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thedeathofduty · 1 year

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Little Doe

Summary: Prince Aemond shows you a special place in the Red Keep's gardens. When the two of you return that night, you are able to enjoy his company, but feel burdened by the possibility of a betrothal you thought you wanted. Now, though, you are not so sure.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!F!Reader

Warning(s): Explicit scenes, some light choking, brief mention of Aemond's awful, terrible, no-good thirteenth name day. Minors dni, thank you uwu

A/N: Let's all imagine Borros Baratheon had a younger brother named Davos. There's absolutely no mention of the Dance or any of the crazy family tension in this fic. Also messed with the universe's timeline a bit. 8,243 words!!! Bone apple teeth, y'all. Also, please do not be fooled by the title. Aemond does not dom in this fic.

You stood before your father, fighting to school your features so you would not burst into raucous laughter as he yelled at your handmaiden until there were tears streaming down the young girl’s face. Usually, you were not so cruel, but you could not help but feel she deserved it for nearly soiling your image, and to your beloved father, no less. Everybody at court knew you were the sparkle in Lord Davos Baratheon’s eye, his youngest child and only girl. They knew better than to speak ill of you.

The girl must be new to the Keep. As your father put her in her place, your chest grew with pride.

“My daughter has no need for a chaperone,” he growled, his blue eyes blazing like icy coals. “She is merely going to go for a walk in the gardens with the young Prince. Or do you presume to question my daughter’s virtue?”

“No, My Lord, I-I would never,” the girl whimpered, shaking like a little leaf in the wind next to you. You had to cover your mouth to hide your smirk.

“Do you think he would fuck her in the gardens, for all to see? Do you hear how stupid you sound, you cunt?”

“Father,” you chastised him. He pointed a stern finger at you and you bit your lip to try to hide your irrepressible smile.

“If he touches you in a way that displeases you, you are to show him no mercy and leave the rest to me. I promised your mother you would return to Storm’s End a maiden and I intend to make good on that, even if I have to cut out Prince Aemond’s other eye.” At this, you let out a girlish laugh as your handmaiden gasped loudly.

“Yes, father.”

“Very good.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the girl next to you. “Have the Prince ask the Queen to fetch us another one, little doe. This one is a bit too fucking stupid." You nodded.

These handmaidens never lasted long under your father. Even though he was soft for you and your mother, he was a harsh man. You loved him dearly, and he, in turn, lavished every affection on you and let you run as wild as you wished. Whatever your transgressions, he either did not see them or merely pretended you were innocent.

You led the girl out of the room with a sly grin, offering quiet apologies. She said nothing offensive, but you could see the fear and anger in her wet eyes and it gave you great pleasure to know that she had no choice but to keep it all to herself. Perhaps after today she would learn you were nigh untouchable. You were a Lady of a Great House and clearly favored by the oh so terrifying Aemond One Eye. Was it your fault that two bold, fearsome men cared for you?

You strolled through the halls of the Red Keep, making your way to the gardens to meet Prince Aemond with your chin held high and a smile so wide, two deep dimples adorned your cheeks. Your mind felt cloudy with excitement, your thoughts racing with what you and your Prince may get up to today. Usually, he took you for a ride on his dragon and, while you had resisted at first, it had quickly become one of your favorite things to do with him.

Sometimes he would take you to one of the small spits of land in the Blackwater and other times, your journey would end deep in the Kingswood. No matter where the Prince took you, the story ended in the same way: with you naked in his lap, his soft hair between your fingers, and his mouth on your neck. The fact that he let you have him was a privilege and a pleasure you had no intention of giving up. Sacrificing the happiness of a lowly handmaiden was nothing to you and you would ask Aemond to allow you to feed her to Vhagar yourself if it meant you got to feel his tongue thrusting into your cunt again.

It was odd that he wanted to trade those private trysts for a public stroll through the gardens. Your father held no ill-will towards the Prince despite his earlier threat, but nor did he have much love for the Targaryens as a house. You imagined it would take a lot of convincing to get him to agree to a betrothal, if that was what Prince Aemond was attempting by walking with you somewhere public.

You hoped that was not what he wanted.

Though you held the Prince in high regard somewhere perhaps very near your heart, your heart itself was as of yet a land unclaimed by any man, and you preferred it that way. You were no longer a maiden and had not been one for years, not since your fifteenth name day here in King’s Landing, but your heart retained its maidenhood and had never been bloodied by love. Perhaps someday all this practice with him would prove useful when you married whatever Lord your father ultimately deemed worthy of his little doe.

The moment you saw Prince Aemond, you bit your lip and let out a laugh without thinking. As always, he was in his black leathers you found so dashing on him, but in his hand he held a single flower, your very favorite: a yellow plumeria. They grew in some of the hidden alcoves of Storm’s End. Back home, you always had the servants replace the vase of them you kept in your chambers.

He looked every bit the roguish gentleman, out of place in the brightly colored gardens clad only in black, with his dark eye patch and scar marring half his pristine face. His bright blue eye seemed to glow in the sunlight, nearly the same shade as yours. You did not think you could remember a time when the Prince had worn a different color. It was as if he was ever a widow in her mourning period.

“My Prince,” you said with a small bow and an outstretched hand. Gently, he grasped it and brushed it against his lips.

“My Lady. Your flower.” He handed the plumeria to you and you gave yourself a moment to breathe in its soft scent before sighing fondly and pressing it against your chest. “Does it remind you of home?” he asked, offering you his arm, which you took without hesitation as the two of you started walking.

“It does.” A pause. “Though I do not miss it. Storm’s End was wet and terribly boring. King’s Landing is much more exciting.” You gave him a meaningful look, and he chuckled under his breath.

The day was warm and a little damp. There had been a big storm the night before and a heavy fog had settled over the Keep. Everyone around you was wading in it, even your companion. As the two of you passed the various members of court who had ventured into the gardens on such a humid morning, you said your quiet greetings and remained a touch too close to one another. You wondered how the two of you must look from a distance, your thick black hair next to his silver, your bright yellow dress next to his black leathers. Did the two of you walking arm in arm look natural to the people you were greeting?

“Did Lord Davos like Aethia?” he asked, breaking the companionable silence.

“Who? Oh, the servant girl.” You snorted, brushing your flower under your nose. “No, father called her stupid. As he should! That bitch was trying to come and chaperone me today. Can you believe the nerve of it?”

Prince Aemond grinned, happy to indulge your ego just as your father usually was. “Those are the rules, Lady Y/N.”

“Not for me, My Prince.” You slipped a finger under the cuff of his sleeve, feeling his steady pulse on the inside of his wrist. When you spoke, you leaned close to him and let your words out in near whispers. “My father said there was no chance you would fuck me here in the gardens where anybody could see you.” His pulse quickened under your fingers and you could feel yours do the same.

“Oh, and you believe him, do you?” He raised an eyebrow at you, mirth shining in his eye.

“My Prince,” you gasped, clutching your flower near your heart, “I would never think you capable of such depravity.” You often laughed together, as you were both doing now, and you often felt that it was your favorite part of spending time with Aemond. “And with a pure maiden such as I.”

He hummed, his gaze dropping to your lips. In the distance, the waves of the Blackwater crashed against the lower walls of the Red Keep and your face flushed with desire. “You’ve not been a maiden for some time now, My Lady.”

Your fifteenth name day had been a boring affair. Your father had gifted you a chest full of new dresses and a small orange kitten you named Perzys after the Valyrian word for fire. You had spent some time having wine and delicate pastries with some of the other young Ladies at court, including the Princess Helaena who unfortunately did not quite seem to fit in with the rest of you. She was a sweet girl and, though you had no issue with her, you never quite knew what to say to her.

That evening, you had wandered with a goblet of wine in your hand and a scowl on your face. You had felt like a big fish in a small pond, like the Red Keep was too small a pen for so large a stag. You had found Prince Aemond in the Godswood by himself, reading as he often was when he was without a sword in his hand. The two of you had taken notice of each other before and you knew he had found flimsy excuses to barge into his sister’s chambers on the few occasions you decided to spend some time with her. His one gleaming eye seemed to be stuck on you like a searing hand and you could deny it no longer: you wanted to have him.

‘It is my name day,’ you’d all but whispered to him, nearly in his lap already with your eyes raking all over him at all the places you wanted to touch but would not dare to just yet. ‘Even your brother sent me a bottle of wine with the Princess Helaena. What have you gotten me, My Prince? What will you give me?’

‘What is it you want, Lady Y/N?’ His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you stared at it, completely rapt. ‘I will see it done.’

‘I want you, Prince Aemond.’ Your hand brushed against his cheek and he clutched it, his eye narrowing as it bored into yours. Slowly, you allowed yourself to lean into him. ‘I am not so lost in my cups that I do not know what that means. Will you make a woman of me? It would be the best gift anyone has given me today.’

When he finally kissed you, a loud moan bubbled past your lips and into his. He led you hand in hand through the halls to his chambers, taking great care to make sure the two of you were not seen. The moment he shut his door, you connected, pulling each other apart until you both tumbled into his bed. It was funny. Your mother had warned you it would hurt, that you would cry and bleed and curse the gods. But it had not been like that at all.

Your body felt like the night sky, like a void filled with a swirl of dizzying stars. Even your fingertips were humming with pleasure by the time Aemond was guiding you into his lap with a firm grip on your waist. When he finally entered you, you cried out in relief and ecstasy, not pain. It was as if there was a terrible itch inside of you that was finally being scratched.

He gasped and groaned as you moved your hips, slowly at first, then as quickly as you could manage. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him close so he could kiss and bite your neck as he had been doing before. Gods, you had loved that. When your fingers snagged on the strap of his eye patch, you growled and yanked it off without thinking, tossing it off to the side. For a moment, you almost missed the way his entire body went rigid until you opened your eyes.

You had never seen something so wondrous and beautiful, not even the giant she-dragon he called his. His one good eye was wide and fearful and in place of the other was a dazzling, glittering sapphire. The sight of it made heat coil low in your belly like a plumeria blooming after rain.

‘You,’ you panted, ‘you have been hiding this from me this entire time?’ He opened his mouth to speak and you ducked down to lick the pale column of his throat.

‘I-I do not wish to scare the ladies at court,’ he stammered and you huffed a gentle laugh into his wet skin.

‘I am not afraid, Aemond,’ you murmured, letting him feel your teeth against his neck. ‘I am wet. Do you feel my desire?’ You moved your hips again, and you both moaned. ‘Do you think it has it waned?’ He shook his head and pulled your mouth up to connect with his. The kiss was slow and languid, your tongues dancing as you quickened your pace in his lap. The desire that had bloomed inside you only grew, threatening to engulf you in a wild passion hotter than dragonfire.

‘Oh gods, you feel incredible,’ Aemond groaned against your lips, a wail torn from his mouth as you gripped his hair in your fists and rode him viciously. He had given himself as a present for you, so he was yours, all yours. The thought swirled dangerously in your head as you chased your release with gritted teeth.

‘Aemond!’ you cried. Your hair was sticking to the side of your face and the back of your neck. The reward you had been working for was so close you could taste it on your tongue and yet it eluded you. Your eyebrows pinched together in frustration, then smoothed as he ran his hands up your back until they came to rest on your shoulders. You opened your eyes and peered down at him, your chest heaving.

His sapphire was catching bits of moonbeams from the open windows. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen and nearly red from your kisses. He was... You loosened the grip you had in his hair, trying to catch your breath as he leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth. You wanted to tell him he was beautiful and fine, like a Dornish knife made of ivory or a piece of the moon come down to lie with you, but you found you could say nothing as you stared at him. His hands gently cradled your face, thumbs brushing away the frustrated tears you had scarcely even noticed. You furrowed your brows under his studious and gentle gaze, your heartbeat growing louder in your ears as he pressed another kiss just shy of your lips.

‘May I?’ You were not sure what he was asking for, but you said yes all the same.

He taught you much that night, about your body and about pleasure. Sometimes it was better to go slowly and let it build until it immolated you from the inside. You knew that now. When your release found you again that night, it was with a shudder and a silent scream. Aemond finished on his stomach with a low groan and just the sight of him in the throes of pleasure had you wanting him all over again.

Afterwards, you lied in his bed with your legs tangled together and spoke softly to one another. They were not words of love, no promises of betrothals or heart wrenching confessions of secret fondness plagued the two of you that night. It was easy speaking to him now that the deed was done where before it had been so difficult. Of course, how many secrets could there be after someone has seen such a hidden part of you? He had forced you, whining and bleary-eyed, out of his bed and helped you dress before accompanying you back to your chambers. Again, your hand was in his and he kissed it gently as he wished you pleasant dreams.

It was a good night, a fine way to lose your maidenhead. One month later, your family returned to Storm’s End, and you assumed that would be that. Years later, however, here you found yourself again, playing this little game you loved so much with the Prince. This game had never included a scenic walk through the gardens, but you enjoyed his company enough to allow him access to you with your clothes on.

“You dare question my virtue, Prince Aemond? My father will have your other eye for that,” you joked, your cheeks hurting from smiling so much.

“Your father is overly indulgent.”

“As are you,” you purred, batting your lashes at him and giggling when he looked away.

“Hm, you are right. Perhaps today is the day I deny you that which you seek and you learn some discipline.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that, My Prince,” you declared with a cocky toss of your dark hair over your shoulder. “When you deny me, you deny yourself the pleasure of giving me what I want.”

“You are a bold one, Lady Y/N. Were it not for your hair, I would take you for a dragon.”

You smiled coquettishly at him, leaning your head against your shoulder and peering up at him through thick lashes. “The only dragon here is you. I’ve merely the privilege of being your rider.”

Fondness softened his smile into something you could not stare at and you sighed, looking ahead at the flowered path before you. The air was thick with the smell of pink roses and salt water. The ocean breeze stirred the trees and bushes, the sound melding with the waves. You could still feel him staring. He led you through the gardens and you allowed him to guide you to places you had only ever seen from afar in the windows high above. As you walked together, you saw fewer and fewer people until it was just the two of you surrounded by high walls and luscious blooms still dripping with morning mist. When you spared a glance back, the walled path simply narrowed and turned and you could no longer make out any clear voices at all.

“Remember this path,” the Prince said and you gazed up at him with a question on your lips. “We will walk it again tonight.”

“Why not only walk it tonight?”

There was a thin rectangle of golden light on the ground ahead and the roaring of the sea grew louder as you walked on. Your dark hair was sticking to the back of your neck and you moved it to the side so a cool breeze could soothe you. “I thought you might like to see it like this as well.” You squinted up at him with a quirk in your lips and stepped into the warm light as a brisk gust of salt air pushed all your hair across your face.

Your body instantly cooled, and you struggled to keep your dainty flower in your hand as a single petal was plucked off and spiraled away. Prince Aemond released you and you took a careful step through the archway into the rotunda with wide eyes. Your gaze darted around, trying to settle somewhere to take in every little detail, but it simply could not. The space in front of you was round, the floor laid with tiles depicting red dragons mating with fair-skinned maidens. Vines and thin branches wrapped around the slender columns, small dark blue fruits growing in bunches near the tops. Dark, curved shingles layered the dome above you, making you feel like you were inside a dragon’s egg. Just beyond the structure was the Narrow Sea, the high morning sunlight dancing on its shifting surface and feeling like a pressing weight on your eyes. If you wanted to, you could sit at the very edge of the tiled floor, your legs dangling far, far above the crushing waves below.

You had all but forgotten the Prince was even there and when his hand came to rest on the small of your back, you jumped with an undignified yelp. Mercifully, he did not comment on it or even laugh. Perhaps he was as entranced with the view as you were.

“Do you like it?” His voice was soft like a flower petal against you, his lips coming down to caress the tender skin just below your ear. You turned and drew him in closer with a searing kiss, humming as his hands crushed your body against his. When he pulled away, you were dizzy with longing.

“Must you make me wait until tonight?” He pressed long open-mouthed kisses against your neck and your eyes closed, seemingly all on their own.

“You will be happy I did.” With a huff, you let yourself accept it, trusting that you would be just as pleased at night as you were now.

When the two of you separated for the day, it felt as though you had been floating for hours, only to be forced to contend with the weight of stable ground once more. You often felt similarly after riding Vhagar, like your stomach was still rising and falling freely through the air even as you walked along the ground with the other mere mortals. This was different, though you could not name how.

The day was long, and each hour seemed to stretch on forever. The Ladies you often spent your time with were delightful enough, but your gaze continuously drifted towards the gardens, your mind conjuring images of what you knew was to happen there tonight. It seemed Your Prince held an unjust amount of power over you if he could still excite you like this.

That night with him those few years ago was a secret you guarded fiercely, but there was one you kept even closer to your heart. After you and your family had returned home, you had felt changed by the experience, more like a woman. Several nights you found yourself unable to rest, plagued by a need that had settled in between your thighs. Though you had felt it before, it had never been so loud and insistent, dominating your sleepless nights with visions of the Prince moving against you, that gorgeous sapphire glowing with the flashes of lightning that fell outside your chamber windows. Young Lady of a High House you may be, precious daughter to the harsh Davos Baratheon, burdened with three older brothers who would geld any man who presumed to touch, but you were still not without open admirers back home. You were not without opportunity to dampen the flame of your desires. But for one reason or another, you never sought out a bedmate to entertain you.

