#enigmatic complaints

[giddyfatherchris]

📱skz texts — how they react/comfort you (when you’re going through a rough patch with a friend)

| including. felix, han, hyunjin

warnings. none!

a/n. who am i 😮 posting two days in a row??😮 hehe sorry it took so long for the second batch to come! bang chan and lee know will be next<3 hope you enjoy babies xx tagging my sweet bubs @httpdwaekki as promised hope they measure up to your expectations 🙈

a/n. also i know these are ‘out of order’ but… whatever:)

changbin, seungmin & i.n

bang chan & lee know

Felix

He was just about to get into the car when he got your text.

He hefted up the last bags in before he smiled, knowing only from your words that you would be so happy with the surprise he had prepared for you. As he drove to your school, he reminisced on the last few weeks. 

His knuckles turned white from gripping the steering wheel as he remembered the first night you had arrived at the studio, crying. Your cheeks were red, and you looked so disoriented. You explained in between sobs that you fought with one of your best friends. School was easy for you, you had to put in your fair amount of work, but it did come to you easier than for other people, aka them. They let that jealousy grow and grow and had it become a nasty tumor hogging everything in its path. Until that one night when they held your success up against you, and it all exploded, leaving nothing in its wake. 

He tried calming you down, but it was one of those moments in his life when he felt the most unhelpful, helpless, and worried. You seemed to be reassured by his touch, but your breathing was still labored, a constant stream of tears flowing down your cheeks. He held you closer, thanking the universe he had been alone practicing, but he knew even if the whole group had been there, he would have let everything down to be there for you. 

Releasing his grip, he breathed through the memories and hung to the truth that it was now over. Yes, you still had to see that person from time to time in school, and they were still being incredibly pissy, but you no longer were hurt by their behavior and attempts at screwing you. Thanks to many, many nights spent with Felix, you talked everything through, and he helped you process the situation. He was so proud of the way you handled things, and since it had been a while since you two had the opportunity to have a special date he impulsively decided to organize this getaway. He smiled as he pulled to the curb, noticing your confused smile.

"Hey you, isn't tonight a recording night?"

"Not for me. We're going away," he answered with an enigmatic smile. He nodded for you to get in, "It's a surprise. Yes, everything is arranged. Yes, your bags are packed, and yes, I'm totally free to go."

You narrowed your eyes as he answered all your questions without you having to ask them. "And, where are we going?"

"I'm afraid I can't reveal that information yet."

You rolled your eyes, secretly delighted. "Okay then, can I ask why?"

At that, he settled and grabbed your hand. "Because I'm proud of you. I know it hasn’t been easy for you lately, but you've handled everything so well and managed to get out of it stronger. There was not much I could do to help, but I can do this. I think you deserve this little getaway for all the hard work you've been putting in."

"Lix..." your gaze softened with his kind words.

"No complaints will be accepted at this moment. You just have to sit back, relax, and let me handle it, sounds good?" He brought your hand to his lips, softly kissing it while his eyes scanned your reaction. 

"Sounds very good." You smiled back.

He kissed your joined hands once more before putting the car in drive. 

You let a beat of silence pass before you tried again with a pleading tone. "You really won't tell me where we're going?" 

He laughed at your impatience. "No baby." 

A smile wouldn't leave his face as he imagined your reaction when you would pull up in the entryway of the little cottage he had booked near the sea. He could already picture your eyes growing in size and your excited screams when you would see the blue waves and sandy beach. Felix felt his heart strain under all the love he felt for you, as he promised himself to keep doing these little things for you forever.

Han

He already knew everything about the situation happening with one of your friends. Honestly, he had a hard time understanding why they were suddenly turning against you. But then again, he always had a bad feeling about them and never thought they treated you half as well as you deserved. 

Still, he hated seeing you so affected by it. He understood why, but he hated feeling so unhelpful. He listened when you needed to vent and tried supporting you as much as he could, but he always felt like it would never be enough. So, when you texted him before heading home from work, hinting at how hard today had been, guilt started gnawing at him.

You got home about 20 minutes later. He was already waiting for you at the door. As soon as he saw the tired look on your face, the dark circles slowly settling under your eyes, his heart ached, but before you could notice his sad puppy eyes, he masked them with his warmest smile.  

"Hey pretty, how are you?" Immediately he took your bag from your hands and helped you take off your coat before wrapping you in a hug.  

"Could be worse, but could be better too," you sighed. "They were extra petty today, I'm not sure how to deal with this anymore."

He pulled back to grab your face, staring at you lovingly as he did. You looked back at him, the sight of his plush cheeks and chestnut eyes already easing the pain in your chest. "But, I'll be okay. I just want to think of something else. If you're still up for it, a movie night would be amazing." 

His face lit up with a sweet smile as he kissed the tip of your nose. "You can head up for a quick shower. I already started the heater and laid down some clothes for you. I'm taking care of everything."

As soon as you disappeared in the corridor he started creating the perfect setup. He made sure to bring all your favorite blankets, pillows, and plushies on the couch. When he heard the shower start he was already preparing hot beverages for the both of you, along with a few of your favorite snacks. He proudly looked at the final result, dimming the lights to create the perfect cozy ambiance. Han would have done anything you would have asked of him tonight. Still, as he looked at his work, a proud smile illuminated his features. As outgoing as he was, he always liked when you said you would rather stay in with him than go out. 

Your soft steps on the floor snatched his attention away from his thoughts. Your hair was still wet from your shower, your face bare, and as planned, you wore the matching pajamas he had laid out for you. You were now both rocking an adorable fuzzy set. His heart tightened at the sight of you, looking so relaxed and cozy. 

"Since you said you didn't know what to watch, I made a little selection."

You snuggled up next to him, listening to his suggestions before adding one of your own. "While I was in the shower I was thinking we could watch one of our comfort movies. If you want to, of course."

"Sure, what were you thinking of?" he asked as he handed you the remote and placed his arm around your shoulders to pull your body closer to his. 

You quickly typed in the movie title, and he felt a smile tug at his lips as he read it. "Are you sure you want to watch Howl's Moving Castle again? I made you watch it just last week."

You nodded confidently, "It's the first movie we've ever watched together and it gives me the best comfy vibes. So if you're down for it...?"

He only pressed play in answer, made sure you were snug in your fort of blankets, kissed the side of your head as you settled against him and the familiar soundtrack started playing.

"I wish I could do more to help you with this whole thing. I hope this still lessens your burden, at least a little. I'm sorry I can't do more." He whispered a few seconds into the movie.

You turned back to look at him, his hair falling in soft curls. The worried expression on his face made you want to hug him as tight as you could. Maybe then you would be able to squeeze it out of his body.

"It's perfect. I couldn't ask for a better partner to go through all this. You do not have to apologize. It's all more than enough." you kissed his plump lips tenderly, "You will always be more than enough." You added before focusing on the movie again, not seeing the beautiful smile now visible on the young man’s face.

Hyunjin

He stared at you in disbelief as you dropped to the floor from extenuation and frustration. You had barely closed the door that you laid your head on the wall and closed your eyes. Your handbag hung limply from your hands, and your coast rustled and creased from the awkward position you were in. He knew what this was about as it wasn't the first night you had assumed that position. The first time you did, a few days ago, he had panicked, thinking you had lost consciousness or were sick. Even if it was nothing of the sort, his worry was still called for when silent tears streamed down your face. That's when you first explained what you were going through, that you had made new friends at your workplace only to discover they were associating with you to steal your ideas. Hyunjin remembers your smile and shining eyes when you first came from work telling him you had made new friends. When you discovered they stole your ideas and presented them to your boss first, that dream had cruelly shattered. You had fought back and proven the ideas were yours, but still, the situation at work was horrible as they had decided to make it hell for you as revenge. Hence the exhausted slide down the door every night.

He crouched next to you, a silent support. "I'm sorry, give me two more minutes, and then I promise to get up and get in my pajamas." You sighed heavily.

"Can I ask you a question?" he softly spoke. You looked up before nodding silently. "If the situation has been solved, if you still have your job, and if your boss is happy you spoke up about it. Why do you still feel like this? I'm not trying to judge or anything I promise. I'm only trying to understand." 

You thought about his question, analyzing his features, so soft and open. "It's just so- conflicting? In a way? I mean, I feel angry at them for doing this to me, but I also feel guilty for ratting them out, even if they deserved it. And I'm angry at myself for not seeing through their schemes. It's just a lot of contradictory feelings. Plus, it hurts... I really thought they liked me at first. It hurts to know they never did, it doesn't help all the little voices telling me I'm worth dirt. I don't know, I've just been stuck in this stupid loop for a week now... I'm not sure what to do to get out of it." 

Even if he wasn't touching you, Hyunjin's attentive stare felt just as intimate. You loved that about him, how present he always was. You knew his silence was no indicator of his level of care. He stared a second more before suggesting, "You know what, I don't think you should get changed. I think we should do something different tonight. What would you say to go out?"

"What are you thinking?" you cautiously asked.

"I'm thinking you need a change of scenery. I think we should go out, have a drink, go for a little exploring, or we could even go to the amusement park! I think changing it up could help you get out of this loop you say you feel stuck in."

You stared at him in silence, weighing in the pros and the cons, still a spark lit your gaze. He dropped his chin on his knees and stared at you with his attentive eyes. You knew if you said you didn't want to go he would support you, but you also knew Hyunjin had that innate sense sometimes where he knew exactly what you needed before you even did. 

"What do you say angel?" he finally asked, slowly reaching out to wrap his slender fingers around yours. 

You simply nodded a slow smile spreading on your lips. For the first time this week, you felt the familiar pang of excitement.

You settled on going to the amusement park as it had been the thing that sparked the most interest in you. Your skin prickled as you neared the gate, it felt so refreshing, so new. You were about to head in when you heard a few familiar voices calling your name. 

You turned around to see Bang Chan, Lee Know, Changbin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, and I.N approaching you, broad smiles on their faces. You weakly waved at them as you looked at your boyfriend, a proud smile already on his face.

"I thought you needed to be reminded just how appreciated and liked you are. I'm truly sorry it turned that way with those assholes, but please do not let it make you doubt your worth. You are surrounded by people who love you and think you are the most amazing human being. Me on top of that list." He leaned in to kiss your temple while he pulled you in for a quick hug and you felt your heart overflow with joy at the gesture he had pulled and the seven excited boys joining you.

You truly were blessed with the most amazing people.

#ilya texts fics #stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids texts #stray kids fluff #bang chan #lee know #changbin #hyunjin #han skz #felix skz #seungmin #i.n skz #felix x reader #han x reader #hyunjin x reader

[jamilelucato]

possibility - fred weasley (part 2)

pairing: fred weasley x slytherin!reader

(part 01 here) (more HP fics here!)

summary: being friends with (y/n) has become Fred's biggest challenge.

note: They are in their last year at Hogwarts, so, for purposes, they are 18; besides, the whole canon of the book (it would've been Order of the Phoenix) is mostly nonexistent here.

the reader: can be interpreted as someone with ADHD; she loves literature and she has no friends.

words: 5000+

Enjoy!

Ginny Weasley was a charm, even at the young age of fifteen. 

Being her older brothers around, Fred and George tried their best not to ignore her and make her feel welcomed and heard whenever needed. Most of the time, that was an easy task. But, now that she was getting older, it was harder to listen to her complaints.

“She had no right to say that to me!” she whined, angrily snorting. Her red hair moved with her face as she gestured. “She said it in front of Harry, for Godric’s sake!”

George immediately cast a sidelong glance at Fred. It was no secret that Ginny harboured a strong affection for Harry Potter; her infatuation was apparent to anyone with a Weasley surname, and it was common knowledge throughout Gryffindor House. Only Harry himself seemed oblivious to it. However, as Ginny grew older, her feelings seemed to intensify, and Fred frequently tuned her out, lost in his thoughts, while George assumed the role of counsellor. On that particular day, though, it appeared their roles had been reversed.

“Did he hear what she said?” George inquired gently, addressing his younger sister.

“I believe so,” Ginny responded, her voice lowering as she contemplated the encounter.

"Well, how did he react?" Fred leaned closer, although there was a table separating them from Ginny. The dinner table of Gryffindor was crowded with students, so leaning closer was needed for better hearing.

“He didn't,” Ginny replied, her tone a mixture of confusion and uncertainty. “He was with Hermione, and they were engrossed in their conversation. We exchanged glances, that's all.”

“Could it be possible he was simply aware of your presence and not actually listening to your conversation?” Fred suggested, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Ginny averted her gaze, reluctant to meet her older brother's eyes. “There's a chance,” she admitted, albeit reluctantly.

“So, he didn't really hear it," Fred remarked, leaning back slightly. “Potter’s a man. If he had heard something and something that involved his name, he would’ve reacted.”

George turned his head to face Fred. “All men, you reckon?”

“Absolutely,” Fred confirmed with a carefree shrug.

But George was out for blood.

