#web security considerations

[inestwebindia]

ASP.NET web application security is of paramount importance. Microsoft’s ASP.NET framework, renowned for its power and flexibility, lays the groundwork for dynamic and feature-rich web applications.

[hererafjastori]

The bats having no concept of healthy boundaries in a relationship and using concerned tracking and stalking as their primary love language is something that can be so personal

Love the idea of the batfam all being equally unhinged like Tim calls dick every two days with “why’d you take the cameras I use to stalk you down :(“ Dick is always placing trackers on everyone, Bruce just fucking shows up and watches his kids go about their daily lives, Jason’s got eyes all over the city to ping him if someone matching his families description pops up, Barbra is always listening and watching like love that shit

[ghoularaki]

w3lc0me t0 th3 fr3aksh0w <3 | 3

↠  summary: Your ex-boyfriend not satisfied with how the relationship ended comes back to teach you a lesson its best to keep your mouth shut. Some secrets are best left unspoken.

↠  word count: 11,960

↠ pairing: todoroki touya x reader, takami keigo x reader, geten x reader

↠ genre/warnings: angst, smut, college/dark web au, DARK CONTENT, yandere! dabi, bullying, stalking, blackmail, panty shots, noncon touching/fingering, daddy kink, blood/gore, major character death, the reader talks about addicts in a very not nice way

series masterlist

Leaning your head against the window, the blurry world rushed by you as you sat on the crowded bus. You hugged your bag close to your chest. Usually you would be more considerate of others, but after a long shift your feet ached. All help your parents offered had been cut off after you reported Dabi to the police. Though they only did to appease Enji.

Your life had been entangled with the Todoroki’s way before you dated Dabi, but the details were foggy and unclear. From what you had been told, you were inseparable from Dabi’s youngest sister, Fuyumi. Though after an incident happened, your parents deemed it best for you to never come back as you were hospitalized and they didn’t want ‘you to get hurt again’.

But now you knew it was a load of shit. They just didn’t want to get on Enji’s bad side. The Todoroki’s were the rich of rich, the upper echelon of society. And your parents would do anything to crawl and grovel anywhere near at least a step on the ladder.

Your parents weren’t anywhere near poor, you knew full well you came from a well off family with your father owning a reputable and flourishing business, but any success pales in comparison to the empire the Todoroki’s possessed.

To continue on with the family legacy your father and mother forced you to get a degree in business. Since they were only fueling their own desires, they paid for everything in the beginning. You didn’t have to worry too much about expenses. Even then, you refused to take more than given. Anything your parents offered came with a hefty price. Though they quickly dropped you after you sent Dabi to jail.

They basically disowned you and cut all funds they were giving off. At first, you panicked, scared, but relief filled you. For once you would be granted freedom and true free will. But your leash was only handed over to Enji instead.

He had you in the palm of his hand. You were ready to change majors and careers paths you actually had interest in, go to a cheaper college—finally start your life over. Enji ripped that away from you when he held over your head the fact he’s a main administer at the college and could strip you any ability to make a living.

He made an offer: you could drop out and live your life in misery, or you continue your degree and he would get you a secure job, but every move you made would be heavy monitored. You were completely under his thumb.

Enji paid for all your college expenses, but everything else you were on your own. Hating to be a burden on your friends, you got a job without telling any of them. Everyone still thought your parents were giving you an allowance and you wanted to keep it that way.

Bored of the darkening city flashing by you, you pulled your phone from your front pocket and flipped it open.

still coming over?

from: ice prince (≧◡≦) ♡

sent 7:13 PM

on da bus 2 u

from: my princess

sent 7:21 PM

get here safely

from: ice prince (≧◡≦) ♡

sent 7:22 PM

hmm ill think about it, feeling like causing an accident

from: my princess

sent 7:23 PM

don’t be annoying, brat

from: ice prince (≧◡≦) ♡

sent 7:24 PM

;P

from: my princess

sent 7:24 PM

Smiling down at your phone, you accidentally let a giggle tumble out. Embarrassed, you glanced up and around to bus to see if anyone heard. Your eyes caught the mirror at the front of the bus. A flash of blue stared back. Squinting hard, you didn’t want to believe what you saw.

Sucking in a ragged breath, you snapped your attention to the bus driver. He definitely saw that you saw him. Clutching onto your phone, you dared to look again. This time, he didn’t break eye contact. A smirk dimpled his scarred skin.

A deer entranced by the headlights of its impending doom, you continued to stare. Your mind raced as your body sat paralyzed. You contemplated texting Geten but ultimately what could he do?

The university crept into view. Dabi already knew where your dorm was, but not Geten’s apartment. Putting Geten’s safety above your own and trying to think a step ahead, you pressed the button to alert the bus driver to let you off.

Standing up as the bus came to a screeching halt, you observed Dabi standing up as well. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you shuffled past the driver.

“Thank you,” You mumbled out as you scrambled down the stairs.

From the corner of your eye, Dabi took the doors in the middle of the bus instead. Before he could even step out the bus, you quickened your pace towards the dorms. Behind you, his boots resonated from the rubber leisurely stomping against the concrete. He was in no rush, but kept you in his line of sight.

Under the streetlights, you searched for the shadows of other people. You knew ultimately no one would help you—everyone knew the power Dabi held—but it gave you shaky comfort. That’s not even putting who his father is into the equation. He made a reputation for himself outside of the Todoroki name.

His own shadow loomed, following closely but enough to give you some wiggle room. Likened to mouse loosely clutched in the jaws on a cat, he let you think you could escape. You refused to turn around, walking faster, you glanced at the shortcut. Instead of weaving through the buildings you could sprint across the parking lot and patches of grass. You would leave yourself open, but he already knew where you were.

In front of you, you saw a small building used for registration. They don’t close until eight so you had time. Redirecting yourself, you tightened your grip on your backpack straps. Hoping he didn’t know the building well, you could exit through the back and cut through to the dorms.

Hand outreached, you gripped the cool metal and swung the door open. Not wasting time to close it behind you, you raced the lady at her desk.

“Can I help-” She didn’t even get to finish her sentence as you sped around the corner and out of her sight.

The florescent lights flickered above you as your slippery shoes smacked against the tiled floors. The offices were empty around you, everyone must have gone home by now. Lucky them.

Dabi found you again. His familiar footsteps bellowed through the lonesome halls. His pace quickened past his lazy stride, not wanting to lose you. Whipping around the corner, you spared a glance at him. He didn’t look happy. Annoyance clear on his face that he had to speed walk to keep up with you.

Turning another corner in hopes to throw him off, you almost slammed into a wall. You hissed as you checked your shoulder against the corner. Wincing, you breathed heavily. The long day had gotten to you and impromptu game of cat and mouse ran you ragged.

Your sprint slowed to a light jog as you ended up at a dead end. You frantically looked around as you realized you took a wrong turn.

“Come out, come out where ever you are,” Dabi drawled out.

To the left of you an unoccupied office called out to you. Twisting the door knob, it opened with ease. Gently as you could, you closed the door closed and crouched down. You looked for a lock but sadly it could only lock from the outside with a key.

Awkwardly still in a crouch, you walked towards the window to the left of the desk. Flipping open the hinge, you pulled it open with your fingers until you could push with your palms instead. As you opened it enough to fit in, the door creaked. Spinning around, Dabi stood in the door, casted in darkness. The piercing lights outlined his lithe frame and dark hair.

You stared at each other for moment, waiting to see what the other would do. Your shoulders heaved up and down as you sat in nausea inducing anticipation.

“Are you really going to jump out a window just to avoid me?”

“You’re the one stalking me,” You stated matter-of-factly.

He approached closer. Being further in the room, you could see the smirk on his lips. “Can’t argue with that.”

You swung one leg out the window, not liking how he came closer. Pupils blown out from adrenaline, you felt like the unsuspecting prey. In a stand off, to see how much farther you can run before you tired yourself out. Endurance hunting, you read about it somewhere and you couldn’t help feeling like the one being hunted.

“How much longer are you going to do this.” He kept talking, not so subtly walking towards your frame in slow strides.

Another step, you throw your other leg over the frame. Your torso stayed twisted so he didn’t leave your line of sight. He was now only an arms length away.

“Until you take the hint.”

Jumping out the window, Dabi’s hand brushed against your backpack. You screamed when you felt the minor tug, but the window being under a hill gave you enough momentum to slip through his fingers. Stumbling, you ran down the small decline.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” Dabi shouted out the window, crawling out of it. He wasn’t as agile as you getting through due to his taller form.

With tiny, quick steps, you scampered down the hill with him hot on your trail. Clutching onto the straps, you stumbled onto the flat bit of grass. Taking a sharp turn, you race towards the pathways to the dorms. Dabi’s quick, lumbering footfalls thunder behind you. He was no longer leisurely prowling not too far behind. He had a goal, nab you before you could escape again.

With the doors only a mere few feet away, you shove your hand into your pocket. Shaky fingers fumble for the key card attached to your lanyard with your student ID. Cradling it with your palm, you glanced so it faced the right way. Not slowing your pace, you slammed straight into the doors. Slapping the card against the reader, it chirped, the door clicking open.

Stepping back, you swung the door towards you. Glancing behind you, a screech scared the birds sitting peacefully in the trees, they cried as they flew away. Dabi barrelled towards you, a finger brush away from swallowing you.

Slipping into the door, you clutched the metal handle and tugged it to you. Stopping himself right before slamming into the glass, he stared at you with an eerily calm expression despite his flared nostrils to take in more air.

Adrenaline coursed through you, your hands slicked from the sweat soaking them. Your digits clutched the lanyard, thankful you didn’t drop it while being chased by this fucking psycho.

Not saying a word, he waved at you with such a serene air to him. A stark difference from in the office. Your face must of pinched as he laughed at you, his grin so wide it must hurt.

Admitting defeat, he stepped away. You did not move as his lithe frame sauntered off the campus, away from you. But, he would come back, he always does.

Blinking, you spun on your heel and walked the path to your dorm. In complete silence your traverse the halls until you reach the room. Twisting the knob, you walk in and slump against the slab of wood. Flipping the lock, your lips started to wobble.

Ripping your backpack off, you threw it into some corner of your room. Breathing heavily once more, your rack your nails through your hair. Tugging at the strands, you screamed. Crying out, you slid down the door until your butt ungracefully hit the door. Curling up into a ball, you cradle yourself as you sobbed into the darkening, empty room.

Work had been grueling. Blowing a stray hair away from your face, you perched a tray on your palm. Forcing a false smile on your lips, your mary-jane heels clicked against the tiled floor. The intricate drinks barely swayed with each step. After working here for almost a year, you have gotten quite good. If you wanted to pretend, you could call yourself a simple waitress, but you wouldn’t kid yourself.

Bubbly, you went over to your table, “Here’s your drinks, masters!”

All the men at the table were awkward in that excited way. You were used to it, you preferred these customers over the smarmy ones. The glasses and tea cups clinked against the table. Finished, you bowed to them and heading back towards the kitchen.

Your frilly black and white maid dress flounced around your upper thighs. You hated this job, but it was the only place hiring around this area that you could feasibly take to bus to. Purposely picking a job far away, it took about an hour and half to get here after a bus ride, a train and then another bus. You didn’t want your friends to see you like this. They were still under the impression that your parents were paying for everything. If only they knew.

“Y/n!” Your boss called to you.

Hiding your eye roll, you sauntered over to him. “Yes?”

Not looking up from his phone, he pointed over to the right side of the cafe. “There’s a customer asking specifically for you.”

Throwing a mini tantrum, you threw your head back and groaned, “Please don’t tell me it’s Mr. Tsukishima. He’s such a creep.”

He glanced up at you, “No, it’s the one in red.” Not giving you anything else, he went back to his phone.

Cursing him under your breath, he was such an ass. If you texted on the clock like he did, he would fire you immediately. Sucking down the agitation, you spun on your heel and put back on your bright persona. Surveying the tables, you spotted who your boss was talking about.

Your feet faltered.

Keigo rested his chin on the palm of his hand and twinkled his fingers at you. Blood rushed in your ears drowning out the girly pop music playing in the background. Your vision swarmed as you forced yourself to push forward. Swallowing the ball forming in your esophagus, you stared at his smug expression.

As you reached your table, you could feel your boss’ eyes on you. Coughing despite how tense your throat was, you gave a shaky smile.

“What can I-uh, what can I get you today…” You trailed off.

Keigo raised his brow with a hum.

Sighing, you continued, “Master.”

A smile didn’t leave his full, rosy lips. He kept staring for a moment, his golden irises flitting over your attire, satisfied. Reaching a hand out, he pinched the hem of the skirt.

“They couldn’t give you anything longer?” He tilted his head like an owl, mocking you.

Through gritted teeth that could be mistaken for a smile, you sweetly seethed, “No.” You snatched the skirt back.

Letting go a little too easily, he reached for the menu. Flipping it open with a fwop he browsed the options. Keigo didn’t say anything as he pretend to contemplate every option. You were left to stand there like an idiot, unable to do anything beside wait.

“Do you need more time to choose?” You subtly hinted that you had other things to do.

He slapped the menu closed, the sound had you flinch. Twisting his torso so he gave you his undivided attention, he smiled once more.

“Is there anything you recommend?”

Your eye twitched. He seriously wasted five minutes looking just to fucking ask that. Breathing out, the fear quickly turned to anger. How dare he come and harass you at your workplace. Thing was, he technically hasn't done anything so you couldn’t even kick him out.

“I really like the chocomint-”

Keigo stuck his tongue childishly, “Ew, I hate mint chocolate.”

“Would you like the strawberry latte more?” You didn’t even try to entertain his obvious teasing. He wanted to make a fool out of you.

“That sounds lovely.”

“I will be right out with it.” You bowed to him and turned around.

His hand engulfed your wrist and stopped you in your tracks. Stationary, you twisted back to him. Your fingers shook from his grip. Heart in your throat, your pupils expanded from the adrenaline.

“What do you say?”

“Huh?”

His voice was underwater.

Tugged you down so hard you had to catch yourself on the back of his chair, your face hovered over his.

“What do you call me, Y/n?”

Gulping, you stuttered, “Master?”

Beaming up at you, he let you go. Snatching your wrist back, you clutched it and cradled it to your chest. Pivoting on your heel, you raced to the coffee machines, sniffling.

With shaking hands, you kicked on the machine. Grabbing a dainty mug, you grabbed the syrup and coated the inside. From the corner of your eye, you watched Keigo. He had pulled out his phone and his thumb rapidly pressed against the keyboard. Foreboding sunk deep in your stomach. Maybe if you threw up right now, you could go home. But you knew, Keigo would only follow and come back again.

Finished with his drink, you grabbed a tray and set the mug down. Racing over to him, you wanted him out of here as fast as possible.

“Miss!” A voice called for you.

Whipping around, you saw one of the men from your other table waving you down.

Smiling, you stopped, “Sorry, master, let me finish this and I will be right with you.”

The man who worked up the courage to beckon you, blushed and nodded with a shy smile. You stifled the scoff, what a loser. The second you had enough saved, you were quitting this stupid job.

Focusing on one thing at a time, you approached Keigo sooner than you would like. Setting down his latte in front of him, you tucked the tray to lay on your stomach, hands clutching the rim.

“Anything else I can get you, master?”

Suspiciously, he only smiled, “Not yet.”

Pinching your face in confusion, you stepped away. Keigo let you, but watched you like a hawk. Going back to the other table, you tried to smile. His eyes piercing into your back.

The table of awkward men stumbled over their words to tell you they needed the bill.

“Right away, masters!”

You went to the cash register and started to plug in their orders. Punching into the old keys, the mechanical buttons creaked. The bell on the front door twinkled, filling the air. Glancing at the door, you didn’t see any customer. That’s weird.

Hitting enter of the register, you shifted your weight on one leg. These damn heels were digging into your toes. Shaking out the pain, you ripped the receipt off the printer. Shoving it into a spare pink, leather binder, you sauntered back to the men.

Sneaking a glance at Keigo, the little binder slipped from your hands and toppled on the floor. Your feet tingled for a different reason. Body screaming to run, Dabi sat across from Keigo. At the clattering, he dragged his eyes over to you. He tilted his head at your obvious trembling fingers.

“Miss?” A voice cut in.

Still shivering, you bent down and grabbed the receipt, not taking your gaze off the two men. Picking it up, you raised and slowly spun your head back to the table.

Your voice thick, you muttered, “How will you be paying today?”

One of the men’s face recoiled, obviously not liking you didn’t say master. You didn’t care, you weren’t going humiliate yourself like that in front of Dabi.

“Cash.”

Working up a shaking smile, you gathered the cash given to you. As you were about to plug it into the register and give the change back, the one displeased with you told you to keep the change. They all gathered their stuff and left the cafe. Money in hand, you kept your head down. Crumpling up the cash, you stomped over to the register and shoved all the money inside. Slamming the drawer closed, you stuffed the receipt into the accordion folder.

Mustering up the courage you didn’t have, you dragged yourself to Dabi and Keigo. There was no way to avoid him.

Still scared, you couldn’t help your anger, “What are you doing here?”

Like the cat that ate the canary, Dabi grinned wide, “Is that any way to talk to a paying customer?”

“Yeah Y/n-chan, you don’t want us to tell your boss, would you?”

Whipping your head to Keigo, you sneered, “You have no right-”

Dabi raised his hand, ready to call over your employer. Like a kicked dog, all your fight slipped out from you. Clutching onto his wrist, you forced his arm down. Not putting up any resistance, Dabi welcomed your desperate clutch.

“Please, don’t,” You begged. You needed this job.

Flinching back as his hand reached up, you let him cup your cheek and stroke your cheekbone. “That’s more like it, baby.”

Clearing your throat, you lifted yourself back up.

Pretend he’s just like every other customer, you chanted in your head.

“What would you like, m-master?” Hot humiliation filled you, burning behind your eyes.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Dabi chuckled out, slipping further into his seat while spreading his legs. A bulge prominent in his pants, he was already half-hard.

“Can’t say I don’t enjoy seeing her so pathetic like this,” Keigo taunted. He only smirked, showing off his canine when Dabi threw him a glare. “What do you say, scarface? Should we commemorate this?”

Before Dabi could even reply, Keigo grabbed his phone. Grabbing the hem of the skirt once more, he flipped it up and snapped a picture of your panties. Yelping, you shoved your dress back down.

“What the fuck?” You barked.

Keigo laughed as he showed Dabi his screen. You could only blink as Dabi huffed out a chortle of his own.

“Pink skulls, really? You don’t change do you?” Your ex peered up at you, not caring at all.

Tears sprung in your eyes. Crinkling your maid dress between your trembling fists, you went to tell your boss. You had enough.

This time, Dabi was the one to grab your wrist and tug you down. Forcing you to sit on his lap, you frantically looked for anyone to help you, but the cafe was basically empty. Of course your boss went for his hourly smoke break.

In the process of shoving you on his thighs, your skirt rid up, your panties on full display under the table. You heard the shutter of a phone camera along with a quick flash of light that illuminated Keigo’s face. Squirming, you tried to get off.

Wrapping his arms around your torso and your arms, you were bound to Dabi. You kicked against his shins with the pointy part of your heel, but he didn’t budge.

Keigo pulled his arms from under the table and presented both you his phone. From here, you could clearly see your underwear and bare thighs on full display.

“What you think, is it a good photo, Y/n-chan?” Keigo's gaze stayed on your face, a smug smile stretched his lips.

You attempted to jump to grab the phone, but Dabi pushed you back to his chest. Sick of this, you opened your mouth to scream, but your ex slapped his hand over your lower face.

“You’re so predictable, you know that?” Dabi sighed into your ear.

Cursing him out from under his palm, you glared at Keigo, not able to look at Dabi from this angle.

Keigo gave a mocking pout, “Oh no, we made the snitch mad.”

Ignoring the man in front of him, Dabi turned you to sit more sideways to look you in the eye. Your mascara run down your face, coating the edge of his pointer finger.

“Here’s the deal. You do what we want, or these pictures,” He nodded towards Keigo’s phone, “will be spread to everyone and they will know you what you do. You want this a secret, right?”

Seething, you bobbed your head in agreement.

“Good. Unblock my number and stop running or else.”

More tears wet your cheeks and his hand. Seeing you got the picture, he let go of your face. Wiping away the salty water, he only spread the streaking makeup more. He continued, “You know I hate when we fight like this.”

Grabbing his hand, you pushed it off your face. “I need to get back to work.”

“Nah, I think you’re done for today.”

Dabi glanced at Keigo and he understood. You watched him as he went towards the employees only door. He must be telling your boss some lie that the idiot will believe. Keigo could charm anyone.

Helping you off his lap, you both stood up. Keeping your head down, you stared at your shiny mary-janes.

“I need to get changed,” You muttered.

Hooking a finger under your chin, he lifted your face, but you still didn’t look at him.

“Don’t even think of running.”

Shoving his hand off, you clenched your teeth. Pivoting on your foot, you marched to the back. Opening your locker, you grabbed all your stuff and slammed it closed. Stomping over to the bathroom, you rapidly got changed and shoved your uniform into your backpack. Snot dribbled down as the tears poured over. Wiping your nose with your sleeve, you sniffled.

Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you took the walk shame out and see both of them waiting outside the cafe doors. From through the glass, Dabi took a huff of his cigarette and blew the swirling, grey smoke into the air. The bell chimed as you went outside with them.

Like you were still together, your ex slung his arm over your shoulders. Relaxing your spine, you slipped out from under him. Standing in front of him, not caring he spotted your blood shot eyes, you pointed a finger at him.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

Putting your back to him, you raced to the bus stop, them not too far behind. Grabbing the handle of your bag, Dabi had you stumble backwards to him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going back to my dorm, Touya.”

Dabi’s face fell at that. “That’s not my name anymore.”

Pushing his hand off your back, you got in his face, “And neither am I your girlfriend, but I guess we both aren’t getting what we want.”

He didn’t back down and loomed over you, using his height to his advantage. His piercing blues bobbled with rage. “Fine. Be a bitch, but we aren’t done with this.”

Flicking his lit cigarette off into the street, he stomped away. Keigo followed, but not before waving to you with a shit-eating grin. Trembling, your knees wobbling, wanting to collapse right here on the sidewalk. Mustering up the strength, you continued to the bus stop and waited.

A moment later, the bus came to a screeching halt. Paying and selecting a seat in the back, you swung your backpack to lay on your lap. Hugging it to your chest, you pulled out your phone. You had no texts.

Laying your forehead against the top of the bag, your leg bounced. Both rage and deep sadness pulled at your tendons. A scream climbing to your tongue, begging to be let out. As you got closer to the subway station, more anger coursed through you.

Going down the stairs to your train, you trembled with each step. Stewing in your thoughts, by the time you reached your stop, you didn’t even want to take the last bus ride. Sunlight still hung in the sky. Walking the rest of the way to the dorms, you had thirty minutes to seethe.

You don’t get why Dabi won’t take the hint. Whatever you two had died last year. Your relationship was built on lies anyway. He knew exactly what he did to you ages ago and never brought it up. He fucking targeted you and dragged you down with him. But you refused to drown with him.

Swiping your ID against the keycard, you marched up to your dorm. You need to rant to someone before you lost your mind. Toga would be the worst to tell this to, she might actually kill them in broad daylight. And Geten, well, you were scared for him. Plus you needed someone with an outside perspective about this.

Booting up your laptop, a message already awaited you.

hey gurl!!

from: killerkiko

sent 3:23 PM

hiii. can i vent to you ; (◞‸◟)

from: psychokitty

sent 4:56 PM

what happened :(

from: killerkiko

sent 4:57 PM

you know the crazy ex i told you about?

from: psychokitty

sent 4:56 PM

that psycho? what he do this time

from: killerkiko

sent 4:57 PM

it wasnt just him, its that fucking dick riding blond bitch too

from: psychokitty

sent 4:56 PM

oh… ?

from: killerkiko

sent 4:57 PM

sorry i’m just so upset. they found out where i work and you know how much i hate working there but i have no other options. they took pictures and are blackmailing me and telling me that i have to do what they want or theyll tel every1 and enji doesnt know and im sure he will rip me a new one. my life is so fucked kiko

from: psychokitty

sent 4:56 PM

wait, what pictures ?

from: killerkiko

sent 4:57 PM

oh um this is so embarssing but they took panty shots

from: psychokitty

sent 4:56 PM

gurl wtf can you tell its you

from: killerkiko

sent 4:57 PM

not really unless you slept with me and know what underwear i like lol but my ex has a lot of influence so if he says its me then its me. haha i’m so fucked arnt i

from: psychokitty

sent 5:00 PM

you should get back at them

from: killerkiko

sent 5:01 PM

wut? how????

from: psychokitty

sent 5:01 PM

i’m sure you have dirt on them too

from: killerkiko

sent 5:05 PM

you dont know half of it. im scared it will get back to me tho

from: psychokitty

sent 5:06 PM

or just spread a rumor, no one has to know its you

from: killerkiko

sent 5:08 PM

You stared at your screen for a moment, contemplating. Chewing on your bottom lip, the impulse to do something stupid doesn’t leave you. Maybe Kiko was right, why do they get to just ruin your life especially Keigo. He had no part in this, but he inserted him into your horrible breakup. You want at least some payback.

Pulling up the university blog form, you make a new account. Without thinking, you started typing:

no one heard this from me, but i saw takami keigo do drugs before his game. from what i heard he usually takes coke to keep himself alert and pumped before each game. that whole natural being the fastest is bullshit, he’s a druggie just like his supplier todoroki touya aka dabi. yeah that dabi who’s todoroki enji’s son. both him and keigo sells drugs to other kids on campus for a quick buck despite being filthy fucking rich. be careful around them and their friends bc they are all drugged out losers who sell cheap shit for a high price.

More words tumbled out of you as you bitterly sobbed. You wanted to say more, expose more, but you knew this was enough. If you said anything besides this, it would be easily traced back to you. Not thinking, you posted it. Leaning back in your chair, you clicked back on Kiko’s profile.

did i do something stupid?

from: psychokitty

sent 5:48 PM

haha did you actually do it

from: killerkiko

sent 5:56 PM

yeah….

from: psychokitty

sent 5:56 PM

good on u gurl you feel better ?

from: killerkiko

sent 6:01PM

am i a bad person if i say yes lol

from: psychokitty

sent 6:03 PM

no youre not

from: killerkiko

sent 6:04 PM

thanks kiko you really helped, i think im gonna sleep early

from: psychokitty

sent 6:05 PM

night <3

from: killerkiko

sent 6:05 PM

night <33

from: psychokitty

sent 6:06 PM

Squinting your left eye, you groggily groan at the sunlight peering in through your window. You forgot to close the blinds last night. Shoving your pillow over your head, you flopped back down and tried to get more sleep.

What happened yesterday came rushing back. Spring up so fast, the pillow went flying, your head whipped to your closed laptop.

“Shit, shit, shit, fucking shit,” You muttered while untangling yourself from your sheets.

