blushing is one of the most prominent signs of feelings — physical feelings — characters will display towards each other. Yet until 3x02, Rayla and Callum never blush at each other, but many of us aw their romance coming well ahead of time (for reasons unrelated to “lead boy lead girl” trope, thank you very much).

Also fun fact: originally this was going to be longer and I was going to talk more about Callum/Claudia as well as Janai/Amaya, so for once, I am actually shortening a meta response rather than lengthening it (although I’m sure this’ll also be plenty long). Mostly because I realized I’d rather focus on just Rayllum, as I have many thoughts on how this works for the other two couples, but not enough interest (at least right now) to write it down. So here we go!

However, we are still going to touch on Callum and Claudia when it comes to Callum’s body language, so they will factor in. After all, Callum’s crush on Claudia is made clear in her introduction scene — staring, smiling at her, wanting to impress her. Soren provides context clues as well. But even then, blushing isn’t a large part of their relationship. In 1x02, they share one of only two (2) blushing scenes the pairing has, both on Callum’s behalf.

We see this continued theme when Claudia and Callum cross paths again at the Moon Nexus. Callum is nervous and staring and even hyperventilating, wanting to impress her, holding hands, etc. But he never blushes. His flustered nature is shown in other ways, mostly in nervous gestures with his hands, like twisting his bag strap or even clasping his hands together.

There was also other body language, like rubbing the back of his head (in 1x02), gesturing to himself and pointing (2x02 both about Claudia and to Claudia about Rayla), etc. Obviously there are the big parallels, like Callum drawing both of them and seeing Rayla’s drawing in 2x07, the way Callum ultimately chooses to trust Rayla over Claudia, twice (1x03, 2x03), seeking out comfort from Rayla when he’s grieving on screen > Claudia (which either happened off screen or didn’t happen at all).

However, the main thing the lack of blushing between TDP couples in general allows for there to be ambiguous feelings. Blushing can be an indication or confirmation, but we know Callum clearly likes Claudia in 2x02 even if he doesn’t blush at her at all in the episode and even if we (the casual viewer) doesn’t remember he even blushed at her in almost a season ago.

What this does is give space for the audience to read between the lines and infer their own meaning onto more scnees. It’s why even two seasons (and three years later) Claudia’s ‘feelings’ for Callum in S2 still feel ambiguous. She certainly likes spending time with him and cares about him, but that doesn’t automatically translate into romantic affection. We can make an argument for her feelings for Callum (tucking away her hair, rubbing the side of her neck, enjoying his moon-eyed gazes and attention) but it’s also very easy, due to her lack of vested reciprocity, to dismiss those feelings as friendship and partial manipulation.

But what does any of this have to do with aspec Rayllum? Well: Rayla almost confesses her love for Callum in 2x09, without ever blushing at him once, and with still almost two whole episodes to go before she’s going to blush in front of him in general.

Think of this way — and spoilers for the comparison show / warning for personal preference regarding Luz and Amity from “The Owl House.” The first hints of feelings are on Amity’s side with blushing. There’s more than a few episodes where Amity, and only Amity, regularly blushes around Luz even outside of other flustered behaviour. Luz blushes at a couple of people before hand, but never around Amity until in very early S2.

Thus, the show convinces me that Luz catches feelings for Amity in early S2 — but no sooner, and certainly that Amity had an actual crush for far longer. Yes, Luz worked to befriend Amity, and enjoyed her company, but the wiggle room the show had to indicate Luz catching feelings any earlier feels moot because well — the show does rely on blushing to indicate romantic feelings, and Luz never blushed around her for multiple episodes. Amity has been blushing since episode 12/19, so almost 8 episodes go by with no reciprocal feelings indicated. And it works — it’s not a flaw, and I say be blatant with your queer rep, especially now that we can! — but it is a very different vibe.

All of this being a very long winded way to say that because TDP doesn’t rely on blushing for romantic feelings, it’s very easy to read romantic feelings and interest into Rayllum’s earlier scenes — and we know Rayla, at the very least, is catching strong feelings all through S2. This development is more subtle but definitely consistent on both sides, and I think it’s why so few people found the love confession out of left field in 2x09, because they’d been picking up (largely unprompted) on those vibes for a while now.

If the show did rely on blushing, their dynamic would look very different. For starters, rather than a gradual (i.e subtle) buildup to those feelings, it would feel very fast very quickly (if Rayla had been blushing since 2x04, for example, or even sooner). Even though Callum is clearly also catching feelings in S1 and S2, leaving blushing out means that his Romantic feelings for Rayla don’t get factored in as an aspect of his decision of who to trust in 2x03, even if his overall bond with Rayla, does.

Which also plays into how the lack of blushing allows for Callum and Rayla to have sometimes flirty vibes, yes, but it also allows for their bond to feel deeper than Crush feelings. It gives them a strong platonic basis that would lend well to romance instead of a “I like you but we’re just friends for a while first” plot arc that many friends-to-lovers plotlines get handed. (Which I also like, but doesn’t give as much of an aspec vibe, y’know?)

It also lends itself well to a slightly less physical vibe, particularly for Rayla, which also just encourages the demisexual headcanon I and many other aspec people have for her. After all, she falls head over heels for Callum without ever once being flustered or blushing around him (as that only happens when her confession gets interrupted). Yes, she’s touchy-feely with him and thinks he’s very cute/handsome, but she falls for him mostly because he’s sweet and brave and always gets back up again every time he fails.

Her calling him her best friend is treated with the same swelling music, importance, and framing as either of their first kisses. She also still blushes less than Callum does, too (she has two, Callum has three). But at the same time, I think both Callum and Rayla blushing at each other is important for their relationship, particularly on Callum’s side. Now, his blushing operates as confirmation / reaffirmation of his feelings, as they were mostly heavily hinted until that point from 2x07 through to 3x01 (arguably starting in earnest in 2x04).

But again, we know he’s been admiring and interested in Rayla for a while now. He thinks she’s awesome, he’s worrying about her, taking care of her, hugging her and grabbing her hand even when he doesn’t need to, choosing her over Claudia, etc. And again, none of this has to be read as romantic, but that flexible interpretation means that, just as he says in 3x04, he doesn’t think or do those things because he’s pursuing her or because he Likes her. He likes her because of all those things, and thinks just as highly of her regardless of whether or not she likes him back (see: Callum’s feelings in 3x04).

However, I think Rayla blushing is more important to their romance arc than him blushing, which is to say: if the crew had wanted Claudia to blush at Callum at any point in their relationship, she would have. But Claudia’s feelings are purposefully more ambiguous, as we’ve touched on, and she definitely has less of them than Callum does. And one of the best narrative things about Rayllum is that Rayla’s feelings for Callum are even more intense than his for Claudia, and Claudia’s for him; she pursues and courts and kisses Callum, blushes around him and gets flustered, too. They have an equal interest in each other, and it does wonders.

