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nemo-of-house-hamartia · 7 months

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In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 5 - Awakening of the Hunter

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4,

Words Count: 12077

Warning: Mention of Suicide; Physical Violence;

BYRON January 1868, London The wind blew in the forest around him, a subtle whisper that carried the promise of a gelid night. The gloomy penumbra of the early sunset permeated the air around him, and if not for the blanket of snow that covered all that surrounded him, he would have not been able to see anything as clearly as he did. Keeping his rifle in his hand, his grip sure and steady, despite the thick gloves around his hands, Byron Harrison let his gaze wander around with slow attention, deliberately scanning his surroundings with a precision that came from habit. Not even the crystal of snow covering his auburn lashes like lace were enough to impede his search. Thick puffs of vapor came out of his mouth, as the chilly air pricked on his cheeks mercilessly, giving them a painful red tint that had nothing to do with bashfulness or strenuous effort. Yet, nothing, not even the torpor in his arms and legs, could sway him from his task. He cared not about discomfort. He cared not about pain. All he cared about was the forest in front of him, and the prey that was hiding in it, the elusive trophy that would finally bring an end to his continuous searching. “Come out, you fucking bastard,” he whispered, turning around to get a wider visual, the crunch of the snow under his boot filling the stillness around him. “I know you are here,”

Ears were keen on capturing any sign, any hint, anything that might show him where that arsehole was hiding. His breathing was controlled, his heart steady in its beating as he slowly turned his eyes toward a silvery bush ahead of him. A low rough laughter raised from somewhere on his right. Byron raised his rifle and shot, the deafening sound breaking the surreal silence. He waited until the echo died down, as stillness had found lease once more among the trees. But he knew it was not peace. There would be no peace. Not until he had shot every single one of the bullets he was carrying with him. Not until those bullets had found their way through that bastard’s heart. Byron tensed his ears again, eyes searching with the same careful attention, waiting for a signal that he knew would come. The laughter continued, reverberating all around him. Mocking him. Deriding him. He blinked rapidly, to clear his eyes from the tears swelling up. “Show your bloody mug, you son of a fucking dog!” he growled, a sound that had nothing of human and all of the beast he was trying with all his strength to restrain. ”Show yourself!” And as always, like clockwork, the man showed himself.

His pristine blue eyes were twinkling in the dark, and what can only be described as a devilish smile was plastered on the man’s face a face crowned by dark hair, disheveled hair, hidden under a dark beaked hood. With the heavy cape of the Assassins weighing on his shoulders, the man stood between the trees, the snow crunching under his feet as he got closer to the Master Templar. Byron reloaded the rifle with quick, precise hands, took aim again, and shot. And shot. And shot. And shot. One bullet after the other flew in the darkness of the night, each of them landing straight through the heart of the mocking Assassin. The man laughed again, unfazed, and with each shot his laughter grew in intensity, to the point of sounding almost hysterical by the time Byron had finished his bullets. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Leviathan” The words were as derisive as the tone was scornful, cutting through him like the sharpest of blades. Fury pervading every single fiber of his body, Byron took out his revolver and kept shooting and shooting in his rage, until the chamber clicked empty, and no more bullets were left. The low laughter rang all around him, echoing from every hidden corner of that godforsaken forest, reverberating through all that he was, deafening in its intensity. It got interrupted only by another deafening shot. One that Byron didn’t shoot. Straight through his heart, from the revolver that the Assassin was holding, the bullet had passed right through him. His face jerked back, just in time for his desperate eyes to see the bullet hitting its true target: ghosts, holding each other desperately, almost unrecognizable for how deformed they were in the silent scream that was leaving their mangled mouths. But Byron knew them. His soul recognized them before his eyes did.

The scream of agony that left Byron’s mouth was primal in its pain, obscene in its rawness, a wounded animal screaming his curse to the sky in its misery. A scream that followed him in the waking world, and his eyes flashed open, as he tried to grasp for air. Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with heat were running down his brow, as he tried to readjust his view through the dark of the room. But he couldn’t. Everything appeared nebulous in front of him and, he soon realized, it was because his eyes were filled with tears. “You cannot kill what’s already dead,” He heard that voice in his ears again, a hazy memory now, still taunting him. His brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with a callous hand, trying to drown the lump of anguish that had tightened his throat to the point of making breathing torture. His whole chest felt as if hot iron pokes were nabbing at him, piercing him like merciless arrows, in a grotesque imitation of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Pain was tearing him apart. Taking a long breath, he rose from his bed, oblivious to the hiemal air around him or the freezing floor underneath his bare feet. He felt nothing. Nothing at all, aside from the stupor caused by those goddamned nightmares that chased after him like rabid dogs. He headed for the drawer where a small basin sat, already filled with water, and dipped his rough hands in it splashing his face, uncaring about the gelid droplets that ran down his neck and damped his wool shirt. It felt good. It was good. Real. Almost a self-inflicted slap back to reality. Taking another deep breath, Byron allowed himself a moment longer of leniency for his soul, his mind fighting its way out of the merciless tides of dreams and memories, to anchor himself to the world, to make port where his heart could finally acquiesce once more. It came to him in the form of a silvery laughter and curious eyes and freckled cheeks. An image of gentle peace, a small flickering light in darkness: the harbinger of a warm dawn after a long hyperborean night. Despite having found his port, when he raised his gaze to look into the mirror hanging over his basin, the man looking back at him had none of his usual composed certitude.

The man in the mirror looked more like a madman: sunken eyes, dark in the soft penumbra of the room, an ocean where a perennial storm never ceased to be, dangerous waters just beneath the sea green surface; all over his face the heaviness of the years had started to show, in those wrinkles that torment and pain had chiseled mercilessly into his features. His head full of auburn hair still kept wavy and long - a quirk he carried over from his years in the Navy- had started to go gray here and there; on his beard and moustache too, time had started to make its presence known. He felt older than he looked, as if he had lived more years than the ones he had actually been granted by fate. Another deep breath. He splashed more water on his face, hoping to erase the fatigue coming from sleep. “Sleep,” he scoffed. He hadn’t been able to have a restful night of sleep in years. His eyes trained automatically toward the only photo sitting on his desk - the only personal touch in his otherwise bare bedroom- and his heart sank in his chest. He took the memento as gently as his callous rough hands allowed -careful, as he always was with anything connected to it - and caressed the small, precious faces looking back at him. He wished, with all his heart, he could see those smiles again. Hear that laughter again, smell their perfume in his nostrils, feel the solid weight of their bodies against his for one last embrace. Feeling the pain throbbing in his chest with every single beat of his tired heart - how many nights he had prayed that it would stop beating altogether, to find some respite from that life - he put the frame back to its place, hiding it from view, trying to suppress the yearning that, he knew, was the greatest enemies in the war that forever raged in his heart whenever he was awake. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Levathian,” The voice echoed again in his ears, as it always did. Taunting him. Ridiculing his pain. “I cannot,” Byron growled, gritting his teeth as his eyes turned dark. “But I can take away your future. I can destroy your legacy, all which you held dear, just as you have done with me.”

A sudden knock on the door tore him away from his thoughts. “Yes?” he spoke, his tone curt. “My Lord? Do I have your leave to enter? Victor Dorianr’s warm voice - now a gentle murmur rather than the booming toll of a bell, as it always was - immediately put him at ease. “Come, Victor,” he allowed, as he moved away from his desk to greet the man. The door opened, and the Master Templar entered, candid fresh snow on his black hair and heavy fur-lined coat. Fastened at the high collar was his Templar cross, the metal shining even in the darkness. Byron’s eyes narrowed, tensing: Victor was there on Official Order business. He looked as the Frenchman closed the door carefully behind himself before turning to face Byron, his dark eyes inquisitive. “Forgive me for interrupting your slumber, My Lord-” “No need for apologies, Victor. You are always welcome here…and I was already awake, anyway. What’s the reason for this urgency?” “Forgive me for the late hour, but I got a telegram. From Crawley. Our wait has been fruitful. We captured two Assassins that came to the house, just as you predicted,” Byron felt his blood chill in his veins. For the first time since waking up, Byron allowed himself to smile. But there was none of the warmth that came from pleasure. “Do we know if they are the ones responsible for the explosion of Brewster’s laboratories?” The Frenchman shook his head. “Non, Monsieur, no one has started to interrogate them. Master Barclay was the one duty when the Assassins had broken into the house, and he is now holding them captive and awaiting your orders.” Byron took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with callous fingers. Markus Barclay, the thorn in his back ever since the young man joined their ranks. He knew why the Grand Master had seen reasons to assign him under his attendance, and he knew he was the only man for the job. Still, had he had the chance to decline that obligation, he would have done so in a heartbeat, and passed instead the “honour” to Ambrose. ”Wake the rest of the men and then wait for me without. Have my carriage ready. We need to leave at once if we want to reach Crawley before sunrise,” “Very well, Monsieur,” he said, holding up for a second. “Is there something else, Victor?” “Nothing urgent or pertaining to our current mission, and you know, God forbid if I dare not pry into your privacy, Monsieur, but if I may be so impertinent, you look…harrowed,” he murmured, his voice turning as soft as the light in his eyes. “Lack of sleep, Victor,” Byron answered curtly, clearing his voice, with all the intention to not explain himself. “Nothing that laudanum cannot help with, and nothing you need to worry about. Now,do as I ordered. We mustn’t waste a minute. We need to run against the dawn.”

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The journey to Crawley took longer than Byron cared for, but with the weather playing against them, he knew they would have been delayed anyway. At least, he thought, it had proceeded smoothly, and with Victor’s low chatter to fill the time, he was inclined to find it even pleasant. The Frenchman always managed, with his quick wit and gentle voice - almost lulling when it wasn’t so loud, it could be heard a whole town away - to distract him from his ghosts, at least for a little while. However, the moment the carriage had stopped and he had been able set foot out of it, he welcomed the cold winter air of the night against his face and the soft snow falling in big flakes all around them. Nothing like the freezing chill of darkness nipping at one’s cheeks to keep one’s senses awake and alert. His favourite hunting weather. As much as it resembled the one he always saw in his nightmare, he felt none of the helplessness that derived from the inevitable, the unchangeable. Instead, he felt all the empowerment from being awake, and in control of everything that was around him. As he walked down the empty street, the fresh snow crunching under his boots, his eyes immediately found the house - a one-floor old cottage, its red bricks appearing black in the dark of the night, the roof torn down here and there, weighting on the structure in a way that it reminded Byron of an old man carrying a basket, his back curved by life and time. All the windows were black, empty sockets on what could only be described as a dismal facade, with no sign of lanterns or candles anywhere. No one had lived there in a little while. Byron turned to look around, his eyes scouring the surroundings of the small neighbourhood, a habit he never lost since his travels in the Arctic. He saw nothing, aside from a whole line of old houses not so different from the one in front of him, nothing that would cause him to be on alert. But something in his guts - an instinct, almost an extra sense that he couldn’t explain into words - told him that there was something just staring at them, waiting in the darkness, standing as still as waters in a tranquil pond. It was a fickle feeling, almost air shimmering in a faint glow, a whisper in his ear. None of the other Templars following him gave him a sign of having felt it as well. But he could sense it all the same. “Victor,” Byron murmured, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty street.

The Frenchman was at his side at once, ready to comply with his order. “Make sure to keep the place restricted. Do not let anyone get closer to the house - no passerby, no nosy neighbours, no one. If trouble should arise, if anyone were to show their face around here-” he added, eyes cold and void as the sky above. “-you know what to do,” Victor nodded with solemnity, swallowing hard. “Oui, Monsieur,” While hearing his subordinate relay his orders to the rest of the squadron, Byron turned his attention to the house once more, hatred seeping in his chest the longer he stared at its weathered walls, as puffs of condensed breath raised from his lips with each breath he took. The place where Ethan Frye and his broods lived. His attention was soon caught by the Master Templar responsible for sending him the message, emerging from the dark door like a magpie peaking from inside its nest. “They are inside, My Lord. We were awaiting for your arrival,” said Markus Barclay, straightening his back and tilting his chin up, as he came out to welcome the older man while giving him a cocky smile. Byron answered the smile with a long impenetrable look as he walked across the threshold of the small house without a single word of greeting. Complete darkness enveloped him immediately, despite the door still being open behind him. “Light,” he whispered, and before he had the time to add anything else, two candles had been lit by the young Master Templar. The feeble trembling light brightened the small corridor, allowing Byron to get a better look at his surroundings. As nondescript as it was from the outside, the house was just as unremarkable on the inside: old walls once covered in what could only be assumed to be quaint patterns were now presenting stains from mildew, peeling off here and there to show the bare bricks; cobwebs were hanging at the corners against the ceilings, and the wind, slipping through the decaying timber of the doors, carried with it a mournful moan, almost a messenger of what was about to come. A ghostly sentinel for a family that was no more. The boards of the floor protested with each step he took, creaking as he moved toward the quarters where the two Assassins were kept prisoners. He caught a glimpse of a frame where an old small ambrotype hung: a man, not much younger than Byron himself, was sitting on an armchair, a small smirk - barely perceptible -plastered on his lips, beard unkempt and eyes twinkling with what could only be interpreted as pride. Byron’s jaw tensed, teeth grinding as he contained the ever-growing fury coursing through his veins each time he saw that smirk, the very same that taunted each night in his nightmares. He welcomed the fury, and allowed it to warm him like a blazing fire: it was a never-ending flame that kept him going ahead.

Next to the man in the hanging picture were two children, no older than twelve years of age: the girl standing straight, shoulder squared, looking ahead of herself with the same proud eyes as the man sitting beside her, her dark hair hanging in long braids at the either side of her head; the boy facing away from the girl and the man, brows knitted in a despondent gaze, mouth turned downward in a rebellious grimace, the same dark unruly hair as his father, hidden just beneath an old worn-out paperboy hat. Both children’s faces were riddled with freckles, while none appeared on the man’s sullen face. He perused those small faces with meticulous attention, almost dissecting every single detail he deemed essential, etching them in his memory. Then, he forced himself to continue walking down the barely illuminated hall, until he reached where the two Assassins had been kept captive. When Byron entered the room, his gaze was immediately trained toward the two tied-up figures sitting on the floor. He studied them intently, their tied bodies forming a stark, dire contrast against the innocence of the children’s room where they were being held. Both Assassins were in their mid-thirties and, he noticed, were donning the dark robe of their Brotherhood, the hoods lowered on their shoulders to show hard faces and cold stares in their anonymous faces. They were docile. Far too docile, for his taste. “What happened to their blades?” he asked, gazing just above his shoulder toward Markus. “Confiscated and secured downstairs, My Lord, along with all their pieces of equipment. I personally saw to that.” Byron nodded, turning to face the two captives, eyes narrowed in an attentive, silent gaze as he studied the two captives: no scratches, cuts, hematomas, or ecchymoses could be found anywhere on their person; no sign of struggle. No sign of a fight. He stared at Markus for a long moment, his face painted in a mask of wariness before redirecting his attention toward the Assassins once more. “You know who I am?” Byron’s gravelly voice was low, a whisper cutting right through the chillness of the air around him. Nothing transpired from his face, the candle in his hands painting deep shadows all across his face. The woman in front glared at him, defiant of him, but Byron could see, even in the flickering light of the candles, fear was creeping into her eyes, dancing with the rabid hatred she had each time she looked at the iron cross hanging at his neck, her attention fixated on the symbol etched at the center of it. “You are the bloody Leviathan,” she seethed, vomiting his moniker as if it were a curse underneath her breath.

Byron's lips stretched in a chilling smirk. “Then you know why I am here.”

The woman spat on the ground, the spittle just inches away from Byron’s shoes. The other Assassin, captive as well, tied next to her, shook his head at his companion, eyes silently pleading with her to stop and stay quiet. Byron’s eyes twinkled for a moment, his face impassible, calm as ever. “We know. Like we both know that you won’t let us get out of here alive. You Templars know no honour, no compassion, no clemency, not even for the one you declare to protect! All you bastards know is greed and lust for power! And you, Leviathan…you are the worst of them all. No one has ever survived an encounter with you. So why would I cooperate with you, you bastard?” Byron stood silent, untouched by those words that found no retort. But deep within, he felt his guts turning and twisting with barely suppressed rage at the sight of the two Assassins, a rage that churned like the bubbling waters of the oceans during those bleak winter storms that always stole hope from the sailors unlucky enough to find themselves at sea. His rage has nothing to do with them, but all to do with the symbol they had hanging at their belts. “It is not my… proclivity to offer mercy to your kind. It is indeed true. But-” he murmured, a smile appearing on his lips, that didn’t reach his eyes. “-I bear no ill will to either of you. All I want is a piece of information. Just one small piece of information, and you will walk away from here with all your limbs attached together. I am offering you the possibility of leaving this place alive…if you tell me all you know about the whereabouts of Ethan Frye and his offspring.” The woman spat again, gritting her teeth in ire. “Do you think me dense or soft in the head? There is no promise you can spew that I would believe, no word you say that I would trust! We will not talk! In no way in Hell, we will ever betray the Creed! You won’t know anything about Ethan Frye or his children! Never! You can torture us, cut us, and dice us to pieces, we’ll never talk, you bastard son of a who-“ The booming sound of a revolver going off shattered the air of the room, its deafening blast echoing against the worn-out walls, gunpowder filling the nostrils with its acrid smell. Byron’s steely gaze never left the eyes of the Assassin still alive, his hand still holding the smoking gun pointed toward the dead woman, now a lifeless husk, a hole the size of an orange marking her forehead where the bullet had entered, with bits of flaccid pale brain matters, blood, and splintered bones had flown all around.

Byron moved the mouth of the revolver toward the other Assassin, his face impassible in front of the spectacle of gore lying in front of him, unfazed by the blood that had sprayed against the hem of his leather coat. He barely wrinkled his nose when he felt the pungent foul odour coming from the still-bound man who, had soiled himself. Blood, gore, shit and gunpowder. A side of his life he had come to accept as normal, regrettably so. “Now…let’s try this again, shall we?” Byron asked again, his voice dropping again to a chilling murmur. “Where are Ethan Frye and his offspring?” The bounded man whimpered, his whole body encompassed by a tremor as the realization of what just happened pushed through his veins like ice. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes completely shut, keeping his breathing steady, but failing altogether. “Th-they are hiding in London,” he blabbered, the words pouring out like a river. “Ethan reached out to us yesterday and sent words about a plan to assassinate John Elliotson as the initiation for his son and daughter-” At the name of the Assassin, Byron narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring at those words, bile burning the back of his throat. His fist clenched out of reflex, his grip growing tighter with each passing second. “How does he plan to do this?” he growled. The Assassin whimpered, eyes fixed on the mouth of the gun still pointed in between his eyebrows. “God forgive me... Oh God, forgive me,” he muttered, between one sob and the other. “We-we have an insider at Lambeth, acting as an informant. A nurse.” “Who?” Byron pressed, with steely determination in his voice. The Assassin hanged his head in shame, biting his lip until he tasted the metallic tangy taste of his own blood. “Emily Millburn,” he sobbed, wringling in the tight rope tied around him. “I beg you, do not hurt her! She is a widow, and only has her little boy as her family! Please, I beg of you! She has nothing to do with Ethan!” Byron took a deep breath, nodding as he allowed the information to settle in his mind. “We are done here,” he murmured, turning toward Markus, who was still standing there, silent witness to the whole scene, as he tried, with all his might, to make himself as small as a rat and just as unnoticeable.

Without a single word uttered, Byron handed him his revolver, his order clear in its silence. Markus’ dark eyes widened, his lips quivering as he tried to focus his attention on Byron. “Lord Harrison, I.. I don’t understand. He-He has told us what we wanted to know-” Byron stared at him longer, eyes unblinking, piercing through his resolve like a needle in the canvas.

“This is a lesson I want to partake with you, Master Barclay. A lesson about honour and loyalty,” he whispered, each word laced with indignant contempt. “I appreciate qualities like loyalty, I find it to be the very base upon which all is created. And this man, despite his questionable judgment in terms of alliances, despite being nothing more than a vermin of insignificant consequence…this man has loyalty aplenty. For. His. Creed. So much so that he had no qualms in lying, straight to my face, about a dead man’s whereabouts-” At those words, Byron saw the Assassin’s eyes go wide with inconceivable terror. “-knowing fully what the consequences would be. Knowing fully well that while loyalty has a price, defiance has an even greater cost,” Byron pushed the revolver into Markus’ hand once more. “Now, kill him, Master Barclay. I won’t ask it another time.” Markus swallowed hard as his whole face transformed, skin turning the colour of curdled milk, his body reacting almost against his will, weighting like lead. He made the mistake of looking for one moment into the eyes of the Assassin sitting on the floor. The silent plea of mercy was there, written in watery dark eyes. Markus took a deep breath, hands pervaded by an uncontrollable tremor. The gun went off again, the bullet finding its way through the skull of the remaining Assassin.

Byron looked once more to the desolated rest of the two Assassins, his face not letting transpire a single emotion. If anyone were to look upon him, one would have thought him bored by the whole ordeal. But this would have been the furthest from the truth. He turned toward Markus, whose face was covered in sweat, mouth puckered in a grimace, about to either retch or pass out. Byron narrowed his eyes as he walked just by him, his footsteps heavy, deliberate, implacable. He stood by the Master Templar without so much as to deign him of a glance and when he spoke, Markus flinched as if slapped in the face. “I do not take insubordination leniently, nor do I condone it. Question my orders one more time and I will make sure that no one will ever find you ever again. You have taken an oath. The Grand Master has seen fit to give you a second chance and by his ordinance, I will comply with his wishes and make sure that you follow through with it; I will see you abide by it by any means necessary, or I swear on what I hold most dear in this life, I will make you regret the very day you have set foot inside the Manor. Understood?” Markus turned to look toward the man who was towering over him, his voice a squawk that died in his chest before it could even find the strength to pass through his lips. A shaky nod was all that he could muster.

Unimpressed with the response, Byron walked past him, never turning to face either the Master Templar or the slaughter of the room. As he found his way out of the small house, the silence that surrounded him was deafening. Not a single one of the Templars that had accompanied him to the small house in Crawley dared to speak or even look him straight in the eyes. As he walked in the corridor, he noticed again the ambrotype that had welcomed him inside. It took it with a swift hand and hid it in the internal pocket of his jacket. Another memento. Another step further down that path that called him each day and each night of his life. He quickly went down the corridor, and crossed the threshold, breathing in the cold air of the night with gratitude, letting it feel his lungs with its purity. Raising his face to the sky - now starting to brighten with the colours of dawn at the horizon - he closed his eyes, allowing the soft snow to fall all over him, gently caressing his skin. It was incredibly welcomed, after all that had just happened.

He let his mind clear itself, trying, as it always happened whenever violence permeated his thoughts and hung to him like a tick to a dog’s coat, to find a moment of light amidst all that darkness. To find his port again. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard Victor walk towards him, recognizing him distinctly by the sound of the man’s step, light and fluid against the snow-covered pathway. “Did you find what were you seeking, Monsieur?”

Byron shook his head, lowering his head and opening his eyes to look at the Frenchman. “Not entirely, I am afraid. Those Assassins are willing to lie even in the face of death and go to the grave to protect the whereabouts of a dead man. But the liars always weaves their best stories with truth, and we got something that the Grand Master will find useful,” “Then, a successful mission indeed, if I may be so bold,” Victor cheered, without daring to ask any details that couldn’t be shared with him. Byron appreciated his discretion, the deferential respect he had for the rules and hierarchy within the Order, his unwavering loyalty to what the Tenets of the Order prescribed, and also his penchant for brutal honesty. While most would find the lack of edulcoration in his words disagreeable, Byron was particularly grateful for it. He wished he had more men with such moral strength working for him. “A partial success, yes,” he conceded. “Nevertheless, I will return to London immediately to inform the Grand Master of the current situation and after that, God Willing, I will be able to rest,” And then, if nothing more were to happen, I will finally see her again, he thought. “Very well, Monsieur. Your commands for us here?”

Byron’s shoulders tensed once more, as he stood pensive for a moment. “Finish to search the house and find any manner of evidence that might be connected to the Assassins’ plans. Frye surely had information that would be useful to us. Keep Markus with you, Victor, and keep a close eye on him: I trust no one else but you with this particular task. And once you are done, before you head back to London-“ Byron turned to look at the small house, hatred seeping into all his being like a poison spreading in his veins with every heartbeat. "- Burn this whole shack to the ground and then spread salt upon the soil. I want to see this place erased from the face of the Earth.”

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“This is not what I signed up for, Brudenell, bloody hell,” Ambrose Harrison thought, as he rubbed his eyes trying to chase away his drowsiness, absolutely disgruntled. Again, he cursed under his breath the man who had sponsored him when he had first been offered a spot in the Templars, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and tapping the filter against the tin box before lighting it up. The first taste of tobacco felt good against his tongue, but not enough to brighten his mood. The day had yet to start properly - the sun was barely rising upon the horizon - and he was yet to have a cup of strong coffee to chase the excess of the night before away. But that hadn’t stopped the news from arriving sooner than he liked. And he had liked that news even less once he got to White Chapel to witness them in person. He still couldn’t believe it. Kaylock had been taken down by a couple of miserable ratbags with more brawns than brains, half his gang was dead against the track of the train station, and the other half scattered the Devil only knew where. He knew he would be in for a long day.

He let out a low growly sound of displeasure as his gaze embraced the corpses of all the members of the gang that had been slaughtered during the gang fight, while his men were busy shouting away curious passersby and bribing away any “peeler” that might have come snooping around to report to Whitehall Place. Not that it would matter, considering the amount of officers that were already on the Grand Master’s own payroll. Still, he thought, a few more quid spent on those blokes -with more mouth to feed than hair on their balls- were a good way to ensure absolute silence and discretion. That or a gun against their head. He was open to either solution indistinctly. A flash of brilliant red at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Blighters. Splendid. 'Old Man’ Roth had sent some of his dupes to help with the works. “Oi! Lads!” He shouted to the group of newcomers. “Chop-chop, we don’t have the whole mornin’! Start lookin’ around and see if you find anythin’ - ANYTHIN’- that might lead us to understand how the bloody fuck we ended up like this!”

“My my, such reprehensible language, Master Harrison,” Ambrose heard a low husked voice reprimanding him. “I do wonder what your brother would think of such…crude display of uncouthness,” It took Ambrose every smidgen of patience to not roll his eyes to the sky at the sound of that voice. Instead, he straightened his back and turned around to face Phillip Starrick, all wrapped in a heavy wool coat lined with slick black fur, his golden cross hanging from the bandeau around his neck. Despite being incredibly early in the morning, the young man appeared to be as fresh as a rose, and -Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from thinking it - just as pretty. “I’m here to bring results, Lord Starrick, not playin’ the elegant Lord,” he grumbled, turning to blow the smoke of the cigarette away from the young aristocrat. “What are you even doin' here? Don’t you “My Lords” usually wake up after the cock has sung its tune?” “Why, Master Harrison, you offend me with your words. I am a most diligent worker, and when the news reached the Manor, the Gran Master saw me fit to oversee the operations alongside you. Consider these Blighters I brought with me as a gesture of goodwill toward a fruitful partnership in discovering what happened here,” he murmured, giving the older man a long look before turning toward the gruesome spectacle in front of them. “Do we have any lead about who caused all of this?” Ambrose shook his head, returning the younger man's look. “Not yet, M’lord. My men are workin' on interrogatin' whoever witnessed the whole fight. We tried to circumscribe the Station, but we arrived too late and whoever caused this mayhem had already left,” Phillip listened intently, his periwinkle eyes gazing with attention around him.

“My Lord! My Lord!” Ambrose heard his name being called from the other side of the railway. One of his own -Bradley, judging from the booming voice - was running toward him, his usually good-natured face now a mask of barely contained stress. “What is it, lad?” “My Lord, you need to come at once,” he gasped, between one breath and the other. “We-We have found it. Kaylock’s body. It’s…It’s-” Ambrose stood silent for a moment, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw in frustration. “Show him to me,” he murmured. Then he turned toward Phillip. “I advise you stay here, M’lord. It might be a gruesome affair, the lot of it,” The young Aristocrats waved his hand as if to dismiss his concern. “Fret not, Master Harrison, I am not a delicate daisy that cannot hold the sight of a corpse,” he murmured, shaking his golden curls with a pretentious look etched on his oval face. “It wouldn’t be my first,” Once again Ambrose fought the impulse to roll his eyes to the sky, and answer him with a mordant remark; instead, he refocused his attention on the young lad and followed him to the location where Kaylock’s body had been found, his thoughts redirecting toward the gang leader. So the man had indeed been killed after all.

For a brief moment, Ambrose had hoped not: their differences notwithstanding, Rexford Kaylock had been a good friend of his, always ready for a brawl down at the pits, always up for a wager and he was yet to meet a man that could hold his beer like he did. But despite the man’s cunning, Ambrose knew that his penchant for playing with his food before eating it would have been his ruin, sooner or later. Once in front of the corpse of the man who had once been his friend, Ambrose said nothing, his face almost impassible if not for the furrowing of his thick brows. Now he understood the distress on Bradley’s face. Kaylock hadn’t been just killed: he had been slaughtered. Nose was broken with such strength the bone was showing from the skin; slashes all over his upper body, and open wounds showing the shiny sinew and the bundle of muscles, in some places so deep that you could see the indentation of the weapon even on the bone. He couldn’t determine if it had been a butcher knife or a smaller blade to cause all that. All he could see was that the stroke had been deliberate, unforgiving, inexorable. Ambrose turned toward Bradley and took him aside, bringing him closer enough to preserve the secrecy of his words. “Take away his body and see that he’s buried properly,” his voice was just high enough to be heard by the man. Ambrose took two pouches filled with money and gave it to him. “Give this to his widow and this one to the undertaker, and make sure to have some of my men guardin' his grave after the burial, at least until we figure out who in the fuckin' hell has done this." “Understood, My Lord,” Bradley nodded, lips thin in a grimace of distress as he left to do as he had been ordered. Ambrose growled, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up, hoping to calm his annoyance down.

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be there at all, playing nanny to the young Blighters who had still to make their bones in the field, and, on top of that, counting the dead after whatever the hell had occurred in the night. A disaster, in his opinion, more than avoidable, had that stupid man listened and stood put, as he had been ordered, instead of getting more and more tangled up with whatever bollocks he had found himself into. Bloody affair, the lots of it. The sound of cold wind blowing did nothing to soothe his spirit or cover the shouting of the people busy working on the site - all myrmidons from his own regime - to bring away the corpses and, in a miraculous turn of faith, find someone still alive with the answers they sought. Ambrose stood a moment longer to oversee the young Blighter when he heard the rustling of a heavy cloak just beside him. When he turned, he found Phillip gazing intently toward the group of men who were carrying Kaylock’s corpse away. “Quite the gruesome spectacle, judging from how the leader of this borough has been rendered.” The aristocrat murmured, his periwinkle eyes observing without fear. “Kaylock wasn’t killed by a dabbler. The pisspot that did this knows how to wield a knife,” “Any theories?” “Not as many as I wished. My money is on a showdown, maybe a settlement of scores between Kaylock’s men and some goddamn Clinkers. They’ve been a pain in the arse lately, so I wouldn’t rule out an escalation. Anyway, until we figure this out, I gave the order to have Keylock’s body to be guarded after his burial.” “I didn't know that corpse snatchers were still residing in the East End of our fair city?” “They don't," Ambrose retorted, putting out his cigarette with his shoe. " No, what I fear is that people might take revenge against him. I don’t put it above them to desecrate a corpse. At this point, I can’t exclude anything. What about your voices, Master of Secrets? Any hint?” Phillip smirked at that name, shaking his golden ringlets. Ambrose couldn’t help but notice how they resembled the colour of ripe wheat in summer. “Forgive me, m’lords,” they both heard a voice behind them.

