#swaddle and robe set

[comfymommy]

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[queenlucythevaliant]

We see him come and know him ours

Russia: "Carol of the Russian Children," traditional // Kenya: The Nativity, Elima Njau // France: "Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella," Nicolas Saboly // Haiti: Madonna and Child, Ismael Saincilus // Australia: "The Three Drovers," William James // China: Tryptic by Lu Hongnian // Canadian/Algonquian: "Huron Carol," Jean de Brébeuf

[mill3rd]

FIRST BORN LAMB OF SPRING

synopsis. the celts prophesied that the first baby born on the dawn of spring equinox would cool the anger and appease the great one whose name filled the local villagers with fear. too bad that you were the first in one hundred years.

warnings + tags. sacrificial traditions, vampirism, historical but its probably not accurate, kind of an origin story, folklore, ritualistic horror, mental illness, religious extremism, brainwashing, kinda? consummation, idk its ‘seal the deal’ sex, kinda beauty and the beast coded, blood drinking, corruption kink, oral (fem receiving), pinv, biting

word count. 12.5k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

you wake to sunlight feathering across the inside of your eyelids, warm and golden. outside, the hush of morning has just begun to lift — birdsong threaded gently through the trees, soft wind tugging at the edges of the world. the hearth still smolders, low and orange, filling the room with a clean, steady heat.

you stretch beneath the linen, the quiet weight of the morning sinking into your skin. your birthday.

eighteen springs today.

you were born at first light on the spring equinox — a moment of perfect balance. it has always meant something. the women in the village say you carry the turning of the year in your bones. that your very breath carries promise. and today, the promise is being honoured.

you rise when líadan whispers your name. her voice is soft and clear, like the last meltwater of winter.

“éirí, mo rún. it is time.”

you step down from the raised bedding into a pool of fresh rushes. they’re damp with dew and smell of green things, cut only hours ago. twelve women wait around the room, all familiar, all smiling. they’ve known you since you were swaddled in wool and passed around the midwives’ arms.

líadan. saorlaith. muirenn. the mothers and the matriarchs. the herbalists and the singers.

you don’t feel afraid. you feel special.

they begin the rite of cleansing. it is tradition — a sacred preparation for those born on equinox, for those who carry the village’s blessing.

you undress slowly, arms lifting of their own accord, and step into the low basin near the fire. warm water laps around your ankles. saorlaith begins at your feet, her fingers working with gentle precision, her face tilted in quiet reverence.

muirenn presses herbs into a cloth — thyme, marigold, rosemary — then dips it into the basin and moves up your legs, her touch soothing, firm.

líadan hums under her breath. not a song, exactly — something older. it winds through the steam and settles into your skin.

your hair, thick and curled from sleep, is let loose around your shoulders. they do not braid it. that would be a mark of mourning. instead, they comb it softly with bone fingers, pulling it into shape but letting it fall wild and unbound. a halo, saorlaith murmurs.

“the wind will love you today,” she says.

you laugh softly. “then i hope it’s gentle.”

the women smile.

after the bathing comes the dressing. muirenn lifts a robe from a carved cedar box — green wool, dyed with nettle and elder. it gleams faintly in the morning light, edged with gold threads pulled from distant islands. it’s heavy when she lays it across your shoulders, but not cumbersome. it fits you like it was made from the earth itself.

it was.

your mother wove it for you over years, whispering prayers into every thread. you remember her hands. her voice.

saorlaith touches your chest with ochre — the sacred mark. a spiral drawn from the heart outward, each curve a promise of return.

“to wear the balance is to carry the spring,” líadan says, fastening a sun-shaped brooch just above your heart.

you nod. the words settle in your chest like truth.

you do not know how rare it is. to be born on the turning. to be chosen for such honour.

you only know you feel radiant. you feel full of light.

the meal is already set when you enter the hall.

they seat you alone at the long low table. woven rushes line the floor, scattered with violets and fresh chamomile. outside, the sun is still climbing, and the village stirs in soft murmurs. but here — in this space — all is still.

one by one, the women bring you offerings.

trout wrapped in herbs, oatcakes drizzled in honey, figs from the last trade boat, soft white cheese, golden-crusted bread, warmed goat’s milk with a sprig of mint. everything rich. everything sacred.

you eat slowly, your hands washed and your robe tucked neat. no one speaks at first. only the sounds of the feast: the crackle of the hearth, the quiet chime of a copper spoon against ceramic.

then muirenn kneels beside you, setting down a final plate of sugared grapes.

“we’ve never had one like you,” she murmurs.

you blink, smiling. “like me?”

��so close to the centre of the balance… so perfectly timed.”

her eyes shine with something deeper than pride. something like awe. líadan stands behind her, hands clasped.

“you’re not only a blessing, girl,” she says. “you are a bridge.”

a bridge, you think. between seasons? between earth and sun?

you nod. you don’t quite understand, but you don’t question it—after all, you’ve been told since you were small: to be born on the day of balance is to be marked for greatness.

you miss how miurenn nudges her sharply in her ribs.

they braid flowers into your curls next. not for structure, not to bind — but to celebrate. lamb’s ear, hawthorn, a single sprig of meadowsweet.

“you’ll lead the procession after the sun peaks,” saorlaith tells you.

“to the stones?” you ask.

“to the stones,” líadan confirms.

your heart flutters.

you’ve dreamed of this beautiful ceremony since you were a child, nothing but butterflies filling your stomach everytime you thought of receiving such a sacred blessing. but today, you’ll finally live your dream. your robe, your mark, your crown. they will sing to you, for you. you are not just part of the rite — you are the reason.

your mother enters then, arms folded tightly. her face is pale, drawn at the edges, but she smiles when your eyes meet. she kneels in front of you and offers a cloth-wrapped bundle — your token. you open it slowly: a carved wooden bird, shaped like a swallow, polished until it gleams.

you look up. “you kept this?”

“since you carved it at seven,” she smiles, recalling a sweet memory.

“it was lopsided.”

“the wind flew it true,” she whispers and you grin.

you do not see the way her hands shake when she kisses your forehead.

the sun hangs high now, a brilliant coin suspended in the sky.

outside, the village pulses with life. children weave garlands from soft reeds and daisy chains. young men lift baskets of dyed cloth and stack bundles of firewood. hens cluck at the edges of the green, feathers puffed. laughter floats on the wind, caught between branches and thatched rooftops.

when you step out into it — robed and crowned — the world pauses for you.

your feet touch earth strewn with petals and sweet herbs, and the hush that falls is not somber. it is reverent.

someone claps, and then another. soon, the whole green rings with soft applause, the kind given to things too holy to cheer for. women weep behind veils of flower-threaded hair. boys bow their heads. the old healer who once set your broken wrist presses her hand to her chest and whispers, “blessings on her bones.”

you do not understand all of it. not fully. but you feel it settle into you like warmth. you smile. your breath rises into the sky like steam.

you are their light.

líadan leads you by the hand down the village path.

she doesn’t speak, but her grip is steady. around you, others fall into step. a procession. saorlaith and muirenn walk just behind, their robes the colour of dusk, carrying bowls of sweet smoke and branches of alder.

children scatter petals ahead of you. someone plays a pipe from behind the grain store, and the notes weave through the crowd like silver thread. it’s a tune you know — sung on solstice nights, on days of great blessing.

you recognize it now as yours.

your bare feet press into soft earth. it’s still cool from the morning. each step is light, floating almost, as though the ground carries you instead of the other way around.

the path leads out of the village, past the sheepfolds and the stony wells, up toward the woods.

you’ve only been to the stones once — when you were ten, and too young to follow the grown ones into the heart of the ritual. you remember clinging to your mother’s skirt, watching torches flicker between the trees.

now, the same flicker waits for you.

a corridor of flame and green.

two lines of villagers stand along the edges of the glade, holding branches of hawthorn and beech alight at their tips. they nod as you pass, lips murmuring blessings. some offer you small tokens — a pressed flower, a carved stone, a dried twist of nettle — and saorlaith gathers them into the folds of your robe as you walk.

you try to thank each one.

you can’t stop smiling.

the stones appear at the edge of the glade — tall and grey and ancient.

they rise from the earth like teeth, caught in a wide ring, their edges worn from wind and rain and reverence. the center of the circle is bare, save for a slab of low rock and the altar built of woven ashwood.

beyond it, the woods darken, thick with pine and hazel.

you feel the air shift as you enter the ring — cooler, thicker. the scent of moss and smoke curls under your nose.

líadan turns to you and lifts both hands.

“daughter of the balance,” she says, voice clear and bright.

everyone kneels. even the birds fall silent.

you feel the power of the moment swell around you. your skin prickles.

líadan steps aside and motions you forward.

you approach the altar with slow, sure steps. it is draped in a cloth of silver thread. atop it, a basin of water glimmers beside a bowl of seed and a bundle of feathers.

“offer your token,” muirenn whispers.

you take the carved swallow from within your robe and place it gently at the center of the altar. your hands linger on the smooth wood. it still smells faintly of pine.

a great sigh passes through the crowd behind you.

“she gives herself freely,” someone murmurs.

you smile at the words, your heart blooming. of course you do.

saorlaith comes forward now, carrying a clay vessel. smoke spills from its lip — rosemary and yarrow and something sharper. she circles you with it three times. as the smoke wraps around your body, you feel lighter. the wind tugs at your hair like a child’s fingers.

líadan places a hand on your shoulder.

“kneel,” she says gently.

silently, you obey. you are not afraid.

they press your forehead with water from the basin. your chest with ash. your lips with wine.

“you are the bridge,” líadan intones. “between old and new. winter and spring. silence and song.”

you bow your head.

the crowd echoes her, “a bridge.”

“you carry us forward,” muirenn adds. “and the land will bloom with your steps.”

your heart swells. you close your eyes. you think: i was born for this.

you feel it in your bones, in the warm pressure of their hands, in the hush of the trees. the air is thick with sacred meaning.

you are not afraid. you have no reason to be when you are being honoured and treated so holily.

as the sun begins its descent, they raise the torches. líadan takes your hand again, lifting you from your knees.

the glade is golden now — long shadows stretching from stone to stone. the woods beyond breathe deeply, pine-scented and darkening. you stand tall. your curls hang loose around your shoulders, catching firelight.

someone begins a chant. others join. it is low, rhythm-matched to your heart. it rises like mist. you do not know what comes next, but you feel ready for it.

you trust them, you trust the land—and most importantly, you trust the great one to be kind.

the firelight dances higher now. dusk leans into the bones of the sky, and the stones glow soft and amber against the breath of coming night.

you kneel, still, where they’ve placed you — robed, flower-crowned, and marked with ash and wine. the chanting has grown quiet, replaced by the hush that always comes before sacred words.

líadan steps back. a space opens before you.

a man in dark robes steps forward — older than the others, his eyes sharp beneath deep brows, voice worn smooth by years of prayer. you’ve only seen him once before, during last year’s solstice rites, when the animals were blessed for strong birthings.

this is the preacher. an tseanmhúinteoir. the village calls him that with a kind of reverence.

he raises his hands, fingers painted in ochre, his palms scarred with the symbols of the old covenant. the air tightens. no birds sing now. even the wind stills.

he speaks — and his voice is not loud, but it carries.

“daughter of the dawn, child of the turning — the hour is full, and the gate stands open.”

he walks a slow circle around you, his footsteps rhythmic, every word sewn into the air like woven wool.

“you were born of balance. born when sun and night held equal sway, when the veils thinned and the green returned. you were cradled in that space, that breath between worlds.”

you close your eyes. you feel it. the power in his voice. the pull of the moment.

he stops in front of you. his hands lower gently onto your head.

“today we name you not as girl, but as spirit. not as self, but as vessel. not as flesh, but as flame.”

he lifts a bowl from the altar — the same water from the basin earlier, now glimmering with flecks of gold leaf. he tips it gently over your head. it spills across your curls, down your neck, cool and light.

“be christened in the light of balance,” he intones. “walk freely toward the great one.”

a murmur rises from the crowd — a low, shared exhale. the holy monologue complete.

your skin is warm beneath the water. your robe clings to your back. your heart beats steady, not frightened, but filled with something impossible to name.

and then — a cry. it’s sharp. human. too human. a figure lunges through the trees.

it’s the old woman — mrs byrne — hair wild and loose, cloak torn from age, mouth open with warning. you stumble to your feet, nearly falling as your handmaids grab you.

“not this one!” she shouts, eyes blazing, “she carries light — but not for giving. not for burning!”

she points, arm stiff, finger trembling. “they have lied! they wrap you like a gift and offer you to silence!”

her voice cracks and her body shakes. she looks right at you, eyes with sincerity and concern shake off the rumoured loopy ones.

“you will not walk back out,” she says. “they dress it as blessing, but you go to be broken.”

your breath catches. fear creeps in — cold and thin — something you hadn’t felt all day.

you take a step back, toward líadan. toward the altar.

“what does she mean?” your voice is small, withering with your excitement.

but líadan is already moving, wrapping an arm around you, tucking your head into her shoulder like you are a child again.

“hush, a stóirín,” she murmurs. “the old ones sometimes forget the line between dream and truth.”

muirenn joins her, her voice low and sweet. “she wandered alone too long in the dark. grief makes stories out of shadows.”

saorlaith takes your hand, fingers cool and firm, “you are safe. you are loved. this is your path.”

you stare at them — their faces calm, beautiful in the firelight. their eyes shine, not with cruelty, but with reverence.

the fear drains slowly, like water soaking into earth. you nod, once. shaky. they smile.

“good girl,” líadan whispers, “you are strong. the great one sees you already.”

behind them, mrs byrne is pulled back by villagers, her voice fading into ragged cries.

you look one last time — she is not angry anymore. no, she is sobbing.

you do not understand.

but the hands that hold you are gentle and the stars above you are still so bright.

the fire has burned low.

embers pulse in the grass like coals from the belly of the earth, and the smoke hangs thick and sweet. the glade is quiet now — not silent, but stilled, like the last breath before a storm.

you stand at the edge of the stone circle.

behind you: the village, the chants, the women who bathed you, anointed you, called you chosen.

before you: the trees, dark and patient. tall black shapes with silver-threaded bark. you can hear the forest breathing — deeper than before. slower. older.

the preacher lifts his staff and lowers it once in your direction. his face is unreadable. he does not follow.

“go now, mo ghrian,” líadan says beside you, voice soft. “go with joy in your heart.”

she adjusts your crown gently, smoothing a curl back from your face.

“you are the hope we have long waited for.”

muirenn presses something into your palm — a twist of red thread and an iron ring. “for the path,” she murmurs, “and for luck.”

saorlaith kisses your temple.

you nod once, not speaking. you want to. you want to ask something — anything — but the words are heavy in your throat. your heart beats like a drum.

then: you step forward.

one foot, then the other, onto the path between the fires. the heat kisses your skin.

they do not follow. you walk alone.

the fire fades behind you, swallowed by distance.

you do not turn back.

your feet tread softly across the damp earth, bare soles pressing into moss that yields with a hush. above, the branches tangle like outstretched limbs, the canopy thick enough to swallow the stars.

your robe trails behind, silken and pale, its hem already darkened with soil. you carry the scent of the sacred fire on your skin — ash and wine, sweet herbs crushed by blessing hands. the crown of early spring flowers still rests in your hair, though petals fall now and then, unnoticed.

you step into the hush.

it is not quiet like the stillness of prayer, or the gentleness of dusk. this silence is deeper — hollow, listening, thick.

you slow your pace.

and then — to comfort yourself, perhaps, or to offer something back to the strange stillness — you begin to sing softly.

your voice, once sure in the circle, trembles faintly now.

oh the wind on the hill and the grass in the glen, and the night bird sings her soul again…

the melody has lived in your bones since girlhood — a cradle-song, a celebration of the season, half-remembered in words but whole in tune.

you want to believe it still holds power but the sound falls strange here. it does not echo. the trees do not answer.

you feel them, though. the trunks — dark and tall and close — seem to lean, listening. the moss seems thicker, colder. somewhere nearby, something moves without moving — a suggestion more than a presence.

you try to ignore it.

for the child of the cusp, the child of the tide, walks where the veil grows thin and wide…

you sing louder, though your voice catches slightly at the end.

you clutch the red thread muirenn gave you tighter in your palm, the iron ring biting cold into your skin. they said it was for luck. for protection. a charm.

but from what?

you walk on still.

the deeper you go, the less you trust your steps.

the earth feels different now — not dangerous, not hostile — but… alert. each time your foot lands, it feels like pressing into the chest of something sleeping.

or waiting.

your song falters so you try again.

where roots drink deep and stones remember, she walks between the spark and ember…

you stop singing. something rustles behind you.

you turn — quickly — but nothing moves. the path is empty. no villagers. no lights. the fire is far behind, now just a flicker between the trees.

your breath shortens.

you clutch your chest. your heart beats hard against your ribs. not from running. from something else.

a feeling you haven’t allowed.

fear.

you pause beneath a great ash tree.

its bark is silver in the moonlight, limbs curled toward the stars. at its base, mushrooms ring the trunk like teeth. pale, soft, brittle.