TLDR;

By not relying on blushing as a way to show romantic feelings, the show creates a state of Alterousness / Ambiguity of both overlapping platonic and romantic affection for Rayla and Callum to exist in. Their affection is then primarily built on emotional intimacy and physical gestures of reassurance (hugs, shoulder touches, hands, etc.) as well as a certain amount of maturity. They may be teenagers, but theirs is not a high school romance built on infatuation or a lack of self and emotional awareness of themselves, each other, and the world. Even when one blushes (i.e. 3x03) the other may not, perpetuating this Alterous / Friendship first even throughout their more overt romantic development. All of this allows for the ship to feel as though it is built strongly on a foundation of friendship above all else, lending itself well to aspec headcanons and subsequently creating an aspec heavy shipping community.

And I love it very very much.

#rayllum #tdp #the dragon prince #callum x claudia #parallels #tdp meta #analysis series #aspec rayllum #thanks for asking #anonymous #requests

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ofclaires · 3 years

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IV. CLAIRE WALSH

PAST SELF PARAS: april 2020 / september 2020 / march 2021.

hi, before the read more i just wanted to say THANK YOU. getting to play claire has been absolutely a treat, a challenge, and genuinely, a huge part of my life for the past year and a half or so. it occurred to me when writing this and looking back at other things i’ve written for claire that i didn’t just feel like i was writing this for myself or for claire ; but i was writing it for you guys, too ! that has been one of the most special things about gallagher for me is the writing community that i feel like we built, taking such a huge investment in our characters and everyone else’s writing. i feel like i’m writing with and for some of my best friends. i also feel like i’ve grown so much ( ok, i actually don’t just feel like it, i can look back at those three paras and SEE how my writing has improved. ) i am so blessed to have gotten to write claire with all of you and to share her story, i feel like she has been so fucking beloved & it’s given her so much life. i am so proud of her and it’s really bittersweet that i’m finally saying goodbye to her as well. so, thank you all so, so much, gallagher has been a writing experience like no other for me & i love you all !

trigger warnings : domestic violence & abuse, death

PART ONE: CHILDHOOD.

The trailer that Claire spent the back half of her childhood in never felt like home. Maybe because trailers are made to be temporary, or the fact that if she accepted that this was where she belonged, she’d have to give up hope.

It’s normal Maggie Walsh to be out late, Claire’s usually cleaned up the kitchen and tucked herself into bed by the time her mother comes in the door – but she’s not sleeping. She’s always had trouble with that, brain bouncing around from one thought to the next until eventually she hears the creak of the door.

Her mom’s home.

She hears the usual stumbling, the clatter of dishes falling from where she’d neatly placed them on the drying rack. Maggie’s drunk, Claire’s sure of that. Ten years old and she knows what it means to be so drunk that you can hardly see straight, that the words you say under the influence are a different reflection from the person that you really are. She inhales deeply and crawls out from under the covers to check on her. Ten years old and she knows the steps: Help her take her makeup off, make sure she sleeps on her side, glass of water on the bedside table, trash can on the floor. Maggie is only twenty-six years old herself now, not done with her childhood by the time that Claire was born, not ready to be a mother. Claire’s had to figure it out most of it herself.

“Mom?” Claire knocks on the door lightly, plastic cup full of water already in hand.

“Don’t – don’t come in!” Maggie sputters, and Claire’s confused. She defies her request and opens the bedroom door the rest of the way. When she sees her mom, she drops the cup on the floor, small hands curling into fists.

“What happened? Who did that to you?”

“I told you not to come in here, Claire,” Maggie repeats, but Claire has always been on to disregard commands. She learns at a young age that authority only means older than you or some assigned title, not that they know best.

“Who did that? Why?” She repeats her questions. Despite being mature for her age, it’s hard for Claire to wrap her head around the black eye obscuring Maggie’s face, and the swelling on her cheek.

“It doesn’t matter,” Maggie sighs, dejected as she flops down on the bed. Even in her state, she knows that there’s not much use telling Claire to back off or go away once she’s decided that she’s not going to. Her little girl is a spitfire, strangely enough reminds Maggie a lot of her own mom, like living with a miniature version of her. Maybe that’s why Claire wins most arguments. “Come here.”

Claire walks closer to the bed, kicking the cup aside on her way for no reason other than to kick something. She crawls into bed next to her mom and looks up at her, waiting for more of an explanation or literally anything but silence.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for a happy ending. I leave you home alone, I come home like this...not helping either of us,” Maggie presses a kiss to the top of Claire’s head, runs her fingers through her daughter’s hair. It’s so soft and Claire is so little, she can’t help but look at the spilled cup on the floor with a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry,” she adds, voice choked up and words a little slurred. Tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes when she closes them, hugging her daughter closer, “I’ve blamed you for my fucked up life for so long...that’s not fair.”

Now, Claire is only ten, but those are the kind of words that you remember forever. Still, she smiles. “It doesn’t have to stay fucked up. It can get better,” a childish spark of optimism in her heart that hasn’t yet been put out. It makes Maggie smile back though, kissing her daughter on the top of her head yet again.

“I like that,” she says, and they fall asleep curled up beside each other. Claire sleeps soundly, thinking that it’s possible. Things really could get better, and for a while, it seems like there really is a sort of shift. Maggie starts cooking, cleaning again, and she doesn’t even stay out so late. That’s when she meets Martin.

He seems better than the rest. Until he isn’t.

But Claire does her job as her mother’s protector, just as she’s been doing all of her life, and it’s that event that jumpstarts the rest of everything that happens next.

PART TWO: GRADUATION.

Claire’s come to the formal conclusion that graduation ceremonies are a waste of time. There’s all this build up, everyone’s so excited, and then you have to sit around and wait for your name to be called so you can spend two seconds walking across a stage while everyone claps. She would have skipped it entirely if her mother hadn’t already come up, and if she knew that people were going to insist. The small talk afterward is even more agonizing than the ceremony itself. It is sort of painful saying goodbye to everyone, and it occurs to Claire that there’s more people that she’s going to miss than she ever expected.

“Callum and his mother are here,” Maggie points out.

“And?” Claire rolls her eyes. Seeing Callum again to begin with had brought up a lot of old feelings, and generally, even though they’d resolved things, she tries to avoid him whenever possible.

“Well, it’s probably weird if we don’t say hello, at least, right? I’m going to say hello,” Maggie interjects, “he’s such a sweet boy.”

Claire’s eyebrows rise on her forehead as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Go ahead then,” she sighs, “I’ll wait right here.”

“Claire,” Maggie draws out her name with a withering stare, but Maggie has never been able to establish that sort of authority with Claire that would prompt any inclination of obedience, so Claire just shrugs her shoulders, unimpressed. She’s not going to budge. “Fine, I’ll be right back.”

Claire’s done her best to put the chapter of their life that includes Martin out of her mind when rekindling things with her mother, and she certainly doesn’t want to stand around making small talk with his other ex-wife, trying not to look at Callum with his matching jawline, trying not to remember everything she hates. It all comes back in a flash. The horrible cracking sound that her mother’s head had made when it connected with the wall, the blood on the marble floor. They say you don’t remember trauma properly, that your memory doesn’t work quite right, but she will never forget the way her fist connected with Martin’s face : like a puzzle piece, like it BELONGED there, and she’d done it over and over again until she heard sirens.