The nights leading up to your journey back to King’s Landing had been long and agonizing, your heart thundering in your chest and sleep unwilling or unable to find you until you had taken matters into your own hands and given yourself that which Aemond had gifted you years before. As you pressed your palm against your wet cunt, you imagined him in bed curled next to you with his voice in your ear urging you on, whispering about how good you tasted, how soft and sweet you were, how he needed you to finish just one more time before he could fuck you again. It was not until you had felt your release at least twice that you would drift off in pleasant dreams, the tips of three of your fingers wrinkled and sticky.

It was nearly evening now, the sun setting slower than it ever had before just to taunt you, and you were stomping through the halls of the Red Keep, hoping to see the Prince just once before your meeting with him. Wherever he was, he was very well-hidden. You passed a pleasant, albeit very dull supper with your father, your mind elsewhere, until...

“What do you think of the Lannisters, Y/N?” You blinked in confusion and savored the cherry wine on your tongue.

“As a house? They are wealthy and powerful. I find them all to be a bit self-serious, though. The Targaryens have their signature arrogance and the Lannisters have their pride. Ultimately, there is little difference between one and the other.”

Your father nodded across the table, taking a bite of his rabbit with a pensive look on his face. “One of their boys has taken a keen interest in you.” You choked, the bit of drink still in your mouth burning your throat on its way down. “I know you are a fan of fineries, so I thought their vast coffers may be of interest to you. You would be well taken care of as the Lady of Casterly Rock. What say you to that, little doe?”

“I... I must admit, father, I’ve not given marriage much thought, and no Lannister has approached me.” Your hands found your skirts in your lap, thumbing at the embroidery there.

“Of course not, the boy understands that he must speak to your Lord Father first.” He smiled. “If it does not interest you, consider him gone, but it would please me if you took the night to think about it. I believe the Lannister boy to be a fine match for you. It would elevate our house, and you, considerably.”

Think about it you did as you sat rigidly in your bed and stared at the flimsy little yellow plumeria on the table beside you. A Lannister would be a big step for you and certainly it was the sort of opportunity you had been waiting for. Casterly Rock was a fine seat for you and you would have everything your heart could think to desire there. You’d wear the finest dresses, drink the sweetest wines, and your hands would glitter with gold and rare jewels. With all the experience you had gathered with the Prince, you doubted you would be unable to make your Lord Husband a lucky man. You knew even Perzys would grow to be fat and happy there.

When a knock came at your door, it dragged you from the depths of your pondering with a start. A flower of relief bloomed in your heart as you opened your door to find the Prince before you.

“My Lady.” He bowed his head.

“My Prince,” you giggled, your earlier woes instantly forgotten. “Have you finally come to spirit me away? I was just about to send for a servant to help me dress for bed.”

“My apologies, Lady Y/N, but I had to ready everything myself.”

“Ready everything?” He offered his hand with a small smile on his lips and you clung to it as the two of you crept through the halls. The Prince seemed built for stealth and you were careful not to make the slightest sound, walking on your toes and holding your breath as much as possible.

Your nerves nearly forced a giggle past your lips and perhaps he could feel it coming because he shushed you and you covered your mouth with your free hand. It wasn’t until you were safe in the gardens that you released it, letting it flow from you and into the Prince’s mouth as he kissed you. Your heart fluttered in your chest, beating its wings like a nervous little bird, as you tugged him deeper into the labyrinth of flowers, hoping your memory served you well enough to get you where you needed to go.

As the two of you stumbled through, you kept grabbing at each other with a feverish insistence. He littered your face with quick kisses, his one sparkling eye closing as you ripped through the metal fastenings on his clothes and touched his bare chest underneath. His whispered voice was like silk and honey in your ear. “Have you been thinking of me all day, little doe?” If it weren’t for the mystery of what awaited you in the rotunda, you would have had him fuck you right there. It was unfair. He knew how it unraveled you when he called you that.

“Yes,” you gasped, flashing him a breathless smile with all your teeth. Gods, you wanted to pick him apart until he was a mess of bones and blood, devour him whole, and lick your fingers clean. “You left me wanting you, my dragon. Will you give me what I need?”

Hunger burned in his eye and, with a firm tug, he yanked through most of the laces on the back of your dress. “Of course. Now follow me and you shall receive your gift.” When he moved to walk around you, you grasped at his arm and guided his hand under your skirts with your eyes trained on his.

“I want you to feel me,” you murmured, your throat tight. Your hand stayed on his wrist as his fingers slid past your knees.

“Fuck,” he groaned as he touched the slick coating the inside of your thighs on either side of your flushed cunt. You were already so open and ready for him, you could feel your heartbeat pounding between your legs. You never felt quite so powerful as when you reduced Prince Aemond to cursing and calling to the gods. His nostrils flared, and he snatched his hand away, dragging you along the rest of the way.

The sight earlier had been beautiful and left your mouth slightly agape at the brilliance of it, but that paled in comparison to the sight before you now. Lit candles sat in silver dishes along the tiled floor, some black, some red, some gold. Your mouth curled into a fond smile. Though a thick black sheet and plush red cushions covered the design on the floor, you remembered it well enough and knew you were soon to recreate it. A cool wind brushed through the open archways, a brilliant full moon casting its pure light over all that delighted you. The Prince seemed to glow with it, his alabaster skin kissed by moonlight and his blue eye appearing even truer to its color.

“The night sky suits you,” you said. Your nerves returned, and they forced a wide smile onto your warm face. His deft fingers brushed through your thick black hair, rubbing the ends of the wavy locks between his fingers.

“As it does you.” You needed only to spare a quick glance to the dark eye patch still covering his gemstone eye before he was taking it off and tossing it down onto the sheet. The sapphire glowed with the rest of him, the candlelight reflected inside twinkling as golden stars and piercing you like a hail of arrows. The first thing you’d done when you first found yourself alone with him on your return to King’s Landing was slide that offensive garment off his face. Any Lady who would be frightened of a simple sapphire was unfit to lie with a dragon and you were no craven.

As if a tight cord had been cut, the two of you collided. You loved the violence of it, how you both sank your teeth into each other and tore and ripped until nothing false remained. You’ve heard it said that the purest view you can have of a man’s soul was mere moments before the Stranger pulled his soul from his body, but you were certain that was not true. As the two of you moved as one, falling into the cushions on the ground with ease, unwelcome thoughts prodded at you.

Would the Lannister boy make you feel as good? Would he take the same pleasure in granting your every wish and desire as Aemond did? You shook your head to try to regain your focus as your dress slowly slid off your body. The Lannister boy was nowhere to be found. You were in the gardens with the Prince and he was pushing your bare thighs apart with a glint of fire and hunger in his eye. Your cunt clenched around nothing at the sight, aching to have him so deep inside you that you could never pull him out. Your eyes closed and head dropped back as soon as his mouth touched your heat.

He was always so good at this, at pleasing you. It was like- “You were made for this,” you moaned, digging your nails into the meat of his shoulders as he dipped his tongue inside you with a pleased hum. You ground your hips up against Aemond’s mouth, climbing higher and higher up your burning rope until your legs trembled on either side of his face. “Look at me,” you gasped, “please.” The sight of his blue eye gleaming next to his sapphire from below your short crop of dark hair sent you keening and coming completely undone for him. You hoped Aemond felt no shame about his eye anymore. You hoped he wore his leather eye patch out of a sense of belonging to you instead of any silly concern about the delicate fears of the weaker Ladies at court.

His mouth climbed up your body, planting kisses like bright hot flowers on your skin until he could suck the pants right from your lips. The bittersweet flavor of your pleasure was on his tongue, sharp and tart like a pomegranate. Your fingers wound their way into his hair, pulling him closer and groaning into his mouth as he pressed his hips into yours. His cock was straining against the fabric of his pants and you brought an angry hand down to tug at his waistband.

“Take this off,” you growled. “I want you.”

“You love to demand things from me, like a petulant child.” He clicked his tongue at you in admonishment, but obeyed you all the same. As he set the last of his clothes aside, you sat up and stroked along the scarred half of his face, one of your fingers grazing the edge of the sapphire that had haunted your dreams for years now. But for the scar you were touching, the rest of him was smooth and unmarred, the small flames surrounding you dancing on the pale expanse of his chest. He was pure gold and silver, and with his jewel, how different was he really from a beautiful necklace or even a crown? Aemond was a precious bit of finery and right now, he belonged to nobody but you. Your touch grew possessive, your sharp nails leaving pink trails in their wake as you raked them down his torso to wrap a hand around his cock. His breath stuttered.

“You complain and yet you obey, my dragon,” you purred as you pushed him onto his back. Pride, or maybe arrogance, swelled in your chest as you smirked at him. “I really am your rider.” His chest rose and fell sharply, his long legs braced against the floor and hips moving of their own accord. As you moved your hand, you leaned over him and caged him beneath you. The emotion swelling your chest was probably avarice, the little green cloud with sharp teeth that filled your mind with longing and a very distinct sort of anger. His wet lips were bright pink and parted, little gasps and moans falling past them every time you swiped your thumb across the thick vein just below the tip of his cock. “Do you like this?” He nodded eagerly, tugging on your hair until you leaned down to claim his mouth as yours.

There it was again, that feeling in your chest, blackening your thoughts and resting heavy in your gut. It was that feeling that made you want to possess him entirely and haunt him like a specter. You imagined yourself somewhere different, somewhere perhaps across Westeros on the coast of the Sunset Sea, and you could not help your frown. When you stopped touching him and pulled away, Aemond kept a firm hand behind your head, scanning your face with furrowed brows.

“Is something the matter?”

The corners of your eyes wrinkled as you beamed at him and shook your head. Hopefully, it would be enough to convince him. "No, My Prince. I am just eager to have you." His eye narrowed, but he ultimately released you and followed you up. Without ceremony, you settled into your preferred seat in his lap. All these dumb Lords fighting over the Iron Throne and here you were with the true best seat in all the Seven Kingdoms. And you were to leave it all behind? Surely, it would have to happen eventually, but why now? Another question circled you like a kettle of vultures. Why did you have to leave at all?

You sank down onto him, taking him in with a soft gasp. His fingers dug into your hips and he hummed, kissing up your neck. If all men were weapons, Aemond was closer to a Valyrian steel dagger than a boring longsword. You would always keep him on your thigh with leather straps. Though his eye was closed, his sapphire twinkled in front of you and you pressed a gentle kiss on it before licking up his scar.

"Fuck," he cried, clinging to you like he was dangling over a cliff by the mere tips of his fingers, "again, do that again." You leaned in, savoring the salty tang of his skin on your tongue.

You clenched a fist in his hair, pulling his neck tight. If you were lucky, he was having a hard time breathing, just as you were. "Tell me you are mine," you hissed, grinding your hips down until you felt him touch where you were most sensitive.

"I am all yours, little doe." His voice was brittle, brilliant tears just starting to shine in his eye from your brutal hold. Your cunt clenched around him, squeezing a moan from his lips. With rapt attention, you marveled at how his tears grew when you tightened the fist in his hair.

"And you will take care of me, protect me?" There was a question in his eye. When he closed it, a single tear fell and you followed its short descent into his hair. "And always obey?"

When he said your name, it was with blissful reverence. You wanted nothing more than to topple the Seven in his mind and take their place. "You are my rider."

Yes. Your mouth stretched into a sharp, lecherous grin as the hand in his hair moved to wrap around his neck. Sometimes you wanted to laugh at the Ladies who mentioned their apprehension regarding Aemond. The man beneath you was too docile to inspire fear in the heart of any woman. Aemond felt no fear in the presence of Vhagar, so why should you feel any when you were around him?

"I..." You paused, kissing the corner of his mouth as you moved your hips in a steady rhythm. Warmth curled around your pounding heart. "You darling thing," you murmured, squeezing the sides of his throat. His answering moan vibrated under your palm as his eye flew open. It was barely blue now. His pupil has nearly finished consuming it entirely. His hips met you beat for beat, his hard cock pressing against that spot he always abused when he curled his fingers inside you. "Yes, yes, yes, my- Right there!" You howled, leaning back so you could take even more of him. Aemond's steady hands kept you in that perfect place.

The slick sound between your legs flooded your sense. You imagined what Aemond must be able to see: your pink cunt swallowing him whole, your quivering thighs, his cock shining every time you rocked back. Maybe one day you could have him in your chambers in front of your tall mirror and watch how the two of you fit together. If it looked the same way it felt, you were certain he would have you sobbing with it.

Your fantasies ran rampant behind your closed eyes. You imagined Aemond on his knees in front of you with his hands tied behind his back, feasting his eye on the sight of your fingers in your cunt as you forced him to watch you find your release. You imagined him begging, you imagined him crawling, you imagined him crying. Heat licked up your legs and spine. He had never said no to you before, never deprived you for long. Your hand tightened possessively around his throat. He was yours, yours, yours.

With a shuddering scream, you hit your peak.

The moments right after always felt hazy to you. You were outside yourself, floating in the warm air above your bodies and letting Aemond move you as he wished. When you found yourself again, you were splayed out on the soft sheet and Aemond was tensed above you, pinning you in place with one eye glowing with hunger and desire. You moaned helplessly as your gaze settled on his hand furiously stroking his cock.

"Can I?" he begged, his face screwing in pleasure, "on you?" You nodded and he finally slackened, the whine that left him pulsing through you. He finished on your abdomen, some of the white liquid landing in your patch of dark hair, and it chilled almost instantly in the night air.

With a groan, he collapsed next to you, his face landing directly in one of the cushions. The two of you lied together in companionable silence, both trying to catch your breath as you listened to the wind and the waves.

"Come, little doe," Aemond cooed and you curled into him, caring little about the come rubbing on him. A giddy smile played on your lips, only widening when he planted a wet kiss on your forehead.

"Are you really mine, my dragon?"

His nose brushed against yours and you let him draw you in to a soft kiss. "If you want all of me, I will give it to you," he whispered, his lips so close that they brushed against yours as he spoke.

"I am gluttonous," you warned him.

"I know." He kissed you again and you could not help but smile into it. Fondness plucked at the strings of your heart and you melted deeper into the floor below you as he placed a gentle hand against your cheek.

As your bodies found their equilibrium once more, the two of you stretched out side by side. It was so easy to talk to him. A dark cloud drifted over your thoughts once more. Whether you were to agree to meet the Lannister boy or not, this... whatever it was that you had with Aemond, would end. It was inevitable. While he had set a golden standard for you, it was not as if you could fuck that other boy to see if he knew how to please you. You knew most women went through married life completely unsatisfied while their Lord Husbands carried on with mistresses and whores, siring bastards left and right. Would that be your fate?

You sighed, running a tender hand through Aemond's tangled hair and smiling softly as he hummed contentedly. There was a spot that made him wince, though, and you scooted closer to him. "Was I too rough with you?"

"I enjoyed it." You smirked and continued to card your fingers through his hair.

"Aemond, do you know of any of the Lannisters at court?" Though you knew he was not exactly the most popular man, he was observant enough that you trusted he was likely in possession of the information you needed.

"I assume you mean other than Ser Tyland on the small council?" You nodded. "Well, there are his young nieces, who I do believe I have seen you with, and his nephew Loreon."

"And... what do you know of him?"

There was an unnatural stillness to Aemond's body before he spoke, each word coming out carefully. "I am afraid I do not know much. He spends much of his time in the city with Aegon." You frowned, staring up at the dome above you. "Why?"

"My father said a Lannister boy was interested in me," you sighed, "but I doubt he knows how the boy spends him time, or else he would never have mentioned it."

"Did your Lord Father bring you to King's Landing to find a match for you?"

"N-no," you stammered, your face growing hot. In truth, the only reason you were in King's Landing was because you had begged to accompany your father when you had learned he was to return. "I asked to keep him company and he said yes." Aemond hummed next to you and you continued speaking, almost to yourself. "If I am wed to him, I will be the Lady of Casterly Rock. The Lannisters are a wealthy house, so I doubt I would be living like a pauper. My father has given me the night to decide if I wish to be introduced to him."

"What stays your hand, My Lady?" You furrowed your brows, tucking your chin into your shoulder as you gazed into Aemond's blank face.

"I do not rightly know." A secret danced at the edges of your mind and you sat up, running your hands through your hair and letting out a heavy sigh. "I suppose I am afraid. And I am not usually afraid."

The candles around you were starting to die and it made your chest hurt. Behind you, Aemond sat up and pressed a small kiss to the back of your shoulder. It was so easy and natural to turn towards him and soften under his touch, to tilt your head towards him in anticipation of a kiss that never came. "Aemond?" You tilted your head back and opened your eyes.

He was so close to you, you could clearly make out the ring of darker blue around his iris. His lips were pursed together. "Do you want to know how many women I have been with?"

The thought of him with anyone but you had your nose curling in disgust. "No."

"Three." You scoffed, starting to turn away from him before he put a hand on your face and kept you where you were. "Two whores when Aegon took me to the streets of silk for my thirteenth name day, and you."

You froze, your mouth falling open before you snapped it shut. A cold wave rushed through your body, quickly followed by heat and sweat. "But... you knew so much! I thought you were at least as experienced as your brother."

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yes, well. Unlike my brother, I can read. My family has enough unhappy women, and I'll not suffer one more. I told myself that even if my future Lady Wife were ashamed of me for my deformity, I could at least find some other way to make her happy."

A huff of laughter punched its way out of you. Little pricks of fire sparked behind your eyes. "My sweet, darling dragon," you whispered, wrapping your arms around him and tugging him close even as he tensed. "You've been with only three women, two of whom were paid to be with you when you were still just a babe. What could you know of the hearts and desires of women?"

"I know your heart and desires," he said, "do I not?"

A smile melted onto your face and you shook him in your arms, your heart thundering in your chest. "You do."