you do not step through them.

your voice is barely a whisper now: lay down your name, your blood, your sleep… the wood will hold, the root will keep…

you stop. your mouth has gone dry.

why aren’t you sure anymore?

why does the night, so sacred only an hour ago, now feel like it’s watching?

you were promised light. you were promised blessing. you were promised that you were chosen.

so why does the air feel colder? why do the shadows no longer part for you?

you take one step forward. then another.

your song has left you. all that’s left now is the rhythm of your breath.

and behind it… the quiet, waiting woods.

you walk deeper into the hush, and the woods begin to change.

what had been narrow — close-barked corridors, moss underfoot, canopy above like interlocking hands — begins to loosen around you. space stretches. the trees fall back. and then, almost without noticing, you pass through something unseen, like a sheer veil pulled across your skin.

and suddenly you are no longer in the forest.

you are in the clearing.

it is wide. perfect in its roundness, as if shaped by patient fingers. the grass is silvered with dew, and a low mist curls across the earth like the breath of something sleeping beneath. moonlight spills over the field in slow waves, untouched by cloud, casting the space in cold, luminous calm.

you pause at the edge.

your robe flutters lightly against your ankles. your breath rises in slow spirals. the night feels thin here, stretched tight. as if the world is holding itself still — holding its breath — watching.

and at the far end of the clearing, half-veiled in ivy and fog, stands the church.

they called it tigh cloch na cothromaíochta in whispers — the stone house of balance. ye old church. the old place. the first place. the one even the preacher would not face when drunk with warmth.

you were told of it, always, as something sacred. a structure older than stories, where the great one first laid down breath and root and bloom, where the night folded itself into the day and called it holy.

but this place is not how you imagined.

it is not radiant.

not warm.

it is still.

and dark.

the church rises no more than a man’s height, its roof low and steep, crusted with moss and softened by time. ivy drapes across its walls like hair across a sleeper’s face. the stones that make it up are worn — smoothed by wind and rain and something else. not crumbled, not broken. just… softened. as though the building has been remembering for a long time.

no light shines from within.

there is no lantern by the entrance, no holy flame like you dreamed of. only an opening — a dark mouth, tall enough to pass through without bowing, but not by much.

you step closer. the grass dampens beneath your steps.

tiny white mushrooms press up from the earth like teeth, glistening under the moon. you skirt a patch of them carefully. as you near the church, you notice a low ring of stones, barely higher than your ankle, sunk into the ground. a circle. a boundary.

it does not stop you.

you step across it and everything changes.

the air shifts — immediate, absolute.

it grows colder. not the playful chill of spring evenings, but something else: older, deeper, like water pooled underground. your breath becomes visible — short puffs like smoke rising from a snuffed wick. your lungs ache with it.

you wrap your arms around yourself, hands folding into the opposite sleeves of your robe. the red ribbon tied at your wrist feels tighter. its knot stings faintly against your pulse.

the air smells different here.

earthier.

not sweet. not rotten. something like soil that has never been disturbed — like stone and bone and secrets sealed too long.

your crown of primroses and elderflower trembles slightly in the new wind. petals fall. one sticks to your cheek, and you do not brush it away.

you are not singing now. you do not dare. you reach the entrance.

it looms without movement, framed by carvings older than memory. spirals, triskele, rings within rings — the language of stone, not of mouths. your eyes track them instinctively. your body knows them, though your mind cannot say how.

your heart beats louder now. not from joy, not quite from fear but something else.

you stand before the black mouth of the church. your toes at the threshold. the clearing at your back. the woods behind that. the fire, the people, your name — all very far now.

you are alone.

and the church waits.

you stand there, listening—to the wind, to your breath, to the deep stillness inside the stone.

you remember what the preacher told you when you were little — curled beneath his cloak during sermons, your fingers wrapped around the wooden beads of his belt. when you step into the house of balance, child, you leave yourself behind. you walk in as more than flesh. you become vessel.

you had thought that meant light. you thought you would feel… lifted. touched. holy.

instead, the silence presses.

the dark is thick — not void, not empty, but full in some unseen way. not cold like night air, but like cellars, like iron underground. like sleep too deep to wake from.

your skin prickles.

you breathe in once, slowly. and bring your hands to your chest.

you remember the shape: thumb to sternum, then palm out, fingers extended. a sign of offering. of surrender. you trace it with care, a motion handed down through generations. your mouth moves before your heart is ready.

but you speak: a prayer. low, and given.

“a thiarna mór, great one of the still and the turning— keeper of root and reed, bearer of the balance between blood and bloom—i walk as i was made, blessed by breath, held in your eye, let me be open, let me be vessel, let me be joy… your lamb of the cusp, your child of spring.”

your voice quivers slightly near the end. not from doubt — no, you still believe this is right. you still believe you are chosen. that this is what the women meant when they told you you were lucky.

but a shiver still climbs your spine.

not fear, you tell yourself, not fear.

you finish the prayer.

you wait. you think the air will change. that warmth will come, or light, or the voice of the great one will stir from the deep places. but nothing answers.

no flame rises.

no vision flares behind your eyes.

the church remains still. waiting.

the mist behind you curls against your heels. the clearing no longer feels like it belongs to you.

and so, you do what you have been prepared to do since you were old enough to understand the meaning of offering.

you step inside.

the stone underfoot is smoother than the forest earth — cold, but not sharp. flat, shaped by countless feet. you walk slowly, letting the dark envelop you.

there are no windows. no candles. just shadow, and silence.

your hands stay folded before you. your robe brushes the floor. above you, unseen beams creak faintly in the breeze — a soft sound, like wood murmuring to wood. the air smells of moss and old smoke. there is something metallic, too, on the edges — like the inside of a copper bowl, left long in rain. you walk forward. your pulse in your throat. your feet making the only sound.

the chamber narrows ahead — toward the altar, or the place that once was one. you cannot see it yet.

but something waits there. you feel it.

not in the way one feels threat, exactly — but in the way a deer might freeze in tall grass, sensing something vast just beyond the field.

you are not alone here.

you move forward in the dark.

stone walls press close, but you cannot see them. the air is thick here — heavier than before, like it still carried the weight worth of previous ceremonies and services previously held in here. your fingers brush something — a root? a carved post? — and you flinch.

ahead, something glows faintly.

not fire.

a light too pale, too steady. moonlight, it seems at first — until you realize the moon is far behind you now. this is something else. something within.

you follow it.

one step. another.

and then you finally get a good look at the alter.

the light—from afar, that is—could have been perceived as a trick of the eye or a reflection of the moon from the outside. but as you near, you realise it’s not what it first seemed.

in the center stands a figure—the source of the light. you come to realise that the light comes from the head. where the eyes should be.

they remain unmoving. just for now.

the fright stops you in your tracks.

your hands remain clasped at your waist, your lips parted, ready to speak — to kneel, perhaps, to offer your thanks.

but the words do not come.

your breath catches.

it turns sharp in your throat, cuts as it goes down. his face is too close now. the light wraps around his features and peels them bare — that smooth, too-pale skin like candle wax, the glint of something deeper behind his eyes. not malice.

worse.

curiosity, possession.

your fingers twitch against your robe. the cold floor presses into your knees, but suddenly your whole body is heat — the burning panic of knowing you’ve made a mistake but you’re too deep in to run.

your mouth opens. not for prayer. not now.

you suck in air, ragged. you start to pull back.and the moment you do, his head tilts — just slightly, just enough — and a soft sound slips from him. not a word. not a threat, but a noise like a lullaby remembered from a dream, low and hushed and vibrating through your chest like a second heartbeat.

you don’t know how long you’ve been kneeling.

the stone beneath you has numbed your legs. your robes cling to your skin, damp with the sweat of fear, not exertion. your throat is raw from breathing too fast. your chest flutters like a trapped bird. everything in you wants to run, but your limbs are rooted — not by force. not by chains.

by dread, by him.

he stands at the altar ahead — silent, still, and watching. the great one. the thing in the shape of a man, but not a man. robed in the dark, framed in the ruins of a forgotten altar stone, backlit by flickering firelight. the wind moves through the trees behind him, and it sounds like breath. like words you can’t quite hear.

you open your mouth.

and it all comes spilling out.

“they said i was—” you stammer, your voice cracking. “they said i was the chosen one. that i was born on the equinox for a reason, that the stars… that the stars would bless the village again if i came.”

your hands tremble in your lap. your fingernails dig into your palms. you don’t dare lift your eyes. the weight of him is too much.

“the fields haven’t bloomed in two years,” you go on, tears streaking your cheeks now. your voice wavers between sobs and hiccups. “the animals— the lambs were born wrong. and the barley— they said the barley rotted because of the priests. because of the church’s curse.”

you suck in a breath, sharp and wet.

“they said— the druids said—” your words collapse into a quiet sob. “they said if i came… and gave myself… it would be undone.”

your eyes dart upward, just for a moment. he hasn’t moved. not one inch…

only his eyes glimmer — reflecting the torchlight like the eyes of a beast in the brush. like glass. or blood.

you choke on another breath. “i did everything right,” you whisper. “i fasted, i prayed— i was good. i never doubted. i—I’m not unclean, i have remained chaste! i—”

you’re weeping now.

not out of grief.

out of the sharp, rising terror of realisation. a realisation that none of it is going to work.

that you are here.

and he has not spoken.

your weeps fold into your sleeves. you try to make yourself smaller. you rock slightly where you kneel, lost in the wave of all you’ve held back for weeks — months. the prayers, the songs, the blessings from the handmaids. the way they dressed you like a gift. like a lamb for the altar.

you had believed it would mean something.

you believed you would be enough.

“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely a sound. “please let it work. let me— let me fix it.”

for a long moment, there is nothing.

and then—a shift. the quietest motion of cloth and limb. his steps are silent, but you feel him approach.

closer, closer, closer until the hem of his robe brushes your knee.

you dare not lift your head but he leans in.

he smells of old soil, of iron and myrrh. of something ancient and vaguely sweet — the way flower petals smell just before they rot.

his voice when it comes is smooth, deep, and entirely too calm.

“the catholics,” he begins, and each syllable tastes of smoke, “cannot undo their cause of suffering.”

you freeze.

your tears stop, though your breath still shakes.

“and nothing,” he continues, a little softer now, “can appease me.”

you lift your head at last.

you shouldn’t… but you do.

he is looking down at you — not with rage. not with hunger. with something worse.

amusement.

“but,” he adds, a slow curl of a smile forming on his mouth, “i have been blessed with an appealing gift.”

you can’t breathe and you don’t know if you want to anymore. it’s like his words have replaced the silence where your heaving should have been.

his words hang there between you, like frost clinging to a bare branch. they do not melt. they do not pass.

“an appealing gift,” he notes.

you don’t know what he means.

or rather—you do.

but your mind refuses to hold it.

you tilt your head upward, lips parting around the beginning of a question, but his fingers reach you first. the pad of one pale finger, cool as streamwater, traces the damp curve of your cheek where a tear still clings. the gesture is slow. indulgent.

“so much devotion,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “so much belief, even when they feed you to wolves wrapped in silk.”

you stiffen.

his hand doesn’t leave your face. it moves instead — trailing the edge of your jaw, ghosting the hollow beneath your ear. your heart is a rabbit beating its body against the walls of your chest.

“what—” your voice cracks. “what are you?”

he hums again. a sound of vague consideration.

“a shepherd,” he replies, with a smile too full of teeth. “or a beast. depending who you ask.”

you flinch. he notices.

his thumb drags across your bottom lip, collecting the breath you didn’t mean to let out.

“do you want to leave?” he asks, tone curious — not mocking. “you could try. no one would stop you.”

your lips tremble.

“but you won’t,” he adds, witfully, “because you still hope this means something.”

your eyes flicker with wet heat, still swirling with a sad innocence. “it has to.”

his expression shifts. not pity, not cruelty—but something that darkens.

“you poor thing,” he murmurs. “it never did. the rot came from the root, not the leaf.”

his hand drifts down, rests at your throat.

not squeezing—but you feel it. you feel everything.

“they brought you here not to save you,” he says softly, “but to be rid of their own shame. their debt.”

your breath shakes. your head turns. you don’t want to hear.

his fingers follow. gentle. unrelenting.

“you’re not a chosen one. you’re an offering made of regret.. out of fear that i will show myself once again.”

you make a sound — part sob, part protest.

but he kneels now. close enough that his shadow covers you both.

“yet,” he whispers, and here his voice changes again — into something almost reverent, “even so. you are beautiful.”

your lips part, confused.

his hand falls from your throat and presses, palm-flat, just over your heart.

“you believe,” he says. “you still believe.”

your head is spinning. your tears have dried. your fear is not gone, but it’s been replaced — twisted into something tangled with longing, with the quiet death of innocence.

he leans closer, his back curving to meet your kneeled height.

his mouth near yours.

his eyes not just watching — drinking.

“no god will have you,” he says, and his voice is velvet and storm. “but i will.”

you don’t know what makes you lean forward.

it isn’t logic and it isn’t courage.

it’s something quieter — an ache behind your ribs, a hollow born of too many prayers unanswered. something deep and tender, bruised by years of being told you were special only to be handed over like grain to the mill.

your lips part. not in surrender, but in question.

what would it mean, you wonder, to be wanted not for a harvest or for gods — but for yourself?

his breath brushes yours, cool and steady. he doesn’t move to meet you. not at that moment.

his eyes bore into you — and you feel seen. not just looked at. seen. the parts of you that tremble, that dream, that rage — all of them laid bare beneath that black and gleaming gaze.

your voice is a thread of sound. “what will you do to me?”

he exhales — and this time, it is a sound, not a word.

a low, dark hum.

his hand lifts again, gentle beneath your chin, coaxing you to tilt upward. “no one’s ever asked that,” he murmurs. “not before offering themselves.”

“i don’t—” you begin.

but he cuts you off — not with force. with closeness.

his lips graze yours like the edge of shadow.

“i will not tear,” he whispers. “i will not break. i will take, yes. but slowly.”

his mouth presses to your cheek. “you are not the first, but you are the most… willing.”

you swallow, your pulse beating like thunder in your ears.

“i’m scared,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

he nods, and for a moment — something very nearly human passes through his face.

“good,” he breathes, “fear means you understand.”

and then he leans in — fully this time.

his mouth on yours is like falling.

not fire. not ice. depth.

it isn’t passion, not at first. it’s possession. slow, patient, all-consuming. his hand holds the base of your skull, anchoring you as the rest of the world tilts sideways. your fingers catch in the fabric of his robes. your knees sink deeper into the cold stone.

he drinks from you — not your blood. not just yet.

but your breath, your fear, your heat.

he kisses you like a vow.

and you let him.

because somewhere in the back of your mind, a part of you believes this is what was always meant. not an altar. not a blade. but this — the dark, intimate undoing of everything they told you to fear.

when he pulls back, your lips are parted, your eyes dazed.

he smiles — slow, fanged, and still somehow soft.

“they tried to feed me shame,” he murmurs, “but you… you are ripe with something sweeter.”

you can’t speak. you don’t have to.

his arms gather you in and your body slumps into the embrace. lashes flittering with faintness or some kind of derealisation, your lips move before you think about speaking, “what is your name?”

it comes out as a murmur, something that even a light breeze can easily wisk away with it.

there’s a long moment.

he doesn’t answer at once.

his hand continues to stroke the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, and for a moment you think maybe he hadn’t heard you — that the night carried your voice too far from his ears.

but then you feel it.

the trace of a smile against your hair.

"remmick."

the name slips like silk from his mouth, soft and precise — a sound that feels wrong in the best kind of way, like a song in a language your blood remembers even if your mind does not. the vowels stretch strange. the r hums low. it doesn’t belong to any place or time you’ve ever known.

you taste it, mouthing it once: remmick.

he chuckles — low, intimate, the sound vibrating into your chest where you rest against him.

"it’s not what they called me when they built this altar," he murmurs, gaze lifting toward the stone ruins behind you, half-swallowed by ivy and ash, “but it’s the only name i’ve ever worn that felt like mine.”

you don’t ask what he was called before.

you don’t need to.

his hand finds your chin again, coaxing you to look at him — and gods, even now, when your legs don’t feel real and your thoughts are drifting through you like mist, you meet his gaze.

"remmick," you repeat again, steadier this time, like naming him grants you some fragile tether to reality.

his mouth tilts, fanged but fond, “and yours?”

you blink, surprised.

no one’s asked that today.

everyone already knew.

you were the equinox girl. the chosen one. the gift. your name had been forgotten beneath garlands and titles and all the quiet ceremony.

you whisper your name in a shallow breath.

he exhales, the sound pleased. “freedom.”

your breath catches. you’d never thought of what it meant. no one had ever said it with reverence.

"suits you,” he says, his hands stroking the sides of your head with a sense of endearment.

you shake your head faintly, some small piece of you still clinging to disbelief. “they said i was a lamb.”

remmick leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear — not with hunger, not with threat, but with something almost reverent.