Ambrose turned and saw young Zachary Handerson approaching them, a small bowler hat in his hands in deferential respect, his fresh face crossed in distress. Ambrose shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The young boy couldn’t be a day over twelve. He knew he had joined the Blighters out of necessity and need for money, and after a talk with Old Man Roth, he had been assigned to Kaylock’s men. But Ambrose could see that the lad had a gentle heart, and was not accustomed to all that violence. He had no place among them, and yet, here he was, doing the job of a man when in truth, he was no more than a child. “What do you need, lad?” Ambrose enquired, his voice much softer than usual. “Forgive me, M’lord,” Zachary fumbled in his words. “I- I was the one that gave the alarm when the whole chaos happened. I was here when the fight started,” Ambrose’s brows raised in surprise, as he turned fully to face the young man, his attention entirely devoted to the young urchin. “Did you see what happened?” “Aye, sir,” the child murmured, raising his eyes but immediately turning them down when they met Phillip’s haughty gaze. Through some gentle nudging from Ambrose, the youngling was able to recount all that he had seen, all that had happened.

Both men listened intently, keeping whatever comments they had for themselves. “It was a bloodbath,“ Zachary ended his tale, cheeks pale from having to remember everything his young eyes had seen. “And those who didn’t die, become turncoats! They all rallied behind the young Rook, sir!” "The Young Rook, you say?” asked Ambrose, his bushy eyebrows frowning. “Aye, sir! That’’s what they called themselves - the chap and the missy- Rooks! Bloody furies, the two of them were! They swooped in with their men and even sized Keylock’s old train!” the young lad said, his face animated at the memories. Ambrose exchanged a look with Phillip, their expressions a mirror. “I assume it would be too much to ask the direction the train has taken?” said Phillip, his words tinged with frustration. When no answer came from the boy, Ambrose gently dismissed him with a few golden coins for his help and looked as he quickly retreated into the bustling crowd, the shock of the recent events still etched on his face. “It appears we have a new player in this war of gangs,” murmured Phillip. “Nothin' to be concerned about. I'll regroup as many Masters as I can and have them surveillin' each of London’s main stations. A train can't vanish out of thin air like that. They’re bound to resurface again.” “- assuming that those miscreants are still well within the city borders. We must find out who is controlling these “Rooks” and what their intentions are. We need to ascertain if this was a single instance or if it is part of something much greater,” Ambrose stared at the young aristocrat at the younger man. “You think this could be connected to the Assassins,” Phillip kept his silence, turning to look toward the trains that were still parked in the station. “I have my theories, yes,” he murmured, as his eyes scanned the surrounding before turning and walking toward the entrance of the train station, Ambrose walking at his side. “Lift the circumscription and see that your men bring order around here as fast as they can. We have already attracted far too much attention than what the Grand Master would have liked.”

“What about you, Master Starrick?” “I will need to have a word with Roth regarding his men,” murmured Phillip, as he walked toward the carriage parked just outside the station, awaiting for him. “We need to find a replacement for Kaylock, and if it is true that these peons have turned coats and joined these “Rooks”, we will need more discipline as well,” With a subtle movement, Ambrose grabbed the young aristocratic’s wrist, slowing him down in his walk. “Phillip, wait," he whispered. “We need to talk,” Phillip turned to look at him with indignation burning in his light eyes. Yet, Ambrose noticed the blushing appearing on the younger man’s cheeks, as it always did whenever he called him by his first name. "It's “Lord Starrick” for you, Master Harrison," he hissed, as he looked around to make sure that no one saw them. "And no, we don't need to talk. Not now. Not ever!" The older man smirked underneath the bushy mustache, lowering his eyelids with a look that said everything and yet nothing. “We do, Phillip. You and I have unfinished business,” Phillip yanked his arm away from the other man’s grasp. Their eyes met for a moment too long: forest green against periwinkle blue. For a moment, Ambrose felt as if he was looking at the immensity of the sky on a clear sunny day. “No we do not, Master Harrison! We have nothing unfinished! Now, if you will excuse me-“ “I can’t let you get back to Roth, Phillip. The man is off his chump.” Phillip’s nostrils flared in disdain at those words.

“I would mind your words, Master Harrison. You are not the Grand Master, to dispense tasks and commands as it pleases you, nor your are my superior in rank. Maxwell Roth has been a trusted associate of the Order, long before your tenure, and I will not have you disrespecting him or question the Grand Master’s decision." Phillip shot back, his voice filled with aggravation. Ambrose sighed, frustration building up in his chest. The Young Lord could be as stubborn as he was cunning, whenever it came to the man responsible for training all the Templars’ underlings. And he never knew how he felt about that stubbornness, what motivated it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, lest he was not to like the answer. "Very well, “Master Starrick",” he blurted, his voice tinged with mockery. “Go back to all your affairs! But don't let your pride blind you! Do not trust Roth! His loyalty may be as wavering as that of the men that today have sworn fielty to the Rook, and mark my word, we will all pay the price if that loyalty will fail." Phillip's expression shifted to one of contemplation, and for a moment, Ambrose saw a flicker of doubt in those usually steadfast eyes. But it was quickly replaced by determination, a brand new flame burning bright. "I'll handle my responsibilities, Master Harrison," Phillip replied, a steely resolve in his voice. "As you should handle yours. Good day to you," As Phillip walked away, Ambrose watched him go without following him any further. He took out another cigarette, and lit it up, hoping that tobacco -the sweet poison he couldn’t go without - would also help tainting the swirling feelings that Ambrose always kept sealed and well hidden behind the guise of authority and duty.

——————————————————————————————————

Byron felt nervous. He had been to Starrick Manor innumerable times throughout the years - certain times with such regularity, the Grand Master oftentimes jested that he should consider taking up residency directly inside the Manor; and yet, that time, it felt different. Uneasiness stirred within his chest as he clutched the small package he was holding with attentive carefulness in his hand— a collection of rare tomes of her favourite tales—and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Three years. It had been three years since he had last seen her. Three years of letters, three years of incertitude in not knowing how she was in fact faring, if she was safe and sound, protected, loved as she had been loved within those walls. Three long years since his protégé had to flee the country because the danger in London had stricken too close for comfort. He gritted his teeth at the memory, his hand closing in a tight fist. Never the Assassins had been so bold. Never so foolish as to try something that most would have thought to be a suicide. A reckless move for which he had made sure they would pay. In full. But not enough. Not enough.

Byron relaxed his jaw and shoulders, as he tried to relinquish the raging energy that always pervaded him each time he thought about that night. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to focus once more on what was ahead of him, as he resumed his walk toward the doors of the library. He allowed himself to take a quick glance in the mirror and adjusted a small lock of hair that had fallen out of place, before turning toward the library once more. The closer he got to that room -one of his favorite places in the whole Manor- the more he could hear the soft melodious voice of a violin coming from behind the wooden panels. A distant melody, a gentle one, beckoning him like a siren, inviting him to leave all that worried him behind. “Angels We Heard on High”. Byron allowed himself the indulgence for a tiny smile: a little out of season, considering that Christmas had passed already, but he knew that, if it was for her, she would be playing Christmas songs and carols all year round. He knew that, if it was up to her, she would have all the lands constantly covered in a soft blanket of gentle powdery snow, protecting everything from the bitter frost, as flora and fauna alike would wait until the warm kiss of Spring came to wake them all up again. He opened the door, ever so slightly, and felt his heart leaping in his chest at the sight of the young woman who was playing the violin, eyes closed as always to let herself be entirely transported away in the land of arpeggios and symphonic poems, the melody coming straight out of her soul, as if she was indeed singing the praise of this life to the Angels above. His dear Dorothea.

After the immense tragedy that had burned his heart and rendered it just ashes, she had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t lost his path, why he hadn’t lost his way amidst desperation and discomfort. His Morning Star, the herald of Dawn after the long cold winter night that was his grief. A purpose, after all that had been lost. Sitting on the sofa, just opposite the young woman, was her cousin Phillip, his whole attention focused on her as a good-natured smile made his sharp face much more amiable than what he usually presented to the world. A gentle grin, ever so sweet in nature, appeared on Byron’s lips, before he even realized it; but he had no intention of stopping that smile from growing larger. Because in truth, what he saw in front of him were the echoes of a moment long gone: a memory of two young children who would sit on that sofa together as they read for hours through Byron’s old journals of his time in the Arctic, bombarding him with questions after questions, their curiosity insatiable. It was a familiar sight, the comfort of a long lost home and family finally found again, of peace sought after a long journey across the whole sea that was his life. Odysseus finally returning to Ithaca, prepared to find peace for his tired heart.

Careful now in opening the door as quietly as possible, he put a finger in front of his lips when he saw Phillip turning to look at him. The young man smirked and nodded, keeping his silence. Byron took his hat off with respect and placed the small package as he awaited for the young woman to finish her song, her fingers dancing along the strings with the easiness that came from practice. Such a soothing sight, it was. As the last notes flew in the air, he finally spoke. “This sound was incredibly missed, Princess,” he murmured, his gravelly voice just loud enough so that she would hear him without startling her. “Byron!” Dorothea turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise as her whole face seemed to be lit up by his mere presence. Without hesitation, Dorothea left her violin and bow on the nearby table and ran to the Master Templar. With careful attention- as gentle as his own strength allowed - Byron took the young woman's hands in his and brought them to his lips, softly placing a long kiss on her knuckles. “Oh, how I missed you! My eyes see with joy! My heart sees with joy!” she murmured, eyes twinkling with barely contained tears of unbounded happiness at the sight of her mentor, after so many years far away from one another. “As do mine, darling child. As do mine.” he whispered back, feeling a small lump forming in his throat at the sound of her voice, his heart swelling in his chest. “Thank you for bringing her home safe and sound,” he whispered to Phillip, his voice filled with a gratitude he couldn’t contain, his eyes not leaving Dorothea’s silvery ones for a single moment. The young man raised his brows in surprise at the gentle tone and responded with a small bow of his head. “I just did what every devoted man would do for his beloved family,” He chuckled, before turning to look at his cousin. ”Well, Dora dearest, I thank you for gracing me of your time and company this evening, but it is high time I return to my duties and shall take my leave." “Oh, cousin, please! Do not leave just yet!” she pleaded. “No no, I do insist, dearest. Besides, I believe you and Master Harrison will have a lot to discuss, after three years away. But-“ and he turned to refer to the older man, his periwinkle eyes piercing the Master Templar’s sea-green eyes. “If you were to spare a few moments for me afterward, I have something to discuss with you regarding our latest endeavors,” Byron’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. Despite the placid calm of his voice, the urgency in the young man’s gaze couldn’t be denied nor ignored. “As you wish, Lord Starrick.” He conceded. “Splendid! I shall await you then. I have a few details to discuss with Aunt Annette before - we truly should take into consideration renovating the library in Dover,” he turned to face Dorothea once more and kissed her hand amiably, before smiling one last time. “Sleep well, darling Cousin. I will call you soon,”

Then, nodding to Byron, he took his leave, closing the door behind him. Byron’s eyes immediately found Dorothea’s again, and he felt warmth once more spreading from his chest to the rest of his whole body. “I have missed you, Byron,” She giggled, daring to engulf him in the tightest embrace her arms allowed. “These halls were empty without your laughter to fill them, Princess,” he murmured, returning the embrace in full. He dared to lay a small kiss on the braid on the crown of her silvery blond hair, resting his lips against her hair a moment longer. With eyes closed, he allowed himself to be completely enveloped by her presence, to stop time and thoughts from running around in his mind, to live in that small moment of warm joyous innocence. To feel her breathing, healthy, alive, safe, and sound. Cradling her face in his hands, he examined her thoroughly, his stormy sea green eyes piercing straight into his protégé’s as he looked at every small wrinkle, every freckle, every single detail of her face with almost punctilious attention. A frown appeared on his heavy brows when he found the small scar under her eye, white and healed after so long. He blocked the memories from returning to him before she could read them all over his face. “You look thin, Dora. Have you not been fed while in Sturefors?” he murmured instead, his voice sounding more like a growl than a whisper, as his gaze fixed on her cheeks, not as round as he remembered them to be. Dorothea shook her head, with a sad smile. “I have been, Byron. My family at Sturefors has taken the greatest care of me during my sojourn there. But the Famine hit us. It hit us all. The last two winters were the most cruel I had ever had the misfortune to experience, but we were lucky. The food was less than what we had when I first arrived, but we still had food.” She paused for one moment, lips trembling at the memories that came flooding her of all the people she had seen dead on the side of the street, starvation, and the unforgiving winter cold the cruel executioners of their fate. “So many others didn’t.”

Byron pursed his lips in a grimace of utter displeasure at the news, the grip around her tightening almost out of instinct. He had always been against her departure from London, three years prior, believing that with him around, no hurt could ever come to her. But he had been powerless in front of the Grand Master’s will, his hands bound as he himself had to put her on a ship and send her to hide deep in the forest of the North. And now, he wasn’t happy to see her return less than she had been before. “Why didn’t you write to me about this?” he whispered, his voice stern in his question. “To what end? Not even you and your strength of will could ever stop the turn of the Seasons, or Nature and her whims, my dearest mentor,” she jested, hoping to see the deep frown on his brow disappear altogether. “I could have arranged for your return, Dora. You know that all I needed was one word from you - one command - and I would have come and brought you back home myself. The Baltic Sea, with all its maelstroms and currents, would have not stopped me. You know that.” “I know,” she acquiesced with a nod, a bashful grin appearing on her face. “I know, Byron. No woman on this Earth could ask for a better Mentor and Guardian; No woman could ask for a most formidable Bulwark. But I could never ask that of you. You had duties here that were far more important than having to personally come and collect me. How could I ever deprive the Grand Master of his Right Hand?” Byron took a deep sigh, before returning her grin with a lenient smile of his own. He gently patted her cheek with his hand - large enough to cover her whole face - in a reassuring gesture. Had it been to comfort her or himself, he didn’t know. “You are wise, young one. And stubborn, if I do say so myself,” he added, eliciting a silvery laughter in Dorothea. “ But yes. You here now, and I will personally see that we shall bring you back to good health,” “You sound exactly like Father now,” she giggled, her laughter returned by a small, tired smile. He saw her looking up at him and saw a sad light appear on her face, as her eyes looked at his face with attentive care, mirroring the way he had been gazing at her a moment earlier. He knew what she was seeing because he saw the same thing each time he gazed into a mirror: the deep black shadows that had appeared underneath his eyes; the wrinkles on his forehead that didn’t disappear when his face wasn’t frowning; the scar on his cheek and nose, a memento of the fight that should have brought him peace, but did not. “Time hasn’t been kind to you as well, Byron. What happened to you?” she asked, bringing her small hands to his face in a comforting gesture. “The last three years have weighed on me like the Sky on Atlas’ shoulders,” he thought, stopping his words from reaching his lips. He sighed, slumping his shoulders ever so lightly and shaking his head. “We both have faced our deal of misery during your absence, Dora,” he just murmured, covering her hands with his and pressing them against his cheeks, as he tried to grasp all the comfort from that gentle touch, a balm for his restless soul. He didn’t dare to add anything, not wanting to let his burden become hers.

Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted, for a moment longer, to preserve that sweetness of temper and innocence of spirit that had already been taken away from her, three years prior. He wanted, for a moment longer, to feel as if the world was a hopeful place, untouched by sufferance, immaculate in its candor: a pristine dawn, with the promise of a glorious day ahead. When he saw her eyes turning sad and her lips pouting, he gave her a small smile and patted her cheek. “Do not be troubled for me, dearest child. Such is life.” he whispered, daring to give her a small kiss on her forehead. “But now, no more talk of sorrow or sadness. these rooms have been left bereft of your voice for far too long. So, if you would be so kind as to entertain a request from your old Mentor, and fill these ears with joyous chatter and a peaceful melody, you would make me immensely happy.” Dorothea pursed her lips, eyebrows frowning in apprehension. “But I do not wish to keep you from your business with Phillip, By-“ but the old man brought a finger to her lips, gently silencing her. “Whatever he has to say, it can wait. This cannot, my Princess.” He murmured with a warm smile. "Not after three years." Dorothea’s frown transformed and her round face lit up with sweet, uncontrollable mirth. Without even waiting for him to sit down, she quickly picked back up her violin and bow, ready to comply to Byron’s wishes. Gracing him with another smile, eyes and nose crinkling in her joy, and taking a small bow, Dorothea started her melody, one that was dear to both their hearts. A lullaby of the North.

A lullaby about cold winds and chilling waters, of rocky mountains and green forests that met the slate-blue churning sea…of memories and answers so deeply hidden, one would need to get lost before being able to find them. Byron took place on the small couch, letting himself sink in the cushion, feeling as if all that was weighing him down was suddenly being lifted up from his shoulders by those notes that had started to fly like birds in Spring. He couldn’t remember when it had been the last time he had sat and just listened to music, without shunning it from his heart. It almost felt as if a lifetime had passed, a whole horizon away. But after so long, he felt as if he could finally be able to fully breathe once more, to breach through the waves and stop fighting that tide that was always there, in each of his thoughts, ready to swallow him whole and drag him in open dark waters. His low baritone voice found its way out of his throat, humming at first, then louder, accompanying her violin with a song, a soft smile appearing on both their lips. "Yes," he thought, looking at her with soft eyes filled with a sentiment that he thought was long buried under the snow of his grief. "The Harbinger of Dawn indeed."

——————————————————————————————————

Time had passed far too swiftly. After almost two hours of complete bliss, entrapped as he had been between her tales of her adventure in the North and reading together the books he had brought her, Byron had bid Dorothea goodnight. He had promised her that they would travel together to Dover soon, for a small outing at sea together, just like how they used to when she had been but a young child, all cooped up in the halls of that Manor that faced the sea. After so many promises he had to uphold for duty, he was finally content to keep a promise that didn’t involve hunting down those bloody Assassins or finding a way to set his business in order. The moment he closed the door of the library behind himself, however, he felt the darkness of the hall fall on him the same way rain poured during that gloomy autumn afternoon, when the sun would not show itself at all and would set over the horizon far too soon. He wished for a moment to not have granted Young Lord Starrick his time, if anything, to preserve that moment of peace a little longer. But his word was binding, for better or worse. When he raised his eyes, he immediately found the young man waiting at the end of the hallway, standing against the stained glass window that faced the inner garden, where the orangery stood, a lit cigarette in hand. At the sound of rustling robes, Phillip raised his face, and looked intendedly toward Byron, as he approached him: despite having seen forty-five springs already Byron Harrison still stood tall and powerful as he had done in youth, even more so after the years spent at sea had chiseled him into a man of exceptional hardness of spirit, one that rivaled the strength of his character and the potency of his body. Eyes like the storms, and fiery auburn hair, wavy like the ocean on a windy day, it always felt as if Poseidon had deigned to walk the Earth, bringing with him the full strength of the Oceans. Phillip couldn’t help but look at him with eyes filled with reverential respect. He had no trouble imagining why people whispered his name with either deference or terror laced in their voices: Byron Harrison was someone that one would always want on their side, for good or for worse, and if by misfortune, his favour was to be lost, to pray to God for a quick painless deliverance, instead. “Thank you for acquiescing to my request for a small interview, Lord Harrison, I know how much it would cost to cut your time with Dorothea short,” Phillip murmured, keeping his voice low as he offered him a cigarette.

Byron shook his head, refusing the offer. “What do you seek of me, Lord Starrick?” he muttered. “I assume your brother has informed you about what happened today?” Byron shook his head, eyes narrowing as his shoulders tensed. “Kaylock is dead. The Blighters that reported to him had all but disappeared and according to witnesses, they have joined side with someone called “The Rook”. Not only this, but from what my sources have related to me, there had been chaos in the factories and we have lost our stronghold, Spitalfield. It appears we-“ he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “-we no longer have control over White Chapel." Byron listened intently, unblinking, as Phillip reported to him all that had happened. A whole borough lost. “Has the Grand Master been informed about this?” It was Phillip’s time to shake his head. “While the severity of our loss is considerable, we are still evaluating if this “Rook” and his gang are just miscreants trying to cause mayhem in White Chapel alone as a borough, or if this is indeed the Assassins trying to officially strike and breach into the city.” Byron turned pensive, and brought his large hand to his chin, stroking his auburn beard. First Croydon, with Ferris and Brewster killed, and the Piece of Eden lost. Now Kaylock and White Chapel. While not the most important of the boroughs under their control, Byron could see trouble brewing. “We need to recover all the men we have lost,” he murmured, after a long moment of silence. “We cannot let our numbers dwindle. Speak with Roth. Have him send out scouters to pick up more men and intensify the training of the lads that will join the Blighters from now on. We will need to raise their wages as well,” Phillip’s lips curled in a grimace of abhorrence. “Why paying them more? They are just scum, Master Harrison. Parasites that would sell their own mothers and wives and daughters, if they can get a profit from it. Why giving them more resources that we can instead reinvest in something more fruitful?” Byron looked at the man with eyes void of any light, chilling in their gaze.

“Your disdain for them clouds your judgment if you think of them as nothing more than fleas on the coat of a dog, an annoyance. Disposable. Unimportant. Never forget that these men are paid to do our bidding, but there is no loyalty to us if not the one our purse can buy. And they have numbers on their side, and this, combined with their desperation is their greatest strength, whether they realize it or not, and it can prove to be the cause of a whole pandemonium, if not controlled.“ He took a deep breath, before talking again. “Never underestimate what desperation could make a man do. As for this “Rook”…I assume you have already sent out your “ghosts” around the city to gather more information?” Phillip nodded, a light of solemnity painted on his sharp features. “Good. I will speak with the Grand Master at the earliest and discuss a proper strategy.” "I will ensure to keep you informed of any new information that may come to my attention." "Very well," he murmured, and with a small bow, he took his leave, making way toward the stairs that would lead to the ground floor. But he stopped before he could descend, clenching his fist. “Lord Starrick.” “Yes, Master Harrison?” “Not a word to Dorothea,” he murmured, his tone one that didn’t allow the possibility of compromise. After the young man nodded in agreement, Byron finally took his leave, his heart heavy. Not yet, he thought, looking above his shoulder, toward the library. Not just yet.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - Homeward Bound ]

[NEXT CHAPTER - "A Touch of West" ]

*pokes head out of the borrow*

OMG I AM FINALLY DONE. I AM FINALLY DONE.

It was so LONG overdue, but allow me to finally present the latest chapter!!

Ngl, I am so happy to be done with this, and I am so happy with how it turned out!! And I am so happy to finally start to introduce my Templar Squad! I don't know how to explain, but it makes me feel like the story is truly starting rolling! :)

Dear gods, this is truly one of the longest chapters I have ever written! It started as a small chapter, I was envisioning maybe 6k words. I DIDN'T EXPECT TO END UP WITH DOUBLE THAT NUMBER.

good gods, i feel like my brain is mush lolol

But anyway, I truly hope you will like reading it as much as I loved writing it!

--Nemo

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed syndicate #Assassins #templars #jacob frye #dorothea starrick #Byron Harrison #Phillip Starrick #Ambrose Harrison #In The Heat Of The Moment #my ocs #Nemo Writes #Mostly Ocs for this chapter but it's needed #the story develop in parallel lolol

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ronaldofandom · 1 year

Text

A Love Eternal / Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna

Chapter 7 is up guys, after a month of hiatus :)

Summary: Finally, the lovemaking sequence is here - this is Bheem in all his glory. Followed by some fluffy/teasing talks between SitaJenny, SitaBheem, and RamBheem.

Warnings: Suggestive language ahead, but not smut.

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Suggested music - Parineeta (Recommend listening to this before/while reading the chapter - the feels match)

Moodboard - created by the brilliant @meastradeur, who graciously allowed me to use it.

Chapter 7

(Links to Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10 , Ch 11

Bheem loved like he laughed. Like he fought. With all his might. With every fibre of his being. There was no hesitation tonight. No shyness. No second thoughts. He was a man on a mission. And from his actions, Jenny half-believed that the mission was to give her a stroke or set her body on fire.

‘Sari Sita ne pehnaayi?’ (Did Sita help you put on the Sari?)

He whispered into her ear.

She was on her back, and he was on his side, leaning over her. His fingers ran circles around her belly button as he rubbed their cheeks together.

Words failed her. But she managed to nod a yes.

‘Hmmm.’ He muttered against her cheek as his index finger finally dipped into her belly button, playing with it. Her hand reflexively clutched his bicep.

Bheem felt weirdly jealous that the first time she had adorned Indian ethnic wear, he hadn’t been the one to dress her up. At least he would get to take it off.

He started with her bangles, sliding them off carefully, kissing her wrists. Next were her jhumkis (earrings) as he nibbled on her earlobes, making her whimper. He slid the accessories well under the cot so she doesn’t step on them in the morning. His fingers unpinned her pallu from her shoulder, and he slowly pulled it down, holding her gaze all the while. Bheem tugged at the pleats of her sari, pulling them out all at once as he peeled the garment off her, throwing it somewhere behind. The shell necklace he let stay on, admiring how it suited her long, slender neck.

The assuredness of his touch was driving Jenny insane. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

Growing up in conservative British high society, Jenny had been told practically nothing of intimacy, which was referred to as ‘marital relations.’ She was supposed to be given the talk once she was betrothed to someone, before her wedding night. Even her married friends spoke very little of intimacy - it was improper to speak that way to maidens. Her mother, aunt, and friends had always spoken of marital duties with their husbands and finding bliss with the children. The concept of physical bliss and pleasure seemed alien to them. Therefore, she was all the more confused about the fuzzy sensations emanating in her body, at strange places, from his touch. She had only read of those in some ‘not so proper’ novels but was living them now. And she knew he was just getting started.

In contrast, Bheem was firmly in control of his actions and emotions. He had thought long & hard about the two of them while he had been away and had taken care of all formalities before wanting her this way. As the protector of the tribe, he was the de-facto leader of the tribal council, yet he had still sought and received the council’s blessings for their relationship. He had made their courtship official, as per the customs of his people. The Gond customs were quite progressive. It was not uncommon for couples to live together before marriage to test their compatibility. It was also not uncommon to have pre-marital relations. Marrying for love was actually the norm. In their simple ways, they were far more evolved than the complex modern societies.

It was also customary to offer gifts to the woman during the courtship period, hence the shell necklace, which she had gladly worn, thereby accepting his affections. Bheem had meant to discuss this with her tonight, but all rational thought went out of the window when he saw her.

As he enveloped her in his arms and kissed her senseless, Jenny forgot everything else in the world other than his name, which she moaned like a chant. His strong, musky scent - of fresh rains on the forest floor - dominated her senses. As did the feel of his gruff beard and calloused hands on her soft skin.

He insisted on holding her gaze throughout, coaxing her back to him in the moments she couldn’t handle the intensity on his face & looked away. Jenny found this to be more intimate than anything else he was doing with her. The mix of wonder, adoration, and nerves in her eyes spurred him on even more; he couldn’t hold back any longer.

She sensed the shift in his mood and gulped as he swiftly pulled open the thread and hooks of her blouse on her back, bringing it down her shoulders, throwing it behind, along with her petticoat, leaving her just in her underthings.

Bheem was mesmerized by the ravishing sight in front of him. He wanted to drink her in. The faint moonlight bouncing off her spotless skin wasn’t doing enough justice to her beauty. He stood up, reached for the lamp, and placed it right next to the cot. Her cheeks, already crimson, turned cherry red, but she let him have what he wanted.

He straddled her, caging her between his thighs, slowly unbuttoned his kurta, and threw it behind. His eyes held her in place and took in her curves hungrily. Jenny had read that desire fuelled by love was the most burning kind; his desire sure was burning her from the inside. Her breaths became short and shallow as her arms went around his shoulders. Balancing himself on top of her, he kissed her repeatedly - slowly at first, then with more force, coaxing her to part her succulent lips and letting him plunge into her sweet mouth. Her bra was next to go. He cupped her and swallowed her moans. When she gasped for breath, he let her lips go and nibbled at her neck & collarbone, leaving his fair share of marks.

As his lips started trailing lower, she grabbed his face with both hands. Their eyes met, and she could see the depth of want flashing in his.

‘Bheem…dheere (gently)…please.’

Jenny was extra sensitive there and thought it better to let him know, especially given the nipping mood he was in. Bheem acknowledged that with a slow, sensual kiss on her lips. And then he proceeded to make her eat her words. He went atrociously slow, gently yet thoroughly ravishing every inch of her upper body.

The soft flesh of her hardened peaks caught his fancy in particular - he tended to them exclusively and relentlessly till she pleaded for respite.

Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her moans became more wanton. Which made his blood rush south - fast and hard.

His hands instantly went down to her inner thighs, caressing her lovingly. She gasped and arched her back when his fingers edged closer to her core, involuntarily trying to cross her legs. He tried one more time, pecking the soft flesh of her inner thighs, and she nearly bounced off the cot at the sensation.

This made him pause. Her eyes were shut tightly, and her hands were fisted in the mattress below. She was still a bundle of nerves, too tense for his liking. He had tried to take it slow, to get her to relax. Ram’s advice was still fresh in his mind - he knew taking her like this could be uncomfortable and even painful for her. That was a no-go, despite his own body screaming otherwise.

When he rolled off her, she looked at him in confusion, worrying if she had done something wrong to put him off. He saw the worry lines on her face and pulled her in for a deep, loving kiss, assuring her with his touch, only letting go when he felt the tension releasing in her posture.

They lay on their sides, facing each other. Bheem caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers.

‘Koi jaldi nahi hain, Jenny. Jab tumhe sahi lage. Agar tumhe sahi lage.’

(There is no rush, Jenny. We can go ahead later, when you want to. If you want to.)

She wanted to cry for a different reason now. God must have taken his sweet time when he was making this man. And he must have broken the mold afterward.

Jenny started to trace his face with her index finger, admiring his beautiful features. Luminated in the golden glow of the lamp, he looked extra divine, extra serene tonight. His eyes, which were swimming with desire till a few moments back, were radiating love and warmth now. She leaned in to kiss the top of his eyes and heard him sigh, making her heart flutter. She traced the outline of his thick beard from his cheek down to his neck. He stayed still, following her moves. When her finger moved to his plump pink lips, he couldn’t resist a quick peck. And was rewarded with his favorite sound in the world - her giggles. She moved her finger to his lips again, and he licked it this time. She played with the ends of his mustache like he himself did many times. He pulled her closer and kissed the tip of her nose, making her giggle harder.