"That Lannister boy... He would not please you as I do, not for the pleasure of it. I give you everything you desire because to give to you is my desire." You remembered words he had whispered in your ear years ago.

'There is pleasure in the giving.' He had been between your legs then, the entire bottom half of his face wet from your cunt. You had thought he'd grow bored down there as you had with him, but he never did. In the end, you were the one who'd had to move the two of you along to the act itself.

"So you would take me as your wife?"

"I would give myself to you, as your husband." He pulled away and placed your hand on his bare chest. His heartbeat was hard and fast. "You will want for nothing, little doe."

You met his eye with a sly grin, leaning up to press a gentle kiss just below his sapphire. "Then you will speak to my father tomorrow, and ask him for my hand."

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fic #mine #my inspo for the reader's relationship with her father was cher from clueless and her dad

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writingfics-passingtime · 10 months

Note

Omg the mixtape requests!! I love the idea!!

The song: like a tattoo by Sade with Bucky Barnes! Specially from the min 1:35 to 2:03 I think you’ll love it x fem reader

The Scar of Age

This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: Like a Tattoo

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (romantic, no pronouns used)

Word Count: ~2350

CW: Talking about death and killing, reader has killed people on a mission, kissing, allusions to rough kissing/six (consensual), overwhelmed response that could be interpreted as a panic attack (but isn’t intended to be one)

Note: Thank you for your beautiful request, anon !! (I wrote this for a female reader and then realised no pronouns/gendered descriptions were used, so have tagged it accordingly) When I heard this song the image I instantly had was riding a motorbike through a snowy mountain road, and what was supposed to be a steamy little safe-house number turned into something a little more heavy. I was so inspired by the lyrics of this song, thank you for sharing 💜

The war is still raging inside of me // I still feel the chill // as I reveal my shame to you // I wear it like a tattoo

It’s been growing for months. This budding, rising magnetism alive between you and him. Still unspoken, still untouched, now unfettered.

It started not long after he returned from Wakanda. The attraction was instant, the pull soon became hard to resist but, by the gods, you resisted it with all you had. You kept a respectful and professional distance where possible. He’d been through a lot.

But the breathing room has seen it grow beyond control and now, for the first time in forever, you and Bucky are going to be truly alone.

The frostbitten air bites at your leathers as you snake up the icy switchbacks, giving and taking on the throttle, gently guiding the electric motorcycle through the snowy mountain roads towards somewhere out of the way. To the solitude you had been gifted.

He's sitting behind you, and though he’s an anchor of his own his hands are on your waist. It distracts you more than once and you're sure he knows it because he firms his touch when the bike slows from your wayward thoughts. If he dared to broach the subject, you'd blame the ice on the road. Or would you?

The night had been long and rough. Snowcapped mountains begin to glow as you ride to one of Stark's more isolated houses. The beauty of the new day only makes you feel worse after the events of the night; three enemy guards, dead by your hand.

They will never see another sunrise.

Sure, you had an important job to do to keep the public safe, and sure, they were trying to kill you, but damned you'd be if every life ended by your hand didn't eat away at you.

The dirt feeling that gnaws at your gut is your only place of solace because it still hurts. If it ever stopped hurting, you'd walk away for good. Steve promised to help you disappear if that day comes.

Steve. A wry smile threatens to burst under the helmet as you finally see the house in the distance. Steve is the one who rostered this assignment, knowing where it was, knowing the airspace would be tightly monitored the days after your mission, knowing whoever was assigned to it would need to be under the radar until extraction would be less risky. A few nights at least.

He had arranged all of this in front of a room full of highly-perceptive people. No jibing comments were thrown from the other seats, which was so unusual that awkwardness rushed into the void. The panic of perception started to sink in your bones but when you met Bucky’s eye, you stilled. You ceased to wish the ground would swallow you whole the moment his usually stony glare was soft, almost apologetic, as if he was afraid you’d think he’d done this to get you alone. You didn’t smile, hyperaware of the eyes all around, but the look you returned to him seemed to smooth his frayed edges.

Now, there are no prying eyes. Your quickening heartbeat becomes the score of your final stretch towards this unusual hollow of privacy. The house comes more into view. It’s at the end of a straight stretch of road. You tilt your wrist and roll the throttle. As the bike picks up speed, Bucky’s hands slide from your waist down to rest at your hips. It makes your toes curl inside your boots, and you have to hone your focus on the house you’re fast approaching.

The sharp and grey abode look harsh yet at home nestled into the snow-covered bedrock, and the unforgiving structure looks strange bathed in warm pink sunlight. It’s one of those boxy houses made of cool concrete and glass that looks as if it should always be shrouded in cloud cover, but the windows are alive with the rising sun and it pulls a sad smile to your lips.

You ease the bike to a stop when you reach the gate. Both yours and Bucky’s right feet meet the ground to hold the bike as you punch the code into the gate, which opens along with a hidden garage door beneath the house towards which you slip through the fenced doors and quickly guide the bike down a ramp.

The lights gradually flick on as you slow the bike to its final stop next to a few others. You dismount with haste and pull your helmet and gloves off, blowing hot air on your fingers as you rub your hands together. Bucky swings his leg off the bike and removes his own helmet. Strands of his chestnut hair come loose from the knot at the nape of his neck, striking something real and imperfect against his cold-flushed cheekbones. You steal only a quick glance at his rugged tired eyes before he nods his chin towards a staircase that goes up. “Go warm up. I’ll unload.” All you can do is nod, thankful that you can skip off to find a hot shower. The cold is turning painful and the house, though industrial and cavernous, is already pleasantly warm. It isn’t ridiculously large though, and it doesn’t take you long to find a bedroom.

Earlier on in your career, the preparedness of these houses used to haunt you. Somehow, they always had fresh clothes in your size ready and waiting in the wardrobes. Now, you’re desensitised to it all. It’s just another part of the job.

The hot spray is soon welcoming you to your place of rest, easing that chill that had set into your bones, reminding you that you are now safe. Alone. Your pulse drops to your stomach, you breathe through it, and hope you’re not emanating something less savoury than contentment at being here alone with Bucky.

You’re soon dressed and in an industrial-styled kitchen that overlooks a sprawling, picturesque landscape. The floor is warm beneath your socked feet, a feature of the house, and the fridge is stocked for you to begin preparing some food to tame snarling stomachs. Somewhere in your field of sound, the spray of another showed subsides. That pulse picks up again and you focus on cracking some eggs into a white ceramic bowl.

Bucky needs a lot of food, that much is obvious, with the super serum cranking his metabolism, and a lot of protein at that. You’d just finished off breaking the last of the dozen eggs into the bowl when your companion enters the kitchen without a word.

You look up at him, because it would be weird not to, and give a brief, tight smile before opening a drawer in search of a whisk. His brief and welcome hand meets the small of your back as he passes behind you, making his way to start cutting the vegetables you put on the bench. It sends a surge of abashment through your nerves. You curl your toes against the smooth, strangely warm floor.

“I don’t mind cooking.” Your fingers close around a whisk and you close the drawer with your hip.

His head turns in your peripherals so you meet his eye. His stare is soft, framed by the drag of a sleepless night, but not by a hopelessness they once held. He shrugs with one shoulder and almost smiles. “It’s nice to do something normal.” He turns back to the counter and picks up a mushroom, and your eyes roam over him.

The African sun had been kind to him, tinting his skin with pinprick freckles and a tan that had almost faded. His hair holds the summer too. He keeps it pulled back but the shorter pieces frame his face and are laced with tiny threads of gold and the beginnings of grey. You can see the hues even through the post-shower dampness clinging to his waves. The colours are beautiful, you think, because they're signs of life lived after the stolen decades. Of all the scars, age is the only one he deserves. Maybe if you were a different person in a different life, you would've said it out loud. Romanticism doesn't seem to befit you. It feels too soft and too good.

He speaks again as soon as you turn back to the bowl.

“I should’ve got to them first,” he sniffs back the cold. “The guards.”

Your twirl your wrist to beat the eggs and keep your tone level. “I handled it just fine.”

“Yeah, well… I can see-” He lets a breath out and collects his thoughts. “I know y’don’t like it.”

You release your own deep breath through your nose, whisk stilling in your hand. “No one likes it, but it’s part of the job.”

He puts the knife down and turns his head towards you again. “I’m just saying… I can-”

“I don’t want you to do that for me, Bucky.”

Your voice is measured and the whisk doesn’t stop. You smooth a hand against side of the bowl and stare into the milky yellow mixture as it spins and spins and spins. He spent too long taking lives because other people couldn’t do their own dirty work.

“It’s not fair to you.” You sighed once, quickly, almost in a huff, before slowing the whisk again and correcting yourself. “It’s not fair to either of us, but that’s the way the world works.” Indecisive, you put down the utensil and turn your head towards him, shifting your eyes to his chopping board. His body heat skims your left arm. “I don’t want you to protect me from what has to be done. I don’t want you to see me as-”

The words die at your lips and Bucky’s head tilts. “As what?” He prompts in a gentle nudge. His hands are against the counter.

You close your eyes and smile involuntarily, so you force out a dry laugh to cover it up with a shake of your head. Every bit of air in your lungs is screaming out for him to come closer, to rid you of this mounting feeling inside, to break through this barrier of professionalism and fear that you wouldn’t be good for him.

“As one of them,” you can’t meet his eye. “As someone you have to kill for.”

You refused to be the reason he took a life. You weren’t going to do that to him.

You’d be no better than HYDRA.

He responds with something pained, something just above a whisper. “You know how I see you.” It’s not a question, nor an answer. It’s pure honesty simmering just below the horizon.

A strand of his hair is the first thing you feel as he draws closer. It ghosts along your cheekbone and catches the breath in your throat, only for a second though. Your eyes flit upwards, your chin lifts and turns ever so slightly towards him. You soften, to say yes. To say please. And it's all he needs.

His kiss is the opposite of what you expected. It's warm, and gentle.

It's a passion like you've never known.

There's this expectation, with passion, that the intensity should feel like a bolt of lighting or a supernova. Tension builds and builds and it's supposed to break. And sure, it's breaks, but so does the day over the darkness.

If the sun can pour dawn over the horizon, giving a gentle wake to the earth with rosy hues and still remain as powerful, who's to say something as good and inevitable surging through you at the speed of light has to explode. Why couldn't it fill you to the brim and stay full, keeping you bathed in a vivid sunrise.

Everything about him has been severe and guarded, until now. For the first time, while feeling the tenderness of his kiss, you consider that he hadn't built his walls so high because he wanted to keep others out but to keep himself in. You take note that his open palms are still on the counter. His hands were used for so much destruction, perhaps he didn't feel right putting them on you.

Your younger self would have resented his restraint. You would've goaded, chastised, pushed him away until he could meet you with a power you deserved. Why shouldn't he? You can take it; the fingertips sinking into you skin, storm-coloured bruises levied from fun, the gentle ache that pulses through your back from being pinned rough against a wall.

But you’re tired. Exhausted, even. Drained from tensing and flexing and always having to show every ounce of strength. Always a solider, silent and stoic. Always with a job to do. But maybe here, you were just a person.

He pulls away after several moments, still close enough for his breath to graze your lips. You don't look for his eyes because you know he won't meet you there. His tongue peaks out for half a second and he releases a breath before he lifts his head. The gentle warmth of his kiss lingers and emanates.

There's something inside you clawing to get out. A confession, maybe, or a sigh of relief. Or a declaration that you don’t deserve anything as good as what just happened. Whatever it is, it cuts through the air in a haggard little breath.

Sleep deprivation hangs like a thick chain around your neck, your hands are still numb with the lives you ended, you’re filled with an overwhelming warmth that you don’t feel worthy of. It all hits. Every fibre of you aches with the impact.

Bucky turns to steady you before you slouch against the counter.

Maybe he didn’t have to kill for you to make you feel okay. Because more than you could ever know, he gets it. He’s felt it, lived and bled it. All the shame and fleeting doses of heroism that make it all seem justified.

He holds you close. You bury your face in his shoulder with breath heavy and conflicted. His fingers curl against the base of your neck and his arm tightens around your waist, his sure breath is hot above your ear, his heartbeat loud in his chest.

His body say it so his words don’t have to:

I know.

#jj’s mixtape #bucky fanfic #bucky fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x gender neutral reader

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mirdance · 2 years

Text

The Linguist and the Bard

Day 13/14 - Age Gap/Worship

Pairing: Venti x Linguist

NSFW

Ludi Harpastum’s echoing festivities still sang strong as the moon hung in the sky like a nostalgic photograph. With any holiday in Mondstadt, the masses dove into whatever alcoholic liquid content their wild hands could obtain. The bubbles of wine and whiskey permeated the air along with the relaxed cheers of overworked farmers and knights. Their joy could not be constrained to a wooden mug; everyone was a friend to each other in such a way that she had hardly witnessed during travels. Mondstadt could be crude, dirty, sometimes lazy, yet no one turned away a helping hand. Houses stayed unlocked, farms somehow untouched by thieves. A wallet left on the church pew would still be there, untouched.

Which was where she found herself once again as the night lingered on.

She sat on the edge of the back pew, flipping her wallet between her fingers. The cathedral's atmosphere changed after its people emptied, after the sun slumbered. Gossip of the latest trending hat or sport felt as far as Celestia.

The Celestial rock sat uncomfortably in the sky through one of the many windows as if it had been painted on to a background it didn't belong. The glow of the moon danced in stained glass colors as she turned her gaze towards the alter.

She was a linguist, and linguists didn't belong in church. They tarried through forbidden books and parchment. Things that might shake the foundation. Not that Mondstadt was particularly religious compared to other regions. No, it wasn't religion that held the people. It was history. And history was doomed to repeat itself if one did not fully comprehend it.

She felt the precipice of unique knowledge on the tip of her tongue. She could taste it burning down her throat like the alcohol she'd declined.

Such thoughts belonged at the Akademiya; folks would rave. That was good and all, but we needed to plow and bring in and carry and dig our nails into the dirt and pick the apples that delicately hung in economic balance.

Returning from those daunting green library halls was both a blessing and a curse. Part of her still remained religiously hanging over an old tome and part in the creaking wooden bed of her family home. (Her plaid blanket frayed at the edges and smelled of warm tobacco and newspaper; it always welcomed her.) Whatever part remained within the pew was almost someone else, someone as far as the Celestia rock or the alter. Someone whose bones ached to be released. She could almost see it staring back at her, as if her conscious were floating above.

"Wow, I didn't expect anyone else to be here."

Her shoulders struck the back of her seating. A young man, possibly shy of 21, made his way from an unknown side room. His hips swayed with the bottle of red wine in his hand and the tips of his braided hair. She'd come for quiet contemplation away from the inquiring crowds, but she supposed anyone had the right to do so, even inebriated men.

He plopped himself next to her and stretched his long legs. His belt clinked and rattled and glistened in the little moonlight they had. "Sometimes it's good to get away, you know? Even a bard like me needs a bit of rest." He elegantly crossed his legs and brought the bottle to his lips. A hint of red dusted his cheekbones, matching the rosy color of his plump lips.

A bard. It had been a while since she'd sat down to have a discussion with one. Despite the Akademiya incessant scientific approaches, the arts were gaining more traction as they showed promise for developing brains. And a good bard knew history. A good bard was a good debater. A hidden gem amongst scholars. The Akademiya simply did not have ears to hear it.

"I understand. After coming home from Sumeru, the liveliness can be a bit overwhelming." She crossed her hands over her lap. "I'm sure being a bard has its rough days."

The man chuckled, and she almost did a double take at his face as he did so. The chuckle was lower in pitch than his voice had presented, almost gravely in nature. "Rough is one way to put it. But I wouldn't change it for the world," he beamed.

Another swig touched his lips. Her gaze followed the lines of his angled jaw until it rested on the edges of his teal hair. It almost glowed like ley line residue in the night, haunting and ethereal.

"Would you like a taste?" The man's toothy smirk matched his carefree body language. He extended the bottle.

"The church typically looks down upon excess," she chuckled.

"And when did Barbatos ever make such a rule? Doesn't he desire for a city of freedom, unbound by rules and regulations?"

"And this is why other nations view him as a demon."

"Do you?"

She took it and brought it to her lips without a thought. The acidic burn clung to the sides of her esophagus until it rested within her stomach. She cleared her throat and handed the bottle back. "No, I do not."

"Have as much as you desire." He laughed and swirled the liquid. The bottle sloshed. "This bad boy is strong enough to take a god down. Probably the highest alcohol content here in the great city of freedom."

Well, shit.

"Hey, you'll be fine." He patted her shoulder, his fingers lingering close to her neck. "Do they not have spirits in Port Ormos?"

"They do." She rolled her shoulders. "I partook occasionally." She paused. "How did you know I was in the Akademiya."

He winked. His eyes matched his hair, otherworldly and as bright as his teeth that flashed her way. "Maybe I'm just that smart. The way you rub your hands, your posture, that oh so daunting thinking pose." Another swig. "Nah, look." He caressed the lapel of her collar. "You're Akademiya pin gave you away."

The berries from his breath wafted her way. "That will do it."

"Whatcha studying? Oh, people probably ask you that all the time." He let go of her collar and dipped his head apologetically. "But I can't help but be curious. You know how nosy we bards can be."

This was abundantly true, and while the common question around the tavern could grind at her nerves after a while, the bards curiosity felt genuine. Or she was simply looking too far into the man she just met. She was self aware enough to know what loneliness did to a person's skin.