Stumbling over to your desk, you flipped open the computer, hunched over. The tab to the blog was still open. Though your post along with your account had been deleted. Digging the heels of your palms into your eyes, you cursed yourself out. How could you be so fucking stupid?

Scrambling for your phone, there was one text message left unread.

Watch yourself.

from: Mr. Todoroki (flaming cunt)

sent 6:00 AM

You were so screwed. Of course he was able to figure it out it was you, that man knew your every move. Nothing got past him. Smacking yourself in the head with a grimace, you berated yourself for being so dumb. Being overemotional was not an excuse. The childish part of you wanted to blame Kiko solely for this, but you were the one that listened to her. You should have know better. Crossing your fingers, you hoped only Enji figured out who made the post.

Glancing at the time, you were late for class, again.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” You groaned to yourself as you scrambled to get ready.

Shoving on whatever was clean clothes near you, deciding to just shower after class, you raced out the door, slipping on the shoes closest. Snatching your bag from last night, you raced out the door.

“Late again?” Ayame shouted as you sprinted past her in the hallway.

You only offered her the finger as you continued running. Luckily you only had one class today, but it was a lecture, so much fun. With haste, you arrived only ten minutes late, swinging open the back door. The professor merely glanced at you before continuing his lecture. He surely despised you and you didn’t blame him.

“Again?” Toga leaned over, not really whispering that well.

“Ugh not you too, Ayame gave me shit, too.”

Toga shrugged cutely, “Well…”

“I’m well aware I have been slacking. It’s been a lot,” You sagged into your seat, wishing you could just curl into a ball and stay there forever.

Toga rested her head on your shoulder and nuzzled, “I know, girl, I know.”

Leaning back to her full height, she left you alone. Trying to focus, you reached into your bag for your notebook. Instead your hand grabbed your work uniform. A cold stone dropped in your stomach. Zipping your bag shut, you awkwardly sat straight up.

Glancing at your phone, there was still no message sent from neither Dabi or Keigo. You had unblocked them before falling asleep. Them being so silent freaked you out. Abandoning trying to focus, you stared at your phone, terrified.

A palm landing on your shoulder had you scream. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you stared wide eyed at Toga who only looked at you in shock.

“What the actual fuck was that?”

“You scared the shit out of me!” You yelled back, unable to think of any excuse.

“Damn, I think you pierced my eardrum,” Shigaraki complained, his finger pressing against his ear. Walking over to you two, he inserted himself into the conversation.

Getting up from your seat, you cradled your backpack, refusing to let it out of your sight. Ignoring both of them, you asked, “So are we getting lunch?”

Toga and Shigaraki spared each other a quick side eye.

“Yeah, let’s go!” Toga cheered, slinging her arm around your shoulder.

Leaving her be, you let her guide out of the classroom, Shigaraki not too far behind. Walking towards the cafeteria, you pulled out your phone. Geten had called you.

Pulling away from Toga, you shook your phone, “Hey I got to take this. Meet you outside.”

Her mouth parted to say something, but you were already gone. Speed walking outside, you shivered at the Autumn air. Beelining for the vending machines, you went straight for the chips. With one hand, your phone beeped as you pressed the buttons to call your boyfriend back.

He picked up after two rings, “Where were you?”

The chips fell into the dispenser. Reaching down, the metal flap flipped up as you grabbed your food. “Shit, I’m really sorry. I wish I could give you a good excuse.”

Geten was silent for a moment. “Is this about yesterday?”

You hated how perceptive he was. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“I preferred if you didn’t. I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

You sniffled as your eyes stung, you meekly mumbled, “I know…” God, he turned you into such a big baby.

“Are you in class right now?”

Kicking a stray rock, you went over to a free table. “No, I’m in the courtyard.”

“I’m coming to pick you up. Wait there.” Through the line you could hear the rustling of clothes as Geten got up and searched for his keys.

“No, don’t, I can just take the bus.”

“Princess?” He softly called.

“Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Giggling, you smiled for once in what felt like a week. “I’ll see you in a couple minutes.”

“Good girl, I’ll be there soon.”

Giddy, you hung up the call and stared at your phone. It’s not fair how well he knew you. Him and Dabi were so different. Dabi was hot, like a fire that never wavered. Everything he felt, he felt at thousand percent. His anger scolded, licked at your skin.

Geten had such a cool flare to him. A cold stony marble, a level head that kept you even. With Dabi, you two were like pouring kerosene on a raging flame.

“What’s got you so happy?” Shigaraki asked, pulling you from your stupor.

Looking up at him, you waved him off, “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Is it your new boy toy?” Mirko mocked, coming over as well.

She took the seat across from you, Bubaigawara taking his place next to her to sit facing Toga. Said petite girl sat to your left while Shigaraki took the spot to your right.

Confused, your face pinched, “What the fuck are you guys all doing here?”

Toga smiled, though faltering, “I thought we could all eat together, ya know? Like old times!”

“Yeah, Y/n, like old times,” Keigo’s voice had your heart skip a beat.

Taking the free seat diagonal to you, his eyes never strayed. The need to vomit stuck to your gums like glue. This was too much. Your uniform being in your bag only made this worse. All the evidence was right there.

Your eyes bounced around the courtyard waiting for Dabi to pop up as well. Everyone joked and laughed around you, like nothing changed. You were a mere spectator to the joy surrounding the table. Food was shared but your bag of chips was left untouched. Keigo joined in on the fun, but he never broke his gaze off you. Like a bird hunting its prey. For some reason, the thought that he knew about the post wouldn’t leave.

Pinpricks shuttered throughout your body, the wait for the shoe to drop was driving you insane. This silent torture made you ill. Maybe if you exposed yourself before Dabi and Keigo did then all their leverage would be gone. Sure they still had the panty shots, but what good would they be if everyone already knew.

A dam was about to burst in your stomach.

“Hey, princess,” Geten’s voice pulled you back.

Spinning your head around, Geten made his way over to you, hands in pockets. You were about to get up when he pulled a hand out and motioned for you to stay sitting.

Mirko faked a gag at the nickname, but you chose to ignore her. Beaming up at him, he stood behind you. Petting your hair, he gave a tiny smile as the grin stayed on your lips.

“You want to sit?” Shigaraki asked, ready to move if needed.

No one here really liked Geten. When he attended the college he was a loner and refused to interact with anybody. He always had a bad attitude. They also didn’t like him because the one time Toga invited him to a party, he not so politely told them to keep their drug infested orgies to themselves. Ever the charmer. Like most things about drama, Shigaraki didn’t give a fuck, though. He found the comment funny despite also finding Geten annoying.

“No. We won’t be long,” Geten answered Shigaraki, but kept his focus on Keigo.

Oh no.

Sensing the challenge, Keigo grinned showing his canines, “Yeah, man, come on and join us.”

Geten’s face recoiled in disgust, “Do these guys know how much of a weirdo you are?”

Keigo’s face fell for a second before springing back with his lazy, boyish grin. “No weirder than they are.”

“Hey!” Toga called, deeply offended to be compared to him.

“Like I’m sure they all know about the drugs, but what about the other things, Takami?”

“Geten,” You tugged on his shirt, trying to get him to stop.

Keigo’s lip twitched despite the smile, obviously irritated. “I have no clue what you are taking about.”

Geten hummed, “I’m sure you don’t. How about I tell everyone here? You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

Mirko butted in, “Stop being so cryptic and say it with your chest.”

He tilted his heat at that and stared down Keigo. “It’s not so fun on the other side, is it?”

Seeing he obviously got under his skin, Geten gently grabbed your hand and pulled you from your seat. Throwing your bag over his shoulder, he led you away from the group. Over your shoulder, you watched how Keigo started laughing, doing damage control as Mirko called Geten a freak.

“You didn’t need to do that,” You scolded.

“Yeah I did.”

“Geten-”

He stopped in his tracks and pulled you to him, “You don’t need to be tough.”

“I’m not being tough, I’m just scared what he or Dabi will do.”

“I’ll be fine, you on the other hand are not.”

Leaning your head on his chest, you cocooned yourself into his warmth. “You don’t know them like I do. Keigo won’t let that slide.”

“Stop worrying about me and let me deal with this, okay?”

Not wanting to argue, you let yourself sink further into him. For a second, you could pretend that wasn’t the dumbest move Geten could have ever done.

Shivering, you wrapped your arms around your torso for any sort of warmth. Cigarette hanging from your lips, you glanced around for any sign of Toga. Earlier today she texted you to do karaoke. You both haven’t gone in ages and she could tell you needed to let loose.

“Y/n!” Her voice bellowed throughout the busy streets, her arm raised high in sky, waving frantically.

Waving back, you snubbed the cigarette and shoved the half finished stick into the carton.

“What took you so long? I’m practically shivering my ass off out here.” Your teeth clacked together to emphasize your point.

“Sorry, sorry. I was waiting on Jin, but you know how he is.”

Your brows furrowed, “Bubaigawara’s coming?”

Toga paused and gave you a guilty smile, “Along with everyone else.”

“Himiko,” You growled, you were not prepared to see any of them.

“I’m sorry, okay? I told Keigo and Dabi to behave themselves. I didn’t mean for them to come either, Jin invited them and it’s hard to say no to the guy.”

Sighing, you couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed. You knew Toga was on your side, but all she knew was that you and Dabi had a messy breakup, not the extent as to why you were avoiding him so much. Honestly, you were scared to tell her, scared to tell anyone. If Toga knew everything, she would probably kill Dabi, or at least cut ties with everyone and you didn’t want that. Toga had a hard time making friends. She finally found her little family and who were you to take that from her?

“Let’s go get a room.”

Toga scampered after you and clung onto your arm, “Are you mad at me?”

“A little bit, but it’s not your fault. Let’s just forget about and have fun,” You smiled at her.

She stared for a moment, “You’re hiding something from me.”

You sagged, hating how well she knew you. “You and Geten are like bloodhounds, I swear. I’ll tell you soon, I just don’t know if I’m ready to say anything quite yet.”

Squinting her eyes at you, she decided to let it go. “Fine, but you can’t avoid it forever.”

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

Walking to the counter to rent out a room, you were stopped by a hand clamping down on your nape. The hot palm seared your skin. He arrived sooner than you hoped.

“Miss me, doll?” His nosed brushed up against your ear.

Facing him, Dabi’s pupils were blown wide. He was high. That only meant trouble for you.

Toga quickly cut in, “Hey, hey! Didn’t I tell you to behave.” She had a scowl on her face with her hands on her hips.

Surprisingly, Dabi listened. Pulling away, he lifted his hand up in surrender and walked around her. He ogled at you before going to the assigned room. Toga beamed at you, content with herself. Little victories, but he would come back.

Entering the room, Dabi sat in the corner with his arms spread across the back of the leather seating. The TV sat right next the door on the left. You were about to take the seat closest to said door when Dabi subtly beckoned you over with two tattooed fingers.

Reluctant, you mosied over, like lamb to the slaughter. Slotting yourself next to him, you left a few inches of space between you two.

“Saving room for Jesus?” Dabi snarked.

Your swiveled your head to glare at him. “I don’t want anything to do with you, but you can’t take a fucking hint.”

Dabi huffed out a tiny laugh, a lazy grin on his face. “You’re so lucky I’m high as shit or else I would have taken you over my knee like five minutes ago.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” You crossed your arms and waited for everyone else to pile into the room.

Your watched as Keigo came in first and sauntered over to take the open seat by you, sitting closer than needed. So much for being on their best behavior. Never in a million years did you think you would say this, but Mirko was your saving grace, arriving with the booze.

The second the alcohol sat on the table, you grabbed a bottle. Cracking the lid open, you flicked off the top and took a hefty swig.

Mirko laughed while Toga whistled, “Now that’s more like it!”

The bottle was tiny so you chugged it all down in one go. Probably not your best judgement, but with so many people around, the two men crowding you couldn’t do much. You were in for a long night and you needed something in your system.

“Shouldn’t you slow down?” Dabi questioned. “You’re kinda a light-weight.”

“Fuck off.”

Toga jumped up to the front of the room and flicked off the lights. Turning on the tiny disco ball in the room, swirling colors of green, red and blue casted everyone in a dim glow. Queuing up her desired song, Toga obviously went first.

Reaching for another bottle, this time you poured it into a plastic cup, not wanting to horde it all. Clutching onto the cup, you took another sip. The pleasant wooziness overtook you. Laughing, you pointed at Toga when she stumbled over the words.

Leaning back into the cushions, you hummed along to the song as Mirko went up next. You weren’t in the mood to sing anymore, but it was fun watching everyone else go. Not really paying attention, your head rested against Dabi’s outstretched arm.

Confused by the warmth, you turned your head to Dabi. A cigarette perched on his lips, he reached for his lighter.

“Hey, you can’t smoke in here,” You pouted. Clumsily, you reached over him and snatched it from his lips. The second you pried it from his mouth, you realized what you did.

Okay, so you should have listened to him. You were gone.

Dropping the cigarette, you placed your cup down and reverted inward. You haven’t done that since you two were in a relationship. Dabi was thinking the same thing as he didn’t stop staring.

A chime broke you from your thoughts. Peering down, you saw a text message from Geten.

did you get there safe?

from: ice prince (≧◡≦) ♡

sent 9:46 PM

Smiling with all teeth, you went to message him back. Dabi scoffed from the side of you. Looking up, he leaned over to read what was sent. Snapping your phone closed, you glared at him.

“He’s such a loser.”

“By caring about me? That’s rich coming from your mouth.”

Fueled by jealousy, Dabi smirked. “I bet you think a lot about my mouth.”

Your mouth dropped in shock, “I’m not entertaining this.” Going back to your phone, you went to text your boyfriend.

Dabi wrapped his arm around you and hauled you thigh to thigh to him. Yelping, you fumbled with your phone until it clattered against the ground, going under the seat. Leaning down to grab it, you were stopped in your tracks. Dabi kept you pinned to his side.

Nuzzling into your neck, he dragged his nose up to your ear. “Does he fuck you like I did, hmm?”

You shivered at the hot breath brushing against your sensitive neck. Squirming, you whined as you attempted to bring your shoulder to your ear. Glancing around, no one was paying attention to you besides Keigo. He watched on with unblinking eyes.

Hooking his fingers under the hem of your shirt, Dabi pulled it down to gain more room. Poking his tongue out, he licked your cheek. Whimpering, you clenched your eyes closed as he kissed the soft skin. Peppering more little kisses downward until he reached your pulse point. Dragging his tongue upwards, he marked his territory with his spit. Nipping the skin, he soothed the ache by suction his lips around the bite.

Releasing you with a pop! he nosed back up to your ear, “Don’t you miss my tongue between your legs, licking your little clit.”

Reaching down, he blatantly cupped over your pussy. You shut your thighs, trying to block him from going further. Dabi only laughed. “Yeah your legs would clench just like that. You couldn’t take it, always begging for me to stop, but we both knew you loved it. Squirming and crying, begging for Daddy to-”

“Please stop,” You pathetically cried, silent. No one had looked over yet, but you were petrified for when they did.

Seeing how terrified you really were, Dabi slipped his hand from between your legs.

“Don’t be such a fucking baby,” He scolded, leaning back into the leather.

Before Dabi could do anything else, Toga flicked the overhead lights back on. The party must be over.

Using this as an excuse, you got up and away from Dabi’s clutches. Following suit, Dabi and Keigo got up, ready to head out. Thinking you were going to be close behind, they left. Everyone else still in the room, Mirko about to clean up, you stopped them.

“I’ll clean up. Himiko paid for the room and you guys bought the drinks. Let me help.”

Toga questioned you, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah! Geten’s planning on coming to get me anyway so I won’t be alone or have to walk to the station,” You reassured her.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Mirko stretched her arms above her head, and walked out.

“Call me if anything happens, okay?” Toga said, grabbing the stumbling Bubaigawara.

“Yes, yes. Go,” You laughed and pushed her out the door. Closing it, you let out a hefty sigh and leaned your back against the slab of wood. The mess wasn’t huge, but still bothersome.

Grabbing a black plastic bag they brought the alcohol in, you gathered up the empty bottles and cups. Swirling each glass, you made sure no drop of liquor was left inside. Putting the still filled drinks in their own pile, you planned to give them back to Mirko later. Maybe she will stop being a bitch to you if you don’t drink up all her alcohol.

Content with your work, you gathered up the trash bags and went to the door. Bags in hand, you twisted the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

Perplexed, you tried again. Nothing. Okay, let’s not freak out. You looked for a lock you might have absentmindedly switched. The handle only had a keyhole. Toga must have flipped it on accident. Groaning, you pounded on the door. Maybe a worker could hear you.

“Hello! I got locked inside!” You shouted, but the bass from the adjacent rooms drowned out your voice.

Panic filled you. What if you get locked in here forever and starve to death? Ready to pounded against the door, you stopped for a second. You forgot about your phone. You really shouldn’t have drank that much.

Walking back to the seats, you kneeled down and looked underneath. Your phone sat by the back wall. Shuffling your way so only your butt hung out, your fingers brushed against the phone. Fanning out your digits, you pushed the phone into your palm.

“Finally,” You huffed.

A low whistle called from behind you, “Well, would you look at that.”

You yelped at Keigo’s voice as you jumped. Your head hit against the wood above you. Hissing out in pain, you scrambled your way out. Rubbing against your head, phone still in hand, you stared up at them from your kneeling position.

“W-what are you doing here?” You scrambled to back on your feet.

“I wasn’t done with you, yet.” Dabi sauntered over, intent clear in his posture.

Bouncing over to the glass bottle, you raced over to use it as a weapon. Scooping you up, Dabi slammed you against the leather seats, knocking the wind out of you. He climbed on top of you, but you kicked your feet out.

“Get off me!” You screeched.

Using your boots to your advantage, you pressed them against his chest to push him off. Grabbing your calves, he pried your legs open to shove him torso between them.

Flipping up your skirt, he stared at the tights in his way. You screamed again, but he slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Give me something to gag her with.”

You sobbed and wailed against his palm. Keigo grabbed a spare bag and crumpled it up. Arm outstretched, Dabi grabbed it without breaking his gaze. Makeshift gag in hand, he forced your mouth open and pushed it inside before you could make a noise.

Going back to your tights, he dug his nails into the crouch area and ripped with such force your body jostled. Pushing against his shoulders, you kicked your feet out to get him away. Muffled sobbing carried throughout the room.

Your plain black panties were on full display for him. Slipping his finger under the hem, he pulled them to the side. Full on begging now, you punched against his chest. Gathering up your wrists, he shoved your arms above your head. Leaning more over you, Dabi stared at you as he pressed his fingers into your bare clit.

Tears coated your eyelashes giving them a darker appearance. Glaring at him, you hiccuped as he swirled his digits into the bud.

“You miss this, don’t you? Look at how wet you are already.”

Shaking your head, you denied as he picked up a steady rhythm. Even with the year away from each other, Dabi still knew your body so well. Firmly, but not harshly he played with your clit. Pinching and pulling, he watched as wetness started to dribble out. Gathering the slick, he pressed his finger into your empty hole. He eased his way in with little resistance.

“What a whore. Barely had to do anything and your cunt is sucking me in. Do you love being fucked that much, huh? I bet that cuck’s baby dick can’t do anything for you,” Dabi worked himself up, seething.

Punching his fingers inside, he didn’t let you get used to him at all. The clicking of your wetness being fucked back into you rung throughout the room. Using his palm, Dabi grinded the heel into your clit as he crooked his fingers up. Your back arched as he rubbed right against the spongy spot deep in you.

“Is Daddy making you feel good?”

Your thighs shook from the pleasure, but you still shook your head no. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Dabi sneered at you as he leaned down closer.

“Either admit it or I’m making you walk back your cuck of a boyfriend with my cum dripping out your cunt.”

Keening, you shook your head no, again.

Dabi tilted his head, mocking you, “No? My baby doesn’t want that?”

Trying to display any sign of submission, you let your head loll to the side as you rocked your hips against his fingers. Dabi bent down and bit down on your neck, holding you down. Your body shook as white clouded your vision. Sinking his teeth further in, you came with a whine, eyes clenched.

Giving you a few more slow pumps, Dabi pulled his fingers out of your winking hole. Sliding your panties back over your pussy, he gave it two slaps. You jumped at the smacks against your clit.

Dabi sat back, his back resting against the cushioned wall. Your chest heaved as you tried to come down from the high. Tears caked your cheeks as the drool from the gag dribbled down. Grabbing you, he forced you on his lap, back to his chest. He kept your legs spread, a hand cupped your pussy.

“Spit,” Your ex put his hand under your chin.

Scared to disobey, you let the trash tumble into his awaiting hand. He threw it somewhere in the room.

“Let’s keep this party going. Birdbrain turn off the lights.”

You had forgotten he was there. Ashamed he had seen you come, you stared at your lap, at the hot hand pressed against your pussy. The colorful lights illuminated the room once more as Keigo picked some niche, slow songs to play in the background.

Grabbing a still filled bottle, Keigo handed it to Dabi. The man behind you took a bountiful swig before bring it to your lips. You turned your head away, but Keigo leaned over and forced your face back.

The rim of the drink was forced past your lips as Dabi tilted it. The lukewarm alcohol poured down your throat. You tried to gulp down as much as you could without choking. Encouraging you, Dabi stroked your slit with his middle finger. Any time you stopped swallowing to cough, he stopped, too. Soon the bottle was both in your stomach, and coating your face and neck. Keigo cheered.

Pulling the bottle away, you leaned over as you coughed and gagged. Your nostrils flared as you gasped.

A knock at the door disrupted the air. Dabi forced your off his lap and the hand on your pussy now rubbed up and down your back as you tried your hardest not to throw up. Keigo got up and opened the door to see a meek worker.

“Could you guys please keep the noise down?”

Keigo put on his typical charm, “Oh so sorry about that. We got too excited. My deepest apologies.”

The worker blushed, bowed and walked away, not even caring to peer inside the room. Keigo cut the music and groaned.

“Ugh, that bitch totally ruined the mood.”

Dabi let you go and rubbed at his temples, “I agree. I got a fucking headache now. I think this shit it wearing off.”

The room swarmed as you flopped backwards onto the cushions. You were definitely going to vomit.

“Hey, you good?” Dabi asked, his tone seemed concerned, but you couldn’t make it over the pounding in your ears.

“G-go away.”

“You’re seriously still going to act like this?”

Curling in on yourself, you clutched onto your stomach. “I don’t feel good.”

“It’s just the spins, you’re alright.” He stroked your outer thigh, trying to be reassuring.

“I wanna go home,” You sobbed, coiling in tighter.

Dabi glanced over to Keigo who just shrugged.

“Okay, let’s get you back to your dorms, alright baby?”

Like every other time you refused, he ignored you and lifted you up. Taking off his own hoodie, he wrapped it around your waist to cover your exposed bottom. He hauled you onto his back as he walked out the room with your phone in his hand. Pawning it off to Keigo, he let the man go through it.

Keigo flipped through your messages and photos, finding nothing of importance. How boring. A few recent texts from Geten popped up. This dude seemed concerned, that’s funny.

Giving it back to Dabi, they loaded you into his car and Dabi instructed Keigo where to drive to, tangling and untangling his fingers from your hair. Not like Keigo really needed the help to get there anyway.

Geten has never felt an ire as deep as this one. After a couple nights ago, he’s sick of Dabi’s shit. Saturday night he was supposed to pick you up from the karaoke bar, but you never called, not a single text. Scared something happened, he drove to the bar just to be told two men from the group you came with had taken you home.

Scared out of his mind, he was just about to call the police when your caller ID popped up. Before he could even open his mouth to berate you for worrying him, your frantic sobs stung his ears. Through your garbled words, he made out that Dabi and Keigo cornered you in the room, and made you do things you didn’t want. He tried to press for more details, but you were too ashamed to expand past that.

Not wanting to stress you out more, he dropped it, and offered to pick you up. It’s been two days since then and you wouldn’t leave his bed. He emailed your professors that you would be out for the week due to a family emergency, you were basically inconsolable at this point. Cradling you to his chest, he had enough. After lolling you to sleep, he left his apartment.

In his spare time, he did some digging on Dabi and his little friend. Dabi tended to go to house parties rather than be on campus. Keigo had a reputation to keep up being both a star athlete and student, so he wasn’t always at the parties.

Squinting at his phone, he peered up at the house number, double checking he got the right address. Heavy music blasted through the closed door of the rich home. Some drunkards were scattered across the lawn, but Geten paid no mind. On a mission, he bursted through the front.

His frosty eyes surveyed every corner of the house. Weaving through the gaggle of people, he spotted a swatch of black hair hung by a secluded hallway. Perfect.

Zeroing in on the taller man, Geten marched right up and shoved the unsuspecting man against the wall. Thrusting his forearm against Dabi’s neck, he easily immobilized him. Dabi raised his hands in mock surrender with a lopsided grin.

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“Stay the fuck away from Y/n,” Geten seethed.

Dabi’s carefree expression slipped, “Don’t tell me what to do with my girlfriend.”

Geten pushed him further into the wall. Dabi growled in response. Continuing, Geten bit, “She’s not yours, she’s not a toy you can fucking toss around as you please. Take the fucking hint, she doesn’t like you.”

“Did she tell you that? Her pussy last night said otherwise.”

Liquid anger built in Geten’s throat, though, he only tilted his head at the larger man. Eyes wide, Geten sneered, “You’re pathetic. Like a dog begging for scraps.”

Dabi snarled back, looking exactly like the rabid animal Geten described him as. “Don’t play with me, pretty boy.”

“Or what? I don’t care what you do, just leave Y/n alone.” Pushing him one last time, Geten departed from Dabi.

Coming here was useless. He will find another way to get Dabi off your back. As Geten had his back turned, Dabi came up from behind him, and wrapped an arm around his neck. Scrambling, Geten elbowed Dabi in the stomach, but he didn’t do much but grunt. Keigo sauntered around the corner, hands in his pockets.

Standing right in front of the odd man out, Keigo grabbed a little pink pill from his jeans.

“Open wide,” He cooed.

Geten tried to click his teeth together, but Dabi cut off his air supply, his mouth instinctively falling open. Ungracefully, Keigo shoved the pill onto Geten’s tongue, the bitter taste dissolving rapidly against the wet muscle. Whether it was the drug or the lack of oxygen, the world became woozy. Colors slid to the left as his vision went and his body became slack. He really should have listened to you.

“Hey, I think the cuck’s waking up,” A muffled voice rung in Geten’s ears.

Geten groaned at the sound, his head hung limply to the right.

A rough hand smacked against his cheek repeatedly, “Good morning, sunshine. We don’t got all day.”

A mix of black and blond blended into front of him as he tried to focus. Blinking rapidly, the two men came back in more clear view. They both stood above him, them at a height advantage from Geten being tied down to a busted, wooden chair. He was in some dank basement.

“What,” The words were thick in his palate, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“I think you need a lesson with you learning your place,” Dabi drawled out.