"they lied.”

and this time, when the wind moans through the trees, you don’t hear mourning. you hear welcoming.

his voice curls around you like smoke, and in its wake comes stillness — not empty, but full. full of everything you aren’t sure how to name. his fingers linger lightly at your waist, a gentle tether, and the weight of his gaze has shifted. no longer just watchful — reverent.

"do you want me to stop?" he asks.

you’re not sure when the question moved from implication to invocation. but now it hangs in the air between you, fragile and sacred.

you shake your head. slowly. almost dreamlike. “no.”

the word is barely a whisper — not out of fear, but because anything louder might shatter the moment.

you feel the way his body responds before you see it — the tightening beneath his robes, the faint press of his breath against your cheek. his hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the texture, the warmth.

and then his lips find yours.

it’s slow. unhurried. like he’s tasting sunlight for the first time in centuries.

he kisses you like he means to rebuild something in you — not tear it down. not claim. not consume. just witness.

your fingers curl into the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer. your breath hitches when his other hand traces the curve of your spine, settling just above the swell of your hips, and the contact blooms heat beneath your skin.

your lips part, and he takes the invitation with a low, reverent sound. his tongue brushes yours — tentative, tender — and your knees nearly give out with the sheer weight of sensation.

he catches you before you can fall, his strong hands sliding down to your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly. turning, he clears a path to the altar, then lowers you onto the cold stone slab—slowly, reverently—laying you down with a tenderness that contradicts the weight of the moment.

his mouth leaves yours only to trail kisses across your cheek, along your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. your breath stutters as he lingers there, his lips barely grazing your pulse.

"tell me what you feel," he murmurs.

"warm," you breathe. "and… dizzy."

"good dizzy?"

you nod.

his teeth ghost against your neck, and your hands fist tighter in his robes.

"remmick..."

"i'm here," he reminds, "you guide this. not me."

you push him awayjust enough so you can look at him from close up.

his pupils are wide now, and something darker glows beneath — not hunger, but want. longing held back like floodwater behind stone.

you place your hands on either side of his face, fingers trembling, and lean in until your forehead touches his.

"i want you," you admit in a volume only he can hear, spoken like a secret, "before anything else. just you."

the breath he releases sounds like something breaking.

and then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, more urgent. not unkind — never — but filled with restrained desire. the kiss deepens, his hands roaming with reverence and need, drawing you closer by the hips until your bodies are flush.

the world around you fades — the ancient stone altar, the hush of the trees, the soft hum of old rites. none of it matters.

only him. only this.

his hands bunch up the skirts of your robe, his fingers skim beneath the hem of the light fabrics, drawing slow lines up your thigh, and you shiver. not from cold — from want. from the electric ache building in every part of you. your breath comes faster, your hands mapping the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the strength beneath his stillness.

"you feel like fire," he says against your skin.

"so do you," you whisper, gasping softly as he kisses along your collarbone, his touch growing more confident, more consuming.

and when he finally begins to undo the bindings of your dress, you let him — not with fear, but with aching trust.

your skin blooms beneath his touch.

his name leaves your lips again, half-formed and reverent, as your body arches to meet him. and when his mouth finds yours once more, it’s not a kiss — it’s a promise.

you are no longer a symbol. no longer a sacrifice.

you are a woman made of warmth and will, met at last by someone who sees all of you — and chooses you still.

“remmick…” his name slips from your lips again, unbidden, rough with breath and reverence. he pauses, just for a heartbeat, the sound of it catching in the space between you like smoke.

his gaze is unreadable, dark and steady, but his hands don’t falter. they glide over you—exploring, learning, claiming—like he’s charting unfamiliar terrain with a quiet sort of hunger.

mo chreach-sa, he mutters, more to himself than to you—my ruin. the gaelic lands like a secret between your ribs, beautiful and dangerous.

when his mouth finds yours again, it’s not soft. it’s demanding. tasting. testing. not a kiss, but a question—and your body answers without hesitation, rising to meet him with heat and need.

you are no offering. no symbol.

you are flesh and fire, met by hands that want not to worship, but to understand.

and remmick, with every slow movement, every rough breath, learns the shape of you not with awe—but with intention.

the stone beneath you is forgotten now—just a texture at your back, swallowed by the heat between your bodies. remmick hovers over you, his weight pressing down in measured degrees, like he’s still deciding how much of himself to give.

your fingers twitch where he holds your wrist, not in protest, but in need—wanting him closer. wanting less air between you. he must feel it, because his grip tightens just slightly, grounding. not to restrain, but to remind.

his mouth finds yours again, slower this time. deeper. the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask—it confirms. he learns the way you move beneath him, the quiet gasp you give when his hand traces the inside of your thigh, the way your back arches just enough when he drags his knuckles down your side.

mo uan, he murmurs between kisses—my lamb. the word brushes against your skin like velvet, heavy with meaning, though he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t need to. you feel it in the way his hands have stopped roaming and now hold you steady, like he’s found the center of something.

his lips trail lower, down your jaw, your throat, marking a path as though trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. your pulse hammers beneath his tongue, and still he doesn’t rush.

this isn’t worship.

it’s not possession.

it’s discovery—intimate, patient, slow.

a study of sensation, and you are the text he’s unfolding line by line.

his breath fans across your skin as he moves lower, lips trailing a line down your chest, your stomach—each kiss unhurried, as though he’s savoring the act of peeling you open, layer by layer. not with violence. with focus. with hunger tempered by restraint.

you shift beneath him, instinct guiding you more than thought, hips rolling gently as anticipation coils low and hot in your belly. he notices—of course he does. the flicker in his eyes is almost amused, almost reverent.

but he says nothing.

instead, he parts your thighs with steady hands, slow and sure, like he has all the time in the world. your breath stutters. he glances up—just once—to meet your gaze. the eye contact alone is a promise: stay right here with me.

and then he lowers himself, settling between your legs with a kind of reverence that feels more primal than holy. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin as his mouth finally meets you—hot, open, deliberate.

the first touch of his tongue is slow, exploratory, like he’s learning you by taste now. no rush. no show. just deep, focused attention. your hips rise before you can stop them, and he groans softly against you—pleased.

he adjusts his hold, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, anchoring you there as he works. each movement is purposeful, drawing responses from you like chords from an instrument he’s only just begun to master.

he takes his time. listens with his mouth.

and you unravel—breath by breath, moan by moan—under the weight of his mouth and the silence between each soft, sinful stroke.

his mouth doesn’t falter. if anything, it deepens—his tongue stroking slow and sure, like he’s chasing the sound of your breath, the way it breaks when he finds that perfect rhythm.

your back arches off the stone, hands searching for something to hold—his hair, his shoulder, anything solid enough to anchor you as the heat builds sharp and steady inside you.

remmick’s grip tightens at your hips, not to control, but to keep—keep you here, keep you open, keep you his for just this moment.

��gu làth,” he murmurs between strokes—forever. the gaelic hums into you, low and rough and not meant as a vow but a curse. like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. like he almost hates how much he wants this—you.

your thighs begin to tremble and he feels it, responds to it—his mouth more insistent now, working in a rhythm that’s all instinct, all precision.

you can’t hold still. your voice breaks on his name—again, half-formed, wrecked and reverent—and that’s what finally undoes him.

he groans into you, the sound deep, guttural, vibrating through your core as he locks you in place and devours.

not sweet, not gentle. perfect.

and when release crashes over you, sudden and blinding, it rips through your spine and out of your mouth, a cry that echoes off stone. he doesn’t stop—not right away. he eases you through it, mouth softening only once your legs begin to shake in earnest, his hands grounding you even as you come apart.

finally, he lifts his head.

his lips are slick, his chest rising with slow, controlled breaths, but his eyes—his eyes are wild. quiet. focused. like he’s just tasted something forbidden and is still deciding whether he regrets it.

he leans in again, hovering over you. and for a long second, neither of you speaks.

then—

“still not afraid?”

you’re still catching your breath, your pulse pounding in your ears, but remmick doesn’t move away. his body remains braced above yours, close enough that you can feel the tension coiled in him, held tight beneath the surface

his question hangs in the air—still not afraid?—but it isn’t a taunt. it’s a warning dressed as curiosity.

you meet his eyes, throat dry, lips parted. “should i be?”

a muscle jumps in his jaw. he leans in just a little more, and now you feel him against you again—still hard, still restrained, but barely. the air between you crackles.

“yes,” he says quietly. “but not now.”

his hand slides up your body again, slower this time, from the curve of your thigh to your ribs, lingering just beneath your breast. he’s not trying to soothe you. he’s reacquainting himself—like you’re a weapon he’s learning to wield, and he's not done testing the edge.

his lips ghost over your ear, voice like smoke. “you don’t know what you’ve invited in.”

your fingers curl into his back, nails dragging just enough to make him feel it.

“then show me,” you whisper.

something shifts in him—subtle, dangerous. a low sound hums in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a groan. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning low, mouth parted.

and then he moves—grabs your thighs and pulls you down the altar toward him in one sharp, effortless motion, your back sliding over stone, legs wrapped around his hips before you can think to breathe.

he doesn’t enter you.

not yet.

he just holds you there, poised on the edge, heat pressing into heat, his control razor-thin.

you can feel it in the way his breath shakes against your skin.

in the way he waits.

he feels the shift in you the moment it happens—the way your muscles go taut beneath his hands, the way your breath shallows, chest rising too quickly.

and he already knows.

of course he does. he’s known since the moment he touched you, the way you trembled under his mouth, the way you reached for him like prayer—not from experience, but instinct.

he leans over you fully now, pressing you down into the altar, his body a cage of heat and power. one hand slides up your side, slow and firm, until his palm rests just beneath your throat—not choking, just holding. claiming.

his mouth hovers at your ear.

“you’ve never been taken,” he murmurs. not a question. a truth.

his voice is silk over stone—low, knowing, soaked in dark satisfaction.

“not by anyone.”

your body shivers beneath him, and you remember your fearful rambling about your devotion to him—the great one—how you flaunted your chastity to appease him.

you lie open beneath him, offered. trembling. not in fear—in awe.

because in this moment, he’s not just a man.

he’s heat and shadow and control.

he’s every story you were warned about, every god you were meant to fear.

and now, your first time—your offering—belongs to him.

he moves his hand from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. his gaze is endless.

“look at me.”

you do.

and what you see steals the last of your breath—

not gentleness, not mercy.

but purpose. hunger. and a cruel kind of reverence.

“you give this to me,” he says, voice soft but full of iron. “you worship me with it.”

his hips press forward, just enough for you to feel the heat of him—hard, ready, deliberate. your breath stutters, and he watches it with a hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.

his fingers slide down, between your thighs, dragging through your slick slowly, testing your readiness—his thumb circling just once, lazily.

his mouth brushes yours, barely.

“you’re mine now,” he says, low and final, like a decree.

“say it.”

your body is already answering him—hips tilting into his touch, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath the weight of his presence. but that isn’t enough for remmick. not for a man like him.

he waits, thumb still stroking slow circles between your thighs, eyes locked to yours like he’s reading your soul straight through.

“say it.”

your voice barely comes—breathy, reverent.

“i’m yours.”

he exhales like that’s what he’s been waiting for. not permission. confirmation.

his mouth crashes into yours, not gentle now, but consuming. his tongue claims you the way his hands already have, the way his body is about to—thorough, unrelenting.

and when he pulls back, just enough to speak, his voice is rough, ragged.

“that’s it, you’ve always been so loyal to me.”

his praise shatters something in you, warmth flooding your chest, your core. you cling to him, fingers threading into his hair, the press of him between your legs making you ache so deeply it borders on pain.

“you give your purity to me,” he says, voice low against your throat. “your body. your first cry. all of it belongs to me now.”

you nod, breath catching—“yes… please—”

he growls softly at that, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“spread your legs for me.”

you do. willingly. eagerly.

not because he told you to—because it’s his. and you want him to take it.

he shifts his weight, guiding himself to your entrance. even as your heart thunders, there’s no fear now. only the raw, pulsing need to be his.

“keep your eyes on me,” he demands, “i want to see you break around me.”

and then he pushes in—slow at first, achingly slow, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open, claiming you for the first time.

your breath shatters as he watches your face the whole way down.

not just a man but a god, devouring what was never meant to be untouched.

and you.. why, you welcome it, you offer it, you worship him. even through the pain.

he doesn’t thrust.

he stays buried just halfway inside you, holding still as your body stretches to take him—tight, aching, trembling. your legs twitch around his hips, not from resistance but sheer shock at the depth of him, the heat.

his eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering.

he sees the flicker of pain, the burn of pressure behind your lashes.

and he waits.

his hand comes to your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye. not soft. intentional. grounding.

“breathe,” he murmurs. “feel me.”

so you do—slowly, shakily, your chest rising as you try to relax into the fullness of him, the way your body clenches, holds, tries to learn him. he’s patient, but not passive—he rocks his hips just enough to make you gasp, just enough to remind you what he is:

not gentle, not kind. devoted.

his other hand presses at your lower belly, feeling the weight of himself inside you. he watches your face change when he does, drinking in your moan like it feeds something holy in him.

“mo chridhe,” he breathes, voice like ash and honey. not out of love—out of possession. like he knows what he’s going to take from you.

“look what you take,” he says, voice low, breath thick against your ear.

“look what you were made for.”

he pushes deeper, inch by inch, letting you feel every stretch, every slow drag of his cock as your body opens to him. your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into skin, trying to hold on to something real as your whole world narrows to this—this heat, this pressure, this unbearable closeness.

your body is slick around him, drawn tight, trembling.

and still he doesn’t rush.

he sets a rhythm with his breath, not his hips—pressing forward just slightly, then stilling, then easing deeper again. each movement more consuming than the last, until you’re fully filled, taken, marked.

“mine,” he whispers, almost like a prayer.

not to you.

to the gods.

to whatever power let him have you.

and when he’s finally all the way inside, buried to the hilt, the breath leaves both your lungs at once—one shared sound, raw and ragged.

he doesn’t move.

he just holds you there, his forehead resting against yours, bodies locked.

and in the quiet, your heart pounds beneath his palm. steady. trusting. open.

claimed.

he holds you like that for a moment longer, buried deep, both of you suspended—your bodies locked together, your breath mingling in the warm dark above the altar.

then he moves.

just a pull of his hips, slow, dragging himself almost entirely out of you—leaving you aching, empty—before sliding back in, inch by inch, with deliberate, devastating control.

your mouth falls open around a sound you don’t recognize—half gasp, half plea. his name, maybe. or something older.

remmick watches you fall apart under him.

it fuels him.

his grip tightens at your waist, guiding your body to meet his now, his rhythm steady and deep, every thrust a silent declaration. he doesn't speak—not yet—but each movement says what his mouth doesn’t: you were made for this.

for him.

you cling to him, your body greedy, moving with his even as it trembles. your slick walls pulse around him, already stretched to your limit, and still your hips roll up, chasing every inch, every thrust.

“that’s it,” he breathes, rough and dark. “take me, little one. all of it.”

you do. again and again.

his rhythm quickens just enough to make your breath hitch, the sound of skin against skin echoing softly in the open space around you—wet, sharp, holy.

his thumb finds that aching spot at your center again, circling in time with his thrusts, dragging pleasure up and out of you with merciless precision. you cry out, thighs tightening around him.

he groans at the way you grip him, how you pulse around him—your body raw with want, no longer trembling with nerves but need.

“you feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’re giving it to me. all of it. every first, every cry, every shatter.”

his words hit as hard as his thrusts now—deeper, faster, dragging you toward the edge. your nails rake down his back. you nod, frantic, breathless.

“yes—remmick—please—”

he growls, low and guttural. your voice, broken and pleading, cuts through him like nothing else.

his pace picks up. hard now. sure. each thrust knocking sound from your throat, rhythm shaking the stone beneath you.

he’s not worshipping anymore.

he’s taking and you don’t mind.

he feels it—your body tightening, breath breaking, the way your thighs start to quiver around his hips. you're right there, trembling on the cusp.

and that’s when he slows.

his rhythm shifts again—still deep, still relentless, but measured now, cruelly steady. every thrust lands with weight, each one deliberate, drawn out just enough to deny.

you gasp, eyes flying open. he watches it all—how the pleasure builds but never tips, how your back arches as if that might pull him deeper, faster.

but he’s not rushing, he’s mastering.

“not yet,” he murmurs, voice dark and quiet at your throat.

“chan eil thu deiseil.” you’re not ready.

you whimper—needful, wrecked. but he’s merciless, his thumb still circling your clit with devastating skill, keeping you right on the edge, never letting you fall.

your body thrashes under him, trying to chase it—but his grip is iron. one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head, holding you down as your orgasm builds like a storm behind your ribs, just out of reach.

“you want to come?” he growls against your ear.

you nod frantically, lips parting in a breathless, desperate plea.

“yes—oh, yes, remmick—please—”

he stops moving entirely.

the sudden stillness rips a broken sound from your throat—shocked, aching, lost. your body clenches around him, empty of motion but still full, and he smiles—a cruel, knowing twist of his lips.