“Let's say, for argument's sake, that (y/n) mentioned you. Would you turn to look and react?” George asked, instantly capturing Ginny's attention. She was well aware of (y/n), the enigmatic Slytherin who struggled to maintain friendships but seemed to have formed a unique bond with Fred.

“Sure,” Fred replied, not realising the mischief in his twin's eyes. “I mean, it depends on what she'd be saying about me.”

“Does it really matter?” Ginny chimed in.

“It doesn't,” George answered his sister, then returned to Fred. “But how would you respond to her?”

“She's my friend, Georgie,” Fred teased affectionately, using his twin's nickname. “I'd man up and approach her, saying something like ‘hey, what were you saying about me?’ and get it over with.”

“Get what over with?” Ginny prodded, leaning in closer to Fred.

“Probably turning that friendship into a relationship,” George answered instead of Fred. “I mean, if he were to really man up.”

Fred jabbed his twin with playful force, feeling irked by the insinuations.

“What's wrong with (y/n) and I just being friends?” Fred retorted defensively.

“Nothing,” George shrugged nonchalantly. “She's my friend, too,” he pointed out, “but I don’t dream in my sleep with her doing stuff to me in bed.”

This time, Fred slapped his twin's arm more forcefully. “I've never had a dream about her!”

Ginny burst into laughter, feeling fortunate to sit beside her brothers during this comical exchange.

“You've dreamt about (y/n)?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “What was she doing in your dream? Kissing?” Ginny lowered her voice, casting furtive glances around the room before adding, “Or something more?”

Fred tried to brush off Ginny's teasing with a dismissive wave of his hand despite the hints of a crimson blush creeping onto his freckled cheeks. He shook his head and muttered something about dreams and absurd fantasies.

Ginny and George exchanged a knowing look before George leaned closer to his twin. “Fred, I've known you my entire life, and I can read you like an open book,” he began in a hushed tone. “You're smitten with (y/n).”

Despite his attempts to appear composed, Fred couldn't help but squirm in his seat. “That's nonsense, George. She's just a friend, and I don't think of her that way.”

Ginny chimed in with a playful grin. “Oh, come on, Fred. We've all seen the way you look at her. It's like you're under some kind of love spell.”

Fred glanced around the bustling Great Hall, feeling the weight of the conversation. He had a reputation to uphold, which included being a mischievous troublemaker and a skilled prankster. The idea of admitting his feelings for (y/n) went against the grain of his carefree image. Besides whatever those “feelings” were, they were more complicated than he wanted to admit. 

Instead of confessing his feelings, Fred squared his shoulders and made a decision.

“(y/n), she’s a tough lass,” he started saying, “I'm not going to pursue her romantically. I don't want to complicate things for her.”

Ginny and George shared another look, this time tinged with surprise. Fred was known for his mischievous tendencies but rarely showed such maturity and thoughtfulness.

“What are you going to do, then?” Ginny asked, intrigued by her older brother's newfound wisdom.

Fred flashed a determined smile. “I want to show her she can have genuine friendships, so that’s what I’ll be for her, no matter what.”

Ginny exchanged a glance with George, both impressed and proud of the transformation they had witnessed in their older brother.

“That’s actually… very nice of you, brother,” Ginny said, choked with herself for ever uttering those words.

“Thank you,” Fred shook his head down.

It was a well-known fact that (y/n) struggled to form connections with her peers. While she often blended into the background amidst bustling classrooms and boisterous mealtimes, those who paid attention could discern that, in the end, (y/n) was very much alone. Fred just hoped she wasn’t lonely, too.

And if she was (and, let’s face it, if he were to bet, that would be his horse), he would be her friendly shoulder. Perhaps with his initiative, she would open up to have other friends. But that would sadly mean he should suppress those dangerous feelings (and dreams) about her. He understood that showing romantic interest might deter her from nurturing other friendships or, worse, create an unhealthy dependency on him.

While many boys at Hogwarts might desire such unwavering devotion, Fred cherished his freedom and wanted the same for (y/n). He believed that, given the chance, she too could revel in the joy of genuine friendships.

She could feel his penetrating gaze like a warm breeze brushing the back of her neck. It was a peculiar sensation. Since she had unofficially accepted the title of “Fred Weasley's friend,” (y/n) had begun experiencing inexplicable emotions regarding him.

Sensing his eyes on her was just one of her peculiar talents. Her personal favourite was her knack for anticipating pranks by the twins; her gaze would instinctively find its way to the impending victim.

Leaving her Slytherin common room, she hadn't expected to encounter Fred. However, when she turned around, hoping to spot him, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Odd,” she thought, clutching her book closer to her chest. It wasn't a hefty tome; it was, in fact, a notebook where she jotted down ideas and penned the initial versions of scenes that might one day become her debut novel.

While the underwater ambience of the Slytherin common room often served as a wellspring of inspiration, that day seemed to be an exception. Hence, (y/n) had decided to grab her notebook and her trusty pen (yes, a pen; she staunchly refused to compose her muggle-inspired stories with a quill and inkwell) and head to the Quidditch pitch in search of inspiration.

During free periods or after classes, Quidditch practices were almost always happening. (y/n) hoped to find an eager and spirited team on the field to keep her writing juices flowing.

She dared to look around again before abandoning the idea that Fred Weasley was following her. So, confirming the absence of red hair, she resumed her pace.

To her relief, the Quidditch pitch was packed with a team of blue shirts. Ravenclaws weren't known for their blood on the field, not as much as Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs, but they would suffice. (y/n) selected a spot in the bleachers, tucked away in a corner high enough to observe everything but hidden from the spotlight. A few people were around, mostly students, but not in uniform, so she couldn't tell if they were opponents watching the Ravenclaws train or just supportive friends.

As she settled in, she opened her notebook, placing it on her lap, ready to transcribe the imaginary world blossoming in her mind. The words flowed effortlessly from her pen, her gaze seldom shifting from the training session. The sounds of players in action served as the ideal backdrop to her writing.

Without her realising it, the scene had shifted from focusing on battle, blows and gushing blood to an intimate moment between nameless protagonists. (y/n) had yet to fully develop their backstory, but they always made their presence known when she ventured into the realm of fairies: a tall, strong lad and a quick-witted young lady.

In the scene she was crafting, they bid each other farewell before venturing into an ongoing battle. Although their words hinted at sadness, they teased one another playfully, creating a certain ambivalence that (y/n) found challenging to convey.

She had just finished writing down the boy's response when a voice behind her remarked, “I'd change that. No battle-hardened lad would utter something so… girlish.”

(y/n) didn't even flinch. She had sensed Fred Weasley's presence earlier, and his sudden appearance was merely confirmation that she wasn't descending into madness or becoming paranoid. She felt a flicker of annoyance at the idea that he had been peeking at her notes, but with no Time-Turner to reverse the situation, she decided to take his opinion on board. Fred's perspective on how a boy would speak could enrich her literary endeavour.

“Hello, Weasley," she greeted him, her eyes on him as he gracefully hopped from the seat behind her to the vacant one beside her.

Fred, however, didn't offer a greeting in return. “Why are you here?” he cut right to the chase. 

With a casual shrug, she answered, “Felt uninspired in my common room.” She closed her notebook, a sense of finality in the gesture.

“Of course you did,” he quipped with bitterness. “That place stinks of rich kids and Death Eaters.”

Rolling her eyes, (y/n) couldn't help but feel a tinge of exasperation.

Fred had a peculiar tendency to launch into rants about the Slytherin House, a habit she never entirely understood. She was, without a doubt, a Slytherin through and through. She couldn't imagine belonging to any other house. Ambition coursed through her veins in her academic pursuits and aspirations for a successful writing career. Loyalty to her family was non-negotiable, and luckily for her, her parents weren't affiliated with the Dark Lord, making it easy to stay loyal to them.

In fact, she'd once pointed out to Fred that he'd make a perfect Slytherin himself. His ambitions were evident, especially with the joke shop he and George planned to open. His loyalty to his family, a prominent trait he shared with most Slytherins, was equally unmistakable. His lineage was as pure as anyone's at Hogwarts, if not more so. Her own mother was a half-blood witch. Yet, when she suggested this to him, he'd responded cheeky. “But red is my colour,” he'd declared, putting an end to their discussion.

“Actually,” (y/n) retorted, returning her focus to the ongoing discussion, “Slytherin’s dorms are very inspiring. But not to a battle scene; for that, I needed the smell of sweaty and strategy.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, suggesting that he found her comment rather amusing. “Leave it to the Ravenclaws to provide the strategy, eh?”

Not having an immediate response, (y/n) fell into a contemplative silence. Her eyes remained fixed on the Quidditch field, where the apparent captain of the team was engaging in a heated exchange with one of the beaters.

“So, about your writing,” Fred spoke softly, as if dipping his toes into uncertain waters, “I like it.”

Her gaze snapped to the red-haired boy, curiosity brimming in her eyes. She was always eager to hear both compliments and critiques of her work. To her, praise was uplifting, but constructive criticism was pure gold. She wondered what else he had to say.

“The battle scene sounds absolutely brilliant,” he continued as if reading her unspoken query. “Although I must admit, I missed a few lines; you write too fast, and your cursive is kind of weird.”

(y/n) showed her teeth in embarrassment. She was not used to being complimented about her cursive handwriting, so it wasn’t a surprise that Fred complained about it, but it was still embarrassing to hear about it, especially from a boy with no better penmanship.

“But you had one more complaint,” she reminded him, noticing Fred was silent.

He gulped, swallowing dry and hard.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “The lad there. You don’t know your men.”

“Excuse me?” (y/n) raised her eyebrows, and her voice unintentionally rose in volume.

Fred quickly raised his hands, a peace offering, his intent clearly non-confrontational. (y/n) relaxed a bit, realising she'd somewhat overreacted.

“Did you ever pay attention to how I talk? Or George or Lee?” Fred asked, turning his knees towards hers. Thanks to their sitting position, he towered over her, but less than usual. 

Since she'd accepted her friendship with Fred, she'd inevitably become acquainted with the others in his circle, including Lee Jordan.

“Listen,” Fred sighed, “most men aren't as eloquent as your character. They tend to be a bit more straightforward. Your 'lad' speaks in a way that's... well, a bit flowery.”

“He’s, like, from the sixteenth century,” (y/n) pointed out, defending her nameless protagonist.

“Right,” Fred said, tilting his head. “But that doesn’t actually change anything. No men would say,” and at that, he reached for her notebook without asking permission and opened it to the exact page she had been writing on. “No men would say, ‘I shall miss your sunkissed voice if this ends badly’.”

Placing her hands on her hips, (y/n) arched an eyebrow. “So, how would you put it, then?”

Fred pondered the question, trying to envision the moment in (y/n)'s book. He was not a writer and lacked the skills to be an actor, so he had to re-read the scene to know the rightful reply. He looked back down at the page before returning his gaze to her.

“Don't die,” he suggested, playing the character so well, lowering his tone to sound charming and seductive.

Unfortunately, for (y/n), her heart did a somersault in response. The scene Fred had just read involved the characters' parting words, and the simplicity of “Don't die” carried a powerful weight. It conveyed the protagonist's profound desire for his female counterpart to survive, for her loss would leave a void that could never be filled. The moment's essence was encapsulated in those two words, and Fred had delivered them perfectly.

Not that (y/n) had been planning to meet an untimely end anytime soon, but after Fred's persuasive delivery, she found herself inclined to postpone any thoughts of it indefinitely.

Observing that she hadn't averted her gaze from his eyes and noting the rapid rise and fall of her chest, (y/n) decided to seize the book from his hand swiftly.

“That was ridiculous,” she remarked, attempting to dissipate the moment's intensity with humour.

“That's how I would say it,” Fred nonchalantly shrugged, retracting his knees from their near-contact and turning his attention back to the Quidditch field.

“And who told you my protagonist is based on you, Weasley?” she quipped, tilting her head and arching an eyebrow.

Instead of being hurt by her tone of voice — this was the reaction she anticipated and expected and perhaps wanted — Fred smiled teasingly.

"Well, if you create a character described as handsome, muscular, silky-haired, and unmistakably tall, it's quite obvious to any reader that it's me," he retorted playfully.

Her mouth fell open in mock astonishment at his audacity. With an exaggerated flourish, she dropped the book onto her lap.

“And, of course, you're the female protagonist,” he continued, his smirk growing wider. “Hot-headed and cranky, who else could it be?”

(y/n)'s face contorted into a permanent grimace.

“(y/n), are you writing a fanfic about us?” he inquired, leaning closer into her personal space.

That was the final straw. (y/n) propelled herself to her feet, fueled by her irritation and fixed Fred with an accusatory finger.

“Listen here, Fred. The day I write a book about us, you can call me insane.”

Fred chuckled heartily, clearly relishing her reactions. (y/n) couldn't fathom why he found it all so amusing. Her book centred around fairies battling to regain political power; it had nothing to do with their personal lives. Fred was the one acting irrationally, suggesting it was some sort of “fanfic” and daring to entertain the notion that she would include flattering descriptions of him within the story.