Geten’s shoulders bounced as he gravely laughed, “Did you seriously kidnap and drug me over a little jealousy fit? You’re such a loser, man.”

Dabi’s face dropped. Geten’s head spun a full ninety degrees from the swing of Dabi’s fist. Tears clouded his vision as his nose stung. Warm, coppery liquid dripped down onto his lips. The shuttering a phone camera rung through the cavernous room.

Grabbing Geten’s long, dove white hair, Dabi forced him to face him. Gathering the blood sticking to his teeth, Geten spat. The blood splattered against the other man’s face, he only flinched back due to reflexes.

“You’re going to regret that.”

“Get bent.”

Dabi cocked his fist back again and hit Geten right his eye. Snarling, Geten tried to bare through the pain as his eyebrow split and his eye immediately pulsed, swelling up.

Letting go of his hair, Dabi punch again and again. Blood poured from each strike. Geten could only laugh. The rattling sound stopped Dabi.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“That you’re this hung up over your ex. It’s,” Geten paused to cough, “comical.”

Dabi’s face twitched. Shifting his weight onto on foot, he kicked Geten right in the chest. He fell backwards from the force, his head bounced up, smacking against the concrete. He couldn’t even grunt in pain as the same warm liquid pooled around his nape. Geten looked up at the dim light, he really did it this time.

Prowling over, Dabi stood over him and stomped against his already broken nose. Geten whined from the pain, but offered nothing more. He was dying. Too much blood was feathering out from the wound at the back of his skull. It was hard to feel anything as Dabi kicked him again. Maybe it was the drugs still in his system that made him feel so light, like everything was going to be okay.

He tried not to think of any regrets as his last thoughts, but he really hoped you wouldn’t have to identify his body if it’s ever found. Both Dabi and Keigo had daddy’s money, they would surely made sure his body never be found. That fucking sucks.

Blackness swarmed Geten, almost like he was falling asleep. Here, he could feel your head resting against his pillowy chest as he stroked up and down your back. You both basked in the afterglow, entangled body and heart. Geten smiled as his only unswollen eye rolled back, the light dimming.

Dabi kicked again, spying the smile on Geten’s face, “Why the fuck are you smiling, huh?”

Geten’s didn’t respond.

Furrowing his brows, Dabi used his toe to push against Geten’s colding face.

“Dude, I think he’s dead,” Keigo laughed, coming over. He snapped another picture. “His face looks like minced meat.”

“Ugh don’t say that, I’ll never be able to eat meat again.”

Keigo only shrugged, bending down to get more gritty details. Adjusting himself in his pants, he pushed Geten’s head to side to get a good picture of his cracked skull.

“I think you can see his brain.” The flash blanketed Keigo’s fascinated face in an eerie glow.

Dabi pulled a disgusted face, “You’re so weird. Let’s go before we get caught.”

Snapping another shot, Keigo stretched as he pulled up from his crouch. “Roger that.”

[frostbitebakery]

Loud.

Part one two three four

“Yes.”

Cody crosses his arms, one of the cameras in his visor rotating as if in a huff. He’s standing casually but securely. Casual enough that he’s probably ready to sprint, dodge, roll, jump, dive at a microscopic moment’s notice.

“I apologize,” Obi-Wan signs, perhaps widening his eyes into an innocent expression very slightly. “I did not mean to offend.”

“You didn’t offend me,” Cody says, his lovely voice distorted with the vocoder. “You asked if all the antennas were truly necessary. I replied.”

Replied with a long, static silence followed by a single word.

Obi-Wan struggles not to smile. He inclines his head. “Very well.”

.

“Each of them serves a purpose.”

Obi-Wan nods sagely.

.

“Having one signal receptor isolated from the main system makes it possible my suit can scan for hostile or foreign frequencies without the threat of corruption a pointed hack through this antenna could provide.”

Possibly the longest sentence Cody has ever spoken in Obi-Wan’s presence.

Obi-Wan slowly swallows the nutrition gruel the mess has provided for him. The artificial trachea and esophagus need replacing soon, he can feel it.

“Also,” Cody continues, drinking his soup and eating the accompanying sandwich.

Obi-Wan attentively listens to explanations going in depth how Cody theorized a web of communication arrays and double-back-up frequencies, and the best slicers and techs across the clones made it a reality. “Better than I could have ever imagined,” he adds, pride making his eyes shine and soft. “The parameters they took into consideration…”

Cody’s voice washes over Obi-Wan like a gentle tide, carrying him to the shore, the ebb and flow.

.

“It’s crucial I remain in contact with my troops even in a planet-wide attack or defense operation.”

Obi-Wan nods to that, head pillowed on Cody’s chest.

“Sleep,” he taps but he’s asleep before he can make it to the last tap.

.

“The strongest short-range comm in the whole GAR. Every Commander has one of these now.”

It’s a little robust antenna, hidden in a pauldron compartment.

“It has saved our lives a tremendous amount of times,” Mace nods, letting the steam of the tea wash over his face in visible bliss.

Now that Mace is obviously in on reprimanding Obi-Wan and his innocent if amusement-fueled question, Obi-Wan possibly has to apologize again.

.

“It’s less about signals but a bundling of wireless energy to support the tech in a worst case scenario,” Cody explains.

Obi-Wan’s legs dangle in the air, Cody’s hands - secure gentle Force-loving inescapable - holding him up against the wall.

Obi-Wan nods with a weak smile behind the mask and swallows.

The helmet tips down. Up. “You like that.”

It’s Obi-Wan’s turn to be miffed. Cody sounds too disbelieving. “I like being held,” he signs with a shrug and raised brows.

He slings his legs around Cody’s waist and hauls him and, subsequently, the massive clone armor close. Kit and his rigorous pilates only deserve the highest of praise.

“I can hold you for hours,” Cody says over his blush giving his cheeks a rosy hue. It’s too earnest to be a flirt, too drenched in a careful offering.

.

“I can hold you for hours,” Cody gasps, their sweat mingling. “But I know to let you go.”

.

“Let go,” Obi-Wan signs, struggles against the grip, struggles to catch his breath even with the mask. He circles his flat hand over his chest again. Countless times, not that it has made a difference. “Please.”

The fight has weakened him. Sparring with Cody has let him glimpse what lies behind the softened blows, the possibilities of destruction of Cody not holding back. It’s worse than he could have ever imagined.

“Please.”

“Good soldiers follow orders,” the vocoder grates out, the blank wide eye dripping blood staring at him from the destroyed visor claws a shiver down Obi-Wan’s back.

Cody rips off his mask.

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part seven

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 10.0k

a/n: this chapter got a little longer than intended so grab some popcorn for this one and thank you to everyone who has sent asks / left comments on this work! i am having so much fun writing this and it is lovely that it is being enjoyed.

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Highgarden is recalled as a soft spring day upon Lady Tyrell’s mind. A clear afternoon spent tucked into a shaded passage underneath an archway of flowers, a thick book with aging pages raptly capturing her attention as a lute player’s song drifts over the hedges in melodical swirls. The evening winds upon her and her sister, barefoot and dressed in slips of light silks, running through fields of golden roses that stretch out endlessly until the sun sets into pinks and oranges and yellows against the horizon. Crystalline laughs, blithe and innocent, when she and the other young ladies would convince their parents to allow them to take gracefully carved boats out upon the Mander, weeping willows dipping over the river full of emerald grasses and brilliantly colored flowers that grow beneath the water’s surface. She can picture her mother, under the shade of a large and lacy parasol of pastel fabrics, who would occasionally lift one gloved hand to wave elegantly at her daughters from the banks.

As a child, her mother had been the very pinnacle of desired sophistication and grace. With easy charm and poise, the Lady of Highgarden can command any room simply by entering it. From the moment Lady Tyrell was born, it has been expected of her to carry herself with similar elegance. To shine, to play darling and enchant those she meets, to excel at all typical ladylike pursuits. Unfortunately for her, it had not all come naturally. But what she had not been blessed with upon her birth – an easygoing nature, a soft-spoken tongue, a quiet countenance – she found could be learned.

And as time passed, as she gained the perspective upon her parents that only time could provide, Lady Tyrell came to realize that she is certainly, undoubtedly, her mother’s daughter. What she had perceived as perfection as a child was actually patience. The ability to bide one’s time productively, to study oneself and to learn one’s flaws and weaknesses and those of their allies and enemies. When weaponized, patience and a sharp eye blossom into a spider’s web that ensnares unsuspecting prey lured in by the beauty of a blooming rose. How astutely the lady has watched this dance unfold beneath the glittering stars since her mother rose to power in Highgarden. The enemies of House Tyrell did not survive the succession war, although one could hardly say it solely happened by fate’s generous hands. Tongues that rose up against them soon found themselves choking and spitting over their words, poison sweet and lethal upon them. 

If the Lady Tyrell is considered clever and fierce, these traits passed to her through her mother’s blood. When the hour draws late, the bells chiming and tolling out the highest point of the moon in the sky, she often wonders if she possesses as ruthless a spirit. She does not long for the day when that might be tested. To secure the safety of their family, of her children, Elinor Tyrell has tightened her grip upon her web, drawing in the flies and scorpions and snakes. Yet in her recent years, the Lady of Highgarden has grown more and more ambitious, eyes often cast to the winds of fortune and their ever-changing flow. With two eligible daughters, now would be the ideal time to firmly grasp power through advantageous betrothals. 

Betrothals without consideration for the character of the men in question.

A letter of rolled parchment is gripped tightly within Lady Tyrell’s closed fist, her fingers crumpling the tan paper with a constricting hold. Peaking out from beneath her fingers is a wax seal of a single rose, the color of the darkest blue. As her shoes echo sharply within the decadent halls of the Red Keep, a spiked anxiety jumps rapidly underneath her skin. Her brows are drawn above her eyes, which dart from stone wall to marble pillar as her mind composes and discards a multiplicity of strategies that might convince her mother to abandon her quest for greater power. The more she considers the issue at hand, the more abrupt her steps grow. Once upon a time, when the notion of fairy tales was still harbored with childish hope in the cavity beneath her breastbone, she had spun similar designs for a far more romantic purpose. Childhood love, falsely and treacherously placed as it was, drove her nearly mad. 

As she approaches the Queen’s Chambers, the guards immediately draw back from her path, nodding at her after growing quite accustomed to her presence in Maegor’s Holdfast. There is no need to question her being there after their liege lord has brought her past them on many a night. The early hour of the day does not seem to give them pause, nor does her agitated expression and pace. With the arrival of more nobles to the castle that very afternoon, notable allies of the Northern forces whom had recently finished with the remaining issues in the Riverlands, neither Cregan nor Lady Tyrell could surmise how much time the meetings might take as the upcoming trials were further discussed. Unwilling to allow a day to pass without seeing Jaehaera, she had inquired if Cregan might accompany her for a visit in the earlier hours of the day as opposed to their usual meetings which occurred after supper. The Lord of Winterfell had been swift in his granting of her request. She purposefully declined to dwell on how frequent and genuine his accommodations of her desires have become as of late. 

So distraught by the contents of the letter in her hand, Lady Tyrell cannot even muster a saccharine smile to wax demurely across her face. The skirts of her morning gown swish in an angry rhythm across the cold floor, the noise prominent in the otherwise silent passageway. Once, this section of the castle had brimmed with busy servants and giggling ladies maids, clinging upon each other’s arms as their eyes shone with laughter and mischief. Now, it served only as place for ghosts and fragmented memories to linger in hazy and liminal echoes. 

A frown creases upon her face at the sight of the arched oak door, already partially ajar. A warm ray of golden sunlight has snuck past the marble pillars upon the walkway overlooking the enclosed courtyard below, relaxing languorously before the doorway. Her steps draw to a halt before the wood, her unoccupied hand outstretched to press the pads of her fingertips against the smooth wood, the centers of her brows drawn together as she peers into the room. Before her eyes might inform her of anything, a voice that has grown all too familiar reaches her ears.

“Good, princess. Now attempt it once more.” The Lord of Winterfell’s low timbre, stern still albeit it considerably more gentle in that moment, fills her agitated mind as she pushes the door the remainder of the way open. Inside the extensive chambers of the room stand Cregan and Jaehaera, the latter of whom clutches a small wooden sword in her hands. The girl has an expression of utmost concentration upon her face as she swings the toy weapon through the air in front of her, her wide eyes immediately gazing up to the lord to inquire as to how she had performed. Her hair has been pulled back into a single braid, similar to the style the Lady Tyrell has often woven in the princess’ silvery locks. Cregan parts his lips to speak, the telltale raise of the corners of his lips signaling his approval, when both become alerted to the lady’s presence within the room. Jaehaera lights up immediately, a sweet smile upon her face as she lowers the sword. Cregan, in turn, finds his immediate softening at her arrival rapidly morph into hesitation when he sees the look upon her visage. 

So familiar with her expressions has he become, that as Jaehaera hurries across the room to take Lady Tyrell by the hand and begin to explain what she has been learning, Cregan experiences a slight drop in his stomach at the tightness of her closed fists and the creases at the corners of her mouth. As the princess extends the pretend weapon for the lady to view, he wonders if she is angry with him for providing the young girl with lessons, no matter how rudimentary. Perhaps he has overstepped in his decision, in acting prior to consulting her first. With some effort, the lady gives Jaehaera a smile and nods as the girl continues to speak, but Cregan can surely perceive it to be forced. He shifts his weight to his alternate foot as he finds himself with the rare and uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty. A cool morning breeze blows the sheer curtains into the room further, billowing as if the sails of a boat. 

Jaehaera reaches out a small hand to bequeath the wooden sword to Lady Tyrell as the princess wanders into the next room to retrieve a book in High Valyrian she has been reading, the lady’s eyes following the girl out of the main chamber. Only when Jaehaera has slipped through the connecting door does Cregan speak, his voice lowered to a deep hush so that the girl might not overhear. With a single step towards her, a squaring of his broad shoulders as his stern eyes search her face thoroughly, he attempts to phrase his intention clearly. “If I have overstepped, Lady Tyrell, I do apologize. I had only thought upon your own anxieties and wished to perhaps provide the princess with basic knowledge to defend herself.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes widen as the words fall from his lips, her own parting in soft denial as she realizes how Cregan has interpreted her distressed stance and expression. Her shoulders lift and then sag as a portion of the weight from her turbulent thoughts escapes through a concentrated sigh and she intentionally loosens her hold upon the parchment clutched in her anxious hands. The movement causes light to catch the delicate gold jewelry atop her prominent collarbone, drawing attention when juxtaposed by the depth of the neckline of her gown. She can feel the parchment retaining its crushed shape from the strength with which she had been squeezing it. 

“No,” It comes out as a weary breath, followed by a soft swallow and the brief closing of her eyes as she collects her thoughts that have been scattered about her brain like blushing petals from a spring tree. A hand reaches up to her forehead, lingering tiredly atop her skin as if the motion might vanquish the headache that has formed from her incessant worrying. Should she fret any longer, her skin will surely erupt into reddish hives that bloom across her arms like the remnants of a wayward flame.  It is impossible to not be softened by the gentle look she had glimpsed in Cregan’s eyes as he had instructed the princess, by the way the girl has seemed to grow accustomed to Cregan’s presence slowly. For that brief moment she had witnessed them, uninterrupted by the world, she could tell at once how kind and attentive of a father Cregan must be to his own young son. It had seemed as natural as drawing breath, to spend time instructing and guiding the girl. “No, you are right to teach her. You have my gratitude for it, Lord Stark, please do not mistake me.”

In truth, she might rest easier at night with the knowledge that Jaehaera can at least make a valiant attempt at defending herself if something were to happen. She desperately wishes to keep weapons from the girl’s hand, considering her young age and the violent tragedies that have befallen her family, but there shall be no safety for the princess so long as she remains within the castle. The last of her direct lineage, the sole survivor amongst her immediate family upon that side of the war. Many watch with drool dripping from their fangs, twisting hands reaching out to ensnare the child within their grasp and attach puppet strings to her back. If they cannot control her, it is likely at least one attempt on her life shall be made. At present, she remains safe within her chambers, a constant system of guards posted outside her door. But such measures of security shall not last forever, and Lady Tyrell would much rather give the girl a fighting chance rather than end up like her, unable to truly physically protect herself. “You do me a great favor by instructing her, if you truly do not mind doing so. I do wish for her to have some knowledge, given the precarity of her position.”

As Cregan approaches her, seemingly placated by her gentle correction of his misunderstanding, worry of his own flickers tenderly across his face as he seeks out the cause of her agitation. As his imposing figure shadows her own, strands of reddish hair fall about his face and to the tops of his shoulders when he brings his voice impossibly lower, impossibly deeper. Merely a breath away from him, her chin lifts with gentle hesitation to reveal the depth of her concern to his prodding eyes, the distinct color of storm clouds. “Then what troubles you so, my lady? Allow me to rectify it, if it might be within my power.”

How certain his quiet words are, nearly comforting in their strength and assurance. If only it were so simple, to surrender her worries to the Lord of Winterfell and wait patiently for him to straighten each one out. But far too much rests upon his plate at present, and this matter might be out of even his control. Another soft sigh from her lips and she clasps her hands together, unable to resist the childish habit of pressing her fingers into her palms. Cregan’s eyes flick down at this, finding himself only barely able to resist the urge to draw her smaller hands into his own, the way he had when he had bandaged her wrists within the quiet warmth of her chambers. Instead, he involuntarily tightens his jaw while waiting with the steady patience he has come to extend to her whenever she might need it.

“You need not send Lord Blackwood to treat with Highgarden,” The airy and exasperated quality of her words is far from lost upon Cregan, as her tone adapts the rushed cadence she speaks with when her mind becomes embroiled with worry. The letter in her hands seems to hold a weight akin to a stone pulled from a garden’s soft dirt. “Highgarden shall come to you, my lord. My mother and sister will arrive with a small traveling party within the week. She has long since been underway.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow at this, his gaze continuing to search her face while the implication of the news takes firm root within his mind. With a quiet inhale through his nose, he gives her a slow nod. “I had imagined the upcoming trials might draw in more of the prominent families of the South. I did not know your lady mother would wish to attend.”

“The scales of power are in constant motion at this time, and the turbulence of the war has only increased the amount of  opportunities for those who have long since minded themselves and heeded the Targaryen rule,” Lady Tyrell might do well to mind herself and her own words, tending to her personal interests before she foolhardily presents her honest opinion to another, but finds it difficult to not tell Cregan the entirety of the truth. She need not wonder upon how long it has been since she has had a true confidant in whom she can confess the extent of her thoughts – the lady can count the exact number of days that have passed. Perhaps that is why conversing honestly with the Lord of Winterfell has proven so undeniably tantalizing. His stature and countenance might play a considerable role, but following their first truthful encounter it would seem neither of them is eager to raise the issue of the tension up in conversation. Jaehaera’s quiet voice can be heard briefly from the connecting room, in soft conversation with her Septa. “With two eligible daughters, she ought to be here, where she might confirm what I suspect are her desired matches.”

The lady gives a sharp breath at this, managing only barely to keep the words from dripping with sardonic bitterness and exhausted dread. Her eyes drift to the window, as they so often do when unpleasant emotions coil up in her stomach, and she misses entirely the seriousness with which Cregan Stark is taken aback by her words. His eyes narrow further, his shoulders drawing back so that he might appraise her with tight lips and an even tighter jaw that twitches slightly as he is met with an unexpected brush of an emotion adjacent to irritation twisting within his chest. His gaze moves about her face, before he looks down and makes a stoic attempt to reason with himself over how improper it might be to speak brashly upon the matter. Given her beauty, it will prove exceedingly difficult to find a man who would not fall to his knees for but a taste of her, to claim her as his own. The idea of such an atrocity only serves to bring his hand into a tight fist, knuckles nearly white at the thought. She, who has fought so valiantly with the skills she possesses in the face of brutal masculine strength and wanton violence, should not be subjected to such a fate after surviving the war while living amongst vipers and dragons. 

“Are you not of an age where you might seek out a match yourself, my lady?” The words are offered as a low interjection into the silence that has fallen between them, yet perhaps Cregan is unable to fully banish the sharpness from his tone as he presents his inquiry. She is barely younger than Cregan himself, and having been in such a prolonged betrothal with the late prince Daeron she has avoided the fate of marriage in her teenage years. While she has spoken upon a number of occasions about the upcoming engagement of her sister, she has not mentioned an imminent marriage for herself. One edge of her mouth twists up resentfully at his words and she tilts her chin slowly, eyes still cast away as the curtains sway gently in the breeze seeping in through the open window. 

“Such an age seems like a lovely dream, one I have not the luxury of possessing.” The bitter lamentation disfigures itself into forlorn and disconsolate acceptance. She desires to cease discussion upon the matter, holding no wish to appear as one who complains futilely of their fate. Yet thickly veiled sorrow flickers behind the curtain of indifference she sweeps over her glassy eyes. “It matters little. Of greater importance, you shall not be seeing a host from Oldtown within the coming days nor months. They have agreed to stand down.”

This brings the turbulent discourse within Cregan’s mind to a temporary stillness, the leader within him long since used to prioritizing matters of duty over matters of a more personal consequence. There is a quiet mix of relief and lassitude at the realization that the fighting truly has ended, combined with worry over his people, who will have to march north to return to their struggling families as winter bares its fangs and prepares to descend upon the lands. His eyes drift downwards, her expression growing sterner and then weary as he sighs heavily. “Good then, that the trials shall commence sooner rather than late. Too long has this crisis endured, and now it shall end.”

Her hands remain drawn together atop the light fabrics of her gown, her shoulders lowered and her eyes big as she watches him with a reserved look upon her features. The subtle manner in which she recalls all hints of emotion, as if reigning in every outer expression of her own thoughts upon the matter, does not go undetected by Cregan. So much has she lost in the war and so little she gained, save for a broken heart and a tiredness unbecoming of her age. The concept of such a catastrophe within her life having finality to it must weigh disconcertingly upon her heart. He does not envy her for experiencing it now, as he has experienced it before. “I shall not forget your assistance with the Hightowers, nor with the princess or managing the nobles at court. You have been of great help to me, Lady Tyrell.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes narrow with ambiguous deflection, her brows raising as she draws her arms across her chest slowly. The concept of being thanked with such solemn genuineness has become foreign to her as of late and sets her lashes aflutter as she searches internally for a way to change the topic of discussion once again. But any thoughts upon the matter – or any thoughts at all, in truth – are vanquished from her mind into wispy clouds of white smoke as Cregan draws impossibly closer to her, broad shoulders leaning forth. Her eyes instantly meet his own, delicate confusion and wariness upon her face even after their growing familiarity. The memory of his hands upon her lower back and the curve of her hip as he taught her to fight burn hot against her skin, and perhaps this is why her eyes traitorously flicker to his lips, parted softly as he considers his next words. 

At the nearly imperceptible drop of her eyes, Cregan too is robbed of words and coherent thought. His face seems to melt with slow wanting, heavy and thick as golden honey. The hesitation within her eyes is not lost upon him, nor the very gradual manner in which he has been seemingly gaining some amount of trust from her. He knows it is not an easy thing for her to give. There is a flutter of breath that catches within her chest, the effect of steeling herself to stand before him rather than draw away at such weighted proximity. Cregan’s brows draw together with an aching softness at the sweetness of her acceptance, of her belief in his character and intention. Never will he allow a hand to harm her again, never does he wish to see fear upon her lovely countenance. Her heart is well-guarded, separated from the everyday happenings of the capital by barbarous briar hedging, but he swears he can catch a glimpse of the pure tenderness through the twisted maze. The Queen’s Chambers have faded to a soft and distant background behind her, she who shines in perfect focus within his gaze. Any wish to verbally affirm the appreciation he has for her has been lost, replaced by a burning yet tempered desire to provide physical proof of it. Words such as decency and propriety dance briefly upon his mind but are hesitantly pushed aside with the slow raise of his arm. Unlike when teaching her the sword, Cregan has no excuse for his closeness nor the want within his eyes. “You said once that I might endeavor to act upon my gratitude, rather than speak of it.”

His large hand casts a warm shadow upon the skin of her cheek, as she parts her lips unconsciously, mirroring Cregan’s own. Her refusal to draw away from him only solidifies the timid trust she has placed in him, and if it were not wholly unbecoming, the Lord of Winterfell might find himself upon his knees to ask her for something he should not. The concept of her marrying a stranger only fuels the fire within his chest, a petulant selfishness whispering in his ears to forbid someone who does not know her from attempting to come near. To whisk her back to Winterfell, with her approval, if only to keep her out of the reach of unworthy hands. But in this moment, his desire is simple. 

“May I, my lady?” A tantalizingly low echo of his previous words, just as reverent yet more needing than when he had last spoken them. At her silent consideration, that hint of a smile she has come to long for finds its way to his lips. “I am not above petitioning at length, should it please you.”

Lady Tyrell cannot claim that she understands exactly what Cregan Stark is seeking permission for. In an even more dire realization, she finds it does not matter to her. Her answer remains the same, so long as it is he who is asking. A soft breath of disbelieving protest at her own foolishness escapes her lips, the near whine sending heat directly between Cregan’s thighs. Ally or not, she might kill him yet. 

“You need not do such a thing.” The phrase does not take as certain of a shape as she might wish, but the lady manages to whisper the words into the small space between them without her voice breaking. Curse her own idiocy, her own desires. It would seem she has not become wise regarding matters of this nature, despite previous lessons hardly and cruelly learned. A long time coming has this intimacy been, from the very moment their eyes locked within the throne room. Before there had been respect and wary alliance, there had been want. 

The pads of his fingers brush against the plush skin of her cheek, the roughness of them a stark contrast to her softness. Cregan inhales quietly at the touch, the callouses of his battle worn hands tender upon her face as he slowly envelopes her cheek within his grasp, cupping it with a gentleness she imagines few would expect from such an intimidating and large leader of men. His towering over her matters little when his caress is so fond, as if she is some sacrosanct being he wonders over the rightness of touching. Her head leans almost instinctively into his palm, her chin raised so that she might look him in the eye. His eyes are low-lidded, his warm breath dancing gently atop her own.

Her given name is breathed into the space between them, reverent and weighty upon his lips as if from sacred scripture. 

No sooner do light footsteps pad through the door of connecting chamber, and Lady Tyrell jolts back from Cregan as if lightning has descended upon her. In her absorption in their intimate moment, she has nearly forgotten they stand in Jaehaera’s chambers, with the intention of spending time with her. The guilt at this lapse of memory has her quickly turning her back to Cregan, forcing an easy smile upon her face as the princess begins to explain the book she has retrieved. The lady’s heartbeat is so rapid, she wonders if Cregan can hear it as he stands behind her.

“Would you read it with me?” Jaehaera inquires softly, unaware of the tension that hangs thickly between the adults in the room. With such precious little time that the lady has to spend with the princess, she can hardly refuse her. She reaches her hand to gently brush a strand of silver hair that has fallen loose from Jaehaera’s braid and gives an earnest nod.