And yet, Claire can’t deny that it’s a part of her life that got her here, where she is today. She thinks life is shitty and random, and that not everything has to happen ‘for a reason.’ Still, she’ll catch Kass’s eye across the room and see her smiling so brightly that it seems impossible not to believe in something. Claire can’t help herself anyway – she smiles back. No one has ever been able to produce Claire’s smile in its truest form the way Kass has, unashamed of being so happy to look at someone. She once thought the idea of looking at a person and seeing your whole future was ridiculous, that you’d have to be stupid to put that much of yourself into someone, but it isn’t like that at all. All of it was unintentional, like by the time she realized it, Kass was already everything. And she feels so safe with that thought that she doesn’t mind at all.

“Am I interrupting something?” A figure steps in front of her, cutting off her line of sight. She’s not really fond of being snuck up on, so she opens her mouth to say something snarky when she’s met with the gaze of Lisanna Harlin, one of last year’s mentors. Her daughter, Elisa, is there, but she’s not graduating, so Claire’s confused by Lisanna’s presence.

“No, Ms. Harlin,” Claire says, though there’s a spark of indignation in her words that practically goes hand in hand whenever an adult commands authority.

“Lisanna is fine,” she says with a light laugh, like she’s amused Claire’s greeted her this way.

“Can I...help you with something?” Claire asks, mostly curious about how long this interaction has gone on. While she’s friendly with Elisa, she was Kass’s roommate last year, they’re not exceedingly close, so she’s not sure what else Lisanna would have to say to her other than maybe a polite hello.

It’s more than a polite hello. Lisanna Harlin works for Lexon Corp in Durham, North Carolina, a private military company that provides armed guards, bodyguards, and guns for hire. They’re the sort of place that would be looking for the best of the best in combat, and they have a bit of a reputation for hiring Gallagher girls. Claire had given up on the job search months ago since the video went out, in fact, she’s had a job lined up for graduation already : at a boxing gym in D.C., where the scene isn’t too bad. It was suited to her, but not exactly the sort of thing that her Gallagher education had prepared her for. Lexon Corp? Everything her rigorous love of January boot camps were tailored to. And they want to interview her.

A month later, Claire’s sitting on the cusp of a completely fresh start. It wasn’t easy to backtrack on the plans that she and Kass had made together, knowing how much was changing for the both of them, it had been nice to have the stable idea of an apartment together on the horizon. Now, she’s a four hour drive away, and she goes home to her one-bedroom studio in Durham after rigorous training throughout the day. But she’s grateful for the chance to work her way back into the field, and she can remember what Lisanna said to her when they gave her the offer.

“We’re aware that with your history that we’re taking a chance on you, Claire,” Lisanna said. “But we think the reasons that made other agencies look past you are exactly what makes you an asset. You care about your jobs, the people that you’re involved in, and you’d have a partner’s back until the bitter end. You listen to your intuition, trust your gut...and above all else, you have follow-through. I’m excited to be able to offer this position. Don’t prove me wrong.”

Claire swears that she won’t.

PART THREE: KIPTYN.

Kiptyn isn’t supposed to be in the left hall closet.

In fact, he’s not supposed to be awake at all. But who can sleep the night before their birthday anyway? Sure, he’ll be thirteen, and that’s probably old enough to have gotten over the magic of it all, but...he’d still been lying awake with excitement, the anticipation keeping his eyes open for hours on end. Well, that and the video game he’d been playing under the covers, but he’d obviously only been playing it because he couldn’t sleep in the first place.

Then he started thinking about the left hall closet and the conversation that they had at dinner the other night. In Kiptyn’s defense, Dahvia – his younger sister – had totally started it and he was an innocent bystander. After all, Kiptyn’s old enough to know that they don’t bring up Claire to mom, because it just puts her in a mood and then you can forget about doing anything else for the rest of the evening. But Dahvia’s ten, practically a baby, and she doesn’t know any better.

“Hey, mom? What sort of accident did Claire die in? Nina asked me at recess and I didn’t know,” Dahvia pipes up, before she’s even properly sat down. Kip visibly cringes. He’s older, wiser, knows this won’t go well. Still, he dares to look at his mom’s face and he notes the faraway look in her eye, like she seems to experience a bunch of things at once. Kip notices how even though her eyes are glassy, she doesn’t cry. Though sometimes, their mom will just cry randomly, like two weeks ago when he asked for help with his Spanish homework and she couldn’t even help him finish the first worksheet.

“It was a car accident,” she says stiffly, “eat your dinner.”

Kiptyn kicks his sister under the table and flashes her a look that says : Great. Look what you did, ruined dinner. Dahvia sticks her tongue out at him.

So, he knows that he’s not supposed to be in the left hall closet because he could ruin many more dinners, but he’s here anyway. He’s been thinking about it ever since they sat in silence for the rest of that half hour, and he’s come to the conclusion – his mother was lying. Because all sorts of things make their mother cry, like a bowl of mac and cheese or Spanish class, or motorcycles, and she won’t let Kiptyn take boxing lessons though his friend Robert is and he thought it sounded really cool, but she doesn’t have any problem with cars or driving, and also, she’s never told them a single thing about Claire except that. They aren’t allowed to know anything about her, especially not anything true, so Kiptyn is pretty sure that’s a lie. There’s just something just weird about it.

So, in the middle of the night before his thirteenth birthday, he looks up a video on how you pick locks and then he figures it out on the door of the left hall closet. He’s there for at least forty-five minutes, practically ready to give it all up when he hears the clicking sound, and then it opens. His first thought is : Woah. This is a load of junk.

And he’s right. There’s boxes upon boxes of paperwork, old clothes. Some things start to click, like when he finds a pair of worn boxing gloves with Claire’s initials embroidered on them. His favorite thing that he finds is the fattest scrapbook he’s ever seen – his mom always makes them, there’s one for every year of his life. Dahvia’s too, they love looking at them. The cover of this one, though, says Italy 2021. It’s all pictures of his mom and Claire, probably in their early twenties. Kiptyn mostly notices his mother’s smile, how he’s only seen her look like that a couple times in his life and yet it looks so EASY here, like she wears it all the time. It’s so strange to him. He sets the scrapbook down and crawls toward the back of the closet. His eyes land on two leather folders with gold embroidery, and he opens up the first one. In big letters at the top : GALLAGHER ACADEMY.

It’s a diploma.

This certifies that Kassandra Sutton has satisfactorily completed the…

“What are you doing?”

Kiptyn yells out like a child, not having heard anyone creeping up on him. He claps his hand over his mouth as if to shush himself. “The door was open! I don’t know how, but I just...noticed it was open and wanted to make sure that...no one was stealing your stuff!” he grins sheepishly, hoping that he can ride on the high of his birthday week to get him out of this one.

“It was just...open?” his mother looks down at him with raised eyebrows before brandishing a twisted paper clip between two fingers. The one that had formerly been stuck in the door. His guilty expression widens, he can’t help it.