If what he suspected were true, that she harboured a crush on him, then he shouldn't have found the idea humorous. Even if it were indeed fiction, he should have been repelled. (y/n) couldn't help but think that he might be secretly pleased with the notion, which irked her further. She didn't have a crush on him!

She turned on her heel with an exasperated huff and stormed away from the bleachers. However, just before she could escape earshot, she heard Fred's voice, laced with a hint of melody.

“Don't dieee!”

She was on the Quidditch pitch stands again. Only this time, there was an actual match on the field, not just a training session.

The Slytherin team zipped through the air on their latest-generation broomsticks, an annual tradition courtesy of Draco Malfoy's father. They faced off against Gryffindor, known for its fiercely competitive players. Whenever the green and red houses clashed, it was always a breathtaking spectacle.

(y/n) was gladly sitting next to Lee Jordan, narrating the game animatedly. Even when the Slytherins executed brilliant plays, his narration remained spirited. He occasionally mumbled comments about some Slytherin players but also praised them when deserved.

Only three days had passed since Fred Weasley had playfully accused her of basing her book's protagonist on him. Since then, they had seen each other and talked, but the book's topic hadn't resurfaced.

“Wow!” Lee's voice broke her concentration. “The Slytherins are really going after our beaters! I mean, sorry, they're going after the Gryffindor beaters!”

Engrossed in the match, (y/n) confirmed Lee's observation. The Slytherin beaters were prioritising targeting the Gryffindor beaters over the usual strategy of interfering with the opposing Seeker. (y/n) knew little about Quidditch's strategy, so she couldn't discern whether this was a wise move by her fellow Slytherins. However, she grew concerned for the Gryffindor beaters, who happened to be Fred and George.

She rose from her seat, her eyes following the twins' every move.

“The crowd is getting worried!” Lee Jordan's voice resonated, and (y/n) turned to face him. He raised his shoulders innocently as if to say he was just calling it as he saw it. Before she could reprimand him, Lee resumed narrating the game. “Oh, no! They're targeting Fred Weasley. Both beaters against one guy; not fair!”

Fred Weasley's name caused (y/n) to search the sky anxiously, her eyes scanning the field for his broom. The atmosphere was tense. She had attended the match in neutral black attire and sat beside Lee, determined not to favour any team. Although she had recently become acquainted with half of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, she couldn't help but feel allegiance to her house. Despite her intentions, the sight of Fred being targeted stirred worry within her. She left Lee's side and hurried down the bleacher stairs, seeking a better vantage point of the unfolding events on the pitch.

“And Fred's been hit! Fred Weasley is hit. Was it fair?” Lee's voice reached her ears as she made her way down. “Oh, I see. Oliver Wood, Gryffindor’s captain, is asking for a break, a time-out. Let’s give them ten minutes to regroup. We'll be back shortly.”

(y/n) turned back against the field and found Lee’s eyes through the crowd. She was grateful for the encouragement he silently offered with a nod. It was the nudge she needed to practically leap down the remainder of the bleacher steps, racing toward the Gryffindor Changing Room.

Luckily for her, the stands were consistently high, so in the actual field, there was nobody. She quickly reached the right spot but hesitated behind the curtain doors, listening intently. Oliver was addressing the team, urging them to regain their focus. Harry only needed to catch the Golden Snitch, and with Oliver as the Keeper, they would fend off the Slytherins from scoring further.

Summoning her courage, (y/n) poked her head through the curtain doors.

“Fred?” she murmured, but her voice carried to all the players.

(y/n) saw Fred, all sweaty, squeezing a water container over his face, drinking only half of it. “(y/n)?” he asked, confused by her presence.

She took the opportunity to step fully into the Changing Room. The other players exchanged knowing glances but remained silent; they understood she wasn't an enemy. (y/n) had interacted with Oliver, Angelina, and, of course, Harry Potter himself. Their glances spoke more of intrigue as if they were silently questioning the stage of her relationship with Fred.

Fred handed his now-empty water bottle to George, who appeared equally puzzled about what to do with it. Fred then retrieved his bat from the floor and approached (y/n), who remained fixed in her spot, somewhat intimidated by her unfamiliar surroundings.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her worry palpable. “Are you hurt?”

Fred kept moving closer. “I'm fine,” he assured her.

She nodded, darting over Fred’s shoulder, peeking at George. “And you, George? Are you alright?” 

George nodded affirmatively just as Oliver cleared his throat.

“Well, let's regroup outside,” Oliver instructed the team. With that, the players rose from their seats in a flash.

They left the Changing Room, leaving only Fred behind, and George was the last one to go, for he lingered a bit, moving with deliberate slowness. His eyes remained fixed on Fred and (y/n), and as the others filed out, it became evident that Oliver had called them out to grant the pair some much-needed privacy.

As the room emptied, (y/n) seized the chance to scrutinise Fred's face. The water had washed away the grime, revealing his striking features. He looked almost dishevelled, his heart beating fast, and a rosy hue tinged his cheeks. His damp hair was in complete disarray, the ends defiantly pointing in all directions. He seemed to sense her gaze on his unruly locks and ran a hand through them to tame them, achieving only partial success.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Her voice was soft, carrying genuine concern as she narrowed the gap between them, her fingertips yearning to touch Fred's face. “Lee mentioned you got hit.”

Her gentle touch seemed to kindle a fire within Fred. His face flushed, and he stuttered slightly, turning his head to the right when she reached for him.

“Where did the Bludger hit you?” she inquired, studying his face for any signs of injury. His features appeared unscathed, although his cheeks radiated with warmth.

“It grazed my right ear,” he replied, and she instinctively turned his face further to examine the ear. It was only slightly reddened, no worse than the rest of his face.

“I'm sorry they're targeting you,” she uttered with a slow breath, her concern deepening. Her hands left his face, but Fred turned his chin to face her.

“It's part of the game,” Fred shrugged.

Fred had never seen (y/n) like this before. After weeks of their friendship, this was the first time he had witnessed her express genuine concern.

“I know,” she sighed. “That doesn’t mean it’s fair. Or easy to watch.”

“It’s not a battle,” he noted, gingerly alluding to her book.  “No one’s gonna die.”

“But some are going to get hurt,” she stated, her gaze fixed on his ear, her worry etched across her features.

Fred loomed over her, his taller stature requiring her to tilt her head upward to meet his eyes and see his facial expressions. Usually, she appreciated that he was taller, but at that moment, it seemed to create an unwelcome distance.

An unspoken question lingered in (y/n)’s mind: What was she doing there? Why had she hurried to the Changing Room?

“Well,” she cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze, “if you're okay, then I should head back. You know, to watch you win or whatever.”

He smiled at her awkwardness, a not uncommon sight when it came to (y/n). He'd witnessed her awkwardness before, often finding it endearing. She sometimes struggled with conversation, especially with other people, leading to uncertain moments. Fred couldn't help but find those moments rather cute.

“You're not cheering for your own house?” he inquired, the corners of his mouth hinting at an impending smirk.

She pressed the inner corner of her mouth with her teeth, pondering her response. “Not when they're being unfair.”

“Three days ago, I swear you wouldn't have said it's unfair if they were targeting me,” he finally allowed that smirk to surface. It was the second subtle reference to her book, or at least a hint at that day, making (y/n) shy.

“Sometimes I want to hit you, Weasley,” she teased, her tone playful despite her lingering concern.

Fred chuckled, closing the distance between them, if that was even possible.

“Do it,” he taunted, his eyes dancing mischievously.

Her gaze met his, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was genuinely asking for it. She certainly had her reasons to want to hit him. First, for teasing her relentlessly. Second, for insisting on being her friend. Third, for involving her with all of his other friends. And now, that — whatever that was.  She was eager to touch him, just not to do it in the form of a slap. 

Something else fluttered in her stomach, and she hated it, and she hated Fred for it.

“Come on, (y/n),” he teased again, his smirk widening.

Her frustration reached its peak. How dare he jest with her after all the concern she had shown? She had never rushed to find someone before and loathed how unappreciative he seemed.

Without thinking, (y/n) closed the distance between them. Not with a slap, as Fred had half-expected, but with a kiss. It was so swift that Fred barely registered it until he felt her cool lips against his warm ones. A sigh escaped her as she realised he wasn't pushing her away.

And how could he? Fred had yearned for this moment for so long, through countless sleepless nights, because sleep meant dreams, and every dream was about her. Whether he imagined (y/n) seeking help with a prank and then kissing him, or (y/n) struggling with grades and asking for comfort through a kiss, or even the most sensual dreams where she broke into his Gryffindor dorm room wearing nothing but her panties.

Whatever had prompted (y/n) to kiss him, Fred was beyond caring. He hoped she wouldn't stop. He abandoned his mantra of ignoring his romantic feelings for her, forgetting they were meant to be just friends.

Fred kissed her passionately, willingly, leaving his bat forgotten on the floor as he held her close. His hands found her waist, lifting her slightly, bringing her nearer as he devoured her lips.

For (y/n), it felt like paradise. She'd never been kissed before, though she had read about it. Still, she'd assumed a kiss was just lips meeting, nothing more. She hadn't expected her first kiss to be like a scene from a romance novel, but it was. She experienced everything the heroines in her favourite books described: a warmth that started low in her belly and surged upward, a desire to merge completely with Fred. She clutched his red hair as if her life depended on it as if she depended on him.

“Fred! Come on!” a voice from outside yelled so loudly that it snapped both of them back to reality.

Fred was in the middle of a Quidditch match, but somehow, he had just kissed (y/n).

Slowly, he released her, and she stared back at him, her face flushed a deep shade of red, much like his hair. Her hand reached for her own lips as if trying to comprehend that what had just happened was real. She had been kissed. By Fred Weasley.

“We have just a minute, Fred!” the voice shouted again, and this time, (y/n) realised it was Oliver Wood, their captain, yelling.

“I think you have to go,” she said, her voice slightly shaky.

Fred nodded, placing his hands on his hips.

“Like now, Freddie,” she added, and her raised eyebrows conveyed the situation's urgency.

He burst back to reality, hastily retrieving his bat from the floor. Rushing toward the curtained exit, he glanced back at her.

Did he really kiss his best friend when he swore he wouldn’t?

They shared a glance. He would have to be content with that one kiss, for he could never pursue anything more if he wanted (y/n) to maintain her friendships because she was now finally opening up for that possibility.

“Don't die,” she murmured, her tone serious, but a laugh escaped her as she made the witty remark.

Finally, he left the Changing Room. For if he stayed any longer, he feared he would have to kiss her laughter away from her lips.

#fred weasley #harry potter #george weasley #fred and george #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x slytherin reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2023: October 15th

Day 15: Boot Worship, Spanking/Flogging/Whipping/Caning, Lactation/Breastfeeding

Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Post-pregnancy, lactating, pumping, breastfeeding kink, paying to drink breast milk, drinking milk, breast play, grinding, frottage, cumming in pants

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

There are some perks to being Dieter Bravo’s assistant. As crazy as he can be and put you through stress and odd situations, he is a fairly lenient boss. When you had come to him, explaining that you wished to be a surrogate for your sister who was unable to carry a child, he was cool with it. 

Did it stop the 2AM calls because he couldn’t find his favored crocs, or didn’t remember the name of that 24-hr Mexican restaurant? No. But he let you take off for all the doctor’s appointments without too much complaint, stopped doing drugs around you since it was bad for the baby, and insisted that you have a chair on set next to his to sit down in at all times. In actuality, it was pretty sweet. 

You had planned on coming back to work right away, since the baby was immediately going to your sister from the delivery room, but Dieter had pitched a fit. Telling you that even though you didn’t have a newborn to take care of, you still needed to recover from giving birth. You had compromised, telling him that you could recover and still manage his calendar from his admittedly comfortable couch. 

You hadn’t expected the questions. Dieter is one of those enigmatic souls that there is no telling what will pique his curiosity, but you hadn’t expected it to be your breast pump. Your sister and you decided that you would pump your milk for at least the first few months, or as long as you could. 

Dieter was obsessed. Like a kid with a new toy, you found him playing with the pumps. There were two that you could wear inside your nursing bra to let you pump while you just went about your day. Removing them and draining them into the storage bags as needed and putting them right back on. 

He was staring at your breasts, frowning slightly as he looked away and then looked back at them. As if he was figuring something out. Until you realized he was trying to decide if you had the pumps on or not. He kept muttering to himself, shaking his head and walking out of the room abruptly. You would think that he was on drugs again, except you haven’t ordered any from his regular supplier in nearly two months. 

So it’s a complete surprise when you are sitting on the couch, nearly two months after you have given birth and settled back into your routines with Dieter that he plops down on the sofa beside you. “How much would I need to pay you to drink your milk?” 

Freezing, your jaw hits the ground in shock. Immediately flustered and wondering what the hell is he talking about. Drinking your milk? He wants to taste it? Pour it into his cereal? What?

“Dee, what? What the fuck are you-”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” He groans, shuffling closer and staring at you with wide, pleading eyes before his gaze drops down to your breasts and he groans. His hand moves down to his crotch, almost covering himself like he’s trying to hide something before he grabs a pillow and shoves it in his lap. “Please, I - fuck, I’ll give you a thousand dollars. Give me….two ounces.” 