“Of course, darling. Come, let us begin now.”  Lady Tyrell’s voice is soft and full of the tender love she only presents when around the child. As the two of them cross the room to the cabriole leg sofa by the fire, discussing the book in gentle voices, Cregan can hardly find himself displeased. Conversely, a rather clear image has settled into his mind of tender moments interrupted by the soft voices of children, the halls of Winterfell once more filled with laughter and light. How long it has been since he has acknowledged this dream, let alone believed it might yet happen within his lifetime? When the lady pulls Jaehaera into her lap, opening the book with a sweet smile of pure and devotional love upon her face, there is no doubt in Cregan’s mind upon what he feels within his chest. It is love.

To his surprise, the princess then looks across the room at Cregan expectantly. She does not request anything, but she does not need to. Cregan gives a small nod to indicate his understanding, and makes his way to the sofa, sinking down next to Lady Tyrell as the woman’s face conveys how softly impressed she is by his winning the princess over. As Jaehaera begins to read the words of the story aloud, a gallant tale of the adventures of a knight and his squire, a warm peace has filled the room.

For the first time since the Northerners arrived at the Red Keep, new forces are allowed past the castle’s imposing gates and into the expansive front courtyard. Allies of the Lord of Winterfell, those who had fought beside him during the arduous descent from the North to the capital city, that had been straightening out the remnants of those who had supported Aegon II and the Green faction during the war. The open iron-barred gates let in a long line of weary soldiers, shoulders raising as they dismount their armored horses within the walls of the ruling seat of the Seven Kingdoms. Banners decrying the identity of the gathering Houses are taken careful note of by Lady Tyrell, who remains atop a balcony overlooking the bustling activity below. At her side is the Lady Jeyne Arryn, whom had suggested that the lady join her to observe the happenings prior to the meeting that is to be held. Lady Tyrell has developed a true fondness for Lady Arryn, her admiration for the Lady of the Vale having been in great supply since their first meeting. Learning more of her past has only served to increase her desire to learn from the other woman.

Many wagons roll through the gates, carrying what little supplies are still possessed by the troops, their wooden wheels bumping atop the tiny rocks dotting the courtyard’s ground. Loud and deep voices boom out into the air, laughter heard as friends reunite and begin to speak of their great victories during the campaign. Men clap each other upon the back, talk of drinking and whoring within the capital city that night already heard in plethora throughout the busy space. There are sounds of metal clanking together as armor is stripped and swords are sheathed, of neighing of the horses, of interspersed shouting from guards as the gates are manned. It is such a lively scene that the lady is swept into the unwilling remembrance of a bitter nostalgia, her mind recalling days where such vivacity occurred at the gates each time the sun rose. A cool breeze upon her cheek and the smell of seawater drifting in from the Blackwater stirs her from her thoughts, a quiet acceptance upon her countenance. 

“Lord Stark has told me of the resolution of our problem regarding House Hightower,” Lady Arryn muses in an even tone, her eyes as sharp as steel as they scan the incoming men. Yet there is no harshness to her words, simply the direct Northern practicality that Lady Tyrell has come to find unfortunately endearing. “And so this shall be the remaining arrival of troops to your doorstep. I imagine you shall be relieved to see us depart, Lady Tyrell.”

“I cannot lie and pretend I do not wish for the ending of being trapped within these walls, nor the ending of such a tragedy,” Lady Tyrell finds that the resigned smile upon her lips is rather genuine, and she tilts her chin, eyes wandering across the commotion beneath them calmly. The matter is far too complicated for her to voice her true opinions on, should she herself even manage to ever put her thoughts upon the war into words. The strangeness of its ending has not yet settled fully within her chest. “Yet neither can I truthfully say I wish you all to be gone from my sight permanently.”

Cregan Stark’s Northern council is filled with those the lady truly does not mind the company of. Lady Arryn is perhaps her favorite, but the young Tully lords are bold and entertaining, and she still retains the hope of introducing her sister to Lord Blackwood. Even the lords Corbray have grown upon her, despite her initial uncertainty. It speaks to the quality of Cregan’s character, to surround himself and fill the chairs of his table with those who uphold honor and integrity. As she meets the other woman’s eyes, her smile softens. “Perhaps I shall pay a visit to the Vale once matters have settled further. Your bannermen speak often of the beauty of the Eyrie.”

Lady Arryn beholds her with an unreadable expression for a moment before her eyes crease slightly at the corners, a dip of her head indicating her approval. “We would be honored to host you, my lady.”

“And I honored to be received into your halls.” Another gust of wind graces Lady Tyrell’s face, blowing sections of hair behind her in a gentle wave. Remembering the rumors that had stirred in the castle prior to the arrival of the men from the North, she is quite glad to have discovered for herself their true nature. Rather than bloodlust and violent savagery, the Northern nobles carry a stern upholding of duty and a blunt pragmatism that has served the capital well since their rise to power. Not far in the past are days when she could never have imagined herself with allies from the North, and yet here she stands. 

Her attention wanders down to the courtyard as she steps forward with reserved curiosity to gaze upon the lord who has caused her such upheaval since the day he arrived. Cregan Stark appears every inch the fearsome warlord when amongst the other men, and it is clear from the manner in which they acknowledge him that he commands great respect. But when she catches sight of him, her eyes narrow and her expression grows more serious as she watches. 

Before the Lord of Winterfell stands a lady, dressed in attire far more suited to hunting and fighting than a gown might be. Hair as dark as a starless sky, cascading in small curls down to the tops of her hips as the edges catch loose droplets of warm afternoon sun. A quiver of black arrows rests upon her back, and the ease with which she holds a bow within one leather-gloved hand signals to many years spent familiarizing herself with its use. Her height leaves her upon even footing with many of the men within the courtyard, and her wiry frame still reveals the strength of her arms and of her lithe legs. Boots are laced up to her knees, meant for riding far distances. There have been no alterations to emphasize any one quality about her; it would seem she simply adorns herself with what might be beneficial in battle. She might not be considered a great beauty amongst the nigh impossible standards at Court, but that matters little to Lady Tyrell at present. It is the way Cregan looks at her. Dark eyes shimmer as she laughs, hearty and genuine, at words the lord speaks to her with a stoic fondness. There is an effortlessness to the exchange, a familiarity with each other that sends a worrying gnaw into the pit of Lady Tyrell’s stomach. 

This, she finds unacceptable. To be driven to worry over a conversation – it is entirely possible, the Lady Tyrell decides silently, that she has lost her mind altogether. The recollection of the sensation of Cregan’s fingers upon her face flutters delicately atop her skin and disappears at the sight of the corners of the Lord of Winterfell’s lips upturning to indicate true liking for the woman before him. Never has she seen him look at another in such a way. Her mind races to identify the emotion in his reserved eyes, her own darting across his face as her posture draws up tightly, strung and sharp. 

“The lady whom Lord Stark converses with,” She begins, intentionally manipulating her voice to be pleasant and soft to avoid giving any external indication of the nonsensical concern tugging insistently at the strings of her heart. Especially in front of Lady Arryn, who seems to take great pride in being exceptionally practical. “Who might she be?”

Lady Arryn’s eyes scan the courtyard, her head tilting as she searches for the origin of the lady’s line of questioning. When the other woman notices the exchange below, she observes for a brief moment before leaning towards Lady Tyrell, her eyes remaining fixed upon the two within the courtyard. “That would be the Lady Alysanne Blackwood. She lead her men upon the battlefields as they marched south.”

The name sparks a quiet grasping for any information that Lady Tyrell has ever heard regarding the other woman. With some difficulty, she remembers that Lord Benjicot Blackwood has an aunt upon his father’s side, a lady of true Blackwood blood who has been assisting the young lord since the death of the previous Lord of Raventree Hall. It had been a passing fact she had learned and paid little mind to, but as she watches the conversation continue with smiles from both parties, she curses herself for not seeking out more information on Lady Blackwood. Nothing makes her more anxious than to be uninformed or unprepared, and she seems to have become both of those over a rather unexpected matter. It is not unimaginable that Lord Stark has admirers, nor women he is fond of. She cannot say she has not thought upon the matter briefly, but her time at court has left her rather confident in her ability to outmaneuver another to seek out what she wants. She is familiar with the games the other ladies play at court to win the attention of men. Alysanne Blackwood does not seem to be playing a game at all. It is the raw and brash manner in which she carries herself and speaks that stands out to the Lady Tyrell and with another sickening drop of her stomach, she realizes that this is likely what Cregan finds appealing. 

“She fought in the battles herself, then?” It is with practiced expertise that she keeps her voice light and airy, as sweet and nonchalant as if she were asking about the state of the weather. Truthfully, the concept of a woman fighting upon the battlefield is quite fascinating to her. If only the Lady Blackwood had not captured Cregan’s attention so, Lady Tyrell might have found herself eager to converse with the woman herself. 

“Aye. And a rarity it is, even with her talent. I myself cannot claim to have done so.” Lady Arryn’s casual remarks upon the matter do little to soothe the lady’s troubled mind. She wonders briefly if a lady need not have beauty if she is instead utterly fascinating, and then if perhaps the Lord of Winterfell prefers to be fascinated himself. The conversation within the courtyard carries on quite amiably amidst the bustle of the incoming troops.

“A rarity indeed.” It is a saccharine breath of agreement, accompanied by the brief narrowing of her eyes and upturning of her chin. Over the tip of her nose, she watches the easy way that Cregan angles his broad shoulders towards Alysanne Blackwood, nodding his head as he explains some happening that has occurred since their last meeting. As the Lord of Winterfell leans forward to brush off a dry leaf that has fallen upon Alysanne’s hair, the pit in her stomach hollows in cavernously and the Lady Tyrell is left all but reeling once more, her mind scrambling for logic or sense or a reference of information that might prove a useful balm to her tumultuous state of being at the simple touch. All she manages to do is press her lips together tightly, her smile slipping from sweet to sickeningly so. “He appears rather fond of her.”

Lady Arryn’s expression is tinged at the edges with something akin to amusement at this, and the other woman gives the lady a look out of the corner of her eye. Lady Tyrell is far too occupied with staring quite pointedly down at Cregan – the Lady Arryn finds it a wonder that her liege lord does not simply burst into flames from the severity of the gaze. After a moment, she dips her head in acknowledgement. “I believe they enjoyed each other’s company when their armies met.”

A crinkling of the corner of her eyes is the only indication of Lady Tyrell’s agitation. The phrase is quite vague, and while she desires fiercely to delve further into the meaning of it, she restrains herself. The lady is far too ruffled by this, more so than she cares to be, and she need not allow Lady Arryn to perceive any more of that frustration than the other woman already has. Little can be kept from the discerning gaze of the Lady of the Vale, but she shall try nonetheless. 

The nobles gather in the former Small Council chamber soon after the troops have all entered the walls, talking amongst themselves whilst standing around the long rectangular wooden table. It is not as crowded as she might have expected, most of the men eager to engage in more pleasurable pursuits despite the night not yet having fallen, but Lady Tyrell is not as vigilant as she ought to be. The new faces in the room would normally draw her observant gaze, as she might attempt to study their character and decide who might prove useful in the remaining days the Northerners will reside at the Red Keep. She knows well she captures their attention, her effect on men is severely understood by her and she remains the only Southern presence within the room aside from the twin princesses Baela and Rhaena, whom Cregan has invited to the meeting as an offering of peace. But wandering eyes and wistful looks are spared no thought, not when Alysanne Blackwood has seemingly settled comfortably at Cregan’s side, walking next to him as they discuss something in a low tone.

The Lord of Winterfell is met with a pair of icy eyes when he scans the room for the Lady Tyrel’s presence. It gives him pause.

She does not seem interested in elaborating her thoughts upon the matter, busying herself with a soft smile and pleasant conversation with the lord standing next to her who is all too eager to speak to the lady. Soft light streams in through the small circular windowpanes upon the far wall of the room, the rather dull space only slightly more revitalized by the welcoming of more lords and ladies within its stone columns. Lady Tyrell’s hands remain folded atop her gown the color of the clearest sky as she asks politely after the battles seen by the lord at her side – Lord Hugo Vance, who appears to be around her age and is not an abhorrent partner to converse with. On the contrary, she finds his manner of speaking rather interesting, and he seems to be both grounded and reasonable. Not traits in high supply at King’s Landing. Despite the general geniality of the conversation, the matter with Lady Blackwood has another masculine voice echoing in the darker parts of her mind. 

A flash of violet eyes, the curl of a scornful lip, whisperings of her worst traits and shortcomings. How brutally foolish she had been once, manipulated by the sweet fruit of childhood love that had led to a garden of poisoned apples and dying trees. For all her shrewdness, nothing can save her from the way she can twist the cruelest truths to better reflect upon a person she adores until a knife is pressed to her throat and only her own spilled blood can wake her from the dream. As Lord Vance recounts a particular sword fight from the war, Lady Tyrell cannot shake the numbness accompanying her wondering upon whether or not she has been led astray once again. Wrapped in weary cynicism, she cannot help but consider that she has made the same disastrous mistake twice. She will not be made a fool of by a man again.

Nodding sweetly, she gives a smile that does not quite reflect in her dulling eyes. As Cregan calls for the attention of the nobles, never needing to work too hard to command a room, Lady Tyrell does not bother to gaze in his direction. His speech thanking the lords and ladies for all their hard work, for all the sacrifices made to achieve the peace that is only just upon the horizon, is nothing but a faint hum in her mind. With Lady Blackwood at his side, a woman who is more familiar with the world of battle and typically masculine pursuits than Lady Tyrell can ever hope to be, she can see a vision of the true North. A glimpse of something she wants – power and strength, a respect that is given only to those whom men consider strong.Callouses upon hands that come from wielding weapons, from being able to defend oneself in a way that she cannot. To live without such fear, to be seen as someone who might be an equal. There is a lady who can stand by the Lord of Winterfell. 

Exhaustion has seeped far into her bones by the time Cregan finishes speaking, earning a rousing cheer and applause from the other men. Her eyes briefly catch sight of Rhaena and Baela, their faces still rather grim. Lady Arryn is observing with calm seriousness, a matter clearly weighing upon her mind. The few women within the room do not seem nearly as enthused as the lords. Lady Tyrell cannot bring herself to look to Lady Blackwood again, but it would not seem she needs to gaze far. As Lord Vance attempts kindly to rekindle their conversation, she hears her name and title upon Cregan’s lips behind her. She pauses, her figure drawing up tighter, a thin swallow making its way down her drying throat. Wondering briefly upon how rude it might be considered to pretend she simply has not heard, she continues to nod and smile. The warmth of a gentle hand upon her lower back signifies she shall not be escaping so soon. 

Sucking in a soft breath, she turns as the Lord of Winterfell offers a small dip of his head to her and then Lord Vance for interrupting their conversation. At the sight of his liege lord’s hand upon the lady, Lord Vance is quick to nod in understanding and give her a bow before departing to speak with one of the Tully lords. Cregan’s large hand has settled into the small of her back as he guides her closer, the action bringing all of her pessimistic thoughts to an abrupt halt. Never has he touched her so casually, and certainly not in the presence of others. She blinks up at him, soft eyes that only partially reveal her confusion and desire for clarification upon this change. A few of the other lords seem to have taken note of this familiarity, raised eyebrows and meaningful looks exchanged with knowing smiles between the men. Lady Tyrell might have been angry if any other man had reached for her in such a familiar manner, but she allows him this closeness as Lady Blackwood approaches.

“Lady Tyrell, I wish for you to meet Lady Alysanne Blackwood. Our forces fought together on our journey south.” The introduction is simple and straightforward, and Lady Tyrell merely smiles pleasantly as Lady Blackwood gives a firm nod, offering her a neutral look. Lady Tyrell offers a small curtsy in response, her fingers curling into the embroidered fabrics of her skirts tighter than necessary. 

“It is my pleasure, Lady Blackwood. The realm is grateful for your service.” Lady Tyrell’s voice retains a sugary quality, her posture demure and her hands returning to clasping each other delicately in front of her dress. Her lashes flutter slightly as she speaks, her chin tilting down. Lady Blackwood does not seem to harbor any of the pressures expected of a lady during introductions, something the Lady Tyrell finds envious. Instead, the other woman simply presents a look of general affability and regards her thoughtfully.

“It is good to meet you, my lady. Cregan has written of you in his letters, it is excellent to put a face to your name.” Her tone is light yet has a weight to it that wraps around her words and bestows upon them a quality of certainty. Lady Tyrell does her utmost not to let her smile twitch at the casual use of the lord’s given name, nor the revelation that they have been exchanging letters. Her stomach continues to twist itself into a nauseating knot. The information regarding her being mentioned in such letters seems of little consequence compared to the anxiety filling her chest. She scoffs internally at her own thoughts, wishing that this sort of worry would be beneath her. Rather than attempting to formulate a proper answers, she merely widens her smile slightly, her eyes narrowing a moment as she does. Cregan looks down at her, hand still pressed firmly to her back, and tilts his head slightly.

“A dinner shall be held tonight, to welcome those who have just arrived. Shall you join us, my lady?” The Lord of Winterfell extends the invitation with the utmost sincerity and courtesy but Lady Tyrell has worked herself up into such a state, one that will surely worsen if she is forced to endure a whole meal in this situation. 

“I must unfortunately decline, my lord. I am quite weary and shall leave the festivities to all of you.” As she speaks, she gently maneuvers herself out of Cregan’s grasp, sliding her waist out from his warm hand. She does not look up to register the slight frown, nor the drawing of his brows at her obvious desire to escape him. Offering a small smile to Lady Blackwood, she slips out with the rest of the nobles before she can be questioned further. 

Late is the hour when a heavy knock falls upon her chamber door. It rouses her from her aimless staring into the depths of her fireplace, eyes empty as they gaze into the golden flames and crackling logs of thick wood. Her intentions for the remainder of the night had been to soak in a hot bath, allowing time for her nerves to settle and her mind to still. The warm water had only served to send her thoughts into a further spiral, the scents of various florals reminding her poignantly of her own fragility. Adelin had been given the night off, casting a long look at the lady before she had left. Sinking into her plush armchair, barely having the energy to adorn her body with a thin nightgown the color of sea pearls, Lady Tyrell had only wished to sit for a moment. 

One part of her wishes to pretend she has gone to sleep, but she knows the firelight casts a soft glow underneath the crack of the door. And her heart, exhausted as it is, gives a weak flutter at the weight of the knuckles rapping against the wood. Inhaling through her nose, she wraps a sheer robe atop her evening slip and softly makes her way across her chambers. Hands upon the cool metal of the latch, she barely pulls the door open wide enough for her figure to be seen before she pauses, hovering about the edge of the wood. The Lord of Winterfell stands before her, stoic and steady as always, his eyebrows lifting slightly upon seeing her. Within his hands he holds a bowl of soup, steam curling upwards in silvery helices.

The door is left to drift ajar lazily, leaving her fully visible as she stands beneath the door frame. Cregan is given momentary pause at the casualness of her dress, the slip clinging precariously to each soft curve of her body as if fresh powdered snow atop gentle hills. Despite the heat in his lower stomach, he forces his attention upward. Her eyes reflect the slight surprise that bubbles within her chest at the sight of him, hopeful yet hesitant at the unexpected visit. The warm scent of the hearty soup drifts softly to her nose, greeting her with hints of potatoes, tomatoes, onions and carrots. As her gaze devours the bowl with thinly veiled interest, Cregan gives her a softer look.

“I had not known if you had eaten, my lady,” His low tone is a welcome wave that washes over her body with a comforting and slow rhythm. Her gaze stutters slightly at the simplicity of the words, yet the thoughtfulness they imply. From the heat of the soup, which she can feel as she steps closer to Cregan, it would not seem that he has merely grabbed her leftovers either. “I asked the kitchen which soup you might prefer. I hope it is to your liking, if you are still in need of supper.”

As she turns her gaze upward to meet Cregan’s, she can scarcely keep the affection from flickering warmly in her eyes as if candlelight dancing behind stained glass. Lips press together as her brows draw closer, gratitude light upon her tongue.

“I am, it would seem.” She breathes it between them, a feather of a phrase that floats in the silence of the hall. Torchlight burns low across the stone corridor, illuminating Cregan’s commanding figure at the edges. There is that golden glow at the tips of his reddish hair that always calls her attention so captivatingly. Her weariness still aches deep within her tired body, but the small gesture has rekindled the dying embers in her chest. So quick is she to dismiss the possibility of affection and attachment, but she has not done so completely. As he reaches out to hand her the soup, his lips part slowly.

“Careful, it is quite warm.” The Lord of Winterfell cautions softly, ensuring she cups the bowl from the sides before he allows it to pass to her hands. His own calloused fingers brush tenderly against hers as he releases his hold, filling his senses with her smooth skin. Her lashes flutter gently at the innocent touch, a soft swallow upon her throat as she draws the warm soup closer to her chest. After a moment of easy silence, Cregan dips his head low. “I ought not to keep you from your rest, Lady Tyrell.”

As she lingers uncertainly in her doorway, her mind recalls earlier that day when Cregan had spoken her given name as a sacred devotion into the centimeters between their lips. How anxious she has been since then, how fretful over a man who is not her betrothed nor beloved. It is not in her character to be so easily swayed, not after her previous dealings in matters of the heart. And she finds, much to her own concern, that Cregan Stark has unexpectedly become a matter of the heart indeed. Taking a small breath, she resolves not to be so quick to resort to judgement. “I shall not retire until I have finished my soup, my lord. Perhaps you might join me until then?”

The invitation catches Cregan’s attention at once, his eyes widening slightly as his shoulders lower. Given the agitated state she had been existing in for most of the day, he had not believed she would wish to speak with him further. The opportunity for a quiet moment to sit beside her is not one he desires to ignore. “Aye, I would gladly do so.”

Lady Tyrell turns without further comment, not wishing to be caught standing before a man in her nightgown by any who might be passing by at the late hour. As she pads across the floor, her slippers soft upon the rich oak, she returns to her armchair and settles into it with a swish of her sheer robe. Cregan is left to watch for a moment, eyes tracking every move and step as the lady makes herself comfortable in front of the golden fire glowing within the hearth. Despite the stress from the day, she looks comfortable and soft within the firelit room. He then endeavors to join her, sinking into the chair across from hers as she begins to sip the hot soup with a neutral expression of content upon her face. As the liquid brushes her tongue, she winces at the heat and her brows knit together in a small frown. Cregan can do nothing but smile gently at the endearing expression.

“I did warn you it is hot.” Cregan offers quietly, amusement flickering across his face alongside light from the fire. Lady Tyrell lets out a huff in return, frustration upon her visage as she blows harshly overtop of the creamy soup.

“So you did.” It is the closest thing to a growl that he has heard escape her pretty lips. Shaking his head, the rumblings of a low laugh echo into the warm air between them, accompanied by the crackling of logs within the fireplace. Lady Tyrell wholly forgets the soup in her grasp and the stress of the day and every other thought that has ever entered her mind. Her mouth drops open slightly, her eyes wide as saucers as she stares blankly at him. Here sits the Lord of Winterfell, the feared Wolf of the North, laughing so easily within her chambers. The warmth in her chest is hotter than the bowl in her hands. 

“I have missed the soups of the North,” Cregan sighs nearly wistfully as he gazes into the flames. The smell from the earthy potatoes had brought him back to days of wild youth, running breathlessly through fallen snow and underneath ancient pines. The puff of his own breath before him, his fingertips turning red from the biting cold. “Too long has it been since I have tasted home.”

The lady is completely placated by his presence, by the taste of the rich soup within her mouth. She sighs, pleased and warm, curling her legs beneath her in a most unladylike manner. “You have been away for some time. It must be difficult.”

It is a soft murmur, spoken around breaths used to blow gently into her food to spare her tongue the burning sensation each time the creamy liquid sits atop it. Cregan watches with a gentle approval, pleased to see her eating. He had worried over her, when she had declined to join the nobles for dinner and is glad he decided to ensure she had gotten something for supper. “And you, my lady? Do you miss home as well?”

“I do not know, in truth,” Lady Tyrell muses, her shoulders dropping elegantly as she shifts within her seat. Her eyes wander slightly, as if her mind is drifting to a place far from here. After a second with her thoughts, she shakes her head, the edges of her hair glowing in the warm firelight. “I had always known I would leave Highgarden one day. It was only that I believed King’s Landing would be my home, and it is…not. Not any longer.”

A small, weak smile is offered with the explanation. Her attention returns to her soup, the silver spoon held tenderly within her delicate grasp. As she brings it to her lips, she tries not to dwell upon the idea of home too seriously. 

Cregan frowns at this, his brows low as he casts his gaze down to the plush rug that rests upon the wood in front of the hearth. Winterfell has been his home for the entirety of his life, and while he had been forced to fight for that home, it has always been his. His birthright, the lands that have raised him and all of his ancestors before him. How strange it would be, to have such uncertainty surrounding where one belongs. The North is in his blood and in his bones – he would not know his own identity if he were forced away from it permanently. The idea of her not having a place to belong to does not sit right within his chest. “You ought to have a home you can be certain of.”

A light raise of her eyebrows is given at this, while she keeps her eyes upon her soup. Her hands shift the ivory bowl back and forth absentmindedly, yet the seriousness of his voice is not lost on her. Still, there is not much she can do to rectify her own situation. Instead, she merely gives a small dip of her chin. “I would very much like that, my lord.”

“I hope that after the trials conclude, the Realm might have a better chance at peace.” Cregan sighs, a weight to the phrase from all the pressure that he has been carrying since his arrival. Being the Warden of the North has prepared him well for the power he currently holds within the capital, but it does exhaust him so. He cares little for Southern politics and the tumultuous remnants of the succession war. Although he cannot truthfully say he wishes he had never come – not when she sits across from him, gently lit by warm firelight, her visage a heavenly blessing upon his tired eyes.

“You have worked tirelessly for the bettering of the Seven Kingdoms,” The lady acknowledges, her voice quiet as she stirs her soup while keeping her gaze downwards. There is a certain comfort in sitting here with Cregan at the late hour, in simply being around him within the familiarity of her chambers, with no chance of being caught or interrupted. “I had strong doubt at first, but I do now believe you genuinely mean to carry out justice and return to the North.”

Cregan rubs a hand across his face, trailing it up through his hair as his eyes close. There has been far more ruling involved than he had anticipated when he had agreed to fight for Rhaenyra Targaryen. But fate has its own plans for the Lord of Winterfell, and he cannot turn away from a situation that mirrors his past so closely. “The young prince Aegon reminds me much of myself, when I was a lad. Mine own family had a similar issue with succession. My seat was hard won, against kin.”

Lady Tyrell has heard tale of how Cregan had imprisoned his own uncle and cousins after they had attempted to retain power once the lord came of age. Hearing him speak of it now, the way his jaw tenses as he does, she can tell it is something that was quite difficult for him. Her eyes flicker across his face, the way his reddish lashes fall atop the curves of his cheeks. The softness of her voice, barely above a whisper, betrays hints of the true affection she has come to hold in her heart for him. “It is kind of you then, to extend to Aegon the assistance you did not receive as a child.”