“Okay, I might know how it opened,” Kiptyn admits. He hesitates for a moment, before he realizes that he’s ALREADY in trouble, he might as well just come out with it and pray to the birthday gods. He holds up the diploma with her name on it : “What’s Gallagher Academy?”

Kass’s sigh is heavy and deep, accompanied by the amount of exhaustion that comes with raising two curious kids by herself. After Claire died, she moved her family to London to be closer to their aunt and away from everything that reminded her of Claire. She never told her children why. From hiding that world from them, the world that took so many people from her : her father, her ex-girlfriend, and the love of her life. She swore that she would never lose her children to it, too. But Kiptyn looks up at her with wide eyes, desperate to know about his mother and his past, and Kass also knows what it’s like to have part of yourself missing due to family secrets that are being kept from you. He is practically a teenager now. So, she relents.

Kass doesn’t go into all of the details, of course. Just that Gallagher Academy was a school for spies, and that’s where it all started. Kiptyn already knew that his moms met in college, so it’s the spy part that’s most interesting to him. She talks about Claire with a light in her eyes he’s unfamiliar with, how she was one of the best fighters in their year, that she grew up with such a talent in the ring that she probably could’ve gone pro if her life had gone in a different direction. She talks about how they had to part ways after graduation, because Claire got a job in North Carolina and she got a job in Washington, DC, but they made it work, and both got very accustomed to the four hour drive – though it was sometimes closer to three for Claire, because she always drove too fast, even on this big, black motorcycle which Kass swears that she hated. She tells Kiptyn about how they got married, the way she’d almost moved to England for a dream job and that long distance threatened to drive them apart again – until Claire chased her down in the airport with a ring and proposal.

She also talks about how Claire really died : the abridged version. It was an overseas mission where they’d been cornered, and Claire risked her life to save the rest of their team. There were no other casualties, and the information they were able to bring back helped stop the terrorist organization they’d been chasing to end them for good. Kass tells the abridged version for her son, gives Claire a hero’s death. In some ways, it was. She doesn’t mention the ways that Claire was consumed by the case, it was an organization hellbent on killing spies and it likely reminded her of the brotherhood. Kass had been worried about the case the whole time, because it felt like Claire was taking it too personally. In the end, she may have been right : because Claire had let it take her life in order to close it. She also doesn’t mention that such a sacrificial death means that her wife died fighting alone, swinging her fists until her very last breath. But still, she was all alone.

She had no choice but to take her kids as far away from that life as possible.

Kiptyn tries, but he doesn’t really remember Claire. He’d only been three years old when she passed away, and before then, she’d been so consumed by her last case that she was barely present. Still, he thinks she sounds badass.

He falls asleep on his mother’s shoulder that night, looking through the scrapbook of pictures from their trip to Italy in 2021. He’s animated for the first part, pointing out buildings and asking questions, wonders if Claire was sweating in all that leather, but he slowly starts to drift off. He wakes up on the couch the next morning, no trace of the book or any of the other papers he’d hauled out of the closet the night before. He looks at the closet and there’s an extra padlock. Figures.

It comes up in little ways, like a private joke that he has with his mother, like she’ll say something and flash him a secretive smile. He likes that, and he understands that this is a big secret that he has to keep. It doesn’t come up again until his fourteenth birthday the next year, the summer before high school. It’s a strange letter in a manila envelope, sealed with some expensive red wax, his name written in fancy calligraphy. The most attention-grabbing part, however, is not Kiptyn Sutton-Walsh in big cursive letters. It’s the return address :

GALLAGHER ACADEMY.

learn her skills, honor her sword. keep her secrets.

#*#self para

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justcallmefox89 · 4 years

Text

Truth or Dare Part 4

The birthday sleep over has completely fallen apart, Mammon and Levi are at each other’s throats, Arianthi backslides into old thoughts and dangerous habits, and Diavolo offers her comfort.

Some good old fashioned angst and NSFW content: Language, blowjob, penetrative sex, face riding, unprotected sex.

Remember everyone, consent is key. Being open and honest with your partner and making sure you’re both on the same page is the sexiest thing you can do for one another. Also - practice safe sex mmmkay? :)

TW: body image and self esteem issues, eating disorders.

Written from the perspective of my female character Arianthi.

I’m adding a different mood playlist to each installment of this series, just songs that I listened to while writing and feel embody each part of the story.

Foxy Shazam - Count Me Out

Callum Scott - Dancing on My Own

Meg Myers - Desire

Hozier - Movement

Jess Benko - A Soulmate Who Wasn’t Meant to Be

“Arianthi! Arianthi! Open the damn door!” Mammon pounds on the door to Arianthi’s room, unable to open it.

“Screaming at her to open the door after you’ve just insulted her on her birthday probably isn’t the best way to get her to let you in Mammon,” Lucifer says coldly.

“I doubt she’d let you in anyway, scumbag,” Satan adds, an angry growl in his voice.

Mammon opens his mouth to snap back, then closes it, unable to come up with a retort.

“Stupid Mammon can’t even defend himself this time,” Asmo mocks. “You just blew whatever shot you had with Arianthi straight to hell.”

Mammon looks at the floor, ashamed. “I didn’t mean it. She’s got to know I didn’t mean it, I was just so.....”

“Jealous? Stupid? Idiotic? Pick a description because they all fit. Newsflash, even a shut in otaku like me knows like you can’t treat the girl you supposedly care about like shit and then expect her to still like you.” Levi glares at Mammon and then tries the doorknob again, agitated.

The door still doesn’t open and he can’t hear any movement inside her room.

Beel looks around worriedly. “She never locks her door. Ever. She always leaves it open so I can go in and get the snacks she keeps for me. And Luke said she might be sick.”

Belphie shares his concern. “Do you think we should have Beel break the door in? In case she’s too sick to answer and needs help?”

For the first time since Lilith, Lucifer looks to be at a loss. Concern for Arianthi and the urge to comfort her battles with his desire to protect her privacy.

Diavolo steps forward to pass a hand over the door and sighs. “It wouldn’t matter if he did. She’s warded the door against us.”

The brothers share a look of surprise.

Mammon is the first to recover his voice. “Where would she even learn ward magic? And why would she start using it now?”

“I taught her.” The demons turn to look at Solomon, who has walked up behind them. “And as to why she’s using it, I’d venture to guess that Mammon’s little attempt to shatter her self-confidence worked, and she doesn’t want to see any of you right now.”

Mammon flushes with shame. “I didn’t mean any of it,” he mutters.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it.” For the first time a sharp tone enters Solomon’s voice.

“Take down the ward,” Lucifer orders him.

Solomon moves to stand in front of Arianthi’s door. “No.”

Lucifer’s eyes gleam red, anger rising. “You may be a powerful sorcerer Solomon, but I am one of the seven lords of the Devildom and I will rip your heart out of your chest without hesitation. Open. The. Door.”

“No.”

Lucifer lunges forward, already shifting to his demon form.