"Linguistics," she replied. "I read dusty old letters and books and old languages and study the evolution of words." She turned her gaze to the rock in the sky. "Useless things such as that."

His gaze followed hers and flickered to her eyes and back again. "Fascinating. Though I wouldn't call it useless. Words and syntax determine how societies are built. They're the very foundation of the world."

When their gazes locked, the acid in her stomach bubbled. "Yes, that's exactly right. For example, the words we use for wine here shape how we view the substance. Yet in Liyue their usage depends on context and tone more so than anything of our origins here, which..."

The corners of his stained mouth caught her off guard. He rested his chin on his arm against the pew. "Do go on. Your voice brings my ears music."

"You probably already know all this." Her eyes flitted to the bottle and the fingers that elegantly wrapped around the middle.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Tell me something you're passionate about."

She took the bottle from him and threw back. He snickered in delight; it didn't escape her notice how his eyes lingered upon her throat. With a satisfied exhale, she returned the bottle. Their fingers brushed.

Her hands were better in her lap.

"The folklore of each land." The liquid brought her mind into dizzying clarity. "How they connect. Their origins. How far within the earth can we go to discover what we've lost? How should we preserve our current language so future generations can learn from the past?"

His eyes slowly shut, as if he were taking a moment to soak her words. "I see." He opened them again, and his pupils dilated in the moonlight. "Most would look to the skies for answers."

She followed his stare out the window. "True. But there are lots mysterious within the depths of the dirt and old words. Why do we pray to the Archons and not Celestia? Why not the old goddess of time anymore? Celestia must be asleep, and it's up to humanity not to repeat its sins. Even with old Ludi Harpastum, women were assaulted on the whims of a king. What if that is all buried to history, only to happen again? Nothing to point to?"

"A dangerous line of thought," he stated with a lilt at the edge of his tongue. "But an interesting one. What if you find something that shakes you to the core? That changes humanity?"

"Good." The berries and acid still hovered over her tongue. "What's the point of trying to progress if we can't change? Shake me to my core. I bask in the opportunity for my world view to be shattered into pieces."

His grin widened, all teeth, almost fang-like and hanging on the essence of her words like it hung on the wine.