His eyes open at this, his chin lowering as he fixes his heavy gaze upon her. The lady holds his stare for a moment, before taking a small sip of her soup once more. “it is in my nature, I suppose. The need to rectify a present situation to ease the pain of a past one, even if it only is for the next generation. And in yours as well, I would say.”

It is an accurate assessment of her character; one she suspects few would know. But there is no hiding the truth from Cregan, who has seen her with Jaehaera every night. While she loves Jaehaera deeply, as she has since the girl was born, her guilt and pain over Helaena does additionally drive her need to ensure that the princess has a brighter future than her mother did. It cannot fix anything, but the thought of creating a peaceful life for Jaehaera does bring the lady some semblance of hope. 

“It is all I can think, somedays. If only to give myself something to do, lest I go mad from my own helplessness.” It is a soft musing, spoken from someone who has sat for many hours within the cold grasp of grief’s unyielding hands. Cregan recognizes it well, as he so often does. It is peculiar to him at times, how he sees himself mirrored in this woman whose upbringing was vastly different than his own. Yet there she is, reflecting pieces of himself he needs to examine more closely, forcing him to think harder about why he is the way he is. 

“We cannot change our past, but we have it in our power to make an attempt towards a better future. It might be in vain. We might never see it, or we might fail before we create it. It is our mortal duty to try nonetheless.” The heaviness in his tone forces her to look up at him, her eyes meeting his as she inhales softly. A better future – might it yet be possible for her, for Jaehaera? As she gazes into Cregan Stark’s eyes, searching for any sign of doubt and finding only stern certainty, it does not seem like a distant dream. 

a/n: slowburn is definitely slow but stay tuned for the next chapter, i imagine it's what a few of you have been waiting for ;)

[emeraldelixirs]

Bloodsport {II:when the party’s over}

bsf! m. riddle x fem!sallow!reader, stepbrother! t. nott x fem!sallow!reader

Bound by Blood, Betrayed by Fate. When you’re dragged to Malfoy Manor under orders from Voldemort himself, you learn the price of your mother’s mistakes: an Unbreakable Vow, tethering your life to the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. Forced to navigate a web of dark magic, family debts, and impossible expectations, you must tread carefully in a house brimming with enemies—and a few familiar faces. As tensions rise and the lines between loyalty and survival blur, one question remains: will you find a way to break free, or will you lose yourself to the darkness?

Content warnings: 18+ themes, angst, dark, graphic descriptions of violence, gore, blood, swearing, fighting, taboo themes, underage coercion, predatory behavior, suggestive content, underage recreational drug and alcohol use, typical canon HP themes of blood purity, house prejudices, oppression, lmk if I miss anything this chapter is considerably lengthy with detail

Word count: 8k oops

A/n: is it really a slytherin fic if it doesn’t have a party scene? sorta hehe sorry. but we have the whole gang together in this, and that’s why i love this part sm, easily so far my pride and joy of what i have written for this fic. also collectively the longest chapter ive ever written for any fic ive wrote…ever. banter and comedic relief is really my bread and butter

[playlist: televised—hunny, bite my tongue—you me at six, softcore—the neighbourhood, do i wanna know—arctic monkeys, kyoto—phone bridgers, people—the 1975, fourth of july—sufjan stevens, when the party’s over-from the room below—sleep token, seventeen going under—sam fender]

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The Zabini Villa roared with laughter, loud chatter, and throbbing music that seemed to make the very walls vibrate. Judging by the unfamiliar faces crowding every room, this party had spiraled well past its original circle of Hogwarts pure-bloods like Blaise had originally intended for. You and Theo wove through the throng, his large, warm hand secured at the small of your back, guiding you gently while you led the way.

“There’s no way all these people are from Hogwarts,” Theo quipped, batting away a gaudy streamer that dangled in front of his face.

“Merlin, no,” you muttered, forcing a polite smile at Millicent Bulstrode as she brushed by, then reverting to a frown once she was gone. “Everyone must sense this might be the last Zabini bash they’ll ever see.”

And perhaps they were right. The Daily Prophet had plastered the story across its front page at the end of term: the Department of Mysteries debacle was conclusive proof that Voldemort was back. The second wizarding war had begun to weave its dark tendrils into daily life, pulling you—and your friends—deeper into roles none of you wanted. Now, your presence at this party felt less like revelry and more like obligation. But among the upper-inner circles you roamed, appearances were everything still. You and your friends had a carefully maintained status quo, and no looming war would undo that overnight.

Not that you were simply a carefree teen. You were also Bellatrix’s pawn: the one she nudged around the board, using you to lure secrets from the gullible, offering your company to the wavering. You tried not to dwell on that as you made a beeline for the kitchens, your chest feeling tight beneath the weight of her instructions.

“The less your peers know, the better,” she’d sneered earlier that week, pacing in the Malfoy Manor drawing room.

“We may never know who might have vital information—on their family, their loyalties, their resources…” Her cold eyes had narrowed on you, a grimace of satisfaction twisting her features.

“Do you understand, girl?”

“Yes… Mistress,” you’d been forced to concede, swallowing your hatred.

Now the memory fluttered through your head as you stepped into Blaise’s expansive kitchen. You exhaled, relieved at the relative calm. Maybe you could breathe easier here, at least for a moment.

“C’mon, let’s get a drink,” Theo said, noticing the faraway look in your eyes. He maneuvered around you, snagging two cups from an array of colorful bottles lined across the counters.

To your mild surprise, the kitchen wasn’t packed—only a handful of people rummaged for snacks or chattered over glasses of spiked punch. The music, mercifully, was less ear-splitting.

You leaned against the moss agate countertop, the cool surface grounding you. Theo’s presence was a balm, as it always had been. You’d known him since infancy, your mothers having been close friends long before war divided loyalties. And his father—your now stepfather—had become a mentor to your own father before his untimely death.

Theo had been there for every moment that mattered: the good, the bad, the life-altering. Neither of you wore icy apathy like a shield towards one another; instead, your shared experiences had created an unspoken understanding. A bond as unshakable as it was fraught.

A hand slid around your shoulder, making you jump.

“Oi,” Daphne Greengrass said, lips quirking into a half-smile. “So jumpy. Relax—it’s a party.”

You forced a semblance of a grin, tension dissolving a fraction when you saw it was just her. “Daph…”

She pressed a friendly kiss to your cheek, eyes darting between you and Theo. “Where in Salazar’s name have you two been? Blaise is losing his mind—he’s about ready to hex the pair of you for being late.”

She didn’t know half of it since this was the first time you’d seen her since summer began; how Bellatrix had forced you into an unbreakable vow; how Theo had been dragged into the Dark Lord’s fold with no way out. War loomed in every corner, and Daphne, blissfully unaware, was closer to its claws than she realized. And you hadn’t been sure you wanted her to know, terribly naive, too pure for the mud you and the other rolled around in now.

You shrugged lightly, deflecting. “Busy summer.”

She jabbed a finger at you, pouting. “More importantly, where have my letters gone?! I wrote you heaps!”

You flinched. She pulled away, stepping around the island to give Theo a quick squeeze and a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You do realize our father’s in Azkaban currently?” Theo replied for you, tone sharper than usual, though that never deterred Daphne.

“And?” she retorted, placing her hands on her hips. “A simple note to tell me you’re fine would’ve been comforting, you git.”

Theo set his jaw, a flicker of apology in his eyes. “Right. Sorry.”

You parted your lips to intervene, but Daphne continued chastising Theo, her exasperation morphing into mild relief that both of you were safe. Then launching into her usual Daphne updates, like a beat wasn’t missed: an outfit she saw that reminded her of you, the gossip she heard—that you too should have known—since school ended, or where her family was choosing to stay for holiday.

Somewhere in her mini-lecture, she casually mentioned:

“Oh, and watch out—someone said Lord Rosier’s nephew, Evander, is here tonight, skulking around somewhere. You know the Rosiers, always up to something… shady.” Then she held her arm as she twirled a piece of her honey blond hair, thoughtfully. Then adding in, “though I remember him being so handsome back in first year—shame.”

An internal pang reminded you of the other very real reason you were here—to attempt to gain information from any possible prominent names in attendance. Her offhand comment sent your thoughts spiraling because this was, if not, the biggest prominent name on the list of contacts Bellatrix had talked about. The Rosiers were an influential pure-blood family, their allegiances as ambiguous as they were dangerous. If Evander was here, he might have information Bellatrix would find valuable.

You masked your interest, offering a polite nod. Inside, determination sparked more than it ever had since you were pushed into task. If you could pry even a shred of intel from Evander, it might buy you some breathing room—enough to finish your summer coursework without Bellatrix breathing down your neck. Even for a week? Then you could surely spend the rest of summer doing her bidding, or gods knows what, and maybe hold together your sanity?

“Need to… use the bathroom,” you excused yourself, ignoring Daphne’s frown of confusion. Theo’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and knowing. But he let it go, turning back to placate Daphne.

Your mind thrummed: Find Evander. Ask the right questions. Remember Bellatrix’s instructions. Your stomach twisted in equal parts excitement and dread. This had been it—a moment to prove yourself.

You scourged the main corridors of the party, narrowly dodging your friends and peers, with no sign of the infamous wizard yet.

Did you even remember what he looked like?

Finally giving up on the obvious, you slipped into a hallway that led away from the main commotion. Passing ornate paintings and the occasional couple giggling in corners towards the back wing of the villa, you found a partially open door—likely Blaise’s mother’s study or personal lounge. Light spilled through the crack of the sturdy mahogany door with noise of man humming lightly.

You took a breath, moving slowly to peak through the ajar door.

A tall, slender wizard with sharp cheekbones and slicked-back hair leaned against a sideboard, swirling a glass of brandy. It was him—Evander Rosier, you had remembered him from when he attended Hogwarts faintly now. He was in 6th year when you had only first been sorted, but you remembered his distinctive features anywhere. He was the head boy for Slytherin by his 7th, with a gleaming smile, and dimpled cheeks that made all the girls swoon.

Not you though, you weren’t easily charmed with looks, even when people thought of you to think different. Veelas or those with Veela lineage held ideologies that vastly contrasted the stereotype, but that may have been something your mother had just told you. You never met her side of the family or knew much besides they disowned her when she married your father.

Taking a deep breath, you took a baited one right after, faking a casual stroll into the room, glancing behind your shoulder for anyone that may have seen. The space was richly decorated with dark wood shelves, a looming portrait of some Zabini ancestor, and a deep emerald rug that muffled your footsteps.

Evander glanced up when you entered, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. “Can I help you?” he asked, not unkindly, but distant.

You summoned your best coy grin. “Oh, sorry—I was looking for a quieter spot.” You let your gaze trail meaningfully over the spines of expensive books, then back to him. “Didn’t realize someone was here.”

He shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t care for crowds. You can stay if you’d like.”

Perfect. You let out a soft sigh, stepping closer. “Crowds can be suffocating, can’t they?” you said, letting just the right note of empathy creep into your voice. “Especially these days, with the rumors swirling… people are so on edge.”

He gave a short laugh, swirling the brandy again. “Rumors. Right.” His eyes darted to the door. “Though some rumors are more than that, if you catch my drift.”

Your heart gave a little leap. This was going somewhere. “I do,” you murmured, feigning a shadow of concern. “Everyone’s talking about… you know, Him. People say families might be forced to pick a side again.”

He stiffened slightly. “And do you have a side, Miss…?”

You offered a small, self-deprecating laugh, hand pressed lightly to your collarbone in a subtle attempt to seem compelling. “Selle.” You opt for your mother’s maiden name. “I’m just a young witch, worried about my future, about where my family stands. It’s all so uncertain. Forgive me if I overstep.”

His expression softened slightly. “Curiosity isn’t a sin, Miss Selle. But it’s a dangerous habit to cultivate these days.”

You forced a bashful smile, letting your lashes flutter—just as Bellatrix had drilled into you. “I only ask because… I want to be prepared. For whatever’s coming.”

His gaze flicked over you, lingering for a moment too long, and a knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Preparedness is admirable. But it can also attract… unwanted attention.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? You seem… familiar.”

He thinks I’m flirting, you realized with a jolt of disgust. But you pressed on. If you wanted these secrets, you had to endure the creeping slime of his interest, you reminded yourself of your training with Bellatrix.

Your throat tightened, and your pulse quickened. “I don’t think so,” you replied, aiming for nonchalance. “But perhaps you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

“Perhaps,” he mused, though his eyes betrayed lingering doubt. He reached out, brushing a knuckle against your shoulder—a gesture that made your skin crawl, though you resisted the urge to recoil and continued to flutter your lashes up at him.

“How are you preparing for the inevitable…forgive me,” you touched his arm, thoughtfully. “I hadn’t caught your name yet?”

He studied you, the softened sharpness of doubt in his eye dissipating as he stared at you. “Evander Rosier,” he said, dazed. “My uncle’s always forging alliances, scouting alternative avenues. Now that the Ministry’s rattled…” A dopey like smirk curved his lips?

That was interesting—unexpectedly your charm had begun to work. You forced your expression to remain neutral, your mind racing to process what he’d just revealed. “Alternative avenues,” you echoed, letting the words hang in the air. “Like… trade alliances? Resource management?”

His fingers trailed down your arm slowly. “We’re… considering our options. With the Ministry in disarray, alliances are fragile. It’s a precarious time for everyone.” The closer he stayed, the more his cologne hit you like a wall of acrid fumes, sharp and cloying, filling the air between you with an almost suffocating intensity.

“But you have the resources,” you pressed, letting a trace of awe color your voice, though you upturned your nose avoiding his heady overpowering musk. “The foresight. Surely the Rosiers aren’t relying on chance.”

He chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Chance is a fool’s game. Let’s just say we’re exploring alternative avenues. Not everyone sees eye-to-eye with the Dark Lord’s methods, you know.”

You nodded in understanding. “Your family must be analytical. I envy that, mine can be so naive and misled, never seeing the bigger picture.” A scoff to feign disdain.

“You’re quite inquisitive, Miss Selle. Should I be worried you’ll pass on every word I say to some rival faction?” A charming smile donned his features as he teased you.

You bit your lip, acting as if you were being bashful. “Oh, hush,” you said lightly, playing coy. “I just want to know where the wind blows. For my own safety.”

The air weighed heavy, and you felt a flush of shame. But you forced a sweet smile until he relaxed again, rambling about his relatives’ hush-hush business deals and doubts about the Dark Lord. You caught snatches of who they might recruit, how they planned to hide assets, all the while your heartbeat thundered at your success.

Eventually, he glanced at the time and frowned. “I’ve got to mingle. But perhaps we’ll talk again?” He grabbed your hand, brushing your knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

You swallowed your revulsion. “I would hope, Mr. Rosier.”

“You’re surprisingly… charming,” he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, as he brought your hand to his lips, kissing your hand.

You forced a tight smile, leaning into his touch just enough to keep the illusion intact. “Likewise,” you murmured, stepping back to break the contact. “I should probably get back as well. My friends will start wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”

Evander’s smile widened, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “Of course. Do take care, Miss Selle. The world is a dangerous place for the… unprepared.”

With that, he tipped his glass in a mock salute and slipped out of the study without another word. You waited a moment before you made your way out of the room, your chest tight and your mind racing. The information he’d shared was valuable, no doubt—but the cost of acquiring it had left a bitter taste in your mouth. A mixture of triumph and nausea churned in your stomach. You’d gleaned valuable info—Bellatrix would be pleased. But the cost felt steep.

Emerging from the study, you felt shaky, so you snatched a drink from a passing tray and downed it in one go. You nearly bumped into Pansy, who’d apparently been looking for you.

“There you are!” she scolded, linking your arm with hers. “We’re headed to the veranda for fresh air—Blaise wants to smoke.”

Her eyes lit on your face, puzzling over your unsettled expression. “Are you… okay?”

You forced a bright grin. “Sure, yeah. Just… too many people in there.”

But your hands trembled slightly, and Pansy noticed. She frowned. “You’re sure?”

Before you could answer, Daphne’s voice floated over, calling, “Y/n, there you are! Was the toilet enchanted and sucked you in?” She stopped short, noticing your stiff posture. “What’s going on?”

They both stared at you with that worry in their eyes. They didn’t know the half of it—how deep you and the others were entangled in the Dark Lord’s web.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, plastering on a wry smile. “This place is packed. I had to go all the way to the other side of the house to use Blaise’s personal bathroom, the line was so long. Got cornered by some ex-Slytherin alumni, talking my ear off on the way back.”

Daphne’s brows rose. “You? Getting cornered by random men? Never.” She tried to sound playful, but her eyes flickered with concern. “Ugh, well, you’re safe now, with us.”

You almost winced, remembering how you’d endured the man’s touch and questions just minutes ago. But you just shrugged it off. Keep the mask on, you reminded yourself, following your friends closely through the throng of wizards and witches.

Inwardly, you clung to the swirl of relief. The idea of being surrounded by your close friends, you could put on your old persona again—just a teenage witch out for a good time—never mind the dark secrets burning a hole in your mind.

After edging away from the house’s main hall, you emerged onto a white stone veranda that stretched grandly across the villa’s rear façade. Tall, dark mahogany beams framed the space like silent guardians, while beyond them, the night sky hung heavy with stars. Music reverberated from within, muffled here by the draped entrances.

In one corner of the veranda, your circle of friends had gathered like a small court. The aura they exuded—Mattheo, Draco, Theo, Enzo, and your host, Blaise—repelled most other party-goers, who lingered meters away. Perhaps the others sensed that an entourage of Death Eater heirs—and the Dark Lord’s heir himself—was too intimidating a scene to breach. Even in the chaos of this unexpectedly crowded party, power commanded distance.

Daphne let out an excited squeal as she dropped into one of the cushioned iron chairs by Blaise. “Everyone’s together again!” she cheered, blissfully unaware of the that undercut what lingered around her within her own friends.

Pansy strolled over to Enzo, who stood near Blaise, indulgently smoking a joint that was being passed around. A swirl of smoke left his lips just as Pansy pinched his arm, snatching the cylinder from his hand.

“Oi, Pans—what the fuck?!” he snapped, rubbing his arm.

“Looked like you were hogging it,” she retorted with a nonchalant shrug, raising the joint to her lips.

A slight grin tugged at your mouth, and you ruffled Enzo’s hair as you walked past, heading to drape your arms around Blaise’s shoulders from behind in a gesture of greeting. “Sorry for being late,” you murmured. He patted your arm briefly, acceptance in his silence.

You then moved to the wide couch where Theo and Draco were seated. They each gave you a subdued nod. Theo casually rested his arm across the back of the couch, behind you, as though you’d never been apart. Draco gave a subtle tilt of his lips—a sort of half-smile, half-cool acknowledgment.

“More like you ladies were taking forever,” Enzo grumbled, adjusting his fluffy brown hair, glaring at Pansy who was now inhaling deeply on the stolen joint.

“It took us ages to find Y/N,” Pansy interjected, her tone pointed as she exhaled a plume of smoke that curled overhead.

You raised a brow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this party was less than sacred among our peers and needed some solitude at the other end of the house.” The smoothness in your voice was practiced, every bit of forced normalcy. You’d slip a mask over the chaos that churned in your racing thoughts, bidding to grant yourself grace for the rest of the night. You’d done what you needed, there was no need to dig for more.

Across from you, Daphne let her legs drape over the arm of her chair, and Mattheo silently passed the joint her way. She took a swift drag, then handed it off to Draco.

Blaise let out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t realize either, okay?” he said, gesturing at the throng of unfamiliar wizards mingling through the open archways. “Apparently, the world’s craving a distraction with… well, everything going on.”

You flicked a look at Theo. He met your gaze, then glanced at Mattheo, who had fixed his dark eyes on you—a hard stare that spoke of annoyance or concern briefly flitting to your now healed hands, then back to your eyes. Your stomach knotted as he scowled deeper, snapping his gaze away the second you raised a questioning brow.

It stung. He was—is—your best friend, along with Theo. Inseparable, you three. Hell, he basically lived with you and Theo at this point. Had his own room in the guest wing and everything. So why did he choose to be distant when you needed him most? When he needed you the most?

“Probably never a good sign if Evander Rosier’s milling about,” Pansy said, taking another slow drag before handing the joint to Draco. She wrinkled her nose. “That man’s a menace.”

Daphne propped her head up, eyes alight with curiosity. “Is he still as handsome as he was in school?” She twirled her hair, kicking her feet idly off the chair’s arm.

“Daph, the guy’s a weasel—” you started, rolling your eyes.

“That prat is here?” Mattheo muttered, stepping forward and running a tense hand through his curls. He spat the words low enough that only your group would hear. There was something almost feral in his tone, like he itched for a confrontation.

Draco leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Bold of him, considering his family's got major targets on their backs for switching allegiances when it suited them. Heard the Dark Lord isn’t fond of turncoats. You’d think they’d keep their heads down.”

“Exactly,” Mattheo agreed, starting to pace in the limited space of the veranda. Each step exuded pent-up energy, a sign of the storm roiling beneath his brooding façade. “I don’t trust him,” Mattheo muttered.

“You don’t trust anyone,” Pansy quipped, leaning into Enzo’s side as she blew a huff of air to fix her bangs.

Mattheo didn’t bother replying, his jaw clenching tighter. Draco, seated at his side of the couch, shifted slightly, one leg crossing over the other as his cool gray gaze flicked between Mattheo and Theo. A hum of knowledge unspoken as the dark curly haired boy continued pacing, his equally dark eyes sharp and restless. His shoulders were tight beneath his tailored jacket, each step deliberate but restrained, as though holding back something more volatile.

War was creeping into every aspect of your lives. It was easy to mask it under booze, weed, and forced smiles, but it only took a mention of someone like Rosier to remind you that trouble lurked everywhere.

“Well, Mattheo’s not wrong,” Draco said, breaking the silence. His tone was measured, but his words carried weight. “If Evander Rosier’s here, it’s for a reason. And it’s not to mingle.”

Daphne, ignorant to the depth of that trouble, scoffed. “You lot are so dramatic. Maybe he’s just here to enjoy the party. Could be a rumor, anyway—who said he’s committing treason?”

Pansy grimaced. “Not treason, survival,” she corrected, flicking her gaze your way. “Rosier’s family is desperate to cling to whatever power they have left. Bet they’ll sell out friends or enemies alike to keep afloat.”

“And what does it matter to us?” Daphne countered, her tone breezy but her eyes narrowing. “We’re not the ones making alliances, are we?”

Her words struck a chord—you forced yourself not to flinch, remembering how you and Theo, Mattheo, and even Draco plus Enzo had been entangled in the Dark Lord’s webs. You busied your hands by taking the joint from Theo and inhaling a bitter drag. A tingle of numbness slid through your veins, but the conversation kept your mind from fully escaping.

Theo, finally spoke up. His arm still rested casually along the back of the couch, his fingers tapped a steady rhythm against the fabric, growing antsy. “If Rosier’s family is trying to play both sides, that makes him a liability to everyone. Including us.”

The group fell silent, the weight of his words settling like a shroud, uncomfortably close to the truth.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Y/n,” Pansy noted, arching a brow as she glanced your way. “Something on your mind?”

You exhaled smoke, crafting your face into something neutral. “Just listening,” you deflected, passing the joint to Enzo. “Watching the crowd, seeing who’s worth noticing.”

“You just smoked!” Enzo complained, though he took the cylinder greedily.

Mattheo’s pacing halted, his gaze snapping to you with hawk-like sharpness. “Did you talk to him?” he asked abruptly.

The question sent a ripple through your friends, each set of eyes anchoring on you.

You wanted to scoff, nothing got past him, did it? Feeling so entitled to know everything you did, despite keeping you at arms length right now.

You hesitated—barely a fraction of a second—long enough for Mattheo’s eyes to narrow. “Briefly,” you confessed, keeping your tone cool. “He wasn’t direct, but he hinted his family might not be as loyal to the Dark Lord as they pretend. Could be worth telling—”

“You shouldn’t have,” Mattheo cut you off, voice throbbing with repressed anger. “You can’t toy with Rosier, he’s dangerous.” Mattheo’s scowl deepened, and he ran a hand through his dark curls in frustration. “You believed him?”

Something about his hostility riled you. You straightened, the high of the smoke fueling a rush of bravado, everyone became muffled background noise. “I’m not toying with him, I’m gaining information. If any of it’s true, we can use it. If not—”

“Y/n,” Theo leaned forward, trying to interrupt.

“Use it for what? Bellatrix’s schemes?” Mattheo interrupted him, bitterness dripping from every word. “For what? For him to use you for his schemes as well now?”

The words hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You straightened your spine, the mask of confidence you’d worn all evening hardening.

“I’m not toying with anyone,” you said quietly, doubling down on your stance. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Mattheo snapped. “Because it seems like you’re getting in over your head stupidly.” His words laced with venom.

“Mattheo.” Theo’s voice became sharper, his arm tensed along the back of the couch, but his body coming forward. You put a hand on his chest, pushing lightly him back into the couch.

“No, let him finish,” the words left your mouth before you could stop them. You had been bemused almost. These were the most words you had garnered from him—in the form of an argument nonetheless—something that shouldn’t have shocked you.

Mattheo’s eyes burned into yours, the intensity of his gaze almost unbearable. “You think Bellatrix cares if you come back in one piece? You think she’s sending you out there because she trusts you?” Mattheo’s voice rose, drawing the attention of several onlookers. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You’re disposable to her, Y/n. We all are.”

A hush descended, the weight of his outburst making the veranda feel smaller. The truth of his words cut deep, but you refused to flinch. Instead, you held his gaze, your jaw tightening.

Somewhere in the corner, Blaise stood, shock and anger etched across his features. “Wait, wait, wait–a gods forsaken second!” Blaise demanded, half to the group, half to you, looking from Theo to Draco to Mattheo for clarity. “Bellatrix’s schemes? Gaining information? What the hell have you lot been doing this summer?”

You didn’t need legilimency to see how Daphne, now realized how serious this was, sat upright, eyes wide. “You guys are… involved with the Dark Lord? And you never told—”

Pansy paled, anxiety twisting her face. “Merlin, did you take the Mark?” She peered at Enzo, then Theo, then you, voice trembling. “Please tell me you didn’t. Tell me you still have a choice.”

Enzo shifted, inhaling sharply, “Well, only Theo and Matt—uh…”

He trailed off, a fateful hush smothering the veranda. The color drained from Blaise’s cheeks; Pansy’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. Daphne opened and closed her mouth, at a total loss, the illusions of carefree youth shattered before all your eyes.

The stress in your chest mounted, your mind swirling with guilt for all you’d hidden. Theo leaned forward, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Enzo…” he grumbled.