Her hand tentatively moved to his chest. She had touched him there before, multiple times, while tending to his scars. But this was the first intimate touch. She didn’t need to guard her reactions this time. Her hand traced the taut skin of his neck, his toned pecks, the broad expanse of his chest, down to his ripped abs. A shiver ran down her back, and his keen eyes noticed the change in her breathing. The raw, tsunami-like strength of his rugged build had always enticed Jenny, even when she knew him as Akhtar, but especially since she had known him as Bheem. She had witnessed it at that fateful party and multiple times since coming here - in his hand-to-hand combat training, in the way he swung the children around while playing with them, and how he had carried her in his arms like she weighed nothing. She wanted more. She wanted to taste those deliciously hard, erotic muscles.

Bheem had to grip the rough edges of the cot, hard, to restrain himself when her lips touched his skin. His knuckles turned white, but he was determined to let her set the pace. A chaste kiss on his lips was followed by an agonizing exploration of his torso. Her lips followed the same trail of her fingers, but they lingered more. He didn’t dare to move or do anything which could make her stop. She kissed his scars, wishing for them to disappear. The tattoos on his biceps got special attention as she nibbled there. She wanted to give the same treatment to the ones on his thighs, but the thought itself of fondling his thighs made her nearly combust on the spot.

Jenny was shocked at her actions beyond measure. She had never imagined herself to be capable of such forwardness. This was contrary to everything she had been conditioned for since her childhood. They weren’t married, he wasn’t British or of high society, and she was acting as un-ladylike as her imagination could allow.

This wasn’t a union her people would understand or approve of, but who were they to fathom what she felt for this beautiful man, who had swept her off her feet, literally and figuratively. Theirs was a union of love. A mating of two souls. A bond forged in empathy, kindness, and courage.

Bheem was safety. Bheem was freedom. Bheem was comfort. Bheem was her whole heart. Bheem was everything pure and worth loving in this world. That was more than enough for her - she didn’t need a societal stamp or nomenclature.

‘Bheem?’ She was gazing into his eyes now. He gazed right back, squeezing her hand.

‘I take you to be my love, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, for as long as you shall have me, which I hope is forever.’

Bheem didn’t understand the significance of her words, but he held her close as she shuddered through it.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, trying to pull him on top of her. He broke their kiss and looked into her adoring eyes for confirmation.

‘It’s fine, my love. I am ready now. Please, take me.’

He had been on edge for far too long, almost from the moment he first carried her back to the hut, and he needed no further invitation. Getting back on top, he let her feel some of his weight, and she loved the sensation. They made out passionately while he removed both their underpants and rubbed himself against her thigh, sending her mind reeling.

As he spread her legs and positioned himself between them, he whispered into her ear.

‘Thoda sa dard hoga jaan, par main dhyaan rakhunga.’

(It might hurt a little, sweetheart, but I will take care.)

Jaan. Jenny knew that word; she had heard Sita refer to Ram as that. It was the first time Bheem had used a term of endearment for her. She was so lost in that feeling that she didn’t realize it when he entered her. It did hurt, a fair bit, but he kissed her through the initial discomfort and paused after each thrust to let her get used to the intrusion.

Once buried to the hilt inside her, he started to gain his rhythm, and she lost any remaining semblance of sanity. Their bodies moved in unison, almost of their own accord, as he wrapped her legs around his waist for a deeper angle. Her soft constant moans intertwined with his deep intermittent grunts as he took her closer and closer to her peak.

Her senses registered the blurry pattern of the ceiling, the near-violent creaking of the cot, and the pitter-patter of feet outside as people started retiring to their huts post the festivities.

Jenny was reduced to a quivering, incoherent mess underneath him - only uttering two words on loop - ‘Bheem’ and ‘please.’

She learned and experienced a great many things tonight. About male anatomy - an image that was now imprinted in her mind forever. And about female biology - how women could peak multiple times in a single intercourse. She bit her cheek to keep herself from screaming as she came over and over, shattering around him, driving him near the edge.

Bheem was unrelenting, and he kept his pace. The need to have her was so deep, he could feel it in his bones. She tried to hold on, but when she couldn’t take it anymore, she yelped and pushed against his chest.

‘Shhhhh, bas thoda sa aur, jaan.’

(Shhhh, just a little bit more, sweetheart.)

Aiming to put her out of her misery soon, he pinned her hands down, buried his face in her bosom, and went faster, giving her a taste of his real strength that she was secretly craving. That’s when she realized how much he had held himself back tonight. And she was grateful because this was too overwhelming. His movements turned sloppy, and he peaked soon after, collapsing on top of her, still buried inside her.

They stayed like that for a while, still dazed. Bheem recovered first after a few moments and rolled off her. When he got up to put on his underpants, he was amused at the state of their surroundings. It looked like something had exploded there. He picked up their discarded garments from all over the floor, along with her accessories, and placed them in a neat pile on the side.

When he tried to help clean her with a wet cloth, she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him away, not allowing him anywhere near her erogenous zones. When he tried to place the cloth in her hand, she refused that also, too exhausted to move a muscle. She was yet to open her eyes and was still lying lifeless on the cot. Bheem smiled and kissed her sweaty brows. He covered her up to her chest with a spare sheet, both for her sake and his. His desire wasn’t sated yet, far from it. He wanted to go on for a few hours, but she had made it amply clear that she was quite done for the night, so he wanted to avoid further temptation.

He pulled her closer, ignoring her little whimpers, and cradled her head on his shoulder. She turned and snuggled into his chest, sighing happily, playing with his chest hair lazily. Bheem’s astute eyes hadn’t missed the visible evidence of their lovemaking on her body - her swollen lips and the marks on her neck, cleavage, inner thighs, hips & wrists. These were just the visible things.

‘Jenny?’ He kissed the top of her head.

‘Hmm.’ She sighed, already half-asleep.

‘Tum…theek toh ho na? Maine kuch zyada toh..’

(Are you…alright? Did I overdo….)

Jenny cut him off by covering his lips with her palm. She kissed his chest and finally opened her eyes, looking up at him with all the love she could muster.

‘Bheem, I have never been better.’

She smiled, found a comfortable spot on his chest again, and was out like a light in a few minutes. Bheem spent a good part of the next hour reliving the events of the night, chuckling to himself and worshipping this goddess of a woman in his arms. His thoughts went to the same image from earlier tonight, of Jenny cooing to their fussing toddler, and he stroked her belly possessively. When he finally dozed off, it was the most warm, cozy, and blissful sleep he had had in ages.

Jenny woke up the next morning feeling hot, which was strange given the climate there. Bheem was spooning her from behind, his front plastered to her back. The memories of last night hit her then, as did the ache in her joints and between her legs. Suddenly very aware of their naked state, in broad daylight, she fixed the thin sheet around herself.

It was late morning, way past Bheem’s wake-up time. She turned in his arms, and boy, she would never tire of waking up to that face.

‘Bheem?’ Jenny tapped on his chest. No response. She tried again, tapping on his cheek. He whined and nuzzled into her neck. She laughed and shook his upper arm lightly. He opened one eye, figured that there was no burning emergency, then closed it again, pulling her closer. She gave up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

‘Aaj walk par nahi gaye?’

(You didn’t go for your morning walk today?)

‘Mann nahi tha.’

(Didn’t feel like it.)

‘Hmm….Aur training? Tum late ho.’

(Hmmm….and training? You are late for that also.)

Bheem knew he was late. He also knew there was some important business to be dealt with today. But he still didn’t have the heart to let her out of his arms. And he wanted to ensure she was doing fine after last night, both physically and emotionally.

He didn’t need to pop the question though; she read the tentativeness in his eyes and cupped his face.

‘I am fine. Really, I am more than fine. Don’t worry, my love. You can go.’

Very reluctantly, he let her go, and she went into the adjoining chamber to dress herself. By the time she was out, he was ready for the day. They both walked toward each other slowly, and Bheem held her hands. He hadn’t missed the tiny change in her gait and couldn’t help feeling guilty. They hugged silently, stroking each other, drawing comfort from each other’s presence. Jenny broke the hug eventually and had to practically walk him out of the hut.

He came back to check on her every half hour in the pretense of having forgotten something or the other. At first, she found it endearing, but then she started to get annoyed and had to practically shoo him out the last time he sneaked in.

When she heard the latest knock on the door, she was ready to throw something at him.

‘Bheem, for the love of god, I am not a child. I said I was fine. You need to get it through your thick head that…’

Her rant was cut off when she actually opened the door and saw a very amused Sita on the other side.

‘Ummm…what was that about?’

They were both inside now, and Sita was looking at Jenny curiously.

‘Nothing. Just some misunderstanding.’

Jenny tried to look calm, but she knew it was only a matter of time before Sita would see through everything.

‘Hmm.’

Sita didn’t buy it but put it on the back burner for the time being. She had other things on her mind, and her face lit up as she playfully elbowed her friend.

‘So, did Bheem like the surprise? I am guessing yes - since you two never showed up after he….well, after he swooped you up in his arms and carried you back bridal style.’

Sita giggled loudly, and she had expected Jenny to giggle with her. Jenny didn’t - she looked down, played with her hands, and didn’t utter a word. It was as guilty a look as humanly possible. Sita noticed the blush on her friend’s face and then her attire - Jenny was wearing a full-sleeved top with a scarf around her neck. Which was crazy in this weather. Unless…

The wheels started to churn in Sita’s head. She sat close to her friend and held her hand, making Jenny look up at herself. She tried her best to look patient, but her eyes were wide with curiosity and anticipation, making Jenny smile.

‘Well, he did like the surprise. A little too much, actually.’

Jenny looked down again, and Sita squealed happily, shaking Jenny by her shoulders.

‘TELL ME EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ANYTHING OUT.’

It was tough for Jenny to get the words out, but she tried. Every time she stuttered, Sita filled in and kept Jenny talking. Sita gasped, jumped, squealed, blushed, and half-danced through the full details. And then asked a thousand questions just to ensure she didn’t miss anything.

Jenny was scandalised with some of her questions, gaping at her. Sita dismissed her bewilderment and prudishness, making her lay out everything. And Jenny did - it felt good to talk about this life-changing experience. Sita couldn’t contain her happiness for her friend. She was also a tad bit jealous, which was only human, after all.

‘I knew he would like the Sari. I didn’t know he would love it this much.’

They both giggled loudly.

‘By the way, pls keep that Sari now since he liked it on you. Also, I don’t want it back. Even if I boil it in hot water, I would never be able to touch it.’

‘Umm…we didn’t…I mean, the garments weren’t on me when…stuff happened…it’s not ripped or anything…it’s unscathed that way.’

‘Irrespective. It will constantly remind me of THAT. Pls keep it, I insist. Wear it for him again.’

Jenny blushed widely, and Sita laughed at her friend, finding her so cute at that moment. Jenny also wanted to talk to her about something important, something that had been playing on her mind since morning.

‘There is something I wanted to ask you. It‘s slightly…intimate in nature. May I?’

‘Of course. You can ask me anything.’

Jenny worked up the courage to form her next words.

‘How does one, unmmmm, get with child? From what we….what happened last night, do you think I can, you know, get with child?’

Sita looked at her in wonder. She had understood by now that Jenny’s upbringing had been very sheltered, but she had no idea it was like this. It also hit Sita how young Jenny was - she was many years younger than Bheem, who in turn was younger than Ram & Sita.

She must have been so confused about some aspects last night. Sita hoped Bheem had talked/helped Jenny through those. From how Jenny had described, it did seem that he had taken good care of her, and Sita was glad.

‘Yes. What happened last night is exactly how a woman can get with a child.’

‘Hmm.’

Jenny played with her hands. She was worried that this was going to be the answer.

‘So, is there a way to…take something afterward…so that it doesn’t happen?’

This was too soon for them to be thinking of a child. They were still just getting to know each other. This was a whole new world for Jenny, and she was still taking baby steps into it.

Sita looked at her with compassion and understanding.

‘Yes, there is. I can give it to you. It needs to be taken within 12 hours, so you should hurry. And for what it’s worth, I think it’s the right decision. But tell me, have you spoken to Bheem about this?’

Jenny shook her head slowly. She didn’t know how to bring this up with him or how he would react. She didn’t want him to misinterpret it as a sign of her hesitation in this new life.

‘My dear, you need to talk to him. About what you feel and what you want to do about this. He should know too. He would understand, don’t worry about that.’

Jenny nodded. She knew Sita was right. She had to figure out the right time and the right way to talk to Bheem.

‘And you may also want to talk to him about ways, about forms of intimacy in which…one doesn’t get with child.’

Jenny looked up at her with such innocence and confusion that it made Sita smile. But she wasn’t going to educate her on this - it was something she needed to explore with Bheem.

Sita brought the necessary herbs, which Jenny had with hot tea. She left the younger woman with her own thoughts and made her way out.

Bheem was outside, circling near the entrance of the hut. He jumped when he heard the door open and was glad that it was Sita, not Jenny.

Sita smiled when she saw what was in his hands, which he quickly hid behind himself.

‘Bheem - why are you tip-toeing around your own house, like a thief?

Bheem looked at Sita and understood there was no point in lying to her or hiding anything from her. He wasn’t going to breathe a word of last night to anyone else. But Jenny would have either told Sita already, or Sita would have pried it out of Jenny.

‘Let me guess - you have checked on her too many times already, to the point of annoying her, and now you are scared to go in?’

Bheem nodded like a little child - resignation written deep in his big doe eyes. Something about the sweetness of it tugged at Sita’s heart.

‘Is she…is she doing fine? She won’t tell me if she is not ok, but she would have told you.’ Bheem said in a small voice.

‘Yes, Bheem. She is absolutely fine. There is nothing to worry about.’

Bheem took one hand out from behind himself and opened it to her. Sita knew those herbs served as painkillers.

‘I gave these to her already. She said she doesn’t need it but I have still left them inside.’

Bheem nodded again, relieved by her words.

‘Has she eaten? She didn’t have anything in the morning.’

Sita smiled and clasped his open palm.

‘Yes, we had lunch together, just now.’

He smiled. Finally. And Sita clasped his hand tighter with affection.

‘You know, she is not as fragile as you think. She is quite strong-willed.’

Bheem was taken aback a bit by her statement and implication.

‘Oh - I don’t think she is fragile. She is very brave and spirited and strong-willed. I know that, I admire that. But she is delicate, Sita. She is not used to living like us. All this is very new for her. She hasn’t seen any harsh realities of life. Well, till before she met me, at least.’

His voice fell at the last sentence.

‘If you ask her, she would say her life really began when she met you.’

He was still looking down, not convinced. It happened with him a fair bit. When he was with her, drowning in her affection, the doubts never surfaced. But the moments away from her were like this sometimes.

‘She has left everything behind - her home, her people, her friends, the luxuries of her prior life, her way of life. Anything and everything she was familiar with, she has left it all behind. All for me. Sometimes, that’s a heavy burden to carry. And most times, I don’t feel like I am worth it.’

His voice became small and distant again. Sita clasped his hand tighter and made him look at herself.

‘Bheem - let her be the judge of that, please. When she tells you there is nothing in this world she wants other than you, she means it. Trust her on this. When I can see it written loud and clear in her eyes, so can you. And I know you do so see it, but for some reason, you are not letting yourself accept it.’

Sita could see she was getting through to him, so she continued.

‘I understand why you feel responsible for her. It’s sweet that you are so protective. But you both need to communicate better and listen to each other. Don’t just act based on your own assumptions. And that goes for her also. She is very mature in a few things, wise beyond her years, but is quite naive in some other aspects. Just like you. You both are two silly people - silly in love, made for each other.’

There it was, his pearly laugh, mixed with the twinkle in his eyes.

‘Thank you. For being there for her. For being her friend. It has meant a lot to her; I can see that. There are things that she may not discuss with me yet, but I am glad she has you for those.’

Sita was overwhelmed by this sudden burst of emotion from him.

‘I am grateful for meeting her, too; I treasure every second of being with her. I can see why you love her so much. And Bheem - thank you for making my friend the happiest girl in the world. That’s what she feels when she is with you.’

In the limited time Bheem and Sita had spent together, they had felt a special bond - of kindness, compassion, and empathy. Sita had been able to say the right thing at the right time in the right way to him, just as he needed to hear it.

‘So, are you planning to give her the flowers or what?’

Bheem took out his other hand from behind himself. He had brought her a collection of roses this time, which took some effort.

‘I will just leave them at the door, don’t want to disturb her while she is resting.’

‘You liar - you are too scared to knock on that door and risk annoying her.’

Bheem looked sheepish, but he neither confirmed nor denied that.

‘Wait till you see her reproachful face and admonishing eyes. Then we will talk.’

Sita burst out laughing, almost making him conscious. This man - who hadn’t hesitated for a second to storm the British barracks alone - was scared of angering a petite woman. It was as comical as it was endearing. Sita laughed all the way back to her hut. And Bheem somehow made it to the training again.

Ram had noticed that Bheem had arrived late, which had never happened before, but he didn’t say anything. He also didn’t miss how Bheem kept disappearing in the middle. He hadn’t even shown up for their morning walk today, which was a first, too. He kept his thoughts to himself for a bit and focused on the task at hand.

When they were wrapping up late afternoon, and others had left already, Ram made his way to his friend, who had stoically avoided looking at him all day.

‘Where are you lost today?’

‘Lost? Not at all. I am right here. I have been right here.’ Bheem blurted out instantly, making Ram even more suspicious. Something was different about him today.

‘Look at me.’

‘What?’

‘Turn around and look at me.’

Bheem cursed inwardly and slowly turned around, trying to appear calm, but his eyes betrayed him, as always.

As Ram started to put two and two together, Bheem could see a devilish grin building on his face. But before he could get a word out, they heard Malli coming towards the clearing.

‘Annna - where are you?’

‘We are here.’ Bheem waved to her, and the child came running towards him.

‘Anna - is Jenny akka still hurt from last night?’

Bheem felt like someone had just sucker-punched him. His face was a mixture of confusion and horror. And utter disbelief at what he had just heard. Had they been that loud? Did Malli hear something? Ram, who was standing behind Malli, was equally stunned.

‘WHA….what do you mean?’ He choked out somehow.

‘She hurt her foot last night; that’s why you carried her back, right? Is she still hurt?’

The color that had drained from Bheem’s face had returned somewhat. Ram also let out an audible sigh.

‘Yes, she did hurt her ankle, but she is fine now.’

‘Then why did she not come for our class today?’

Ram picked that moment to compound Bheem’s misery.

‘Is that so? She didn’t take the class today? I wonder why - care to enlighten us, Bheem?’

Ram was standing behind Malli, the devilish grin back on his face. Bheem tried his best to not look at him.

‘She is……a little tired after the….festivities last night, nothing else. The class will be back on from tomorrow; you can see her then.’

Malli whined loudly, making her best pouting face. Ram felt she had learned that from Bheem.

‘Tomorrow? You mean she won’t play with us this evening also?’

‘No. Not today.’

‘But you just said she is fine. Why can’t I go to her right now? Why can’t I play with her?’

‘Because your Anna has played with her enough last night.’

Ram muttered from behind, low enough so Malli couldn’t hear, but Bheem caught it instantly and gave him a death glare. Ram was legit taken aback and shut up after that. While Malli just looked at the two men in confusion.

‘Malli - I just told you, not today. Don’t ask so many questions. And what are you doing here anyway? I have told you a zillion times to stay close to the village.’

Bheem responded curtly, annoyance seeping into his voice, which was mostly from Ram’s antics. Malli used the full power of her whining and stomped her feet.

‘It’s not fair, Anna. Back in the haveli, Jenny akka used to spend so much time with me. Even after coming here initially, she played with me all the time. But in the last week, I have barely seen her. She is always away, always with YOU. Why? She was my friend first.’

Ram looked ready to burst into a laugh, barely managing to contain himself. But he didn’t make a sound, not wanting to invite Bheem’s wrath again.

Bheem was befuddled. It was true that he had claimed most of Jenny’s time lately, especially since they had both confessed their feelings to each other. But he had never considered that Malli would feel this way. While Bheem was thinking of a response, Malli doubled down.

‘Amma doesn’t even allow me to go to your hut, at any time of the day. When I ask her why, she just says that children shouldn’t ask so many questions. What kind of an answer is that? How is any of this fair?’

Bheem bent to his knees in front of her, bringing his hands to her shoulders.

‘Malli, I am sorry. I didn’t realise you felt this way. Your Jenny akka is your friend first - it is true and I will tell her how you feel. I promise she will spend more time with you from now on.’

Malli smiled widely and jumped into his arms. Bheem picked her up and started walking back to the village, leaving Ram to bring back all the training equipment; that should serve him well.

‘Anna - can I come to your hut from now on? Jenny akka tells the most amazing bedtime stories - of faraway lands and princesses. She used to tell them to me in the haveli, to get me to sleep. I miss those stories.’

Bheem had no intention of compromising their privacy during the nights, so he thought of a round about way.

‘How about she comes to your hut on some nights and tells you a couple of stories? And comes back afterwards?’

‘That should be alright.’

Bheem was glad at having pacified her. But she wasn’t done, not yet. Malli raised her head from where it was resting on his shoulder and looked at Bheem intently.

‘Anna - you like her, don’t you?’

Bheem didn’t want to lie to her. Not on this.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘And she likes you too, right?’

‘Yes, she does.’

‘Is that why you both spend so much time together? Because you like each other?’

‘Yes. But who told you about this?’

‘No one told me. No one tells me anything. But I figured it out myself. Both of you have been happier since last week. You smile more. And you both keep looking at each other all the time; it’s so funny.’

Malli kissed his cheek, and he kissed the top of her head.

‘So, you are okay with that then? With sharing your Jenny akka’s time with me?

‘I am okay. I love you both, and I am happy that you are happy. But remember - I said sharing, not taking up all her time.’

Bheem burst into a big laugh.

‘Yes, I heard you on that. Loud and clear.’

They chatted about many other things, mostly random, on their way back. Bheem was glad to hear her laughter, something she had only started doing recently. She had started drawing again too. Listening to her excited gibberish, Bheem was hopeful that someday, she would be able to get past the trauma of her capture and be their little nightingale again.

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

A/N: Massive thanks to @carminavulcana for sharing the Gond customs. A loose interpretation of that has been used in this chapter.

As always, would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter :)

@irisesforyoureyes @rambheem-is-real @thewinchestergirl1208 @eremin0109 @eenadu-varthalu @rorapostsbl @anyavaramyr @yehsahihai @budugu @rasnak2 @fadedscarlets @maraudersbitchesassemble @juhiiiiii @justmeand-myinsight @rambheemisgoated @rosayounan @jrntrtitties @obsessedtoafault @rambheemlove @jjwolfesworld @alikokinav @iam-siriuslysher-lokid @bromance-minus-the-b @dumdaradumdaradum @lovingperfectionwonderland @annieginny @chaanv @ssabriel @sally-for-sally @milla984 @doodlesofthelastpage @boochhaan @mesimpleone @filesbeorganized @ladydarkey @teddybat24 @fangirlshrewt97 @stanleykubricks @stuckyandlarrystuff @burningsheepcrown @veteran-fanperson @voidsteffy @ronika-writes-stuff @beingmes-blog @yonderghostshistories @nisreenart @chaidrivenwhore @bheemaxrama

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stobinesque · 10 months

Text

WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @eriquin and @spicysix thank you!!

THE RULES

In a reblog (or new post w/ rules attached), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can’t share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!

THE WIPS

wigwag [Steve's Big Gay Sex Adventure]

phryctoria ch. 4 revisions [depending on the revision I'll either post lines from something else or from a revised segment]

Wayfinder [S4 Fix-it, Lucas POV]

THE (no pressure) TAGS

@devondespresso @starryeyedjanai @xenon-demon @steves-strapcollection @scarcrossdlvrs @inairbinad @hellsfireclub @delta-piscium @steddielations @thefreakandthehair @skjachukson @steventhusiast -- and anyone else who wants to participate!

THE SNIPPET

from wigwag...nsft below the cut 😏

Steve lets himself be pulled into the man’s orbit without a fight. He’s moving to the music as easily as breathing, like the script for this is buried somewhere in the marrow of his bones. The man braces a hand against Steve’s hip and they rock together. Steve has to look up to meet his gaze in a way he’s never had to before, and the novelty of it makes his heart skip a beat. He’s never really stopped to think about whether or not he cared about being taller than his partners, but there’s something about feeling smaller than one that gets his heart beating a little more rapidly.

When Steve plays the night back in his head later he won’t be able to remember who leans in first, but between one beat and the next the space between them evaporates and Steve finds himself being kissed by a man for the second time in his life. It’s just as thrilling as it was the first time—if a little less awkward; a little more at ease. His lips are tingling and his head is buzzing and a sudden want rushes through him that makes him want to either devour or be devoured.

The man pulls back at the same time Steve does with a shocked gasp. “Wanna take this somewhere a little more private?”

Steve hesitates. “I would, but…I’m here with a friend.” Robin would never forgive him if he ditched her to hook up with a stranger.

The man smirks down at Steve. “I said ‘more’ private.”

Steve just stares for a moment, uncomprehending, until the man wraps his fingers around his wrist and tugs him off the dance floor. Steve follows in his wake, dumbfounded. The man leads him towards the back of the club, into a small, dark alcove tucked off to the side, next to the restrooms.

“How’s this for private?” He asks, crowding Steve up against the wall with his forearms bracketing either side of Steve’s head.

Steve swallows. “Pretty good, I’d say.”

“Good.” The man reaches down to hitch Steve’s hips up and forward, and Steve follows willingly, leaning his shoulders further against the wall and arching his back so that it forms a graceful, curving line. He peers up at the man through his lashes and lets out a small, breathy sigh.

“See something you like?”

The man drops his free hand down to slip his fingers beneath the hem of Steve’s shirt, and slides his open palm up the expanse of his chest. He pinches a nipple between two fingers and twists with a leering smile as he answers: “A pretty boy waiting to get wrecked.”

The words and the bright shock of pain send a shiver down Steve’s spine, and his hips twitch forward helplessly. The man skims the hand gripping Steve’s hip up his side, ghosting over his throat before tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck. He tugs, and it makes Steve’s lips drop open around a strangled moan. “Fuck.”

The man leans in, scant millimeters away from Steve’s face, so that his warm breath fans across Steve’s cheek. There’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he says, “Not tonight, darling.”

Before Steve can gather together a single thought for a response, the man is diving back in for a messy, open-mouthed kiss; the hand buried under Steve’s shirt snaking down to palm at the slight bulge forming at the front of his pants.

“Oh,” Steve puffs out on a small, surprised gust of air. He rocks forward into the man’s wide palm and heavy grip. Blood rushes south, and it leaves him feeling dizzy and his ears ringing even more than they were before. He pulls back from the kiss, head tilting back as he pants and tries to take in a steadying breath. “Fuck, I’m—“

“This the first time you’ve had another man’s hand on your cock, princess?” The man whispers into Steve’s ear.

Steve lets out a low, keening sound, and if his head wasn’t already pressed against the wall behind him he’d be knocking it back as the words spark through him. “It is, isn’t it?” His lips brush against the shell of Steve’s ear with each word, and Steve feels like he could crawl out of his skin. “I could tell just by looking at you, looking so pretty and green.”

#do i format these slightly differently each time? yes.#i should just save a draft version at this point #read writes #wip wednesday #(stobin soulmate au not featured this week bc it needs to marinate in my head a bit)#(and i'm still sitting on several 'jeff is steve's bi awakening' asks lol)

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inlocusmads · 10 months

Text

crimes ╸masterlist

Nora Rose Character Sheet & Dossier

Trys & Nora Moodboard

#thorne rose headcanons

Masterlist of OCs - 1 and 2

last updated: 29 Apr 2024

>> edited fics have their titles written in lowercase <

─ series:

second languages: How Trystan forgets his mother tongue - the trials and tribulations, the consequences and the guilt that follows and how he struggles to learn it back again. (also on ao3)

─ drabbles/ one-offs:

Pre-Crimes, Book 1

hello, goodbye: Jimmy writes a letter to his daughter, in the off-chance he doesn't come home.

Bisexual Awareness Week : Nora's bisexuality discussed for Bisexuality Awareness Week.

new york, june 2014: When Trystan is thwarted with scrutiny upon his exile, he finds kindness stem from the most unexpected of places.

starting somewhere if nowhere tangible: How Nora landed her job at the Ginovesi Agency, high on weed.

lofi beats to suppress your anxiety to: (Follow up to Starting Somewhere.) Nora's first day at work and the morning that led up to it.

chosen family: One does not simply ask their friends how to go about a drastic career change. Unfortunately, Trystan doesn't receive the memo.

Crimes of Passion, Book 1

cross your hearts and set it ablaze: The first chapter of Crimes of Passion Book 1 from Trystan's point of view. (1.01)

vigilance & other nice qualities: Nora gets help from one of her old contacts to learn more about her royalty of a client and is faced with some surprising observations. (1.03, 1.04)

running on empty (with just your hand to hold): In the longest, most traumatizing moments in their lives, they search for a hand to hold. (1.14 and 1.16)

music for the lost and found: Trystan gets stabbed. Nora is furious. A cold dinner gets lost in the scuffle. (1.14)

Between Book 1 and 2

Stopping Time To Think | Prompt by @mvalentine : They have a heart-to-heart conversation in the middle of the night.

Read With Your Teeth : Trystan attempts at brainwashing Nora to get her into the Aubrey-Maturin adventures by making her food (and nearly burning her kitchen) from the books.

Crimes of Passion, Book 2

Partner (Disambiguation) (5+1 fic) : 5 times Nora and Trystan fake a relationship and one time they didn't want to anymore.

risk management Captain Thompson gives them an unfair intervention. They can't afford to fly into a rage and make a bad landing - not when plenty is at stake. (2.02)

"mama, didn't mean to make you cry" : Before Trystan leaves for a second time, (this time willingly), he must have a difficult conversation with his mother. (2.16)

Between Book 2 and Book 3:

meeting at a crosswalk: They find new favourite things. Written in the form of texts and coffee shop receipts.

laplace's angel (4+1 fic): Four times Trystan resorts to trickery to slip out of situations and the one time he is forced against his will not to, the habit is killed and resurrected back to him, at the same time.

poster child: For someone who has made it clear she wants to do everything for vengeance, Nora has second thoughts. Also, Buddha is a good listener.

─ case fics:

Gridlocked: Nora and Trystan investigate a case of a missing student, except they realize she might have also gone completely offline; her internet footprints scrubbed off as if she were never there.

─ stuff that doesn't fit in a timeline, i guess:

I don't think a million times is enough: One bed, two silly billys, shenanigans ensue but of the emotional variety.

nora can't draw for shit: She just can't, you guys.

─ alternate universe:

A Strange And Sudden Companionship | 1800s AU : Hobbyist detective Nora Rose meets the enigmatic and fairly concerning Mr Thorne of Drakovia after a series of misadventures.

sitting at a park bench | goodbye AU (post-book 1, ch 18): Nora and Trystan bid a permanent farewell.

cold comfort for change | goodbye AU (post book 1, ch 18): Five years later, Nora finds herself with new friends, but something prompts her to think about giving her past a chance.