“then beg,” his voice is silk and steel.

“not like a girl. like a worshiper.”

his hand curls beneath your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “tell me what i am to you.”

you can barely breathe, every nerve raw, stretched thin. he leans in, voice low, foreign, absolute.

“abair e,” he whispers. say it.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who i am to you.

you’re shaking now, thighs still twitching, sweat slicking your skin. and still—still—he holds you right there, untouched and filled, body alight with heat and need.

and all you can do is breathe. plead. submit

your breath trembles in your chest, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. the pressure inside you is unbearable—he’s kept you there too long, strung out, body quivering around him, aching to be undone.

and still he waits inside you. above you. simply owning you.

his hand tightens beneath your chin, holding your eyes to his.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who I am to you.

your lips part. not in shame. not in hesitation.

but in offering.

“you’re the one,” you breathe, the words spilling out before you can even think. “you’re the great one—am fear mòr—meant to bring salvation to my spirit.”

your voice shakes, drenched in awe. your eyes glisten with it.

“you’re power and fire and judgment,” you whisper, hips trembling beneath him, “and i was made for your hands. your mouth. your will.”

he inhales sharply through his nose, a groan twisting low in his throat—almost a growl.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with restraint. “mo sheirbheiseach.” my servant, my worshiper.

and this time, when he moves, it isn’t to tease. it’s to take.

he pulls back and drives in deep—one hard, slow thrust that punches the breath from your lungs, splitting you open around him. your body convulses, and you cry out his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

he sets the pace then, claiming you stroke by stroke, every movement raw with purpose, with power. his hand never leaves your throat, not in threat—but to remind you.

who you belong to.

his hips rock against yours, heavy, unrelenting. your climax coils again, impossibly sharp, building under the weight of his control, his heat, his divinity.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear, voice breaking.

“come for me, mo chreach… let me see you fall.”

your body is breaking—beautifully, violently—with every thrust of his hips. the pressure inside you is unbearable now, a flood held back too long, and you know it—he knows it.

your cries rise with each motion, no longer pleading but praising.

and he watches you come apart like a man who’s waited lifetimes for this exact moment. he feels it in the way your nails claw at his triceps, leaving red and raw marks in their wake that will undoubtedly heal as soon as they settle into his skin.

“that’s it,” he breathes, voice thick with awe and hunger, “fall for me.”

and you do.

you shatter around him with a cry ripped straight from your soul, your body clenching tight, legs locking around his waist. pleasure crashes over you—white-hot, endless—as if your body can’t tell where it ends and he begins.

and as you tip over that edge, lost in heat and reverence, he leans in.

his mouth finds your throat—not gentle. not hesitant.

claiming.

you feel the scrape of his teeth, the split of skin—sharp, exquisite—and then the pull. his lips fasten to your neck, and he drinks.

your breath catches—but the pain is brief, eclipsed instantly by a second wave of pleasure that drowns you. it’s as if your body was waiting for this too, this final act of surrender. your blood sings in your veins, your skin flushes warm, and all you can do is arch into him, give him more.

his groan against your throat is primal, reverent, like your taste confirms something ancient in him. his hips never stop moving, driving through your climax, deep and slow, as your blood spills in warm rivulets down your shoulder, down your chest—

dripping onto the altar like sacrament.

it runs in delicate red lines over the stone, soaking into the grooves carved by forgotten hands, marking the place where divinity and flesh finally met.

and you—trembling, shaking, utterly undone—feel none of the fear you were taught to expect. only rapture. only fullness.

he draws back at last, lips slick with your blood, eyes burning with something more than lust. he looks down at you like a god who has finally found something worthy of worship.

you’re breathless. glowing. claimed.

and you do not feel broken. instead, you feel blessed.

your breath begins to slow.

each inhale shallower than the last, a fragile rhythm fading beneath the weight of him, the weight of what you’ve given. the world around you drifts, edges softening, sounds distant, as if you’re slipping underwater.

but there’s no fear.

you feel warm. floating.

your body is spent, loose beneath him, blood still pulsing slowly from the bite at your throat—warm trails sliding down your skin, over your chest, pooling beneath your spine on the cold stone slab.

and yet… you smile.

your eyes unfocus, fixed on the vaulted ceiling above, but you don’t really see it. you’re seeing something else—something far beyond stone and sky and flesh.

something sacred.

you feel it in your bones, in the soft dark where your heartbeat used to be.

you are dying.

and it feels like flying.

he stays above you, still deep inside you, unmoving, watching the light change behind your eyes. watching the stillness take you.

watching you leave.

his hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, reverent. his lips are parted slightly, breath steady, and his eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—drink in the sight of you like it’s the only truth he’s ever known.

“mo ghràdh na bàs,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. my love in death.

your grip on remmick’s arms begins to loosen—slowly, like petals unfurling in the dark. strength slips from your fingers one heartbeat at a time, until your hands fall away completely, limp and lifeless against the cold stone.

your final breath escapes you in a soft, shaking sigh.

a tense quietness settles.

you’re still beneath him now—utterly still—arms slack at your sides, legs parted, body bare and open like an offering. like something sacred left at the altar.

the blood at your throat glistens, warm and slow-moving, a red ribbon trailing over your collarbone, down your chest, dripping to the stone beneath in quiet rhythm.

and there you lie—silent, surrendered.

a symbol not of death, but of eventual salvation.

the beginning, not the end.

your body softens.

and everything—goes—still.

remmick watches you, his heart heavy with a mixture of reverence and anticipation. you are still, the life having fled your body, leaving you open and vulnerable beneath him. but he knows what must be done, the ancient ritual that will return you to him.

he raises his wrist to his lips, his eyes lingering on your lifeless form one last time before his teeth sink into his own flesh. the skin splits easily, and the blood wells up—dark, rich, pulsing in steady rhythm. he tilts his arm, letting it drip, slow and deliberate, down to your mouth.

with his free hand, he gently tilts your head, guiding you toward his wrist, the red offering so close to your lips. the first drop touches your tongue, the warmth of it a promise—a return to life, a bond between you.

you stir.

a faint tremor runs through you, like a whisper beneath your skin, and then—you snap awake.

your eyes open wide, pupils dilated, focused with primal hunger. instinct takes over, and with a growl, your mouth parts as you lunge at his wrist. your lips wrap around the wound, and you suck, pulling greedily at the blood, your body awakening with the rush of it.

he hisses, the sensation of your mouth against his wrist sending a shock of something dangerous and thrilling through him. but he doesn’t pull away. he lets you drink—letting you take what you need. his blood, his essence, filling you, restoring you, binding you to him.

the pull of your mouth is voracious. he can feel your body coming back to life with every pull, your strength returning, your senses sharpening. the sound of your drinking is almost intimate—animalistic, raw—and he feels the tether between you strengthen with every heartbeat.

he watches you, eyes dark with approval, as you drain him, not out of weakness, but need, as if your very soul was calling for it. and with each drop that leaves his wrist, he gives you more of himself—until there is nothing left to take.

only then does he finally pull his wrist from your mouth, watching as your eyes meet his—fierce, alive, and entwined with his.

something stirs inside you. no, not the intrusion of fangs or the bloom of red irises. rather.. a flicker. a coil. a flame reborn.

your fingers twitch. your chest jerks. your mouth opens with a silent gasp as heat floods your limbs—terrible and divine. you feel it thread through your blood, through your bones, not life as it was but something more.

you draw in your first breath anew, ragged and sharp—and your eyes snap open.

you’re not the same.

you are his.

and he is still inside you, watching you rise again beneath him with a gaze that burns with triumph, with hunger, with worship.

you were the sacrifice.

now, you are the revenant.

reborn in pleasure, death, and the hands of a god.

[honeydippedfiction]

6 Months of Love, Forever to Go

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Synopsis: On a quiet spring morning, Angel reflects on how much life has changed in six short months. Between tender moments, shared laughter, and quiet milestones, she and Joe navigate the beautifully messy rhythm of new parenthood. With warmth, humor, and a love that deepens in the everyday, this story captures what it means to build a life together—one sleepy smile, one whispered promise, and one heartbeat at a time.

Warnings: emotional themes, growing pains?

WC: 4.2k

A/N: there's no 31 days in April I realized (little baby Z is a Halloween baby. Miss October 31st) This has been in the drafts for a hot minute, forgive me.

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The early morning light spilled into the Burrow home like a warm embrace, soft and golden as it stretched across the hardwood floors and gently kissed the pale walls of the nursery. April 30th, 2025. The date lingered in Angel’s mind like a whisper, echoing louder the longer she sat in stillness. It was a date she’d circled on the calendar in pink Sharpie months ago. A milestone.

Six months.

Half a year since the night her world shifted with the weight of 7 pounds, 12 ounces of love swaddled in hospital flannel.

Angel sat cross-legged on the plush ivory rug in their bedroom, wearing her silk robe, the champagne-colored one Joe always liked to slide his hand beneath, now loosely tied and slipping off one shoulder. Her phone was in one hand, the baby monitor app open in the other, showing a quiet screen. Zariyah lays still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in that steady, sleepy rhythm, lashes dark against her warm brown cheeks, a pacifier nestled between rosebud lips.

The house was quiet, but Angel’s mind was full. A film reel of memories played behind her eyes—grainy, golden, sacred.

Her thumb swiped slowly through her camera roll, each photo a timestamp pressed into her heart. Zariyah’s very first cry. The way her little fist gripped Angel’s finger in those first trembling moments of life. Joe’s face—worn out and wide-eyed and completely undone—as he cradled both of them in a hospital chair, hoodie half zipped, tears unapologetic in his lashes.

She stopped at a video from November. Zariyah was only a few days old, and Joe was pacing their bedroom, shirtless, hair wild from sleep, gently patting her back in that uncoordinated sway new dads had.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby girl. Daddy’s got you. Daddy’s got you.”

Angel blinked fast and set the phone down, pressing her palm over her heart like it might still the ache building in her chest.

The nights in those first few weeks had blurred together—2AM feedings in the glow of the moonlight, her body still sore and healing, Joe rubbing her feet while she nursed. Skin-to-skin naps on the couch, Zariyah’s tiny body curled against Angel’s chest while Joe made them grilled cheese and protein shakes. Lullabies hummed into the quiet, whispered prayers when they didn’t know what they were doing but did it anyway.

She remembered Joe’s first diaper change vividly—hands trembling as he fumbled with the tabs, muttering curses under his breath.

“This little ass just spit up on me and peed. Is that normal? That can’t be normal.”

Angel had been doubled over with laughter, phone in hand, catching every second.

Or Zariyah’s first bath. Angel holding the baby while Joe tried to work the faucet attachment, only to end up soaking the entire counter—and himself.

“Okay, she’s slippery—Angel, I swear she’s built like a damn bar of soap!”

Now, Zariyah was sitting up on her own, pushing up to her elbows, smacking her hands on the tray of her high chair like she owned the place. Her bottom teeth had just poked through, and she’d started babbling “dada” and “buh buh” like she knew they were magic words.

“She was just in my belly,” Angel whispered aloud, voice tight with emotion. “She was just in there…”

Behind her, soft footsteps padded across the floor.

“You alright?” Joe’s voice, low and warm, broke the quiet.

Angel didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. She knew it was him—could feel the way the room settled with his presence.

He leaned against the doorway in grey sweatpants and a cream hoodie, barefoot, curls still damp from a shower, the scent of his lotion mixing with faint hints of Zariyah’s baby shampoo that clung to him like perfume.

Angel nodded slowly, wiping a tear from beneath her eye before it could fall. “Yeah. I just… I was looking at pictures.”

Joe crossed the room, knelt beside her, and gently pulled her into his arms. “Six months,” he murmured, his voice full of wonder and the tiniest hint of sadness. “I was just thinking the same thing. Feels like yesterday you were cussing me out between contractions.”

Angel let out a breathy laugh through her tears. “That’s because it was yesterday.”

Joe smiled, kissing the side of her head. “I think about that night all the time. How scared I was… and then they handed her to me and everything just clicked.”

“She made us parents,” Angel whispered, her fingers curling around his. “And she made us better.”

Joe reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out his phone. “If you’re gonna cry, you might as well do it right,” he said, swiping to a picture. “Caught her mid-fart smile this morning. Look at this disrespect.”

Angel laughed, sniffling as she took the phone. Zariyah’s gummy grin was mid-pucker, clearly proud of herself.

“She got that from you,” Angel said.

“Good. Let her be cocky about her bodily functions. Confidence starts young.”

Angel leaned into him, her tears now replaced with laughter. “She’s your twin in the face though.”

“She’s got your eyes,” Joe countered softly. “And your fire.”

They sat there for a long while—limbs tangled on the rug in the glow of morning—just talking about nothing and everything, pausing to reflect, remembering details the other forgot.

And when Zariyah stirred awake, the soft coo coming through the baby monitor, Angel sighed and kissed Joe’s jaw. “You wanna go get her?”

“I already am.” Joe stood and stretched, smirking down at her. “Your girl needs me.”

“She only calls you when she wants to break something.”

He shot her a wink over his shoulder. “Takes after her mama.”

Angel followed a beat later, just in time to catch Joe tossing Zariyah in the air—safely, gently—and catching her to a chorus of baby giggles.

“Happy six months, pretty girl,” he said, bouncing her. “You’re halfway to crawling off our bed and giving me a heart attack.”

Angel wrapped her arms around them both, and for a moment, it was just the three of them in a bubble of joy.

No cameras. No schedules. Just this.

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A soft, golden April sun washed over the city, the kind that made everything feel slower, sweeter. The kind of day that begged to be savored. No calls from agents. No team meetings. No emails or influencer brand deadlines. Just Joe, Angel, and their baby girl on her half birthday—April 30th, 2025.

They started with a walk through Ault Park, the spring breeze ruffling the new green leaves, tulips in bloom along the winding paths. Zariyah rode like royalty in her stroller, little fists waving in the air, legs kicking with giddy delight. She cooed and chirped at every passing dog, her wide brown eyes tracking squirrels like they were celebrities.

Angel walked slowly beside Joe, her arm linked with his, her other hand adjusting Zariyah’s sunhat every few minutes. She wore soft joggers and a loose crop top, sunglasses perched on her nose, curls bouncing with each step. Joe kept one hand on the stroller and the other tucked into his pocket, walking in sync with his girls, glancing down every few seconds just to smile at Zariyah—then at Angel, like he still couldn’t believe either of them were real.

“She's so damn cute,” Joe murmured under his breath as Zariyah kicked her foot out of her sock again.

Angel laughed, bending to retrieve it. “That’s the fourth time. I think she does it on purpose.”

“She gets that from you.”

“Excuse me?”

“The petty,” Joe teased, slanting her a grin. “She's already plotting ways to do whatever she wants.”

Angel bumped her shoulder into his, smiling. “Well. You can’t argue with results.”

They paused by the overlook for a few minutes, Angel pulling Zariyah out of the stroller and holding her against her hip. The baby reached up, tugging Joe’s hoodie string, then shoving it straight into her mouth.

“Delicious,” Angel deadpanned. “Fiber.”

Joe leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “We’re gonna have to teach her taste eventually.”

“Can’t even taste it,” Angel said. “You still wear cologne when we go to the park.”

Joe shrugged. “Gotta stay ready.”

Angel tsked and shook her head before muttering, "Whore."

They wandered the gardens a little longer before heading back to the car, choosing a familiar lunch spot with a cozy patio draped in hanging ferns and warm string lights. Angel wore Zariyah in a sling this time, her tiny arms peeking out while she dozed on Angel’s chest. The server brought their usual drinks without asking. A perk of being regulars. A perk of being happy.

Joe ordered for both of them, and when their food arrived, he fed Zariyah little bits of mashed avocado with his pinky finger, making airplane noises while Angel pretended not to film him.

“She’s gonna be spoiled rotten,” he said between bites, dabbing avocado off Zariyah’s chin.

Angel gave him a look. “She already is. And so are you.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, leaning over to peck her lips. “Look at my girls.”

After lunch, Zariyah started rubbing her eyes, her fussing small and tired, not upset. Angel kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear as they packed up, coaxing her into sleep. By the time they got home, she was out cold in the car seat.

But Angel didn’t want to put her in the crib.

Instead, she carried her into their bedroom and gently laid her down in the middle of the bed she shared with Joe. Zariyah let out a sleepy sigh, curls soft against the sheets, pacifier bobbing rhythmically. Angel stood there watching her, one hand over her mouth, her chest trembling like she was trying not to fall apart all over again.

Joe came up behind her, arms slipping around her waist.

“She looks like a little angel,” he whispered against her shoulder.

Angel nodded, blinking quickly. “I just… I remember when this bed was covered in burp cloths. And bottles. And me crying every two hours. And now—” She sniffed hard. “She’s in the middle of the bed, Joe. She’s in the bed. Like a person.”

He pulled her closer. “She is a person.”

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s the part that hurts.”

Joe didn’t say anything for a moment. Just held her tighter, kissed her cheek. Let her feel it all.

“She’ll always be our baby,” he said quietly. “Even when she’s taller than you and yelling at us for posting old bath pics on her birthday.”