Mattheo’s nostrils flared, fists clenching at his sides. “You… you twat!” he snarled, rounding on Enzo. Anger and frustration overloaded him, the tension snapping like a frayed wire of weeks of him barely holding it together

In one swift motion, he lunged for Enzo. The other wizard watchers on the other side of the veranda corner recoiled, startled, as Daphne yelped, tumbling off her seat. The metal chair scraped violently across the stone. Pansy rushed to her aide while the rest of you scrambled to break up the fight.

Draco and Theo tried to pry Mattheo off Enzo, who’d ended up pinned on the floor. Blaise tried to help, but Mattheo and Enzo were locked in a tangle of furious limbs, fists swinging, sounds of fists connecting to bone. Shouts rose from the party-goers that remained, some jeering, others stepping back to watch the spectacle like a twisted show.

Your stomach churned. You’d known everyone was on edge, but seeing them physically brawl—to the point of bruises, cut lips, and swollen eyes—felt like a bitter confirmation that the war had long sunk its claws into your friend group, fracturing the dynamic you all once held.

Your hands shook as you sprang forward alongside Blaise, trying to wedge yourself between the two hotheaded boys. Theo had latched onto Mattheo’s arm, Draco pulling Enzo, but the pair still flailed with adrenaline and rage.

“Stop—stop it!” you yelled, voice cracking with tears you refused to shed. You could glimpse Enzo’s dazed expression beneath Mattheo’s clenched fist. The savage twist in Mattheo’s features struck you with guilt—had you caused this?

Finally, with combined effort, Draco, Blaise, and Theo yanked the two fighters apart. Mattheo staggered backward, panting and furious, his lip split, while Enzo lay on the floor, coughing, a bruise already forming on his jaw, eye swelling. The veranda fell into a stunned silence as party-goers parted to watch.

Blaise, face grim, holding onto the younger man. “You got him?” He asked, and you nodded quickly as he let Enzo slouch into your grasp. He then stepped forward and brandished his wand with authority. “That’s it. Party’s done—get out!” he roared at the onlookers, who quickly backed away, murmuring in hushed tones. Some half-scurried to the exit, others lingered but kept their distance.

You knelt by Enzo, gently brushing back his chocolate brown hair. Despite your anger at him, you couldn’t stop the wave of compassion. His nose was swollen, maybe broken, and blood trickled down his chin. He looked up at you, eyes full of remorse.

“S-sorry,” Enzo whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… hold still, we’ll get you patched up soon.”

Near you, Mattheo stood rigid, fists still trembling, you shot him a bitter glare. Theo hovered, breaths ragged, one arm loosely supporting Mattheo, the other still clamped on your shoulder for stability. The hush pulsed with leftover anger, confusion, guilt.

Pansy and Daphne stared at the group in shock from where they sat, uncertain whether to help Enzo or scold Mattheo. Draco grimly surveyed the damage—a few scattered chairs, a torn tablecloth, broken glasses. The fleeting warmth of the night had turned sour, a mirror of the secrets you and your friends tried to hide from the others now laid bare.

Blaise rubbed his temples, clearing the last stragglers away. “I’ll handle them,” he muttered, shooting the group a glare that balanced frustration and worry. “For now, just—sort yourselves out. This is all going to absolute shit.”

Around you, the once-lively party had dissolved into broken fragments. The veranda, now eerily quiet, bore the evidence of the night’s chaos: dark smears of blood against the pale stone, shattered glass glittering under the soft glow of the fairy lights. In the distance, the music continued its pulsing, upbeat hum—mocking the grim reality before you.

Mattheo stood apart, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain control, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Enzo sat slumped against the railing, wincing under your careful touch, his face contorted with pain. Theo, his usual composure frayed, closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the night had finally broken him. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears that threatened to spill, the stress of the evening hanging over you like a leaden cloak.

Without warning, Mattheo turned sharply, causing both you and Theo to instinctively shield Enzo from whatever fury might follow. But Mattheo didn’t lash out at any of you; instead, he kicked a broken votive lying on the ground, sending shards scattering across the stone.

“Fuck!” he spat, his voice low and hoarse, as he stalked toward the edge of the veranda, Draco following. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one with shaking hands, then offering the pack and lighter to Draco, who took it with trembling fingers.

The flame trembled briefly before catching, the glow illuminating the raw anger and frustration etched across his face. Draco’s face is heavy with exhaustion evident on his pale features.

Theo exhaled deeply, releasing his hold on you as he turned to check on Daphne. She sat huddled nearby, her knees drawn to her chest, tears streaking her pale cheeks. Bright, angry red scrapes marred her arms and legs where she’d fallen, her quiet sobs cutting through the silence like a knife. With Theo nearby, Pansy excused herself to go find Blaise inside the house.

Daphne shouldn’t have been part of this. She wasn’t supposed to be caught in the crossfire of your mess—or theirs. You doubted Mattheo or Enzo had wanted this, either. For all her family’s ties to conservative politics, Daphne had always remained blissfully uninvolved in the darker intricacies of the war. She should have been unscathed.

Enzo groaned softly, clutching his side, his breaths shallow and labored.

You let out a quiet sigh, reaching for your wand.

“Keep still, please,” you murmured, your voice gentler than you felt. “This is going to hurt.”

His only response was a faint grimace as you grasped his broken nose carefully between your fingers. He winced sharply, a hiss of pain escaping through his teeth, but he didn’t pull away.

You muttered the incantation for a mending spell, your wand’s tip glowing faintly as you guided the bones back into place. The magic hummed beneath your skin, familiar but no less draining.

“There,” you whispered, leaning back slightly to inspect your work.

Enzo exhaled shakily, his face pale but less strained.

You, Pansy, and Daphne had long since learned the basics of healing spells, an unfortunate necessity when dealing with the boys. Scuffles with others—and often each other—had left their marks over the years. But tonight was different. This wasn’t some petty fistfight or roughhousing gone wrong. This was something darker, more violent.

“Thanks,” Enzo rasped, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, brushing another stray strand of hair from your face as you sat back on your heels.

Nearby, Theo helped Daphne to her feet, his touch gentle but firm. She winced as she stood, her scraped knees trembling slightly. He muttered something low, his voice too soft for you to catch, but whatever he said made her nod, her sobs quieting to sniffles, helping her sit on the couch.

Mattheo, meanwhile, remained by the railing, his back to the group. Smoke curled around him in lazy spirals, the sharp scent of burning tobacco cutting through the night air.

“You should talk to him,” Theo said suddenly, his voice tight and quiet as he returned to your side.

Your head snapped up, meeting his gaze.

“Me?” you shot back, your voice hushed but edged with disbelief. “Why me?”

Theo’s jaw clenched, “someone has to keep him in check, Y/n. He’s going to get himself—or all of us—killed.”

Your lips parted, a retort forming, but the weight of his words silenced you. He wasn’t wrong.

“He won’t listen,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible. “Look at what happened just now.”

Theo’s expression softened, the anger giving way to weariness. “He listens to you more than anyone else. He always has.”

You glanced toward Mattheo, your heart heavy. He stood rigid, staring out into the dark expanse beyond the veranda, the glow of his cigarette flickering faintly in the shadows.

“It’s true,” Enzo sat up more properly. “Even when you two are at each other’s throats.”

You shook your head, “not now.” You muttered, looking back down at Enzo. “Lets get you in a seat.”

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of music and the faint crackle of Mattheo’s cigarette with the scraping of a chair that Theo picked up for Enzo to sit in before pulling up his own chair. Their legs bounced up and down anxiously in tandem as no one dared to speak. You sat with your back against the railing, picking at the sides of your nails anxiously.

Pansy finally emerged from the house, her arms laden with first aid supplies. Her usual sharp, composed demeanor was dulled, her expression unusually grim as Blaise trailed behind her, carrying a bottle of firewhisky and a collection of mismatched glasses—enough for all of you.

“Well, that was fun. Anyone else want to air any more grievances?” Blaise announced, his voice laced with sardonic humor as he set the bottle and glasses on the small table beside his chair. He poured himself a drink with practiced ease, his movements deliberately casual, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his true feelings.

No one responded.

Blaise glanced around, his deadpan expression hardening. “Good. Let’s start the family meeting, then.”

Mattheo let out a sharp, humorless laugh from his place at the railing, the ember of his cigarette flaring briefly as he inhaled. “Family meeting? You’re acting like this is some petty school spat, Zabini.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, unruffled. “And you’re acting like sulking is going to fix anything, Riddle.” He poured himself a generous measure of firewhisky, the clink of glass on glass unnervingly loud in the silence.

Draco sank into a chair across from Blaise, his elbows resting on his knees, a sharp contrast to Mattheo’s restless stance.

Mattheo rolled his eyes but said nothing, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. The smoke curled lazily around him, dissipating into the cool night air.

“This mess is only going to get worse if we don’t get our shit together,” Theo said, his voice steady but laced with a frustration that mirrored everyone’s simmering exhaustion.

“Enlighten us, Theo,” Pansy cut in, her arms crossed as she perched on the edge of a chaise. “What exactly is the plan here? Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve all—” she paused, her sharp gaze flicking to each of you, her finger subtly tracing a circle that excluded only Blaise and Daphne. “—been keeping things from us.”

“And if we told you?” Theo shot back, his tone sharper now. “What then? You think any of us asked for this? Dragging you into this mess is the last thing we want.”

“Enough,” you said firmly, your voice slicing through the escalating tension. You stood, brushing the dust from your hands, feeling the weight of their stares settle heavily on you. For a moment, you regretted speaking, but you pressed on.

“Whether we told them or not, they’re associated with us,” you said, sitting beside Daphne. “They’ve been collateral since we made our vows. And now? It’s about survival. We’re in too deep, and we all know it.”

Mattheo snorted, the sound bitter and sharp. “Oh, we know it. But pretending to be one big, happy family isn’t going to change anything.”

“And brooding in a corner is?” Blaise shot back, topping off his glass with an air of exasperated nonchalance.

“They deserve to know,” you said softly, picking up a bottle of antiseptic elixir and a clean cloth. You turned to Daphne. “May I?”

She nodded silently, her tear-streaked face a mixture of gratitude and quiet pain. You dabbed the cloth with the elixir and began cleaning the scrapes on her knee. “Face it, Mattheo,” you continued, your tone firmer now. “We’re stuck with each other, whether you like it or not.”

“Stuck,” Mattheo repeated, his voice low and dangerous. He flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the darkness, the ember snuffed out on impact. “You say that like it’s some minor inconvenience, Y/n. But in case you’ve forgotten, there are people out there who’d kill us all without a second thought. And some of us…” His voice dropped, and his eyes flicked briefly to Theo. “Some of us are already marked.”

His words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken weight of the Dark Marks on Mattheo’s and Theo’s arms casting an even darker shadow over the group.

Daphne broke the silence, her voice soft but steady as she placed a hand on yours, stilling your movements. “I think you’re forgetting something,” she said, her blue-gray eyes filled with quiet resolve. “We’re your friends. Not your enemies, not spies waiting to turn on you. Friends. If any of us thought in first year that befriending Riddle, Sallow, Malfoy, and Nott was a mistake, we’d have steered clear. But we didn’t. We chose you, just like we’re choosing to stand with you now.”

Mattheo’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

A watery chuckle bubbled out of you despite the heaviness of the moment, and you quickly wiped your face with the back of your hand.

Pansy hummed in agreement, picking up the glasses Blaise had poured and passing them around. “She’s right,” she said, her tone light but firm. “So stop brooding, Mattheo, and get over here.”

Mattheo’s scowl deepened, but he pushed off the railing, crossing the veranda begrudgingly.

Blaise exhaled heavily, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Now we want to know everything,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And don’t bother sparing the details. I can get my hands on Veritaserum if I have to.”

Theo rolled his eyes but accepted a glass, muttering something under his breath. Draco rubbed a hand down his face, masking a smirk, while Enzo let out a soft laugh before wincing and clutching his side.

You handed a glass to Daphne, then grabbed one for yourself, the firewhisky burning as you took a slow sip.

“Fine,” you said, leaning back against the cold stone wall, the firewhisky warming your chest but doing little to ease the heaviness of the moment. “But you’d better brace yourselves. You might wish you hadn’t asked.”

With Theo, Draco, Enzo, and even begrudging input from Mattheo, you told them everything. The words came haltingly at first, but as the night wore on, they began to flow more easily. You described the aftermath of Lucius Malfoy’s and Theodore Nott Sr.’s imprisonment in Azkaban, the brutal ceremony that branded Mattheo and Theo with the Dark Mark, and your own unbreakable vow with Bellatrix—a chain wrapped tightly around your throat.

Every detail out in the open, even Bellatrix’s obsession with your role as her informant. When you recounted your confrontation with Evander Rosier, Mattheo’s fingers turned white against the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching as you explained why Rosier’s allegiance—or lack thereof—was such a critical piece in Bellatrix’s game.

“Merlin,” Daphne whispered, her face pale as she sank deeper into her chair. “If I’d known, I never would have—Y/n, I’m so sorry—”

You waved her off with a lazy flick of your wrist, muttering another ‘Reparo’ as you all worked to restore some semblance of order to the veranda. Shattered glass reassembled, splatters of blood faded from the white stone, but the aftermath of it all lingered

“You didn’t know,” you said softly, brushing stray hair from your face. “And honestly? It might still be useful. If it buys me even a day of her not breathing down my neck, I’ll take it.”

Mattheo scoffed from across the veranda, his sharp eyes flicking toward you, but he said nothing. You shot him a glare, daring him to push further, he only turned his focus back to cleaning, muttering incantations as he scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the tiles.

By the time the night drew to a close, the tension had softened, though it never fully dissipated. There were still unspoken fears and lingering doubts, but for now, what mattered was that the group remained intact.

Pansy, Blaise, and Daphne had listened in silence, their expressions a mixture of shock and resolve. Despite everything, they remained steadfast in their decision to stand by you.

“We’re in this together,” Pansy said firmly, her hand resting on your shoulder as she caught your eye. “No matter what.”

The burden you’d carried for weeks felt just a little lighter, their support a fragile but welcome relief even with the apprehension you felt for their involvement. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope.

As the floo network flared to life, casting an emerald glow across the room, you turned to your friends. Each of them stood nearby, ready to depart but unwilling to leave without a proper goodbye.

You hugged Daphne and Pansy tightly, promising to write as often as you could. Enzo pulled you into a warm embrace, murmuring a quiet apology that you brushed off with a forgiving smile. Draco offered a rare but sincere pat on your shoulder before stepping aside for Blaise, who enveloped both you and Theo in a firm, protective group hug.

“Don’t hesitate to call on us,” Blaise said quietly, his voice steady. “If you need anything—anything—you know where to find me.”

For all the darkness that surrounded you, they were your anchor in their own ways.

“We’ll talk soon,” you said, your voice quiet but resolute.

Theo nodded, his arm brushing against yours in silent support as he stepped toward the hearth.

Just as you moved to follow, Mattheo’s voice stopped you. “Y/n.”

You turned to find him standing apart from the others, his usual mask of indifference fractured, if only slightly. The low light caught the sharp angles of his face, his dark eyes glinting with something unspoken. For a moment, the weight he carried: fear, frustration, and a simmering anger, lay bare between you.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though wrestling with the words. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and raw, barely audible over the crackling floo. “Get some rest.” He finally murmured, gaze dropped, and his fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the composure he tried so hard to maintain.

Your breath caught, the knot of frustration and exhaustion loosening just enough to let the gravity of his words settle. Despite the distance he’d put between you, the quiet simmering for weeks, this moment felt like a quiet truce—for now—a bridge across the gulf that had formed between you.

You stepped closer, your voice soft but steady, your fingers twitching, wanting to reach out but hesitating. “You know where to find me, Mattheo.”

He lifted his gaze, and for an instant, his expression was unguarded, raw. His nod was slight, almost imperceptible, but enough to say what words couldn’t. His lips pressed into a thin line before he turned away, retreating to the shadows of the villa.

The green flames licked higher, casting flickering shadows against the walls. You hesitated for a moment longer, your eyes lingering on Mattheo’s retreating figure. Then, with a steadying breath, you stepped into the hearth beside Theo.

As the world blurred into streaks of green, Mattheo’s quiet words echoed in your mind.

The war wasn’t just coming—it was already here. And now, more than ever, you’d have to trust that the fragile bond between you all would hold.

Taglist: @moonlightttfae

A/n: and there we have it the madness begins, I hope you enjoyed. Lmk what you think as always!!

[an-annyeoing-writer]

Hoshi x Reader: spider web.

Date of release: 20.03.2025

Word count: 1 561

Tags: shibari, intimacy, suggestive fluff, biting, no plot, only subspace

Rating: +16 for non-s*xual intimacy and bondage. The fic is not +18 but it touches on topics that are often associated with such, so please take that into consideration.

Author's note: Anyway... that is my hello to the fandom! Btw don't do shibari on a carpet or you'll never get the threads out. This stuff sheds like a husky.

Being with someone who spent most of the time in his own world was a challenge in itself. He wasn’t the type to disappear in that world completely, quite the opposite – being next to him after some years you learned that it was inevitable to get pulled in along with him, that his world would surround you eventually. Yet, you always felt like a stranger there. You loved him with your entire heart, but he seemed to resonate on a frequency that was far outside of your reach, and even when you tried to adjust, to resonate with him, it was all futile.

But there was one way to resonate with him the way that no one else could: by giving up your own frequency and allowing him to take over, to take control and show you his own world.

In this moment, there were only you and him, kneeling on the soft, burgundy carpet that provided you with some warmth against the chilly air that slipped into the room from outside.

You were wearing your most comfortable, sleeveless top and a pair of loose pants that allowed the widest range of movements. His body, on the other hand, was clad in all sophisticated black, with a turtleneck that fitted him a bit too well.

Maybe it was not as comfortable as your own outfit, but it did make you stutter a little the first time you saw him, and so he decided to stick to it for this occasion. You only wished he didn’t sit behind you so you could admire it a bit better.

You sat patiently, glancing back to take a look at Soonyoung’s face. Usually, he was the talkative type, but right now there was some tangible level of focus, similar as to when he was performing, on his features, making him seem like he was both absent and fully present in this exact moment. And he wasn’t speaking a word.

Sitting right behind you, he took a gentle hold of your wrists, massaging the skin gently and warming up your joints. His eyes were fixated down on your limbs, as if they were not a part of a human being, but rather a material, something to be formed, molded, re-created. He was assessing the options, although you knew he preferred to keep things simple with you. You weren’t too flexible, and he liked to take his time – you wouldn’t endure long in most of the positions that he felt completely comfortable in.

Having finally made his mind, he guided your hands behind your back, bending them horizontally on top of each other. You let out a slight whimper of discomfort and he released them a little, letting them stay at a more relaxed angle instead – not much, but enough to allow your shoulders some rest. His one hand laid flat between your shoulders, guiding you to bend down against the mat.

Your neck started to cramp from trying to sneak peek so you fixated your eyes on your own lap instead, working on calming down your breath instead. His hands worked slowly and precisely, wrapping the ropes around your wrists. The ones he chose today were made of coir – their surface was covered in harsh threads that irritated your skin as they rubbed your skin. But once secured in place, the discomfort was barely there. The skin on the wrists wasn’t too sensitive – and he made sure that the tie wasn’t too tight either.

Once your arms were secured behind your back, he took one strand of rope and folded it in half. Bending over your shoulder, he wrapped it slowly across your chest.

He didn’t have to bend over like that, you thought – the task was simple, not requiring much effort. But you felt the warmth of his chest on your shoulder blades, and realized he must have been craving to feel that heat as well, that physical closeness.

His fingers creeped across your chest in a non-intrusive, gentle manner, brushing against the fabric of your top. You held your breath when his fingertips, a bit cold and moist from sweat, touched your arm – the harsh texture of coir rope followed, and you flinched. He slowly moved the rope, dragging it across your shoulder, making the skin tender and a bit pained. Not too much, just a little – enough to suck you further into the state of vulnerability, of losing all control over your own body – and mind.

Once it was secured in place,  the harsh texture was no longer that tangible, but even the breaths you took moved it a little, scratching the same tenderized spots.

By the time he was done, your breaths slowed down. The slight discomfort of the position kept you grounded, but you felt that if he keeps touching you like this, you might doze off completely. His hands rested on your shoulders and you didn’t even realize that your neck gave in, making you lose your balance; he was right behind you, guiding you to fall against his chest.

“You’re so warm.”

You didn’t remember the last time you spoke by now – sessions like this were usually… somewhat quiet. The two of you knew each other’s bodies by heart. Some years ago, you wouldn’t believe Soonyoung was capable of staying silent in the first place. But when fully focused, letting his world run freely, he became so at ease, so peaceful, that it was only your own dazed state that kept you from second-guessing if he’s really, actually, enjoying himself at the moment.

But, consciously, you knew that he is. That light in his eyes, slight tension of his jaw indicating that he’s not sulking but rather putting his best effort. The small things, the teasing, deliberate brushes of his skin against yours when he took that moment apart into molecules of stimuli, some that would be easily omittable if you didn’t know better. It was yet another form of art. You were the art and its reader simultaneously – he guided you into his world, rid you off your own individuality for the sake of engulfing you in his own frequency.

He didn’t reply, but his hand rested on your sternum, pressing your body backwards into his own. You finally felt his breath on your own neck and subconsciously tilted your head to the side, enjoying the sensation.

It was subtle and genuine, and he leaned down, planting an open-mouthed kiss in the crook of your neck.

A nibble followed, and you let out a small whimper of surprise. His teeth lingered against your skin, scratching similarly to how rope did earlier, although leaving a wet trace that made you shiver when the cold air came after. Sensing that slight discomfort, Soonyoung’s arms wrapped around your silhouette, trapping you in a snake-like embrace. Even closer, if it was only possible – as if he wanted to eat you up, to devour the piece of art he created and become one.

You gasped like fish out of water – the sense of stillness was only temporary, now gone, and you felt your body heat up in all the new sensations.

“Bite me” your voice cracked in the pathetic plea. “Soonyoung, please.”

He wasn’t the type to make you wait, all the pent up emotion waiting to get released with this one short act of primality. His fingers dug into your side and shoulder as he leaned forward, bending you into yourself. Your arms stretched painfully and you unwittingly held your breath in the tension.

And finally, it came – along with a hiss-like sound from his mouth when he buried his teeth in your shoulder. Although expected, pain took you by surprise. Shocking at first, intensifying into something unbearable. The thought of tapping out crossed your mind for just a second before it dissolved into the sense of comfort and fulfillment. Soonyoung kept you firmly in place, his teeth held you in position as your muscle slowly relaxed, your body acknowledging the defeat.

Your mind turned into a mush. You seemed to float in and out of consciousness, balancing somewhere nigh its edge. Seconds extended into eternity that you spent relishing in the sweet numbness. From across the world, a soft voice reached out to you, calling out your name.

You allowed it to guide you back to reality, and you welcomed it with exhaustion washing over you.

Soonyoung’s arms embraced you in a gentler, less invasive manner than before, fingers gently massaging the spot on your shoulder, as if he didn’t realize it’s only making it hurt more – but now that gone was the insanity, he was back to his regular self, a bit sheepish in trying to pamper you back to normal.

“How are you feeling? Was that okay?” he asked something more, but he must have noticed you were too tired to talk. You shifted so that you could lean your side into him.

“Was nice” you mumbled against his shoulder. “Thank you.” A genuine smile made its way onto his mouth, making it clear how satisfied he was with himself, and how happy that he could share this moment with you. You cleared your throat. “But maybe untie me already.”

Not like he wouldn’t, but there was a bit of hesitation on his face, seeing the tension on yours.

You were quick to clarify.

“I really need to pee.”

Seventeen Masterlist

[creative-frequency]

Lucanis Dellamorte x Reader: Late Nights & Delayed Confessions, pt.2

Summary: Late night of hanging out with the two Dellamortes. Lucanis is concerned for your wellbeing. Part 2 of 5. Word count: 1339 Notes: (Unresolved) romantic tension, pining, you’re an Antivan Crow, no spoilers for Veilguard → Part 1 → My writing masterlist

After instructing the tavern keeper to send up ‘whatever is the most expensive food and drink around here’, you excused yourself to freshen up. The room you had been given was at the other end of the long hallway from Lucanis and Illario’s, even though you were absolutely certain most of the rooms were unoccupied on the floor.

You ate, drank and talked for hours. A feeling that you could only describe as home warmed your chest. The little jabs Lucanis and Illario threw at each other, the silly flirtatious remarks from the latter, and the adventurous stories of grandeur, whose only point was trying to top the previous one. Just like always on the nights back in Treviso.

Things had always been like this between you and Illario; you were good friends who tossed flirty jokes around and shared gossip over a bottle of wine. He was… simple. Safe. On the same wavelength. Nothing romantic had ever happened between you nor were you interested in him as such.

Lucanis was like a brother to Illario, so you had formed this tenuous friendship, that was more about having a loved one in common rather than nurturing an actual relationship.

Lucanis was complicated; intelligent, efficient and business-oriented but also loyal to a fault, kind and considerate. He was an expert assassin, but his heart was in the right place. Not to mention you oftentimes had difficulties taking your eyes off him or stopping undressing him in your reveries. Lucanis was an enigma that made you itch and you yearned to scratch that itch. There was just no way it could ever happen and you had accepted it a long time ago. He was the grandson of the First Talon and you were just… you.

But there was also another reason.

You were terrified that one day Illario would realise you had been in love with Lucanis Dellamorte ever since the day you met.

While you ate, Lucanis and Illario told you about the Wigmaker contract in Vyrantium. It had earned Lucanis the moniker ‘Demon of Vyrantium’ and the rumours were already spreading like wildfire. Caterina was surely pleased.

Illario wanted to know more about your recent contracts, as much as you would be able to share. Lucanis tried to reel in his cousin’s eager insisting, ever the picture of a considerate gentleman.

“Fiore, I’m so happy to see you, but I thought you would surely be busy on a contract,” Illario tried again to inquire as to why you really had come to this small harbor town to meet them.

Maybe three glasses of wine was enough. You glanced at Lucanis, instantly regretted it, hoping Illario wouldn’t have noticed, and started talking:

“I am. Busy on a contract.”

“In here?” Lucanis asked, quirking a brow. The tone said all there was to know about the town and the probability of someone hiring an assassin on a target in such a place. There was literally nothing but the fish market, and a small harbor that served as a logistical centre for other towns further inland that couldn’t afford the taxes and expenses issued by larger harbours. Lots of people passed through, hence the fairly nice accommodations, but usually the kind of contracts you were dealing with would never turn their snooty noses towards a place like this.

“Not here. But–”

“The contract knows you’re onto them,” Lucanis ended the lie before you had the opportunity to speak it out loud.

You shrugged in admittance of defeat. It was just like him to follow your line of thought so fast, then just unravel the whole delicately woven web in a single pull.

“Ah, a false sense of security. I like this!” Illario clapped his hands together and patted Lucanis on the back – possibly as a way of congratulating his cousin’s quick wit.