─ themed fics:

Have We Met Before? | New Year's Eve '24: It's New Year's Eve. Trystan is running late. Nora's burning bits of paper in a fire. Both of them think the other has it figured out.

kindness and other things you can expect from your boss | Nora's 33rd birthday: The quarterly honour-your-employees day coincides with Nora's birthday. Everyone wants to be 'best detective/genius' giving Mafalda a long overdue headache.

"this is a serious workplace!"| Valentine's Day '24: They are the biggest threats to the workplace. The insurance is a headache.

─ Gifts from Friends:

Nora and Trystan @ the Agency by @cassie-thorne

Nora and Trystan In Victorian Times by @hydn-jpg

The Detectives by @neonravensart (giveaway by @lilyoffandoms)

Nora's Moodboard by @writing-not

Quote Edits by @aallotarenunelma

Nora's FC Edit by @ofmischiefandmedicine

Nora & Trystan get interrogated by @rosefuckinggenius , giveaway hosted by CFWC for their Pride Month Event.

Trystan, Nora moodboards (+other ships) by @rosepetals1 (for choices christmas secret santa event

Best Detective/Genius award by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd and gifted by @stars-are-within-me

Nora in NYC by @lilyoffandoms

Jimmy's letter by @lilyoffandoms

Trys and Nora's coffee orders by @lilyoffandoms

Nerf gun interrogation by @vampirkit (for choices valentine's day secret admirer event)

Nora Quote Moodboard by @choicesmc

Nora sketch by @mydemonsdrivealimo

Picrew of Nora by @thosehallowedhalls

─ Gifts for Friends:

Interborough Loops (Emily Rose x Trystan Thorne) for @moominofthevalley: Emily puts her feelings to words after taking a leap of faith - something she'd not consider doing if it weren't for watching the people around her. However, Trystan isn't a huge fan of words.

".. one word from you and I will.." (Emma Rose x Trystan Thorne) for @thosehallowedhalls: or how Trystan and Emma's lives melt into each other after they move in together.

#masterlist things #crimes of passion fics #don't mind me just reorganising my stuff so i can make sense of the chaos

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unusual-raccoon · 10 months

Text

Wolves at the Door (Ch. 5) | by Unusual_Raccoon (JaceLuke)

@greeksorceress, @livinginafantasysposts, @bimyself06, @theartificialintellect, @angelicpraxis Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Jacaerys Velaryon, Politically Savvy Jacaerys Velaryon, Possessive Jacaerys Velaryon, Jealous Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra), Codependency, Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Disturbing Themes, Breathplay, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Oral Fixation, Ball Sucking, Come Swallowing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, Intercrural Sex, Thigh Job, Hand Jobs, Come Eating, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Emetophobia, Biting, Painplay, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Come Sharing, Snowballing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Allusions to Disordered Eating, Alcohol, Voyeurism, Accidental Voyeurism, Body Dismorphia, Coming Untouched, Hurt No Comfort, Non-JaceLuke Sex Scene

Summary: Part 4 of A Brother's Love Jacaerys is at his side, yet not close enough; he imagines his desired proximity to his elder brother would be sharing the same flesh - existing as some horrid two-headed beast with malformed limbs and two hearts.

WC: 7K

Ao3 Link

Their night had not ended in one another’s embrace as Lucerys would have preferred; rather, it had continued upon receiving an invitation to dine with the lord of Winterfell.

So, the young princes had roused and redressed. Lucerys is not pleased at having been summoned, but endures it regardless. He dutifully takes his place at the table and resembles something human for the moment.

Supper, he concludes, is a strained affair as they sit in the lord’s too-warm hall. Jacaerys is at his side, yet not close enough; he imagines his desired proximity to his elder brother would be sharing the same flesh - existing as some horrid two-headed beast with malformed limbs and two hearts. He thinks of their sister, Visenya…

The lord Cregan sits at the table’s head.

They begin with light salads of fresh spinach leaves and bitter turnip greens. Foods left raw, unembellished; naked.

He thinks of the training yard, the pear, as he hears the pointed crunch of greenery ground between their host’s sharp teeth. His heart thumps too hard in his chest as he feels the pulse of vibrant bruises, soft and sweet and dark as plums, stained upon his flesh.

The hearth growls a distant, drowsy tune, a snarling lullaby.

Lucerys chews, discerning the same crunch of crisp vegetation. His tongue wanders over the snapped spine of a spinach leaf, feeling the sagging tension before he swallows. He imagines the same pop of tendons in his ankles, neck, and knees; all ground to broken pieces between his brother’s teeth.

He pictures himself a puppet with slashed strings.

His temples pulse as he examines his plate. The ruffage is mere food for prey with flat teeth - square front teeth catch upon his lower lip.

His plate is taken away as the next course is to be provided.

Somewhere amidst the clearing of plates and provision of a hearty vegetable pottage, a hand settles upon Luke’s thigh.

He sits up straighter, listing into the cage of warm fingers that curl tight over his knee. The touch peels away the haze that clouds his mind, forces him into tense awareness, not to be lulled by the snoring of the hearth.

Jacaerys wears a proper smile while making conversation with the wolfman, not the practiced cordial smile of a disinterested prince, but a true smile; all teeth.

He doesn’t talk like a man preoccupied, he does not even look in Luke’s direction. Lucerys begins to fear the touch upon his thigh is a mere figment of his unraveling mind.

He leans away. Jace’s grip tightens - too tight, a warning, pain skitters through him like cracks in a stone; he feels only the ache of validation. Sweat beads at his temples beneath flouncy dark curls.

Luke shudders in his seat, clasps shaking hands together; shivers through prayer toward his deity made flesh, the being for whom all his woes and wishes were seen through.

Jacaerys’ hand tenses like he means to pop Luke’s knee. He sucks down the sound, the soft mewling sound, that gathers in his throat.

He prays for mercy. He prays for the strength to conduct himself in a manner befitting his station. He prays for a reprieve. He prays for more.

Amidst prayer, he is stunned by his brother’s face, as though witnessing it for the first time. The full swell of his lips and sharp angle of his nose. His brother’s beauty is an epiphany.

You are a dragon, he thinks at the sight of his brother’s prominent profile whilst Jace’s other hand pushes around a spoonful of pottage; a soupy mess of boiled cabbage, turnips, and carrots, Luke’s nose curls on his brother’s behalf, you need meat.

Vermax’s cry echoes in the brisk northern air. A far off thing.

Jacaerys’ hand creeps higher, along his finely stitched inseam. Fingers gouge fresh bruises through the fabric of his trousers. Blood flows to his waist and below as Lucerys is left short of breath.

If they are terribly conspicuous, lord Stark does not remark on it. No, his eyes are elsewhere, Lucerys notes.

Raw greens stick in Cregan’s teeth before being washed away with a mouthful of mulled wine. A pink tongue glides over pointed teeth at the mindful arch of a serving girl beyond the table’s edge. Dark hair is secured demurely beneath a servant’s bonnet, yet a stray dark lock beckons, fallen loose, the essence of temptation against fair skin.

Lucerys’ own curls flatten against the sweat that coats his nape and temples; unflattering.

Very, very slowly, he can hear it, swelling in the lord’s throat in accordance with the roiling flames; a growl. It is a sound beleaguered by hunger, in want of meat. Sara Snow ducks her head, coy curl dancing as she departs to the kitchens, an alluring swing in her gait and blustery gray eyes follow; possessed.

Jacaerys’ touch grows more torturous.

Lucerys whines, spoons more food fit for prey past flat teeth to keep the sound in, and feels broth dribble down from the corner of his mouth.

He shakes in his brother’s hold, feverish. Unwell.

Warm, familiar fingers tilt beneath his chin, in the too-warm hall, the touch is too much. He feels on the cusp of something awful.

“You’ve made a mess,” Jace scolds him softly as the folded corner of a serviette is gently pressed around Luke’s mouth.

I am sorry, Lucerys thinks, yet the words do not come as coy fingers stroke over the tender, bruised flesh of his inner thigh. They press and swirl over the indentations of teeth like the moist thumb that rubbed along his hole. His toes curl and breathing stutters. He imagines he might spill in his trousers as pleasurepain dances through him. The thought is mortifying, sitting in sticky smalls could make a miserable supper unforgivable.

His vision is blurred beyond the amber of his brother’s smiling eyes.

Hearing muffled.

Jace’s thumb lingers beside Luke’s mouth.

His teeth grind, stifling the ingrained response of an obedient mouth that threatens to fall slack for his brother’s amusement. Even now. Even here.

Briefly gray eyes flicker towards them, infinitesimal, yet it stings like a lash of icy, winter air down damp skin.

Fingers curl beneath the table, between his thighs. Demanding.‘Please’ he begs in sniffling silence, with the cascade of a single tear shimmering down his flushed cheek. His brother dabs that away with the serviette as well, just another careless mess made by a simple boy.

Jace’s head tilts subtly, so difficult to discern that the focus conjures an ache behind Lucerys’ eyes.

Lucerys hears the caw of Vermax’s song grow closer.

“You’ve hardly eaten,” his brother hums.

“I am not hungry,” Lucerys says in a mousey whisper.

‘You are all I wish to have in my mouth’ His eyes say instead with the beat of thick, wet lashes alone.

‘Then you will starve’ the displeased wrinkle of an aquiline nose replies, Lucerys’ throat aches,‘eat’ a tilt of his brother’s dark head adds.

He forces another spoonful of softened vegetables, like slop for a pig, into his mouth. Let’s himself be fattened like an animal awaiting slaughter; consumption.

It is more tolerable that way - eating, if only for his brother’s benefit…

He is rewarded with the press of the heel of Jace’s hand between his legs, unambiguous. Pressure pinches the leaking head of his manhood. It is pain. Blackened, blistering pain that sends vibrant streaks of light bursting behind his eyelids; it is pleasure that stings - blinding.

He shivers in his seat, nose dripping. A stray tear clings to the delicate line of his jaw.

Another spoonful is brought to his lips with shaking hands that yearn for more sustenance in the shape of his brother’s touch - more fulfilling than any meal, more essential than the air in his lungs and blood in his veins.

He swallows. Reaches for his goblet of mulled wine. Swallows that as well. Nearly flashes his brother an open mouth as a show of good faith.

Dark eyes linger upon his mouth, his brother smiles at something Lord Stark says.

A coarse thumb soothes the smarting head of his manhood, teasing in gentle circles through the damp fabric of his trousers.

Lucerys squirms in his seat, a fire wyrm shedding its skin.

Firelight catches a fine line of sweat at the flexing sinew of Lord Stark’s neck, that pulls taut when their next course is carried into the hall…by Sara Snow.

The scent of roasted meat wafts, heavy and spiced.

The thick knot of the lord’s larynx bobs as a platter is placed upon the center of the table; a few stray curls further escape the modesty of a servant’s bonnet, stains against pale skin.

The smoked flesh of a lamb lays adorned with small sprigs of green. Youthful bones blackened from an open flame.

It is no longer food fit for prey.

Cuts of lamb are piled high upon plates, the meat smoked a ravishing mahogany red.

Lucerys watches his brother pull the rosy flesh between sharp teeth, tearing fibers of meat away with relish.

The urge to lay himself upon Jacaerys’ plate is maddening in its intensity.

Fingers tense upon his thigh, ‘eat’, his brother reminds wordlessly.

Above the keep he can hear the beat of leathery wings.

Lucerys prods at a piece of meat with the dull side of his knife, frowning. He does not care to lift the bone between his fingers as Cregan and Jace do.

He cuts away a coarse piece of flank. Chews it endlessly between his teeth.

He cuts and cuts, pokes and prods. Shifts aside unfavorable pieces that do not suit him.

Cregan carves into the meat upon his plate, pries away the soft gem of sirloin, admires it with blustery gray eyes. He asks for wine and the serving girl provides it, her lissome form appears to tremble as the buttery pearl of meat is pulled from the prongs of the lord’s fork, held captive between sharp teeth.

Jacaerys sets a bone upon his plate, barren, a rib bone.

They speak and smile with sharp teeth meant for meat, but Luke does not listen.

He focuses on the fingers that tease him, and the gamey meat he chews. Lamb tastes of innocence, blood and smoke and innocence.

It is Arrax that shrieks, a devilish wanting sound.

He reaches for his goblet, hands shaking. He drinks deeply, swallows down the thickened taste of youth that coats his tongue.

His head swims. He gropes for the hand on his thigh, anchors himself to it until a brief bout of dizziness passes. When the feeling fades he is left…blissful.

Luke is pleasantly calm, empty-headed during the remainder of their meal. Spreads his legs wide so his brother might do as he pleases, and asks for more wine.

He feels sedate, deliciously so. Jace laughs at something Cregan says, and so Luke laughs as well.

He is amiable like this. He is courageous like this. He does not think of war once, only of how happy he is, how happy Jace is.

Desserts are carried out, various cakes and tarts and fruits are laid upon the table.

A servant that is not Sara places a large selection of sweets before the Lord. A moment later Sara hurries to rectify the mistake, brows slightly knitted.

my lord isn’t known for his indulgences, Luke recalls the training yard once more.

“Apologies, my lord,” She begins, rushing to remove the tray.

Yet, a large hand gives her pause.

“It’s alright, Sara,” he hums, gentle, intimate. He chooses a pear from the platter.

Her mouth seems on the verge of falling slack as pointed teeth consume sweet flesh.

Luke’s ears burn. He distracts himself with sweets of his own.

Lucerys unabashedly licks away the custard top of a fair few lemon cakes.

Jacaerys watches him; pleased. Kneads a hand over the bulge of Lucerys’ cock, drawing forth a moan muffled into the moist sponge of a nude lemon cake.

A hand strokes at his thigh, tender, slow, digs into the flesh of fresh bruises. His toes curl.

He nibbles upon the candied rinds of the lemon toppings as more servants flock from the kitchens to clean.

Sara arches over the table to gather platters and utensils, Cregan steadies her elbow with a large palm. Weathered fingers are raised to tuck stray curls, the essence of temptation, out of sight beneath the cover of her bonnet.

The moment seems to last an eternity, the pair of them frozen in time, before Jacaerys speaks.

“My lord,” Jacaerys begins, “you have our gratitude for such a fine meal, and finer company.”

Luke nods. Rather inebriated and aroused.

“Ah,” Cregan sighs, pulling away from his quarry, “You honor me. I am only pleased the lamb was to your liking.”

Jacaerys smiles, and it is Vermax’s smile, and Lucerys wishes to live inside of it. To be held captive between sharp teeth like the iron bars of a cell.

“Most certainly worth the wait.” His brother says with a nod.

This seems to please their lord who nods, a shadow of a smile upon his lips.

“Well, I shan't keep you any longer - rest well.”

“And you, my friend.” Jace replies as Cregan rises from his seat at the table’s head - a towering figure, made even more striking with the comely Sara Snow by his side.

Both pairs of unsettling silver eyes follow as they depart.

Upon leaving the dining hall, Jacaerys steadies a hand upon his back. They are returning to their rooms, or at least, Luke imagines that’s where Jacaerys is taking him at such a late hour.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink so much.” Jace says as Lucerys stumbles, evidently on nothing, he discerns when he looks down at his feet.

“Th’ wine was…nice.” Luke murmurs, growing slightly defensive as he adds, “Besides, I ate a lot.”

Mayhaps he says it with spite, spite that turns to pride. Jace offers a small, pleased smile that is more disorienting than any drink.

“You did.”

Luke pauses, “Mm…you were mean.” He rests his head against Jace’s shoulder, the position is a comfort in the endless maze of dark corridors.

“Was I?” His brother asks, voice dripping innocence as he guides Luke along. As always, he follows where his brother leads.

“Mm,” Lucerys confirms with a short hum. Shivers at the memory of the pinched head of his cock. His mouth waters.

“Jace,” Luke warbles, lacing their fingers together. He blinks hazy dark eyes at his brother, squints behind full lashes and laughs at nothing in particular. He is happy. He hates the north but is happy.

“Want you,” he slurs suddenly, body flush with want, feverish, “gods, Jace-”

His brother’s eyes blacken ravenously, like a predator in want of meat. Lucerys flashes a smile with square front teeth, prey happily caught. Excitement zips through Luke’s limbs. He is thrust against a wall, the cool stone bites through the layers of his clothing and he yelps like a wounded animal. It stings like ice upon bare flesh. His skin pulses hot. After an evening of torture, his brother’s lips descending over his is relief-

Vermax gives a cry above the keep, they halt, startled, lips not yet one. The sound soaks into the icy gray granite.

Lucerys huffs a childish sound.

“I should see to him, he has been restless tonight…” His brother explains, rubbing at Luke’s pouting mouth with a roughened thumb.

Lucerys welcomes the digit with practiced ease, sucking contentedly.

“I’ll tend to Vermax first,” His brother says, slowly, for his benefit, “and when I return, then-”

Lucerys moans around Jace’s thumb.

His brother pulls away, roughened thumb and warm body; in the absence of his warmth Lucerys feels himself begin to wither against the cold stone. Jace stares down at him with eyes darker than the night sky.

“Can you find your way back from here?” His brother asks, fingers teasing at dark curls. Lucerys nods, though foolishly feels on the verge of tears.

His brother tilts his head and licks into his mouth, brief and wet and Lucerys’ knees knock together before Jacaerys is straightening his doublet and marching down the hall…

He licks his lips and tastes his brother, rubs a clammy palm overtop the piddling strain of his cock through his trousers.

And then, the promise of more is his motivation.

The halls are glazed in bronze and gold in torchlight, every door is identical, every hall the same…

Lucerys savors the taste of Jacaerys in his mouth as he wanders, staring at his feet to avoid any falls. And then, he reminds himself.

He finds an ajar door, through the scant opening he spies a large bed, oiled furs hang from the side…

His relief is short lived as voices drift through the crack in the door, humid breath and damp skin…

His throat tightens, a clammy palm tugs at the hem of his doublet.

The broad expanse of a bare, brawny back is visible.

Lucerys shuffles closer.

A whine pulls taut in the air, tapering into a gasp, a cry. A dainty hand claws at the broad back.

Then he hears it, building low in the base of his throat; a growl. The sound is sobering. These weren’t his chambers-

“Cregan…”

The shock smarts like the crack of an open palm. It leaves his cheeks warm and ears ringing.

Oh.

The bed’s wooden frame shrieks with the frantic pace of ardent movement.

Through the open door he sees the violent sway of bare love-bitten breasts, rippling with every harrowing thrust. The lord’s form is doubled over the slight shape of a woman, the moaning voice of which he had once feared cried out his brother’s name…Sara Snow.

His head swims at the startling realization. He thinks of the crude comments made by guards in passing, I could make the bitch howl.

“I- Gods!” Sara cries, her hips rocking off of the bedding to meet the glide of his. His heavy manhood is buried between her thighs, again and again. The sheer size of him bloats her belly. The sight is…arresting.

“I cannot-” She whimpers, words broken and unintelligible as she wails at a particularly powerful thrust that Lucerys thinks will wreck the bed’s frame, if not her own.

Cregan growls, hips halting in their punishing pace to grind against hers, slow, tortuous. And oh, his belly aches with desire; he knows the agony well. A lily white leg dangles over the edge of the bed, foot arched, toes curled. She is weeping, he cannot see her face, but he can hear it. Utterly ruined with pleasure.

He worries square front teeth at his lower lip. Saliva pools in his mouth.

Lucerys watches as Sara dips a sly hand between their bodies aiming for something, what, precisely he does not know. Delicate fingers brush below the shallow divot of her navel before her hand is torn above her head, out of sight with another guttural sound.

Her breathing shakes, too pleased to be terrified.

“Brother, please…” She pleads, her words more of a howl than a cry, ripped between sharp teeth.

Lucerys stiffens. His eyes spring open wide, a gasp snags in his throat…

I await my brother, you await your master.

He can scarcely process the revelation when a large hand takes a firm hold of her throat.

Cregan lowers himself over her, her form eclipsed beneath his, she appeared so small beneath him; a pearl of sirloin destined for consumption. Their faces must be close, Lucerys reasons as he cannot see either of them from the gap in the door…

But he pictures them quite clearly with matching silver eyes, and identical dark heads…

“You either come on my cock, or not at all.” The wolf of Winterfell snarls and Lucerys trembles, rooted to his spot. Drool wets the corners of his mouth.

His mind is numb with arousal…and envy.

He imagines them, wolves with too many teeth, feasting upon one another.

What I would not give to be in your place, he thinks, not pinned beneath the wolfman assuredly…but pinned beneath his own brother. His minds tips empty, incapable of thinking of naught but the prospect of fucking; the vulgarity sends a pleasant buzz to his head. Drunk twice over upon the thought of being fucked by his elder brother. To be made a meal for his brother’s teeth.

Arrax’s neck held between Vermax’s jaws like a lover’s embrace.

Thighs spread for Jacaerys to do as he pleased. The head of his cock weeps. A hole oft left ignored spasms, empty. He thinks on the swirl of his brother’s thumb over the puckered cleft of his rear and his knees buckle.

The resounding impact of their bodies meeting, wet and harsh, oozes into the air, the sound sticks to warm granite.

His temples ache. He licks his lips and tastes the innocence of lamb and the spices of mulled wine and Jace.

Jacaerys, he thinks above the din of a passing rain shower and a howling she-wolf.

Oh gods, Jace!

The wooden bedframe shrieks once more, high, rapid sounds where the elaborately carved headboard beats an immoderate rhythm against the cold stone walls.

The realization digs its teeth in deep as a hoarse cry cuts through his skull - the shattering sound of a brisk, tearful climax shears through the air, his knees knock together in a blind retreat.

Lucerys staggers back through the hall, blindly.

He skids to a halt past an ajar door, he glimpses the glow of a lit hearth splashed along the far wall, and oiled furs draped upon a made bed…

It appears alarmingly familiar, though he had felt similarly regarding the lord’s chambers.

Firelight winks mockingly off of the flared fishtail pommel of his sword laying in its scabbard upon the settee.

Thank the Gods, he thinks with a huff.

Lucerys is drowsy and still a bit drunk when the door to his guest chambers opens. He is certain he appears akin to a wilted flower, though is enlivened by the sight of his brother; his very own sunlight. Jacaerys halts at the edge of the bed, the northern air adhering in a layer of cold to his brother’s clothes. He reaches out with needy hands for Jacaerys.

He anchors little fists in the embroidered finery of his brother’s doublet, pulling himself to his knees upon the bed. He blinks up at his brother through full lashes, his longing is a bashful thing that stirs lazily in his belly and balls.

“Is Vermax well?” He asks in a small voice as he toys his the very first button of his brother’s doublet. The fasten comes undone and unveils the bobbing knot of his brother’s larynx. He drags his tongue across it.

Wriggles in delight at the hiss that is blown through his brother’s teeth and the hand that pulls at his hair until his nose itches with the urge to sneeze.

“Yes,” Jace answers, expression severe, tugging at the fist tangled in Lucerys’ curls. He whines, deprived of access to his brother’s flesh - to kiss, and love, and worship.

“Can we-”

“Yes,” His brother echoes, twice as fast.

Lucerys practically weeps when he is permitted to wrap his gluttonous lips around his brother’s cock - to lathe the fattened heat in drooling curls of his tongue. The tense grip of his brother’s fist guides him down the aching length. The upturned flick of his nose is pressed into the dark hair matted thick with saliva around his base.

Jace’s hips pulse forward, demanding. Lucerys steadies himself against a gag so violent his entire body lurches, acid burns bright and fresh and overwhelming at the back of his throat. Gods, he had eaten too much. Dark eyes must know this because his brother concedes at the brief slap of a shaking hand against his thigh.

Luke is pulled off of Jace’s cock, eyes watering and nose dripping.

Jacaerys lays back, cock jutting out between his legs, heavy and glossed with thickened spit…nude when not dressed in the soft, pink flesh of Luke’s throat. A mistake he would soon rectify.

Lucerys slinks closer on hands on knees, intent upon his true meal, lapping up excess fluid, eager to apologize for his weakness, delving his insatiable tongue into the lean line of muscle up to Jace’s hip bones.

He moans, drawing his cheeks hollow around the tip of his brother’s cock, just as his brother had done for him hours prior. Lucerys’ arms burn at the vigor of both hands working in tandem down his brother’s spit-slick manhood.

He stares at the furrow of his brother’s brow, the rosy shade upon his cheeks, the hard flex of muscle in his jaw as Luke’s grip persists - he is close. He presses a dripping tongue to the ridge of his brother’s crown, following a path to the briny nectar that oozes from the tip.

His brother’s eyes are darker than the night sky as Lucerys dutifully wrings an orgasm free from him with wet hands - moaning wantonly himself as though pleasing his brother was as potent as a climax.

Jace’s release splashes across his chin and waiting tongue, excess froths over his knuckles and clings wet and milky between his fingers. He sucks his fingers clean, before venturing between his brother’s thighs for more.

His brother’s cock wilts, half-hard yet still a sight to behold. Luke nuzzles beneath it. Jacaerys huffs a sound near laughter as Lucerys runs a meek tongue over the seam of his elder’s brother’s sac.

I could die like this, Lucerys thinks, skull vacant and mouth full of his brother’s pulsing stones with Jace’s fingers in his hair.

He imagines it is closer to day than night when Jace relents and pulls Lucerys further up the bed. He nuzzles a wet face and fattened lips against his brother’s shoulder without fail.

“Jace,” Luke slurs, voice husky on account of the abuse suffered to his throat.

“Hm?” His brother hums, squeezes a handful of Lucerys' rear in recognition.

“Do you…” He pauses, worrying square front teeth at his lower lip.

His brother angles his head against the pillows, examining Lucerys more closely.

For a moment he longs for a carafe of wine, the kind that had given him courage during their supper.

He wrings his fingers together.

“Do you think we might lay together…some day?”

Jace’s brows knit together, the hand cupping a generous handful of his rear glides higher towards the arch of his spine. A chill sweeps over Lucerys.

“Have we not already?” His brother asks, and Lucerys holds his breath. Surely the gods had punished Valyria at its height for their hubris, and mayhaps his appetite had led to this foolishness - this wroth garnered by his deity made flesh.

I could die like this, he thinks for a second time.

His fingers tremble as he teases his nails through the dark trail of hair beneath Jacaerys’ navel.

“Properly” he says instead, words stick in his throat, “with you…inside.”

Yet, his brother does not strike him. He merely stares and blinks, slowly, reptilian. His hole spasms, empty.

“I - I do not know how to lay with a man.”

But I believe you do, he thinks, prays that the thoughts had stayed inside.

Lucerys is not a man, not truly, at four and ten he is scarcely more than a boy. Even perturbed as he is, the words are deliberate. He thinks of the burn upon his brother’s nape, a three-headed dragon - a wound not inflicted by a boy.

Jace exhales slowly through his nose, his fingers press down Lucerys’ spine, fan over his tailbone.

“It would be simpler had you been born a girl.”

It feels very close to rejection and Lucerys’ eyes well with tears. He nearly fumbles for his sword, to cleave the offending parts of himself away and carve a pretty red slit between his thighs for his brother to fuck.

He is pulling away from Jacaerys’ shoulder, when his brother pulls him back, an arm around his waist. It is an ugly, boyish waist, he thinks with abhorrence.

“Stop that,” Jace chides gently, trying to gather Luke into his arms, “I am glad you were not born a girl.”

“Liar!” Lucerys croaks, face blotchy and wet with tears.

Jacaerys takes hold of his chin firmly and his expression is displeased even through the blur of tears in Luke’s eyes, something for which Lucerys cries harder.

“I would never lie to you,” Luke wishes to denounce any claims that pass his brother’s full lips, yet Jacaerys speaks with such sincerity that even amidst his unraveling he would not dream of calling it a falsehood.

Between us, you must always speak the truth, for I would never use it against you, he recalls their time upon Dragonstone as distant as a dream in the frigid north, but this he knows for certain. Jacaerys wouldn’t lie to him, Jacaerys loves him.

“Had you been born a girl you would have been married off…” His brother trails off, Lucerys still spasms with small involuntary sobs.

“W-what?” He hiccups.

“Had you been born a girl, you would’ve been married off,” Jace says again, slowly, “Likely to some lord…or,” his brother clears his throat, “a prince.”

“You would have been taken from me,” A muscle in his brother’s cheek tenses violently with unfettered rage, “made to warm another man's bed.”

The thought sickens Lucerys. He squirms deeper into the cage of his brother’s arms. He would crawl beneath his brother’s skin were it possible. He wanted none but him.

“I want you as you are - do not forget that.” His brother swears with sincerity that belongs only to him, pristine, princely Jacaerys. Roughened fingers trace the faint bump in the bridge of Lucerys’ nose. Jacaerys’ eyes are dark, blackened with desire.

Lucerys whines, clinging to his brother with all of his might. Lathes every inch of the skin within his reach in kisses.

“And w-would you lay with me still…as I am?” Luke asks, through wet lips with a meek voice.

Jacaerys laughs, deep, displaying a smile full of sharp teeth and amber eyes.

Lucerys squirms, uncomfortable, unsure of what to make of his brother’s amusement.

He loves me, Lucerys reminds himself, he wants me.

Lucerys yelps as the hand upon his tailbone swats at his rear, grabbing a crude handful of pale, nubile flesh and pulling it until his very center winks- oh. His skin stings before Jacaerys releases him, the tight flesh bouncing back with small ripple. His brother exhales a tortured sound. It is a sound beleaguered by hunger, in want of meat.

“I do love you,” Jace purrs, “more than you know.”

His ears sting hot at the realization he spoke the words aloud.

Jace’s manhood strains stiff, like a lance, against Luke’s belly; unperturbed.

“Can we lay together now?” Luke asks, need clawing up his throat.

“No,” Jace huffs quickly, “open your legs.”

He does as his brother commands - always, always. Jace’s cock nestles between his thighs.

He is too overcome by Jace’s building pace, thrusting between his thighs, to be angered.

His brother’s forehead nuzzles against his own, uncaring for the unflattering fringe of dark curls that adhere to sweaty temples.

“Every day,” Jace huffs, “when you bathe, you’ll press your smallest finger inside-” Their breath hitches in unison as a thrust kisses just shy of Lucerys’ hole.

“You’ll practice like this often,” Lucerys whines in mind-melting arousal, “in the bath is best, the water will help.”

Jace hisses, expression nearly pained in his desire.

“When you’re able to fit all-”

“All?!” Luke cries.

Jace tugs Lucerys’ lower lip between sharp teeth in punishment, but the sparkling ember of pain only worsens his desire.

“Do not interrupt me,” Jacaerys chides with blood upon his lips, his tongue licks into Lucerys’ mouth, “Your hands are smaller - all five fingers should open you up nicely.”

The prospect of being open for his brother is too much, Lucerys writhes, cock twitching, pulsing his release without so much as the brush of a hand, nor warmth of a mouth.

His brother groans, incensed, maddened. He fucks between Luke’s thighs under his bones ache.

Jace’s release follows soon after, pulsing hot and thick between lily white thighs.