Diavolo stops him with a strong hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re all worried, but maybe Solomon is right. Maybe we should respect her privacy. She’s put up the wards for a reason.”

Levi pushes forward and knocks softly on the door. “Arianthi? It’s me. Can I come in?”

Silence.

“Please Arianthi?”

The demons and Solomon all hear movement behind the closed door and Arianthi’s voice whispering. There’s a soft click and the door opens. Arianthi’s hair has been pulled back into a messy ponytail, her make up removed. A t-shirt that is clearly Beel’s hangs to her knees, over it she wears one of Levi’s hoodies, and a pair of Belphie’s sweats peek out beneath the over sized shirts. She’s obviously been crying.

Something sharp and painful twists in Mammon’s chest. I did this. I made my human cry. I was stupid and jealous and I fucked up. I need to make this right. He moves quickly towards the open door, attempting to push past Levi.

“Arianthi, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean -”

Arianthi holds up a hand to cut him off. “Just Levi.” Her voice is soft and hoarse.

Levi slips past Mammon and into the room. Arianthi shuts the door behind him and whispers the incantation to once again ward the door.

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

Levi follows me and we both take a seat on my bed, leaning up against the headboard, shoulders touching.

“Luke said he heard you being sick.”

I sigh heavily.

I don’t want to talk about this now. Never talking about it would be ideal. Forgetting this whole shit show of a night would be fantastic.

“I was sick. Then I took a shower and brushed my teeth. I’m fine now.

“Did you make yourself sick on purpose?” Levi asks softly.

I turn to face him, getting my first proper look at his face and his emerging black eye.

“Levi! What happened to your face?” I reach out to touch his cheek, worried.

He gently grabs my hand and pulls it down, folding it between his two large ones. “Don’t change the subject.”

The urge to cry comes on again, hard and fast. “I’m sorry Levi,” I whisper.

He sighs. “I’m not mad at you. I just........I wish you wouldn’t feel like that’s something you have to start doing again.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “It just....it’s hard. I haven’t felt that way in a long time but then......... I just felt this panic and I thought if I could get rid of the food then I would feel better. And if I start doing it again then I can be more like what he wants.......I could be pretty. I could be so much more than this. I could be good enough for him.” I gesture at my body, the tears flowing freely now.

Levi thunks his head back against the headboard of the bed in frustration. He turns me to face him, his thumbs brushing my tears from my cheeks.

“Hey we’ve talked about this. Remember what you told me when Mammon was selling that picture of me? And I was so embarrassed because I didn’t want anyone seeing that much of my body? You told me I was perfect how I was. I didn’t have to look like Beel or Mammon to be attractive. Fuck everyone who thought differently. You loved me. My brothers loved me in their own weirdly deranged ways. You said I didn’t have to change to be like anyone else to be worthy of love and the things that made me different from my brothers were what made me sexy. And then you got Mammon to delete the picture and give me all the Grimm he made from it.”

Levi grins at me. “I think you’re the only person who has ever been able to get Mammon to willingly hand over Grimm.”

I choke back a sob. “I remember.”

“Ok, well I’m telling you the same thing now. Don’t go back to that. Don’t hate yourself, don’t make yourself sick to try to control things, to change things about yourself to make someone else care about you.” Levi gives me a little shake.

“That’s easy for you to say. I’m just a human. Is there some stupid rule here that all demons must be skinny and mind blowingly attractive?”

Levi looks at me for a moment then laughs. I join in, giggling through my tears.

“I mean what I’m saying,” Levi says as he wipes away the rest of my tears. “We all care about you, exactly how you are. If you start to feel like you can’t handle this and need help we can talk to Diavolo. He can send you back to the human realm to get help from the doctors there. I’m sure he’d let you come back after.”

I bite my lip anxiously then nod. “I’ll tell you if I can’t get a handle on it. If I can’t, or you think I’m slipping you can tell Diavolo.”

“Pinky promise?”

I smile, linking my pinky with his. “Pinky promise.”

Levi sighs in relief. “Good. Feel a little better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so,” I answer, leaning my shoulder against his. “Hey Levi?”

“Mmm?”

"Thank you.”

He smiles at me. “Anything for my Henry.”

“Could you do me a favor? Could you tell Diavolo I want to talk to him real quick? I want to apologize for everything that happened tonight.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I stand up and reach over to my nightstand. I hand Levi a jumble of things; a toothbrush, a D.D.D. charger, some t-shirts, a pair of sunglasses, a white dress shirt.

“Can you give these back to Mammon when you go back out there? Please?”

Levi nods and we walk to the door together. I take down the ward and he slips through the open door.

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

“She wants to talk to Diavolo,” Levi tells the crowd assembled outside Arianthi’s door. “She’s upset but she’s not sick anymore.”

A wave of shock ripples through the rest of the brothers. Diavolo nods and quickly enters the bedroom.

“She really doesn’t want to see any of us?” Asmo asks, hurt.

Levi looks at the ground, trying to avoid the upset gazes of his brothers. “It’s nothing personal Asmo. She’s just got some stuff going on right now. Really personal stuff. She can’t talk about it with anyone else. She might though. Soon. Just don’t be mad at her for it, please?”

Asmo nods, still obviously distressed.

“Well, now that I know she’s not sick I’m going to gather up Luke and Simeon and we’ll take our leave,” Solomon says, shooting Mammon one last dirty look before he turns and walks down the hall.

The demons all give him a half-hearted wave goodbye.

Levi remembers the things that Arianthi gave him and quickly shoves them into Mammon’s arms. “Here’s all your stuff that was in Arianthi’s room. She doesn’t want it in there anymore.”

Mammon looks down at this things in horror. There’s a stinging sensation in his eyes, and he suddenly can’t breathe. He bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, and quickly walks to his room without a word to his brothers.

“This is really bad.” Beel looks around at the remaining brothers. “We have to fix this.”

Satan sighs softly. “This might be something we can’t fix Beel.”

“Satan’s right. Ultimately this is going to be between Arianthi and Mammon,” Lucifer says. “The best thing we can do is to let Arianthi know we still care about her and want her in the House of Lamentation.”

He sighs. “Let’s all go to bed. There’s nothing else to do here tonight. I’m sure if Diavolo thinks anything is wrong he’ll let us know before he leaves.”

The brothers all exchange worried glances before they disperse to their bedrooms.

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

“Hey.” Diavolo gives me a small smile as he enters my room.

“Hey.” I return the smile and pat my bed. “You can come sit with me if you want.”

“Do you want to put the wards back up?”

I shake my head. “No, just close the door please.”

“Are you feeling better?” The mattress dips under Diavolo’s weight, causing me to slide closer to him.

“Yeah, just a bad moment.”

“I’m sorry Mammon said those things about you.” Diavolo reaches out to take my hand. I involuntarily flinch at the touch of his fingers and he jerks his hand back. “I’m sorry, I overstepped.”

I quickly grab his hand, lacing my fingers with his. “It’s ok Diavolo. I’m just feeling a little off right now.”