“Also,” you started and cleared your throat, “There was a small incident yesterday, after I arrived in town.”

Lucanis and Illario exchanged looks.

“Who tried to murder you?” Illario asked in jest, but his smile soon dried up.

Lucanis placed his wine cup on the table and straightened up. He looked annoyed and his gaze started instantly scanning the exits in the room.

“I’m not sure,” you replied slowly. A pang of guilt tried to make a rise. “I took him down, but there was nothing on him to indicate if it was an order or a paid attempt. So who knows.”

“We should leave,” Lucanis said, still rigid and looking really unhappy.

“Come now, Lucanis. She said she took care of the amateur,” Illario argued and motioned towards the almost empty wine bottle. “Besides, we can’t leave a bottle unfinished. The Crows’ reputation will be ruined.”

“I’m sure he was working alone. I will be perfectly safe in my room,” you said and tapped the dagger hidden against your side. 

“Which one is your room?” Lucanis asked, just slightly relaxed.

“At the other end of the hallway.” You nodded to the general direction, already sensing where this was heading and it filled you with ominous tingling.

“Speaking of which, I should head to bed.” You started to rise up from the table and avoided both pairs of sharp eyes.

“Are you going to let her sleep alone in a place like this?” Illario teased, looking pointedly at his cousin.

“I can–” you huffed, but Lucanis shot you an intense look. His eyes were so dark and unamused that it shut you up at once.

“He is right,” Lucanis said. “We might not be able to hear you across the whole building if something happens.”

You swatted the words away. Whatever he was implying was not enough to bring you around.

“It’s fine. Seriously. I don’t think the Merchant Princes would waste any more gold on trying off little ol’ me.”

Illario nodded slowly but Lucanis didn’t look convinced.

“You’re a target. We don’t know who is after you, but if it were me, I would strike tonight.” Lucanis pinched the bridge of his nose and continued explaining carefully: “There are no witnesses. The building is only two stories high. No one will look twice at a murder in a place like this.”

You bit your lip. Lucanis was making a good case and perhaps only because you had been thinking about the same points yourself. If the assailant had not been working alone, it was most likely that they would try again before you had the chance to skip town. Maybe they knew you were with two other Crows, maybe they didn’t, but did you really want to risk it to keep your silly pride?

“I’ll accompany you for the night, just to be safe,” Illario said and for once you couldn’t detect a hint of ulterior motives in his tone. Though, the lack of confidence in your abilities stung.

Lucanis stood up and locked eyes with you. A chill rushed through you. He was determined. And maybe a little pissed.

“I’ll go. You didn’t sleep on the ship so you must be exhausted,” he said offhandedly to Illario.

“Always so considerate,” Illario replied with a blatant smirk that Lucanis missed. He too got up and stretched his arms.

You sighed in defeat and popped one of the few remaining grapes into your mouth. You should’ve never brought up the stupid contract. The Merchant Prince would pay extra for arranging this spectacular shit show.

“I will take care of her. Now rest,” Lucanis turned to say to Illario, who he found still smirking.

“Oh, I have no doubt you will.”

Lucanis replied to his cousin with a flat stare. Heat rose to your cheeks and Illario winked at you.

Great. So it was not about being confident in your abilities. He was just trying to push you into making a move on his cousin. You didn’t want to think about what that implied.

“Well, fine then. Shall we?” you asked Lucanis.

He motioned you forward. “Lead the way.”

There was just one problem: your room had only one bed.

-

→ Part 3

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 90)

The group took shelter underneath an overpass when morning came. Each drone settling in with sleeping bags or blankets and finding the most comfortable area to recharge.

Except for six very particular drones, who were still very awake. Tera was fussing in her mother's arms babbling out frustrated noises as she wasn't allowed to crawl around freely and Uzi was trying her best to comfort her, cooing and chirping softly.

N was holding her from behind, also trying his best to comfort his fussing little kit and tired, stressed out pregnant girlfriend at the same time, humming a melody under his breath.

As a parent, especially to young children. Some nights were just like this… sleepless, tending to Tera’s needs throughout the time they were ment to sleep. But that was okay; he wouldn't have it any other way.

“You should sleep. I've got her…” He half whispered in her audials pulling her even deeper within his embrace.

Uzi just hummed in response, “What if she needs something?” She asks sleepily; it didn't seem to matter that they were far from home, the sound and warmth of his core doing plenty to make her feel safe and secure even in somewhere unfamiliar.

“Then I got it. No need for us both to be awake.” He murmers, gently lifting Tera out of her arms and wrapping his larger body around his partner, purring, like always for her, and he watches as she starts to drift off.

She settles after a moment, her breathing becoming deeper and more steady. Her core slowing considerably.

Her core was white now, lacking any of her signature color as she entered what should be the final months of her pregnancy.

He looked over at the rest of the group. Thad was the closest to the two of them, sprawled out on his own jacket. He was looking at Uzi softly, until their eyes met.

Thad smiled.

“Sorry… it's just still so wild to see her so… calm.” He gestured to her, settled now completely against him, snoring ever so softly.

N chuckled, keeping it down as much as he could. “You've been sleeping in the nest with us for awhile now.”

“Yeah but… it's still wild to witness. She'll be about to blow a gasket and then you're right there- and it's almost instant, it's like you're flipping a switch.” Thad explains, before N has to look away from him to tend to Tera, who's trying to break out of her swaddle by biting on it as hard as she can and hissing.

“Shhh… come on baby bat, I know you have to be tired. You've been fighting the swaddle all day…” He murmured, but Tera was still bound and determined to get out of her confines.

“She doesn't like being constrained does she?” Thad points out with a laugh. And N gives a pained one back.

“No. She almost took my finger off when we were putting her in it yesterday. But… I'm afraid she'll wander off if I take her out of it.”

Thad has a thoughtful look for a moment.

“Can… can I try something?” He asks gently, holding out both of his hands. And N nods, setting his daughter down in Thad's arms.

“Hey kid.” Thad tries to tickle her, but she lashes out and snaps at his finger. Making the worker yelp and pull his hand back quickly. “Dang you weren't kidding…

Still, moving carefully he loosens the swaddle until she's fully out of it, and almost immediately she's smiling happily again, cooing up at Thad.

“Ooh… That's better isn't it? isn't it?” N never thought he'd hear Thad babytalk, but Tera seemed to have that immediate effect on people, to make them melt into a little puddle.

“And now…” Thad takes the swaddle and just gently lays it across the toddler, still giving her plenty of room to breath and move around. “You'll stay right here.” He hums, handing her back to N.

At first he's almost certain she's going to squirm out from under the small blanket, instead… her small head finds the palm of his hand and she purrs into it, using it as a pillow as she makes herself comfortable.

“Love you, Papa.” She hums, and his core leaves his body to ascend for a moment, happy tears springing to his eyes.

“Oh, I love you too sweetheart. Daddy loves you so much…” N replies, suddenly the sleepless night doesn’t matter, he'd happily never sleep again if he could continue to hear that in return.

“Don't cry dude! Even if that was cute as hell…” Thad laughs, adjusting to lay down more.

“How'd you know she'd stay put?” N asked, watching as his daughter nuzzled up close the his beating core.

“You're her dad. You two are the only thing she really knows aside from us. She's never going to go anywhere.” Thad said simply, shrugging.

N smiles at his freind, sighing as he looks at his other two companions. Lizzy is asleep, wrapped in V's arms in much the same way Uzi is with his, and V is gently stroking her fingers through her hair- he can hear her purring from here.

“Plus, I'm pretty sure we'd all loose our minds looking for her if she did wander off, so don't worry.” Thad finished, yawning and stretching out.

“Hm. Go to sleep Thad. You're tired.” N presses gently, and Thad immediately yawns again. “Way ahead of you boss…”

He's next to drift off, his snoring filling the chorus of already asleep drones.

“You too V, I know you're still awake.” He presses the next person in his group, and she nods sleepily, almost like she was subconsciously awaiting permission before curling up around her girlfriends back, seemingly completely comfortable.

N hums gently, a melody for his family to keep them sound asleep. He doesn't sleep- watching over his pack as they rested, but that was fine, so long as everyone was safe and well rested.

Next ->

[payblogs]

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[2003donniefan]

OKAY.. this is to address the hate Poppy has received and to point out some facts which a lot of Poppy haters seem to either ignore or disregard.

1. Poppy is a child or made up mostly of a child (it being stated that a "Poppy experiment was made using parts of Ludwig's daughter"). We can assume so due to the fact that Experiment 1199 was killed swiftly when put with the other experiments. Reason I say this is because 1199 was a Bron toy that the subject used to make him was an Adult, specifically a worker called Thomas Clarke. Which can be safely assumed that Adults or workers used to animate the toys were often swiftly killed off by the other experiments for perhaps personal reasons, we can safely assume that the toys if she where an adult would have mauled her as soon as she was put with them. All this on top of that she mentions missing her father (it being safe to assume Ludwig).

2. She was imprisoned for TEN YEARS (1995-2005). She is going to be scared, traumatised and will naturally react to learning that the one being she wants gone knew everything and took what was clearly a close friend to her out during her time in the case (That being Ollie). And it is safe to assume she isn't sleeping, her eyes getting redder each chapter. She isn't going to be thinking rationally, especially considering she wants revenge. She's not evil nor is she a potential antagonist it being stated she's a deuteragonist the definition of that being "the person second in importance to the protagonist in a drama". That often means a person who acts as a constant companion to the protagonist or continually aids the protagonist, though such character may switch from supporting or opposing the protagonist. In Poppy's case she supported most of the tasks we completed but opposed the thought of us leaving, feeling we may be of great important use.

3. She did not betray us by running away, it was a fair and logical reaction to what they found out. I feel Poppy haters all use that word very loosely. Though I will agree she betrayed us in chapter two when she kept us here when we meet mommy. She promised us an escape but quickly realised our potential use. But here's something interesting. When we enter chapter two it's titled "Fly in a web". Now from what I've come to learn it's used as a term for certain P.O.V's in story writing and is a poem (most likely for what the titles based off considering mommy's use of acting). What makes it so interesting is because we are in this case the "fly" and Mommy is quite literally the "Spider". We are viewing all this in the eyes of a RETIRED employees eyes (I'll come back on the emphasis on retired in a moment), but what Mob entertainment has done is make us a character that doesn't speak nor express anything at all, making us have to rely on how characters in game speak to and address us especially after we have completed a task for us to gain perspective on how the characters feel about everything. (A bit off topic but something I wished to point out)

4. Now. As I mentioned we are "retired". In this sense it is most logical to assume we where fired or had quit before the hour of joy happened. We where not a scientist. We would most definitely be dead. We where a top level worker and we the player definitely had no clue of the experiments as all workers on the top levels were clueless as well. I say this because Huggy Wuggy is specifically mentioned to be a UNDERCOVER security guard. Take that into consideration, "undercover security guard", on the top levels?. He was clearly intended to be used as a sort of spy under the guise of being security after hours to make sure top level workers stayed clueless and if they didn't or started to suspect they'd be dealt with. It is stated on a note we find that playtime.Co actively swept through workers emails to each other and so on to keep "confidentiality" between the specific working groups. They knew what they where doing, and knew they would be stopped if found out by the government. This is were Poppy's want for revenge comes in. The prototype had the bigger bodies kill everyone, even the top level workers who truly where innocent to everything happening deeper which tells us what her sense of justice is. She did not wish for them to be killed, only the ones who deserved it.

The Player is not just entirely us, they are their own person and it seems people forget that in favour of putting themselves in that setting and not remembering this is a dire situation, we sorta dilute ourselves in the sense that WE know we are safe, that we won't face something like that and forget? Hey, this is not like undertale, player isn't frisk we are playing through the eyes of a character actively getting involved in this.

Edit: These are sources in which I used to come to my conclusions and thoughts. And before anyone says so yes these are the wikis but they are currently the only available sources that can provide any insight and thoughts that are not from reddit or something considered less than the semi lowered esteem some have for wikis.

Sources: https://poppy-playtime.fandom.com/wiki/Mommy_Long_Legs, https://poppy-playtime.fandom.com/wiki/Chapter_2:_%22Fly_in_a_Web%22#:~:text=Chapter%202%3A%20%22Fly%20in%20a%20Web%22%20is%20the%20second,confinement%20within%20a%20glass%20box., https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/63669.A_Lee_Martinez/blog?page=15, https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&sca_esv=4001fc3044941daf&hl=en-au&sxsrf=AHTn8zqre6GCUdP1zCGp87Z7jaAn98zTOA:1739245740160&q=deuteragonist&si=APYL9bumCoMD1xS45U0bAUIXoYmgk2Ogwo2LAHQt-JehHZAwKge-bb49w9SObYzH7ZuVFPR6CRHLJzkgkZpfqH_Vep-FgMV60e9VaOzdMWDZQFiTJY37YxA%3D&expnd=1&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjwzJOk27qLAxW-cGwGHa5XF6oQ2v4IegQIGxAU&biw=1180&bih=713&dpr=2, https://poppy-playtime.fandom.com/wiki/Poppy_Playtime, https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/pplaytime/images/2/2e/ProjectNote2.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20221109035307, https://poppy-playtime.fandom.com/wiki/Poppy_Playtime.

[jointhefediverse]

💫 Join the Fediverse! 💫

Greetings, fellow bloggers! We welcome you to join us in discovering, honoring, and promoting the potential future of social networking—commonly referred to as the "Fediverse."

The Fediverse, or Federation Universe, refers to a collective of online platforms that utilize the web protocol known as ActivityPub, which has set a standard of excellence in regards to both protecting and respecting users' online privacies.

There's a good chance in the past few years that you've caught wind of the fedi family's critically acclaimed Mastodon; however, there are many other unique platforms worth your consideration...

✨ Where To Begin?

Conveniently enough, from the minds of brilliant independent developers, there already likely exists a Fediverse equivalent to your favorite socials. Whether it's an opinion from the critics, or from the community alike—the following popular websites are commonly associated with one another:

Friendica 🐰 = Facebook Mastodon 🐘 = Twitter Pixelfed 🐼 = Instagram PeerTube 🐙 = YouTube Lemmy 🐭 = Reddit

It's worth mentioning, too, a few other sites and forks thereof that are worthy counterparts, which be: Pleroma 🦊 & Misskey 🐱, microblogs also similar to Twitter/Mastodon. Funkwhale 🐋 is a self-hosting audio streamer, which pays homage to the once-popular GrooveShark. For power users, Hubzilla 🐨 makes a great choice (alongside Friendica) when choosing macroblogging alternatives.

✨ To Be Clear...

To address the technicalities: aside from the "definitive" Fediverse clients, we will also be incorporating any platforms that utilize ActivityPub-adjacent protocols as well. These include, but are not limited to: diaspora*; AT Protocol (Bluesky 🦋); Nostr; OStatus; Matrix; Zot; etc. We will NOT be incorporating any decentralized sites that are either questionably or proven to be unethical. (AKA: Gab has been exiled.)

✨ Why Your Privacy Matters

You may ask yourself, as we once did, "Why does protecting my online privacy truly matter?" While it may seem innocent enough on the surface, would it change your mind that it's been officially shared by former corporate media employees that data is more valuable than money to these companies? Outside of the ethical concerns surrounding these concepts, there are many other reasons why protecting your data is critical, be it: security breaches which jeopardize your financial info and risk identity theft; continuing to feed algorithms which use psychological manipulation in attempts to sell you products; the risk of spyware hacking your webcams and microphones when you least expect it; amongst countless other possibilities that can and do happen to individuals on a constant basis. We wish it could all just be written off as a conspiracy... but, with a little research, you'll swiftly realize the validity of these claims are not to be ignored any longer. The solution? Taking the decentralized route.

✨ Our Mission For This Blog

Our mission for establishing this blog includes 3 core elements:

To serve as a hub which anybody can access in order to assist themselves in either: becoming a part of the Fediverse, gaining the resources/knowledge to convince others to do the very same, and providing updates on anything Fedi-related.

We are determined to do anything within our power to prevent what the future of the Internet could become if active social users continue tossing away their data, all while technologies are advancing at faster rates with each passing year. Basically we'd prefer not to live in a cyber-Dystopia at all costs.

Tumblr (Automattic) has expressed interest in switching their servers over to ActivityPub after Musk's acquisition of then-Twitter, and are officially in the transitional process of making this happen for all of us. We're hoping our collective efforts may at some point be recognized by @staff, which in turn will encourage their efforts and stand by their decision.

With that being stated, we hope you decide to follow us here, and decide to make the shift—as it is merely the beginning. We encourage you to send us any questions you may have, any personal suggestions, or corrections on any misinformation you may come across.

From the Tender Hearts of, ✨💞 @disease & @faggotfungus 💞✨

[mariacallous]

When the Russian government launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine on February 24, 2022, many Western observers braced for digital impact—expecting Russian military and security forces to unleash all-out cyberattacks on Ukraine. Weeks before Moscow’s full-scale war began, Politico wrote that the “Russian invasion of Ukraine could redefine cyber warfare.” The US Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency (CISA) worried that past Russian malware deployments, such as NotPetya and WannaCry, could find themselves mirrored in new wartime operations—where the impacts would spill quickly and globally across companies and infrastructure. Many other headlines and stories asked questions about how, exactly, Russia would use cyber operations in modern warfare to wreak havoc on Ukraine. Some of these questions were fair, others clearly leaned into the hype, and all were circulated online, in the press, and in the DC policy bubble ahead of that fateful February 24 invasion.

As the Putin regime’s illegal war unfolded, however, it quickly belied these hypotheses and collapsed many Western assumptions about Russia’s cyber power. Russia didn’t deliver the expected cyber “kill strike” (instantly plummeting Ukraine into darkness). Ukrainian and NATO defenses (insofar as NATO has spent considerable time and energy to support Ukraine on cyber defense over the years) were sufficient to (mainly) withstand the most disruptive Russian cyber operations, compared at least to pre-February 2022 expectations. And Moscow showed serious incompetencies in coordinating cyber activities with battlefield kinetic operations. Flurries of operational activity, nonetheless, continue to this day from all parties involved in the war—as Russia remains a persistent and serious cyber threat to the United States, Ukraine, and the West. Russia’s continued cyber activity and major gaps between wartime cyber expectations and reality demand a Western rethink of years-old assumptions about Russia and cyber power—and of outdated ways of confronting the threats ahead.

Russia is still very much a cyber threat. Patriotic hackers and state security agencies, cybercriminals and private military companies, and so on blend together with deliberate state decisions, Kremlin permissiveness, entrepreneurialism, competition, petty corruption, and incompetence to create the Russian cyber web that exists today. The multidirectional, murky, and dynamic nature of Russia’s cyber ecosystem—relying on a range of actors, with different incentives, with shifting relationships with the state and one another—is part of the reason that the Russian cyber threat is so complex.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 17

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 17: The Tourney; The Melee

AO3 - Masterlist

The final day of the tourney had arrived, marking the culmination of the thrilling jousting matches that had unseated multiple knights and lords from their horses. In an unexpected turn of events, House Kettleblack emerged as the victor of the jousting tourney, as Aran Blackwood himself was unseated by a skilled knight hailing from House Mallister. 

As expected, House Arryn secured their dominance in the archery competition, showcasing their prowess with the favored weapon of their house. Their skilled archers hit their marks with precision, solidifying their claim to victory. 

However, the highlight of the entire tourney was yet to come–the highly anticipated melee competition. 

Aran had made the decision to partake, and truth to be told, Daenera couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease over it. Over the course of the tournament, she had grown fond of Aran’s company, spending their days and evenings together, exploring the tourney and the castle grounds, engaging in meaningful conversations. Aran had proved himself to be sweet, considerate, and honorable–a man who would undoubtedly make a fine husband. Though she did not feel a burning passion for him, she believed that their marriage would be comfortable, and perhaps, with time, love could blossom between them if she chose him as her husband. 

As the bustling atmosphere of the tourney grounds filled the air, Daenera couldn’t help but wonder about the outcome of the melee competition. Her thoughts were entangled with a mix of hope, apprehension, and excitement. Whatever the results, the competition would undoubtedly mark the conclusion they were all waiting for.

As they walked along the path leading to a smaller, sunlit arena with white stone and fluttering fabrics providing shade, Jelissa couldn’t contain her excitement. She turned to Daenera. “Do you like him?”

“Well enough,” Daenera replied, her tone measured and casual. She understood the weight of the decision before her. Marrying someone was a significant choice that held the potential to either strengthen or weaken her mothers claim. She contemplated whether her feelings for Aran Blackwood were enough to justify such a union. 

Jelissa’s excitement overflowed as she dreamed of the prospect. “I think he’ll make a fine husband!”

Daenera smiled, but remained quiet. He would make a fine husband, but she already knew that Daemond would counsel her to choose someone of more importance than a mere Blackwood. 

“He’s handsome, brave, and skilled with a sword,” Jelissa continued, her steps skipping over the gravel. “And he gave you a sprig!”

“A branch of pear blossoms,” Daenera corrected. 

“A stick, you mean,” Fenrick interjected playfully, teasing the princess. “The princess should consider more than just good looks when choosing a husband.”

Daenera rolled her eyes in response.

“He is also kind,” Jelissa argued, defending Aran’s character.

“And kindness is a rare and noble quality in this world,” Daenera chimed in, purposefully japing at Fenrick. 

“ And he is good with a sword,” Jelissa added, furthering her argument. 

“What woman doesn’t want a man who would kill for her?” Daenera exclaimed dramatically, fanning her face and fluttering her eyelashes in a playful swoon. 

“No, that wasn’t–”Jelissa began, her voice lowering as she tried to process Daenera’s statement, her face contouring in a familiar expression of distaste, the same way it did when encountering something sour. 

“You should find a man who knows when to wield a sword and when to lay it down,” Fenric said, making his opinion clear. “Someone who understands when and where battles must be fought, someone who will protect and honor you.”

“And you don’t think Aran would do that?” Daenera’s voice turned sharp, as if Fenrick had insulted her. 

“I simply believe you’ll find little challenge from the Blackwood boy,” Fenrick clarified his perspective. 

“You think I’ll grow bored with him?” 

“I think it’s a difficult decision that should not be rushed,” Fenrick replied, his words conveying a sense of caution. 

Daenera pursed her lips, squinting at Fenrick with suspicion. Would there ever be a man he deemed worthy of her? It seemed to her that Fenrick would find fault in any suitor. Aran was the better of them, and even he could not live up to Fenrick’s standards. 

“Will he be able to protect you?” Fenrick continued. 

“You speak as if we’re preparing for war,” Daenera observed, her mood damped by the thought.

Fenrick gave her a knowing look, hinting at the uncertain future that lay ahead. 

“War is always on the horizon, Princess. And especially now, should the Hightowers wish it,” Fenrick murmured in a low voice, meant only for Daenera’s ears. His words carried a somber undertone, reminding her of the ever-looming threat that lingered.

Pale hair caught Daenera’s attention, and she looked over to see Aemond engaged in conversation with Boris Baratheon. Despite Baratheon’s towering stature, Aemond never seemed diminished in his presence.  

“Come on! Let’s not speak of war and indulge in such gloomy thoughts,” Jelissa interjected, gripping Daenera’s wrist and urging her up the steps towards the sheltered canopy of the balcony, stealing her attention away from Aemond. 

Daenera cast a pleading glance at Fenrick, but he merely shrugged, acknowledging Jelissa’s point. It was not the time nor the place to dwell on the wavering stability of the realm or Viserys’ ailing health. 

They reached the railing of the balcony and leaned over to peer down into the sandy center of the arena. A perfect circle, demarcated by ropes, lay untouched, its sand smooth and undisturbed. 

The anticipation seemed to swell within Jelissa as she exclaimed, “I cannot wait to see Ser Blackwood! He simply adores you.” 

A fluttering sensation stirred in Daenera’s stomach at the thought. It resembled a childhood infatuation she had experienced in the past, where it quickly moved from one handsome man to the next. Yet, this time, it felt different. It held the potential for something more enduring, perhaps even love. 

“We are still in the process of getting to know each other. No marriage contract has been discussed or signed,” Daenera clarified, tempering Jelissa’s excitement. It seemed the girl was more excited than Daenera herself was. 

“I believe Princess Rhaenyra would agree to it if you asked her,” Jelissa chimed. 

Daenera nodded, acknowledging the possibility. However, Fenrick interjected with a warning gaze, emphasizing the importance of Daemon’s approval. His meaningful look seemed to convey the expected outcome, reminding Daenera of the potential obstacles there were in choosing a husband. 

Basking in the warmth of the sun as it radiated from the clear blue sky, Daenera closed her eyes, allowing the comforting rays to wash over her. She embraced the moment of tranquility, letting the anticipation build as they awaited the start of the competition. 

As she blinked away the temporary blindness, Daenera’s gaze was immediately drawn to a figure bathed in the sunlight, giving his hair an ethereal glow of moonlight. Aemond stood on the opposite side of the circle, his presence sending a surge down her spine. Her heart tightened within her chest, torn between irritation and fascination.

Aemond's expression bore a smugness that hinted at hidden secrets, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. Daenera's anger mingled with an intense curiosity, fueling a fiery concoction within her.

 Suspicion clouded her narrowed eyes as she tried to unravel the enigma before her.

Always present, Aemond lingered in the background, his mere presence drawing her attention away from matters of importance. It was as if an invisible force tugged at her heart, refusing to release its grip. Despite her resistance, she found herself unable to avert her gaze from Aemond, caught in a relentless battle against the enticement that burned under her skin. She staunchly refused to succumb to such madness.

Her attention snapped back to the enclosed circle as the contestants made their entrance. 

The ten victorious knights from the previous melee competition strode into the arena, their footsteps sinking into the soft sand under the weight of their formidable armor. Each knight proudly displayed their house sigils or colors in various ways, a display of loyalty and identity. 

Aran stood out among them, clad in a combination of boiled leather and light plate armor, favoring agility and speed over heavy protection. In contrast, Boris Baratheon donned a suit of chainmail and sturdy plate armor, his yellow tunic adorned with the iconic black stag emblem. It seemed that most contestants had opted for a lighter armor setup similar to Aran’s. 

As each contestant entered, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, jeers and excited shouts. The air crackled with anticipation, and the fervor of the spectators was palpable. Bets were being made, adding an extra layer of excitement and tension to the atmosphere. 

Jelissa couldn’t contain her excitement, squealing with delight as she clutched Daenera’s arm, shaking it with enthusiasm. Aran’s radiant smile in her direction brought a faint blush to Jelissa’s cheeks, the subtle signs of her affection evident for all to see. 

Daenera remained composed. 

“You are aware of the dangers of the melee competition,” Fenrick said, the voice of reason. He couldn’t help but express his concern and his eyes shifted from the bright-eyed Jelissa to Daenera, a glimmer of worry in his gaze. 

However, Jelissa seemed oblivious to Fenrick’s cautionary words, caught up in the thrill of the moment. The allure of the competition overshadowed any thoughts of the potential risks involved. 