“Mm,” Luke sighs, lapping sleepily at sweat upon his brother’s neck.

“When I am able to take all five fingers, then?”

The question hangs oddly in the air, their rooms smell densely of sweat and semen.

“Then.” Jacaerys agrees.

When the morning comes, it is with the drowsy recollection of the previous night that leaves Lucerys grinning madly into his goose down pillow.

“Good morrow,” His brother’s voice, ragged from sleep, purrs beside him, a finger traces over his nape.

Lucerys mumbles his reply into his pillow, shuffles to his knees, squinting against the morning sunlight that streams white as snow into their chambers. He teeters upon his knees before pressing a chaste kiss to his brother’s lips.

The Lucerys of but weeks past had been so bold as to think he knew happiness, that they had known happiness despite the many losses they had faced in their childhood, they had lived well. Certainly other children of ignoble birth had faced far worse than lives of luxury as princes. Oh, how foolish he had been-

He squeals in delight as his brother drags him into a smiling embrace, with the demand of more kisses. This is happiness.

So vibrant it nearly hurts.

They dress before long, Lucerys decides with a smile, as he wiggles his feet into his boots, that he will have a bath in the afternoon, mayhaps after they stretched their wings on dragonback.

He admires his brother’s bare back where Jace gazes out the window, tunic in hand.

They venture into the hall for a small meal to break their fast.

Lucerys feels his cheeks grow warm instantly upon the sight of the Warden of the North - the Wolf of Winterfell.

Cregan pauses in a small, intimate conversation with Sara Snow, to greet them - blustery gray eyes send a race of gooseflesh over Lucerys’ arms and legs. Lucerys feels his body torn between cold and hot as Jacaerys’ gaze settles upon him as well.

“Good morrow, prince Jacaerys, prince Lucerys,” Sara greets, spritely - smiling, her dark hair is uncovered, wound in a long flowing plait that spills down her back…

“My lady,” Lucerys says with a nod as he takes his seat - it feels conspiratorial. A day prior he hated the woman. Yet now, he only feels a strange sort of kinship.

Strangely, her smile widens, relieved.

Lucerys gladly accepts watered wine when it is offered. He sips it slowly, between small bites of fresh bread.

He presses his foot against the instep of his brother’s boot. Jace’s hand lifts Lucerys’ goblet of watered wine, brazenly bringing the very same rim that had touched Lucerys’s lips to his own, before Luke can correct his elder brother. It is not until Jacaerys sets the goblet down, a faint smile upon his lips, that Lucerys divines how very intentional the act had been.

Sara teases a few fingers across the breadth of one of Cregan’s shoulders, the touch is careless, affectionate.

She glances at him briefly, with identical silver eyes. The air seems to scream with contentment.

“My lord-”

A guard erupts through the hall’s main entrance. Sara’s hand retreats instantly.

“Forgive me, my lord, your highness,” he swallows, out breath by the time he addresses Luke, “your highness.”

“Edric,” Cregan greets, expression frigid once more, “go on.”

“There is a - matter in the Godswood, milord.” The northman’s gaze lingers on Jacaerys.

“A matter?” Cregan repeats, silver eyes narrowed.

“A dragon, milord.”

Lucerys chases after his brother to the Godswood, his hands shaking. All present in the main hall travel to bear witness to the matter the guard spoke of.

They are escorted through the main entrance of the Godswood, his skin prickles.

Lucerys gasps at the sight of the heartwood tree, its blood red leaves casting shade over Vermax who laid upon the ground, limp. Luke clambors for his brother’s hand, feels his eyes brim with tears when Jace denies him.

They couldn’t have been more than ten paces from his brother’s dragon when from behind the heartwood’s white trunk, Arrax emerges, the spines upon his back standing stiff.

“T-the other one wasn’t here before, milord-”

Lucerys scarcely recognizes his own dragon, who splays his wings wide before them with a deafening screech. Vermax rumbles a weak sound in Arrax’s shadow.

“Arrax,” Luke calls, the brief flick of slitted golden eyes are his only acknowledgement.

Yet, Jacaerys steps forward, unflinching as the young pale dragon lashes his tail against the ground in warning.

“Jace,” Luke pleads.

“Arrax!” Lucerys calls once more with intention, “Lykirī!”

His dragon gouges scars into the earth with the claws of his feet, hissing, before lowering his wings.

His dragon’s snout inhales rapidly around Jace as his brother steps towards his own dragon.

Jacaerys kneels down wordlessly, presses a hand to Vermax’s thorney brow. His dragon blinks lethargic amber eyes at his rider and Lucerys smothers a small cry into his palm.

The larger dragon merely warbles an exhausted sound.

For a time Jace remains there, upon the ground with his dragon. Stroking over his head and its numerous spikes.

“Lykirī…” His brother murmurs gently, not a command, but a request.

Luke wipes frantically at his cheeks as his brother climbs to his feet and returns to his side.

“What is wrong with it?” Cregan asks.

Jace sighs, “I don’t know. He’s never -” Jace pauses, voice drawn tight, “...I don’t know.”

Cregan dismisses the guards swiftly, giving orders to deny all entry within the Godswood.

“That will anger people,” Sara says in a whisper.

“I am well aware, but it is for the safety of my people that the decision is being made.”

“They would not attack, not unless commanded,” Lucerys explains, temples aching.

“Or threatened, it seems.”

“Arrax did not, he would not-”

“It does not matter,” Jacaerys intercedes, drawing all conversation to a halt.

“It does not matter, he is a danger here, as well as in danger here.”

Lucerys stares at his elder brother, stunned.

“I- Jace, you cannot mean-”

“You must leave.”

The words are a dagger through the spine, a sudden, swift betrayal that would lead to nothing but his own demise.

He does not think before he speaks, “I won’t-”

Jacaerys’ expression is murderous, his jaw flexes powerfully.

“And if Arrax kills someone in your selfishness, a person merely in search of prayer, hm? Do you think the Northerners will favor our cause then?”

“Then I will stay with him, I will calm him.”

“And should he take ill as Vermax has? What will you do then? Should we deprive our mother of two dragons simply because you could not do as you’re told?”

He loves me, Lucerys thinks, he longs to beat the words into his own skull if only to never be rid of them. To remind himself of their truth in the face of his elder brother’s callousness.

He clings to his brother’s arm in earnest, unwilling to part. Arrax chitters an irritable sound.

“Please, Jace, please-”

His brother’s expression is impassive.

“Calm yourself.”

He cannot think, he cannot breathe-

“Allow me to stay,” He pleads, a thin string of mucous hangs from his nose as he weeps openly, “please, just until - you swore we could - Jace, please, please-”

He warbles his words, hardly conscious let alone coherent, rambling between sobs and manic pleas.

“I will not leave without it.” His disobedience is met with a firm fist hauling him close, his brother’s full lips flatten over his teeth in a snarl.

‘I will not survive without it’ Lucerys says with the dig of square front teeth into the meat of his lower lip.

His brother releases him with a shove, Lucerys’ legs shake so violently he fears they may give out.

The reality of his brother’s rejection stuns him, his body aches cold. He struggles to hide his madness, it twitches upon his face as he stands, dazed.

“Gather your things,” Jace orders, “Prepare for the journey home.”

Lucerys concedes, beaten, broken - he smiles, it is an empty pacifying gesture, shuffling along like a mindless husk.

He does as his brother commands - always, always.

The air of joviality that had resided within the keep that morning, had been burned away like infection from a wound, leaving only a red agony in its wake.

“Be well, my prince.” Sara Snow says, expression mournful as he makes to depart.

The lord of the keep bids him a farewell, though their mere presence is a mockery. With their dark heads and identical silver eyes. He yearns for dark eyes, eyes like his own, darker than the night sky. Yet, Jacaerys is nowhere in sight. His brother cannot be troubled to see him off.

He loves me, Lucerys thinks with tears in his eyes, struggling to make sense of the shattered state of his fragile little heart.

He climbs upon Arrax’s keeled saddle, clasps his chains in place with numb hands.

A tear shimmers cold down his cheek as he stares longingly towards the mouth of the Godswood - he is certain his mind is tricking him when he glimpses a flash of dark hair.

Do not make me go, he thinks, agonized, selfish, do not make me go where you are not.

The wind turns brisk and he reminds himself that he detests the north, that he would be glad to be home.

“Arrax!” He calls, throat hoarse, “Sōvēs!”

As he leaves Winterfell behind, eyes watering against the wind, he hears Vermax’s mournful wail rip through the sky - he loves me, he tells himself again and again, for every second of every minute of every hour he spends in the sky.

He loves me, He weeps, and there is no love like that of a brother.

#my writing #jaceluke #jaceluke agenda #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #jacaerys x lucerys #hotd fanfic #hotd

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daisies-daydreams · 10 months

Text

Try - Chapter 5 (College!Simon Riley x F!Reader)

Pairing: Simon Riley x F!Reader Category: Fluff/Smut (18+) Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Cheating, Fingering Word Count: 1.7k+

Summary: Simon confesses what happened after the two of you spent time on your roof.

A/N: Spice alert! This chapter contains a pinch of smut.

Ch. 4 <--> Ch. 6

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

Simon twirled his pen between his fingers as he gnawed on the toothpick that fit snugly between his teeth. You had wanted to take him to the local library for another study date, to which he agreed happily. While he was mostly thrilled to spend more time with you, a part of him nagged and chewed him out for what he did a few nights ago.

“Dirty, filthy pervert,” the voice hissed. It made him reluctant to even look your way. He noticed you staring at him intently from across the table every so often. Eventually, you sighed and closed your laptop.

“Okay, what’s going on?” you asked. Simon’s face was stern as his gaze remained on his laptop screen.

“Nothin’,” he brushed off. He noticed out of the corner of his eyes how your features twisted slightly. You crossed your arms.

“Simon, I can tell something’s up,” you frowned. Simon glanced over, his heart cracking when he saw your eyes starting to grow glossy.

“Love, it’s nothing. I promise,” he shrugged. Your bottom lip trembled.

“Are…are you cheating on me?” you said barely above a whisper. Simon’s eyes widened.

“No! That’s not it at all,” he said as he turned his whole body towards you.

“Then what is it?!” you suddenly raised your voice as you sat up in your chair. Simon’s breath hitched. Despite the minimum amount of noise in the building before, the small library was now completely silent. There were no “hushes” to break the tension. It was just you and him. He swallowed a lump in his throat and rubbed his chin.

“I-I don’t know if I can tell you,” Simon said. Your expression shifted from fuming to broken in a matter of seconds.

“Alright…if you don’t want to tell me…” you trailed off as you started to pack up, your voice broken and solemn.

“(Y/N), wait,” he said as he leaned forward. You scowled as a single tear fell down your cheek.

“What?” you asked with a cracked voice. Simon felt the entire world grow still as his heart throbbed and ached inside of his chest.

“It’s…It’s just that I…” he stammered as his hands clenched and unclenched. He licked his dry lips as you waited for him to continue. Simon sighed. “I just…you’re so beautiful…and,” he continued to trip over his words. Your eyes widened slightly as your lips parted. You set your bag aside as you pulled him into a warm, tight hug.

“Simon, please tell me,” you asked, your voice as soft as a cloud. His hands hesitantly rested on your waist. His lips tightened as your mouth accidentally caressed over his clavicle. He leaned down to your ear.

“Not here, let’s go somewhere more private," Simon whispered.

+++

Honestly, you took it all with more grace than Simon had anticipated. He brought you back to his dorm and explained what had happened that night. Your expression seemed unreadable the entire time, though your cheeks did look a little more flushed than usual. Simon nearly sputtered when you eventually threw your arms around him.

“You’re not mad?” he asked, his hands hovering above your hips. You shook your head and pulled back.

“I just wish you would’ve told me you were feeling this way,” you said. The regret stung at his trembling heart.

“Sorry,” he muttered. You tilted your head. “I just know that you wanted to take things slowly…so I assumed you didn’t want anything to with-”

“Sex?” you finished his sentence. He chuckled softly.

“Yeah,” he nodded. You squeezed his hands.

“I appreciate you being respectful of my boundaries, but we’re in this relationship together. We need to talk to each other if something’s bothering us,” you explained. Simon bit the inside of his cheek as he silently nodded.

“I know,” he sighed as his mind began to spin. “I’m just new to…this,” he motions between the two of you.

“You mean being vulnerable?” you asked. Simon’s cheeks reddened.

“Yeah, that,” he mumbled. You gave him a warm smile.

“It’s okay,” you assured him. Simon sighed as he slipped his hands away from yours.

“I know; I just wish that I could be the partner you need,” he said with a little more edge to his voice. Your smile fell as you sighed. He flinched slightly when you cupped his cheeks, bringing his eyes up to look into yours.

"Simon Riley, don't go worrying yourself over something like that. What I need is you, not whatever perfect image or expectation you've built for yourself in your head," you said, your voice strong and unwavering. Simon blinked, his face tilting into the warm palm of your hand. His breath was shaky, heart thumping inside his ribcage. You brought your lips up to his, capturing his mouth in a sweet embrace.

"I love you, Simon," you whispered. His chest tightened as his eyes became glossy. Those three words; those three damn words that cut him to pieces each time because he hasn't heard it enough. Simon leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours before kissing your hands.

"I love you too, (Y/N)," he smiled as he rested his forehead on yours. Your eyes were glossy as you smiled. Simon found himself wrapping his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest as he kissed you again. He relished in the soft, muffled moans that spilled from your lips each time he shifted slightly.

Your pupils were blown when he finally pulled back. Simon smiled.

“What's on your mind, chickadee?” he asked. You flapped your hand and shook your head.

“Oh, it's nothing. Just a stupid thought,” you blushed as you avoided his gaze. He chuckled as scooted closer.

“You’ve just contradicted yourself, love,” he pointed out as he crossed his arms. Your face grew even hotter as your eyes widened. “Come on: want to hear that pretty voice of yours,” Simon said with a charming smile. You rolled your eyes and softly punched his arm. "I wouldn't have said it if it wasn't true," he chuckled. You bit the inside of your cheek before sighing.

“Well…I was thinking about if you could…maybe finger me?” your voice became small as you hid your face in your hands. Simon’s arms fell to his sides, his muscles tensing. Time seemed to stop, his eyes wandering up and down your beautiful body.

“You sure, lovie?” he asked. You nodded, still keeping your face hidden with your palms. Simon hummed as he gently placed his hands on your wrists. “Please, (Y/N). I need to hear you,” he said.

“Yes,” you suddenly said as your hands fell into your lap. You clasped them over your mouth. “Sorry, it’s just...it's been awhile,” you confessed as you tilted your head down. Simon rubbed your back gingerly.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. We can take things slowly if you want and see where it goes, yeah?” he suggested as he brushed some hair out of your face. You smiled and nodded.

“Okay,” you beamed. Simon chuckled before cupping your face.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. You gasped and nodded, placing your hands over his. Simon leaned forward before gently pressing his lips to yours. You sighed as he pushed forward and caught you in a deep kiss. The sound of the soft, wet smacking of your mouths reverberated across the room as his hands traveled down to your arms, then your waist, until eventually they rested on your thighs.

You moaned as the tip of his tongue reached just past your lips, his fingers drawing circles on the surface of your thighs. His fingers traced along your abdomen before playing with the top of your pants.

“This okay, lovie?” he asked. You nodded.

“Yes, God yes,” you answered. Simon chuckled deeply before going back into the kiss. He dipped his fingers below your waistline and swallowed at the intense heat radiating off of your pussy. You mewled and clung to his wrist as he traced slow, sloppy circles over your sensitive button.

“So wet f’me,” he groaned into your mouth. You continued to moan and pant softly as he massaged your puffy clit with the pad of his finger. You fell back onto his mattress, taking him with you. His finger slid all the way down to your entrance. He teased and rubbed along the rim while his thumb continued to tease your nub.

“You want me to keep going?” Simon asked. You bit your lip and nodded.

“Please Simon-I need you,” you gasped out. Simon growled before circling your entrance a few more times before slowly pushing his digit inside. You nibbled on his bottom lip as a cute squeal erupted from your mouth.

“Simon,” you moaned.

The sound of keys jangling just outside the door shot a bolt of panic through Simon. You met each other's gazes. Simon quickly pulled away, keeping his hand folded over the other while you fixed your hair and clothes. He quickly snatched a book from his desk and placed it in your lap, scooting over and slinging an arm around you. Johnny whistled as he pushed the door open, a bag of groceries in his hand. He paused when he saw the two of you sitting on top of Simon’s bed. He quirked a brow.

“Am I interrupting something?” he chuckled. Simon grumbled as he looked down at the book. He saw the slight tint on your cheeks as you nervously bit your bottom lip. Johnny whistled a little more before setting the groceries in the mini-fridge.

“You all comin’ to Kyle’s party?” Johnny asked.

“Which one?” you replied sarcastically. The Scotsman’s shoulders bounced as he released a peel of laughter.

“Good point. He’s having a party at his parent’s country home next week,” he said as he slammed the door to the fridge shut. You and Simon exchanged glances.

“Sounds like fun,” Simon shrugged. Johnny cracked a grin.

“Right?!” he exclaimed. “Maybe I can get Eileen to come and we can have ourselves a double date,” Johnny said as he wiggled his brows.

“For fuck’s sake, Johnny,” Simon groaned. You giggled.

“I’d love to come-I’m not sure about Mr. Grumpypants here though,” you nudged Simon’s side with your elbow.

“I’ll show you Mr. Grumpypants,” he muttered. Your face instantly flushed while Johnny burst into his usual boisterous laughter.

“Easy, you two,” he chuckled. He stepped over to his desk and opened up his computer. Johnny was practically glued to his seat, causing Simon to sigh.

“We can try another time, yeah?” he whispered. You nodded, your face slightly forlorn as you sighed closed the book. Despite the interruption, Simon was elated that he finally had the chance to share such an intimate moment with you...and he couldn't wait to see what the future had in store.

---

Thank you for reading! ❤️

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cricketsatnight · 2 years

Note

Your Top5 Jopper moments

Hello! Okay, so I have many, but I will narrow down to... 5 Jopper moments I really fucking love vs Top5, because I have WAY TOO MANY LMAO.

1 - Season 1, Ch. 2:

I have written about this one! BUT: This scene, where Joyce delivers the heart-punching question of asking Hopper if he'd know the sound of his daughter's breathing. I really, really love the nuance you can spot (and also build on as a content creator) between them in this scene.

2 - Season 1, Ch. 4:

Hopper choosing to sleep in his car outside of Joyce's house after they found Will's "body." Another I've written about (and have a fic WIP!) but it is such a "goddamnit he loves her" scene for me.

3 - Season 2, Ch. 2:

I mean, duh. Hopper's heart eyes make their first appearance and they cutely reminisce about high school? When the mood breaks into this lighthearted moment, then circles back to Joyce being scared and sad about what's happening to Will, there is just so much love and support radiating off of Hopper. This first "hey, remember when-" between them has been a big foundation of mine (and many!) writers' characterizations of them.

4 - Season 2, Ch. 9:

I know Hopper wishes he could just take Joyce's pain, suffering, and burdens from her. When their hands touch in this scene, it's such a respectful, familiar intimacy between them. It had to be really difficult for Hopper to experience this closeness with Joyce (again, depending on where your headcanons lie) in this context. The way he glances back down at her makes my heart flutter. It actually reminds me a lot of ~*THAT*~ scene in Season 4. He's somewhere between "I've got you" and "ah, goddamnit. I'm fucked."

5 - Season 3, Ch. 4:

THIS SCENE WAS FOREPLAY. I DON'T MAKE THE RULES. I know there are a lot of Big (and valid) Feelings about the interactions between them in season 3, but the levity here reminds me that Joyce isn't some frail little bird. She's dealt with Hopper, she's dealt with worse. She knows the difference between malice and someone who is hurting and she can also strike back with humor or venom. Most of all: She knows Hopper. Someone please write them kissing after this because I simply have tooooooooo many WIPs right now.

BONUS BECAUSE I CAN: Season 3, Ch. 1:

The scene that, upon my millionth rewatch, finally made me crack and start writing Jopper fics. (And you can find the one I based off of this here~)

#cricket text #crickets at night and jopper musings #jopper #jopper headcanon #anon response #thank you for this inbox anon!!#no really I have so many WIPs lmfao

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wishesunderthestars · 3 years

Text

Eunoia // Ch. 14

eunoia (noun): beautiful thinking, the possession of a well-balanced mind, which exhibits goodwill and kindness

Pairings: Hybrid! BTS x reader

Summary: You are a world famous director and you have dedicated your life to your job.You have everything you could ever dream of; wealth, recognition, talent, your friends and family. But loneliness ins’t cured by success. So what happens when you somehow rescue seven hybrids? Can they fill the void?

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut

Word Count: 15k+

Warnings: Abuse and violence, past sexual abuse, derogetory language, sexual harassment

Masterlist

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

It has been a long time, I know. Thanks for being patient with me. This was supposed to be the last chapter of Yoongi and Hoseok’s part but I just couldn’t fit everything that needed to happen inside or it would turn into a 30k chapter and be even more late, so I divided it into two.

The taglist is now closed.

Four days felt like a much smaller amount of time than when you had first been informed of your break. When you heard the alarm the morning you had to go back to work, you were tempted to ignore it and cover your head with the sheets. This was strange for two reasons. You always woke up before your alarm and it was impossible for you to fall asleep again after waking up, even when you were exhausted. But your eyes were heavy and sleep was clinging to your bones.

You reached for your phone and turned off the alarm. The hybrids were waiting for you in the kitchen, breakfast already served. You thanked Seokjin, who looked the most awake. Jimin and Jungkook were leaning against each other with their eyes half closed, small yawns escaping them every few minutes. It was a little earlier than the time you usually left but you had to do some work in the company building before you could go to the studios. Hoseok's injuries were much better, you didn't need to check on them twice a day anymore so you avoided going to their room and waking them up.

The fox hybrid had been opening up more and he looked more at ease with his surroundings. After eating dinner with you on the first night of your break, he had timidly asked if they could join you again. His whole face lit up when you told him they would always be welcome. Dinners had turned into lunches too, claiming that way you didn't have to carry the trays to their room every day.

You weren't surprised at how well he got along with Jimin. His heart-shaped smile had even charmed Namjoon. He was fascinated with every little thing and you made use of your break to show him around the house. It could be a little overwhelming, so you stuck to the basics at first. The kitchen, the upstairs living room, the library (where at least one of you could be found most times) and the cinema room. He looked at everything in wonder, his red tail wagging behind him. Yoongi trailed after you, the bored expression on his face slipping at how happy and excited Hoseok was.

The second day of your break Jimin announced that you would all be watching a movie. He would accept no complaints, not that there were any. You made enough popcorn for a whole movie theater while Seokjin and Jungkook made pizza. You strictly forbade them from putting on one of your movies. You were so deeply involved and connected with them you had trouble watching them without overthinking every scene, line and camera angle. Jimin pouted, joined by Jungkook and a more subtle Hoseok. But you didn’t budge. Jimin huffed and selected a comedy with an actor Seokjin liked.

It was the third day of your break and Jimin had dragged you with him to the guest suite, saying he needed his daily cuddles. You were laying together in his bed as you played with his blond strands. His hair was growing longer and he was complaining that it was falling in his eyes but you loved running your hands through it, your fingers getting lost inside. Jimin snuggled into your side, his tail wrapped around your waist.

“You are very affectionate today,” you said. Jimin let out an unsatisfied noise when you stopped massaging his scalp, so you moved your hand upwards, scratching behind his cat ears, eliciting a small moan from him.

“I am always affectionate,” he said, nuzzling against your collarbones. “You’re just not here and you’re tired when you come back.”

You placed a kiss on the crown of his head. “Sorry.” It was your job. You shouldn’t feel guilty. And yet…

Jimin raised his head, your hand falling from his hair to rest on his cheek. “Don’t be. I just wish you were here more. With us. But your job is important.”

“I guess,” you said caressing his cheek, the cat hybrid leaning into your touch. “I’ll try to get some more time off when I go back to work.” It would be difficult but not impossible. There were often breaks for a couple of days in the filming schedule but you usually spent those revising scripts or reviewing the work of the various departments or attending meetings. Many of those things weren’t actually your responsibilities, they weren’t in your contract, you did them because you wanted everything to be perfect. You could take a step back for once and make up for it later.

Jimin leaned against you, purring happily at the prospect of spending more time with you. He had been clinging to you in the past days after your week-long absence. The first night after making up with Jungkook he had slept with him in their room and you’d thought he would sleep there from now on. But the next night you had come out of the shower to find him laying in your bed.

A talk show was playing on the TV, filling the comfortable silence of the room. Jimin whispering your name had you looking away from the screen. “Hoseok is doing better, right?”

“He is. He’s recovering fast. Why are you asking?” you asked, worried that he had noticed something you hadn’t. Hybrids had much more developed senses than humans that could have detected something you had missed.

“He’s nice,” he said, playing with the fake buttons of your shirt. “He looks so happy all the time and he’s so energetic.”

“He is. See? He’s really getting better.” That didn’t seem to satisfy Jimin.

“What if they want to leave now that he’s better?”

You cooed at him, pulling him closer. “Is that what’s brought this on? If they want to leave we can’t stop them. The door is always open if they don’t want to be here anymore. They only came here because Hoseok was injured and he couldn’t go to the hospital.”

“But can they stay?” His eyes were shining as he looked up at you. “Please.”

“They can stay for as long as they want. But I can’t force them to stay.”

Jimin didn’t say anything more, hiding into your side. Last night at dinner, Jimin had been quiet and withdrawn, glancing at Yoongi every few minutes. There was history between them, one that ran deep and cut just as hard. From little clues and pieces and what Jimin himself had told you, you had pieced together an image of Jimin’s past but you had trouble finding where exactly Yoongi fit.

You hadn’t forgotten Jimin’s words in your office the day you had invited the two hybrids in your house. Yoongi once belonged to the same man Jimin did. They had done something to him and Jimin had been left to the adoption center he had escaped from. Yoongi had been left somewhere else, you guessed a less savory place. But you couldn’t figure out what they could have done to be kicked out. Something Jimin still felt guilty about. Betrayal was a strong and sticky word and it was hard to associate it with sweet Jimin, even when that man deserved that and more.

Yoongi was a mystery surrounded by several brick walls. Only a wrecking ball could break them down. You were the kind of person to knock on a wall and wait for it to crumble by itself when it came to people. At work, if the only way to get through an obstacle was a wrecking ball, you would bring a wrecking ball.

Surprises weren’t uncommon for you (see: Virginia earthquake), you had learnt to face them head on and control the consequences. But that hadn’t prepared you for the string of surprises during your break and the days after that.

The first surprise came with how well Hoseok was getting along with the other hybrids. His endearing excitement about anything and everything didn’t fail to amuse them. He would curl up on the grass, bathing in sunlight, often joined by Jimin who had developed the same habit when spring first arrived. He was curious about everything, asking question after question with his red fluffy tail wagging behind him like an overexcited puppy. All of you couldn’t help but humor him and try to answer his questions to the best of your abilities.

The second surprise shocked you more than the first. It was the third night the two hybrids were eating dinner with you in the backyard. Yoongi usually didn’t talk, opting to focus on his food while observing the progression of the meal. Thus when he spoke, everyone fell silent. He didn’t say much, it only took him a couple of seconds to compliment Jin’s cooking then become quiet again. Jin stuttered through his thanks, flustered at the unexpected compliment. The panther hybrid didn’t talk again for the rest of the meal.

The third surprise was seeing Yoongi and Jimin sitting next to each other, sometimes in silence and sometimes talking. Being pulled to each other like a moth to the flame. It made Hoseok all too happy to spend time with both of them.

The fourth surprise came in the form of a text from a contact you hadn’t interacted with since Christmas. You laid back on your bed, staring at the paragraphs-long text and forgetting about anything else. You stared and stared as if the letters would rearrange themselves, or better yet disappear if you stared long enough.

You didn’t notice how much time you had spent there unmoving until there was a knock on the door.

“Open,” you called.

The door was pushed open and Namjoon walked into the room, his gray hair falling in his face. In the mornings he looked younger. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Yeah,” you said, not moving. They never had to call you for breakfast. Your schedules had become so in sync you arrived for breakfast the moment it was ready or a few minutes early.

“What happened?” Namjoon asked. He approached, sitting down next to you on the bed.

“Nothing happened, I guess. It’s an invitation.” The text had been sent late last night but you had missed it, leaving your phone to charge upon coming back home and not looking at it again. “It’s from my parents. For a gala.”

“Your parents?” The surprise was evident in his face. You didn’t talk much about your parents, those were conversations you didn’t tend to enjoy. Your parents were a topic you weren’t well-versed in and your lack of confidence was irritating.

You looked at the text again, black letters surrounded by gray. “They invited me to a fashion gala. They would really appreciate it if I could attend.” Reading the text again, you wondered if your mother had asked someone else to write it before deeming it persuasive enough to send. “It’s held in Beverly Hills.”

“When?” Namjoon asked.

“Saturday. In less than a week.” It was Tuesday.

Namjoon glanced at your phone. “Do you want to go?”

The answer was more complicated than you would have liked. You didn’t feel like buying a new gown (god forbid if you wore a dress you had worn before at such an event), having your makeup and hair done and plastering a smile on your face while exchanging pleasantries with people you didn’t know for the whole night. But it wasn’t that easy. You hadn’t attended the Christmas event your mother had organized, using work as an excuse, not feeling like showing up at an event in the mindset you had fallen into. Although she didn’t show it, your mother had been offended.

You couldn’t skip another event.

You threw an arm over your eyes, groaning. “I can’t not go. My mother organized the gala, it will look bad if I’m not there.”

“I could come with you,” Namjoon offered.

It would be nice having someone there with you. Namjoon had a way of calming you down and settling your worries but actually remembering those galas made you change your mind. The rich and mighty loved showing off their wealth and power and hybrids were part of that allure. You wouldn’t subject Namjoon to that. You weren’t sure how he would react. You didn’t want to subject him to your parents’ scrutiny either.

“It would be better if I went alone,” you said. Namjoon threaded his fingers with yours in understanding. He pulled on your hand until you were sitting up on the bed, facing him.

“If you don’t want to go, you shouldn’t.”

Only that it wasn’t so simple. Or it was just your human nature making this overcomplicated.

“My mother will be really disappointed if I don’t go. I didn’t go to her last event, either. It will look bad if I don’t go to this one too.” Namjoon squeezed your hand, urging you to continue. “I’m just tired of them. Galas, events, they are all the same and not in a good way. Sure, there are some people worth talking too. I’ve had some great conversations there, but those are far and few in between. Most people are just trying to outshine the one next to them. And my mother only wants me there to complete the picture.”

The powerful and influential couple with their successful daughter. It was an image that haunted you. Most times you tried to ignore it because it wasn’t fair of you to judge your parents like that. They never made you attend those events, they didn’t get angry when you couldn’t make it. But it left a sour taste in your mouth when those events were the only times you saw them anymore.