“Dieter…” 

“Two, all I’m asking for is two. The baby can spare that, right? You’ve been pumping like 80 ounces a day, right? Around that?” His tone is slightly whiny, begging like he always does when he really, really wants something. 

It shocks you that he’s aware of how many ounces of breastmilk you are pumping. That means that he’s got to be looking in the freezer. You’ve been storing it here since you are here more than your own house and having it sent over to your sister’s.

“You want to buy two ounces of my breast milk to drink?” You ask, wanting to make sure you understand what the fuck your boss is asking you. “For a thousand dollars.” 

“Two, two thousand.” Dieter ups the price, biting his lip and swallowing harshly. “A thousand dollars an ounce. Please, I know it’s weird, I know that I shouldn’t ask, but please, please just let me have some.” 

His eyes are earnest, begging you. Almost more intense than the first time he has if you would have sex with him. Finally finding something he wants more than sex. 

“I don’t know…” 

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” He rushes out, his face twisted in embarrassment but Dieter has no shame when there is something that he wants. He’s willing to humiliate himself as long as self-gratification for whatever he is obsessing over happens. “Drinking it, sipping it. Swallowing it down. Knowing that it is supposed to feed me. Feed a baby, I mean. It’s natural. The most natural food a man can have.” He justifies it, always good at finding reasons for why he needs to have what he wants. “It fucking- fuck, baby, it fucking turns me on. The idea of drinking your milk.” 

You can tell he wasn’t supposed to say that. From the way he immediately snaps his mouth shut and recoils from you, like you are going to reach out and slap him. Maybe you should slap him. It’s a slappable offense, but you aren’t. 

“Two thousand dollars, for a chance to drink two ounces of milk?” You don’t dismiss the idea, or slap him and that makes Dieter perk up. Immediately nodding, making his disheveled hair wave eagerly. 

“Yeah. Please?” He begs again. “I promise I won’t ask you to sleep with me again or go get my coffee. Ohhhh your milk in coffee.” You watch as he rolls his eyes back in his head at the thought, the pillow being crammed against his lap even more and you huff. 

“How many times have you jerked off thinking about drinking my milk, Dee?” You demand, making your boss nearly cringe at the question. 

Ducking his head and turning a range of mottled reds in mortification, he mumbles too quietly for you to hear. “- times a day.” 

“What?” 

He mumbles again. “-day.” 

“I can’t hear you.” 

“Seven or eight times a day!” Dieter finally shouts, grabbing the pillow from his lap and shoving it over his face to scream into it while your brows shoot up in surprise. You know Dieter has a high sex drive, but you never imagined he could go that many times. 

While he is having his fit, you think about it for a moment. It’s two thousand dollars and you’d rather your boss ask you to drink your milk than some random pregnant lady on the street. You wouldn’t put it past him. Despite his tendencies, Dieter is actually pretty respectful. He doesn’t push when he’s rejected and if you say no, you know that he will be disappointed but he won’t get angry. 

You aren’t wearing the pumps, thank goodness, so it’s easy to manage when you pull away the pillow from your boss's face and straddle his thighs, putting your milk filled tits in his face. 

“I- what are you-” Dieter chokes out, eyes wide and fixed on the tops of your tits, wanting to touch you but this wasn’t what he asked for. 

“You don’t want to drink straight from the source?” You ask innocently. 

The fact that you are on his lap makes you fully aware that Dieter’s cock is hard. Letting you feel the way that it jumps when you ask if he wants to drink from you. Not hiding his love of the idea even a little bit. 

He groans, tearing his eyes away from your breasts to look up into your eyes. “Yeah? Really?” He asks, still not touching you, but his hands are hovering over your hips, wanting to settle on them. “I- you would let me do that?” 

“You can’t squeeze them.” You caution. “They are tender, and sore a lot of the time. But if you want to, you can nurse, suck the milk from my tits and drink it down.” It was good timing, because you were going to have to pump anyway. 

“But I-” He seems to be completely stumped as to why you would offer more. No one ever offers more when he is desperate enough to pay for what he wants. “I’ll be careful.” He promises, leaning forward to nuzzle into your bosom and inhale the slightly milky scent of your skin. 

You feel the way he twitched under you. That admittedly impressive cock throbbing against your core in a way that you hadn’t thought about before this moment. He’s hard because of you. Because of this infatuation with your tits, your milk. 

Those hands that you had worried would be carelessly eager are almost timid. Asking if he can take off your shirt, or if you would prefer to just lower your shirt. You explain that it feels better to just lower your shirt and he quickly agrees. His fingers almost worshipful as he gently pulls your breasts out, taking your warning to heart as he positions them in his face and gets his first good look at your hard nipples and burgeoning jugs. 

“Oh god. I just want to…” he lunges forward and snuggles his face between the breasts he is holding almost reverently. Nearly motorboating you but just breathing deep. “Fuuuuuuuck.” He hisses, throbbing even more underneath you and you swear that you feel a bit of wetness transfer from his sweats to your leggings. 

You wrap your arms around him, for stability, for a lack of places to hold onto him, bringing him closer and you feel him sigh into your skin. As if he has found a place he wants to stay. 

It’s not too long before he wants more. His lips move along your skin in a surprisingly romantic scattering of kisses, as if you were his lover. 

His arms slowly slide around you as he kisses around your nipple, tilting his head down, and he groans when the warm, wetness of his lips wrap around a hard nipple to pull it into his mouth. 

Dieter’s hips rock up, grinding up into yoh and he twitches harshly when he tugs on the nipple, letting the first spurt of milk hit his tongue. His groan is so loud, almost pained, it covers the gasp that you give at the sensation.

It’s so different from the pump. Warmer, wetter. More intense as he starts to suckle eagerly. Gulping down mouthfuls of milk as fast as he can while dragging you closer, making you grind down on his cock from the movement. 

You get lost in the feeling of it all. His cock hard and throbbing under you. Pressing against your sensitive clit as your hips rock. The subtly erotic sensation of his whiskers against your skin. Eagerly letting him switch from breast to breast as he drinks you down. 

Dieter drinks more than two ounces, far more than you had agreed on, but neither one of you pulls away, even trying to stop. He’s gorging himself on the warm, slightly sweet milk in great, greedy gulps, groaning as he swallows. 

You don’t realize you are about to cum until you do. Stiffening in his arms, you push your breast into his mouth more as your back arches, a harsh cry escaping your lips. Pleasure washing over you in waves, and you don’t realize that Dieter is moaning your name. Rocking his hips up harshly to keep the friction going until he’s throbbing against your core. The warmth of his cum coating the inside of his sweats as he cums in his pants, drunk off your breast milk. 

“Holy shit.” You pant as he pulls away, milk drunk and softening underneath you as he swallows one last time. 

“Fuck, baby.” He groans. “Can we do this again tomorrow?”

#pedro pascal #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #absurdthirst kinktober #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo imagine

[sprout-fics]

Tag, You're It: Part Three

(Poly 141 x F! Reader) 18+

Masterlist

Rating: Explicit, 18+ WordCount: 4.3k Tags: F! Reader, Minors DNI, Dirty talk, Consent checks, Voyeurism, Blowjobs, Deep throating, Praise kink, Restraints, Blindfolds, Boot riding, Aftercare Warnings: Nothing except filthy rotten smut A/N: A bit of a shorter chapter, hopefully the content itself makes up for the length ;w;

Where Gaz got the blindfold, you have no idea. Where he got the idea of the blindfold, however, is crystal clear.

Price.

When Gaz had draped the fabric across your eyes it had shielded the already dark world around you into nothingness, had forced you to rely entirely on his touch as he guided you on wobbly legs to an unknown destination. The sergeant had dragged you off for what seemed like miles, forcing your stumbling feet ahead of him. All the while his voice had been harsh, playing the villain. Yet his touch was gentle, thumb tracing the arch of your nape under his gloved thumb as he directed you. The tenderness of him despite his orders is a balm against your fluttering heartbeat, nerves alight with the remnants of your ruined climax lurk in your core, tugging taut at your muscles, wanting more, more. 

You had bitched at him of course, playing along but making your unhappiness clearly known at not being allowed to finish on his hand. Infuriatingly, Gaz had barely answered you, offering mocking, teasing little hums and sweet, pitying endearments at your complaints before at last opening a door somewhere ahead of you and escorting you inside.

Now, he’s gone, and in his place you hear footsteps pace around you, circling you, drawing ever closer like they’re circling the drain with you at the center. The sound shudders through you, sets your breath catching in your chest where you kneel on the concrete floor, hands zip-tied behind your back, the world dark and enigmatic around you. You listen to the slow, steady pace of boots against concrete, as if the person circling you wants you to hear them, drawing out your anxiety in the face of blindness.

At last, they stop behind you, the toes barely brushing against your own shoes.

“Should have known better than to run, sweetheart.” Price gravels above you, behind you. You jolt at the sound of his voice, a wealth of arousal pooling low in your stomach at the mere sound of him. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, watches you stay entirely still for him. Patient, waiting, deferent to his command. “I can’t have little mice running around my base.”

His hand settles on your nape, and you almost want to arch into the touch, sigh and let your head fall back into the familiar grasp of his palm. The warmth of it feels almost sharp against your cold skin, and it only electrifies your pulse in wanting, needed anticipation. Yet you hold back, restrain yourself to the part of the victim, of a hostage helpless to his whims. Instead, you offer a little whimper as his hand curls with just a small amount of pressure into the soft flesh there.

“Shhh.” He gentles you, and the hand goes soft again. The air in your chest feels unbalanced, confused, and in this blindness you don’t know what to expect of him. Out of all your lovers, Price has always been the best at masking his intentions, catapulting you into heart hammering insecurity as he conceals his next move. He lets you wait it out, shift expectantly until the strings inside you snap, launch you forward into him with a desperate fervor. 

Now, however, you refuse to go down so easily. 

“Took you a while to catch me, cap.” You quip back, ignoring the slight waver in your voice torn between excitement and anxiety. “Not scared of mice, are you?”

You think you hear a snicker somewhere beyond the two of you, but the sound is muffled by the low, threatening rumble of displeasure from the man above you. You lean your head forward when he presses his thumb against your nape, unable to bite back a smile at your small victory of irritating him with your bratty comeback.

“Cheeky.” He observes, and once more his tone is unbothered, stoic in a way that simmers low in your stomach. “Do you think we’d let you run around so much if we knew you’d be hard to capture?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the pressure from Price’s grip warns you otherwise. His voice dips to a low, grinding tremor that you feel settle inside you with the promise of ruin.

“Unfortunately for you love, there’s no escape anymore.”

You shudder.

There’s a quiet pause from Price then as he releases you, and you feel rather than hear him circle around you to stand at your front. An ungloved hand catches your chin and tilts you up as if you can somehow meet his eyes. 

“Color, love.” He asks then, the soft murmur of his voice suddenly gentle. 

“Green.” You offer after a beat, tender in your response, and you feel your reward in the form of Price’s knuckles grazing your cheek affectionately before he pulls away.

“I noticed you sassing my sergeant on the way here.” Price tells you darkly, and you straighten a little at that, at his implications at your misbehavior. You’ve played this game before, know exactly where it leads, and the promise of what lays ahead thrums low in your stomach, feeding the distant flame of your previously denied orgasm. Price pauses long enough to let his words sink in, to let your heartbeat stammer higher in your chest with anticipation.

“The one thing I cannot tolerate is insubordination.”

You choke back a gasp at the sudden downturn of his voice, the tone you’ve only ever heard during interrogations, in the realm of his cold, restrained fury. It’s the same tone that makes you shift where you stand in observance, feeling a forbidden and vicious desire murmur through you, a reminder of this man’s brutality, the force of his retribution. You can’t stem the arousal from hearing him during those moments, and now that it’s turned on you, with his form standing above you, with you helpless at his feet, makes a fresh rush of wetness coat your thighs with your desire. 

There’s a smile that tugs at your lips then, and you nearly tremble in excitement, teething your lip as your retort bites against your tongue. Price notices, cups the sides of your face in his grasp to look down at the mischievous smirk that he sees there. 

“Something to say, soldier?” He asks idly, and you hear a familiar tone of bemusement on his words. 

“Permission to speak, sir?” You ask, tone a little mocking, and Price snorts a huff of laughter.

“Granted.”

You wet your lips, try to imagine the sight of Price’s eyes tracing the motion. You wish you could see him, could touch him, but there’s a certain thrill in this, of being bound, blinded, helpless at his feet. 

“I always knew you liked having your subordinates under you.” You breathe at last, and in Price’s silence you hear a muffled sound behind him, a choked little noise that you can’t fully discern from the flutter of your own heartbeat.

Then, the sound of his zipper, and gods above you feel your mouth water at the sound, all but leaning forward and ready for him. Yet Price only chuckles down at you with your enthusiasm,  the grasp on your face tightening, keeping you exactly where you are even as you try to squirm forward, mouth dropping open expectantly. 