Angel laughed through her tears, resting her head against his chest. “We’re never deleting those.”

“Hell no.”

They stood there a while longer, just watching her sleep, the room thick with memories and new love and the kind of quiet that said: we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.

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After Zariyah woke from her nap—eyes blinking up at the light like she hadn’t just caused a minor emotional crisis in her mother—Angel scooped her up with practiced ease, cradling her close and breathing in that sweet, powdery baby scent that still made her heart squeeze.

“Good morning again, mama’s big girl,” Angel whispered, swaying gently in the soft glow of the bedroom. She pressed kisses to both chubby cheeks, then to the silky swirl of curls at her crown. “You’re six whole months today. That means you get spoiled. Even more than usual.”

Zariyah responded with a squeal and a gummy smile, grabbing a fistful of Angel’s curls with the kind of grip only babies—or professional linebackers—seemed capable of.

“Okay, ouch,” Angel laughed, gently prying her hair from her daughter's grip. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Joe appeared in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a slow smile spreading across his face. He leaned against the frame for a moment, content to just watch them. His girls. His whole world wrapped up in a sun-drenched frame.

“You two need a minute?” he teased, stepping inside. He bent to kiss Zariyah’s cheek, then angled up to kiss Angel’s. “Did I miss the morning fan club meeting?”

“She’s the one with separation anxiety,” Angel replied, adjusting Zariyah higher on her hip. “But it’s fine. I’m obsessed with her too.”

Joe smiled, brushing his knuckle over Zariyah’s dimpled cheek. “She’s gonna have us both wrapped around her finger until college.”

Angel raised a brow. “Until college? She already does.”

They spent the rest of the morning in full celebration mode—not in an over-the-top, Pinterest-perfect kind of way, but in the quiet, cozy way that felt most like them.

Angel slipped into soft sage-green leggings and a cropped hoodie that showed just a hint of her postpartum curves, the ones Joe still couldn't keep his hands off of. Zariyah wore a white onesie with glittery gold lettering that read Halfway to One!, her legs poking out beneath a cloud of pastel tulle. A tiny white bow clipped into her curls completed the look.

Joe, naturally, wore his “#GirlDad” crewneck—the same one Angel had given him as a joke when Zariyah was born, but which he now wore unironically on every special occasion.

“You really committed to that sweatshirt, huh?” Angel said as she walked out of the nursery, phone in one hand, Zariyah balanced on her hip.

Joe grinned and tugged at the hem. “I don’t wear it. It wears me.”

Angel rolled her eyes, but her smile said she adored him.

They didn’t plan a party. No balloons. No elaborate cake. No stress. Just the three of them, their cozy home, and a shared understanding that every moment was already a celebration.

Angel opened the curtains wide, letting natural light flood the living room. She snapped picture after picture—Zariyah grinning with drool on her chin, staring directly into the lens with a deadpan baby model face that was somehow both dramatic and unimpressed.

“She’s already tired of the spotlight,” Angel laughed, crouching to get a better angle. “She’s gonna be one of those kids who refuses to smile on school picture day.”

Joe leaned in behind her, phone out, recording from a different angle. “She’s just warming up for her baby album debut. We’re giving her material.”

In the kitchen, they whipped up a makeshift “cake”—a mashed banana mixed with unsweetened applesauce, topped with a swirl of whipped cream that Angel piped from a Ziploc bag like she was on The Great British Bake Off!

“Don’t you dare judge me,” she warned, setting the tiny dessert on the tray of Zariyah’s high chair. “She doesn’t even have teeth yet. This is Michelin-star baby dining.”

Joe was already filming. “Alright, princess. Time to go full food fight.”

Zariyah stared at the offering for a moment, as if mentally assessing it. Then, without ceremony, she leaned forward and face-planted into the soft mess with wild determination.

Angel burst into laughter. “Oh my God, Joe—”

“She’s your child,” he said, zooming in. “You see that technique? Zero hesitation. That was full wide receiver instincts. Eyes on the prize.”

Banana was smeared across Zariyah’s cheeks, a chunk of whipped cream somehow lodged in her eyebrow. She looked up at them both with a triumphant expression and squealed.

Afterward, Joe gave her a warm bath while Angel rinsed the high chair and shook out the tutu. The baby tub became a splash zone, Joe soaked nearly to the elbows as Zariyah smacked the water gleefully with both hands.

“She’s part fish,” Joe said, lifting her out and wrapping her in a hooded towel shaped like a bunny. “A slippery, banana-scented fish.”

Clean and full, Zariyah went down for her second nap without protest, cheeks pink and warm from all the excitement. Her tiny arms flopped to the sides like she’d run a marathon.

Angel turned on the monitor, adjusted the volume, and made her way to the couch where Joe was already sprawled, a blanket draped across his lap.

She curled up beside him, tucking her legs beneath her and resting her head on his chest. One of her hands traced slow, lazy patterns over the cotton of his crewneck.

Joe turned his head and kissed the crown of hers.

“It’s crazy,” Angel murmured. “I still remember what she looked like in the delivery room. All wrinkly and loud and perfect. And now…”

“She’s got opinions,” Joe said, smiling. “And baby biceps.”

Angel chuckled softly. “She’s gonna walk soon. Then we’re screwed.”

Joe brushed his knuckles along her jaw, his touch light. “You did good, Angel.”

“We did good.”

There was a quiet moment between them. The kind of pause that didn’t ask to be filled. Only after a minute did Joe shift, speaking so softly it was almost like he didn’t want to break the spell.

“You wanna do it again?”

Angel blinked, lifting her head just slightly. “What, like… a whole other baby?”

He shrugged, playing it cool. But his eyes were warm. Honest. Hopeful. “Eventually. Not tomorrow. But she’s kinda fun.”

Angel narrowed her eyes. “You just want another excuse to buy matching sweatsuits.”

“And baby Jordans,” Joe added with a smirk. “Don’t forget those.”

Angel laughed, shaking her head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“But you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He pulled her in tighter, kissed her slow and deep. It was a kiss that tasted like banana and home and everything they’d built in six months of wonder and exhaustion and love.

Outside, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting amber light across the living room. The soft hum of the baby monitor glowed faintly on the table beside them.

Their home was quiet.

Full.

Brimming.

Six months down.

Forever to go.

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The rest of the day unfolded gently. Lazy. Peaceful.

They napped with Zariyah between them, her fingers wrapped around Joe’s thumb while Angel rested her hand over both of theirs. They woke slowly, tangled and warm, with the kind of stillness that felt sacred.

Later, after dinner and bath time, after more kisses and another round of her favorite lullaby, Zariyah finally gave in to sleep again—this time in her crib.

Angel stood at the doorway for a few seconds longer than usual.

“You okay?” Joe asked softly, his hand on the small of her back.

She nodded, eyes still fixed on their daughter. “Yeah. I just want to remember this.”

“You will,” he promised, squeezing her gently. “Every second.”

And somehow, she believed him.

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The house was quiet by nightfall, bathed in the kind of stillness only new parents could truly understand. Not just the silence of a sleeping baby, but the sacred hush that settled over everything once the last lullaby faded and the last light in the nursery dimmed. It was peace bought with spit-up, swaddles, and hours of whispered patience.

Zariyah had gone down easy—miraculously—with no tears, no fighting sleep. Just warm milk, her soft plush bunny tucked under one arm, and the soothing hum of Angel’s voice as she rocked her gently beneath the star projector’s soft glow. The familiar lullaby—half sung, half hummed—was the same one Angel’s own mother used to sing to her, its melody now passed down like a quiet heirloom.

Now, the baby monitor rested on the nightstand, its small green light pulsing steady next to a half-full glass of red wine. A low instrumental playlist played faintly from the Bluetooth speaker, barely more than a suggestion in the background.

Angel emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, her face freshly washed, skin dewy, curls wrapped neatly beneath a silk bonnet. She wore a ribbed tank and soft cotton shorts—nothing fancy, but the kind of effortless beauty that came with motherhood and comfort. Her body, once unfamiliar to her in those early postpartum months, had become hers again in a new way—stronger, softer, sacred.

Joe was already in bed, lying against the headboard with the blanket low across his hips, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweats that rode dangerously low. His arms were folded behind his head, exposing the full stretch of his torso—abs that were still somehow intact despite the snack binges and sleepless nights, and a chest that had become Angel’s favorite place to collapse into after long days.

He looked at her the way he always did when the world went quiet—like nothing else existed. Like she was the best part of his entire life.

“You look cozy,” he said, voice low and warm.

“Because I am cozy,” Angel murmured, crawling into bed beside him with the languid grace of a woman who had earnedevery second of rest. She stretched like a cat before settling into the crook of his arm, cheek pressed to the warmth of his chest. “And because I bathed our child, did bedtime, read Goodnight Moon for the forty-ninth time, and managed not to cry again today. So, yes. I am cozy. I am victorious.”

Joe chuckled, the low sound rumbling through her. “You earned that glass of wine.”

“I’m drinking it in my spirit. This is mommy time.”

He kissed her forehead. “Happy half-year of being the best mom in the world.”

Angel tilted her face up to give him a look—mock skeptical, teasing. “Aww. Look at you trying to get laid.”

“Is it working?”

Instead of answering, she straddled him in one smooth movement, her knees bracketing his hips, her thighs warm against his skin. Her hands settled on his bare chest as she leaned in, her eyes playful, her voice soft.

“You tell me.”

Joe’s hands slid up the backs of her thighs, thumbs stroking lazy circles over her skin. His eyes darkened as he took her in—her smirk, her curves, the heat of her settling against him.

“This what ‘mommy time’ looks like now?” he asked, his voice gravel-thick with want.

“This,” she whispered, lowering her lips to his, “is what six months of practice looks like.”

Their kiss started slow—familiar but charged, the kind of kiss built on years of knowing each other’s rhythm. One hand slid up her back, the other curled protectively around her thigh as they melted deeper into the moment.

“I missed this,” Angel breathed against his mouth. “Being touched without worrying about spit-up or the damn baby monitor lighting up like a siren.”

“Might need to make this a nightly ritual,” Joe said, lips brushing hers. “Get in a little extra practice.”

Her eyes glittered with amusement as she leaned back just a touch, her hips still resting on his. “Practice for what?”

Joe gave her a slow, devilish smile. “Round two.”

Angel blinked. “Round two?”

Joe shrugged like it was nothing, though his hands gripped her hips with purpose. “Just saying… we’re already elite parents. Why not run it back?”

She laughed, loud and full-bodied, pressing her palms to his chest to steady herself. “Sir. You get emotional one time during a stroller walk and suddenly you want another baby?”

“I said eventually,” he countered, grinning. “Unless you’re ovulating. In which case, I can clear tomorrow’s schedule.”

Angel gasped in mock offense, slapping his chest. “Oh my God, Joseph!”

“What?” he asked innocently. “You were the one crying this morning because she outgrew the pink footie pajamas with the little clouds on the toes. Don’t act like you’re not a little baby crazy.”

She tried to glare but ended up laughing again, shaking her head as she collapsed against him.

“You are not slick.”

Joe’s smile softened, and his hand came to rest on her stomach, just below her belly button. His voice dropped, quieter this time. “You’ve been thinking about it though. Haven’t you?”

Angel stilled.

His thumb traced lazy, tender circles. “Zariyah with a little brother. Or sister. Her chasing somebody around with her kitchen set. You pregnant again, walking around the house in your bonnet and my shirts, rubbing your belly like you’re baking a whole miracle…”

Her eyes softened, the laughter fading into something far more vulnerable. “I do think about it,” she admitted, voice almost shy. “Sometimes when she wraps both arms around my neck and laughs at nothing for like ten minutes straight, or looks up at me while I’m feeding her like I’m her whole world... I think, ‘Damn. We really made her.’”

Joe nodded, eyes locked on hers. “We could do it again. Make another little you. Or another me—with your eyes and your attitude.”

“More like your stubbornness and your dramatic genes,” she teased, though her voice trembled slightly now.

He shrugged, grinning. “Fair trade.”

Angel leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Not now. But… yeah. One day? I could do this again. With you.”

Joe kissed her slowly—no rush, no heat, just love—hands cupping her face like she was something precious. Because she was.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

They stayed like that for a long time—wrapped up in each other, in the quiet thrum of the baby monitor, in the ache of how much they loved the life they’d built and the family they were still dreaming about.

Outside, the streetlights flickered on one by one. Inside, the bedroom glowed soft and gold. And somewhere, nestled between the laughter and the teasing, between Angel’s cotton shorts and Joe’s gray sweats and the steady pulse of something more, a new chapter began to write itself.

They didn’t know when.

But they knew one day… There would be one more heartbeat.

And they were already in love with it.

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

———————————————————————————————————

im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

———————————————————————————————————

Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[vaaaaaiolet]

September 30th, 1998. Your world ended with Leon's death, or so you thought.

Or alternatively, how you spent two decades of your life tied to a man full of secrets who can't love you how you want him to.

gn / m, angst and hurt / comfort, mild smut, eventual happy ending, for the love of god someone give leon and reader both a hug :(

read this to 1999 by beabadoobee for optimal results

word count: 1.8k // read on ao3

this work is inspired by @uhlunaro's "a tale of grief in 10 parts" :) please check out their work, it's absolutely amazing!

He would return in one piece. That was the most you could have hoped for when you gawked at the evening news, swaddled in your robe like some useless overgrown baby as a TV reporter boredly announced that your boyfriend had died. 

Oopsy! Blown to bits like Lego bricks! The Raccoon City building set, discontinued forever. 

Grief shot through your chest like the explosions peppering your television screen the more you watched. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. You’d actually gotten down on the floor and pressed your face to the display, hoping to catch a glimpse of blond hair on the live feed, searching until the news bulletin hit your head shotgun-style. No reported survivors. 

No survivors.

There was no Leon S. Kennedy escaping the rubble. Nobody to come home and wisecrack that he was right about cops and their dependence on donuts. No one to make dinner for. Something had to be done about his favorite steak browning cheerfully in the oven as the world burned around you.

Had it burned for him too? You sat in his chair at the head of the kitchen table and shoveled steak into your mouth in a numb rage, peeking at char marks through the fork tines. They were black, burnt to a crisp, inciner- 

You spent the rest of the night emptying your stomach into the toilet. The landline laid lifeless. 

Leon’s world had ended in a flash; yours in flushes as you poured your heart into the plumbing. Hell, it didn’t even stay there, floating stubbornly to the top as your choked toilet spewed water and you sat and sobbed.

Months later, Leon came home for a week. A week you hadn’t been selfish enough to plead the heavens for (instead you’d sobbed, prayed for glimpses of him in strangers) but a gift horse of a week nonetheless. 

The breath rushed out of your lungs every time he rounded a corner in the house, soundless as a ghost. It terrified Leon even more than it did you. He was scared. Leon wouldn’t tell you of what though, and you wasted the better part of the week wondering. Diagnosing him like the doctors on endless TV shows you’d whiled away your time to while he was dead. None of your guesses really scratched the surface of his fears; he just wished you’d stop asking.

Leon told you in the final hour of his last day home. Powder blue eyes committed every inch of you to memory when he kissed you slow and honey-sweet underneath sheets that had laid cold for far too long. In between his calloused hands, you bloomed to life.

He’d gasped as his lips trailed up the column of your throat, “I’m- ah, I’m so sorry…”

You hadn’t the foggiest idea of what he was apologizing for. All you cared was that he was here now, he was home. That was all you’d wanted, right? You didn’t even let him finish, surging up and planting your lips on his so that he’d have to swallow his sorry’s right back, smoothing his brow with your thumb when it furrowed in the dark. For now, Leon drank in every bit of your love that he could stomach.

Leon took you to the heavens you’d once prayed to, all while you dragged your nails down the cracked melamine skin of his back. 

And then he told you that he wouldn’t be home for Christmas. As far as the United States government was concerned, Christmas (or any other holiday really) wasn’t grounds for him leaving his new, top secret “work”. Dangerous, life-threatening work that he made you promise not to worry over. Leon’s spare police uniform watched forlornly from his dust-ridden side of the closet as he laid bare any information he was cleared to – barely anything. You’d torn off your silver necklace and stamped a kiss to the cold metal to wrap it around his shaking wrist. Anything to give him a reason to mutiny, to come running back. 

So in December of 1999, you stopped going to your support group for fallen police officers. You spent Christmas mourning a man whose life became a secret for you alone to keep. 

A letter strewn on your front porch: the summer of ‘04. 

It won’t be easy. He is stronger than you think. 

The lipstick kiss at the bottom matched the red of the ink in Leon’s letter to you from Spain. You don’t get another until his writing in it begins to fade, but that lipstick, miraculously, never does.

The next time Leon came back, it was for even shorter. Three days to make up for the six years he’d left you to pick up the pieces he promised not to break you into. You almost hadn’t recognized him in the doorway because gone were those bright blue eyes and cheeks that made him grumble when you pinched them; this Leon’s features were tailor-made. Cut to perfection, built to last. He lifted you into the air with the same breath he whispered hello with.