“You don’t have to be alone there.” Namjoon brought your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of your palm. “I’m always here if you change your mind. It would feel better if you weren’t alone.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want you there. I do,” you said. “But that isn’t a world you want to be a part of, it isn’t really my world either. There, hybrids are just expensive accessories and I don’t want people to look at you like that. Like you are something to be had.”

Namjoon’s eyes were soft on you as he cupped your cheek with the hand that wasn’t holding yours. “That’s how most people look at us. It isn’t something new. You don’t have to worry about me, I’m used to it.”

“But it isn’t right.” You sounded like a five-year-old complaining that the world wasn’t fair because her parents didn’t buy her ice cream but you couldn’t help it. “And it isn’t just the other people, the guests. I’m not sure about my parents either. They don’t know I’ve adopted you. Actually, they don’t know about anything that has happened in my life this year.”

“I understand if you don’t want them to know about us.”

“It isn’t that,” you said. “Not exactly. I don’t want them involved in my business and judging my choices. They- They are my parents and I guess they care about me in their own way but I won’t be able to stay calm if they look at you like they are estimating your price tag.”

Namjoon leaned closer, bringing your foreheads together. You closed your eyes, surrounded by his warmth. “All I care about is for you to feel comfortable and if my presence there will make things worse then I won’t come with you. But if you change your mind, I’ll be right here. Whatever you want, I’m here.”

You tilted your head, waiting for his lips to touch yours. You shared a sweet kiss before there was another knock at the door.

“Namjoon! Did you wake her up?” Seokjin shouted from the other side of the door. “The breakfast is getting cold! I woke up at the crack of dawn to make it!”

You giggled as you separated.

“Let’s go before he decides we don’t deserve food,” Namjoon said.

♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩

You had to readjust your schedule for the gala. There were many things you had to do in the five days leading up to it. Your mother was so pleased you accepted the invitation she called you the very next day to tell you how happy she was you would be attending. She hadn’t organized a fashion gala in years and it meant a lot that you would be there to support her. The gala was all about the importance of fashion and the unique interpretations of old and new big names in the industry. It would be one of the grandest events of the year, even if your mother was as clueless about fashion as she was about your life. She enjoyed watching the glorious parts and giving compliments, but rarely got more involved than that.

She had arranged for you to meet with one of the designers featured at the event. You could choose a dress from his collection that would be showcased at the gala. Your mother reassured you that they would do everything so your dress would be fitted to your exact measurements and ready for you to wear on time. You didn’t complain. It would be otherwise impossible to find a dress of the caliber your mother expected in such a short time.

The designer came to your house himself with his assistants. He was a nice young man with a tilted accent revealing that he wasn’t originally from the United States. You made small talk about the different kinds of art characterizing your jobs. They took your measurements and presented you with a few options the designer had selected for you. Some were more eccentric than others but all of them were beautiful.

After discussing with him and listening to his opinions, you selected a piece with gold and red embroidery and a flowy skirt. He was very pleased with your choice, going on and on about how good it would look on you. You felt fluttered at how excited he was for you to wear his design.

You had to meet him again a few days later for the first fitting. He offered to come to your house again but it would be easier for the alterations to be at his studio, where all of his tools were.

Jimin had seen the opportunity to spend more time with you and put on his most convincing puppy eyes asking you to take him with you to the fashion studio. You had no reason to refuse, you wanted to spend more time with him too. Somehow Jimin roped Seokjin into coming with you as well. They waited for you outside until the alterations were done. You couldn’t resist spoiling them while you were out so you took them for waffles. From Seokjin’s stuffed face it was safe to say he enjoyed them.

You had to go back to work after the fitting but Jimin was clinging to you not letting you go, which was how you ended up with the two of them at the final table-reading for the first episode of the Raven Cycle. They both quietly watched the actors delivering their lines. Jimin leaned forward in his seat as he got more and more invested in the scenes, snapping out of it whenever one scene ended and you discussed corrections and suggestions.

The atmosphere was light and friendly. You were professionals and you believed in maintaining a healthy environment of communication and mutual respect that left space for jokes and friendships to develop. The chemistry between the actors was important and you found that when they were friends and had a bond in real life too, it showed.

“Okay, that was great. I liked Ronan’s extra lines, we should keep that in.” The writer next to you wrote it down. “It’s getting late so let’s take a small break for a few minutes and move on to scene fifteen and sixteen and we’re completely done with episode one.” Everyone agreed with you and soon chatter was filling the room. You stretched your arms behind you, your body was complaining after sitting for too many hours.

The snacks and refreshments on the table against the wall were dwindling as the table-reading went on. All the important people in the project were there; the executive producers, the writers, the heads of the various departments and of course all the main actors of the first episode. The room with the large table and the many couches and chairs was large enough for everyone.

Three more days of table reading, which was mainly for revisions, and you would be done, leaving around a week before filming was scheduled to start. Just on time. Despite unfortunate surprises and earthquakes, you were on time. Next week you would be back in the studios standing behind the cameras watching years of work and planning coming to life. The first moments of filming in every movie or TV show whispered to you in silver and gold lines that you couldn’t describe as anything else than magic.

You picked up a bottle of water and a sandwich from the snack table, getting caught up in a short conversation with one of the producers. Your scalp was beginning to hurt from the tight ponytail your hair was trapped in. With a pat on your shoulder, the producer left to find the head of the costume department.

Jimin and Jin were sitting on the smallest couch, away from the table in the middle of the room. Jimin’s ears twitched as you settled on the armrest. You handed him the sandwich.

“For me?”

“You have been looking at it as much as you have been looking at the actors.”

Jimin still didn’t take a bite. “I already ate two.”

“And now you will eat one more.” You nudged the sandwich closer to his face. “They are quite small. I think Will has eaten seven since we started.” You glanced at your assistant, he was talking with two of the actors.

Jimin smiled at you like you were sharing a secret before diving into his sandwich. You opened your water bottle and gulped down half of it in seconds.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go? It’s past eight and it will take at least one more hour to finish the last two scenes and wrap everything up.” You had asked them if they wanted to leave three times since you’d arrived and the answer had been the same each time.

“It’s eight?” Jin asked, pulling out his phone from his pocket. You leaned over Jimin to peek at the screen seeing a few texts from Namjoon and Jungkook and notifications from the various apps Jin used. You had texted Namjoon earlier so he wouldn’t worry that Jin and Jimin hadn’t returned home.

“And it will be at least nine by the time I’m done,” you said.

“We’ve been here for three hours. We can wait for you one more.” Jin opened the messages app reading the texts, a smile appearing on his face.

Jimin had eaten more than half of the sandwich, crumbs sticking at the sides of his mouth. “I want to see what happens at the end. Pretty please?”

“We will wait for you,” Jin said. “We don’t have anything better to do,” he added, to which Jimin agreed enthusiastically. You scratched the cat hybrid's ears while he devoured the rest of the sandwich.

What you hadn’t considered before taking them with you was that the table reading would give away many spoilers for the show. Spoilers were the bane of your existence. Not everyone minded them but you disliked them with passion. You had almost strangled Zayn when he had told you a spoiler he had seen on Twitter for the ending of Avengers: Infinity War, minutes before the movie started. Zayn had been very lucky the lights hadn’t gone out yet. The suspense was one of your favorite parts and that was ruined for you when you knew what would happen.

At least it was the first episode but there was a lot of discussion on how certain parts or pieces of dialogue would connect with later episodes. The fact that it was an adaptation also changed things. You had been adamant about staying true to the original story and keeping in as many scenes from the book as you could. Your additions revolved around character development, the relationships between the characters, and some conflicts that hadn’t been in the book but you had discussed in length with Maggie. In this case, you didn’t know exactly how to define spoilers.

As expected, you finished the table reading twenty minutes past nine. Gathering all your folders from the table, the scripts, and various notes from the writers and producers, you hid them all away in your backpack. Henrietta and the magical forest were coming to life from their voices alone. You could already imagine how captivating it would be on screen.

Jimin was laying his head on Jin’s shoulder with his arm wrapped around the older’s waist. It had taken some time for them to relax in the room full of strangers, some of who hadn’t been subtle about staring. One look from you and their gazes had darted away. It still wasn’t common to have a hybrid, much less three, but you didn’t care how curious they were if they were making Jimin and Jin uncomfortable.

During the first break, early at the table reading, you had been roped into a debate about a possible change in one of the scenes. The two hybrids had kept to themselves, staying quiet and watching. The actress playing Blue had walked up to them with a wide smile and introduced herself. The remaining tension in them was released when she struck up a conversation with them.

“Time to get going,” you said. Jimin looked up at you, blinking drowsily. “Should I tell John to carry you to the car?”

“We’re leaving?” he asked, rubbing at his eyes.

“Thankfully yes so you need to get up.” You had wrapped everything up, saying goodbye to everyone and you were ready to go.

Jin kissed Jimin’s blond curls. “Let’s go and get you into an actual bed.” He got up and pulled Jimin with him, the younger hybrid was clinging to his back like a koala from the hallway where you met up with John to the parking lot.

In the car, you looked at them through the rear-view mirror. Jimin’s eyes were closed, laying his head on Jin’s shoulder.

“Hard day?” John asked, moving the gear shift to the left and then up.

“I’m a little afraid that my scenario might be a little boring,” you said glancing behind you. “It’s too early for him to be falling asleep.”

The car started moving, leaving the dimly lit parking lot behind. “He’s not used to being out for that long,” Jin said smoothing down Jimin’s hair with care. Jin cared for you with everything he had, you tried to do the same but it was close to impossible with how busy you were.

“If it’s my scenario though, I need to rewrite that thing from beginning to end.”

John chuckled. “Good luck telling that to the writers and the producers. They’ll love it.”

They’d love it as much as cats loved swimming.

♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩

You took the day of the gala off. If you went to the gala tired after work, you wouldn’t be able to put a smile on your face and keep it there. It wasn’t so much that the galas were awful but that you felt out of place in them. Your mother had many connections and she would invite the “best” of her world. Some faces had become familiar, a steady fixture in your mother’s guest lists. Some faces you should be able to recognize but you didn’t, resulting in interactions based on pretending.

At the after-parties of award shows and premieres, you were more at ease. The designer dresses and suits were the same, worn by rich and influential people, but it was people you knew and respected. Your skin wasn’t prickling at the tension, lost somewhere between remembering a name or a company and ignoring the jabs at other guests or the rumors spreading like vines.

The last event you had attended was in New York last September, it had been the event of the year according to your mother. Jacob had accompanied you, hugging your mother and shaking hands with your father. He had stayed next to you from the moment you stepped into the place to the moment you got into the car to leave. You had to somewhat agree with your mother. A lot of interesting people were in attendance, famous writers and journalists, and you succeeded in ignoring the less favorable situations.

Your parents had changed a lot, or maybe it was just the circumstances that had changed and the different perspective you had as an adult. You used to cast them as the absentee parents, an overused trope you didn't find much merit in. It was too simple, too straightforward. They didn't disappear from one day to the next, cutting all contact with you. It was more like the times they were there grew fewer and fewer until they had moved permanently to New York by the time you were eight. Your father had been offered a position he couldn't refuse and your mother loved him too much to leave him alone there. She tried, she tried to stay for you but she had been trying to find a reason to leave your hometown since she was a teenager. The penthouses and neat offices fit her far better than the beaches and town squares ever did.

It started as a few weeks at first. Your father would be staying in the city for some meetings and your mother wanted to join him. His job involved a lot of traveling and in most of your memories, he was holding a suitcase. A few weeks turned into a month the next time, then into a few months you had to stay with your aunt and your cousins. After you turned eight, they were coming back only for a few weeks every year.

When you were ten you stopped answering their calls and refused to talk to them. Your mother still tried, even traveled back to be with you. Instead of staying at your house with her, you stayed with your aunt. Your mother left defeated. It took a year for you to speak to them again. Childish, but you couldn't blame your past self. The cracks in your relationship with your parents were still there. As an attempt to prevent them from widening and growing, you at least tried to attend the events your mother invited you to.

Another one to add to the list.

"Does the duck look ready to you?" you asked Jin. Roasted duck wasn't a dish you had experience with but that wasn't the only reason you called for Jin. Being home for the day you had offered to help Jin cook lunch. Cooking helped take your mind off, focusing on the recipe and chatting with Jin.

Jin left the lettuce he was washing in the bowl and dried his hands in a towel. His steps were careful and measured, one of his hands holding on the counter.

"It looks good," he said. "You can take it out."

You opened the oven, pulling back last minute so the heat wouldn't burn your face. "It smells incredible! I think I got ten times hungrier just smelling this."

Jin chuckled but it was strained. "I'm too good at this." He was still holding onto the counter.

"You won't catch me complaining."

He went back to the lettuce in the sink, his bangs falling into his face and covering his eyes. You wrapped the chicken breasts in foil and let them rest for a few minutes. The figs were caramelized and the potatoes fried until golden. That was about it for the main dish.

Jin was cutting the lettuce so you occupied yourself with making the salad dressing. You worked in silence. It wasn't for the lack of anything to say but a flinch from Jin earlier, while you had been talking, had you lowering your voice and then closing your mouth when you were finished with that sentence. It was only for a moment before he turned away, but it was enough for you to notice. You had asked him if he was alright twice and both times the answer had been the same. After that, it was clear he wouldn't tell you anything else regardless of how many times you asked.

A thud echoed in the room followed, not a second after, by the sound of metal clattering on wood. The spoon you used to mix the ingredients of the salad dressing stilled in your hand. Jin had fallen to his knees on the floor, holding the counted with one hand and his head with the other. The knife laid abandoned on the cutting board next to the lettuce.

For a moment your surroundings blurred from the surprise before coming into crystal clear focus. You rushed to Jin's side, who was trying to pull himself back up to his feet.

"I'm alright. I slipped," he said.

"You slipped? Seriously?" You had one arm around his waist and it stayed there as he leaned back against the counter. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just a little dizzy," Jin muttered. That close to him, only a breath away, you could see how pale he was, the dark circles under his eyes standing out against the white of his skin.

"You haven't been alright since we started cooking. You aren't just a little dizzy, that's not how someone is when they're a little dizzy."

Jin turned his head to the side, avoiding your gaze. "Let it go, please. Only the salad is left. I'll rest after we eat."

"Jin, that's not..." Clueless about how to continue, you pressed your palm to his forehead. In winter your hands were always freezing cold, it didn't matter if the temperature wasn't that low they would turn into popsicles mere seconds after going outside. Only that it wasn’t winter but spring and your hands were as warm as they could be, that’s why it was that much more concerning that his forehead was warmer than it should be under your touch. “You’re burning up. How are you still standing?”

“It isn’t that bad,” Jin said. He wasn’t looking at you.

“It isn’t that bad?” you repeated in disbelief. “Forget about the salad, I’m taking you to your room.”

You were about to turn around when Jin gripped your elbow weakly. “You don’t need to, really, I can finish up here, it isn’t the first time. I can do it.” The sweat that was gathering on his forehead and his tired eyes told a different story.

“You have been cooking while feeling sick?” you asked. Being out of the house almost all day it wouldn’t have been hard to miss and when you came back at night you weren’t that aware of your surroundings, but the other hybrids would have been able to see past Jin’s pretenses.

“Not here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

That’s something you should have expected. You had never met his previous owners but you couldn’t stop yourself from hating them for what they had done to him. Hate was too strong of a word but you didn’t have any other name for the burning in your chest whenever you witnessed how insecure and self-conscious Jin had become of them.

You cupped his cheek in your palm turning his head to face you and you rested your forehead against his, your noses bumping. At the touch his shoulders slumped, his back muscles unraveling under your hand. Jin joked that it was weird that his scent glands weren’t in the same places as other hybrids’ but in strange places like his forehead. You couldn’t agree with him because standing there with your foreheads touching it was just as intimate.

The walk to his room was silent. You opened the door for him and watched him hide under the covers, between the countless pillows and stuffed animals. Before leaving, you placed a kiss on his forehead your lips warming up because of his fever. You wanted to stay there with him and with the way he was holding your hand he wanted the same but the lettuce was waiting for you back in the kitchen and there were five hybrids you had to feed.

Finishing up the meal was a matter of minutes. The dressing for the salad had been made and you only had to finish cutting the lettuce and a few fresh tomatoes before mixing everything in a large bowl. You unwrapped the foil from around the duck breasts and arranged them in plates, adding the figs with the pan juices and the fried potatoes. It looked like something you would order at a five-star restaurant, most of Jin’s cooking did.

The mouth-watering aroma must have drifted downstairs because as you were putting the last touches on the plates two sets of feet were running up the staircase. Jimin looked like he had been lured into the kitchen by some magical force, transfixed on the plates on the counter. He sniffed, making tiny happy noises.

“This smells so good. I’m hungry!” he whined.

Jungkook followed behind, taking a look at the plates and turning to you with pleading eyes. “When are we eating?”

You shook your head at their antics. “I just finished up, you can take them down if you want so stop looking at me like that.”

Jimin pouted, his shoulders raising. “Looking at you like what?”

“Stop that, I know what you’re doing.”

Jimin continued on, batting his eyelashes at you. “What am I doing? Am I not doing good?”

You pinched his cheek, making him giggle. “I thought you were hungry but apparently you aren’t hungry enough if you’re still here instead of taking the food down.” At that Jungkook was quick to take out the large trays and fill them with the plates and bowls.

Jimin went to help before pausing. “Where is Jinnie?”

Jin was always in the kitchen before meals, helping the two youngest carry the trays to the backyard. You didn’t want to worry Jimin, he was very sensitive to how others were feeling. His emotional walls were so thin that your blues and grays bled into his yellow. “He’s in his room resting, he’s feeling a little under the weather today.”

“But…How didn’t we notice anything?” Jimin asked.

You patted his shoulder. “I didn’t either until we were cooking lunch. He just needs to rest and he will be better in no time.” Jimin gazed at the food like it could give him the answers he was looking for, you continued. “The duck is his recipe, he only went to his room after the food was ready.” You didn’t mention how he had collapsed while cutting the lettuce, a knife in his hand and way too many grievous possibilities.

Jungkook picked up the nicest plate, you had made it last and having used the previous six ones as practice it had come out looking the best. “Can I take it to him?” It was well-known that he had a soft spot for Jin, sneaking into his room the nights he was running away chased by guilt. Jin had been the only one he had let in then. But again, they all had a soft spot for each other, it may translate differently into actions but it was the same at the core.

You pulled out a smaller bowl from the cupboard. Let me put some salad in this first.” This was one of the only salads everyone liked, even Jimin who was firmly against eating most greens (Namjoon didn’t like them much either but at least he was trying). You filled a glass with water as well and placed it on the smaller tray Jungkook had prepared. “Don’t wake him up if he’s sleeping, he looked really tired.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Jungkook promised picking up the tray and leaving for Jin’s room.

Jimin went back to arranging the plates on the trays. “He’ll be alright soon, right?”

“Of course he will,” you reassured him. “In no time he will be shouting at Jungkook for eating his ingredients and having fights with any insects that find their way to the garden. Now, let’s take these down because having the food right in front of me and not eating it is killing me.”

♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩

Jin had a terrible headache, that’s where everything had started. He had woken up and instantly wanted to roll to his other side and fall asleep again covering his head with the blanket. His eyes refused to stay open and everything around him was like he was in a fog. His body wasn’t his own, it was like watching someone else execute each move he commanded, like he had lost parts of his senses. Everything was duller.

Powering through, he got up and made his bed, throwing the blankets over it with less precision than usual and arranging his stuffed animals against the pillows. It was your day off because of the gala and he had to make breakfast for you and the other hybrids.

It was enough that he got a few more hours of sleep as a result of the lack of your morning schedule. He could deal with the world being a little blurry at the edges and his body not cooperating every few minutes.

He made an easy breakfast for the day, which was a little disappointing when you were able to sit and enjoy it for once, but he was physically unable to do anything more. Sitting down would help. After breakfast, he would lay down on the couch and he would be better in no time.

Breakfast came and went and in a few hours, he had to start making lunch. Your offer to help was a godsend with his feet feeling like jelly. He thought he had it under control, that he could get through lunch then go to his room and hide under the covers where no one could see him. Until his legs gave up on him.

The knife slipped out of his hand and he watched its slow descent to the cutting board. In a blink he was on his knees, he blinked again and you were next to him helping him up. Hybrids weren’t supposed to get sick, scientists had engineered their whole being down to the color of their hair and eyes, they could strengthen their immune system as well. His past owners used to say that it was in his head because he was living with humans, that if he got sick the center must have given them a problematic hybrid and that couldn’t be true. He had paid a lot for Jin.

The door opened just enough for you to poke your head in. “Jin?” you whispered, quiet enough to not wake him up if he had been sleeping but loud enough for his hearing to pick up while awake. He lowered the blankets from his face. “Hey, did you finish with your food?”

“Yeah, it’s…” He pointed to the tray on the nightstand, he didn’t have enough strength to take it to the desk. You didn’t comment on the food that was left on the plates.

“Are you feeling any better?” you asked. His head still hurt and the heaviness of his body didn’t subside, but it was much better than when he had been standing so he nodded. “Do you need anything else? I brought some medicine if you want, I read that it’s alright for hybrids to take.” Despite the pain and the weariness of his body, he smiled at you and your research. The way you cared about them was endearing. You pulled out a packet from your back pocket.

“I think I’ll take one.” The constant drumming behind his temples and the back of his head was getting too much. It was so bad it wouldn’t let him sleep.

“I’ll go get some water for you.” You left the packet on the nightstand and picked up the tray with the leftovers.

Jin rolled to his back staring at the ceiling. He didn’t get sick often and he hated how his body was betraying him. You returned with a glass filled with water in one hand and a jug in the other.

“There you go,” you said handing him the glass. You opened the medicine packet and pressed a white tablet out. It was light in his palm, almost as if it wasn’t there. He put it in his mouth and washed it down with water. “You’ll feel better in no time.” You stroked his hair and he had to hold himself back from purring. Being sick he craved affection more than ever before.

“Don’t come too close, you’ll get sick too.”

You didn’t pull back. “Then I’ll have a reason to stay at home. It doesn’t sound so bad.” You tugged at the blanket. “Fancy some company?” Jin scooted to the side, letting you slip in next to him. Something inside him rejoiced at having you in his nest with him. It was ridiculous, having the need to nest was ridiculous, but he couldn’t suppress it. You turned around to face him, your head on a light blue pillow you had picked up from the pile. “Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?”

In the absence of words, he nodded his head. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. You weren’t wearing makeup today in anticipation of the heavy makeup you would have to wear for the gala. The shadows under your eyes, concealed any other day, were threatening to spill over the rest of your face. The late nights had been many in the past few days, making up for the breaks you were taking. More and more he came to realize that work was your life and you were like a fish escaping water pushing it back.

You didn’t speak, basking in the silent company of each other. Jin let his worries go and, thanks to the medicine, his headache got duller until he couldn’t feel it. He didn’t notice when he fell asleep, waking up to voices.

“…feeling better, the medicine must have kicked in. His temperature has gone back to normal too,” you whispered.

“Okay, that’s good. Our Jinnie is strong,” the other voice said and heat traveled up to the top of Jin’s ears. The voice was unmistakably Namjoon’s and it was so warm Jin wanted to wrap it around himself and never let go. “I think we woke him up.”

“Oh no,” you complained, still whispering. “Jin?”

He opened his eyes, abandoning the comfort of the familiar darkness. You leaning on your forearm peering at him. His heart was beating faster.

“We woke you up, didn’t we?” you asked, looking guilty.

“It’s alright.” He could hear how rough his voice was from sleep. “What time is it?”

“Five,” you said.

He had been sleeping for more than three hours.

Namjoon took a step forward from the door. “I brought you some tea and biscuits,” he said, placing the tray on the now-empty nightstand.

Jin sat up on the bed with his back against the headboard. “Thank you. Can you…?” You picked up the steaming mug and handed it to him, holding it carefully so he wouldn’t burn himself. The plate of biscuits was placed on his lap over the blankets. It was a warm day but the air-conditioning was on in Jin’s room, the weight of the blankets over him promised safety and he didn’t want to be sweating from the heat.

“I’ll be going then,” Namjoon said with a small smile, the two of you exchanging a look.

“Wait.” Namjoon stopped in his tracks. Jin blamed his impulsiveness on the part of him that was controlled by the sugar-glider’s nature. Namjoon shouldn’t be leaving. Namjoon was pack and he should be with him when he wasn’t well, he should be taking care of Jin. One followed the other and it didn’t listen to logic. But he was tired and although the headache was gone, his head was still hazy, so he gave in. “Can you stay?”

The soft smile on Namjoon’s face was enough to wipe away any of his lingering doubts. “Of course I can.” Jin pulled up the blankets inviting him in. Namjoon pulled him closer bringing his forehead to his. The mug shook in Jin’s hold, you covered his hand with yours steading it. Jin realized it wasn’t only his hands shaking as Namjoon scented him tenderly. He felt so weak between the two of you.

♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩

The makeup artist asked you to close your eyes again to finish your eyeliner. Your makeup had to compliment your dress, like you were a model on the runway and your purpose was to sell the design. You had to admit that it looked beautiful so far, the gold eyeshadow and the dramatic eyeliner. She completed the look with a matte red lipstick while the hairstylist was releasing the last loose curl from the curling wand. You looked like someone out of a movie and tonight you would have to own that.

They helped you put on the dress like you were incapable of doing it on your own. In these cases, everything had to be perfect, including the most mundane of things. The jewelry was modest as not to take the attention away from the dress but enhance the look. A golden necklace with a ruby surrounded by tiny diamonds to decorate the skin the plunging neckline left bare, small diamond earrings, and golden bracelets.

Half an hour left before the gala and you were ready. The charm was arriving a little late so you had to wait before leaving. The stylists took their leave but you stayed at the fitting room/styling section of the closet, which was right under the actual master closet.

The dress fit you like a glove, bringing attention to all the right areas and burying any imperfections. It was the kind of Cinderella transformation the protagonists in older movies used to go through before getting the guy, but it happened all the time to you. A spy in an action movie, a confident heroine knowing how to use her looks, a girl going to a party to have fun and get drunk, that’s more along the lines of the characters you liked to imagine yourself as. You were far from being any of those characters but it was fun to daydream sometimes.

One last look in the mirror and you climbed up the spiral staircase to your closet, turning off the lights behind you. The designer you had met had been pleasant and your conversations hadn’t been awkward. If the rest of the guests, or at least the majority, were like him then the night could be fun.

The hybrids were all in the living room, even Hoseok and Yoongi. Yoongi wasn’t sitting far from them, in a separate sphere, but next to Jimin who was pointing at something in a book. They all looked at you when you came in, the back of the dress sweeping the floor behind you.

“How does it look?” you asked, doing a twirl. The response was delayed by a few moments.

Namjoon snapped out of it first, coming closer to you and taking your hand. “You look beautiful.” He leaned in for your neck before his face scrunched up in displeasure.

“What?” you asked.

He sniffed at the air. “You…”

“Oh, oh,” you said in realization. “It’s the perfume, it’s quite strong, isn’t it? It’s a Christmas gift from my mother, she said she really liked it so I thought I would wear it for her.”

Namjoon tamed his expression but the frown didn’t disappear. “It’s a little overwhelming. It overpowers everything else.” The perfume was too much for you too, it wasn’t surprising that it was too much for the keen noses of the hybrids. The perfume you wore day to day in spring was a lot lighter and you didn’t put on a lot. You had never stopped to think about how perfumes would affect the hybrids.

“I’ll be sure to not wear it again then,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“That isn’t what I meant.” Namjoon scratched the back of his neck. “You can wear it if you like it. It’s just a little much.”

“Well,” you looked at him and the other hybrids conspiratorially, “it isn’t my favorite, either, and if it affects you like that why would I keep wearing it?” Namjoon’s face smoothed out and you noticed Hoseok looking at you with amazement.

You opened the leather clutch and put in your phone and your keys. Your lipstick and powder were already inside along with a pack of tissues. It didn’t fit any more things.

“I’ll be going now. I’m fashionably late enough.” Before going, Jungkook and Jimin kissed you on each cheek careful not to ruin your makeup. Jin had fallen asleep again and none of you were willing to wake him up.

The night could become difficult so you ignored Yoongi’s eyes on you. You didn’t need any more people judging you.

A limousine was waiting for you outside, limousines were practically part of the dress code in these events. John wasn’t with you this time, you had given him the night off. These kinds of events starred in his nightmares, standing in the corner all night not saying a word. That’s how they kept up the illusion. Regardless of how many times you told him you didn’t care about it, he would follow what was expected of him.

The bright lights blinded you when you arrived. Everyone seemed to want to take a look at you. Your heels sunk into the red carpet at the entrance hall, large paintings in golden frames hanging from the walls. You were led up a grand staircase to the hall the gala was taking place. And so the night began…

You listened through speeches about fashion and the vision of the fashion industry and each individual designer. A few parts were quite interesting, but most of them failed to do anything more than repeat the same old ideas again and again. However, the champagne did make everything a little more tolerable. Your mother had been very happy to see you there and she had told you at least three times how beautiful you were. Your father smiled at you, a smile that looked way too political to be for his daughter, the same smile he would put on when greeting the president.

After the speeches were finished, your mother linked your elbows. It was time for the introductions. You put on your camera smile and shook more hands than you ever did at work. The compliments on your work were many, which ones were genuine was a mystery. But it did feel good when the daughter of one of your father’s associates told you how much she loved the finale of season 4 of Paper Hearts and asked you about Six of Crows.

You said goodbye to an older couple and your mother led you to the buffet. A sculpture of a man pinning fabrics on a mannequin stood proudly in the middle, surrounded by plates of food so perfect that it looked more fake than the decorative food pieces you used on set.

Your mother took another flute of champagne from a waiter. “Mr. Jones will be retiring soon but his son doesn’t want to take over the company. It causes a lot of family drama. I heard they only exchange a few words when they meet but Mr. Jones isn’t backing down.” You had no idea what company they had or who their son was but you nodded. “Ah, I wanted to ask you. You didn’t say anything about adopting hybrids.”

Your hand stilled before you could taste the hors d' oeuvres that looked like a sandwich but was too fancy to call it that. “Hybrids?” you repeated.

“I didn’t know you were interested in them,” your mother continued, unaware of how tense you had become. “Certainly not interested enough to adopt four. Are you making a collection?” She laughed at her joke but you only felt ill.

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” You took a bite of the food, trying to swallow it down. You had lost your appetite.

Your mother sipped on her champagne. “That would be a unique one, it could be showcased.” The churning in your stomach got worse. You left the piece that looked like a sandwich aside.

“How did you learn of it?”

“Don’t you read any magazines? It was front-page news.” You had expected that the information would be published sooner or later, you hadn’t been exactly hiding it, but sooner or later was in the future not now. “You should have told me, I would have looked for some high-quality places to buy them from. There are some very beautiful exotic pieces I have seen. Mrs. Anderson, do you remember her? She couldn’t make it this time but she was at the charity event last September.” You didn’t remember her but you nodded again. “She has such a cute chinchilla hybrid and he’s so well-trained too. I hope yours were trained well, I heard it’s difficult to train them yourself. Where did you adopt them from?”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “An adoption center in Los Angeles,” you lied easily. Spending hours and hours every day with actors, instructing them about how each scene would seem more natural, you had picked up a few tricks. “I just really liked them and they were already a pack, I didn’t want to break them up.”