And that was the first that a man called Venti followed the linguist around.

~~~

Distant cathedral bells rang in the morning haze. She caressed a glass of coffee laden with a hint of vodka in the back of Angel's Share. A few patrons scattered about the place, but most folks would be sitting in the pews of the church, not the den of drunkards.

"Didn't expect to see you here."

Venti. She eyed him over her drink. "Isn't today a holy day? Shouldn't you be singing somewhere?"

He helped himself to the chair across. The seat scraped against the flooring in one long stroke before he plummeted into it. His arms spread wide as he gestured around. "Is this not also a holy place? Where the people are gathered, so shall Barbatos be."

Smoke hung in the air like fog. Mumbled curses. Rustling of cards and clinking of gambling coins. Would a god sit among them, lounging like Venti, a cigar in one hand and mug of beer on the table?

"It is," she concluded.

"Then let us pray." Venti playfully clapped his hands. "Thank Barbatos for the mora I received to pay for this tab."

"Oh? You actually brought mora this time?"

He winked. "Can't I treat a lady every once in awhile?"

"Then we should be thanking you," she stated seriously. "I see how hard you work despite the...rumors."

If one looked closely, they'd see Venti's shoulders shudder ever so slightly. He tipped his chair onto two legs. "Hm, how blasphemous," he cried in false bravado. "Praying to me instead of Barbatos. What would he say?"

"He probably wouldn't give a fuck."

His chair hit all fours; his laugh melded with the heavy smoke. "Well, then," he leaned on one elbow and drew a long draw of his cigar. "Maybe I should pray to you?" ~~~

"You're so young," she mumbled through the tangled mess of Venti's hair as his arms snaked around her waist. "Compared to me."

Two bottles of empty wine clanked around their feet on the plaid blanket. Orange hues painted the sky as the moon began it's assent. "I'm too old for anything anymore."

"No, no," he grumbled in her shoulder. "You are. So young."

Inebriated and warm, she was inclined to believe him. There were times his attention would take pause, his gaze penetrating something far off that she could not see, words escaping his song that only the ancients could know. Like the fae of old, he invited her into him; if it was for a price, her body and mind did not care.

In its own way, their lips clattering together beneath the statue of Barbatos was a form of worship.

"Did you know," he said in between kisses placed upon her collarbone. "Barbatos fell as a demon, yet..." He sucked the mole on the side of her neck. "His rebellion was unbeknownst to the heavens." A nibble. "He could walk between the Abyss and Celestia."

"Oh?" She inhaled. "Will you play old man today and tell me fairytales?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you." He edged his thumb over her lower lip. "Heh. Even if it's not accurate, it's a nice story, don't you think? Besides," he kissed her upper lip. "When you get to be old like me, fairytales are what you hang onto."

"Old like you." She grinned as his fingers twirled behind her waistband. "Perhaps we've drunk enough."

"No, no, darling," he sang while tugging her garments to her ankles. "I don't think I've had enough to drink."

His tongue was on her folds like mouth to wine. The flat of his tongue languidly dragged from her cunt to the tip of her hooded clit. Her hands jerked in sensitivity and thudded against the statue behind. Her bundle swirled around his heated lapping and grew to meet his taste buds.

"Gods." She clutched his head.

With more strength than one might think of his size, he pried her thighs from his skull and chuckled. "We should thank Barbatos for such a tasty meal. Since you're singing so beautifully for his graven image."

She wanted nothing more than to snap her legs around his head, to feel the full heat against her mound. He was relentless; her thighs quivered against the ground, held steady by his palms. Whines filled the breeze as he lightly tapped his tongue against her clit.

"Mphm." Her hips dug the air. "God." A string of curses and praise followed, Barbatos's name falling from her lips like dandelion seeds.

"That's it." His voice fell in husky vibrations, and his palms fell to the wayside as she clamped around him and held him to herself.

The slurping and squelching that drizzled from his lips was anything but godly.

Without any notification, he curled a finger into her cunt and pumped the digit in time with his mouth. Had he enjoyed the blasphemous nature of her cries to that extent? She groaned and dug her nails into his scalp, allowing her voice to carry with the wind more names and gods.

The slender finger she clamped around was absolutely relentless as she road her high across his face.

Belt buckles immediately clinked. His leaking cock breached her entrance and bottomed out. Both clutched one another in thrusting pulsing groans. As if pleasure were the only need in the world. As if her walls belonged around him, in more ways than physical.

His orgasm was fast and harsh. His knuckles grew white from the grip he held her hips; his own hips continued fucking his seed into her until he was all but jelly, shuddering atop her in soft praises.

The night sky watched them hold each other breathless into the dawn, a festival of tangled bodies and lustful song.

#venti x original character #venti x oc #genshin smut #mir writes #genshin impact #kinktober 2022 #yandere genshin impact #venti smut #religious themes

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pandemichub · 11 months

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I'd love people to write in in response to this post. I'll share my own story to get things started.

Before the pandemic started I had just started to get on the right track after an apartment fire 3 years ago at the time. Everything was thrown off by that and I developed PTSD from the event. My health and mental health conditions were well managed, including my agoraphobia and I was in good health.

Even as I sheltered in place for approximately 3 years and only did essential activities and went to essential places I still contracted covid. Sadly my carer brought it into my home and I've suffered with long covid immediately subsequent to my acute infection ever since (August 28th 2022).

It's turned my life upside down. I had planned on starting to ride my bike and now it sits in my apartment untouched. I struggle to walk, sit and balance especially for prolonged periods, at the ripe age of 31. An issue I didn't have before remotely.

And yet doctors keep mentioning anxiety, that it's not conclusive despite not studying up to date literature and published research on covid and long covid. I have no purpose for my shoes much either because travel is taxing on my body. In fact I've been at my mom's house for almost a month because I'm not well enough to return home.

Even paid my rent and electric digitally. My patio remains unoccupied, partly because I don't want harassment about wearing a mask outdoors but also would rather not see my neighbors. One of which harassed me and my carer after coming back from a very stressful dentist appointment with appalling covid safety and not having slept that day.

My computer collecting dust, partly due to the winter storm a couple months or so ago that knocked out my power and messed up the boot sequence, but also not being able to sit at and use it without swaying, heart palpations, feeling faint, and for long periods.

My kitchen sink, cooking utensils and ware goes unused most of the time because my new illness has largely robbed me of the energy and focus to prepare and cook meals. And my apartment tends to occupy me or my one support staff because of my fear of a repeat incident of someone bringing disease into my house. A disease that if I catch again well may kill me, or, faster.

My shower usually is dry as a bone, baths and showers leave me flaring and wiped for days. My hair products sit frequently untouched as I'm too exhausted to brush, braid, cover and moisturize my hair. As do my free weights and elastic PT bands. Ever since I got sick I lack stamina, experience shortness of breath (I had asthma but it was well controlled), my heart rate spikes and I can't exercise in any way that would hit targets or be beneficial.

And still my doctor recommends physical therapy despite telling her all this. And worst of all won't give me a long covid diagnosis. She kicked me to specialist.

Specialist who are already booked out, and whose schedules and patient lists keep lengthening because of the sharp and continued rise in long covid. Knowing it could take months for me to get a diagnosis this route and even longer to get new disability aids I need if I even get documents and approvals at all.

That I can't possibly afford because I'm dirt poor. To add pain to injury, I was disabled before this. And I understood the seriousness of covid and long covid. And took every precaution. But in a society that's a threat to life and safety, I was only as safe as everyone else was and is.

Which means I wasn't and still am not. Not only do I have whatever implications and damage short and long term from my first bout of illness, I constantly have the threat of reinfections and death everyday.

And finally, I have no use for many of the chairs in my home as my brain, neck and spine struggle to keep me upright. My body is in some ways new to me and after 3 plus decades in it, I have to learn it all over again.

And am confronted with no longer being able to do what I once did (possibly ever again) with great sadness nor test limits without high risk and unpredictable results. And it is a terrible, deeply off putting, arrogant and cruel insult to hear people write off or outright deny long covid exists and call long covid a cold. It fucking isn't.

Anyway that's my story.

#Long Covid #Covid sequela #Sequela #Long Covid Advocacy Ireland #Guus #guustweet #Stories of the pandemic #Millions Missing #Illness #Chronic illness #Complex Health Conditions #Disability #Disabled #The pandemic #Public Health

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brutalage · 6 months

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I am your servant. [ he's being false-polite. like the really bastardy version of saying 'at your service :)' when what you mean is 'i'm going to be incredibly inconvenient for you :)' ]

THE HALLS OF STONE ARE QUIET . his mortal servants , gone about their duties for the evening . many a woman warming a noble's bed . he is a different man today than he was decades ago , and he would be another one a decade from now . a different banner to fly over a distant land . somewhere else , far away . these people , long forgotten . a meal , unsavory . golden knives ran slick against teeth ------ crimson veins , their lives , digested . the fire dies cold in the hearth .

and that was all until he would return , ever the king .

such stories were always passed down . so ancient , from one tongue to the next . when he was king , and king again , and again . when the world had forever known of his wicked name . there then came the written word . no longer were these stories ever held by village elders & sage wanderers , eager to tell tales . battles could be forever alive . the horrors of war , ever fresh , like ink of page . even the deeds of mythic heroes & dastardly monsters , now a joy to keep on one’s shelf .

a great plague had passed through europe , sparing few . a rampant , raging disease , vile in its merciless holds . and yet , vandal savage remained untouched . gloriously so , the picture of health . his hair , dashingly curled from an untied braid , his skin , an fine bronzed velvet . a glint in his darkened eye . nothing suggested sickness . and to other men , the lesser , the filthy , were desperate to tear him asunder . what was it ? whatever was it that had protected him from this such a deathly pox ? alchemy ? prayer ? a faustian bargain , as kit had so written ? none of those things , of course .

vandal closed his book for the evening , and blew out his candle . this strain had ground his plans to a half . unexpected , but well worth the study , in the mean time . wispy spirals of smoke filled the shadowy room , only to curiously dance , illuminated . the candle sparks itself to life once more , vandal staring suddenly . even in the halls , did the hearth illuminate . something beyond his will had happened . an ethereal trick .

the man’s voice is knife-slick & dreadfully smooth . a niveous vision in horrifying white . bone-pale . if it could be called a man ------ a beast of a guest within the house of another beast . for whatever it was , it might’ve been all of man’s horrors distilled into a vague , human-like shape . subtle here , severe there .

there are three distinct clacks of teeth . vandal cannot see them all , only one , and what a ghastly smile it is .

“ I am your servant , “ speaks the mouth , bones pushing against pale lips , grinning in shadow . a single , small candle for light still dances . he is not scared — vandal savage fears no man , and yet again , he notes that this , perhaps , is no man , indeed . wondering if it would bleed , should he slit its throat ( as the need arrives , and lords , how it does ) . but he isn’t one to question why such a being would creep into his castle . he knows why he is being watched . has seen it in the eyes of every innocent he slaughtered . a raising of the blade against tender skins . the screaming , the pleading . a scene of slaughter unending , mercilessly unyielding in his cruelty . a hand sick with want , and a thirst that could never be quelled . endless . endless , as they say , is ever the wants of men . and vandal savage dreams in crimson . he dreams of carnage , an empire built atop the corpses of his enemies . as things should be . as they once were .

“ and not even the etiquette to say good evening . my dear corinthian , wherever are your manners ? “

@nightmarecountry | DEATHLESS .

#nightmarecountry #( 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐓 . ) | incharacter .#i thought this was going to get feral-er .#huh .#that just means #MORE FERAL-ER NEXT TIME #i also rewrote this LIKE NUMEROUS TIMES . SO . ERAHIOWHOIEAFRGBUFEALNJDFVBK #BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK #ask to tag .

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misscrawfords · 1 year

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Hello, Rose. :) I'm sorry if I'm mistaken but I have the impression you've been to Venice somewhat recently (probably before pandemic, but still). If so, if you don't mind me asking, how did you get from the airport (if it were the case) to the city centre? Any other recs? If everything goes according to the plan I am to go there at the end of the month. Thanks in advance. :)

Oooh Venice! That is so lovely. I haven't actually been for over 10 years now (yikes!!) but I used to live there as a child and visited many times since so I do know it very well. In terms of getting from the airport to the city centre, I've always just got the public bus from outside the airport to Piazzale Roma which is the only part of Venice accessible to motor vehicles. You can get a water taxi I believe but I expect that's really expensive. The bus ride is not the comfiest but it's convenient and affordable. When you get to Piazzale Roma you can get a vaporetto (water bus) down the Grand Canal to wherever you need to go or proceed on foot. Most of the time you will be on foot unless you want to take the extremely expensive water taxies (I've literally never taken one) and there are lots of bridges so I'd bear that in mind when considering packing.

A lot of my food and drink recs are decades out of date, but here are a few things I wouldn't miss in terms of sight-seeing:

Piazza San Marco including the Basilica, Doge's Palace and Campanile. I recommend going up the Campanile on a clear, bright day. You can see as far as the Alps on a good day! That was one of my favourite things to do in Venice. Go back to the piazza in the evening with an ice-cream and watch the musicians. (Better to do that and have a wander between the different cafes than actually have a drink at the cafes - they're super expensive and you're stuck in one spot.)

Accademia art gallery

Scuola Dalmata di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni - tiny but the paintings are amazing. As featured prominently in my fanfic Consolation Prize. :P

Take a day to get the boat to Torcello and Burano. Torcello has an ancient church and is just incredibly remote and peaceful. Burano is extremely pretty with brightly coloured houses.

Walk all the way along the Riva degli Schiavoni from Piazza San Marco right down to Giardini - that's where the Biennale is held and one of the only real green spaces in Venice. The atmosphere feels different down there. Return via Arsenale.

Go to the Zattere - on the other side of the Grand Canal from San Marco - combine this with the Accademia perhaps. It's a lovely walk along the Canale della Giudecca and much less crowded than the Riva degli Schiavoni. You can also hop on a vaporetto here to the Giudecca and have a wander there, though I admit I don't know that area very well.

Visit the Ghetto in Canareggio, the old Jewish quarter. You'll notice the houses are so much taller than elsewhere in the city because of the need to fit so many people in. I'm pretty sure there's an old Synagogue you can visit but tbh I can't remember.

Other lovely churches beyond San Marco are the Frari, Santi Giovanni e Paulo, Santa Maria dei Miracoli.

Nice campi to sit in with an aperitivo - Santa Margarita, Santa Maria Formosa, Santo Stefano, Erberia by the Rialto (also go there in the morning for the fish and veg market)

That's all I can think of at the moment! I hope you have the most FABULOUS time! Do you know where you're staying yet? My primary school friend's family owns a hotel which I can recommend you if you like! I am feeling so sad/happy/nostalgic now. It's been so long since I've been there but I don't know if I can go back because when I do it won't be there same. It would be like stepping into a memory but the place and I will have changed so much... It's almost better to preserve the memories untouched, you know? But at the same time, I long for it. I can feel Venice in my very bones. It is the most deeply held and profoundly important part of my soul!

#venice #italy #europe

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the-great-elwisty · 2 years

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NWN2 cut content: Red Fallow's Watch

A cut location. At some point, you don’t go straight to find the Circle of the Mere in Elanee’s big Act 3 quest. After she hears from Daeghun that the Circle are alive and Bishop butts in (this conversation is still in the game, though is actually setting up a missing scene):

Bishop: {Slight surprise} I suspected that might be one of the places... as for the incursions, it wasn't just orcs. That's near an area the King of Shadows isn't likely to have claimed... yet. Might be a good staging area to look for your dead druid friends.

Elanee: {Defensive} Daeghun says they're alive.

Bishop: Maybe for now. Still, if you want to go, I can guide you to a safe port on the edge of the marsh.

Bishop's "safe port" is the ruined Red Fallow's Watch, the village where he spent his childhood.

Entering the abandoned village.

SCRIPTER: Camera shows the village, the ruined houses, the burnt bones and the grayeyard.

|{AUDIO: Desolate music stinger plays}

Elanee: {Apprehensive, they've just walked into a ruined village} What happened here... you can almost hear the screams coming from the ground. Why would someone have razed this place?

Bishop: {Trying to downplay it's his home village} It was a village... Redfallow’s Watch, I believe. It's the closest place I could think of close to the lands the King of Shadows holds.

Elanee: {Firm} As much as the King of Shadows feeds on the land, it may be possible for a Circle to protect an area from its influence... another reason to try and find them as soon as possible.

Bishop: {Snorts, walking away} Well, if wishes were horses... look, you go on ahead, I'm staying here. If you're not back soon, then don't expect to find me here when you return.

The PC can explore the ruins, finding bits of evidence – an unlooted chest, graves, the burnt remains of soldiers – that go on a counter. Neeshka suggests doing some pilfering, which Bishop for once objects to, and siding with one or the other results in influence gain/loss. The other companions also comment on the things they notice.

Grobnar: {Noticing an untouched chest in the middle of a village} My, it looks as if whoever left here left in a hurry. They didn't even take their things and whatchamacallits.

[These graves all appear to have been dug at the same time, and they bear similar, makeshift markers.]

Casavir (?): The villagers, it seems. I wonder who buried them, and with such care?

It wasn’t included in the chunk of content I looked at, but this scene (once you find enough evidence) would probably have led into Bishop talking about Red Fallow’s Watch and the Luskans, as he does in the endgame if you pass an influence check. (I think he might also tell a PC with high influence about RFW before the endgame, but I’d need to check and the toolset is a whole three clicks away…)

All the time, Bishop is pressing the PC to either go ahead to the Circle of the Mere (he refuses to join you himself, and waits for you in the ruins), then, once you get back, presses the PC to leave.

Elanee: {Suspicious, feels something's off} This village feels different... like a trace of the Claimed Lands has touched this place.

Bishop: {Shrugs, dismissive} Just the wind in the trees and the dead in the ground... but I'll bet we're bound to have visitors if we stay here too long.

I think this episode could have worked well, though it’s perhaps too close to the visit to Ember in Act 2. Given that by this point you’ve had to wander through Ember and the corpse-filled remains of West Harbour (twice! – well, twice once you’ve visited again with the shards), the devs may have decided that yet another destroyed village was too much of a good thing. Even if, of course, the reason that Bishop has his own destroyed village is because he’s intended to parallel the protagonist.

Left in, the message would have been a bit: “It doesn’t matter what sort of person you are, you still end up with everyone dead and your home burnt to the ground.” And given that this was the game that gave us Rocks Fall Everyone Dies as the ending, that might have been the intention! But it could have looked a bit different if cut content #1 was still left in, and the PC was allowed to rescue various West Harbour people, who are already plotting their return and rebuilding of the village in Act 3. In that case, the PC and their background could have provided a more hopeful contrast to Bishop and whatever it was that made him into him.

Visually, it would have been interesting to see the remains of Red Fallow’s Watch to contrast it with West Harbour. It’s the only other named village in the Mere; I imagine it being even more Swamp Gothic than our PC’s hometown.

#nwn2 #neverwinter nights 2 #cut content #iwantnwn3

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flower-seeks-the-moon · 2 years

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the house in fata morgana: another story, chapter 1

fandom: the house in fata morgana

relationships: michel bollinger/giselle

characters: michel bollinger, giselle

words: 1272

ao3 link

first posted on ao3. this is the first part of a multichapter project for gischel week 2022, with the prompt roleswap. could be read as a standalone. new chapters will be uploaded on both tumblr and ao3, but sporadically. features giselle as the master of the mansion and michel as the servant.

Chapter 1: You and the Servant

“... Master?”

Your consciousness came back in trickles of sensation, drop after drop into a small pool. But his voice was the first tangible thing that you could register, cold and brisk like a frozen spring.

It eclipsed the feeling that gradually returned to your fingers, low and yet drowning out the distant sound of the rain you could now discern from somewhere.

It stood out against the warm sounds of a crackling hearth.

“... Wake up, Master.”

“Where… Where am I?”

Creak, creak, creak.

You felt under your hands the solid wood of a rocking chair, and realize that you had been rocking back and forth for a while.

The room was dark, the singular fireplace a beacon that glowed against the dimness of your surroundings.

And yet.

“How fortunate. You’ve finally awoken.”

He stood out, hair a pale white like the icy cap of a snow-covered mountain. Skin a sallow white like a bleached bone, or a corpse. Kneeling beside your chair, he stared at you with ruby eyes that were the only things somewhat resembling life on his body.

“Good morning, Master.”

A smile curved the edges of his thin lips upwards and left those eyes utterly untouched. A pang suddenly cut through your chest.

“Is something the matter?”

It both relieved and pained you when that smile left, replaced by a bemused frown. Somehow, that looked rather more natural on his face than a smile.

It confused you.

You had no memories of this man, who looked like a servant and called you Master.

And yet he knew you…

“You have just woken up,” he murmured to himself. “In this case, I should let you gather yourself first.”

He gave you yet another of those flimsy smiles. A place inside you ached, the longing almost tangible, at the polished look of it. You were sure, even as your mind was emptied of any knowledge of him, that this man once wouldn’t have given out such meaningless smiles too easily.

“I’ve missed your voice. It’s been so long.” His ruby eyes locked with yours, an unreadable gleam in them. “Keeping this mansion perfect, until the day you return. I worked hard every day.”

“It made me weary, for it was a long, long time.”