“Are you sure?” He looks at me with concern. “I don’t want to make your night worse with my attention if you don’t want it.”

I press a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I’m sure.”

A faint blush stains Diavolo’s cheeks. “And you promise you’re feeling better?”

I grin. He’s absolutely adorable.

“Promise. I have some things I need to work on, but right now I am feeling better.”

He squeezes my hand. “Good.” He pauses for a moment, looking as if he’s trying to gather his thoughts, before he turns and looks earnestly into my eyes.

“Arianthi....... I want you to know that I don’t agree with any of the things Mammon said. And I hope that you don’t let his outburst taint your opinions of other demons...... or of me. I meant what I said earlier tonight, about wanting to get to know you more. I don’t want to push you, because I know that you have feelings for Mammon, but I do hope you’re still open to giving me a chance. And I think our encounter earlier this evening proved that I’m more than slightly attracted to you, just as you are.”

His last sentence comes out in a rushed whisper, and he’s blushing heavily.

“I wouldn’t let something like that change my opinion of you Diavolo,” I respond truthfully. “There are some feelings regarding Mammon that I need to sort through. I really don’t know how all those are going to shake out. I do like you, I enjoy our time together, and I think I made it obvious earlier that I’m attracted to you too. I meant what I said earlier about getting to know you. I’m open to see what could happen between us.”

He smiles and places a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist. “I’m a very patient demon. I’ll follow your lead. Whatever you want, no pressure at all.”

He pushes himself up from my bed. “I should be going. You need your rest.” He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Good night Arianthi.”

I reach up and stroke his cheek. “Diavolo?’

“Hmmm?”

“Stay with me tonight?” This might be a bad idea, but I really just want him close to me right now. Someone who’s open about how he feels me. Someone strong and handsome who can distract me from this fucked up night.

I just want some comfort. Some cuddles. There’s nothing wrong with that. Right?

He hesitates a moment, shock and pleasure warring across his face. “Are you sure?”

I bite my lip, hesitating a moment before holding my arms out to him. “Cuddle me?”

“Your wish is my command, birthday girl.” He grins at me, bending down to give a tight hug.

I stand up to feel more of him, nuzzling my head against his chest. “Thank you.”

He rests his chin on my head. “Anything for you,” he whispers.

We stand that way for a minute, swaying slightly. I feel safe in Diavolo’s arms, like nothing can ever hurt me.

A demon, the Prince of the Devildom no less, is the one who makes me feel safer than I ever have before. I internally roll my eyes and huff a small laugh against Diavolo’s chest.

“Diavolo?”

“Mmm?”

“This is really nice, but can we get into bed? I’m exhausted.” I playfully slump against him to prove my point.

He effortlessly holds me up and chuckles. “Yeah, we can do that. Let me send a message to Barbatos really quickly to let him know he’s free to go home.”

He reaches for his D.D.D. to tap out a quick message.

I pull away to shuck off my hoodie and sweats. I look up to find Diavolo staring at me, eyes wide. I look down at myself, wondering what the problem is.

Beel’s t-shirt is all the way down to my knees, I’m wearing underwear. I’m all covered up. What’s wrong? Panic starts all over again. He hates what he sees. This is a mistake. He knows he made a mistake.

“Everything ok?” I ask anxiously.

“Uh huh. Yep. All good here,” Diavolo says, swallowing nervously.

“Ok.” I smile at him, and slide between the sheets, sinking into my mattress. Diavolo moves to lay beside me, still fully clothed.

I look up at him, confused. “You’re not sleeping in your clothes are you?”

Diavolo’s ears turn red. “I was considering it.”

I stare at him. “Diavolo, we’re both adults here. You can sleep in your boxers. We’ll be ok. If anything happens beyond cuddles it will only be because we both want it. But neither one of us are going to sleep comfortably if you’re still wearing all your clothes.”

He lets out a nervous breath then grins down at me. “You’re right, you’re right.”

He peels off his jacket and shirt, and I stare as his hands move to his belt buckle and he pushes down his pants.

Holy. Fucking. Fuck. Temptation has entered the chat.

I thought Beel was a gorgeous specimen, but Diavolo surpasses even him. Every inch is heavily muscled, perfectly defined. Smooth skin that I want to run my hands over.

I want to climb this man like a tree and never come down. Bad Arianthi. Bad. Quench your thirst.

Diavolo slides under the sheets next to me and we roll onto our sides to face each other.

He reaches out to hold one of my hands. “I really am sorry your birthday ended on such a sour note.”

I squeeze his hand. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry you had to see all that. Besides, it’s not all bad. We’re here, getting to spend time together.”

He gives me a soft smile, and his hand moves up to gently stroke my arm. “That’s true.”

I tense in automatic response to his touch. He’s going to feel how fat my arms are. He’s going to hate what he feels.

Diavolo’s hand stills immediately. “Is this ok?”

I suck in a deep breath and nod, relaxing a little, waiting for the rational part of my brain to take over.

He’s seen my arms before. He already know what they look like. He wouldn’t be here, touching me, spending time with me, if he didn’t want to.

He resumes his gentle stroking, but remains silent. He seems to be considering what he wants to say.

I place a hand on his bare chest and he shivers under my touch. “Diavolo I can hear your wheels turning from here. What’s on your mind?”

He smirks at me. “I always forget how perceptive you are.” He pauses for a minute, choosing his words carefully. “I know that you have some issues with your body.”

I tense up again.

His hand moves away from my arm, stroking the curve of my waist down to my hip. Up and down. His soft touch gradually helps me relax.

“I’m not going to push you to talk about it now. But I hope someday you feel comfortable enough to talk to me about what you’re feeling. Until then I have no problem telling you how gorgeous I find you. How perfect your body is to me. I’ll tell you every day. Every hour. Every minute, if that’s what it takes.”

I lay my head on his chest trying to hide my tears. Happy tears this time. After a couple minutes I regain my composure and look back up at him. Warm golden eyes meet mine, and he smiles down at me.

I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back more tears and give him a small smile. “Thanks. You know, you’re going against every single demon stereotype right now.”

He pulls me to him, holding me tight. He chuckles, and it rumbles deep in his chest. “Maybe so. But as long as I’m making you happy that’s all that matters.”

He pulls back to stare down at me intently. “I just ask that when you do struggle with things like that you talk to me. I might not always be able to make things better, or even understand, but I want you to always be honest about your feelings with me.”

“I can do that. But only if you promise to do the same thing.” I press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I promise.” He moves to kiss my cheek in return, but I turn my head at the last minute, catching his lips with my own.

This kiss is soft, chaste, but he still gives a pleased gasp and tightens his grip on me.

He pulls away suddenly and looks down at me with concern. “I want to kiss you. Really kiss you.”

“Then kiss me.” I tilt my head up, ready for more.

Diavolo frowns and bites his lip. “You’ve had a rough night, and you’re upset. I don’t want to take things further, if you’re not......” He exhales sharply. “I don’t want to take advantage of you if you’re not in a good head space right now.”

Mind. Blown.

Once again, a demon is being more considerate than the majority of humans I’ve dated. He deserves to have the same consideration from me.