There was little to do except ravage each other, to put it lightly. You scavenged for answers in the seams of his scars; Leon looked for love in the lines of your forehead. 

He kissed you like he had something to prove. 

He wiped the tears that bubbled down your cheeks as you fought to fit him inside, cause your world had shrunk that much since he’d been gone.

He shaped the explosions that galvanized him into fireworks that wrenched every inch of resistance out of your core so he could introduce you to the living he’s made. This is for the man who gave me my first knife. This is how I learned to forget you during the day and ask the moon about you at night. 

With each drop of your ambrosia sweat, Leon tore you apart and built you back again. 

I’m begging you. Look at me love you. 

But you? You begged for more than he could give you. You had more questions than the kiss-stamped note could provide answers to, especially when you spilled a box of his letters over the kitchen table, each one spaced more apart than the last. Clocks these days only read T-minus X hours until Leon’s next departure to Who Knows Where for God Knows How Long.

“You won’t tell me anything, Leon,” you choked at the table while he sat there and took it all like he was trained to. “Anything I ask, it’s all a secret. When are you going to tell me something?”

His voice was quiet, unbreakable. “I told you everything I could.” 

“Really?” The kiss at the top of the pile shone like a scarlet A and you pointed at it, voice shaking. “Who’s this from, then?”

“No one, sweetheart, I just worked with her sometimes. I’ve only run into her twice.”

“You can’t tell me anything about your life but she knows where we- where I live?”

Leon’s resolution faltered at your slip. “It’s not tha-”

“You didn’t write after she sent me that, you know? You think I don’t know what it’s like to be lonely for years? You,” the long-brewing poison crawled steadily up your throat, “I don’t even think I know you anymore. You visit less and less and even when you’re here, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours! I don’t know you!”

“Good!” Leon exploded. “Cause damn it, I don’t even know who I am!” 

The silence that followed was worse, the absence of explanation weighing heavier than any answer could.

He muttered something about being late and rushed to the bathroom, leaving you in the middle of your fallen epistolary halo on the floor. The pipes wailed as you heard the shower turn on. 

T-minus 1 hour.

A horrible, wretched sound crept into your ear. The sound of something prized being torn loose from a dark place.

It was the first time you’d heard Leon cry.

Your brand new TV had started buffering not even a week after buying it. Hitting it with a spatula worked just as well as adjusting the HDMI cables did: it didn’t. At least your old bunny-ears TV had enough definition so you could make out the moving shapes, HD or not. 

Seconds away from you kicking the useless contraption, the TV flickered back to life and showed you Pittsburgh, plain as day. A news bulletin. The Carnegie Museum of Art had blown up in a freak accident, the reporter fretted, and the FBI were being deployed to investigate.

A familiar head of sandy hair looked up at the aerial camera. Silver glittered on his wrist as Leon tapped his earpiece – one two three – and rubbed his fist in a tight circle over his chest.

For old time’s sake. To ease the weight sitting there.

Your last name went unchanged for the next five years. You didn’t know he was keeping track. 

June dawned sweet and heavy on your windowsill. The house you’d kept for 17 years welcomed Leon back with open arms. There was something to be said for consistency with the way you floated into his embrace the second he crossed your threshold.

Wrinkles etched into his brow, smile lines on your face. It was everything he worked for.

You watched him in the wee hours of the morning when he brewed coffee, regular as if he’d done it all his life, and sat at his old spot by the window. He didn’t tell you how long he’d be here this time. If loving Leon for all these years taught you something, it was to make the most of the little you had. You’d had time to ration your grievances, cremating them into ashes and letting them scatter with the rolling tide.

“Hey.” He’d spotted you in the corner of the kitchen.

“Hey yourself.”

Leon grinned and handed you a cup of tea. He’d remembered your favorite.

“Leon.” you turned to him.

“Hm?”

“I want to make one last rule for when you’re here. No more saying sorry.” 

The sight of his raised brow in the window's reflection made laughter flutter in your chest.

“Might I ask why? I’ve had a lot of practice with you over the years, you know.” Leon quipped, his words bittersweet. It was the familiar tang of regret: tying you to him while he’d been thrown at the government’s every whim. 

You were no stranger to the taste. “Because I want us to stop wasting time.”

“Honey, time’s all we’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.” 

You smoothed a chestnut brown lock behind his ear, smiling. Leon kissed the back of your hand – his grateful answer. 

Closure instead of sex, love without expectation.

His heart beats for you in both worlds. Here with you and wherever he goes.

psst, find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 take care and i love you!

[adore-laur]

SKIN

— a blurb from the dadrry universe 🤍

——

Harry's skin must be woven with threads of magic. There has to be an otherworldly magnetism entwined in his veins, bestowing captivating warmth on anyone who touches him. Or perhaps there's an underlying spell coursing through his bloodstream, effortlessly soothing deep-rooted aches and vociferating cries. 

It's been said before, but it bears repeating: Harry is a natural when it comes to being a lover. He has been by your side through every trial and tribulation life has cruelly thrown at you. He has willingly taken your pain during grief-stricken times and selflessly shared the burden. You've navigated the rollercoaster years of dating, marriage, and parenthood with him, all the while watching him adapt to each role with unwavering patience and grace. 

Witnessing him be a dad makes you firmly believe it's what he was made to do. It was written in the stars.

When you wake from a deep slumber—a long and uninterrupted one at that—the house smells like blueberries and homemade bread. Well, if four hours of sleep count as uninterrupted. You'll be the first to admit that you haven't missed the lack of sleep involved in caring for a newborn. 

You slowly make your way to the kitchen, surprised by how quiet it is except for the sizzling sounds of breakfast being cooked. Your tired eyes regard Harry swaying by the stovetop, a spatula in his grasp, and his one-week-old baby girl cradled in his opposite arm. She's wide awake, her swaddled body cuddled perfectly in the crook of his elbow as she mesmerizingly stares at her dad skillfully take a loaf of bread out of the oven. He has on his favorite fleece robe with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair— that's getting quite long—is flatly pushed back due to him restlessly tossing and turning all night. 

It's baffling how whenever Harry holds his daughter, she's completely content as long as her skin touches his. You don't quite understand it. You're well aware that skin-to-skin contact is essential, but it's wondrous how much she loves it with him already. 

You stand still and watch him for a few more moments, thinking about how, nine months ago, you observed him from the same spot as he made pancakes with his eldest daughter. Back when the baby he's holding now was just a tiny bump he would fawn over, growing rounder each month and getting plenty of kisses each day. 

Eventually, you refocus on the present and shuffle over to where your sleep-deprived husband is yawning and shutting the oven door with his hip. The both of you got a dreadfully short amount of sleep last night, but you think it isn't so bad when mornings look like they do with him. 

"Hello," you say, making your presence known before appearing next to him.

Harry loosens a golden-brown blueberry crepe with the spatula and sets it on one of three plates. "Morning, sweetheart." 

"When did she wake up?"

"'Bout an hour ago," he replies, his voice hoarse. "Just little whimpers, so I took her to the backyard for fresh air. She told me she wanted to make breakfast with me." 

You amusedly tilt your head to the side. "Oh, she told you that? I didn't know you could translate her baby sounds." 

"I can, actually. She also told me she wanted milk." He looks over at you and raises his eyebrows. "Pronto, preferably." 

"Here, give me her. She's definitely hungry." You take her from him and kiss her soft, munchable cheeks. "Thank you for making food, by the way." 

"That's my job," he says melodically as you walk over to the couch. You sit and slide the strap of your silk pajama top down, then remove the white swaddle from the baby's body. She instantly latches onto your nipple, causing you to wince as a dull ache initiates. 

As you feed her and zone out, you hear Harry plate the food and open the fridge several times before you sense him coming up behind you. He leans his torso over the back of the couch and rests his chin on your head. Breastfeeding has never been uncomfortable around him since you know he's appreciative of what a woman's body can supply and how draining it is to be the supplier. Often, like right now, he will silently observe his daughter fall into a state of tranquility as she suckles. It's beautiful to nurture another human using your body, and even though it's terribly time-consuming, the special bond formed during it is always worth it. 

"I'm going to get dressed," Harry says after a while, squeezing your arm.

You turn your head and pucker your lips for the first kiss of the day. He grants you several soft pecks that taste like blueberries, each with a satisfied hum, before leaving a long, dramatic kiss on his daughter's head.

A few minutes later, he comes back just as you finish breastfeeding. He's wearing a patterned jacquard-knit sweater and loose denim jeans with ripped holes near his knees. He stands before you and takes his baby girl from your arms, kissing and blowing raspberries on her full belly until she's screeching happily. 

"Who's ready for tummy time, hmm? Is it you?" She coos with a toothless smile, and Harry pretends to eat her cheeks. "I think it's you." 

He gently sets her on the blanket on the living room floor, then lies on his stomach next to her. You grab your phone from the coffee table and snap a quick picture of the sweet memory. 

After five minutes of encouragement and tracing every feature of her face, Harry picks her up and burps her. Meanwhile, you wander into the kitchen, grab the plates, and then slide the patio door open with your shoulder. You head out to the backyard, with Harry following closely behind. You're not too worried about your other daughter since she'll definitely be cranky if you wake her up this early. 

As you set the plates down and sit in the wicker lounge chair, Harry passes the baby over and settles beside you, chewing and swallowing a bite of bread. He says, "I was thinking of going to the beach later and swimming with the girls. The water is pretty calm today." 

You nod and pick at your crêpe. "Yeah, go ahead. I'll probably take a nap or something." 

"You don't want to come with us?" he asks, scrunching his eyebrows. It's gorgeous out." 

"I don't really feel like swimming. I'm not feeling my best." 

He leans closer to you and places his palm on your forehead. "What do you mean, love? You feelin' okay?" 

"I'm just tired," you lie partially. "Don't worry about me." 

"Hey, look at me." He takes your hand in his. "I'm going to worry about you. You just gave birth a week ago. Gotta tell me how you're feeling mentally and physically. Otherwise, I don't know how to help you." 

"I know, but I swear I'm—" A fussy cry cuts you off, and you sigh as you start rocking the baby. Harry soothingly massages the back of your neck, leaving a comforting kiss behind your ear. 

"We'll talk about it later, okay?" he murmurs. 

You just weakly smile and hope he'll forget about it. 

——

The sun has just begun to set, and the evening sky is a bright, beautiful orange that makes the ocean glimmer. All of you are on the beach to spend time together before an early bedtime. Harry had made dinner and is now shaking out a blanket so the both of you can sit on the sand. Your eldest daughter is distracted with her beach toys, talking to herself as she toddles along the shoreline in her swimsuit and floaties.

There's no time for peaceful watching, however, because once you plop down on the blanket with the baby snuggled to your chest, Harry sits right by you and clasps his hands over his bent knee like he's about to give a lecture. He jerks his chin and says, "You know what I'm going to say." 

It's impossible not to roll your eyes. "Do I have to?" you mutter with a sheepish grin. 

"Yes. You're legally required to talk to your husband and baby daddy." 

You just groan and prepare yourself to vent about all the postpartum feelings that have been swirling in your pessimistic brain over the past seven days.

"I'm scared of losing myself," you say, exhaling heavily. "I remember the first time I became a mom and how I didn't even recognize myself some days. It took so much energy out of me, you know? With breastfeeding, being up all night, and trying to get my body back to normal, I guess I just don't want to fall into that dark mindset again." 

Harry nods understandingly. "Do you recognize yourself right now?" 

"A lot more than last time," you reply quietly. "I mean, we're both more experienced with how to handle a newborn. That definitely helps." 

He swallows, and his serious expression reveals that he sees right through you. "Can I know the real reason why you didn't want to go swimming earlier?" he asks with a gentleness that could break you if you dwell on it for long enough. 

You sometimes wonder if your skin is made of glass or if he knows you well enough to notice all the cracks. 

"If I talk about it, I'll start crying." 

He tuts and nudges your foot with his. "And what's wrong with crying?" 

Shrugging, you defeatedly mumble, "It makes me feel like a little kid." 

"You're my wife, not some stranger to me," he stresses with a soft laugh. "I hate that you think crying in front of me will put me off. Please be vulnerable with me. I don't want you to keep your feelings bottled up." 

Your lips wobble, and a teardrop escapes as you look downward. "I don't feel good when I look at my body. I don't think I could put on a swimsuit and have you see me." Harry scoots closer and wipes your tears away, a sympathetic frown on his lips. "And I spent so long trying to accept it last time I gave birth," you add, "and now having to bounce back again seems exhausting." 

"I don't expect you to bounce back," Harry says gently. "I don't expect anything of you that involves changing your body. It's your body. Do whatever you need to make you feel good, and do it at your own pace, all right?" 

Your heart lovingly falters at his statement. "Once we can finally have sex in five weeks, it's going to be terrible. I'll probably cry." 

He laughs, and you let one out too. "Is that really what you're worried about?" 

"No." He gives you an unamused look with a hint of a smirk. "Okay, maybe. I just don't want you to look at me. I could blindfold you or something." 

"Can you look at me right now for a second?" Harry asks earnestly. You adjust the baby in your arms and meet his eyes, which sparkle in the sunlight. I look at you and see a goddess," he says, holding your free hand. "A mother to two beautiful girls who make me smile every single day. You're my safety blanket. The body you think I don't want to see is the one that grew life. That is so precious to me." 

He begins tracing his fingertips across the light striations on your thigh as he continues, "The stretch marks on your skin are there because you grew two humans, which to me is the most powerful goddamn thing I could ever watch you do. And you've done it so effortlessly that I can't help but fall in love with you more and more each day." 

In that moment, you wonder why you were ever doubtful in the first place and how the man sitting next to you can always easily drag you out of any momentary insecurity. 

Harry suddenly stands and carefully pulls you up with him. He then kneels on the blanket and spreads his arms out. "Look at you," he says over the crashing waves. "You're literally glowing in front of me, holding our baby girl that you brought into this world all by yourself, and making my heart pound just as hard as the first day I met you." 

"Stop, Harry," you tell him, heat expanding across your face. 

"No, because look at you!" He exhales sharply and lowers his arms. "I worship you. Everything you do or say, every smile and laugh, every time you look at me... I'm hooked for eternity."

You kneel in front of him with tears threatening to spill over. He cradles your cheeks and kisses you with an intensity similar to the evening waves pelting the shore. Is there a way to thank the ocean for bringing him to you? 

As the sun says its routine farewell, you bask in Harry's glow that cascades from the solicitous words he speaks and the tender touches he gives. Skin that's unquestionably loved by him, and skin that you will love at your own pace. 

——

[braidlottie]

NOTHING’S GONNA HURT YOU, BABY.

pairing: lottie matthews x gn!reader

summary: lottie comforts you after a nightmare.

wc: baby fic 723 :(

tags: h/c (hurt/comfort), you live with lottie at sunshine honey, mommy!lottie sneak?!, lottie is super duper sweet to reader as always :3

title inspired by nothing’s gonna hurt you baby by cigarettes after sex

“somebody’s ready for bed, i see,” lottie smiled as you slipped into bed, wearing your new pajama set she bought for you. you rested your head against her shoulder, covering your mouth as you yawned. “such a sleepy little one. you had a big day, didn’t you?”

you and lottie and the rest of the adults went out for a nice friendly outing, staying out later than usual. going to ihop, and the fair, even driving out of your local area for a game of mini golf (that shauna suggested of course). you had so much fun, you wished you could redo the day all over again.

nodding, you snuggled into lottie’s pillow, feeling so warm and comfortable already under the white duvet. “aren’t you going to work in your office?”

“just for a bit. you think you’ll still be awake when i’m back?”

“nuh-uh.” you slurred. lottie just chuckled, grabbing her laptop, her glasses and patted your leg. she slipped on one of her kaftans that was hanging up in the closet. “that’s okay if you aren’t, sweetheart. i’ll be twenty minutes. tops.” she kissed you twice, once the nose and the lips before walking down the hall to her office.

the night got quieter and quieter at the compound, until nothing but the swaying of the trees from the wind was heard. you tried to wait up for lottie, so you put on a movie but unfortunately fell asleep within the first minutes.

***

“please, let her go, please! don’t-”

“shut. up.” you heard a man’s voice behind you. he walked over to lottie, pushing her down to the floor. she grunted and sighed, looking back at you with a bloody lip. “it’s gonna be okay-” she was cut off by the man kicking her in the face. you screamed, trying to get out of the ropes that restrained you down to a chair. “stop! stop hurting her, please!” the man pulled his pistol out from the back of his jeans, pointing it at lottie’s head and cocking it back-

“baby? baby, hey,” you were shaken away by lottie. when you were fully aware of where you were, you looked at her, she was completely unscathed, not even a single drop of blood from her lips. you didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt lottie’s hand on your cheek, wiping your tears away.

“i heard you shouting from down the hall, sweetheart. did you have a nightmare?” you nodded at the question, letting out a sob when you remembered the awful scenario. you rubbed your teary eyes against the fuzzy blanket you were swaddled in. “oh, little one,” she held out her arms for you.