Looking at the windows, where naught but darkness was visible outside, he continued to smile. “And then you showed up outside the window, and I felt joy for the first time in many eras… My heart leaped at the sight of you.”

Those words were smooth and could have made a maiden blush.

His entire being felt lonely, gentle and so utterly unfamiliar. And it hurt.

(Where is the ungainliness?)

(He doesn’t feel like who he should be…)

You opened your mouth. “You-”

“Would you like me to serve you some tea? I remember… You liked chamomile.”

For a brief moment, the thought crossed your mind that for a servant, he rather liked cutting you off. Was he ever properly trained? It didn’t seem to be so. Incongruously, this delighted you.

Like catching a peek of a charming little bird among the bushes in your garden… That hidden flash of someone beyond the calm, implacable servant that he tried to be.

It made a part inside you, cold when you first came to, warm.

You felt a smile tug at your mouth, and oh , did that feel as natural as breathing. Though you didn’t know why, and the reason slipped through your fingers like sand the more you tried to grasp it.

But smiling still felt… Good.

He must have disagreed because upon seeing this, the servant froze.

“Ah - I must apologize for my rudeness. I was overeager.” Stilted words came tumbling out as he hastened to right himself. You watched as he tucked away every little bit of himself that he had shown you until all that remained was the Servant.

And that was… Unbearably sad.

“It… It’s alright,” you managed to get out. Control of your voice, of your lips, was tenuous. You had come to understand that whatever you were, you weren’t alive or human.

Managing even these little replies took a lot of your willpower.

But to get that side of him back, you felt that nothing would be too much for you.

His gaze snapped back to you, and only lingered a second before he looked down. “It was unbecoming. I am a servant of this mansion, and you are the Master.”

(But I didn’t want us to be like that… To stop at nothing but that…)

“No. I don’t know who you are… but we couldn’t possibly be just that.”

“Indeed, you do not know me at the moment.” The affected distance in his eyes and voice stung, for a man you didn't even remember. He had stopped looking at you, staring into the flickering hearth instead.

(But I did once…)

“You do not even remember my name,” he mused with a hollow little smile.

(I want to!)

“Much less who you are.”

“... I don’t remember who we are,” you repeated after him, desolate.

Seemingly coming to a realization, he stood up. It made you notice his height. And yet, instead of filling up the room with his presence and size, he looked as if he had been stretched thin. His long hair, cold white despite how the orange glow of the fire should have cast a warm tone to it, swayed at his back where it had been tied neatly.

“I cannot serve someone,” he spoke slowly, dragging the words out as if to test their weight, cold as hoarfrost. “Who does not remember themselves.”

The words felt like a death knell, almost final. And paired with his corpselike pallor, he looked like a harbinger of the afterlife. And you, yourself, were dead and just recently reformed.

It was, you couldn’t lie to yourself, frightening.

“But you said I had just returned,” you replied, shivering and clutching at your arms to stave off the chill.

As if he sensed your unease, something in him gentled. Perhaps it was his gaze or his posture. Despite the distance he attempted to put between you two, he was still unable to hide that hint of kindness you had glimpsed briefly.

“As a servant of this mansion, Master, I bore witness to the many tragedies that befell the people who once dwelled here.”

Here, he flashed yet another of those smiles that weren’t smiles, as if the tragedies he mentioned were but a trifling matter.

Or perhaps it was a weak attempt to ease his Master’s worries at the mention of misfortunes.

Your mind spun as more questions came.

He called you the Master, but who are you, really? Without even a face to put to your unknown name, you sorely needed all the help that you could get.

“We shall review those incidents, Master. You will recall who you are.”

“Alright, help me��” You reached out your hand to him, on a whim.

(... I want to hold it… But would he allow me?)

(Would his hands be as cold as a corpse’s?)

(... Can I hold it and not cry if so?)

A freezing hand engulfed yours. You barely get a moment to process the aching heartbreak this sensation brought, before your cold, soft-spoken Servant held on to you firmly and pulled you up from the rocking chair.

“Ah, I must remind you, Master. Do not let go of my hand. History is not kind to those who are swept away by the memories.”

"Is that so? Then I won't let go of this hand," you tell him. That had indeed been your plan.

#the house in fata morgana #fatamoru #michel bollinger #giselle #Gischel Week #luna's fics

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mysteriouslysporadicbasement · 4 months

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He appeared from his room, freshly showered, towel round his neck. It took him 247 seconds more than usual to finish washing up. Was something the matter? Walked up straight to the sofa where I was sitting and took up the other end. He was not thinking straight. Where was the bottle of water he usually has? The scent of citrus from his shampoo got on my nerves. He's using a new one. I needed to change mine too, then.

'What about dinner?'

The casualness of my tone was an irony. I'd serve him the meat off my back on a plate if he ever joked that he wanted it. I fix my eyes on the bags under his eyes. He's tired. Men had a way of appearing unscathed in front of the world. The moment he stepped inside the house, all the exhaustion would show up on his features, like invisible ink surfacing under heat. I liked watching him like that. That meant he was comfortable in here. Even though we're just roommates. He didn't mind, me seeing him like this. Or maybe he couldn't care less. Either way, I'd take it. I'd take in his existence anyway I could. 'I ate.' That's all he said. I wished he would elaborate. What did he eat, who did he eat with, was it good enough? I wanted to know more, from his mouth anyway. His still form on the other side of the couch made him appear like a statue. He's looking at the TV screen. He was here yet he felt miles away from me. I wished to feel his gaze in my bones. His shoulders are tense. I read the distress off him like my favorite riddles. This time of the semester are always hell. What could be bothering him today? Was it that professor who refused his submission for a 2-minute delay? Was it that exchange student that won't leave him alone? Was it his mother that never knew when to shut up over the phone? All he had to do was give me a hint. A zist, just a crumb maybe. The things I’d do for him could not be limited by anything humane or inhumane. Who knows, maybe I already have crossed those limits before. Nothing fazed me when it came to him. His unawareness of this fact only fueled my devotion. "Whatever it is," I thought, "I'll find out myself. And I'll make it go away. I will take care of you, in ways you cannot imagine." Love, it was not. Mere love could never explain this. I wouldn't know what to do with him if this, whatever this is, was ever returned. The thought turned sour in my head. 'God, I hope not.' 'Today was your day off?' He was still distant. His eyes not moving once from the screen. 'Yes, I watched Netflix all day.' The lies rolled out of my tongue smoother than recited poetry. I didn't watch Netflix all day. I watched him. Off days meant my favorite entertainment. I watched him in the cafeteria, having dinner. I saw him buying an apple juice from the vending machine instead of Gatorade, because his insufferable mother told him to. I watched some girl bump into him because the she was on her phone. He almost fell on his face. I did not like that. So, I had to take care of that too. I hope she'll learn not to glue her eyes on the phone all the time, if she ever gets a new one. 'You don't look well.' I voice out, feigning concern. Whatever he looked like, it always seemed fine to me. 'It's nothing.' His eyes finally tore away from the screen. He smiled at me or tried to. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the screen.

He sighed. His frown deepened.

One, two, three- deep lines appeared on his forehead.

He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation.

‘You wish you could do that, don’t you?’ I immediately cringed at the thought. No, I didn't wish that. I wished I could keep him in a glass box in my room, so I could stare at him all day. Untouched and Clean, all mine to admire. 'I'm...going to go to bed, my classes start early tomorrow.' He stood up and left without waiting for a reply. I knew who that was. He owed money to someone. The calls were getting frequent. He had enough time to sort it out himself, I decided then. I stood up.

I had errands to run. I walked out into the chilly night, wrapping my coat tighter around me. It was dark out, shielding my surgical gloves from the questioning eyes of any passerby. The taser in my pocket never felt lighter. Turns out, I was also in need of some money that I needed to borrow. I patted the inside of my coat, feeling the thin blade in place. My second most prized possession. Very handy for keeping things discreet. I had tested it on myself, and it passed with flying colors. Knives only made things messy. One stroke of this, on a spot vulnerable enough, and it would bleed anyone’s lights out in 15 seconds, give or take. 'Maybe you could keep something of his, for your collection.' My heart picked up at the thought. The blood pumping in my ear got louder. The pulse near my throat sped up. Maybe I'll go for the hands, to make it a suicide. That was safer.

‘But the sound out of his throat when the trachea is punctured deep enough, the cascading of the blood to the lungs; cutting off oxygen supply, the mouthwatering rich crimson painting the snow, and the eyes…oh, the eyes that’s going to give away his will to live a second longer and the fear, the regret, the pain-’, I breathed and stopped in my tracks to calm down. 'Haven't smiled this big in a while', the voice inside my head sneered. I haven't, have I? Looks like Christmas came early this year.

#short story #idk man #it sounded cooler in my head

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cumbergirl · 2 years

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Sherlock x Reader: I’ll always choose you

Warnings: smut & fluff; angst

You get tired of Sherlock’s interest in Irene Adler.

You stood quietly on the front door, tears already running down your cheeks. The woman was there again. In his robes. Holding his hands. That was quite enough for you. You loved Sherlock, you truly did. But this time, you were going to putt yourself first.

Wiping your tears, you looked Sherlock in the eyes. Everything he needed to know in one look. You were leaving.

-Y/N, please. Please listen to me- Sherlock said, following you into the bedroom, trying to stop you from packing your bags.

-No, Sherlock. I had enough. I don’t deserve to go through all that. I’ve never done anyone wrong- you said, looking him in the eyes and being unable to control your tears- I don’t understand why I have to go through such pain. Seeing you touch her, she touch you...oh god...

You didn’t wanted to be the victim here, you wanted to be strong. But that was so fucking difficult when every bone in your body seemed to me breaking and your heard felt like it was being crushed.

-Sherlock, dear, c’mon, that is just pathetic- you heard that voice and just wanted to throw up.

-Shut your fucking mouth- you looked up in surprise. Sherlock never lost is calm like this, especially not with her- Shut up! You’re pathetic. A pathetic sad creature. You will never be anything like her. You’re empty, and has nothing to offer to anyone. Especially not me.

-What I need...What I need only her can provide. And she never asked for anything in return. And all I’ve done was break her heart. But that’s quite enough. I choose her. I’ll always choose her. Now get the fuck out of my house.

You were in shock. Irene was in shock. But Sherlock stood firm, looking you in the eyes. You looked down, waiting for her to leave. You just hoped that it was finally the last time.

-Can you please put the bags away now? Please.- Sherlock said, with pleading eyes.

Without looking at his face, you placed the bags in the closet, closing it and picking up some clothes.

-Can we talk?- Sherlock said in a weak voice, he seemed scared.

-Not now. Let me just take a shower and clear my head, please- you said, still now looking him in the eyes and left the room.

•————————•

You came back from the shower, with wet hair, and a Sherlock’s old shirt. He was sitting on the edge of your bed, facing the window, deep in thoughts.

You tapped lightly on his shoulder, making him turn and face you. He looked relieved to see you there.

-What do you want to talk about?- you said, hints of sadness in your voice. You were still hurt, and that broke Sherlock’s heart.

-I want to apologize. I’m well aware that I don’t do it to often. But let’s start from here: I should never let myself into that spider’s web, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. But, Y/N...I need you to know, that was just Sherlock, the consultor detective, going after a interesting charade. It was never a matter of attraction or nothing of the source. I need you to know, that you are the only one I ever wanted.

He pulled you to sit into his lap, knees on the bed.

-I want you. Every minute of every hour. And it drives me mad. You’ve became my beautiful, desirable, untouched mind palace.

You closed your eyes as his fingers traveled up your thighs, pulling the string of your underwear, leaving your cunt in direct contact with his trousers. You rubbed like crazy trying to get more friction.

-I love every inch of your body and skin- he said, taking the shirt off and tossing it across the room- every curve- he squeezed your breasts, sucking on your nipples.

-Sherlock, babe...please- that was all it took to make him lose is calm pace, placing on under him on the bed and undressing himself.

-Look what you do to me. I’m all yours- he said, stroking himself and coming towards your dipping cunt.

-Fuck, yes- you said in a scream when he placed all of himself inside your wet walls.

-Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good and only for me.

-Kiss me, Sherlock.

God, you had sex before. But this...this was something else. All the heated kisses and Sherlock’s slow pace, you could be like that all night if you didn’t needed so much to cum.

With all of your strength, you managed to be on top of him, bouncing in a fast pace on his dick, rolling your eyes at the sensation.

-I love you so so much...- Sherlock said, sitting straight and kissing you hard. God you loved that position. Felling him sucking on your nipples was more than enough to make your rhythm wilder.

-C’mon. Be a good girl and cum. I might just cum inside you- this was enough to send you to the edge, your orgasm hitting you hard- yes yes...you like that, don’t you? Take all of my cum real good inside of your little pussy...that’s a good girl.

Seconds latter you both were almost completely shot out. And Irene Adler wasn’t even a shadow of a thought.

#sherlock holmes smut #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock fanfic #benedict cumberbatch x reader

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nothing-is-relevent-but-it-is · 2 years

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A short thing based on Tommy's lore stream today, specifically the sign "I have him now too". Read it here or on Ao3.

Wilbur inspects the odd mark on the tree with an unreadable manner. A smile, unmistakable, cut into the wood beneath his fingers, curved and jagged, as though unsteady hands had rushed to complete it.

He knows it's meant for him. How could he not? This is their clearing, and he's been invited. The place they always met. The only thing missing now that he's here is the man who'd left the message.

Of course he's going to wait. The mark is fresh, he can tell from the shavings beneath his feet, bits of sap still dripping from the rough smile. He rubs the sticky substance between his fingers before licking it off. That, plus the fact that he'd woken up to a note in Phil's house just that morning, means he can't possibly be late.

He looks around, taking in the overgrown grass and quiet atmosphere. Untouched by the destruction rampant on this server, this place still gives him some clarity of mind. No wonder the other had returned here, even briefly.

A rustle comes from behind him.

"Oh," he breathes. He turns around, and there he is.

Dream.

There's a moment, not dissimilar to when they'd first met, where he's looking into a mirror. The barely restrained joy of freedom that pulls at the man's face. The itch to rediscover it all casing him shift on lightly planted feet. The fear and anger and hurt and excitement that tugs his posture upright and hunched in all at once.

It's the look of a freed man.

He has always seen himself in the other, souls reflected in actions and words and the ultimate drive. Now, more than ever, he feels himself drawn to him.

Dream's eyes are hesitant, barely reserved as Wilbur takes a hesitant step forward. Then another, and another, until he's hovering at the edge of his personal space, and the air is buzzing with words unsaid. He can't think of what to say. He imagines the man in front of him doesn't either.

Part of him hates him. He's hurt Tommy. This man had broken his little brother, son, best friend past the point of no return. He had wanted to kill this man, and part of him still does.

But this man has saved him. This man has given him his second chance at life. This man has been trying to save the server from itself. This man is his hero.

And Wilbur's one of the good guys, now.

Slowly, he raises his hand, hovering as he watches Dream's eyes track his every movement, uncertainty and anticipation in his gaze, ready to pounce or flee at a moments notice.

Fondness sparks in his chest. Dream's patience was a fickle and hypocritical thing. Couldn't tolerate being confronted, but could wait ages as he watched others make their plans. Wilbur loved testing that patience, feeding it when he was being reckless and tearing it down when he needed him to act.

Now he chooses to abide by the man's halting movements, still as he watches crooked fingers reach out and brush his.

Like an ember falling on the remains of a once burning fire, the touch shocks both of them. Running through his viens, it ignites something in him. He knows Dream feels it, too, can see it in the emerald of his eyes, hear it in the sharp inhale that disturbs the silence.

He breathes in, closing his eyes to take it all in. Something content and warm blooms in his chest, because finally. Finally, they're reunited. This is his savior, his partner, his sunshine. Despite all the horrid things, the pain this man had caused his loved ones, he has always given him warmth. He intends to return the favor.

When he opens his eyes once more, Dream is staring at him intently. He smiles softly when he realizes the other's waiting for him to make his next move.

He laces their fingers together gently, reverently, looking down to see the way their bones interlock, bending to each other the way they always have. There's something beautiful in how different their hands look now, compared to when they'd done this last. But Dream's hands are still calloused where Wilbur's are smooth. Wilbur's hands are still longer, covering most of the scarred skin in his grip. Dream's right pointer finger still has a freckle on it.

He sighs, thumbs rubbing back and forth in a soothing manner and Dream's grip relaxes in his. "I got your message," he speaks, voice low, almost afraid that if he's too loud, this will all shatter. "You wanted to meet?"

Dream blinks at him. "Obviously," he says, and it's biting but soft, as though he, too, is afraid of disturbing this odd peace they've created. Green eyes flicker over his form, catching on their hands. "You actually showed up."

It's almost a question. Not quiet believing, but certain enough in the facts. Wilbur responds as such. "Of course I did. I wanted to see you."

It goes quiet, both waiting for the other to explain. Unable to stand the curiosity building in him, he continues.

"Why did you want to see me, Dream?"

The man hums, still staring at their hands, as though he wants to look away, but can't, too enamored with the concept of something so familiar after so long.

When he answers, it's with a real question.

"Will you come with me?"

The breath is knocked out of his lungs and his knuckles tighten. "What?"

"I need you, Wilbur," Dream goes on, still gazing intently at their hands, squeezing back. "Everyone will be after me. I can't risk keeping Punz around right now, but you. You're my vassal, remember? I need you by my side, I-" he hesitates, "I want you by my side."

And Wilbur wishes he could say it was a difficult choice. He wishes he could say the thought of Tommy and Phil gives him enough pause to think twice. But he's made it clear, from the moment he got back, exactly who takes priority above all else.

And besides, if he says no, there's a higher chance that he himself will be put in Dream's place. And he refuses to be locked away.

"Yes," he breathes. "I'll come with you. Anything you want."

"Anything?" A bit of hope and danger creeps into Dream's tone, and it should frighten him, but since when hasn't he made promises bigger than himself?

"Whatever's yours is mine," he recites. "And whatever's mine is yours." He brings their hands up higher, stepping closer. "Promise me that, and yes. Anything."

He sees the light in those green eyes brighten, and he practically breathes in the words that escape on an elated exhale. "I promise."

And just like that, they belong to each other once again.

#lobi writes stuff #mutually assured destruction #dreambur #MADduo #dreblr #c!wilbur #c!dream #you have no clue #how much i want this to be what happened #or close anyways

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doveypink · 3 years

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the one i left behind [technoblade imagine]

summary: you recount the moments leading up to your death. genre: angst words: 5.3k warnings: death, (past) abusive relationships, swearing, general violence a/n: i've been working on this one for a long time. i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it!!

[ part two: come and find me ]

Freezing. I was absolutely freezing.

The brisk wind was sharp, leaving pinpricks of its icy touch upon my skin. I could have sworn there was snow, but when my eyes finally cracked open to peer around me, there was only the burning blaze of the sun and lush fields surrounding me. I turned my head to the side lazily, feeling the grass tickle my cheek. My body felt stiff and I stretched my arms out as though clasping the sky between my fingers, and my muscles loosened as I lifted myself from the ground. How long had I been laying there? Time seemed to escape me as I tried to recollect myself. I was just tired, that was all; if I went home now, I’m sure I would remember again. I would make myself a big meal, as well, something hot to melt away my chill, even though I didn’t seem to feel any ounce of hunger within me.

I walked in the direction of a place I couldn’t quite remember, attempting to turn the preceding events over in my mind. The only thing I could seem to recall was the smell of something burning, a bright flash of light, a big bang — fireworks, an image of creation and destruction all at once. It was almost as though I had never existed before this moment, lying in a bed of flowers, untouched by the calloused hands of the living.

I walked through the field, reaching out to pick a single flower from the blades of grass—a blood-red carnation—when I noticed that the shade of my skin had lost its warmth. Where it once had the flushed undertone of my blood, it was now ashen with the impression of death. I flinched, suddenly shivering as my cold bones once again made themselves known. A thought occurred to me, a memory that had slipped my mind in my haze: I only had one life left.

And I lost it.

Without thinking, my feet began to glide over the earth, kicking up dirt and pebbles as I ran. If I had lost my last life, something awful must have happened. What was it? I tried to pull the memories from the vault in my mind, but it seemed to be locked. All that was left were the shadows under the door, the footsteps in the distance, the keyhole that could only provide a glimpse into a scene.

I smelled it, then, the same scent that I recalled upon waking up, though fainter: something hot and burnt. Up ahead, there was a wisp of smoke floating above the trees, and I hurried towards them. The ground became blackened with scorch marks and, among the ruins of a building I could no longer recognize, I caught sight of blood. My heart sank, and with a start, I realized that there was a crater full of rubble and fires that had long been burning. I stepped through the debris, stumbling over broken doors, shards of glass, golden goblets and picture frames; dozens of signs of life all buried in ash and smoke, melted into a haunting image of destruction. Nothing was recognizable, but I knew what this place was: L’Manburg. Or, more accurately, what was left of it.

I searched the ruins of the country, cringing at the blood streaked debris and discarded weapons and armor that lay haphazardly among the wreckage. I circled the edge of the massive crater, unable to step much further into the space due to its depth. I looked down at the scorched land and moved out, surveying the surrounding area.