Your mother arched a single perfectly-drawn eyebrow, a skill you had sadly not inherited. “A pack? Does that actually exist? Dear, the center must have been trying to give you four hybrids instead of one. Pack,” she tried out the word and she didn’t particularly like the results. “That certainly sounds like some kind of con. What are they? Are all of them wolves?”

“No, they aren’t all wolves. And it was three hybrids, I adopted the other one later from Tennessee with Taylor.”

Taylor’s name brought a spark to your mother. “Oh, how is Taylor? Such a sweet girl, I should have invited her. I will next time.” Your mother had met Taylor exactly once during one of the few of your movie premieres she had actually attended. “Which one did you adopt from there?”

You gritted your teeth, debating how much information was wise to give your mother. “Jin, he’s a sugar glider hybrid.”

That seemed to please her. “Sugar glider? That sounds fancy. I would like to see him up close.” Like you would ever allow that to happen. “He must be a rare breed.”

“He is.”

“Of course, I should have expected that my daughter would decide on a rare breed,” she said as if she was congratulating herself. “I insist you bring him to the next event. I was never that interested in hybrids, too much work, but one would look good in photos.”

“Yeah, I guess he would.” You took a deep breath, it wasn’t the time to throw a tantrum like you were five years old again or puke all over your expensive dress and shoes.

The expression on your mother’s face grew somber. “But four hybrids are a lot, I don’t think I know anyone who owns that many.” She twirled the flute in her hand, waves of the golden liquor hitting the glass and bubbles rising to the surface. “After what happened with Jacob I understand you have been feeling lonely, but hybrids aren’t good substitutes for human company, dear. You can’t rely on them as you relied on him or another man.”

A waiter offered you a glass of champagne from a golden tray. You couldn’t drink too much and risk your tongue loosening but you could allow yourself one more glass to get through this. “I’m not trying to replace him. They aren’t some kind of rebound.”

By her pinched expression, she didn’t believe you. “It’s alright to look for company somewhere else when you feel lonely. I don’t want you to think I’m judging your choices, you are an adult and free to make your own decisions but I’m your mother and I’m worried. You and Jacob were together for so long, we were sure he was the one for you. He was so nice and he took care of you. Your father and I were so happy for you.”

“Not all good relationships last. People change, they grow apart.”

“That’s true. It’s difficult getting out of a relationship after being together for so many years and getting back to your feet. That’s why I understand. I understand that you don’t want to be alone right now but don’t put all of your energy into hybrids. It just isn’t the same. Whatever some people like to say, hybrids are hybrids. They are different from us, they are on a different level. You can’t have the same connection with someone you own.”

Her words continued ringing in your mind for the rest of the night. Your father soon called you to introduce you to one of his colleagues, a successful businessman and politician you had never heard of. The glass of champagne was replaced by another one. You promised yourself it was the last. The owner of a luxurious brand talked with your mother about his plan to expand to more countries and the rehearsed and repeated vision to connect the world through fashion.

You peered at the other guests, all mingling, talking, and laughing. A man only a few feet away from you slapped a girl’s ass. You couldn’t believe your eyes, stuff like that didn’t happen at an event like this. You expected a scene, shouting and screaming and everything in between. Nothing happened. The man that had his arm around her waist only laughed. That’s when you noticed the black fluffy ears on top of her head, they were the same color as her hair and easy to miss. She didn’t have a tail. A silver collar with blue stones the same shade as her dress was secured around her neck. Her shoulders were tense and her head lowered.

In any other situation, any other time, you would have done something. You would have walked up to them and said something, anything you could think of on the spot, even talked to her, made a few minutes more tolerable. You did none of those things. Your parents were there and you had avoided embarrassing them all your life.

The guilt was eating you up, wrapping around all your organs and squeezing, hissing, and calling for your attention, not letting you forget. You had done nothing. If someone had touched your hybrids like that you would have cut their hands off. But that hadn’t been your hybrid, it hadn’t been your place. It hadn’t been your place like it hadn’t been your place to adopt Jin and go against his owner, like it hadn’t been your place to get involved with Namjoon’s pack or Yoongi and Hoseok for that matter. Maybe you had been tricking yourself all along, hiding your selfishness and fear behind the pretense of “not my place”.

Your mother was wrong, you hadn’t been looking for company when you and Jacob broke up. On the contrary, you disregarded everything except work, distancing yourself from all of your friends. It was easy with how busy you were at the time. You would have continued hiding in the Castle and spent your break alone if you hadn’t asked John to stop the car that night. They were what you didn’t know you needed. You had to stop being alone first to realize how lonely you had been.

You couldn’t go back to living like that, waking up and returning to an empty house, having no warm meal and warmer hugs waiting for you. That’s what your life had been like for the longest time and you wondered how you used to live like that. The hybrids were so tangled up in your life you couldn’t find where each thread ended or started. They merged and divided, connecting you all in ways you couldn’t describe.

Taylor had asked you about any crushes when you had been in Virginia, everyone was expecting you to find a new boyfriend after six months or at least start dating but you couldn’t bring yourself to do that. No one had piqued your interest and it wasn’t for lack of meeting new people. It would feel wrong going on a date with someone when the hybrids were waiting for you back home. And that’s where the problem was; it shouldn’t feel wrong. Many people who had hybrids went on dates, couples adopted hybrids together and it should be like that for you. But it wasn’t.

Overthinking was one of your talents and you had avoided like you were being chased by wild dogs. You weren’t one to simply go with the flow but Namjoon’s lips on your own had changed your mind. You were too afraid of losing that that you hadn’t allowed yourself to analyze what you were doing, what that meant for you. Namjoon was your hybrid, you may not act like it or think of him like that but you were his owner in the papers. And it wasn’t only Namjoon, the way you cared about the hybrids was different from the way you felt about anyone else. It was all-consuming and too bright. You felt more for them than you had ever felt about Jacob and that was dangerous.

You excused yourself from the event as soon as it was proper for you to do so. Tomorrow morning you had to wake up early for work and you couldn’t stay late into the night. It was true but not the reason you left. Your mother hugged you and thanked you for coming, inviting you once again to their house in New York. She had been inviting you every time you met and you hadn’t once been to their house.

The window of the limousine was cold against your cheek, your foundation staining the glass. Maybe your mother wasn’t that wrong. You didn’t dare put a name to your feelings but you couldn’t deny that they were there. Were you really that lonely that your mind was playing tricks on you? Groaning, you knocked your head against the glass, hard enough to hear a small thud. You shouldn’t be thinking of them like that, it was wrong, so wrong.

Was it the way the world viewed hybrids messing with you, bleeding into your subconscious? They were presented as the answer to any and all desires, transformed into wet dreams. The media had the power to influence behaviors and thoughts little by little without the person noticing. You had thought you were too clever to fall victim to their molded reality. You knocked your head against the glass again, the driver must have been thinking you were crazy.

The limousine parked in front of the Castle. On other nights the lights would have been turned off by now but tonight they were all shinning, welcoming you home. You fished your keys out of your bag and unlocked the door. The lights were on in the living room in the lowest setting.

“Welcome.” You jumped, almost tumbling to the floor at being startled while taking off your heels.

“Every. Single. Time.” Namjoon laughed quietly. “How do you do this every single time?”

“I was already here, I couldn’t make any more noise.” He got up from the couch, extending a hand to you. You took it and he guided you to the couch. “Did you have a good time?”

The dress wrinkled as you pulled one foot under you but you couldn’t care less. “It was… bearable. I didn’t-” You let your head fall on the back of the couch. Seeing Namjoon up close after the night you had, looking at you with soft eyes like you held the sky in the palm of your hand, everything was coming back. What were you doing here? Your heart shouldn’t be racing like that when you were thinking about the wolf hybrid, your hands shouldn’t be itching to touch him.

“You’re here now, you can relax,” he said trailing his hand from your arm to your shoulder and up your neck. Goosebumps raised on your bare skin. “You’re home.” His breath tickled your face, his lips were so close and you wanted, you wanted… You pushed him back.

“I should go take off my makeup. I’m exhausted.”

Namjoon frowned but he didn’t question you. “Okay,” he said softly. “Your bed must be calling your name.”

“It is,” you said slipping away from him. The absence of his touch left a void inside you. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You went to your room with a heavy heart, leaving Namjoon alone in the living room.

♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩ ♩♪♩♬♬♩♪♩

You found the offending magazine in a store close to the studios. Copies of it filled a whole stand. The cover was a photo of you with Jin and Jimin in front of the waffle place the day you had taken them with you to the table-reading. It really was front-page news.

In A Stunning Display of Power And Wealth Y/N Y/L/N Adopts Four Hybrids

Straight to the point, every word chosen precisely to attract attention. A display of power and wealth. Of course, that’s what sold copies. That’s what people wanted to read; how one of the richest and most famous directors of your generation was showing off their wealth and power. Hybrids continued to be a sign of money. To adopt four hybrids meant you were crazy rich, but people already knew that when similar headlines had swept all tabloids just a year ago, brought on by the outrageous purchase of the Castle.

Four pages were dedicated to you and your hybrids, completed with more photos of the same day and quotes from “insider sources”. You closed the magazine and went to the counter. The cashier scanned it without glancing at your face, which saved you some trouble. You almost thought you would have to re-enact the comedic scene of the cashier looking at the magazine, then at you, then back at the magazine, then back at you like a robot that had stopped working. You shoved the magazine in your bag, self-conscious of anyone seeing it on you, and went back to the studios.

Filming would begin very soon, which meant you were swamped with work. Everything had to be perfect because that’s the kind of director you were. A perfectionist. If it also gave you an excuse not to think about the hybrids and all of the implications of the flutter of your heart when you were with them, you weren’t complaining. And if you were a little more distant, that could easily be attributed to your work too.

Sleepless nights became too common, your head was too loud and Jimin laying next to you only made it louder.

Filming started and your schedule changed. Most days you still woke up early and returned late at night, but because each scene required a specific time of the day there were nights you came back hours after midnight. You had promised the hybrids you would take them with you on set but every morning you got in the car alone.

Fourth day of filming and unexpected rain forced you to cancel the outside shooting. You only had outside filming that day. You rushed to make adjustments and switch to scenes that could be filmed inside the studios. The crew would need time to prepare everything for the filming so you had been left with the morning off.

You unlocked the door, hiding inside the house from the rain. It hadn’t rained like that in a long time. The heavens had opened up and the rain refused to stop coming down like it was determined to turn Los Angeles into a gigantic lake. Your shoes left puddles wherever you stepped, you would have to mop the floors later. You took them off and placed them by the door. They had suffered the most, the rest of yourself was relatively dry with the exception of the lower part of your pants.

No one was attacking you with hugs as you closed the umbrella someone from the staff had handed you, the hybrids mustn’t have heard you coming in. If they had heard you, you would have had an armful of Jimin and Jungkook by now.

“Oh, hey Yoongi,” you greeted the panther hybrid coming out of the kitchen. Your tactic with Yoongi was to act like you were talking to someone who didn’t strongly dislike you. The scowls and the sneers had decreased turning into a plastic sort of indifference and that’s what made you pause. His scowl could cut you like a knife. “Are you alright?”

Yoongi stalked past you. “What are doing back?” he asked harshly.

You were taken aback for a moment. He hadn’t spoken like that to you since before you had left for Virginia. “I have the morning off because of the rain. Did something happen here?”

“Why do you care?” Yoongi stood by the staircase, his black tail unmoving behind him.

“Why would I not care?” you shot back. The rain had already ruined your plans for the day and caused you enough stress to last you for a few more, you didn’t have enough energy to deal with Yoongi. “Seriously, what happened? Is Hoseok alright?”

A low growl vibrated through the room, you almost took a step back at the threatening sound. “Don’t you speak his name. Was caring for him another way to make you feel powerful? Is this some kind of sick way for you to gain power over someone?”

You were too tired to handle this delicately as you should, you recognized that and proceeded to ignore it. “What the hell is this about? I just came back from work.”

Yoongi scoffed, it was an ugly sound. “Because you have brainwashed everyone else, don’t think I don’t see you for who you are. Have you sold our story yet? About how you saved Hoseok and nursed him back to health? I am sure that will sell many magazines. Show them all how all-powerful you are.”

Through the haze of the day, the words started to click. “You found the magazine.”

“You didn’t try to hide it.” You couldn’t remember where you had left it, it had probably ended up in the stack of magazines under the living room table. “I knew no one would take four hybrids in out of the goodness of their hearts. Did it work? Was it worth it or are you already getting bored? Maybe you should adopt a couple more. Make more headlines.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you gritted out.

“That’s what you’d like to think,” Yoongi sneered. “All of you are the same. Hiding in your mansions and looking for the next chance to brandish your name. It’s a constant chase of power and standing, isn’t it? And you’ll use anyone you’ll find in your way to climb higher. I know how it is. You can’t fool me. I’ve been dealing with people like you for years!”

Your pants and your wet socks were sticking uncomfortably to your skin. Your head was buzzing. It hurt because that’s everything you had been trying to avoid. Everything you had promised yourself not to become. Everything you had criticized your parents and their circle for. You weren’t like them. You had never been like them.

“You don’t know me, don’t pretend you do,” you said forcefully. “Do you really think that’s how magazines work? I just call them and tell them I want them to write about me? Put me on the front cover? That’s not it. Even if it was, why would I do that? I couldn’t care less about the power-plays you’re talking about. I’m a director and my work speaks for itself. I don’t need magazines to brandish my name because my movies and my shows are more than enough. The paparazzi saw the chance and they took it. Their goal is to sell and their headlines showcase exactly that; what people would buy. I never hid the fact that I adopted hybrids but I wasn’t flaunting it to the media either.”

“Why should I believe you?” Yoongi growled.

You sighed, a sound full of frustration. “Frankly, I don’t see what else I could do to make you believe me! I tended to Hoseok. I didn’t ask any questions. I tried hard not to cross any boundaries and to make you feel welcome. What more do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi said simply. “Nothing you do can change my mind.”

It was like a stone dropped in the pit of your stomach. You shouldn’t have expected anything else. Yoongi had been through a lot, that much was clear, but it was unfair that he was taking out everything on you. You were paying for the scars other humans had inflicted on him.

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“You don’t know what I think.”

“It’s pretty clear,” you muttered. “Alright, I can’t change your mind, I won’t even try. I know how to pick my battles. But if you really despise me so much then why bother? Nothing you say will change anything. Are you trying to uncover some hidden truth about me and how evil I am? Then what?”

The fur on Yoongi’s tail and ears stood on end. “I don’t care. I don’t care about you, about what you have done and what you will do as long as we’re gone from here. I don’t care for your charity or your pity. Did it ever occur to you that I never wanted to be here in the first place?”

You swallowed, willing your heart rate to calm down. “Then tell Hoseok and Jimin yourself. The keys are by the door.”

You didn’t wait for Yoongi to say anything else, turning around and locking yourself in your room. You laid down on your bed, your hands gripping your hair. The exhaustion this time was beyond physical, beyond mental. Your hands retreated from your hair, sliding down your cheeks. Your fingers were wet.

Later when Jimin and Jungkook knocked on the door, you had to open the door or risk worrying them. They jumped on the bed and snuggled close to you. You held your phone waiting for the call to go to the studios.

You didn’t face any new problems with filming. The actors were all incredible, seemingly one with their characters. You did a lot of filming at 300 Fox Way, the psychic’s house with its mystic aura and weirdly compelling assortment of objects. You instructed the actors, talked with the crew, and analyzed the script down to each comma. Focusing on anything other than Yoongi’s words and your hybrids had turned into an art form.

The sleepless nights didn’t cease, you and the moonlight had become good friends. Jimin’s visits to your room thinned out. He had noticed you pulling away. You didn’t hug him anymore or kissed his forehead before falling asleep, you couldn’t come to terms with doing that after everything that had happened. You had thought that maybe you would sleep better alone but that had been proved false soon after.

You got out of bed for the fourth night in a row. Every position was uncomfortable. Keeping your steps light you left the room. The large house was eerie at night, the living room area with its glass walls looked endless, combining the actual living room, the dining room, and what the real estate agents had called the family room that was really just another living room.

You couldn’t stay in your room on nights like these, it was too contained. The night air on your skin sent shivers down your frame as you walked out on the balcony. It was two days before the full moon and its glow illuminated the world.

What had you gotten yourself into? You wished you could go back to that morning and decline your mother’s invitation to the gala. Maybe, just maybe, then you would be able to sleep, your head wouldn’t be fighting you at every turn, at every chance.

Little pieces of moonlight shimmered and danced on the lake. The calmness of the world was a stark contrast to the mess in your head. You remembered how Jungkook had looked at the lake in awe that very first night, you had noticed then that he looked at Jimin the same way. You wondered how you looked at them and if anyone had noticed.

The moon had no answers for you.

Two golden eyes were looking up at you from the garden, they shone like the fires that had been extinguished earlier. Namjoon tilted his head, inviting you down. A weird sense of deja vu took over. You had lived something very similar before, a night that had changed so much.

You shouldn’t go. You should stay where you were, alone and safe, away from fluttering heartbeats and dangerous warmth. But the night had its way of calling out the risky nature of people. The thrill was so much more enticing when darkness ruled.

Climbing down the stairs, you kept your steps quiet. You never knew which sound would wake up the hybrids. Namjoon was standing by the flower bushes close to the curtain of vines that lead into the forest. He was wearing a dark blue pair of pajama pants and a simple black T-shirt.

“What are you doing awake so late?” you whispered, like everything around you had ears.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You shook your head. “I have trouble sleeping, remember?”

Namjoon had caught you a few times wandering the house at night, he was the only one who knew that a lot of nights sleep didn’t come to you willingly. His own nightly adventures were more complicated.

“Why are you awake?” you asked him again. “Please don’t tell me you smelled distress or something again or I’ll freak.”

Namjoon chuckled, you had missed it. Keeping your distance meant you only saw them for barely two hours every day. They all tried to not make too much noise with you in the constant mood of ‘tired and gloomy’.

“No, that’s not it.” He looked up, over the trees. “It’s the full moon.”

“You have to be kidding me. Do you turn into a wolf too?”

Namjoon raised his hands in surrender, his dimples on full display. “I’m joking, I’m joking. I couldn’t sleep either and I like being outside at night like this. It’s peaceful.”

You couldn’t disagree with that. There was something alluring about the quiet of the night. You would describe yourself more as a morning person than a night owl but both of them were true, waking up early for work then staying up late for it too.

“Are you alright?” The smile had fallen from his lips.

You squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Filming takes a lot out of me.”

Namjoon sighed. “Are you sure that’s all there is? You have been acting differently, did you think we wouldn’t notice?”

You knew they would notice but you had hoped they would think it was because of your work. Work did take a lot out of you but it also used to be the reason you were so much happier returning home.

“It has been going on for too long. You don’t spend any time outside your room or your office if it isn’t to eat. You are avoiding us. Jimin and Jungkook stopped scenting you because they think they’re making you uncomfortable.”

“It isn’t- They aren’t making me uncomfortable. I’m just tired from work and I don’t-” you tried to deny it but you fell short of excuses.

“You were working before too, but it wasn’t like this,” he pointed out. “You were tired then too. Some nights you came back and I could smell the exhaustion around you like a disease. But you smiled when Jimin and Jungkook ran up to you and didn’t let you go, you laughed at Jin laughing at his own jokes. You came to me when it got too loud here.” He pointed to your head.

“We weren’t filming then.” It was a weak attempt but you had to make it.

Namjoon regarded you carefully. Beams of moonlight got tangled in his gray hair turning it silver. He looked at home right there at that moment, close to the trees with the moon shining on him. He was every bit of magic you had ever witnessed.

“This started before filming did. I knew there was something wrong when you came back from the gala. Something happened there,” Namjoon concluded. “I should have come with you.”

You shook your head vigorously. Imagining him next to you while your mother spoke about hybrids like that was torture. “No, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have been with me.” You paused to compose yourself. “It wasn’t good, it was really bad actually. It wasn’t the gala itself, there some interesting people and… My mother…” You took a deep breath. “I don’t think I like my parents very much,” you admitted.

It was hard to say after years of half-hearted attempts at mending your relationship with them. All those years apart you had become very different people. You had trouble remembering what they were like before they left you in your aunt’s care. You couldn’t see any traces of them in yourself, you didn’t enjoy what they enjoyed, your interests and priorities, the way you viewed the world were very different.

In the past few days, you had grown to hate your mother’s voice in your head but you had a feeling that it had been much longer than that. The only difference was that before, you had been able to ignore it.

Namjoon came closer, his hand touching your palm waiting for you to make the first move. You took his hand in yours, laying your head on his chest. “That’s alright. You don’t have to like them, no one is forcing you to.”

“But they are my parents.”

He stroked your back gently. “It doesn’t matter, that isn’t enough of a reason.”

“They aren’t bad people.”

“They don’t need to be bad people for you to dislike them.”

You stayed like that for a few moments, taking in his presence. You had missed being in his arms so much, like an ache that couldn’t go away.

He stopped stroking your back, cupping your cheek and pulling back so you were facing each other. “I’m always here for you. I don’t care about anything else but seeing you happy. I’m here.”

“I missed you,” you admitted like it was a secret.

Namjoon smiled softly. “I missed you too.” His thumb caressed your lower lip. There was a tingling sensation all over your skin. “Can I?” he asked just like the very first time.

You let out a shuddering breath. “Should we be doing this?”

“Do you want to?” he asked carefully.

You bit your lip before nodding. He leaned down connecting your lips. It was soft and careful, all the longing and hurt of the past days poured into the kiss. You pulled him closer and he came willingly. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

An awful laugh cut through the night. You pulled away from Namjoon like you had been burnt. Yoongi was one with the night, dark like a shadow.

“So this is it? Is this why you adopted them all? So you can have your pick when you’re in the mood?” The expression on his face was cruel, twisted up in disgust.

Namjoon growled, his sharp canines shinning in the moonlight. In that moment, Namjoon looked more dangerous than ever before. “Shut your mouth.”

“I see she has turned you into her dog. How long did it take to tame you?”

You held Namjoon back before he could lunge at the panther. You were afraid that if you let him go, there would blood on their clothes. “Don’t.”

Yoongi took a tense step forward. “That’s right, listen to your owner. Is that what she has turned all of you into? Her toys? Just for a roof over your head and food?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Namjoon growled. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that. You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

Yoongi clenched his fists. There was anger and something else you couldn’t see in the night amidst your panic. “I knew it. I knew no one did what you did without any kind of agenda. Seems like the magazine was right, at least in part. You can’t fool me, even if you managed to fool everyone else.”

With that he was gone, like he was never there.

You couldn’t breathe. Your hand was still wrapped around Namjoon’s wrist and you couldn’t breathe. You counted in your head. One, two, three…

When Namjoon tried to touch your shoulder, you pulled away. “I’m going back to my room,” you said. Your voice sounded shaky to your own ears. Namjoon called out to you but you didn’t stop. He didn’t try to touch you again.

Please comment and reblog it motivates me to keep writing

#btscreatorscorner #castlebangtan #bts #bts hybrid au #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #namjoon x reader #seokjin x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #taehyung x reader #poly!bts #poly!bts x reader #bts poly au #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts angst #bts hurt/comfort

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sylverstorms · 3 years

Text

Cassandra x Maiden----Anonymity Ch. 9

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8

'I’ll see you later', she said.

But 'later' never comes.

After the days that have passed, it doesn’t look like it will, either. Your schedule is changed to working the day shift, permanently. When you ask about the change, the Grand Chambermaid tells you it is a direct order from Lady Alcina.

A few months ago, you would consider it a gift from heaven. The morning shift is absolutely safe and maids trip over themselves in happiness to get it for however long. It means the daughters are asleep and the halls are quiet; that there is no danger of blood drawn over the slightest misstep.

But you are not happy. If anything, it feels like there is a thorn lodged in the back of your throat, hurting you from within.

Keep your head down. Do your job. Map every nook and cranny of the castle. You repeat the same words to yourself to give you a driving force, a sense of purpose… yet it is not escaping that your mind reels right back to.

It’s her.

It’s the way she would pop out of nowhere, going “rah!” just to get your blood pumping, then break into little giggles before gluing her body to yours, to bask in your warmth. The way she would fidget when she couldn’t keep still. Her quiet laughs when something genuinely amused her. Her cool touch. Her voice. Her breathy gasps and hooded eyes in the dark above you.

The time you despised Cassandra seems so distant now it may as well have been a different life. She is —perhaps always will be— many things you should detest. But she hasn’t been any of them around you for so long.

The initial cuts on you turned to scratches, then to simply the drag of her dark-painted nails over your skin. She stopped terrorizing the other maids. Her time in the dungeons below the castle diminished.

There were times when you were laying in bed together that you even considered the playful girl there with you had the potential be someone you could see yourself love.

From what you hear some of the maids whisper… that girl is no more.

At first, you don’t believe it. You don’t want to believe it.

Until you see one of the girls —Valia, if memory serves—downing one painkiller after the other and clutching at her bandaged chest during breakfast. And you make the mistake of asking what happened.

“This is all your fault!” she snaps and swings her hand to hit you, but you stop her and pin the limb down, rattling the table.

All eyes in the room shift to you.

“Calm yourself.” you warn her.

“She wasn’t like this before! What did you do to displease her and have her take it out on us, huh?!” she demands, tears in her eyes.

Then you understand. Cassandra did this to her.

As the older maids come to separate you, taking her away and trying to soothe her, you find your appetite is gone. You take your leave from the room and get to work an hour earlier than you’re supposed to.

It isn’t easy when every glance at a window reminds you of her scream, or when every flying insect that enters your peripheral brings forth the image of her body breaking apart from the cold.

You don’t notice how long you’ve been working for, until your surroundings are positively bathed in shadows. When you look out the nearest window, the sun is nowhere to be found in the sky.

Oh, no. You start to stress. You should have left ages ago.

Hurried steps take you through hallways you know the daughters don’t frequent as much. It is the long way around to your room, but distance is the least of your worries.

A familiar laugh from the other end of the corridor sends every attempt to calm your nerves right into the trash.

You are suddenly overcome with the urge to say her name, to see her, to make sure she’s alright so you can erase the image of her form crumbling from your mind.

But.

There is a reason Alcina had you working the day shift. And Cassandra would have come to see you if she wanted to. It’s not a pretty thought, but reality usually isn’t. You’ve come to terms with that from a very young age.

So you bite your tongue and keep walking, eyes fixed on the carpet. Part of you is relieved to hear Daniela’s giggle follow her sister’s voice. Cassandra can focus on her and pass you by like she does the decorations around –which, considering the past days, is probably all you were worth to her, anyway.

The distance between you gradually diminishes…

You’ve almost passed her by when Cassandra stops. At least you know her well enough to brace for it.

The next instant, nails are digging through the skin of your biceps and your back is pinned, hard, against the wall. You gasp but you’re too proud to cry out. You don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“I thought mother had you working during the day.”

There’s ice in her voice as she says it, though her eyes have a strange look about them you’d almost describe as melancholy. You know how they light up at the prospect of hunting and killing. This isn’t it.

“Forgive me, Lady Cassandra. I lost track of time.” you reply back. An accusation you can't quite erase is adrift somewhere in your tone.

Her lips twist. She rips your shirt and opens bleeding cuts on your flesh with how harshly her nails pull out of you. The force shoves you sideways, into the faint alcove of a shut window.

Her hand comes to your nape and traps your head there. You can feel her entertain the idea to squeeze harder. Perhaps hurt you enough for everything that ever was between you to completely die. And still your body, the worst traitor of all, welcomes the feel of her breath by your ear when she leans in.

“How come you haven’t used it yet?” she asks. “You know our weakness now, Alexia.”

And she’s right, isn’t she.

How come you haven’t used it to escape? You know it’s below zero degrees outside. Certainly, you could make up an excuse to yourself about the winged monsters lurking around the castle or that you may not make it to the village with that much snow. But that’s all these are. Excuses.

“Come on, the window is right here.” Cassandra hisses and forces your hand to wrap around the handle. “Open it.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Daniela take tiny steps to the side, to avoid the blast of cold should you indeed decide you want them to feel what you feel. “Uhh… Cassandra…?” she says, quietly.

And suddenly you see red for reasons that have nothing to do with the sharp fucking sting on your arms. You can’t contain the anger that bursts out of you like lava from a volcano—

You jerk back with all your strength, actually managing to move her a step away.

“Maybe you get off on it but I sure as hell don’t hurt the people I care about!” Even when they don’t care back.

You’re certainly no stranger to the feeling.

Cassandra freezes up. Daniela’s eyes flit between the two of you like she’s debating calling out for either Bela or her mother for help, before the storm brewing in the air really fucks something up.

Cassandra’s hand shoots forward and closes, tight, around your throat. She presses close, close enough for you to feel the phantom caress of her mouth over yours as she speaks;

“If you don’t want to hurt me, make sure I don’t see you again. Because if bleeding you out is the only way I can be with you… I may take that deal.” Her fingers tremble on your jugular.

Then she’s gone, dragging her sister along with her. You can’t breathe any easier even without her cutting off your airway.

“…so…. does this mean I can have Alexia now?” Daniela’s voice faintly reaches your ears from down the corridor.

Cassandra only grabs her by the nape and pushes her into one of the rooms in response.

Crimson-red travels down your body along with the waterdrops and rolls around the drain in hypnotic swirls. The cuts on your arms would hurt if your heart wasn’t already in pieces.

But who is there but yourself to blame? You knew what you were getting into was no wise idea. You knew you were fucked when it stopped being about your survival. You knew. Yet you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more with her.

And now every single one of your issues and insecurities rises up like a tsunami ready to sweep you with its force and crush you amidst the wreckage.

It seems to be an inescapable curse in your life that everyone you care for leaves you in shambles, one way or another.

It started with your father, when he abandoned you and your mother for a wealthy woman, never to return. Continued with her bringing you to this superstitious, shitty village and soon after leaving you due to an illness. The first girl you fell for fled one night without telling you a single thing. Only a half-assed letter was dropped behind for you.

And now Cassandra discards you, as well, like a broken toy she cannot stand to see yet stubbornly refuses to let go of. You are left bleeding inside and outside, feeling more and more like how she used to call you;

A plaything.

The word never quite bothered you, but now it makes something inside you boil.

Like everyone else, Cassandra has left.

So why should you be the one to stay?

#cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x oc #lady dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #fanfiction #writing #in which the babies are hurt #and not coping very well #on an unrelated note why is Daniela so cute I can't--

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get-shiggy-with-it · 3 years

Text

Ch. 4

18 + Minors DNI Please Check Rules Before You Follow

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x fem!Reader (brief reference to Dabi x Hawks)

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: smut, allusion to nausea (once), brief sacrilegious language (dabi), mentions of alcohol (dabi), mentions of smoking (dabi), dabi is just a whole warning of his own, gender neutral pronouns for reader, fem cause they're called a woman as an insult, Shiggy is an asshole, grinding, degradation,

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6

Summary: In which a project is completed and a new one begins

AO3 Mirror

Taglist: @dillybuggg (shoot me an ask if you want to be tagged)

Your project was almost complete.