Daenera understood that when knights had adrenaline coursing through their veins, it fueled the innate savage bloodlust that laid in men. And despite the participants’ best intentions, the line between controlled combat and unbridled violence could blur in the heat of the moment. 

The competition commenced, and it didn’t take long for the violence to unfold. Boris Baratheon, wielding his greatsword with deadly precision, landed the first significant blow, sending the Arryn knight sprawling out of the circle. Filled with rage and humiliation over being the first defeated, the knight tore off his helmet and hurled it to the ground, hurling insults at Baratheon in a fit of anger. 

Undeterred, Baratheon continued his onslaught, effortlessly swatting aside the Lannister knight as if he were a mere nuisance. The Lannister, realizing the futility of challenging Baratheon, wisely redirected his focus to the Redding knight, seeking a less formidable opponent. 

In the chaos of battle, House Fenn and Glower managed to incapacitate each other, their dented helmets crashing onto the sand. Seizing the opportunity, the relentless Lannister knight plunged his sword into Redding, forcefully expelling him from the circle, blood streaming from his side. 

Meanwhile, Aran skilfully fended off Manderly, his blade cutting through the knight’s leg. Seizing the moment, Aran grasped a handful of Manderly’s leather armor, swiftly yanking him and propelling him outside of the circle. As this unfolded, Baratheon mercilessly struck the Thorne knight across the face with the pommel of his sword, causing teeth and blood to fly from the knight’s mouth. 

Jelissa’s excitement reached a fever pitch as she witnessed the brutal scene before her eyes. The crowd, equally enthralled by the display of bloodshed, erupted in a roar of exhilaration. 

Daenera felt a lump forming in her throat, her hands clenched into fists on the cool marble railing as she observed Baratheon’s ferocious strikes. With thunderous roars, Baratheon swung his sword through the air where Aran had stood just moments before. In a fleeting moment, the Lannister knight seized the opportunity to attack, thrusting his sword forward, only to have it effortlessly parried away by Baratheon’s ironclad hand as if it were a mere toothpick. 

Never before had Daenera truly grasped the sheer size and strength of Boris Baratheon. He swung at the Lannister knight, swatting him away like an annoying fly. The knight managed to evade the blow by ducking under it, retaliating with a desperate thrust of his own sword. But Baratheon’s counterattack was swift and powerful, jolting the Lannister knight’s arms and forcing him to stagger backward. Growling with fury, Boris relentlessly swung his sword again and again, until the Lannister knight, overwhelmed by the unyielding assault, momentarily dropped his guard. 

Aran attempted to intervene, but his efforts were swiftly repelled, causing him to stumble backward. Boris brought his sword down with bone-shattering force, shattering the Lannister knight’s arm, and then repeated the action on his leg. Though the Lannister knight proved his mettle by drawing his knife and attempting a desperate stab at Boris, his attack was deflected, leaving him no room for honor in his actions. The blade did manage to find its mark, piercing Boris’s side, but the ferocious warrior barely acknowledged the wound. The Lannister knight collapsed onto his back, blood spilling from his mouth as Boris delivered a vicious kick that rendered him unconscious. Two squiers rushed to his aid, gripping his shoulders and dragging him out of the circle, hastily carrying him to the medical tent. 

Aran, determined to turn the tide, aimed to bury his sword in Baratheon’s back, but the formidable brother of the Lord of Storm’s End swiftly turned, swatting the blade aside with a contemptuous ease. Boris retaliated, swinging his sword with such force that it nearly disarmed Aran in a single blow. The clash of steel echoed through the arena, intensifying the atmosphere of chaos. 

“He is going to kill him!” Jelissa cried out, her hands flying to cover her mouth in horror, while the other one gripped Daener’s wrist tightly, digging her nails into her skin. 

Fenrick’s brow furrowed deeply as she responded, his voice filled with disapproval and concern. “He is showing some restraint, aiming for broken bones and damaged teeth. No one has died yet.”

“What restraint? I’m certain the Lannister knight has internal bleeding,” Daenera murmured, scowling down at the bloodied sands of the arena. 

Boris Baratheon’s brutal assault continued without mercy. He struck Aran across the face, reopening the healing wound on his brow and breaking his nose. Blood gushed from the broken appendage as Aran stumbled, blinking in a desperate attempt to regain focus. Barely managing to defend himself, he ducked, rolled through the sand, and rose to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Despite his unsteady stance, Aran refused to yield. 

Baratheon spat something at Aran, but his words were drowned out by the cacophony of the jeering crowd.

 Daenera clenched her teeth in frustration as Aran glanced up at her, then turned his stubborn gaze back to Baratheon. She felt her heart strain in her chest, and she prayed that Aran would see reason and yield. Better to yield than to allow the brutality to continue. 

Aran mustered all his strength for a single retaliatory strike, his sword connecting with Boris’s side. But Boris seized Aran and delivered a powerful blow to his stomach with the pommel of his sword.

Doubled over, gasping for breath, Aran dropped his sword, clutching his abdomen. He heaved, spit and snot dripped onto the sand, as tears streaked his cheeks. 

With another roar, Boris brought his sword down on Aran’s back. 

Jelissa couldn’t bear to witness the brutality any longer, tears welling in her eyes as she turned away. But Daenera’s gaze remained fixed on Boris Baratheon, a sickening feeling churning in her stomach. Something was terribly amiss. Boris had already secured victory, yet he continued to mercilessly pummel Aran’s defenseless body. The sickening sound of bone cracking finally brought an end to the onslaught. 

Boris raised his arms triumphantly, basking in the adulation of the crowd, who showered the bloody sand with flowers as if he hadn’t just brutally beaten a young man of barely eighteen. 

The squiers from House Blackwood rushed onto the sand, gently turning Aran onto his back, desperately attempting to retrieve him in time. They quickly summoned a gurney and carefully transferred him onto it before hurriedly making their way out of the arena. 

“Gods,” Jelissa gasped, her face pale and eyes red-rimmed with tears. “Is he…is he dead?”

Daenera grasped Jelissa’s arms firmly, her gaze unwavering as she spoke clearly. “Go and check on Aran. Find out his condition and bring us news as soon as you learn anything.”

Jelissa nodded, gathering her skirts and running off to fulfill her task. 

A glimmer of silver caught her attention, drawing her gaze to the other side of the balcony once more. Aemond raised his wine-filled cup in a mocking toast, a wicked and malicious smirk playing on his lips. His eye gleamed with triumph and challenge, sending a shiver down her spine. 

In that moment, she understood. 

“Daenera Velaryon!” Boris Baratheon’s booming voice echoed through the arena, his sword pointed in her direction. A wide grin spread across his face, radiating the glow of victory. “I dedicate this triumph to you!”

Controlling the scowl that threatened to form on her face, she managed to summon a smile and graciously nodded in acknowledgment, aware of the scrutinizing gaze of the crowd upon her. Her eyes rose towards Aemond once again, then back to Boris as he continued speaking. 

“Princess of Flowers, a rare beauty, as sweet as the sweetest flower of all. You occupied my thoughts throughout this competition, and I knew I had to emerge victorious for you. I humbly request that you keep me in your thoughts, as I shall keep you in mine.” 

The lump in her throat was thick and sticky as Daenera nodded in gratitude, plucking one of the black roses adorning a nearby vase. With a swift motion, she tossed it to Boris Baratheon, who caught it with a gleam of ambition and triumph in his eyes. 

Daenera cast a seething glare at Aemond, her expression filled with a murderous intensity, before she turned on her heels and walked away, her steps purposeful and resolute. 

In the shade outside of the arena, where the melee competition was soon to commence, Aemond stood watching the contestants prepare themselves. He twirled his dagger absentmindedly in his hand with practiced ease, as he looked at Boris Baratheon's little squire was struggling to lift the heavy breastplate high enough to strap it onto his lord's chest.

His mood had been foul for the whole tournament, each day souring it worse than the other, and he blamed Daenera and the little pup following her around. 

“Have you changed your mind and come to participate in the competition?” Aran Blackwood asked. Clad in his padded leather armor adorned with his sigil and armed with his sword, approached Aemond with a smile on his lips. Aemond glanced at him momentarily, his gaze lingering only briefly before returning dismissively to the other knights. The dagger continued its mesmerizing dance in his hand.

“No,” Aemond curtly replied, his tone dripping with indifference, as if the mere suggestion remained beneath him, but he would lie if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, if only to spite Daenera.  

Undeterred by Aemond’s cold response, Aran pressed on, seemingly oblivious to the tension between them. “It’s a shame. I am sure you–”

“What do you want?” Aemond interrupted sharply, his glare intensifying as he fixed his eye on Aran. He wasn’t sure whether the boy was willfully ignorant to his animosity or if he was genuinely oblivious. 

Aran stumbled over his words, taken aback by Aemond’s hostility. “I am aware of your… strained relationship with the princess…”

Aemond’s gaze flickered with a dangerous glint, a flicker of violence crossing his mind as he continued twirling his dagger, imagining the ease with which it could silence Aran’s words permanently. 

“...But I thought you might have some insight into where I stand with the princess and if she considers me a real contender for her hand,” Aran continued, his voice filled with foolish hope. “We’ve spent a lot of time together, and I find myself thinking of her even in her absence. I hope she might feel the same and consider marrying me.”

Aemond’s reply was swift and short. “No.”

The dismissal hung heavy in the air, and Aran’s face fell, a confused and disappointed expression screwing up his features. “May I ask why?”

The dagger ceased its twirling, and in a swift move, Aemond slid it into its sheath at his hip. The cruel glint in his eye had a worse bite than the blade that had just been sheathed. “Face the truth, Blackwood. You possess no lands or titles to your name, and when your grandfather breathes his last, you shall inherit nothing. Your brother has already secured heirs, leaving you with scraps. Perhaps you can find solace in marrying some lowly woman from a minor house, but make no mistake: you offer nothing to a princess. Daenera is far beyond your reach, and you delude yourself if you believe you are a suitable match for her.”

Aemond reveled in his cruelty, relishing in the way his words diminished Aran’s hopes into dust. 

“You’re wrong,” Aran spoke up, his voice tense and wavering. He stared defiantly at Aemond. “I do have something to offer–”

“Do not say love,” Aemond cut him off with a scoff. 

“Titles and wealth do not define a man’s worth,” Aran replied, his voice steady despite the sting of Aemond’s cruel remarks. “It is honor, loyalty, and the strength of character that truly matter. I may not have inherited grand titles or vast lands, but I have what you do not. Bravery .” 

He took a step closer, meeting Aemond’s gaze with unwavering resolve. “Daenera and I share a connection that cannot be dismissed so easily. We have spent countless hours together, sharing laughter, dreams, and understanding. Love knows no boundaries of birthright or inheritance. It is in her heart that my hope resides, not in titles or lands.”

Aran’s voice carried a hint of defiance, his words cutting through the air with a newfound clarity. “You underestimate the power of love, Aemond One-eye . Perhaps if you had both eyes, you could see the world’s ability for love. But mark my words, I will prove myself worthy of Daenera’s affection, not through material wealth, but through the strength of my devotion. I will win this competition, in her honor.”

A sneer pulled at Aemond’s lips as he stared at the boy with incredulity and he let out a crude scoff. “A man with only one eye sees more than a boy with two, it seems.” 

Aemond’s gaze burned with fury as he locked eyes with Aran, his fingers itching to unsheathe his dagger and unleash his wrath upon the insolent boy. The thought of slicing him permanently tempted Aemond, allowing his twisted desires to surge through his veins like a raging inferno. He could almost taste the satisfaction of seeing Aran crumble beneath his own foolishness. 

A cruel smirk curled on Aemond’s lips as he leaned in closer, his voice laced with a venomous sneer. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, Blackwood. Daenera will devour you like a starved dragon tearing into a helpless lamb.”

“You seem to have no understanding of the princess,” Aran opposed, with the same level of conviction. “Her beauty is not just skin-deep; it emanates from within, a reflection of her grace, intelligence, and compassion. She is a beacon of light in a place consumed by darkness. She inspires and uplifts those fortunate to know her, and she possesses a kindness rarely seen.”

Aemond felt genuine laughter bubbled up within his chest and strained to swallow it. The smirk on his lips turned sharp and biting. “It is you who do not know her. Daenera craves what you cannot give her.”

“And what is that?” Aran questioned defiantly, wanting to prove him wrong. 

“Fire,” Aemond answered. “You may think yourself capable of giving her that, but you will never make her burn for you. All that you can offer her is your feeble devotion and hope that it will be enough, and she might delude herself to think it is, but it is not. She will grow bored with you, and the boredom will grow into indifference if you are lucky, and resentment if you're not. And should she decide that you have outlasted your worth, she’ll free herself of you.” 

She was a tempest, an uncontrollable force of nature, and he knew that she would attempt to contain herself for the sake of Aran. However, Aemond saw it as nothing more than a delusion she wove around herself, convincing herself that the faint flutters she might feel in Aran’s presence could blossom into love. Aemond knew it would not. It would wither like spring flowers caught in a blizzard. 

Aran lacked the power to make her burn, to challenge her on a level that stirred her depths. All he offered was a childlike devotion, a feeble notion that held no weight in the face of Daenera’s fire. 

Aemond despised the feeling he had been left with watching Daenera pretend to be something she was not, to hide away the darkness that resided within her in favor of the mask that was expected of her to wear. He hated watching her with Aran, laughing with him, and smiling at him. The idea that Daenera might settle for someone who couldn’t match her intensity gnawed at Aemond’s core, an unwelcome ache that accentuated his dark desire for her. It burned in the bit of his stomach. Festered. Poisoned him. 

“That is rich coming from a man who is in no better position than I,” Aran sneered, finally showing the spine he had. “A second son, half a man, lacking the courage to partake in a competition, too fearful of facing defeat. The fault lies with me for seeking your counsel on matters beyond your feeble comprehension. Excuse me, my prince, as I must now ready myself to triumph in the competition.”

Aemond’s gaze followed Aran as the boy walked away, a cruel smirk etched upon his face, concealing the anger that flickered within. The sting of Aran words resonated deep within him, fueling the fire of his resentment. A sudden shift in Aemond’s focus directed his attention towards Boris Baratheon, who dismissively waved away his squire after the boy had secured the arm braces around his forearms. A devious plan began to take shape in Aemond’s mind, intertwining with his growing desire for revenge. 

Aemond approached Boris Baratheon, the towering figure before him, instinctively straightening his own posture to match the man’s height. Boris Baratheon was a mountain of a man, with broad shoulders and arms as thick as the trunk of a tree, and his face was handsome, but half of it covered in a thick black beard. 

“Boris Baratheon,” Aemond greeted, a touch of formality lacing his tone, as he asserted the formidable knight whose hands were as big as the paw of a bear, and likely as powerful.

“Ah, Prince Aemond,” Boris returned the greeting with a hint of amusement. “Have you come to join the competition? It would do me some good to have someone who actually poses a challenge, though I promise you, you will not win.”

Aemond’s lips curved into a dismissive smile. “No, I fear I cannot provide you with a challenge at this moment. My sword is still being forged, and I would not wish to compete with a lesser weapon.” 

Boris, undeterred by Aemond’s response, shifted his focus to Aemond’s earlier interaction. “I noticed you speaking with the Blackwood boy. Offering his advice, perhaps?”

“He would not heed my advice, even if I were to offer it. He seems to harbor delusions of victory.” Aemond answered, letting his eye slide over Boris’ features as they tightened. 

Boris let out a boisterous laugh, his amusement filling the air. “That scrawny pup? I can hardly believe he stands a chance against children wielding wooden swords. He doesn’t even yet have hair on his chest. His triumph over the Bracken knight was a stroke of luck, nothing more. “

“But it is not just the competition he believes he will win,” Aemond’s drawled, letting his words lead Boris down a new path. 

“Oh?”

“He fancies that his victory in the competition would bestow upon him enough honor to ask for Princess Daenera’s hand in marriage,” Aemond replied, his words dripping with mockery. 

“That is preposterous. The boy is a fool if he truly believes in such fantasies.” Boris shook his head in disbelief, dismissing the notion, a flash of anger crossing his face. “He’s been following the Princess around like a lost puppy, making it impossible for anyone else to approach her without his constant yelping and inserting himself into every conversation.”

“Indeed,” Aemond agreed smoothly. “It seems we are both in agreement that the boy is a nuisance. I think it would be best if Aran Blackwood’s delusion were met with reality.”

“Do not worry, Prince Aemond. I will make sure to shatter his delusion as well as his honor,” Boris assured Aemond.  

A shiver ran down Aemond’s spine, as if a cold gust of wind had brushed against him. Though his blind side was turned to her, he could feel Daenera’s gaze slither across his presence. He turned his head ever so slightly, meeting her eyes with a piercing gaze. Her brows furrowed in a cautiously curious frown, but before their silent exchange could continue, her serving maid intervened, obliviously pulling her along up the stairs towards the balcony. 

“Indeed,” Aemond agreed, dragging his attention back to Boris. “It would be best if Aran Blackwood was not only unable to win, but also incapable of making any marriage proposal at all.”

** Black Rose; Death, hatred, despair, sorrow, danger, obsession.

[dawnsarchive]

Crush (Reupload)

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Fandom: Across the Spider-Verse (Movie)

Pairing: Pavitr Prabhakar/Reader

Reader: Gender-Neutral

Style: One-Shot

Rating: Teen+

Content Warning: None

Summary:

What were the odds that all the perfect circumstances would align to bring you to him?

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After you met enough versions of Spiderman, they stopped surprising you anymore.

They all carried the same jovial nature about everything except their true identities – something most guarded close to their chest. When you took your own mask off, most hesitated for at least ten minutes before they revealed their own identities even though half the time, it was the same person.

Some variant of Peter. Spidermen like you and Gwen were few; the only ones to be considerably different to the norm.

Though it seemed even in the realm of Peter Parker variants, not all were the same as no sooner had Spiderman India landed on the roof beside you and he pulled his own mask off.

“I’m dying,” he complained. “This heatwave is going to end me.”

Gwen laughed. “These suits are awful for the summer. Pav, this is the friend I wanted you to meet.”

“But the summer here is particularly bad,” he complained before he turned his attention to you with a smile. A stunning, genuine smile. “Another spiderman?”

“Something like that,” you agreed and gestured at your own suit.

It was one of your days off but still, you rarely found time to take a break from the suit. No matter how much you told yourself that you would find some ‘you’ time, it never came about.

“Why are we sitting in the sun though?” Pavitr said and he winced at the sky. The light bounced off his hair like it would a gorgeous tiger’s eye stone – glossy, thick, and highlighted to make any hair stylist jealous. “Can we move to the shade please.”

Admittedly, you’d been overheating too but not enough to ask Gwen to move. You swung to the water tower nearby and balanced yourself on the edge to peer at the bustling streets below you. This universe hummed with life. Everything was so bright and vibrant and smelled faintly of spices. You adored it.

“You’re not concerned about your secret identity?” you asked when Pavitr joined you.

He looked confused. “Why bother? Wouldn’t you guess it anyway if you already knew other Spidermen? What’s the worst that could happen?”

You winced at the words but it appeared Pavitr cared little for potentially cursing himself. He swung over to a comfortable spot and settled down with his eyes closed and his smile easy.

It caused a strange fluttering in your chest to see how genuinely carefree he was. Or maybe that was a side effect of looking at attractive people in general.

“What’s the plan?” you asked. “We going to chill on a rooftop or do I get a tour?”

“I’ll give you a tour when the sun stops trying to kill us,” Pavitr promised. “Or maybe when something fun happens.”

Gwen sighed. “I’m sure it won’t take long before something shows up.”

The luck of Spiderman never failed to bring an event to break up any boring day and it really didn’t take long at all before you spotted a petty thief with some kind of homemade speed enhancer. You gave chase alongside the others though, to be honest, you cared little for the villain of the week.

Instead, you watched Pavitr.

He used his webs so uniquely and constantly stopped to point out things in the city; Gwen was left to fight on her own for the vast majority of the pursuit. He told you about the food, the culture, and the buildings, all before you caught up and you hung on every word.

How could you not when his energy was so infectious? His voice was so much like excited chirping and it made you smile the entire time.

With that in mind though, it was only expected that he would take a hit for being distracted. A solid elbow to the face while securing the thief made you wince and when he took off his mask, a dark bruise crept along the side of his jaw.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” he asked, his eyes massive and pleading.

“Um…”

“Bro, my auntie is going to kill me when she sees this!”

You laughed and offered him some excuses that didn’t work but he didn’t seem too worried. He’d smiled at you and from that day forward, Pavitr’s dimension turned into your favourite place to hang out when you had spare time.

He told you about his adventures and you lingered for far longer than you should have. You found time for him even when you didn’t have time for your own world – fed the dogs with him rather than patrolling your city. It was irresponsible but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

You didn’t realise how bad it got until you had to spend two weeks without being there.

Every day that passed without being at Pavitr’s side made you uneasy and restless. A strange loneliness suffocated your heart. A spare second turned into longing as you waited for him to respond to your messages or offer a visit.

He visited you first.

You turned to the portal and found yourself immediately pulled into a tight hug, one that squeezed life back into you and brought a smile back to your face where one hadn’t been for many years.

“It’s been so boring without you around,” he said when he stepped back.

He hadn’t worn his suit. It made your heart stutter to see him wearing jeans and a hoodie. There was a layer of vulnerability to seeing him as Pav rather than as Spiderman India and it made the part of you that found him ridiculously, unendingly attractive, ache.

“I’ve missed you,” you said. “Sorry I haven’t been visiting but everything got so busy. Is your city surviving without me?”

“It did but I nearly didn’t,” he complained. “I was going crazy without somebody to talk to! You missed out on everything.”

You gestured for him to continue and he wasted no time; he launched into a full recount of the past weeks as you walked with him over the edges of the city. This place was your home but as the golden sunrays danced over the horizon, you couldn’t help but recognise a strange sensation.

Maybe it wasn’t Pav’s dimension that made you feel comfortable and warm as you had assumed. Maybe it was just him.

“You alright?”

You snapped out of your thoughts to look at him. “I was just thinking how much I missed your dimension,” you admitted.

He grinned proudly. “I know, I have the best dimension. That’s why I hate travelling around – everywhere else is so boring in comparison.”

“You’re not wrong. Sometimes I want to stay there forever.”

The excitement that lit up his eyes made your heart stutter. “Really? You should! It’d be way better than you having to go home constantly.”

You might have been joking but his response froze you. Was he really so excited to have you move to his dimension? It would be imposing on his space – most other Spidermen were strangely territorial of their worlds – yet he invited you in without a second thought.

“It would be less travel,” you admitted.

Pavitr nodded proudly. “It makes sense. You can stay and then you can’t pretend you’re not in love with me anymore!”

You rolled your eyes though the blush still crept onto your cheeks. “I’m not in love with you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He could be teasing – and you thought he might be by the tone of his voice – but there was a challenge in his gaze that made your heart ache. You didn’t want him to be joking anymore. Not when there was an undeniable truth to the what he was saying.

“That’s awfully arrogant of you,” you said.

He shrugged and suddenly leaned in; your breathing nearly stopped. “I just have good eyesight.”

It would take no effort for you to close the gap. You could lean in and solve all your useless pining in a second.

And you really, really wanted to.

You leaned in and pressed your lips against his, so quickly he didn’t even seem to realise what happened. He stared at you and you stared back. A blush crept over the top of your cheeks as you waited for his response.

He grinned. “I knew it. You’re so in love with me.”

You kissed him again, just to shut him up. He made a surprised sound against your mouth and that went straight to your heart. The spark in your chest ignited into a massive flame. You rested your hand on his jaw as the kiss deepened. He tasted faintly of chai spice, a blend unique to him.

His golden eyes danced with mirth when you moved back, his smile far too cocky and arrogant still.

“I’m not in love with you,” you lied.

“Sure. You totally haven’t been wanting to kiss me since the day we met which by the way, you should have.”

You rolled your eyes. “The day we met? I think you might have found me a little weird.”

“I wouldn’t. I’m a chilled guy – I’m not going to complain if an attractive person kisses me.” He thought about it for a few seconds. “Actually, I think I would if that person wasn’t you.”

“Guess I’m lucky then,” you said.

The sun sank beneath the horizon while the two of you watched, your head rested against his shoulder while you considered just how lucky you truly were.

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[haydenigmatic]

The Oursbars and Connells own more land but the Parovus' & Lavones have more resources. The Parovus', Sarpes & Mezzeis are the main producers of food. The Lavones and Connells have powerful armies but the Sarpes & Muriels have the best navies. The Lavones control finance but the Sarpes have deep social influence. How would you rank each of the houses in terms of power, considering factors like military strength, wealth, land ownership, resources, marriage alliances & social/political influence?

I'm quite impressed by your great house's analysis. I do love questions about the world of the eight kingdoms.

Alright so they all are powerful houses and wealthy, but on different levels soooo additionally to what you said:

From highest to lowest in the rank

Dracarion>>Lavone>>Sarpe>Parovus>>Mezzei>>>Oursbar>Connell>Muriel

The Dracarions, as the ruling royal house, stand atop the hierarchy of the Eight Kingdoms. With a rich history and dragon-influenced military strength, they hold extensive lands, control precious resources, and boast supreme political influence. Their wealth, derived from mines and historical assets, establishes them as the pinnacle of power in the realm.

House Lavone wields considerable power, focusing on the wealth generated from gold and silver mines. Their strong military presence, prosperous banking operations, and strategic alliances through marriages secure them a prominent position, making them a force to be reckoned with in the economic and political landscape.

House Sarpe navigates the political arena with a moderate military strength and substantial wealth derived from the production of wine, food, and trade. Fertile lands and access to a "university" enhance their influence, while connections through scholarly and healing institutions solidify their presence in political circles.

House Parovus commands a decent military and thrives on the wealth from fertile grasslands and food exports. Vast agricultural lands and abundant food resources contribute to their economic strength. Their political influence, marked by extravagant lifestyles, positions them as a notable player in the interconnected web of the Eight Kingdoms.

Hose Mezzei stands out with prosperity from diverse exports including spices, diamonds, and coal. A moderate military and unique resources, such as a special breed of horses and involvement in the glass trade, contribute to their influence. Trade networks further solidify their moderate political standing.

House Oursbar holds a moderate position with a military shaped by the harsh northern climate. Moderate wealth, possibly from trade and ice-related industries, characterizes their standing. With varied land ownership and strategic location, they maintain a moderate political influence through resilient practices.

House Connell though varied in military strength, retains a moderate position with resources dependent on the snowy landscapes. Moderately wealthy and connected through local traditions, their influence is shaped by historical warrior culture. In this diverse hierarchy, holds its own with a unique lifestyle and political standing.

House Muriel navigates the complex political landscape with a moderate military and wealth reliant on trade and imports. Varied terrain, including marshes and misty forests, reflects their diverse resources, while diplomatic ties and alliances are not at its best hence their moderate political influence.