“Look at you.” He chuffs, and you feel your thighs clench at the sound of his hands stroking down his cock, remaining tantalizing and just out of reach. “I was going to tell you to find a better use for that mouth, love, but it looks like you read my mind. Needy.”

Yes. Yes. You think deliriously, trying to scoot forward, straining for it shamelessly, only for Price’s hand to slide to your nape, holding you back. The blindfold against your vision cloaks the world in darkness, fires your senses into a rapid overdrive that leaves you wanting, desperate, a little whine forming on your lips as he refuses to allow you to taste him. 

“Beg.”

The order pulses through you like a gunshot, setting every nerve ending alight with arousal until it simmers downwards, blood rushing south and settling at the aching apex of your thighs. It doesn’t take long for you to comply, feeling need bubble up acutely inside you until it escapes as the form of a plea. 

“Please.”

It’s shameful, the way you fold instantly. You want to put up more of a fight, to try and play the role assigned to you, but the reward of your efforts is so very close, the nearness of it leeching the struggle from your limbs as you tilt your head up towards him, head lolling limply into his arm. 

 “Please, captain.” You try again when he doesn’t respond. “Let me suck you off. I-I want it.”

Price huffs at you, the sound almost in disbelief with how quickly you caved. Not that you could help it, not with him, not with any of them. 

“Alright love.” He returns gently, and you shiver, arch forward as the tip of him brushes against your parted lips. “Remember, no teeth.”

You don’t need to be reminded, and when Price pushes past your lips you groan around him, feel your thighs clench in a desperate attempt to stem the untamable lust that dampens your underwear. The taste of Price is familiar, good, the weight of him heavy on your tongue and you moan, the sound reverberating around the girth of him. Price bites down on a little noise, never one to be loud, only offering growling little grunts and gasps as he delivers his desire onto you.

“That’s it.” Price sighs, his fingers kneading into the flesh of your nape, using the leverage to draw you back, pressing you forward with a low, lazy roll of his hips. He’s enjoying the sensation of you, his length only half hard but rising to mast quickly in the wet, slick slide of your mouth. “Good girl.”

You make a little noise at that, a pleased little hum at the way he offers you praise, happy and content, right where you need to be. Here, at his feet, helpless to the whims of his lust, knowing your captain will take care of you, will use you as he sees fit, will have you whimpering and teary eyed by the end of this as you shake and tremble against him. 

He’s a little salty, a little briny on your tongue, but the weight of him, the length and breadth of his cock feels right, like it’s meant to belong here as he idly thrusts into your mouth. He’s different than Ghost. Where Ghost fucks you hard enough to feel him knock against the back of your throat, Price is thick, heavy in your mouth, spreading you wide enough that you have to crane your jaw to accommodate him. You do so glady, senses a little hazy as you moan, lose yourself in the feeling of his pelvis pushing up against your jaw. 

“Made for this, weren’t you?” He chuffs down at you, amused at the way you fall apart for him so readily. “Proper little toy for us, aren’t you love?”

You nod around him, you can’t help it. There’s a sinfully sweet addiction to the girth of him pushing past your lips, your eyes rolling back in your head as you feel precum bead on your tongue. It’s just as much the feeling of pleasuring him as it is getting lost in it, in the familiar slide of his cock on your tongue, pressing down so your mouth falls open in a wanton little moan. 

Price curses at that, and with little hesitation he uses the firm, scruffing grasp on your neck to push you down, his hips stilling with considerable restraint until he pushes the tip of him all the way to the back of your throat. You breathe in, holding your breath at the fullness of him blocks the air you want to suck in as a wet little gasp. He twitches in your throat, and you let him, listening to the ragged inhale he draws in, that releases as a firm, steadying sigh. You keep still for him, feeling the weight of his hand on your nape, fingers just a little bruising in a way that feels good.

Eventually you feel your heart race a little higher, feel a distant touch of panic fizzle in your veins. You try to draw back, but Price’s hand keeps you exactly where you are. There’s a growl that builds in his throat as you instinctively swallow around him, throat tightening around the head of his cock. When he doesn’t let up you begin to squirm, eyes beading with tears of exertion. Yet all price offers down at you is a single, devastating command. 

“Stay.”

You loosen instinctively, shoulders dropping, head nodding just a little forward, as far as Price’s grip on your will allow. The command is final, and your time spent under Price’s authority has you instantly accepting it, growing limp in his grasp as he holds his cock in your throat with a low, breathy groan. 

A wet little gasp escapes you as Price finally pulls out, saliva dribbling down your chin as you tilt your head back into his hand, finding comfort in the familiar press of his palm. It takes you only a few moments to catch your breath before you blindly try to press forward again, feeling the leaking head of Price’s cock graze against your bottom lip before it’s pulled away. When you loose a little whine of protest Price merely chuckles down at you, a little dark, but entirely fond.

“Never satisfied, are you?” He asks teasingly, and before you can swallow and summon a reply Price shifts so that the toe of his boot presses between the apex of your folded legs. You suck in a sharp breath, automatically clenching at even the slightest pressure against your core, face warming and brow knotting as you experimentally rock down onto Price’s shoe. 

Pleasure blooms outward from your core, hips shivering at the dull, firm pressure that grazes against your clit through your pants. A shuddering, gasping noise falls from you, and with your mouth open Price gently presses himself back inside, the hand on your nape gently smoothing a thumb against your jaw. 

“Go on then.” He offers, and oh, you can hear the strain in his voice, hear the little sound he makes when you circle his slit with your tongue. It’s delicious in the best of ways, and the temptation of coaxing further noises from your captain has you sinking down on him with renewed effort, relishing the wet slide of his shaft as it glides across your tongue.

You want to touch him, want to press your hands against his thighs, circle your fist around his cock and listen to the sound he makes as you slowly drag your grip upwards. The memory of the softness of Price’s stomach, the strong angle of his hips is enough to make your eyes roll back a little under your blindfold, ecstasy blooming in brilliant colors against your senses.

Yet then Price leans just a touch forward, raising his boot just an inch to press more tightly against your clit. He pulls back at the exact second that your head drops forward, your voice strained and breathless.

“F-fuck, Price-” You manage with a little shudder and roll of your hips.

“Needy little darling.” He coos, and you flush warmly at that, at both the tender praise and the slightly mocking undertone that makes you realize just how perverted this is, trying to get off on the barest hint of pressure against your dripping, empty pussy. 

You decide to be cheeky, raising up on your knees to avoid him. Price only chuckles in amusement and shifts his hand so it presses on your shoulder with a firm “Down.” That has you lowering back onto his boot. You gasp at the sudden pressure, and before you can stop yourself you breathe a wrecked, shocked little curse at the tremble that murmurs outward from your core. 

“That’s it.” Price encourages as you buck forward on reflex with a choked little groan, sinking down and shamelessly rubbing your crotch onto the firm surface of his boot. It makes your cheeks burn with a touch of humiliation, one that’s softened by the steadying grip of your captain above you. Besides, the low burn of your previously denied orgasm still flickers inside you, licking at your insides and setting your veins into a red hot arousal that seeks tinder to fuel your need. 

The friction of Price’s boot soothes the lingering ache in you, twists it into a coiling, unsatisfied desire that has you groan breathlessly around his cock. You make a point to arch your spine, the dip of it a pretty curve that has your captain huff down a little sound of approval in between his grunts as he rocks into your mouth. 

“Gorgeous when you’re desperate, love.” He rumbles down at you and you moan at that, imagining the sight you must make. Blindfolded, arms folded behind you, hips bucking down onto the toe of Price’s boot while you groan and mewl around the heaviness of his cock on your tongue. It’s lewd at best, completely depraved at worst, and the thought alone has your hips jolt as pleasure laces sharply up the base of your spine. 

You’ve given up on the shame of trying to get off like this, too desperate to care, just like Price says. Your need curls in a deep, tightening band of pleasure low beneath your belly, and with each rock of your hips you feel it tightening further still, the distant but imminent promise of your release beckoning to you from afar. 

You’re so blinded by euphoria you nearly forget about Price’s cock, only for him to once more press you all the way down and lodge himself in your throat. You swallow reflexively around him, and Price groans deeply, his smoky voice curling and whispering across your senses. You want to drown yourself in it, feel the cloud of his deep tenor engulf you, swallow you whole. You know the sound of him blind, know all of them by touch alone, and the distant but hypnotizing memory of being surrounded on all sides by these men is enough to make your voice rise a little, cry out in a mixture of want and pleasure.

“Shh, easy.” Price offers as you shudder, his knuckles graze across your wet cheek. When did you start crying? You feel warm tears of pleasure welling and wetting the blindfold across your eyes, flushing your face further as you lose yourself between the sensation of Price’s warm cock rocking past your lips, and the writhing buck of your hips down onto his boot, chasing release. 

“That’s it, take what you need. You’ve been so good for us.” Price murmurs breathlessly, voice strained but deeply aroused, his hips beginning to pick up speed as he pursues his own climax. You still, allowing him to fuck into your mouth the way he wants, craning upwards so he grazes the roof of your mouth. Price approves with a sharp grunt, and you feel his cock twitch against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He snarls sharply, hips stuttering for a moment before resuming their rhythm. One hand cups your skull, fingers pressing a touch harshly against your flesh to keep you in place as Price uses you to creep slowly up on the edge of his release. “Bloody gorgeous, darling.”

Your cunt throbs at his words, clenching tightly as you shift, angle yourself to rub your clit directly onto the toe of his boot. The groan you let out is wet, saliva and precum pooling in your mouth around his cock. The world narrows down to only the sensation of Price rocking into you, and you rocking onto him as you fuck yourself onto his boot. 

Yet there’s another sound beyond your and Price’s joint groans and the slick squelch as he presses himself forward. If you listen, you can hear another noise from off to your right- a low, stifled grunt paired with the sounds of wet strokes of a fist. 

You’re being watched.

Gaz, Soap, Ghost, they’re all observing the proceedings quietly from just beyond you both, aroused at the display and seeing to their own pleasure with long, firm strokes on their cocks. Masturbating to the shameless sight of you fucking yourself down onto Price’s shoe, groaning openly as he thrusts towards the back of your throat, seeing you helpless at his feet and wanting more.

Of course. Why blindfold you otherwise? You’d get distracted by the sight of them, the glint of Soap’s keen, bright stare- the smug, self-pleasured smile of Gaz seeing you delivered to his captain- and Ghost, with the bruising intensity of his stare, no doubt with his arms crossed but the tent of his pants bulging. Waiting.

The idea of the boys just waiting for their captain to finish having his way with you, fucking into your mouth with quick, firm, shallow thrusts, and waiting to have their seconds is enough to make you bite out a curse. Pleasure unfolds brightly at your core, the tightening, coiling band of bliss threatening to snap you in two with its intensity.

Price seems to notice how close you are by the almost frantic grind of your hips down onto him, his hand curling with an almost bruising grip at the base of your skull. 

“Going to cum, sergeant?” He grits out, and you whine, not able to nod around him with the way he has you angled. Yet the sound is enough, because Price releases a low groan and echoes down at you a single, shattering command. 

“Cum.”

Price pulls back at the exact second you come undone, feeling ecstasy whiplash against your coiled muscles and race along the underside of your skin. Your orgasm is sudden, hard, making you fold and clench in on yourself, sinking impossibly further down onto Price’s boot with a shuddering series of moans and whimpers. Your cunt clenches helplessly around nothing, empty but no less doused in the blissful satisfaction of your long denied climax. The aftershocks ripple down your form, collecting in the thrumming, pulsing heat of your core as you desperately try to find your breath. 

“Bloody hell.” A voice mutters quietly beyond your blinded vision. Soap.

When you finally catch your breath you raise your head, tilting forward towards Price so you can finish the task set out before you, his own orgasm unfinished. Yet instead all you find is Price's grip on you vanishing completely, removing his boot from the inside of your thighs. Instantly, you begin reeling without his touch, still a touch overwhelmed, a little noise of confusion dragging in your chest. 

It doesn’t take long for hands to appear at your face, gently tugging the blindfold off and revealing the dim lighting of the empty interrogation room. You blink at the sudden brightness, limbs heavy and skin too warm. It’s only once your vision clears that the sight of Price flickers into view above, his expression gentle, but the lust in his eyes scarcely concealed. 

“Broken?” He asks in that gruff but concerned way of his, hands cupping either side of your face as boots begin to pad over towards you both. When your eyes flicker down to Price’s cock, you see it still standing proudly. Yet Price seems to pay it no mind, focusing instead on you. 

“Only in the best of ways.” You reply, voice a little hoarse but still pleased as you smile at him. Price smiles back, amusement clear in his stare before it shifts, nods to someone behind you. You nearly flinch at the sound of a blade getting flicked open, but don’t have time to question it before the ties around your wrists are cut and discarded. You sigh in relief, roll your shoulders and wince at the soreness there. 

You blink as you’re tugged away from Price’s grasp, hauled backwards until your ass meets the floor and your back presses against a solid chest. Arms descend around to your front, tucking you further into a form that smells faintly like explosive powder and sweat. 