“I promise you Diavolo, you won’t be taking advantage of me. I want this. I want you. But if you don’t feel comfortable then I won’t push it and we’ll just cuddle and talk. Or you can leave if you don’t feel ok about that anymore. I won’t be mad. I want you to be comfortable too.”

“I am more than comfortable with this as long as you are.” Diavolo moves in to kiss me again but I press a finger to his lips, stopping him.

“I just want to make sure that I’m being totally transparent with you. I like you, and I do want you. I still want to keep getting to know you. But whatever happens between us tonight I can’t make you any promises that it will lead to anything permanent. If you don’t feel ok doing anything more physical than kissing without a being in a relationship, then I totally understand.” I hold my breath, waiting for his response.

He stays silent for a bit, mulling over what I’ve told him. “I appreciate your honesty. We’ve already decided that we want to keep learning about each other and spending more time together. Sex won’t change what I want, and I won’t ever push you for more than you’re comfortable with. Physically or emotionally.”

Whew. “Same page then?”

“Same page. Can I please kiss you now?”

I giggle and nod, and he surges forward, pressing his lips against mine. I sigh into the kiss, pleasure lighting up every nerve ending. Diavolo licks along my lower lip.

“Open your mouth,” he growls.

I instantly obey and brush my tongue against his. He pulls me tight against him, his tongue soft against mine, expertly teasing me, gentle and exploring. I wriggle against him, desperate for more contact. He grips my hips and rolls onto his back, pulling me on top of him, his mouth never breaking contact with mine.

His hands tug at the hem of my shirt, asking permission. I move up to my knees and pull it over my head, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

“Fuck.”

Diavolo pulls me further up his body and turns his attention to my breasts. He draws one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and flicking it with his tongue. His hand moves up to cup my other breast, gently stroking and squeezing, before his large fingers start pinching and tugging my nipple, bringing it to a stiff peak. He cups me again, his large palm overstimulating my already sensitive breast.

I card my hands through his hair, tugging slightly and giving a small moan. Diavolo releases my nipple from his mouth with a small pop! and gives me a wicked grin. His hands stroke down my back and move to squeeze my ass. He mouths my neck, teeth nipping against the tender skin.

“Mmmmm. So quiet. Clearly I need to do better. I need you moaning my name. Telling me how good I make you feel. Don’t hold back beautiful. Let me hear you,” he murmurs.

He sucks hard on a particularly sensitive spot on my neck, then soothes it with a soft swipe of his tongue.

“Diavolo!” I shudder against him and he takes the opportunity to lavish more attention on my breasts, kissing and licking, making me squirm above him.

“Mmmm, that’s more like it.” His deep voice sends pleasant vibrations against my skin as he continues to use his mouth on me.

I pull back and look down at him. He’s flushed, breathing quickly, his eyes heavy lidded with desire. “My turn.”

I lightly kiss his lips, moving down his neck slowly. I press sensuous kisses to his chest, licking one of his nipples while I gently scrape the other with my fingernail.

“Yes,” he hisses between clenched teeth, arching beneath me.

I grin against his chest, slowly moving down his body. I scrape my teeth along his abs and give him a soft bite. One large hand moves down to softly tangle in my hair. I stop my kisses at the waistband of his boxers. His erection strains against the fabric, but I’m not going any further without his express permission.

I look up at him through my lashes and give a small tug on his boxers. “Are you ok with this?”

His hand tightens in my hair. “Don’t you dare stop now.”

“Perfect.”

I give his stomach one last kiss and palm him through thin fabric. His hips arch up and he ruts against my hand, the front of his boxers already wet with pre-cum.

I pull his boxers down, slowly freeing his erection. He lifts his hips, speeding the process along. I quickly toss away his discarded boxers, and reach out to stroke him.

He’s huge.

I suddenly have doubts about how he’s going to fit in my.......well anything really. Then Diavolo moans my name and everything else disappears.

I continue to stroke him, relishing the velvet feel of his skin against my hand. I lower my head to give him kitten licks, slowly swiping my tongue against the head of his cock and his slit, lapping up his pre-cum.

“Fuck.” Diavolo fists his hands into my hair. “More. Please.”

It’s a heady feeling, having the prince of the Devildom beneath me and begging for my mouth. I wrap my lips around the head of his cock and begin sucking, continuing to stroke his shaft, my hand moving in rhythm with my mouth.

Diavolo tries to keep his hips still, but he can’t help thrusting up into my mouth, greedy for more contact. I gag, my eyes tearing up, but I continue on, his pleasure the only thing on my mind. I eventually remove my hand, my mouth bobbing up and down on his cock. It’s a messy, sloppy blow job, but from his groans of pleasure I don’t think he minds.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Diavolo breathes, those words somewhere between a plea and a prayer.

I reach between his legs to cup his balls, my mouth still wrapped around his thick cock. His hips buck, his back arching off the bed, and I can feel the muscles in his thighs tighten. He tugs on my hair, pulling me off of him, and I release his cock reluctantly.

“Something wrong?” I ask with a grin, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

“If you keep doing that I’m going to cum.” Diavolo’s chest is heaving and he grips my wrists tightly.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “And that’s bad because.......?”

He growls and yanks me up his body. “Because I need to taste you. Now. And when I cum I’m going to cum inside you. I want to see your face when I mark you as mine for the first time.”

He keeps pulling me up until my thighs are resting on either side of his head. He presses a kiss to my inner thigh. “Hold on to the headboard.”

“Wha-? Oh god!” I lose my train of thought as Diavolo gives a sharp bite to the inside of my thigh. He turns his head and brushes kisses along the other.

He brings a finger up and slowly circles my clit.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. “And so wet. Just for me.”

He lazily swipes his finger through my folds, up and down, before returning to press on my clit.

I grip the headboard, panting. “Diavolo..... no teasing.”

He presses one finger into me, stretching me. He strokes slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size.

I whimper and attempt to move my hips. One large hand grabs my thigh, holding me still. Diavolo adds a second finger, stroking in and out, working me into a frenzy.

My grip on the headboard tightens. “Your mouth, use your mouth. Please,” I beg.

Diavolo continues his maddeningly slow pace, pressing his thumb against my clit for further stimulation.

“I can’t hear you princess. Be a little louder for me. Use your words.” He blows a breath of cool air against my heated core and I shiver, tightening around his fingers.

“Diavolo please! I need your mouth on me. Please!” I’m no longer worried about keeping quiet. The whole House of Lamentation could hear me for all I care. My one need is to feel Diavolo’s mouth on my pussy. NOW.

He laughs and gives my thigh one last kiss. “Good girl.” He slowly and deliberately swipes his tongue against my clit.

“Fuck!”

He removes his fingers and presses an open mouth kiss against me, his tongue stroking through my folds. “You taste even better than I imagined you would.

My hips buck. “More,” I mewl helplessly.

Diavolo’s hands grab my hips roughly and he plunges his tongue inside me. I scream, overwhelmed by the sensation. He keeps a firm grip on me, never allowing me to move away. He begins using his hands to guide my hips in an up and down rhythm, his tongue thrusting in and out.