“c’mere.” she helped you sit up, her hands under your arms. she pulled you into her chest, feeling your tears already soaking into her robe. she wrapped you up in the blanket tighter, planting a sweet kiss on your temple. “do you mind telling me what happened in your nightmare, baby?”

“there was a man, ‘n he was hurting you but i couldn’t stop him, ‘nd- and he was gonna shoot you, but i couldn’t stop him because-” you sobbed and lottie’s heart broke, your words fast and jumbled, along with your hoarse voice.

“we’re safe, angel, okay? it must’ve felt real at the time, but it’s not. what’s real is just me and you right now. he’s not gonna get us, i promise. mommy’s here, baby.” lottie brushed your fresh set of tears away, your cries making an abrupt stop at what lottie called herself. “there you go. you’re okay, honey.”

you felt her pull away, but heard the bedside lamp click on soon after, lighting up the room. lottie knew you didn’t like the dark that much, she just didn’t want you to be more scared than you already were.

“i’m scared to go to sleep again.” you nuzzled closer to her, trying to fight the sleep you were scared to succumb to. “you don’t have to, sweetheart. you wanna walk down to the kitchen with me? mommy’ll make you some tea, cocoa. anything you want, my baby.”

“cocoa.” you whispered, wiping your nose on your sleeve. lottie smiled, picking an eyelash off by the corner of your eye. “yeah? there’s my little one. c’mon,” she grabbed your hand, helping you out of bed.

[meganelixabethh]

Ok so we all agree watching the violent murder of your mentor and best friend while trying to save your friends baby and prevent yourself from also being murdered is a rough time. We also all agree that Marcia had to get over that very quickly because she had the tower to run and the Heaps to keep safe and the Supreme Custodian to keep in check. But here is what I think the run of events was like from the moment she leaves the palace to the moment she goes to bed that night

She absolutely pegs it down wizard way, pressing Jenna against her front so not to jostle her too much, and taking full advantage of her very long legs. When she bursts through the doors of the wizard tower all the wizards are gathered there, excited to see Alther and Marcia back from visiting the the Queen and the baby. Marcia bursts in, her hair is wild, she’s holding a crying baby, the amulet is hastily thrown around her neck and she is COVERED in blood. I’m talking soaked into her robes, splattered on her face, smeared on Jenna’s swaddling; she looks like she dressed up as Carrie for Halloween. All the wizards immediately think she’s done something to Alther; they can’t help but think about what happened to DomDaniel and wonder if it will become tradition for the apprentice to kill the master to supplant them. Marcia tells them what’s happened and who the baby is in a quick and panicked voice. She stopped crying on the run down the way, and she can feel the tears drying into her cheeks and making her skin feel stiff. The wizards immediately feel bad for doubting her and horrified at what she witnessed, they know how close she and the Queen were.

The wizards begin to cast protection spells around the tower and Endor, who is older than Marcia, comes over and gives her a bottle for Jenna, who is crying the entire time while Marcia rocks her and gently tries to shush her. She’s not called Jenna yet, and Marcia calls her Mattie, because Cerys was going to call her Mathilde after her mother. When Jenna goes to sleep, she thinks about putting her down but can’t face it, opting to hold her instead. When the spells are cast, the wizards reconvene around her. She’s sat on a chair looking at Jenna sleeping, and she looks up, a splatter of Cerys’ blood still on her nose, at the expectant faces of the wizards, and realises that it’s her that has to deal with this now. She’s in charge. It’s her. She looks down again and, even though she always imagined Jenna would grow up with her near, she knows she can’t stay here. She thinks of who can have her and her mind leaps to Silas. He did over half of the apprenticeship she just completed, and he left it all behind to look after his children. She knew Jenna had lost so much that day, but Marcia couldn’t bear the thought of her losing all the love she was going to have too- because this baby was going to be so very loved. She told the wizard she was going to take the baby to a safe place and got up to leave. Endor stopped her and reminded her that she looked like she had just witnessed a double murder and that she couldn’t just walk to whoever she was leaving the baby with and pass them over, it would be too suspicious. Marcia told her who she was was going to leave the baby with and Endor set off to find a way for Marcia to pass the baby over covertly.

When she left, Marcia took the stairs up to the rooms her and Alther had lived in so happily. She walked in and placed Jenna on the sofa, awake now but contented, and squarely ignored the door to Althers room and the bowl of half eaten porridge he’d left on the table. When she looked in the mirror, she startled at the sight of herself, and in panic performed a QuickClean spell. She knew she wasn’t meant to use Magyk for comfort, but Silas would never take a baby off her if she looked like that. She also needed to wear the ExtraOrdinary robes. If she was wearing her green robes Silas would 100% insist on talking to Alther and she wasn’t going to have time to explain everything that had happened today. She knew that the robes appeared on the wizard when they accepted their role as ExtraOrdinary. She looks in the mirror and says ‘I accept the role of ExtraOrdinary wizard’ but nothing happens. She tried to think it to herself, say it out loud like an affirmation, look at her exam results, but nothing happens. She’s still wearing her green apprentice robes. While she tries, she feeds Jenna again, who promptly falls back to sleep and Endor comes back. She tells Marcia that Silas has gone into the forest for herbs and will be back around when it gets dark, which is soon. Marcia knows nobody will be on the forest path that late, and that she can leave Jenna by the side of the road and Silas should Sense her. Endor makes it clear she needs to go now, and Marcia knows she’s right. The acceptance of her role sweeps through her and her robes change to the deep purple robes of her new position. She’s never worn Althers robes before, and they feel deeply powerful around her.

She hurries to the gate to get out to the forest path, her robes drawn around her and Jenna tucked out of sight inside. Dusk is just falling as she finds a bush and leaves Jenna there. She double checks that she can Sense her heartbeat clearly from the path, and she definitely can. Feeling as though she is ripping her heart out of her body, she walks away from the baby and goes to wait in the shadows of the lane she knows Silas will take once back in the castle, distractedly pressing a half crown into Gringes sticky palm as she passes. She waits longer than she would like, worrying about Jenna more and more every passing minute. Maybe she’s expecting too much of Silas, and Jenna will die of hypothermia by the side of the road. Cerys would come back from the dead to kill Marcia with her bare hands if that happened, and Marcia can’t quite bring herself to complete any thought that begins with her vibrant friend being dead. Just as she’s about to scurry back out the gate herself, she sees Silas hurrying down the lane, cloak pulled protectively around something and she knows it’s going to be okay. As he approaches her spot she sweeps out in front of him ‘tell nobody you found her, she was born to you, underhand?’ Is the best she can come out with before Transporting herself back to the tower. She couldn’t bear him asking questions.

When she gets back to the tower, everyone is in bed, even Endor, so she steps onto the stairs and unfocuses her eyes for a moment as the stairs lazily curl upwards on their slow night time mode. Her arms feel odd and empty without Jenna. She realises she forgot to tell Silas that the baby was called Mathilde. Another way she failed today. When she gets into her rooms she walks to her bedroom door in a daze, desperately tired and dreaming of falling into bed and never waking up. She walks straight into the door and no matter how hard she rattles, it won’t open. As she’s pushing at the door, Althers door opens with a creak, and Marcia realises that her new role isn’t just a set of robes, it’s a room too. There is no longer an apprentice, so the apprentice room is locked. She will not sleep in his bed. Not tonight. Not when he’s lying cold on the floor of the throne room. She casts an UnLocke on her door and rattles it again, nothing. She tried a different UnLock. Nothing again. She cycles through every spell she knows that might help and then makes some up and the stupid door will not budge. She tried a thunderflash, it doesn’t even dent it, she tries to shapeshift the door into an ant, it just stares back at her. She loses her temper and screams that she won’t sleep in his bed while she beats the door with her fists and her palms. She sobs, she screams, she throws the porridge bowl at the sofa and splatters the nice cushions with oats. She eventually ends up on the floor, laying on her side, tears sliding straight over her nose and onto the floor without her even blinking. She fuzzes out of the world for a while; the table legs blurring out of focus as she settles into the pleasant feeling of nothing mattering. She’s not sure how long she stays there but there wasn’t light when she left her mind and there is when she comes back. Her limbs feel heavy and she doesn’t want to move even though she knows she must. Endor will knock on her door soon and nobody can see this. Endor will knock on her door and patiently wait to be called in. If Marcia never says ‘come in’, Endor never will. Alther is gone. Cerys is gone. Milo is gone. There is nobody coming to pick her up off the floor and she doesn’t have the luxury of dying of thirst right in this spot. She heaves herself up and pick up the jagged parts of the broken bowl she threw earlier. She performs a Clean spell on the sofa but the stain won’t come out. She’s going to need a new one.

I warned you @septimus-heap

[comfymommy]

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[dernieredanse21]

A Kingdom of Ash and Fury

A House of the Dragon | Aemond Targaryen Fanfiction

Summary: Aelys Targaryen was a ruler, but power is a lonely thing. One love was a promise never kept, the other a storm never meant to break—yet neither will stand between her and the throne that was stolen.

“You were never going to be their pawn, Aelys. I made sure of it.”

“You are cruel. Aelys.” A statement, not insult, not judgement. “No, I am necessary.”

Chapter 1

Prologue:

The Birth of Aelys Targaryen

The Red Keep, 109 AC, The Red Keep

The bells of King’s Landing tolled at dawn, ringing out over the Red Keep, across the rooftops of the city, down to the docks where the Blackwater Rush met the sea. They heralded the birth of a Targaryen princess.

A girl.

Within the throne room, courtiers gathered in hushed anticipation. The labour had lasted through the night. The child had come screaming into the world just as the first light touched the horizon, her arrival marked by a sky burning with the embers of dawn. Another Targaryen born, the maesters had murmured, another time the gods flipped a coin.

King Viserys had been the first to enter the birthing chamber. His robes were hastily donned, his silver hair unkempt from a restless night, but his face was alight with joy. He had taken the babe into his arms, gazing at the child swaddled in crimson silk.

“Blood of the Dragon,” he had declared to the room. “My granddaughter.”

Rhaenyra, still flushed from labor, had smiled weakly at her father, “Aelys, her name would be Aelys.”

A daughter was not a son, but it was a firstborn child, strong and healthy. She had done what was expected. She had secured the next generation of her bloodline.

But beyond the chamber doors, the court did not speak of joy.

The whispers had already begun.

The girl should have been celebrated. She was the firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, daughter of Laenor Velaryon. A princess of pure Valyrian blood. But there was a shadow over her cradle, a question that slithered through the halls of the Red Keep, unspoken yet ever-present.

Whose daughter is she?

Ten moons ago, a girl with silver hair had been seen walking the Street of Silk, cloaked but unmistakable, with a man at her side. A prince.

Daemon Targaryen.

The city still murmured of it, though few dared speak openly.

Would he?

Could he?

Had the Rogue Prince truly laid hands on his own niece before she was wed to Laenor Velaryon?

Did the king send him away for that very reason?

Daemon Targaryen was many things—warrior, rider of Caraxes, previous claimant to the Iron Throne—a man not known for restraint. The court had not forgotten the blood he spilled in the Stepstones, the whispers of his violence, nor the bodies he left behind when his ambitions were thwarted. He was charming among the soldiers, yet, a man who made kings and nobles uneasy because he was uncontrollable.

A child sired by Daemon would be born of fire, carrying not just the blood of the dragon, but the will of a conqueror. She would be raised by Rhaenyra, trained as a queen, but with Daemon’s ruthlessness of taking what one believed was theirs, no matter the cost.

If Aelys was truly his daughter, then she was more than a threat.

She was a weapon waiting to be sharpened, thought Alicent Hightower.

Laenor Velaryon was the first to arrive at the chamber, smiling as he crossed the threshold, silks of House Velaryon draped over his broad shoulders. He moved without hesitation toward Rhaenyra, toward the child. But the eyes of the court watched him too closely. Did he pause? Did he hesitate?

The babe in his arms had hair of moonlight and eyes of amethyst. A true Targaryen. A Velaryon in name.

Yet that, too, was dangerous.

Because if she was not Laenor’s, then she was Daemon’s.

And that made her the most dangerous child in the realm.

Aelys Velaryon. Aelys Targaryen.

Another Rhaenyra.

Firstborn child of Rhaenyra, not a second son to be set aside.

And if she truly was Daemon’s daughter, she would be the child of a prince who should have been heir himself.

Alicent Hightower did not smile when she heard the bells. She sat in silence, green silks draped over her lap, fingers tightening around the arms of her chair. Her son, Aegon, was barely two years old. The king’s first born son. A prince. A boy.

And yet, even now, Viserys placed a girl in the light of succession.

She did not need to look to know her father Otto Hightower was already at her side.

“Another princess,” Otto said, voice low.

Alicent’s lips parted, her gaze still fixed on the doorway that led to the queen’s chambers.

“Another queen,” she murmured.

Otto said nothing. The air was thick with unspoken words. The realm had begrudgingly accepted one female heir. They would not accept another.

And if this girl was truly Daemon’s—

Alicent exhaled sharply. She did not entertain foolish hopes. Viserys would never name Aegon heir over Rhaenyra. But this child? This girl born beneath the stain of scandal? There would be whispers in the realm. Dissension. Uncertainty.

Alicent’s fingers relaxed. She finally looked at her father, his face impassive, unreadable.

“She will never sit the Iron Throne,” Otto muttered.

Alicent tilted her head, watching as Viserys lifted the newborn high before the court, proclaiming her as his blood, his legacy, his future.

Her expression did not shift.

“She will if her mother does,” she answered softly.

Otto’s eyes flickered, absorbing the weight of those words.

A long silence stretched between them.

“And if she is truly Daemon’s?” he murmured at last.

Alicent did not answer. Instead, she turned back to watch the child, swaddled in crimson silk.

And in the shadows of the Red Keep, the pieces on the board began to move.

[wellthebardsdead]

*the following day after the fall of Alduin*

Marigold: *ankles and knees ballooned and swollen, broken bones bandaged up and healing with great difficulty despite the potions and taliesins best efforts, now trying to pull himself out of bed to get on with his day*

Taliesin: *rolls over hearing whimpering and feeling his lovers weight shift* hm?… Marie no, *reaches up grabbing the ribbon barely containing the other elfs mane of ringlets and curls, setting them free with a gentle tug* come back to bed, you’re meant to be resting.

Marigold: *looks back at him tearfully, the sunlight shining through the window catching against his golden skin and nut brown hair and making his honey eyes glow like amber as tears of frustration and pain fall freely down his cheeks* I-I need to use the washroom, I- I can’t get up.

Taliesin: *slides out of bed without hesitation and pulls on his robe before swaddling the smaller high elf in the duvet and furs* shhh I’ve got you. *lifts him up with ease and carries him out and downstairs*

Kaidan: *steps out of Caryalinds room to sneak back to his (doesn’t want to wake the whole house)* …

Taliesin & Marigold: …

Kaidan: Don’t give me that look you and I both know we were just cuddling.

Taliesin: where’s your shirt then?

Kaidan: over his pillow.

[gyokutoll]

“Taru~ Taru~ ✨” hifumi hops over the lounging sofa to lay with his head across. Beaming up his ringed fingers traces his chin. “Look at me, don’t deny me your eyes.” Host mode, inside the house??

unprompted ; always accepting !

Hifumi traipsing about Hotaru's condominium as if he paid the fees for it. Hotaru sometimes fantasized about hooking his fingers around the back of Hifumi’s collar. Haul the latter out like a dog and lock the door. Hifumi had always been excitable, the sort of coruscating light which blinded like a strobe set to go off in a heavy club with crystalline champagne and chanting corpses. It was the sort of frenetic energy which suited a host tasked with litanies of champagne calls. One! Two! Three! Cham—pagne! Cham—pagne! All too exhausting. Hotaru didn’t know where that man got that kind of energy from considering the fact that they shared an age.

Ridiculousness was so native to Hifumi that Hotaru could not even begin to countenance why Hifumi had swaddled himself in a host’s robes while they were dead alone. Hotaru glanced down despite these mental chidings—he was always stringing Hifumi up in his head like hanging a marionette for its crimes. It was not a malicious sentiment, necessarily, but rather one of passive discipline—one engaged within because it was the healthiest means of gaining catharsis. But still, there was something to be said about this humoring business. Lovely-eyed Hotaru, soft brown eyes—rabbit eyes, long lashes, split earth pouring out light.

❝ You see my face every day and I’m not giving you a tip.❞ Hotaru’s nose was straight, curved lightly at the tip. Hair like woven sunlight slipped from where he’d tucked the ends behind his ears. Even speaking coldly, there was an undeniable quality to him which would have deranged painters in their pursuits. An ineffable elegance of character which started from the base of the soul and extended further out into his personhood.

Hotaru flicked two of his fingers against Hifumi’s forehead, exhaling a heavy sigh as if he intended on sending it skittering over distant waves.