“Don’t get greedy, Soap.” Ghost admonishes lightly as the sergeant’s legs splay around you. Yet Soap only offers an offended little grunt in return, allowing you to sink into the comforting warmth of him.

You relax into the safety of his arms, knowing for now that this chase is finally at its end, that all that is left is the blissful indulgence of the men around you as they bring you down from the exhilarating adrenaline rush of your capture. 

So you sigh, lean onto Soap, accept the water bottle Gaz passes to you, gulping it down and washing away the taste of Price on your tongue. 

It’s Ghost who gently nudges you, forcing you to crane your head up towards his form towering over yours, backlit by the dim overhead light above. 

“How copy?” He asks redundantly, as if he somehow doesn’t trust your answer to Price. You know it’s just to assuage his own nerves, make sure that the four of them haven’t exerted you too far. 

“Right as rain, LT.” You answer back, leaning into his gloved hand when he offers it. You swear you can feel the sigh of him there, relieved but muted, entirely affectionate. 

There’s silence for a few moments, one that’s filled only with your even breathing and the dull thump of your calming heartbeat. It’s broken only when Gaz drawls out a low, loaded question. 

“Soooo….” He offers, and when you look at him his eyes sparkle with a combination of mischief and rampant desire. 

“Round two?”

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@soupbinsoup @tiredmetalenthusiast @homicidal-slvt @grumpyfurball @bigboywiththeskullface @cherrycoloredfunk86 @soapskneebrace @makariaspresence @alicesfracturedmirror @akona17 @fruitymoonbeams-blog @howdareubumfluff @ess-perspective-blog @sugarspicelivelife @ballsincorporated @telecoms-profiterols @artsy-trash-panda @ramadiiiisme @crunchlite @scatter-mind001 @holt-from-the-blue @military-boyfriends @mutuallimbenclosure @tamayakii @sparklinginthecorneroverhere @330bpm-whiplash @corgideer @embers-of-alluring @kitty-satan1 @meadowfuldaises @butterbunana @thychuvaluswife @asd3ku @simon-rileys-princess @kaninkronikorna @kinskyy @serh0etonin @preciouslittlecreature @stitch-me-a-dream @bucketbunny @doggydale @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @kaninkronikorna @crunchlite @torchbearerkyle @ashy-kit @soapskneebrace @catsnkooks

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#captain price x reader #john price x reader #poly 141 x reader #poly 141 #cod mw2 #cod mw22 #x reader #reader insert #fic: tag you're it… See all #Honestly dislike the quality of this chap!! Feels too bland #Hopefully folks enjoy anyways

[esmiara]

As promised, let me introduce you my two beloved BSD OCs:

Who are they?

Basically, Lewis and Antoine are two friends traveling around the world to discover exciting places while avoiding various government forces (more on that later). Though not related to the main story of BSD, they do know about organisations like Port Mafia and the Agency, mainly from what they heard in the streets and read in the newspapers since they arrived in Yokohama. However, they do prefer to not get anyone involved in their issues, nor do they really want to get involved in anyone else’s.

Lewis Carroll

Based on the author of Alice in Wonderland, Lewis was a man in his thirties with a fancy mind. As a child, he once had a wild imagination feeding his ability Wonderland (again, more on that later) but due to social and family pressure, he got forced upon a path of logic and perfection, now making it hard for him to think outside the box. Thus crushing his past self involuntarily and putting chains on his own mind in order to protect himself from outside complaints. As an adult, he became a plain math teacher for children, with a quite boring life. That is, until he met one certain child in London.

Their meeting

“Draw me a sheep.” said the unknown child out of the blue.

Lewis was stunned. He didn’t knew what to respond at first to this child, which he thought was one of his students. But when he put more thought on it, he didn’t looked like any child he had at the time. Who might have been this strange blond kid with unkept clothes? He decided to learn more about him, worried he may have lost his parents somewhere. However, as they talked, he quickly understood he didn’t had any. He simply didn’t knew about any “parents”. Actually, he didn’t knew much about the world itself either.

“Draw me a sheep!” repeated the child after a while of interrogative discussion about who he was, where he came from etc....

Lewis gently asked why such a demand, as he didn’t want to offend this possible lost orphan.

The boy fell silent. Then spoke again, a sad emptiness darkening his young blue eyes.

“I want a warm friend to bring with me” he simply responded.

Their exchange may have been succinct up to this point, but it was clear to Lewis that he was no normal child. As the boy seemingly didn’t have a name, Lewis gave him the name of one of his most beloved book’s author. The character of that one book simply reminded him of the boy.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

More based on the Little Prince’s main character than the actual author, Antoine was an enigmatic individual with the physical appearance of a young boy. Nobody knows of his real age, not even himself. However, most may have theorized that he at least was around for at least a few decades, if not centuries perhaps. One day found and caught by the french government in his - supposedly - hometown, he had no memories of his time before then, except for some vague fragments. He mostly remembered about this laboratory he was brought in, with a lonely room where he would occasionnally meet strangers dressed in white. Despite the many uncertainties surrounding him, Antoine was still of great interest for scientists. He didn't seemed to physically age at all. Could he hold the secret of cells regeneration or even immortality? They soon found out he did age but at a very slow pace, thus looking unchanged for many years.

Curious about this plausible new ability, they decided to make him meet a young girl, who would share his room from now on. This one girl was quite arrogant at first. Antoine didn't really like her attitude but she was the only other person he could befriend. So they did. They soon became friends. Then they learned more about the truth, may it be this girl's past, snatched from her orphanage to become a lab rat as well, or the whole reason why she was here with him in the first place.

It was all because of the young girl's ability. One that would let her copy another one and make it her own. They apparently wished to make a copy of test subject B612′s power in order to "save it” somewhere and be able to experiment on it without having to risk the boy’s life. But things didn't turned out like they wanted as the girl began to crumble under some unknown sickness. Her body couldn't handle Antoine's ability, so it seemed, and she quickly became unable to move. So she made a promise with Antoine:

“Be my eyes and explore the outer world, okay dumby?” she said, with little breath she had left.

A promise reminiscent of the one where they would explore and see the world together. One where he would do so if she couldn't follow, to make her dream come true even when she became a star.

Their abilities

Little prince

No one really knows the details about Antoine's ability. Everything we know for sure is that his body has a very long lifetime, yet not immortal. He is destined to die of aging one day and is still weak to any wound like anyone else. However, we did notice Antoine's body starts to produce a faint glow whenever he gets sick or when his life is in danger in general. Not that it really helps at all though.

Wonderland

Lewis' ability is a bit complex and confusing, much like Alice in Wonderland's whole world.

In theory, Wonderland is quite simple: it allows its bearer to create anything he thinks to be a nonsense, something that is normally impossible. It could be seen as an area surrounding the user, in which he can create anything he wants, as long as it meets the proper requirements (being a "nonsense").

However, as the whole definition of "nonsense" depends on the user's mind, one could have a hard time creating anything. As such, what could be a nonsense to someone isn't necessarily one for Lewis. He is still quite a peculiar man after all.

A strange man, but with many restrictions on his mind and imagination. As he was forced to think with logic for the most part of his life now, he can't stop asking himself about the specifics of one’s question. Where a visible nonsense would occur, Lewis' mind would subconsciously ponder over what could make it truly real or impossible. If he can't get proper answers to those questions, then it can't happen either.

The beginning of their adventures

As they became much closer as people who somehow understood each other, Lewis began to be more friendly with the child, rather than looking like a mere adult talking to a little one. He saw himself in his struggles. He saw a young mind, much like his own a long time ago, slowly getting crushed by adult's expectations and limiting his own thoughts. He couldn't let the same thing happen twice when they still had a choice. So he encouraged him to get creative and let free of his imagination, with no worries about exterior opinions.

One day however, they suddenly got caught off guard by militaries sent by the french government as well as some members of the Order of the Clocktower, there to retrieve the unknown child for their own purpose instead. It was at that time that Lewis was finally able to make use of his ability once more after so many years. Inspired by Antoine’s naturally spoken nonsense, he unleashed Wonderland in order to escape. This also put a permanent stop to Lewis’ normal way of life, as he now was as searched for as Antoine was. It was time for a involuntary trip around the world, it seemed. But this time, Antoine wasn’t alone anymore.

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd oc #bsd #bsd ocs #esmi ocs #bsd art #idk which tags to put at this point #long post #some angst #oc

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Little Sun" - Nikolai Lantsov x Reader

[This is a work of fiction. Slapping your partner is physical abuse.]

SUMMARY: Nikolai left Ravka to gather whatever aid he can get for his home but he comes back because he promised you.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.2k

Apparently, Коля [Kolya] is short for Nikolai and it's the cutest thing I've heard in my life. Also, let me know if you're fine with just Cyrillic or do you want me to include Latinized spelling in the future.

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist<<

Tolya and Tamar have a bet. Not a very dramatic piece of information if one knows a thing or two about the siblings. But it’s the nature of the bet, not its sole existence, that’s so interesting - it’s their longest unresolved wager:

The whole thing started when they noticed Sturmhond saying “Солнышко would love this” to himself. Most of the time it’s a whisper, a stray thought that somehow wriggled free out of his mind at a sight of a sunset, a panorama of a city or a treasure his crew found - if something is worth appreciation, the enigmatic “Солнышко” would surely want to see it. Judging by the softness with which the captain says those words, Tolya and Tamar are disillusioned that “солнышко” is merely a term of endearment for someone close to Sturmhond’s heart. What directly sparked their bet was whether this hopeless love is returned. Tolya, probably biased by the poetry he so eagerly reads, was convinced that they were witnessing a dramatic love story of a princess and a sea dog or something along those lines. Tamar, however, remained more cynical in her judgement - whoever the lady is, she probably doesn’t spare the privateer much thought, if she’s even aware of his existence. Little did they know, the answer awaited them on the other side of the Fold.

The sanctuary is never quiet nor is it ever boring. Although its population doesn’t impress, the determined freedom fighters rarely catch a break, keeping the beehive constantly buzzing. People coming to and fro, the noise of neverending chatter, footsteps echoing through the grand halls and in the middle - you, one responsibility away from completely losing your mind.

You’re doing your rounds, utilising the march between ‘checkpoints’ to talk with Dima, a quite hyperactive Fabrikator, about his new project. It looks promising but you’ve learned to expect nothing less from the boy. He’s tripping over his feet because his gaze is boring into you, looking for any sign of approval or disapproval, and not the tiles in front of him. 

The parchment rustles as you look through the blueprints. “That’s a lot of iron…” you say quietly. Pondering the schematic, you habitually rub your jaw. “If First Army is to use this on the battlefield, it needs to be lighter, so fewer soldiers have to man it. Some parts ought to be substituted with wood. Maybe these two?” You point to fairly small elements on the blueprint, which look to be part of the traction mechanism. Dima conceptualized a machine built on impressively complicated, codependent systems - one change is going to influence all the other parts, which in turn will circle back to the substitute and put a different strain on it.

Dima gasps. "My lady,” his voice is quiet, breathy.

Suddenly, the boy stops but you don’t think much about it. You stand beside him, still eyeing the blueprint in search of ways to save the more scarce resources without endangering the quality of the firearm. 

“I know it’s going to be difficult, Dima,” you forestall his complaint. “We also don’t want this whole thing to shatter after firing the first round but there’s only so much-.”

"My lady, he's back,” he interrupts you.

You look up at Dima with furrowed eyebrows. But the boy doesn’t meet your eye - instead, he’s looking away towards something, or someone, by the entrance to the sanctuary; a haunted glint hiding in his pupils. Confused, you follow his gaze to the door, only to feel your heart stop for a moment:

The blond hair, the elegant kaftan with aiglets and the insufferable, juvenile confidence written on his face.

"Мой Коля,” you say barely above a whisper. The world smudges and blurs as tears fill your eyes.

Not having much care about the stoic image you’re supposed to maintain, you shove the schematics back into Dima’s hands (he nearly drops them) and rush to the ghost who’s been haunting your thoughts for far too long, pushing through people standing in your path.

The phantom becomes flesh and bones only when you feel his arms wrap around you, pulling you tightly to himself. The scent of seaweed and resin lingers on his clothes as though he was born a sea dog and became a prince by sheer coincidence. You hear Nikolai take in a deep breath, his nose buried in your hair. This feels almost too good to be true but good enough to be a cruel joke.

A minute or two passes by and even then it’s difficult for you to lean away to look at his face - Nikolai seems absolutely unwilling at letting you go again anytime soon. Literally and figuratively.

"I was beginning to lose hope," you say quietly. Although his eyes remain just as mischievous as they usually are, a hint of softness hides inside them.

"You know me, солнышко,” he says with a grin on his face. The pet name makes your chest both tighten and burst with passion you have nearly forgotten. After a long period of emptiness and coldness, this scorching devotion is burning you alive. “I promised you I'd come back."