Upon noticing the remnants of a building—someone’s house, maybe? It was too far gone to make out—I felt compelled to search what was left of the structure. I wasn’t sure what drew me to suddenly climb through burnt wood and broken cobblestone; some part of me felt as though I would find an answer to all my questions, a sign, anything to point me in the right direction. I felt desperate to find something to satisfy the tug in my cold heart. My freezing hands sifted through the mess, shoving away rubble and pushing through the debris until my hands were covered in dirt and bruised from the digging. My hands suddenly found something smooth and dense, and my searching became frantic as I pushed through the ruins to find what I had been unknowingly searching for: my bow. I tugged it out from under stone and dirt, running my fingers down the edge of the smooth silver. It remained unmarked despite the destruction surrounding it, the curve of its limbs untarnished and shining brilliantly in the evening light. I searched some more and discovered the hard shell of my arrow quiver and a number of silver-tipped arrows still inside. I stood and slung the quiver over my shoulder with my bow in hand, feeling almost complete with the items on my person.

The wind picked up and blew through my hair, insisting that I look further. I stepped into the wreckage of the building, an unsettled feeling rising in the pit of my stomach. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of red against pale grey stone; I turned, staring at the scene before me with wide, horrified eyes.

A short distance from where my bow was found, there was a violent splatter of crimson against the rubble. It looked like a balloon full of paint had popped, streaking the cold stones with a sickeningly bright shade of red. Among the drying mess, there was a flurry of scorch marks strewn across the area, a minor crater digging into the earth where the scene lay. I realized what this all was, my hands trembling as I clutched my bow.

I had died here.

I screwed my eyes shut, plagued with a sudden onslaught of memories that I no longer wished for. Falling to my knees, I held my head in my hands and shook violently, my head pounding with a torrential rain of scenes flashing in my mind. All I could do was be swept away in the flood.

* * * * *

“Are you still mad at me?”

I blinked at Techno with an arrow in hand, sharpening its tip and inspecting the edge. I was mad at him, but I didn’t feel like giving him an answer. If he had to ask, he already knew; we were both smart enough to understand each other like that. He sighed when I wordlessly turned my gaze back to my arrow, stepping towards me and plucking it from my grasp. I jumped up, prepared to steal it back. “Hey—!”

“You know why I had to do this. Don’t get mad at me,” Techno said, his voice low and serious.

I crossed my arms and frowned. “Right. You have to team with Dream just to blow up a country. You definitely couldn’t have done it on your own or, I don’t know, with me to help, yeah? Because the great Technoblade is always right—”

“We have common interests—”

“And I hate being interrupted.”

Techno went silent after I snapped at him, adjusting his cape while I gritted my teeth. “I thought you hated him,” I said slowly, “and I hated him too. You know what he did, you know how it hurt me, and you still…” I trailed off, feeling suddenly exhausted—exhausted from fighting, exhausted from chasing a peace I could never have.

Techno placed a gentle hand on my shoulder—a gesture he rarely used, and reserved for me—and met my eyes. “Just this once,” he said. “I still owe him a debt, but this will be the end. It’s within our reach.”

“I could die,” I said plainly. This made Techno pause, his entire body freezing over like a lake in winter, so I pushed further. “I could die. I could lose my last life, and I gladly will for what we’re doing, because I believe in this. I know we haven’t always been right, but I know that this is. I hate that you let Dream in, and I’m going to be angry. I deserve to be angry.”

“You’re not going to die,” he said with certainty. “Not when I’m there.”

I couldn’t tell if Techno was trying to reassure me or himself with his words, but either way, the weight of the possibilities made my stomach turn with anxiety. “You can’t be so sure. I’m not exactly as talented as you are at everything,” I countered.

“Don’t say that,” Techno insisted, his tone full of frustrated reassurement. “I won’t ever let anything bad happen to you. Never again. And hey,” he started, poking my cheek, “you’re more than capable of handling yourself, anyway. You couldn’t die even if you wanted to.”

“I think you have too much confidence in me, Techno.”

“Cut that sentence 3 words short and I’ll consider agreeing with you.”

I sighed, finally letting myself crack a small smile. “I’m still mad at you, but I trust you. Only out of pity though—I know you couldn’t last a day without me around.”

Techno grinned, his sharp-toothed grin melting the ice as he returned my arrow. “Good thing it’ll never come to that.”

I shook my head, twirling the arrow in my hand while I inspected it silently. Techno turned away to prepare his own weapons, leaving me alone with the aftermath of our conversation.

My anger had been redirected with my friend’s words of reassurance, now colliding with my resentment for Dream. Even though I did have faith in Techno, I still feared the possibility of Dream playing a trick on us. I sharpened my arrow and considered my choices: I follow Techno’s lead and go along with Dream’s help, or I take matters into my own hands. I finished up with my arrows, placing them neatly into my quiver as I prayed that the latter wouldn’t have to occur.

I already knew well enough that war was brutal.

With a deep, tired sigh, I leaned back and recalled a time not so long ago—just a few years at most—when I wasn’t resentful of Dream. We were friends, once, and I’ll admit that I admired him; I bitterly wondered what would have happened if I had ever found the courage to tell him just how much I adored him, but the thought made some long forgotten part of me ache, prickling my heart with thorns. It was shameful of me to wonder what could have been, even more so to speak it; there was a reason why only Techno knew, and there was a reason why his decision made my blood bubble over in frustration and betrayal.

I considered the moment I caught Dream shifting, edging away from his former self as his own hubris overtook him, rotting his soul as something else took form. He had always treated me as an equal, and he charmed me with his kind words and gentle gaze. I couldn’t begin to understand how suddenly he was so cruel to me, taking me by surprise when his usual soft tone became sharp and grating, tearing me apart from the inside out. I had only ever been supportive of him, even when he did things I couldn’t agree with; even when his friends turned their backs on him; even when I found myself seeking his approval at every turn despite his cruelty. Nothing I did could ever seem to be enough.

The first time I was separated from Dream was after Techno captured me, initially planning to use me as leverage against his rival to put an end to the government. After finding me, though, he must have seen what I couldn’t: the hollowness that Dream had left behind. The anarchist took pity on me, if you could even call it that; mostly, Techno shook me awake from the nightmare I had been living and made me realize the extent of Dream’s manipulation. I felt dirty for a long while after my realization, plagued with the sense that I would never feel safe or whole again. A part of me still felt that way, even, but at least I had the sense now to not seek out the shadows when they beckoned me over.

Technoblade was a surprisingly good friend through it all. It was him who helped me become myself again, but he would always argue that it was my own doing. He frustrated me sometimes with his monotonous tone and his thirst for anarchy, but at the end of the day, I could never stay mad at him; Techno had a good heart, and his honesty and dedication to his morals was enough to convince me. Even through my fog of anger at his teaming with Dream, even when I questioned whether this was a good idea, a sensible part of me knew that this was nothing like what Dream had done to me. Techno didn’t hide his nature as Dream did, and I could trust him in that.

A knock on the cabin door brought me out of my thoughts. I heard Techno’s footsteps as he stepped back into the room, a knife in hand. “Do you know who it is?” he questioned, scrutinizing the door when I shook my head in response. I stood from my chair and followed behind Techno, who peeked out the window and let out a tired sigh before swinging the door open.

“Hello, Dream. What are you doing at my house?” my friend deadpanned.

Dream lowered his grinning mask, his own lips drawn back into a polite smile. “Oh, just checking in before tomorrow. I wanted to see if you needed anything.”

“You could have sent a message first,” Techno replied, tapping the messenger device on his wrist. “I don’t really appreciate unwanted guests.”

“I figured it wouldn’t be much of a problem since we’re on the same side now. And I tend to find surprise visits are a lot more… Insightful,” Dream mused. His eyes peeked over Techno’s shoulder to meet mine and I stiffened, standing straighter. Dream, perceptive as usual, smiled wider, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners before he spoke to me in a soft voice. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

A cold hand gripped my heart, the blood pulsing in my ear drums. I hated him; I hated that he hardly had to speak for me to begin to crumble. I attempted to reply in a steady voice despite the slight tremor that shook me. “Yeah, it has.”

Before Dream could say anything else, Techno stepped up as though to shield me. “You know, we have everything we need here. You should probably make sure your things are sorted, though,” he announced.

Dream’s smile faltered for half a second before returning. “Hm, I think you’re right. Just remember to give me the signal,” he said, beginning to turn away from the door. Dream hesitated, giving me one last look before he addressed me, his words kind, though laced with a cold, haunting tone. “I’ve missed you. Good luck tomorrow.”

It wasn’t until Techno had shut the door and confirmed that Dream had left that I allowed myself to breathe. I hadn’t even realized that I was holding my breath in the first place; I felt lightheaded and weary as Techno sat me down and asked if I was alright. I nodded, watching the worried man cross the room to fetch me a glass of water. With a shudder, I took in the sight of the floorboards and listened to my friend rummaging around the kitchen. My stomach churned and my mind flashed with sudden clarity about what I would have to do.

I was going to kill Dream.

The following day felt like a blur. Every motion leading up to the total destruction of L’Manburg was like a sharp jab of a paintbrush, a swipe across a canvas already drenched in paint. There was a picture here, some greater meaning when you stepped away from it all, but in the midst of things, it didn’t quite matter. All Techno cared about was erasing the country for good and keeping us alive; all I wanted was to get the day over with.

I had spent the entire night trying to decide whether it was truly a good idea for me to go after Dream or leave him be. A part of me felt that it was a terrible idea, a decision that would only serve to lead me to certain death; still, another part of me wanted closure. I didn’t think of myself as anything special compared to Techno, Phil, or even Dream himself when it came to combat skills, but the truth was that I was more than capable of holding my own in battle. I had been through my fair share of wars, and the experience in addition to training with Techno led me to become a skilled warrior of my own. As I considered it, I found myself realizing with a newfound confidence that I had the strength to take down Dream all on my own if I wanted to. My only question was how I would go about this.

The answer came surprisingly soon.

Techno and I had been doing well against L’Manburg’s defense—there was only a scare when Sapnap came close to taking one of Techno’s lives during a fight, but I had stepped in with a nicely timed arrow to his head, which made our enemy disappear into a cloud of smoke as his life was lost. Techno and I chugged some invisibility potion, courtesy of Phil, and hid around a building to watch everyone fight off the withers while we healed ourselves.

“What’s taking him so long? We’ve been at it for—” Techno glanced at his watch, “—thirty minutes! And here I thought Dream was all about punctuality,” my friend griped, taking a bite out of an apple.

“I’m not surprised. Of course he would choose today to take his sweet time,” I assessed, thumping my head against the brick building. “He’s probably going over his plans to sacrifice us next as we speak.”

“We are not getting sacrificed.”

“You never know,” I hummed. “It’s not a bad thing to be cautious, is it?”

Techno snorted. “Well, I suppose not. We’ve survived this long, though, so I have a good feeling about this.”

I nodded, peering in the direction of my friend. We couldn’t see each other due to the potion, but if I focused hard enough, I could catch a shift in the light that alerted me of his position. I felt a sudden urgency within me—some calling to spill my fears, inky and black, before I choked. “I need you to do me a favor,” I blurted.

I watched the light shift and turn. “What? What’s going on?” Techno wondered.

“If something happens to me, if I lose my last life,” I began in a serious tone, “don’t look back.”

“I… don’t understand. What are you saying? You won’t—”

“Techno, if I die, you carry straight through with the plan. Don’t come for my things, don’t try to help me, just go. Please. Can you promise me that?”

The light shimmered slowly, hesitantly. “Of course you choose now to drop that on me,” Techno muttered bitterly, but I could hear the underlying hurt. “I can never say no to you, though, can I?”

“It is your best trait,” I joked, though there was a heaviness in my voice.

The shift in the light leaned back as Techno sighed. “Alright, fine. It won’t come to that, but I’ll do it. I promise.”

“Thank you. For everything,” I confessed, stressing the importance of all that he’s done for me in my reply.

Before Techno could reply, a resounding boom went off nearby. Dirt and debris flew past us as plumes of gray smoke shrouded our sight. Between the clouds of smoke, I could see a flash of bright green and a bone-white mask.

“He’s here,” Techno mumbled next to me. “Let’s get moving.”

The pair of us sprinted across the land, dodging at the sight of explosives and attacking enemies under the guise of our invisibility. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dream dropping TNT from the tops of buildings and hurling them at every patch of land in his vicinity. By the time he was finished, I knew there would be nothing left.

The invisibility began to wear off shortly after that, and I watched as Techno’s vibrant red cape began to fade back into view. I followed my friend from a short distance until I realized that Dream was completely distracted in his efforts to destroy the nation. As Techno veered down one path, I caught him by the arm. “I’m heading the other way,” I said.

Techno immediately began to protest. “No, you’re not. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You were the one worried about losing your last life, and now you’re trying to split? We have to stick together.”

“I’ll be quick. You won’t even know I’m gone,” I reasoned, already turning to leave. “I promise I’ll be back.”

Techno frowned, but eventually his shoulders became less tense as he reluctantly decided to let me go. I gave him a nod of thanks before hurrying off to a building that hadn’t yet been destroyed. Fortunately for me, the citizens seemed to have cleared out, so no one was there to intervene as I leapt over crumbling buildings and the charred remains of the nation. My heart raced in my chest and I clutched my bow tightly in my hand. It would all be over soon enough, I thought, and I would be the one to end it all.

I reached a building that hadn’t been completely damaged from the TNT and scaled the wall. My fingers were wedged into the grooves of the brick until I reached the ledge at the very top, tugging myself up and throwing my legs over the side. I huffed and looked up to watch Dream, practically gliding on air as he hurled explosives at the ground without remorse. I squinted and realized through the haze of smoke and ash that he had nearly hit bedrock, yet he continued to demolish the same area of land. It was like he wanted to blow a hole straight through the ground, so deep that he’d be able to see the other side.

I shook away the nervous shudder that ran down my spine and instead raised my bow to aim while Dream was distracted. I glared at the back of his head and lined my sight to him, the familiarity of the motion sending a sort of ease through my tense muscles.

It was an easy shot. I could do it.

I drew a deep breath and held it while I drew my arrow back, pulling the string taut. With a slow sigh, I released.

My arrow soared above the destruction, seeming to transcend the rules of time and space. The light made the metallic edge glimmer as though a star was shooting across the expanse of land, bright and beautiful and destructive all at once.

Dream was still turned away as the arrow launched towards him, and for a moment I felt sure that I had succeeded in my efforts. Right before the arrow was able to lodge itself in his head, though, Dream ducked, and the arrow flew past his head. He rose again to stand straight and turned slowly to face me, the blank eyed smile on his mask mocking me. My blood turned to ice in my veins and I frantically drew another arrow to fire, this time pointed at his heart.

Before I could release the arrow, Dream held up a stick of dynamite and pelted it right next to the building I stood on. It was close enough that I took damage and fell back as the earth shook around me. My head smacked against the roof and I groaned at the dizzy shock that sparked against my skull. I lay there, my head pounding, focused on the rumble that rattled my bones as I tried to regain my bearings.

By the time I had struggled onto my knees, Dream was hovering over me. I glared up at him for one silent moment before snatching my bow and striking his mask, which cracked and shattered to the ground. He stumbled back and I took my chance to load an arrow, but my head was still pounding, my coordination thrown off by the blow I had taken. Dream took advantage of my weakness and kicked the bow out of my hands, where it skidded across the roof and over the edge. I had made a feeble attempt to catch it before it tipped over, but I was too late.

Dream caught a fistful of my hair, yanking me backwards, and I growled, an animalistic sound that scratched my throat as I dragged my feet and struggled in his grasp. I kicked up dirt and clawed at the pale hands that trapped me, yelping when my captor shoved me to my knees. I must have looked ridiculous, like a child throwing a tantrum, as I thrashed and screamed to try and get away. “This is what happens to anyone who doesn’t follow my orders. You really thought you were smart enough to turn on me?” Dream laughed darkly, tightening his grip even as I scratched streaks of red into his skin. “You’re pathetic. I almost feel bad for you.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, attempting to jerk away, but Dream’s grip was unbreakable.

“I hope you’re not this rude to Technoblade. Where is he, by the way?” I struggled while Dream called out for my friend, who I watched sprint towards us between exploding buildings and smoke.

“Dream, what is this?” Techno heaved, meeting us on the building.

The man in question nodded his head towards me, a warrior bloodied and brought to my knees. “I think it’s about time I used that favor,” he said coldly.

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach, and I felt my body begin to numb with fear. If I wasn’t sure of it before, I was now; this was the end for me.

It was almost laughable, the irony of this situation; the promises to keep each other safe that I had made with my best friend—the only friend I had left—were tearing apart at the seams.

“Maybe you should rethink this before you do something you’ll regret, Dream,” Techno threatened.

“Oh, I won’t be regretting anything. But you might.” Dream gestured with his free hand towards the bundle of fireworks in Techno’s hand. “Kill them.”

The situation was eerily similar to another from so long ago in this very nation—when Techno was ordered by Schlatt to kill Tubbo. I could see the realization in his eyes, the acknowledgment of the parallels, the regret and anger and so much fear. I had never seen him so scared, but he remained stubborn. “I won’t do that,” he replied.

Dream’s grip tightened as he jerked my head forward for emphasis. “Listen, Technoblade, you’re going to kill your little friend here because you owe it to me. If you choose not to, I’ll just take them for myself so I can do it instead. You probably wouldn’t want that, though—I won’t be so kind. Oh, and don’t even think about trying to kill me instead. One of you was already stupid enough to try.”

“This isn’t what I meant when I said I’d do you a favor.”

“Isn’t it, though? Look around, Techno. The only reason this is happening right now is because Tommy betrayed you. He could have chosen you, he could have stayed on your side, but he didn’t. This is the consequence, right? And this—,” I yelped as Dream snatched me and held me up as evidence, “—is what happens when I’m betrayed. You all agreed to help me, and now my trust is broken. So pick up a fucking weapon and do me a favor.”

My friend stood frozen as he tried to calculate some way out of this, but I knew I had ruined any chances of a better life for us. It was my actions that were about to get me killed, by the only person who ever truly loved me, nonetheless.

“Do it,” I told Techno. “Please, just get it over with.”

Technoblade looked down at me, his eyes full of hurt as his brows furrowed. “No. You’re crazy, why would I do that? I made you a promise—”

“So did I. But there’s nothing else to do. I fucked it up, so I’m asking you to do this. Not for him, for me,” I pleaded, painfully aware of the grip Dream had on my hair. “I’d rather it be you. No one but you.”

I watched as Techno’s face contorted into a woeful expression. The guilt was bubbling over in the pit of my stomach, an all-consuming feeling that made me sick with sorrow for what I was asking him to do. We were one and the same, him and I, a pair of lonely people made better with the other around. I would miss him and, even if he never chose to admit it, I knew he would miss me too. I could only hope that my absence wouldn’t destroy him.

Slowly, Techno raised the firework launcher as he pointed it at my head. “You know, I always had a soft spot for you.”

My smile was regretful and watery; I prayed that he could hear my apologies without having to speak them out loud. I prayed even more that he could hear my unspoken words of gratitude, the unfinished symphony that was our friendship. “You’re the only person who ever knew me.”

Behind me, Dream groaned in annoyance. “Shut up with the monologues and get it over with,” he griped. With a harsh shove, the tip of the fireworks were pressed against my forehead. I bit my tongue, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as I tried not to seem too meager in my final moments. Dream dropped me to my knees as he escaped the line of fire, now peering over Techno’s shoulder in waiting. I watched my friend’s hands shake, the light tremble of his finger as it hovered over the trigger. I wanted to give him some sort of reassurance, but how could I? How do you ease the heart of someone forced to kill their friend?

With a shaky, mournful sigh, Techno looked down on me, his knuckles white as he gripped the weapon. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I squeezed my eyes shut with tears running hot over my cheeks, trying to recall a better picture in my mind. I thought of when I first met Techno, brainwashed and broken, a person slowly made whole again. I thought of the softness in his eyes even as he yelled at me over some mistake I had made. I thought of the nights he spent hunched over his desk writing about anything until I threw a blanket at him and dragged him into his bed. I thought of the mornings we would wake up early on a day of traveling just to catch the sunrise. I could have seen it a thousand times, and still, nothing would have ever compared to him; no amount of wealth or glory could even come close to making me feel as elated as he did. Techno was, without a doubt in my mind, my soulmate. The universe decided that for us; the sun and the moon and every star in the sky chose to bind us together, and what reason did I have to refuse it?

My heart ached, jumping as the click of the trigger sounded. There was a bright flash, a pop, an explosion of color and sound—

Then nothing at all.

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saturdaysky · 3 years

Note

Time-traveling Caleb meets Essek as a child please.

(from the ask me about my WIP meme)

This WIP was one of the first things I wrote when I decided I wanted to learn to write late last year!

It began as a snippet I was writing for a prompt in the big Essek discord, something along the lines of “kid Essek proposes marriage to Caleb” -- pretty fluffy, lighthearted, and cute. Naturally this meant I plotted something bittersweet about love and the grief for selves who never were and whom we no longer have a chance to be.

The premise: Sometime in the future, Essek and Caleb are together and have developed a spell that allows temporary travel to a decayed or decaying timeline. Caleb uses it and accidentally winds up much further back in time than intended, where he meets Essek as a child. Young Essek is lonely and hides Caleb on the Thelyss estates for a week or so while Caleb rides out the spell. From there, it’s a character study as Caleb gets to know Essek in his early life.