❝ So stop the acting already; no one is here to watch.❞He still kept Hifumi’s head in his lap, however, still watched Hifumi. Some could interpret this as fondness. It was impossible to say with someone like Hotaru, who insulted most things, and ignored whatever was left. But he wasn’t ignoring Hifumi, but Hifumi had been allowed in the little rabbit’s burrow and here Hifumi was allowed to touch the rabbit. Because ultimately, Hotaru trusted Hifumi not to flay him alive and sometimes that meant something to the right people.

Not that Hotaru had ever been right.

[azems-familiar]

20. cuddles while reading to each other.

Lelesu/Hythlodaeus, set in her normal comboverse in the immediate aftermath of Ultima Thule!

-

Hythlodaeus is definitely not supposed to be in bed with her.

Sharlayan’s chirurgeons take their jobs very seriously, especially when their patients are the Warriors of Light, who have so recently saved the star. Lelesu has been under their care for a little over a week now, though she spent the first few days of that time unconscious - and Corrain still is, from what little she’s managed to find out about him. No one wants to tell her just how bad his condition is, afraid of worrying her too much or afraid she’ll try to drag herself out of bed to go see him (she’s considered it, admittedly), but she’s listened to Hades and G’raha quietly discussing him with Artoirel, when they thought she was asleep, and she knows even Hades doesn’t know if he’ll wake up. It isn’t just the injuries that’ve left him nearly dead, but something more, some burden on his mind and soul that’s left him in a coma, and all they can do is wait.

She wants to go see her best friend, badly, but her glasses are still broken from Zenos - not only is her injured eye still swaddled in bandages (they saved the eye, according to the chirurgeons, but they don’t think they could save her vision), but without a replacement set of glasses what she can see is fuzzy and useless once it’s more than six inches from her face. And just because she didn’t take a scythe to the spine doesn’t mean she wasn’t badly injured by all the fighting either, so- for now she’ll behave, if only because she doesn’t think she could make it to Corrain’s room without collapsing.

Hythlodaeus has hardly left her side since they returned from Ultima Thule, apparently. He’d managed to convince the hospital administration to bring a cot in for him, and she knows the only times he’s left since have been when Hades has managed to convince him to go refresh himself at the Annex. Now that she’s awake, she appreciates the company; she’s tired and uncomfortable and bored.

And this is why Hythlodaeus has brought a veritable mountain of books back to the room from the Annex. He’d crawled into the bed with her about an hour ago, helped her find a comfortable position curled up against his chest that didn’t irritate her injuries, and cracked open a cheesy romance novel he’d apparently found in G’raha’s room. It’s certainly not high art, but he’s just as confused and amused by the cliches and the….questionable erotica as she is, and he turns reading it into a little performance that has her desperately trying to muffle her laughter in his robe (the last thing she wants is for one of the chirurgeons to come check on them, drawn by the sound). His arm is warm and heavy around her shoulders, and she can feel the steady rise-and-fall of his chest beneath her cheek, the quiet echo of his heartbeat underlying the words he speaks.

It’s only, really, been a few days since her memories of her life as Seleukos fully returned - a few days since Azem’s summoning invocation and Hydaelyn’s last gift together brought Hythlodaeus back from the Lifestream and gave him a body. She’d gotten close with the shade of him left behind in Amaurot-beneath-the-sea, and even with only vague, half-torn memories she’d loved him that week she and Corrain spent in the past, but now - now that she remembers everything, from their first meeting as young students enrolled at the Akadaemia Anyder to the last words they exchanged in the direct aftermath of the Final Days, it’s like all of the emotions Seleukos would have felt are hitting her at once. Not just the love, but the grief too - for his death to Zodiark, a message delivered by crystal just after Helios’s own sacrifice, a loss she hadn’t had the time to grieve. (Nor the inclination, if she’s honest with herself; she knows now, far too well, how she reacts to loss, and Seleukos had been no better. They’d taken Helios’s Sundering spell to Hydaelyn as he’d asked them to, and then they’d gone home - like Hades asked, but without telling him they were, because they couldn’t stop blaming him for Hythlodaeus’s death - and immersed themself in the bright memories saturating their bedroom until the world splintered into four and ten shards.)

Now that he’s alive again, in a place she can touch him, all Lelesu can think of is that he was gone, just like Haurchefaunt, and it’s…strange, to feel like grieving someone right in front of her. It still hurts. She’s tried not to think too much about it, especially given Corrain’s condition, especially given the fact that just prior to Hythlodaeus’s resurrection she watched her friends sacrifice themselves for her and if she thinks too much about that she might just crack, but it’s hard to avoid when she has so little to occupy herself with.

Hythlodaeus pauses in his reading and looks down at her for a moment, then marks his place and sets the book aside, shifting to rest a hand on her head and gently tug on her curls. “I am here, marigold dear,” he murmurs, and the nickname draws a small smile from her - it’s different from what he’d cheerily called Seleukos, but she appreciates that, she thinks; they’re not quite the same person, after all, even if they are in all the important ways. “I shall not repeat the same errors again - our dearest Emet-Selch has already quite thoroughly taken me to task for them.”

Lelesu huffs a little and reaches over to tangle her fingers in his; he squeezes her hand and smiles warmly down at her, and she finds it in her to return the expression. She shouldn’t be surprised, she thinks, that he knows what she’s thinking about, but it’s still a little shocking that he can read her as easily as he read Seleukos. “I believe you,” she says quietly, then sighs, tugging the hand she’s holding closer so she can lean her face against it. “It’s just…Seleukos never had time to grieve you, and now that I remember their life, I’m getting saddled with all their baggage, too. And- well- Corrain and I did lose you, when Kairos erased your memory. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but-”

Hythlodaeus hums, brushing her hair back from her face. “I am here for you, should you need to reassure yourself,” he promises, all deep sincerity, and leans down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “And I am sorry, that I forgot you. ‘Tis truly a miracle that Kairos was able to erase the recollection of one such as you from my soul.”

“Sap,” Lelesu accuses, tucking her face into his hand to try to hide the blush his words bring to her cheeks, and he laughs, a bright, ringing sound that she thinks could never cease to bring a smile to her face.

Things- aren’t completely alright, not yet. Corrain is still locked in slumber, and they don’t know if he’ll wake up; she can’t forget the Scions and their last stands, or the awful memories of the end of her first life, a horror she has yet to process and will probably struggle with for the next few months. But for now- for now, Hythlodaeus is here, and alive, and reading to her, his laughter a salve on the wounds of her soul, and she thinks she can make do with that.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

16th August >> Mass Readings (USA)

Friday, Nineteenth Week in Ordinary Time 

or

Saint Stephen of Hungary.

Friday, Nineteenth Week in Ordinary Time 

(Liturgical Colour: Green. Year: B(II))

Either:

First Reading Ezekiel 16:1-15, 60, 63 You are perfect because of my splendor which I bestowed on you; you became a harlot.

The word of the LORD came to me: Son of man, make known to Jerusalem her abominations. Thus says the Lord GOD to Jerusalem: By origin and birth you are of the land of Canaan; your father was an Amorite and your mother a Hittite. As for your birth, the day you were born your navel cord was not cut; you were neither washed with water nor anointed, nor were you rubbed with salt, nor swathed in swaddling clothes. No one looked on you with pity or compassion to do any of these things for you. Rather, you were thrown out on the ground as something loathsome, the day you were born. Then I passed by and saw you weltering in your blood. I said to you: Live in your blood and grow like a plant in the field. You grew and developed, you came to the age of puberty; your breasts were formed, your hair had grown, but you were still stark naked. Again I passed by you and saw that you were now old enough for love. So I spread the corner of my cloak over you to cover your nakedness; I swore an oath to you and entered into a covenant with you; you became mine, says the Lord GOD. Then I bathed you with water, washed away your blood, and anointed you with oil. I clothed you with an embroidered gown, put sandals of fine leather on your feet; I gave you a fine linen sash and silk robes to wear. I adorned you with jewelry: I put bracelets on your arms, a necklace about your neck, a ring in your nose, pendants in your ears, and a glorious diadem upon your head. Thus you were adorned with gold and silver; your garments were of fine linen, silk, and embroidered cloth. Fine flour, honey, and oil were your food. You were exceedingly beautiful, with the dignity of a queen. You were renowned among the nations for your beauty, perfect as it was, because of my splendor which I had bestowed on you, says the Lord GOD. But you were captivated by your own beauty, you used your renown to make yourself a harlot, and you lavished your harlotry on every passer-by, whose own you became. Yet I will remember the covenant I made with you when you were a girl, and I will set up an everlasting covenant with you, that you may remember and be covered with confusion, and that you may be utterly silenced for shame when I pardon you for all you have done, says the Lord GOD.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Or:

First Reading Ezekiel 16:59-63 I will remember the covenant I made with you and you will be ashamed.

Thus says the LORD: I will deal with you according to what you have done, you who despised your oath, breaking a covenant. Yet I will remember the covenant I made with you when you were a girl, and I will set up an everlasting covenant with you. Then you shall remember your conduct and be ashamed when I take your sisters, those older and younger than you, and give them to you as daughters, even though I am not bound by my covenant with you. For I will re-establish my covenant with you, that you may know that I am the LORD, that you may remember and be covered with confusion, and that you may be utterly silenced for shame when I pardon you for all you have done, says the Lord GOD.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Isaiah 12:2-3, 4bcd, 5-6

R/ You have turned from your anger.

God indeed is my savior; I am confident and unafraid. My strength and my courage is the LORD, and he has been my savior. With joy you will draw water at the fountain of salvation.

R/ You have turned from your anger.

Give thanks to the LORD, acclaim his name; among the nations make known his deeds, proclaim how exalted is his name.

R/ You have turned from your anger.

Sing praise to the LORD for his glorious achievement; let this be known throughout all the earth. Shout with exultation, O city of Zion, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel!

R/ You have turned from your anger.

Gospel Acclamation cf. 1 Thessalonians 2:13

Alleluia, alleluia. Receive the word of God, not as the word of men, but, as it truly is, the word of God. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel Matthew 19:3-12 Because of the hardness of your hearts Moses allowed you to divorce your wives, but from the beginning it was not so.

Some Pharisees approached Jesus, and tested him, saying, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife for any cause whatever?” He said in reply, “Have you not read that from the beginning the Creator made them male and female and said, For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh? So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, man must not separate.” They said to him, “Then why did Moses command that the man give the woman a bill of divorce and dismiss her?” He said to them, “Because of the hardness of your hearts Moses allowed you to divorce your wives, but from the beginning it was not so. I say to you, whoever divorces his wife (unless the marriage is unlawful) and marries another commits adultery.” His disciples said to him, “If that is the case of a man with his wife, it is better not to marry.” He answered, “Not all can accept this word, but only those to whom that is granted. Some are incapable of marriage because they were born so; some, because they were made so by others; some, because they have renounced marriage for the sake of the Kingdom of heaven. Whoever can accept this ought to accept it.”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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

Saint Stephen of Hungary   

(Liturgical Colour: White. Year: B(II))

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Friday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading Deuteronomy 6:3-9 Love the Lord, your God, with all your heart.

Moses said to the people: “Hear, Israel, and be careful to observe these commandments, that you may grow and prosper the more, in keeping with the promise of the LORD, the God of your fathers, to give you a land flowing with milk and honey. “Hear, O Israel! The LORD is our God, the LORD alone! Therefore, you shall love the LORD, your God, with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength. Take to heart these words which I enjoin on you today. Drill them into your children. Speak of them at home and abroad, whether you are busy or at rest. Bind them at your wrist as a sign and let them be as a pendant on your forehead. Write them on the doorposts of your houses and on your gates.”

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 112:1bc-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7-8, 9

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Blessed the man who fears the LORD, who greatly delights in his commands. His posterity shall be mighty upon the earth; the upright generation shall be blessed.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Wealth and riches shall be in his house; his generosity shall endure forever. Light shines through the darkness for the upright; he is gracious and merciful and just.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Well for the man who is gracious and lends, who conducts his affairs with justice; He shall never be moved; the just one shall be in everlasting remembrance.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

An evil report he shall not fear; his heart is firm, trusting in the LORD. His heart is steadfast; he shall not fear till he looks down upon his foes.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Lavishly he gives to the poor, his generosity shall endure forever; his horn shall be exalted in glory.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Gospel Acclamation John 14:23

Alleluia, alleluia. Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel Matthew 25:14-30 Since you were faithful in small matters, come, share your master’s joy.

Jesus told his disciples this parable: “A man who was going on a journey called in his servants and entrusted his possessions to them. To one he gave five talents; to another, two; to a third, one – to each according to his ability. Then he went away. Immediately the one who received five talents went and traded with them, and made another five. Likewise, the one who received two made another two. But the one who received one went off and dug a hole in the ground and buried his master’s money. After a long time the master of those servants came back and settled accounts with them. The one who had received five talents came forward bringing the additional five. He said, ‘Master, you gave me five talents. See, I have made five more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. Since you were faithful in small matters, I will give you great responsibilities. Come, share your master’s joy.’ Then the one who had received two talents also came forward and said, ‘Master, you gave me two talents. See, I have made two more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. Since you were faithful in small matters, I will give you great responsibilities. Come, share your master’s joy.’ Then the one who had received the one talent came forward and said, ‘Master, I knew you were a demanding person, harvesting where you did not plant and gathering where you did not scatter; so out of fear I went off and buried your talent in the ground. Here it is back.’ His master said to him in reply, ‘You wicked, lazy servant! So you knew that I harvest where I did not plant and gather where I did not scatter? Should you not then have put my money in the bank so that I could have got it back with interest on my return? Now then! Take the talent from him and give it to the one with ten. For to everyone who has, more will be given and he will grow rich; but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And throw this useless servant into the darkness outside, where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth!’”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[nyandereneko]

Spare Blanket

Word Count: 701 Summary: “With a reassuring smile and a confident squeeze of the hand, Nova followed Qifrey’s lead as the pair set off to find a cozier nest to settle into for the night.” Author’s Note: Day 5 of the prompt list I’ve been working from, Qifrey brain descended out of nowhere but I’m not complaining lol. Thank you for reading as always!

*****

She always seemed to catch him dozing in the most peculiar places. Slumped over a chair in the kitchen here, passed out at the drawing table there, squirreled away in who knows what kind of nook that she just so happened to be passing by at the time. As the hushed hours of night settled over the remote atelier, Nova could hear subtle notes of the evening’s ambiance ebb and flow through the halls, suffusing the air, caressing her ears with the comforting hum of the surrounding wilderness. The crackle of a fire or the stirring of pots had developed into a similar kind of comfort for her, much as she’d come to recognize the distinct rustle of a certain witch’s robes or the deft glide of his nib staining parchment.  

Qifrey wasn’t as transparent with his exhaustion as his warmhearted Watchful Eye tended to be, but Nova was more than shrewd enough to notice which days seemed to hang over him like a cloud. And that didn’t even account for the episodes of agony that struck him from time to time, symptoms of some insidious malady that she was still somewhat apprehensive to treat. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help him, more that she suspected he may end up resenting her aid more than he appreciated it. It was easy for him to justify her intervention in the moment, but when the fog cleared she wasn’t as confident as he seemed to be that his gratitude was genuine and unwavering.

Magic wasn’t the only thing she had to offer him, of course, and apart from playing his occasional partner in crime she took it upon herself to look after him to a certain extent, as much as she safely could. And as much as he would permit, stubborn as the snow-haired witch was. Sometimes that took the form of something as simple as covering his sleeping shoulders as he slumbered at his workspace—much as she was doing now—being careful to extricate some of the more uncomfortable items from beneath his resting head as she fussed about. She closed up his books, compiled his scattered notes, and neatly stored his arsenal of tools for casting. She didn’t dare to encroach upon him any further as he slept, more than aware of the depth of discomfort and agitation he tended to exhibit when someone invaded his personal space without warning.

But just as she was turning to leave, something unexpected snagged her wrist. The woman let out a startled yelp, fur fluffing up like she’d been shocked, and she buttoned her lips as swiftly as she could as her cry faded into the air. There was no doubt she must have disturbed the fatigued witch’s rest, but much to her own surprise Nova found a weak hand halting her retreat as a single bleary blue eye observed her over the soft curve of his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I was just—”

“I believe I’m the one who owes you an apology,” he corrected between yawns, releasing his hold as he sat up and stretched. “It wasn’t my intention to catch you off guard, I’m sorry for startling you.”

“No apologies necessary,” she replied with a smile. “However, I think you’d be more comfortable if you found somewhere a little softer and warmer to rest.”

“Am I to assume you have some such place in mind?” he asked with a playful edge, and Nova cleared her throat and swept a horde of unproductive thoughts into the darkest, dustiest corner of her mind she could find.

“Not necessarily, but it’s not like there’s a shortage of cozy places to curl up in around here.”

Qifrey rose from his seat, swaddling her in his cloak as she gasped and yielded to his embrace. “Let’s see what we can find, then, shall we?”

Nova simply nodded her agreement. She didn’t think she had the strength to voice a coherent reply, but her gesture of acknowledgement was more than sufficient enough for him. With a reassuring smile and a confident squeeze of the hand, Nova followed Qifrey’s lead as the pair set off to find a cozier nest to settle into for the night.