Only when his warm hand reaches to wipe away your tears do you realize you’ve been crying all this time. Even if you tried, there’s no way of stopping this - all of the nights you’d spent worrying and all the days you’d been yearning for him, they finally find their outlet in this longed-for reunion. You’ve imagined his tragic death so many times, you can hardly believe all of that was just an atrocity of your mind.

“Please, stop crying,” Nikolai whispers while relentlessly wiping your face, “or I’m going to cry too and I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of our guests.”

A chuckle of both disbelief and overwhelming relief escapes your lips. Even now, at such a heartfelt moment, he can’t help his humour but Saints’ did you miss it.

You sniffle. Absentmindedly, your fingers trace the smooth material of his kaftan. Not a cut or a burn on this textile, as though it beared to witness to combat. "You’ve been gone for so long, I don't know if I should kiss or slap you."

He gives you a playful, questioning look. "Can I choose?"

"Not a chance."

Nikolai gasps when he feels your hand against his face. The strength of the slap was nowhere near to the punch Alina threw at him not too long ago but considering who you are, it aches incomparably more. To a degree, he understands that he might, after all, deserve some of your anger. Aside from the misguided, love-fueled belief you’ve always had in him, you had virtually no reason to think he’s alive, mourning him each time you lay in bed alone - until now.

He doesn’t have a chance to form a response to your outburst as you grab both sides of his face and clash your lips against his. That’s something Nikolai can condone and he does so with a nearly obscene lack of hesitation or reluctance. His arms hold your waist in a tight embrace. The saltwater on his skin tastes like insufferable youth and fabulous adventures. For a moment, you let yourself forget about the pending civil war, thinking only about the warm, soft lips you’ve missed so dearly. Your Коля came back to you, so everything is perfectly fine.

At the same time, Tolya turns to look at his sister with a proud grin. “Told you,” he says nudging her arm but Tamar only scoffs and shakes her head.

#shadow and bone #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone x you #shadow and bone fanfiction #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone fanfic #nikolai x reader #nikolai imagines #nikolai lantsov fanfiction #nikolai lantsov imagine #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov x you #nikolai lantsov x reader #Spotify

[akashababy]

Unraveling the Mystery of the Dark Trio's Reign

Link

🔪Dark Billy x Top male reader x Stu 🔪

Summary: Dark Billy, M/N, and Dark Stu, the enigmatic members of the Dark Trio, set out to frighten their victims and instill fear in the small village of Woodsboro. They push their victims to the brink while confronting their own problems through cryptic messages and a perverse game of survival. But as reality and fantasy blend together, they unleash a dark force that devours them and permanently damages the town. This terrifying story should serve as a reminder of what happens when one goes too far into the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A mysterious group known as the Dark Trio once resided in the sleepy little village of Woodsboro. They were Dark Stu Macher, a tall, lean young man whose sly smile belied his sinister nature; M/n, a fearless and fiercely intelligent man renowned for his extraordinary deductive abilities; and Dark Billy, a mysterious and brooding figure with penetrating blue eyes.

Billy had a notorious reputation for coercing others into doing his evil actions. Anyone may be drawn into the depths of his deranged psyche by his eerily alluring aura. His charismatic demeanor and charm drew in a lot of women, especially to him. They had no idea how much evil was hiding behind his alluring eyes.

The Dark Trio decided to carry out a scheme that would chill the whole town of Woodsboro on a chilly and rainy night. Fearsome thunder and lightning erupted as Stu Macher and M/N convened at a remote cottage tucked away in the woods. They were aware that by combining their intelligence and Billy's cunning to produce an event, they would terrify their victims and send the entire town into a state of terror.

Their objective was to send fictitious letters purporting to be amicable communications to the most well-respected residents in Woodsboro. The cryptic messages in these letters would alert M/N to an impending peril that they should take care of. The Dark Trio would prey on their victims and drive them insane by taking advantage of the anxiety and confusion these letters would create.

M/N created a perverse game for their victims with a type of imaginative ingenuity. His goal was to test them to the brink and reveal their darkest vulnerabilities and phobias. The three made the decision to hold a gruesome game of survival and imprisoned their victims in a maze-like home outside of town. They would either have to solve puzzles and face scary obstacles, or suffer horrifying outcomes.

The Dark Trio noticed as the game went on that their original thrill was evolving into something far darker. They started to lose themselves in their own psychological suffering as the distinction between reality and fiction started to blur. They faced their own anxieties head-on and realized they had let their own dreams loose on themselves. It was the memories of the women Billy had exploited in the past that tormented him in particular. As their ghosts wandered the mansion's hallways, they mumbled their complaints and plotted retaliation. He began to doubt his sanity, as his charm was ineffective in the face of their rage. As all of this was going on, M/N's ability to conclude from evidence was critically tested as he attempted to piece together the connections between the victims and Woodsboro's mysterious past. His gaze quickly slid into the shadows as the town's dark past came to light, exposing a string of gruesome killings that alluded to something darker.

It was evident that the Dark Trio had unleashed something far more deadly than they had imagined, as the game came to an end that was horrific. Dreams became vivid as the mansion changed into a macabre playground where the lines between life and death were hazy and shadows came to life.When the trio faced the demons they had awoken, it was a final encounter.

They battled for their lives, frantically attempting to outsmart the evil force that had taken possession as the mansion collapsed around them. They had unintentionally let go of something far bigger than they could have ever anticipated in a bizarre chain of circumstances, and the cost was more than they could have ever imagined.

The town of Woodsboro will eternally endure the consequences of their dark trio's heinous crimes. The once-thriving town was broken and forever altered, a daily warning of the dangers of diving too far into the darkness that exists within all of us. And the legends of Billy, M/N, and Stu Macher would live on in the town's collective psyche, reminding everyone of the horrors that can be unleashed with a touch of visionary talent and a twisted mind.

#scream x male reader #lgbtq #dom male reader #top male reader #billy x dom male reader x stu #billy x male reader x stu #billy x top male reader x stu #yandere billy loomis #yandere stu macher #scream aesthetic #scream fanfic #slashers fanfiction #slashers x male reader #slashers x top male reader #yandere slashers #slashers x male reader #yandere male reader #slashers #slashers x you #slashers x reader #slasher x reader #slasher community

[boobo13cambridge]

Skyfall | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé | OC

As she gazed out of the window, her eyes lingered on the sprawling cityscape of Paris below, a tapestry of lights and shadows. With a resolute heart, she made a silent vow to herself - to live fiercely, to be the champion for those silenced in the shadows. The path ahead was fraught with challenges, but her resolve was unyielding, a debt of honor to the one who believed in her when doubt cast its long shadow. He had been her mentor, her guardian; he had taken her under his protective wing at a time when skepticism clouded her every step. His unwavering presence had been her fortress, standing valiantly by her side, a solitary defender against a sea of naysayers in those echoing halls of judgment that was the Assas.

A solitary tear, a crystal testament to her inner turmoil, traced a path down her cheek, caressing her skin like a whisper of the past. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply, though the city's air was tinged with the bitter notes of reality, but mostly pollution (and was that piss?). A sudden, sharp cough, rattled her body, breaking the spell of her reverie. A rueful smile touched her lips as she mused on the cinematic trope of the enigmatic lawyer, solitary and contemplative, gazing out over a city - a scene far more inspiring in a James Bond movie than in real life.

With a finger raised towards the dark sky, the young woman whispered a prayer into the night. 'Vae victis,' she breathed, her words a soft caress against the chaos of the world, 'woe to the conquered.' Her whispered incantation rode the winds, a spectral force, stirring an unseen tremor that resonated through the city, a silent herald to those who would stand against her. 

Chapter One

August 12th, 2023

Parc des Princes

8:00 p.m.

One hour before kickoff, Laila was seated in the office of President Nasser Al-Khelaifi, wishing he would just get to the point. She had to admit, Kylian Mbappé possessed an almost uncanny ability to send the club's president into bouts of extreme hypertension. The obsession with the young French star seemed borderline obsessive to Laila, almost creepy. She often marveled at how Mbappé managed to maintain his composure and resist the urge to confront the old geezer. From a business standpoint, however, she could grasp why the PSG president was so adamant about retaining the French prodigy; after all, money makes the world go round.

Despite her desires to be anywhere else, fate had different plans. Her late mentor had insisted that she start her so-called mission with the French football club for reasons he didn’t entirely foreclose. It was in these moments, she felt a deep kinship with Harry Potter who also had a mentor who seemed to leave the world with more questions than answers despite the world going to shit. Even from beyond the grave, he seemed to enjoy watching her struggle in this unexpected role. Being a lawyer for PSG was far from what her teenage self had envisioned for her future. But such was life.

“Je ne peux pas croire qu’après tout ce que nous avons fait pour ce connard, il ne veut pas renouveler. Il veut quoi de plus put-” the president grumbled in his accented french.

“Avec le plus grand respect, Mr. le président,” Laila interjected, “vous devez comprendre que les résultats du PSG après le mercato n’étaient pas satisfaisant. Vous lui avez promis un bon mercato, et pourtant, ils ont été éliminés dès les huitièmes de finale en ligue des champions. Et pourquoi? Parce que vous avez mis tout l'accent sur l'acquisition de stars. Sérieusement, qu’est-ce qui vous a traversé l’esprit en voulant avoir Messi, Neymar, et Mbappé dans la même équipe? Et vous pensez vraiment que Messi allait s’essayer si proche de la retraite?”

The words tumbled out of Laila before she could stop them, her frustration with the president's incessant complaints reaching its peak. Sometimes, he acted like a petulant child.

“Et alors, c’est de ma faute ça ?” President Al-Khelaifi retorted defensively.

“Si vous voulez des stars dans votre équipe, Mr. le Président, vous devez avoir un entraîneur capable de gérer leurs égos astronomiques. Messi venait du FC Barcelone, et il était évident le respect qu’il avait pour le PSG. Malheureusement, un coach comme Christophe Galtier ne fait qu'empirer les choses,” Laila countered.

“En tout cas, passons à autre chose. Je veux que tu ailles voir Mbappé et sa famille et que tu essaies de le convaincre. Ils vont être là ce soir pour voir le match.” (As usual, the president didn’t want to discuss anything that put him in a bad light)

“Peut-être que la première chose à faire serait de lui dire qu’il ne sera plus dans le loft?”

“Oui, oui, dis-lui qu’il peut revenir, mais je veux qu’il reste. C’est compris?”

“Sí, señor,” she replied sarcastically, exiting the room swiftly as she noticed President Al-Khelaifi’s eye begin to twitch.

As Laila stepped out of the president's office, she let out a deep sigh and made her way down to the Salon Louvre. Truly, Nasser should’ve been smarter than this but money does have a way of blinding a person. Regardless, she had a job to do and if it meant that she had to play Nasser’s little games, she would do it. Laila knew exactly what the end goal was and she wasn’t going to get distracted. 

As she made her way to the Salon Louvre, where Chef Arnault had promised to reserve some of his renowned crème fraîche and caviar deviled eggs for her, she couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement for the match. Parc des Princes always pulsated with infectious energy and passion, which she adored. The stadium itself was incredible, and the Ultras knew how to light up a stadium. Every time she scrolled through Twitter or Instagram, she saw the tifos they made. The huge banners were truly works of art, and she deeply admired and respected the fans for the effort they put into them.

Her thoughts drifted to her three musketeers, her closest friends, and how carefree they had been before life's harsh realities had intruded. She reminisced about that summer night of August 14th, 2021, when they had come to watch PSG vs Racing Club de Strasbourg, the first match after COVID restrictions were lifted. How different things were back then. She yearned to reconnect and mend the fractures time had caused, but deep down, she knew it was perhaps a futile wish. With her eyes brimming with unshed tears, Laila wandered through the hallways leading to the salon, lost in her memories. Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn't notice the figure in front of her and walked straight into what felt like a very warm wall.

“Tabarnak-,” she swore, instinctively rubbing her nose.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” a voice apologized.

Startled, Laila looked up and found herself face to face with the French captain. Flustered, she took a step back, momentarily at a loss for words. Kylian Mbappé stood before her, and she couldn't help but notice how strikingly handsome he was. Dressed casually in a white Dior t-shirt and paired with stylish brown pants, which complemented his athletic build. His confident posture and the easy smile playing on his lips added to his striking appearance. He naturally carried a certain air of charisma that left her with a dry throat and a racing heart.

And God, those dimples...

How was she supposed to argue with this living reincarnation of big dick energy? Much less, convince him that he would be better off staying in a club where it was quite unlikely that he would ever win a Champions League, forget a Ballon d’Or. Her professor was so lucky to be lounging in the afterlife, because when she did find him, she would make him pay for putting her in this situation.

Kylian's gaze met Laila's, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes at her evident surprise. "You okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah, just... wasn't expecting a human roadblock," Laila joked, trying to mask her nervousness. The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile, those famous dimples making a brief appearance.

"I've been called worse," he chuckled. Kylian's smile took on a knowing edge, his gaze sharp yet playful. "So, Laila Soltani, the lawyer Nasser has brought in to convince me to stay at PSG, eh?"