He’s making me fuck his face.

Everything begins to fade around me. Nothing matters but the sensation of Diavolo’s tongue between my thighs.

“Diavolo..........Diavolo I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum.” I’m a whimpering mess, unable to do anything but hold tight to the headboard and let pleasure sweep me away.

He removes his mouth from me long enough to say, “Then cum for me Arianthi. I need you on my tongue.”

His presses a finger against my clit, circling it roughly while he resumes fucking me with his tongue. Tension gathers in my core, tighter and tighter until it finally snaps.

“Diavolo!” I scream, shuddering against him. My vision flashes white as my orgasm takes over. He continues to stroke and lick me through my release, lapping up everything I give him.

I’m trembling when he eases me off of him and lays me back on the mattress. He rolls over on top of me, grinning and looking pleased with himself.

He brings his mouth to mine and gives me a deep kiss. I can taste myself on his tongue, and I moan into the kiss, greedy for more of whatever he wants to give me.

“Good?” he whispers against my lips.

“Try amazing,” I whisper back, lacing my hands behind his neck and bringing him down for another kiss.

He breaks the kiss and laughs, moving to settle his hips between my thighs. He reaches between us to stroke his cock a few times, using the head to tease my already overstimulated clit.

He looks up and meets my eyes. “Is this ok? Do you still want this?”

I nod and tilt my hips up to meet his. “I want this.”

He slowly pushes the head of his cock into my pussy. I tense slightly and he stops.

He’s so big. How is he this big? Are all demons this big? Goddamn Diavolo you could split a girl in half.

Diavolo presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Relax baby. I won’t hurt you. I’ll be so gentle with you.”

My body melts into his, soothed by his sweet words. He continues pressing into me, inch by excruciatingly pleasurable inch.

“You’re so beautiful Arianthi. And so wet for me. Such a tight fit baby. Like you were made just for me. Fuuuuuuuuck...... I love the way you feel.” Diavolo murmurs against my neck, kissing and nuzzling me between endearments.

He lets out a beautifully obscene moan once he’s fully sheathed, and gives me time to adjust to his size. I’m panting, already overwhelmed by the feel of him.

“Are you ok if I move?”

“Fuck yes,” I whisper, rocking my hips against his.

He pulls out, only to thrust back in slowly, drawing out every ounce of pleasure he can. I throw my head back against my pillows and close my eyes, reveling in sensations. His cock inside me, his lips on my neck, the feel of his hair between my fingers, the weight of his body pressing me down into the mattress.

Diavolo continues to slowly thrust, building our mutual ecstasy. I feel his mouth against my ear.

“Look at me,” he orders, nipping at my earlobe.

I gasp and focus my eyes on his face.

“I want your eyes on me princess.” He snaps his hips against mine, increasing his pace. “I want you looking at me when you cum, knowing it’s me that made you feel this way. I don’t want you thinking about Mammon. I want all your attention on me and how good I make you feel.”

“Yes,” I whimper, wrapping my legs around his waist.

“What’s that baby?” Diavolo thrusts into me hard, leaving me gasping for breath.

“Only you Diavolo. Only you,” I cry out.

He gives me a feral grin. “Good girl.”

He deepens his thrusts, grinding against me every time our hips meet. He holds himself up on one forearm, bringing his other hand between us, fingers sliding down my stomach to rub against my clit.

I scream his name, fingertips digging into his shoulders. I’m coming undone, quickly. Diavolo feels me tensing beneath him and kisses me, tongue entering my mouth and mimicking the movements of his cock.

I break away, gasping for air. “Diavolo I’m going to -”

“Me too.” He’s breathless, chasing his own orgasm. He rests his forehead against mine. “Please look at me. I need to see you.”

I open my eyes and he looks down at me, eyes glazed with lust. His hips stutter and his thrusts become sloppy. He pushes into me one last time, and I feel the warmth of his release as he cums, moaning my name. The sensation of his cock twitching inside me sends me over the edge, and I bury my face into his neck as my pussy clenches around his cock.

We’re both breathing hard when I pull back to look at him, and he leans down to repeatedly press soft kisses to my lips. He stays inside me as we kiss and hold each other for a few minutes, reluctant to separate.

“Are you ok?” Diavolo whispers, nose nuzzling my cheek.

“That was ........ I can’t....wow....you’re amazing,” I answer, giggling as his nose tickles me. “Are you ok?”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this happy.” He smiles down at me, giving me one last kiss before he pulls out and stretches out beside me. He curls into the position of big spoon and pulls me tight against his chest, one arm wrapping around me protectively.

He kisses the back of my neck, and pulls the blankets over us. “I think we’ve earned a little rest.”

I nestle back into the warmth of his chest and relax, listening as Diavolo’s breathing becomes slow and even. I close my eyes, settling into the comfort of his body against mine when a sudden noise makes my eyes fly open.

I scan my bedroom before my gaze settles on my door, cracked open, light from the hallway spilling into my room. My eyes fly up and land on the pale face staring at me from the doorway.

Oh, fuck.

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

Mammon wanders the hallways of the House of Lamentation, miserable over the way things had happened at Arianthi’s party. He can’t sleep, sick to his stomach that he had let his jealousy and pride hurt the person that he cared about the most.

I gotta find a way to make this up to her, to show her I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It was so stupid. All I need is a chance to apologize and I’ll promise to never do it again. I just need to get her to listen to me for five minutes so I can give her the birthday present I got her and tell her how I really feel.

A cry catches his attention and he follows the sound to investigate. He ends up in front of Arianthi’s door. It’s barely cracked open and he can hear whimpers coming from inside her room. Worried that she may be sick again he softly pushes the door open a little wider. What he sees makes vomit rise in his throat and tears spill down his cheeks.

Diavolo is on top of Arianthi, thrusting his cock into her slowly and whispering things Mammon can’t hear. What he can hear is Arianthi moaning in pleasure as she writhes beneath Diavolo, bucking her hips up to meet his every thrust. He watches in horror as they cry out in pleasure together, then gently kiss and whisper to each other as they come down from their shared high.

What did I do? Did I fuck up this badly? Or has this been going on right under my nose the whole time? No, no, Arianthi’s not like that. I did this. I pushed her away every time she started to get close. This happened because I fucked up. I didn’t treat her right, I didn’t let her know I cared. This is on me.

Mammon roughly wipes the tears from his cheeks as he watches Diavolo wrap himself around Arianthi and they settle in to sleep. He can hear Arianthi’s sigh of contentment as she cuddles back into Diavolo.

He stares at them a moment longer, something deep and ugly taking root in his chest. Rage, jealousy, pain, love, and regret war inside him, each begging to be released.

That should be me. She’s MY human. MY girl. I’m her FIRST man. That should be ME.

Mammon’s breath catches as Arianthi’s eyes snap open and focus on him. He looks at the person he loves above all others, tears falling openly down his face, as she gazes back at him in shock from the comfort of another demon’s arms.

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