I don’t know if I’ll finish this one. Reading through it, if I returned to it I’d want to rewrite most of it since I understand writing and these characters a little better now. So who knows! Have part of 2 scenes. :)

Scene: One hour before the spell ends and the timeline decays for good

At the sound of Caleb’s footsteps in the courtyard, Essek turns slowly to face him, posture exactingly correct in a way that speaks of both practice and nerves. He inclines his head and folds his hands in formal greeting, the grace of the gesture falling a little awkwardly on his small frame.

“Master Widogast,” he begins, and then stops. Takes a shallow breath. “I know you are to depart today. I- I wished to speak with you before you are gone.”

His tone reaches for the chilly gravitas of his mother, but a muddled panic lurks around the edges of his words. Caleb returns the formal greeting, but lets his lips curve into a friendly smile. “I am here to listen. What would you ask of me?”

The lines of Essek’s shoulders ease a fraction. He drifts over, ignoring the whorls of the tiled labyrinth below in favor of making a line straight to Caleb. He stops a foot and a half away, as close as etiquette allows, and fidgets, one hand twisting the edge of a sleeve.

“I...there is a parting gift I wished to give you.” Essek’s small fingers shake a little as he draws the line to open his wristpocket. The spell takes and he lets out a satisfied hum as a small black codex tumbles into his hands.

“I made this,” he says, pride suffusing his voice. His courteous smile brightens into unguarded excitement, before fading into something small and hesitant. “It is for you. I know you are going far away somewhere, so...so in case you need to study the floating spell I taught you, I thought you might wish for reference.”

He thrusts the book up at Caleb. “Do not show anyone. Ah, Verin said I should not have told you things at all and I could get in trouble, so maybe keep it secret.”

Caleb turns the object over in his hands. It’s a small booklet of notes on dunamancy, written in a child’s scrawl. Essek has written out the directions for the cantrip that lets him float, each step of the spell thoroughly but ineptly diagrammed. Here and there in the margins are poorly-drawn creatures it takes Caleb a moment to realize are cats.

No, Caleb realizes, not cats: cat. All of them are Frumpkin, and all of them have been drawn with the earnest appreciation of a young boy who has seen exactly one cat in his entire life and is making up for lost time.

Caleb traces a finger over the drawings, despair catching at his throat. He wants nothing more than to gather this desperately lonely child into his arms and shield him from the future that will turn him jaded and cruel, that will rip out this tender heart and replace it with callous intent.

But he can’t. He can’t save this Essek. This young echo will be gone forever in an hour. Caleb swallows the lump in his throat.

“You are very kind, Master Thelyss,” he says a little hoarsely. “It was an honor to be your student.”

Scene: Caleb returns from the spell

“Welcome back.” Essek’s silhouette is bent over the desk in front of him as he scratches out notes on a large piece of vellum, but he straightens and glances in Caleb’s direction. His sleeves are rolled up and there is a bit of ink smudged on his nose Caleb is sure he doesn’t know is there.

“Hallo,” Caleb says, meeting Essek’s eyes. They are worried and lovely, and a little tired.

Essek scans Caleb’s body, as if checking to make sure he has all the same appendages he left with. Satisfied, he lets a lopsided smile curl over his face.

“Hallo,” he replies. “That was longer than expected. Did you find the information you were looking for?”

“I did, eventually.”

Essek's eyes narrow, gaze assessing. He sets the pen down on the desk, and turns to fully face Caleb. “But…?”

There is no point in hiding it. “The spell took me back further than intended. I also met you there. As a child.” Shock briefly paints itself on Essek’s face.

“Ah. Unexpected, I- Well,” he says, slim, dark fingers twisting over themselves once before falling still, “I’m sure that was an enlightening experience.” Essek’s voice is light and carefully neutral. By degrees, his smile evens out, grows soft and pleasant. Opaque. Untouchable.

It is the last thing Caleb wants to see right now.

He crosses the floor and Essek looks up at him, eyes shuttered. Caleb cups his face and guides him into a kiss, soft at first, merely comforting himself with Essek’s presence. Essek leans into it. Comfort for the two of them, maybe.

Caleb is good at kissing, and over the last decade, he’s made a dedicated effort to be good at kissing Essek, specifically. He nips at a lower lip and deepens the kiss, drawing a decidedly unchaste noise from Essek. It soothes something in Caleb to hear it, this spark of passion beneath the mask. After a moment, fingers curl into Caleb’s shirt.

Caleb pulls back and whispers into Essek’s ear, pleased to feel him shiver in response. “You were quite the, ah, charmer. You offered your hand in marriage. Scandalous.”

Essek lets out an undignified little snort that charms Caleb to his bones. “I should think I have made my desire for you quite clear in the present. Do not try to play me against my child self, Widogast.” As if to emphasize the point, his fingers slide from Caleb’s chest, over his sides, and onto his back with deliberate slowness. Caleb doesn’t even try to repress his own shiver, and he can feel the resulting smugness radiating from Essek.

“You also taught me to float. You were a very enthusiastic teacher.”

“Did I?” Amusement drips from Essek’s voice. “It is handy for you that you figured that one out yourself years ago.” Over Essek’s shoulder, Caleb can see the notes and diagrams he’s working on. All letters and lines are crisp and precise; not a single wasted mark. There is no hint of embellishment here, Caleb sees. There are no more earnest drawings.

He buries his face in the crook where Essek’s neck meets his shoulder, taking in the comforting, familiar scent of him. Essek shifts to allow him better access, and Caleb breathes him in, letting grief settle in his chest.

After a moment, Essek’s fingers begin to trace lightly across his back, drawing comforting and repetitive patterns. Spell runes, Caleb realizes, and closes his eyes.

You were an earnest child, he does not say, and so achingly desperate for connection that you hid a strange mage in your house and taught him your favorite spell. He does not say, you were kind and you still had hope when you were young. You still talked to your brother. You loved magic like a friend, and no blood stained your hands for it.

Essek knows. Essek does not welcome pity, and Caleb cannot blame him for it. Caleb does not welcome it either.

#asks #my writing #sky learns to write 2k21 #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #shadowgast #catalists #the cool thing about being pretty new at this whole writing business is that you can look back at stuff you wrote and see how much better #you understand what you're doing now than you did then! even if there's certainly still a far distance to go i'm new enough that each step #feels like a big one :)

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highqueenofelfhame · 3 years

Text

fafs, twenty four

so i was definitely going to wait to post this until tomorrow or the day after but then decided to say fuck it and in the spirit of rowaelin month am just giving it to you now, whatever. who needs rules. or regulations. not me.

follow @highqueenofelfhamewrites and turn on post notifs to receive updates (i don't do taglists anymore, sorry folks!) masterlist//support me with a ko-fi//redbubble

It was nowhere near the worst injury she’d ever had, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.

The living room floor of one of her smaller sanctuaries had been turned into a makeshift operating room. A trash bag was laid out beneath her, rustling with every move she made. The first aid kit that had been untouched and hidden under the kitchen sink was open with all its pieces scattered around her. A brand new bottle of vodka sat to her right, several shots worth already buzzing through her veins. It would take at least one more swig before she got started, but it was already difficult to slide the thread into the needle, so she was holding off until she was just about ready to begin.

Gods damn the agent that shot her. Aelin would bet money that it was Remelle, the blonde bitch that had been pawing at Rowan for years. Before, when she was Lilian, she’d heard a wide array of stories about the woman and her unwanted advances. Ever since Aelin had been introduced to the FBI as a criminal informant, she had shot daggers at her in every meeting, likely angry Aelin was spending so much time with Rowan. Despite how much of that time was angry banter from Rowan, no matter if Aelin was trying to thaw out his icy inner and exterior.

None of that mattered now. She could have Rowan if she really wanted him. Maybe they were already together and--

Aelin stopped those thoughts in their tracks, eyes focusing on the task at hand. There were bigger things to worry about, like getting out of the city and, most importantly, the bleeding wound on her thigh. She chewed on her lip until the thread finally made it into the curved needle, and she held back a cheer as she sloshed some vodka over the wound on her thigh. Hissing through her teeth, she thanked the gods that it wasn’t any worse.

It wasn’t even that bad, considering everything else she’d experienced. There was the time Arobynn had stabbed a dagger through her palm, and she’d had to stitch up the injury herself. She wasn’t sure how many times she’d been sliced and jabbed in training. Her list of broken bones and scars was a long one. Once she got older and was better at her job than all of the men combined, training had become more of a game of survival. They had been out for blood, shedding hers in red tears on the floor until she managed to incapacitate them enough to claim the victory for herself.

This gunshot wound was minor. It hadn’t nicked anything major, and it had taken a while for Aelin to realize she’d even been shot. The adrenaline from running from the full force of the FBI had been enough to repel the pain until she was nearly to her safehouse. She was four blocks away when she realized her pace was slowing and that there was a sharp, hot pain throbbing in her left thigh. A glance down told her everything she needed to know. She had limped straight through the front door and to the first aid kit, where she now prepared to stitch her own leg up.

At one point, there had been a numbing agent in this bag, but she remembered using it on Sam after a nasty fight with Arobynn one night when she was twenty-one. Since then, she’d seldom been to this safehouse and had neglected to restock her kit. There was barely enough of the nylon thread left over, but she would manage. Aelin made a mental note to have someone, either Nox or herself, replenish the missing items.

With a deep breath and a final swig of vodka, she picked up the forceps and shimmied the tension from her shoulders while she hunched over her leg, ready to begin.

With the first stick and the drag of the thread through her skin, Aelin bit her lip so hard she drew blood. It was a bizarre and uncomfortable feeling accompanied by a slight burning sensation. Several times she groaned while she sewed her skin back together. By the time she was finished, her mouth tasted metallic, and the trash bag beneath her was covered in droplets of blood. Her bare thigh looked grim and would leave behind a jagged, ugly scar, but she doused it once more in vodka before wiping away the blood with a damp piece of gauze. Her hands were mostly steady while she placed a bandage over the top and taped it down.

It was just another painful memory that would soon fade to silvery skin. How many more would it take until she was free?

Shaking her head to pull her from any thoughts too negative to deal with right now, Aelin smiled a bit. She was almost pleased with herself for handling the entire situation so well, but the reality of the situation was soon to crash down on her. It didn’t take long for her to get up, going about the tiny house and jerking all the curtains closed. Hardly any natural light was able to filter in through the gaps in the curtains for how tightly she’d twisted at the blinds until they were sealed completely shut. Thumbtacks were shoved into the walls to keep anyone curious from peering inside. She would move to another place in a day or two, she promised herself, after she had time to dye her hair and her wound wasn’t so fresh.

Every lock on every door was twisted into place-- seven locks on both the front and back doors. Only two of those locks could be opened with a key from the outside. The other five were inside only, a variation of deadbolts and chain locks that made her feel secure.

Only when she was satisfied that she was as safe for the time being did she go to the single bedroom and lock the door behind her. In a handful of heartbeats, she collapsed on the old quilt and drifted into a fitful sleep.

~*~

The news that it would take weeks, maybe months, of physical therapy to have his shoulder back to one-hundred percent was irritating to say the least. Rowan would be out of work for a while, but that wasn’t the most frustrating part of the situation. He would be wearing the restrictive sling for weeks, only to take it off when he changed clothes or showered. They didn’t even allow him to take it off to sleep, for gods’ sake. Rowan would be sleeping sitting up for the foreseeable future, and he was fucking annoyed about it.

The last few nights sleeping in the hospital had been anything but fruitful. Not only was he woken by the nurses coming in to check on him every few hours, every single time he tried to adjust to a more comfortable position, he was reminded of the sling. The pain was nearly suffocating. Rowan had heard from Fenrys about how bad shoulder injuries were, but this was on another level of anything he had ever experienced.

So why he was standing in the abandoned apartment of the woman who had shot the bullet through it in the first place was beyond him at the moment.

It wasn’t the apartment littered with cameras and paid for by the bureau. It was the one she’d lived in privately before her beating and arrest. It was the one decorated with opulence and taste. With artwork that wouldn’t surprise Rowan to find it had been stolen and was priceless. The one with books stacking shelves every which way, those novels bookmarked and annotated, as he had just learned. Like she loved them so much, she couldn’t help but document her favorite and least favorite parts.

The linens closet was filled with the softest blankets and nicest sheets Rowan had ever felt in his life. Silk sheets were currently stretched over the mattress in her bedroom, a thing that Rowan had thought she’d quipped as a joke once.

“Sorry, the sheets aren’t Egyptian cotton for whatever the hell you’re used to,” he’d said, a bite in his tone as he showed her the dump of an apartment the bureau had decided on for her.

“Silk,” she winked. “Feels good against my skin when I sleep naked.”

It hadn’t been a joke. He ran his fingers over the fabric and almost smiled at the memory but forced his lips into a frown instead. As he looked around the room, the nearly ostentatious yet somehow tasteful room, he missed her. He hated himself for it, but he missed her. The woman had shot him through the shoulder, but the pain in his heart was somehow worse. His first thought when he woke in the hospital from surgery had been about if they’d found her and she was safe, gods above. Everything about himself was secondary, and he didn’t really care.

But they hadn’t found her. There was no trace of her after her anklet was cut. Nobody had seen her; traffic cams had stopped picking her up like she had just… vanished. He hated that she was so good at her job, so good at being a criminal.

Deep down, Rowan knew that wasn’t what bothered him. It never really had. There wasn’t a part of her soul that he had seen and didn’t understand or want to love. Nothing she had ever done had pushed him away in the slightest. Her honesty about her life and the vulnerability she had shown him only made him respect and love her more.

He wasn’t mad that she shot him. Was he annoyed that he couldn’t use his arm? Of course. But he understood. Rowan understood that she felt backed into a corner and betrayed, and she went into fight or flight mode. In this case, it had been fight and flight. He had stepped too close and got shot in return. It was fair. She was used to fighting her way out of situations, so of course, it was the route she’d taken.

He just wanted her to slip up for once so he could just find her and talk to her. Figure out whatever the hell was going on when they’d argued before she shot him, then disappeared in the middle of the day in a bustling city. Rowan wasn’t even mad that she hadn’t been caught. In fact, he was glad they hadn’t caught her.

Rowan didn’t want her to be found. The full force of the FBI would rain down on her like a hurricane and she would be shown no mercy. There wasn’t a single part of him that wanted her suffering in an interrogation room, throwing around the word allegedly like she used to throw daggers. For her to be thrown back in that dismal jail cell awaiting a death sentence that almost assuredly awaited her for what happened at the bureau.

But he was still frustrated as all hell that he couldn’t find her now, no matter how much he didn’t want her rotting in prison on the outskirts of the city.

It was while he stood with his fingers running over the silk of her sheets that he heard the jingling of keys at her front door. It was surprising, considering he’d had to pick several locks to get up here in the first place. Rowan flattened his body against the bedroom wall, listening to the front door open and close.

The footsteps that followed weren’t Aelin’s, though. They were a little louder, carrying a larger and heavier body. Rowan moved to stand in the doorway, startling the man in the center of the room. He dropped the bag he was carrying, swearing loudly as he bent to pick it back up.

“Gods above, Suit,” he murmured, dropping the bag on the kitchen counter. “What are you doing here? Getting something for Celaena?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Rowan inquired, noting that the bag he carried contained nothing of real importance. If anything, it looked like a combination of garden tools and art supplies.

“I think I stashed something here if we’re being candid and off the record, which I would very much appreciate if we were, by the way. I’ve come to collect.” Haversham -- Rowan still didn’t know the man’s real name -- began digging around Aelin’s bookshelves, looking behind and even inside some of her books that turned out not to be books at all. They looked like books, but when opened in the middle were hidden pockets. Some were empty; some weren’t. Rowan noticed a few that had different bits of identification tucked away. None of that seemed to be what Haversham looked for as he simply closed them and put them back on the shelves.

“Where is she?” Rowan finally asked, a little boldly.

“Can’t you check that fancy anklet you have her wearing and figure it out? I haven’t seen her in a week. She isn’t calling me back, either, so when you do see her, can you tell her that I…” The man trailed off after looking up from his search and seeing Rowan’s face. Rowan’s hard, unyielding face and the concern that was likely etched in his features. The wrinkle between his brow, the stiff way he held his lips. Haversham’s head tilted curiously.

“Holy gods, did she make a run for it?”

“Something happened at the bureau. I can’t find her. Neither can they. But I need to talk to her. I can’t help her otherwise.”

“Do you want to help her?” The sound that came from Rowan was nearly a growl, and Haversham retreated a step with his hands raised defensively. “Look, I’m just saying. She wouldn’t make a run for it unless it was something serious and you’re incapacitated at the moment. Which leads me to believe that she did it; otherwise, you wouldn’t be hurt at all. Celaena wouldn’t let somebody hurt you. So either you really fucked up--”

“I did, but only by not protecting her and defending her when it mattered.”

Haversham twisted his mouth to the side while he gave Rowan a hard once-over. It was like he was assessing everything he knew about his character while deciding if he would help him or not. There was a prolonged silence that made Rowan want to throw something at the man, but he waited it out.

“I’m only going to help you because you make her happy. And I don’t mean superficially. I mean that for the first time in the eight years I’ve known her, she’s been happier and more alive than I’ve ever seen her. I know she trusted you more than she’s ever trusted anyone else. More than me, which doesn’t say much considering I think she trusts me as far as she can throw me. But she trusts you more than Sam even.” Finally, he ripped a page from one of the books and began to scrawl across the page until it was nearly full. When he handed it to Rowan, he realized it was a collection of addresses. Some were in the city; some were in other countries. Some were a handful of hours of a drive into nowhere. One was practically around the corner from where they were now.

“What is this?”

“Safehouses. Those are the ones I know about. Celaena has… a lot of secrets. I don’t know even half of them. I have my suspicions about a lot of shit, but I’m letting her come to me with it when she’s ready. So I don’t know all of her safehouses, but I know those ones. Those are the ones she’s let me use in times of trouble. That’s the only help I can really offer you besides calling if I hear from her.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said softly, and he meant it. It was the biggest and only lead that he had on her whereabouts, and even if she wasn’t crashing on a bed in any of these places, it was a start. It was the only hope he had so far that maybe, just maybe… he might find her.

~*~

Rowan had decided to start on the outside and work his way in, and it was wasting a lot of time. Everyone he was friendly with at the bureau was constantly calling and texting to see how he was doing, asking what he was up to. Fenrys told him he’d stopped by his apartment a few times this week, and he hadn’t been home. Rowan replied, saying he was just taking some time to himself, which seemed to satisfy the man, and that had been that.

In reality, Rowan had been in Terrasen trying to find Aelin. She wasn’t in either of the two listed near the border of Adarlan, so now he was slowly working his way back toward Rifthold. It just didn’t seem likely for her to be hiding somewhere in the city, not when she would have to leave for food and other necessities at some point. So he’d gone as far out as he could before making his way back. So far, it had turned up nothing. Both of the cabins he’d visited in the woods had seen better days and likely hadn’t seen Aelin in years.

He was driving toward his fourth destination now, so deep in Oakwald, he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t back in Terrasen at this point. The location pinged on the Adarlanian side of the border, but he had little hope of actually finding her. There were only two safehouses left on the list, and both of them were in the city itself. Would he still check them? Of course. But did he think that she was stupid enough to be there? Absolutely not.

The energy of the place was different as soon as he made it up the drive. Halfway up, a gate that covered the driveway, and Rowan had to abandon his car and hop the fence. It was a bit of a feat, as it was taller than him, and he only had one good arm to use, but he managed. Even if it had taken him three times as long as it usually would have. Feet pounding down against the dirt so hard it caused a small cloud, he proceeded up toward the small cottage with a little more confidence than he’d had the rest of the drive.

Smoke was wafting from the chimney, and a dim glow flickered in the window. The window that a lithe body stood in, peering through the curtains and backlit by the fire. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew it was Aelin, knew he’d been spotted, and knew she was watching. How she had known he’d arrived, he wasn’t sure. Being overcautious her entire life likely meant that there were tripwires that alerted her of his presence somewhere on the driveway.

As he got closer, she disappeared, and the curtains slipped back into place. When he got to the door, he reached out but hesitated for a moment. Aelin clearly didn’t want to be found and was clearly mad at him. What if she did worse than she had the last time they’d seen each other? Part of him thought she wouldn’t, but he hadn’t ever thought she would shoot him, either. Rowan wasn’t sure how many times she had told him she hated guns, but desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.

It took more courage than he cared to admit to turn the knob. Much to his surprise, the door opened, and he slipped inside, shutting it behind him quietly. To be frank, Rowan couldn’t believe his luck. He couldn’t believe he’d managed to find her at all, much less on a list of places that Haversham managed to remember.

As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw Aelin sitting across the room with a bottle of rum in one hand, balanced on her thigh. She was slumped down a bit in the chair; her hair dyed a muddy reddish-brown color. A dagger was in her other hand, being twisted in circles against her bare leg. Rowan wanted to tell her to stop, that she would hurt herself, but faster than he could register, she was moving. He was stunned further into silence by the whistling of the wind and the slight breeze by his ear. A loud thud had him whipping around to the door.

Embedded in the wood, millimeters from where his head had just been, was the dagger she’d been holding, and when he looked back at Aelin, she was smirking.

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