In some ways, it sort of felt like the end of an era. To Tomura, who was a creature of habit by nature, it was doubly strange to imagine no longer spending hours a few days each week locked away in your little study room with you bugging him to teach you simple html and him not-so-discreetly sniffing your hair.

He still hadn’t asked you out or whatever he’d been trying to do, much to Dabi’s chagrin. And because of this, Tomura was consistently plagued with the feeling of time running out.

You were supposed to meet today for probably the last time seeing as the presentation was coming up at the end of the week. He knew it was now or never at this point. If he didn’t fucking say something now, he never would and then he’d have to live with the same his roommate wouldn’t let him live down.

So instead of heading directly to the library after class, Tomura took the old route back to his apartment and shot you a quick text—praying to the fucking boner gods, as Dabi called them, that you’d take the bait.

would you mind putting the finish touches on shit at my place?—

there’s some parts i gotta do from my desktop—

That wasn’t completely a lie. It was nicer working from his pc setup, but before he wouldn’t have let you come anywhere fucking near there. Not until he’d finally accepted that you’d wormed your way into his brain somehow and he couldn’t live another day not knowing what your tongue tasted like.

bitch (endearing):

—no problem

—what’s your address?

Tomura’s heart fucking pounded mercilessly against the bony prison of his ribs. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to some good old fashioned anxiety, but he’d never felt a strange stirring in his stomach quite like this. Like he might puke, but in a good way.

He quickly sent back his street and apartment number, and waited on the corner until you texted back that you’d be there in an hour before he rushed inside.

“What the hell are you doing, creep?!” Dabi snapped at him when he burst through the door and yeeted his backpack onto the kitchen table.

Tomura didn’t answer, just made a beeline for the bathroom and slammed the door. He doused himself in record time, unbothered by the hot water causing red, patchy flare ups to bloom over his skin. He was almost disgusted with himself for putting in this much effort for someone like you. Someone being definitely kind of a slut if the way you dressed was a good indicator. But he just kept thinking about the way your hair or skin smelled so goddamn good when you leaned in close and he wanted you to be obsessed with him in the same way. Wanted you to want to bury your face in his neck and breath him in.

When he stumbled out into the hall moments later, towel drying his hair roughly, Dabi was taking a shot over the sink.

He looked at Tomura like hell had frozen over.

“Two showers in like a month?” he mused, sucking his teeth as the alcohol slid down his throat. “What’s the occasion? The fucking, second coming of Christ?”

“Well the bitch is coming over so…”

“Oh, that is a fucking miracle,” Dabi whistled and knocked back a second shot.

Tomura glared, stepping into his room and tossing his towel aside to tug on his nicest pair of black joggers and t-shirt that gapped a bit at the front, showing off a large expanse of his chest. It made him a bit nervous even just looking at his reflection but you definitely stared the few times he’d taken off his hoodie while you were working, so the risk seemed worth the reward.

“Yeah, well you’re gonna have to piss off for the night,” Tomura shouted into the kitchen as Dabi sauntered over to lean against his doorframe.

“You know, I conveniently do have a dick appointment with my own bitch, but now I don’t want to go.”

His tone was teasing, eyes hooded and clearly enjoying how flustered Tomura was already before you’d even gotten here. Tomura moved to snatch another pillow and do battle but Dabi raised his hands up quickly in defeat.

“Oh no, no, I just fucking did my hair for this Keigo asshole you are not gonna ruin it with that petty shit,” he shot back and disappeared somewhere into his own room. “I’ll be out of your greasy ass hair don’t worry.”

Tomura seethed and bit back of reply of his hair for once not being greasy as hell, but the multiple cum stains—both his and his nasty fucking roommates—marring the comforter caught his eye.

“Ugh,” he mumbled and balled the whole thing up, shoving it under the bed and spreading out one of his merch blankets from that manga you both liked.

Hopefully you wouldn’t think that was too cringey, but he had definitely seen your room plastered with merch in the background of your social media profiles which he totally did not stalk at all and maybe jerk off to on occasion.

The rest of his room was quickly cleared by a combination of shoving random crap into his closet and filling up their recycling bin to the brim with empty energy drink cans. He tackled the kitchen next which wasn’t as hard as he’d expected. Neither he nor Dabi cooked all that frequently, so the dishes weren’t an issue and the vague, lingering smell of whatever the fuck Dabi had been smoking early was cleared out a bit by leaving the balcony door ajar.

He checked the time on his phone obsessively, about ready to pound on Dabi’s door and throw him out on the step when the man in question emerged on his own—black platform boots donned with his ass hugging ripped jeans and a loose tank top.

He had on fucking eyeliner.

God and he thought Tomura was being desperate.

“What? Wishing you’d locked this down first?” Dabi sneered, grabbing his jacket from the rack and shoulder checking Tomura on his way to the door.

“I—” he stammered for a second, bristling as Dabi towered over him a bit in those fucking boots. “No, asshole, just leave before they get here.”

But at the exact moment that Dabi rolled his eyes and flung open the door, Tomura’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Looking up in mingled horror and embarrassment, he watched the door hit the wall and reveal you, a little more casually dressed than usual looking stunned as Dabi grinned down at you with pierced lips.

“Hi, I’m-” you started but Tomura’s live-in nightmare cut you off.

“Oh I know who you are, dollface,” Dabi wiggled his fucking eyebrows at you, clearly playing up the dramatics as much as possible to a degree even Tomura didn’t think he could pull off. “Name’s Dabi—”

“Uh, yeah and he was just leaving,” Tomura hissed and placed his shoulder firmly in the center of his roommate’s back, launching him onto the welcome mat as you side-stepped through the door.

“Yeah, see ya later creep,” he fucking winked as the door slammed shut in his face.

Tomura’s cheeks burned in the following silence which was only broken by your quiet chuckle. He noticed you did that a lot. Laughed at things without even thinking about whether it would sound weird.

“He seems like a lot,” you mumbled and glanced around at the living room/kitchen/foyer of his tiny apartment.

“Yeah…”

He thought he might feel the same sort of disturbance he usually did when Dabi brought his dates home but you seemed to fit easily into the space, unobtrusive but bright against the dingy walls.

“So, should we get to it?” you asked with a wry smile, spinning to face him and silhouetted by the sun set filtering in past the balcony.

He may not have felt the usual discomfort of intruders in his space, but his hands shook where he clutched at his thighs nonetheless. And just like always, if you noticed the bunched up fabric and the not so slight tremor in his bony arms, you didn’t say a thing about it.

You looked so good propped up on his bed, back against the wall and legs dangling off the sides as the now strangely comforting sound of your furious typing filled his room. It had been a few hours now, and Dabi had been true to his word, seemingly gone until tomorrow morning. The room was illuminated only by your screens and his small desk lamp that lit up your legs like a stage spot light.

His mind fogged over more than once with the fantasy of laying in between them.

“I just shared the final bit of script,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence.

The notification pinged at the top of his screen and he hummed in acknowledgement, plugging in your last pieces of text and saving the program.

And just like that.

It was over.

“I think we’re done,” Tomura whispered.

He didn’t really mean to say it so softly, but it felt strange to talk at full volume so he rasped out the words, knowing you wouldn’t care how shitty his voice sounded.

There was a creak and soft footsteps behind him as you shuffled off the bed and over to his desk. Your hands rested way too close to his shoulders than necessary while you leaned over his chair to look at the finished product.

It was still a little rough around the edges but Tomura found himself feeling a swell of satisfaction now that it was complete. All things considered, you’d come up with a pretty damn good concept and he liked knowing he played a role in helping it come to fruition.

The piece you picked was weird as shit. Some political satire about eating babies, lots of juxtaposition about the private life versus the public self and some bullshit rants on the nature of humanity blah blah blah.

It actually reminded him of you a little bit, now that he thought about it as he took advantage of you position to stare intently at your eyes scanning the screen. Not the eating babies thing, but the whole private self stuff.

In the half semester he’d spent locked away with you in quiet rooms and noisy, dimly lit basements, he could see such a stark contrast between the you he’d known from class all those weeks ago and the you currently sighing in relief over his shoulder.

Softer, more real—not so Stacy, bimbo, pick me slut like he’d always imagined you to be.

“Damn, we did it my guy,” you nodded, clearly impressed with yourself and him as well, which had Tomura’s chest puffing out just a bit under the attention. “I could fucking kiss you, I thought we’d never get it done.”

You turned to him, eyes closed in a half laugh but Tomura was so far from laughing. Cause you were really, really fucking close and he could smell you again and you’d been chewing that fucking gum cause it was hot on your breath. He knew, he really did, that you were kidding, that this was just a thing people said when they were relieved but he couldn’t help the weird, deer in the headlights stare that his face froze in.

Blinking, you raised your eyebrows at him questioningly when he didn’t make some crude comment about your chest brushing against his arm or shrug you off like he might have before.

And then you got this knowing, little mischievous look that reminds him far too much of Dabi for a split second before you pressed your face just an inch closer.

His eyes flicked down instinctively to your lips and his face burned when realized there was no way you didn’t see how he looked at you. Shockingly, despite the churning in his gut and the shaking in his legs, Tomura leaned forward just a bit too, working up enough scant courage to maybe close the gap. But then you started laughing?

It bubbled up quietly in your chest, more of a giggle than anything else.

You were laughing and shaking your head and his stomach fucking dropped to the ground and his face was on fire cause you were laughing and that meant he’d been fucking played like a goddamn fiddle but—

But then you gave him this faint smile and you weren't laughing anymore, because you were kissing him.

You were fucking kissing him.

Which, while yes he had set out to have this be the end goal of the night, he hadn’t actually believed it would ever happen. He’d never felt it in his bones like he thought he was supposed to.

And holy shit your lips were so soft??

So soft and smooth with no cool, sharp metal poking or pulling at the splits on his. It was like fucking crack, or what he imagined crack might be like with the way your mouth just glided against his. It was so easy to follow you, which was good cause he didn’t have a goddamn clue what he was doing for the most part. But you made it feel simple, and you even ran your tongue over the little scar that bisected his lips in this painfully adorable way that had Tomura pitching a tent in his pants like lightning.

God and when you pulled back and just enough to look at him again:

It was like every one of those cutesy, shojo manga suddenly made sense. The panels where the main characters look at each other and flowers bloom off the fucking page while they stare with those dark, hungry eyes—

Yeah.

Yeah he got it now.

And he was gonna ride that wave while he had it. So Tomura steeled himself and surged forward, grabbing both your arms and smashing his face much less gracefully against yours. He stood and you straightened with him, that same half giggle slipping out in the gaps where your lips parted on his as he clacked your teeth together and pulled back at the jarring sting.

“Eager are we?” you had that stupid smile on your face again but he honestly didn’t care anymore if it was an act or if your face really just looked like that with no fucking ulterior motive.

“Shut up,” he muttered, trying to catch your lips again and you mercifully let him.

Tomura nearly fucking came in his pants when you licked into his mouth and oh fucking god he really could taste the gum and that loud ass shit you were always drinking. Dabi was right, this was a fucking miracle.

Did other people always taste this good or was it just you?

He responded enthusiastically to say the least, sucking your tongue into his mouth and letting out a choked little noise when you prodded the back of his teeth. The movement of your legs, pulling him back towards the bed went mostly unnoticed until he felt himself tipping forward, landing with a thump on top of you as you both tumbled onto his mattress.

Tomura’s lips wondered boldly down your throat, smelling the soap or lotion or whatever the hell made you so fucking baby smooth compared to him and he actually growled into your nape when you laughed again.

“God, what the fuck is so funny?” he sounded muffled from where he was tonguing at the fleshy joining of your neck and shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry,” you pressed your lips against the peeling crown of his head and that alone made up for the interruption, “I’m just basking in the glory of being right.”

“About?” Tomura nipped at your skin once before lifting his chin to rest on your sternum.

“I just always thought you were sorta into me, but it was hard to tell cause you’re so quiet about that kinda thing.”

“....oh,” he didn’t really have an argument for that so he didn’t try to fight you.

“Did you think I didn’t notice all the convenient excuses to touch me or like the fact that you’re mean as shit to everyone else but me?" you asked not unkindly as you stroked a hand through his hair, frizzy from being left to air dry. “I also got the vibes you thought I was a slut anyway and it wasn’t super clear if that was a turn on or not.”

He cringed a bit at the blatant way you acknowledged all ruder inner monologues about your character.

“Well, I did a bit initially,” Tomura glanced off to the side, suddenly finding the chipping paint much more fascinating. God he really wanted to get back to the good stuff. “But I don’t now…”

“Oh no,” you cupped his face, running a thumb against the cracked skin on his cheeks and didn’t cringe when the drying skin flaked onto your shirt, “that was a pretty astute assumption.”

“Uh, what?”

He felt his draw drop and you dipped your thumb past his front row of teeth, toying with the pooling saliva.

“All the better for you though,” you continued dragging his chest against yours so he could feel your nipples through his shirt, “cause that just means I know how to show you a good time, and I get the feeling you’ve never had that happen before.”

You punctuated your words with roll of your hips against the fucking iron rod in his pants. The noise that left Tomura was inhuman.

He thought back to the day you got partnered with him. How he thought it would be a fucking nightmare and Tomura wanted to let the record show that he officially retracted that statement. This was in no uncertain terms, actually a wet dream come true and he was sure Dabi would never fucking believe him unless he walked through the door right now.

“That works,” he stuttered around the finger in his mouth and you reared up to wrap your legs around his waist.

Your lips found his again and he hummed in approval only cut off as you rolled so he was laying back and looking up. When you pulled back, he shivered at the way you raked your nails over his chest.

“So, you gonna tell me how much of a disgusting whore you think I am?”

#tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader #tomura imagine #tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #dabi #bnha fanfiction #bee.writes

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sergeantsporks · 3 years

Text

Do You Want the Knife You Left in My Back, or Can I Keep It?

Rating: Teen and up, Gen

An injured Hunter wanders into Hexside. What was Luz supposed to do, just let him bleed out on the floor?

Ch 4/5: Rescue

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3

Ao3

Hunter sat down with a whump at the base of a tree, huffing and shivering. He looked back at the owl house. Maybe he should have told the owl lady what had happened to her apprentice.

No. No, then she would just be angry at him, and would kick him out—or she’d trade him in a heartbeat to get Luz back. He had to get Luz back before Kikimora sent her demands to Eda instead.

Maybe they could have... worked to rescue her together? Maybe Eda wouldn’t have sold him out, maybe she would have helped.

Who was he kidding, who wouldn’t trade him in a heartbeat for Luz? On the one hand, cheerful, friendly human who could do magic! On the other hand, broken, powerless witch with an annoying voice.

Not that it mattered. Luz wouldn’t want him around after this—the best he could do was rescue her, and then hope he could make it back to the coven on his own, and pray that Belos would be angrier at Kikimora than him.

He could—he could do this.

Ugh.

Maybe.

Hunter leaned against the tree, trying to summon the willpower to get up and keep going. But it was quiet, and he was dizzy and cold, and his back was screaming at him to stop, and he just wanted to go back to sleep where it was warm. He twisted his arm around, gritting his teeth as his back protested, and felt under his shirt for the bandages, hissing when the touch made the pain in his back flare up.

His fingers came back red.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hunter was relatively certain that was very bad. His head thudded back into the tree.

Stupid.

What was he supposed to do?!

“Where is he?” Kikimora’s voice came through the trees, “I really thought that would work!”

Hunter froze. Don’t find me, don’t find me, don’t find me—

Her little footsteps pattered nearby—on the other side of the tree he was on. Hunter shifted slightly, and a branch from the tree pressed right between his shoulder blades, right in the wound. Hunter bit on his hand to keep from screaming as the world blacked out.

But when he woke up again, Kikimora was gone.

This was his chance.

Hunter used the tree to haul himself up, his world still spinning. He stumbled towards where Kikimora had come from to see Luz, still tied up. She gasped when she saw him.

“You came?! You really came?!”

“Yyyyyeah. Lemme just…” Relief conquered his adrenaline high, and he nearly blacked out again, but he managed to untie her. “Kay… I guess… run?”

Luz blinked at him. “You—you really came for her. You’d abandon your mission to help her? Betray the emperor?”

Hunter blinked back spots from his eyes, pressing his arms to his stomach. Wow—okay—this was—that adrenaline had really been—

“Uhhh—yeah—I’ll capture you later—‘s not a big—” he blinked again. “Did youuuuuu just refer… third person?”

She blinked again, but her eyelids blinked sideways instead of up and down.

Hunter managed to haul himself up again, the ground seeming to tilt and sway beneath him. “K—we gotta—we gotta go—”

Luz caught him as he fell, but then she wasn’t Luz anymore, she was some kind of snake creature. She snapped her fingers, and the ropes that had been tying her floated up yanked around him. Hunter arched his back, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood as they pressed against the stab wound. He flew backwards into a tree, and he could just see, through blurry vision, the snake creature slithering towards him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I really am—but this is the only way out for me.”

Xxx

Luz tore through the trees, her heart thudding in her chest. “Hunter!” she called, “Hunter, answer me if you can hear me! Are you okay?!”

She heard a weak cry for help, and raced towards it. “Hunter! Ohmygosh, you scared the living daylights… out… of… me…”

She skidded to a stop as she emerged in a small clearing. Kikimora was waiting, Hunter tied up in a limp, unconscious pile behind her. Next to Kikimora was… also Hunter. But as she watched, he shifted and changed.

A basilisk.

None of that explained why Kikimora had managed to get him out of the house—unless the basilisk had turned into Emperor Belos, she supposed.

“I told you I’d get him,” Kikimora purred.

Luz pulled out a set of glyphs. “Let him go. Now.”

Kikimora snapped her fingers, and Hunter floated up, her magic dumping him in an unceremonious heap on the floor. “Oh, no, human, I hold the cards now. You set down those glyphs, or… well, his death won’t be pleasant.”

Luz bit her lip, looking down at Hunter—if she could keep Kikimora from killing him just long enough for her friends to come back…

“Promise you won’t hurt him if I drop the glyphs?”

Kikimora pulled him up by the hair, pressing the claws of her other hand to his throat. “No, but I promise that I will hurt him if you don’t.”

Hunter was still limp in her grasp, and a wave of worry swept over Luz—he hadn’t reacted at all. “I want proof you haven’t killed him already.”

Kikimora shook him. “Wake up!”

His eyes opened just a crack, and then closed again. Kikimora tossed him back to the ground, putting one foot right over where his stab wound was. “There. He’s still alive. Now. Put the glyphs down before. I. Change. That.” She ground her foot down with each word, and Luz dropped the glyphs as Hunter howled in pain, breaking off into a heartbreaking whimper.

“Okay, okay, just… leave him alone! Please!”

Kikimora removed her foot. “Let’s see… I will take you to Belos. Alive. And you will agree that you were the one to hurt him—this worked out better than I could have hoped. I never thought you’d actually take the brat in! Yes, you will tell the emperor that you attacked him. And if you ever recant your story—well, Hunter has to sleep sometime. He has to eat. There are a thousand ways that someone—perhaps one of your friends—could assassinate him.”

There was a rustle in the trees behind Kikimora, and a feather floated down. Right. Showtime.

Luz glared at Kikimora. “This won’t work. Hunter will just tell everyone what happened, and your lie will fall flat.”

A satisfied little smile played across Kikimora’s lips. “Oh, I don’t think so. All I have to do is threaten the reverse—he agrees with me or you meet an unfortunate end.”

Luz snorted. “That’ll never work—he wouldn’t do that for me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Luz shrugged. “Eh. I can think of another reason it won’t work.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

Luz grinned. “You won’t even make it back to the keep.”

Eda leapt from the trees with an unholy shriek, tackling Kikimora. The little demon drew a magic circle, but Eda kicked her away before she could finish it.

“Don’t. Threaten. My. Kid.” Eda growled, snatching Kikimora in her talons. “Let’s go for a little flight, shall we?”

Luz ducked past the fighting pair, kneeling next to Hunter. Blood was soaking through his shirt, and her hands fluttered around the wound uselessly. “Okay, okay, okay, this is fine.” She pulled up the shirt and undid the bandages. The stitches had ripped out, and the wound was angry, swollen, red.

And bleeding a lot.

“Hunter why?!” she demanded frantically, wadding up her cloak and pressing it to the wound, “Why would you run off?!”

His eyes opened just a crack, glazed over from pain and fever. “… you’re not a snake,” he murmured, then yelped as she pressed harder on the wound

“Oh, thank you, very helpful, that certainly explains everything.”

He whimpered, giving her big, hurt eyes.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you bleed out! Wait, why am I apologizing for that? Okay, okay—what did the healing professor say, what… Okay, let’s see, take the swelling down—”

Luz slapped an ice glyph on the ground, trying to make an ice block.

The magic didn’t come, and Luz felt her limbs grow weak. She whirled around to see the basilisk, staring at her with wide eyes. “I can’t let you go.”

Luz held her hands up. “I know what you’ve been through,” she said quietly, “I know Emperor Belos has hurt you. Has hurt your kin. Hunted you down. But you don’t have to do this. If you make Hunter go back, if you take me back, we are both dead. Is that really something you want?”

“You have no idea what I went through!” they scream-hissed.

“I do—I really do. I met one of your own, number five. She got away, she’s living away, she’s okay. She’s making her own choices, her own life. You can do the same. Please—please, let me take care of him. Don’t let Belos and Kikimora hurt someone else.”

The basilisk stared at her for a long minute.

Then they turned and slithered away.

Luz breathed a sigh of relief, turning back to Hunter. “Okay, okay, okay, we need to get you somewhere safe.”

She tried to haul him up, but he went completely deadweight on her with a whimper. “Oh—Hey! I know it hurts, but you gotta stick with me, okay, you gotta hold on.”

He shook his head with a whine, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Hunter, please! Work with me, I can’t carry you!”

“Need a lift?”

Puddles touched down next to her, Viney, Gus, and Willow waving from the top. Puddles squawked and nuzzled Hunter. “I can’t get him up,” Luz called, “He’s in really bad shape, Viney!”

Viney slid off of her griffin, opening a pouch strapped to Puddle’s side. She tossed a mini stretcher to the ground, and it grew to full size, with ropes on the ends. “I’ve got you covered.”

Luz laid Hunter down on the stretcher, sitting down next to him. “I am the worst caretaker ever,” she groaned.

“No, he’s just the worst patient!” Gus called down as Puddles grabbed the ends of the ropes and lifted off. They soared over the trees, back towards the owl house. Eda banked up next to them.

“Miss stab-happy is re-thinking her life at the top of a very tall tree. How are we looking?”

Luz squeezed Hunter’s hand. “Not great,” she said softly, “Eda, what if—”

“Luz. He’s going to be okay. Okay?”

Luz took a deep breath. “Okay.” She shook her head at Hunter. “What did she say to you to get you to come out of the house?”

He didn’t respond, and they touched down at the door. Hooty snaked around Puddles. “WHOA! That was WEIRD!”

“Good to have you back, Hooty,” Eda said tiredly, touching down, “Now give us space.” She carried Hunter inside, laying him out on the floor. “Alright, healing girl. Do your thing.”

Viney pulled out the knife that Kikimora had used to stab Hunter. “Okay, I’ve been taking a better look at this thing, asking my teachers questions about it, and I think I can put a better fix on this. Heal most of the internal damage—”

“I thought you already did that!”

“No, I put a patch on them—I stopped the problem from getting worse, sort of froze its ability to tear any further, re-routed any essential functions to undamaged parts of the body so that he could heal. But I think now—I can finish off the healing, find a workaround to the curse on the knife. It’ll fix the nerve pathways, anyway, and seal up some of the holes further in.” She gestured to the bloody mess that was his back. “There’s a tradeoff, though—I’m going to have to shift nerves and cells from another part of his back to fix the damage. Basically, I’m going to shift the damage from his internal organs and spinal cord to his outer muscles and skin, and there I can easily use stitches to fix the tear damage so that he can heal naturally. The wounds won’t be life-threatening anymore. If I can spread the damage far enough, it’ll just be a matter of stitching the initial cut, and the rest will be like naturally torn muscles.”

“Huh?”

“He’ll be really sore and have a nasty cut on his back,” Viney simplified, “But I mean really sore, Luz, like, he won’t be able to move at all for several days.”

“Oh, good,” Eda commented, “maybe that way he won’t run away.”

“I’ve got it,” Luz promised, “I’ll help him with everything he needs. Promise.”

“You’ll need to make sure the cut stays clean, or it’ll get infected. I’ll leave disinfectant behind. Be careful, it stings. As for the fever… well, once I shift the damage, it won’t be fun, but it won’t kill him either.”

“Okay. Okay, do it.

Viney took in a deep breath. “Okay, there goes nothing!” she drew a circle over Hunter’s back, and the stab wound shimmered and glowed. Pulsing, glowing golden lines spread out, and the wound slowly started to heal, at least not deep anymore. Viney grinned. “Yessssss! Alright, Luz, Gus, Willow, scram, you don’t want to watch the stitches.”

Luz let out a shaky breath as Eda steered her towards the kitchen. “We almost lost him,” she said quietly.

“Almost,” Eda emphasized, “But we didn’t. And that’s what matters.” She sighed. “Look. If you… need any help. If you need a break from him, or you’re just too tired to take care of him. I… can step in.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah. Really. I have to admit, he’s starting to grow on me.”

“He was unconscious all day, Eda.”

“Exactly.”

Ch 5

#toh #the owl house #toh hunter #luz noceda #edalyn the owl lady #toh viney #toh fanfiction #my writing

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koumine · 3 years

Text

Chapter 6 is here! [WYILAC] [OM!]

Chapter 6: how do you want me

Fic: wear your independence like a crown

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Author: Koumine Rating: E

Summary [ch 6]: ...And then you were a little busy fucking his brains out over your desk.

(This one takes place sometime between the events of chapter 4 and chapter 5. Chapter title from "Desire" by Meg Myers.)

Content tags [ch 6]: dom!Reader x sub!Lucifer, gn!afab!reader, clothed sex, rough sex, Lucifer's magical ass, pegging, MC’s magical strap-on, hair pulling, mild degradation (“slut”). (full fic tags on AO3)

✨This one's short and (not) sweet, so here's the full chapter! Enjoy!✨

[rated E below]

full, explicit summary [ch 6]:

Here’s a fun fact that you recently learned about Lucifer, and which recently nearly caused you to become deceased due to all the blood in your body instantly relocating south: while Lucifer enjoys having his ass prepped with fingers or toys, he doesn’t actually need it. He can be completely puckered up and untouched, and if you just push your slicked cock into him, he can take it. Something about demon magic and his usual human-looking form being a magical construct that takes whatever shape he desires. You don’t know the details. You were a little busy trying to keep your brain from exploding with perverted joy while he explained it. And then you were a little busy fucking his brains out over your desk.

CHAPTER 6: how do you want me

"I thought you had an exam to study for," he drawls, as though he's not delighted with how eagerly you're groping him while you undo his trousers. "If you think I'm capable of focusing on anything but fucking you over this desk right now, you're a fool," you retort. He just smirks, and holds up his hands. Your strap-on and the half-empty bottle of lube smack into his palms, summoned from across the room. "Handy," you say approvingly. Between the two of you and a lot of overeager fumbling and cursing, you get your pants down and cock on, and Lucifer squeezes a generous amount of lube onto your cock, strips off one glove to slick you up (you suck in a breath so fast you almost get dizzy), and turns around. He braces one hand on your desk, and uses the other to spread his ass open for you. You grasp your cock and rub the head of it against his tightly puckered hole, smearing lube around, still a little hesitant. "Come on now," Lucifer says, looking slyly over his shoulder, all dark eyes and rosy cheeks, "don't tell me you're having performance anxiety?" "Shut up," you protest, "just give me a minute -- this goes against everything I ever learned about doing anal safely!" Lucifer sighs at you, very judgmentally. And then just leans his ass back, and the head of your cock pops right into his hole, easy as that. "Oh my god," you squeak, covering your mouth. "Holy shit, holy fuck," you groan, as he hums in pleasure and sinks back against you, taking your entire cock inside him without a single iota of prep. You feel like your brain is exploding. Is there blood coming out your nose? Are you breathing? Your heart is definitely pounding a frantic drumbeat. Your hands are definitely locked onto his hips. Your cock is definitely inside him, fucking him, pounding into him, oh -- "Oh, oh, oh yes," Lucifer moans, braced over your desk. "Holy shit," you manage. You can't slow down. You can't stop. Some curse of lust, some erotic inertia has you in its grip, and you need like it's a call in your blood. You shove Lucifer forward and down, until his belly and hips are pressed up against the desk, his hard cock pinned between him and the polished wood. You grip the back of his neck and hold him down. He moans like it's punched out of him, and scrabbles to hold onto the far edge of the desk, sending papers flying. "You," you growl, "are fucking … unbelievable." "Yes, yes, yes," Lucifer says, sounding as frenzied as you feel. "You fucking slut," you snarl, barely knowing what you're even saying anymore, but Lucifer whines and clenches up around your cock so tight you almost think he's about to come, but he isn't, he's just -- "Such a slut," you say again, vicious. "And you love being told so, don't you." "Yes, yes," he repeats, babbling, and you snap your hips into him extra hard to make him shudder and cry out and go limp, and you fist your hand in his hair and just use him, and the rest of your words disappear even as Lucifer loses control of his and babbles out a stream of "yes yes Sir yes please yes --" And you just fucking use him. You take and take and take all that he's offering, his submission, his body, his cries of your name, and pour out all your stress, pour out all your want, pour out all the need boiling in your blood. Lucifer comes fast, without warning, tensing up and crying out, but it's still not enough for you, not enough. You keep fucking him, keep going as he goes even more limp against the desk, as the tone of his moans changes to somewhere between fucked-out and frantic. And then he says, "Please." And then he begs, "Give it to me." And then suddenly it is all more than enough, and you gasp as you buck into him so hard the slapping of skin on skin stings your hips. And then you come so hard it dizzies you, dragged under by a sudden riptide, and Lucifer moans so loud and long as you fill him up that your choked "Oh my god" dissolves right into the sound of him. "Shit, shit, oh fuck," you gasp, pant, wheeze, holding onto him for dear life.

Lucifer lays sprawled out across your desk, panting hard. A scattering of papers, all your notes and books, lay haloed around him; some of them probably have traces of lube on them now. Your chair and his have both been knocked askew -- his coat has slid off the back of his chair and crumpled to the ground. The adrenaline in your veins swaps out for fatigue all at once, and you slowly collapse forward onto his back. After a moment, Lucifer props himself up on his elbows, dislodging your hand from its fist tangled in his hair, and looks over his shoulder to give you the smuggest damn Lucifer Look you've ever fucking received. He doesn’t even bother with a snide comment. He doesn’t need to. “Fucking … unbelievable,” you say again, groaning out the last of your life force. He just laughs smugly at you, proud and incredibly self-satisfied at having just ruined you for life.