Laila's eyes widened slightly,  her eyebrows arching in surprise."Yes, that's me. How did you know?"

Kylian leaned in slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. “See, now I’m more inclined to be offended. Athletes can read too, you know?” he teased, nodding towards her badge.

Laila felt her cheeks warm. “Oh, n-no, that’s not... I mean, I wasn’t—” she stammered, her words tumbling over each other in her fluster.

He laughed, a light, easy sound that seemed to echo around them. “I’m just messing around with you. Besides, it’s not every day the president hires someone specifically to deal with me. You must be quite persuasive.”

Laila laughed, a sound more relaxed than she felt. "I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Mbappé. But yes, that's why I’m here, in part. Though, convincing someone of your caliber to stay... that's a tall order. My greatest adversary so far."

Kylian's eyes glinted with amusement. "Greatest adversary, huh? Sounds like you’re ready for battle. Just remember, I'm not so easily swayed."

"Oh, we'll see about that," Laila retorted, her own eyes sparkling with the challenge. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Looking forward to it, Mademoiselle. May the best person win."

With a final chuckle, Kylian turned and strode away, leaving Laila to ponder the intriguing encounter. She shook her head, a smile lingering on her lips, and continued her journey to the salon Louvre. As she entered, she was immediately greeted by the buzz of fans, whose enthusiasm seemed to infect her immediately. The modern design boasted a sleek and refined look, with geometric light fixtures casting a constellation of warm, ambient light across the polished floor.

She found Chef Arnault behind the mini bar, a silver-maned sage in the world of haute cuisine. With the twinkle of seasoned joy in his clear blue eyes, he beckoned Laila over with a broad grin that seemed to know more than it let on.

"Well, well, if it isn't our lawyer," he teased, the light in his eyes matching the mischief in his tone as he took in her flushed appearance. "You look like you've just spent the whole evening sweating in a sauna. Let me guess, Mbappé charm in action?"

Laila rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth turned upward involuntarily. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those who know," he chuckled, presenting her with a plate of deviled eggs, each a small culinary work of art with creamy filling and a crown of caviar. "Here, I made these just for you. They might just give you the boost you need for the evening to deal with the capitaine."

Laila decided to just brush off Arnault's teasing and, not wanting to wait another second, she tossed back a whole deviled egg. The taste was amazing—so good it almost made her moan right there at the bar.

With a quick thanks to the chef, she slipped through the crowd of fans as she heard Michel Montana's voice encouraging the Ultras to cheer for the team. Their chatter was just noise against the hum in her head as she moved to her seat. It was pretty close to the president's spot, giving her an incredible view of the field.

She dropped into her seat, taking in the low buzz of the stadium and the distant echo of the players getting their game faces on. The excitement was kicking in. This wasn't just another day at the office for Laila; it was like stepping onto a chessboard where every move counted. The match was about to start, and she wasn't just thinking about the football. It was game time on all fronts.

___________________________________________________________

A/N: Hello, my lovelies. I'm back 😘

#kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe smut #kylian imagines #kylian mbappe #kylian mbappé #kylian mbappe imagine #kylian mbappe x y/n #kylian mbappe angst

[mickedy]

Big old TS!Underswap thoughtpost. Spoiler free :p

PROS

* It's really visually striking in almost every sense of the term. The areas are beautifully colored and the characters are all so well designed and the spritework is pretty fantastic. So many little character animations that bring the game to life. I like that the overworld sprites try to replicate the battle sprites, as opposed to the original Undertale that scaled down their designs into little low-pixel chibi things. It gives TS!US it's own visual identity which I appreciate.

* CHARACTER WRITING!!! Oh my god. The character writing. Oh my god? Probably the most in character Undertale fangame I've ever seen. Everything from the character interactions to the dialogue down to the humor feels like something Toby would authentically write. You'd think swapping everyone's roles around would make it difficult to keep the characters... in character, but actually it's astoundingly good. Toriel and Asgore have the same motives, but the difference here is that Asgore was banished to the ruins after waging war on humanity. Sans is a pretend superhero in a big old PR thing orchestrated by Papyrus. It's awesome. I give huge props to the character writing for those last two specifically. It works. You'd think an Underswap fangame would be horribly OOC but actually. It just works. it all works so well.

* Character writing+. There are loads of new characters that actually feel like monsters that could exist in the original game. There are two cartoon henchmen named Larry and Harry that are rivals to Crossbones and they are my absolute favorite of the new characters added. So many loveable characters here (which makes the No Mercy run all the more difficult... so props to TS.)

* Game mechanics. Lots of new game mechanics added. There's a journal that keeps track of the monsters you've encountered and how you've dealt with them, plus a collectibles menu and even a quest system. (The quests seem to be integrated into the morality system which is a really cool spin on the morality system of the original Undertale; the game even commends you for going out of your way to complete quests instead of barreling through areas! It makes me wonder how much of the "control" aspect is at play here.)

* The Human. The human has a lot of little character quirks and dialogue and animations that really make them such an endearing protagonist. I could talk about this character all day. Chara fans will love this one.

* Character writing. Mentioning it again. So good. Really good characters. Oh my god

CONS

* I dont even know

*

* The music is good but it's just kind of "good" when the rest of the game is so much more polished. I feel like there could be more... instruments in a lot of the songs. I don't know, I'm sure they were trying to replicate the chiptune style of Undertale music, but if they went through the trouble if changing up the art style then I'm not sure why they couldn't put a spin on the music style also, it kind of clashes with the theme. A very small complaint though. Muffet's battle music is so so catchy it's been stuck in my head.

* I dont know what else

* The No Mercy run is scary and it made me scared :scared:

* Sans is sidelined for this mysterious masked superhero guy named Crossbones?? Why'd they even bother putting Sans in the game. And who is this enigmatic Crossbones fellow...

* for real though i have very little complaints here its so so polished. Please please please play TS!IUnderswap i will dedicate the rest of my life trying to convince everyone to play it. It currently goes up to this universe's version of Waterfall but there's about 6 or 7 hours worth of content here already.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 8: Starfall] [Series Finale]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Hello all! At long last, here is the conclusion of this series. Thank you for all the love that this fic has received; I am truly thrilled beyond words to read each and every one of your thoughts, rants, outbursts, compliments, complaints, and analyses. My first idea for a story is always the ending, so I’ve had parts of this finale written in my Word Doc since before I published the first chapter. Still, it feels very surreal to have finally finished it. I hope it is worth the wait. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, death and destruction, ANGST, dad!Aemond, Aegon-related chaos, prophesies for days, a tiny bit of sexual content, dragons, drama, lots of shouting, if you have not read Fire & Blood then you should know that there are SOME spoilers/allusions involving certain characters (but not that many).

Word count: 10.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama @elsolario​

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper for your daughter who cannot yet speak, your cheek pressed to Laurel’s. You wave her tiny hand as Aemond and Vhagar vanish into a horizon that’s darkening like a bruise: gold, blue, violet, black, punctuated by rising stars. Encroaching thunder growls like a dragon. Lightning flashes as raindrops begin to fall from the sky. “Goodbye. Good luck. We’ll see you again soon.”

You retreat back inside the Red Keep and accompany Helaena and the children to Alicent’s rooms. As Jaehaera and Maelor play agreeably on the floor with woodcarvings of animals—and Jaehaerys mutilates a horse figurine with a toy mallet, targeting one leg at a time—you trade with the old queen: you give her a very drowsy Laurel, and she hands you her embroidery. The pattern is a simple white watchtower, but you’re so distracted thinking about Aemond and Storm’s End that you promptly botch it and tangle the threads beyond repair.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Alicent, mortified, showing her the rubble. “I should have known better than to try…I’m afraid I lack Helaena’s talents…”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Alicent says. She beams down at Laurel as she rocks her. Helaena is absorbed with embroidering a strikingly lifelike water strider. Sir Criston is ostensibly polishing his sword at the table, but in truth listening to Alicent; he studies her words and moods and gestures the same way maesters study poisons and cures. “You must be terribly preoccupied this evening.”

“I am,” you admit. There’s no point in trying to hide it. Your hands are trembling and useless.

Still gazing at Laurel—her dreamy half-closed eyes, her silver lashes, her vulnerable smallness—Alicent speaks to you in a voice that is wistful and far away. “There was once a time when Rhaenyra suggested a match to resolve the question of succession. Jace would marry Helaena, and thus our bloodlines would be knitted back together and both branches of the family spared. I refused her. I’m not even entirely sure why I did. Now I wonder if I was wrong to reject her offer. Perhaps I could have stopped this.”

“You must not blame yourself. The realm has always balked at Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne. I don’t believe anything short of her surrender could prevent war.”

“You have no idea what it was like,” Alicent says. Now she looks at you with dark eyes that glint with deep, wounded bitterness. “Watching Rhaenyra indulge every whim, flout every tradition, taste every desire, while I…while I…” She pinches her eyes shut, trying to forget. “I have been standing on this precipice since I was eighteen years old, yet I have discovered that it is something else entirely to plunge headfirst into it.”

You place your hand lightly on her forearm. From across the room, Sir Criston lays down his sword and considers approaching. “You will not face this alone.”

“Aemond says you are a woman who admires ferocity. You must think that we can win if you’ve thrown your lot in with us. Perhaps that is why you support the Greens, why you came to King’s Landing to serve us to begin with. Because you have judged us to be the victors.”

That would be perfectly logical, but it’s wrong. “I support the Greens because I love you. All of you.”

Alicent’s face breaks into a sad smile. “I’m very glad that you are Aemond’s wife. Even though I was rather horrified at first.”

“I have been known to have that effect on people.”

“You don’t know what he was like before,” Alicent says. “The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence. I think you saved him from becoming a monster.” She returns Laurel to you. The baby is sound asleep. “You both saved him.”

Sir Criston, having sheathed his sword, wanders over to invent some pretext to converse with Alicent: something about Aegon’s new council, something about the terms sent to Rhaenyra. She is still mulling it over, this last chance at peace; yet even if she is inclined to accept the concessions—an unconditional pardon, Dragonstone for Rhaenyra and Jace, Driftmark for Luke, recognized legitimacy for Harwin Strong’s sons, places at court for Daemon’s—her husband will advise her against it. Aemond was right when he said that Rhaenyra isn’t suicidal. You aren’t so sure about Daemon.

As you depart to put Laurel to bed, you pause by Helaena and praise her embroidery. It is exactly what you have come to expect from her: intricate, gorgeous, and yet unnerving somehow. Her water strider is made of gold-and-ruby flames, and the wave it dances on is adorned with the reflection of a crescent moon. You recall what she said at King Viserys’ last dinner, so softly that hardly anyone noticed: Beware the beast beneath the boards. “Meleys in the Dragonpit,” you say. “You knew it was going to happen.”

Helaena’s reply is halting and dazed. “I can sometimes see what—pieces of it, anyway, fragments of it, like shards of glass left in the frame of a broken window—but not when or how.”

“That must be maddening.”

“Oh, it is,” she agrees, and resumes her stitching. On the floor, Jaehaerys starts dragging a screeching Maelor around by his white hair. Sir Criston separates them, then lectures Jaehaerys about the importance of princely behavior. Jaehaerys kicks him in the steel-plated shin.

“I suppose we could share grandchildren one day,” you tell Helaena. “Laurel might marry Maelor.” Otto Hightower has already suggested it, and you aren’t necessarily opposed, assuming the two grow up to be genuinely fond of each other. Maelor is a shy, benevolent sort of child, just like his mother; he’s no Jaehaerys, that’s for certain. Aemond always says the same thing about Laurel, without further explanation, without hesitation: She will be whatever she wants to be. This seems to be in blatant conflict with his self-sacrificial sense of duty, of advancement. Then again, so is his love for you.

But Helaena shakes her head, very slowly, her gaze still tangled in the threads of her embroidery. “No, she won’t,” the new queen murmurs.

You take Laurel back to her bedroom and lay her in the cradle, and you stand there for a long time with your hands on the railing. A mobile of cloth insects—a gift from Helaena—twirls lazily above your head. The room is hushed. The window looks out on Blackwater Bay, where rain falls and lightning splits the indigo sky like fractured bones; the island you and Aemond call Bearstone is visible only as an outline on the horizon that blacks out some of the stars. The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence, Alicent had said, and that’s true, isn’t it? You wonder what Borros Baratheon’s answer will be. You wonder what kind of man will return to you if Aemond spends weeks, months, years away at war.

Beside your sleeping daughter is the dragon egg Aemond chose for her: white, silver-flecked, as large and armored as Laurel is fragile and diminutive. She often reaches for it, marvels at it, beats her little fist against it as if trying to crack the shell. The egg came from Dreamfyre’s clutch, and the Greens have already begun referring to the one-day dragon by a name that honors both its Targaryen and Mormont affiliations: Frostfyre.

You leave Laurel in the care of her wetnurses and handmaidens and sit by the fireplace in the chambers you share with Aemond, trying to lose yourself in a book about the geography of Westeros. Flamelight dances across the pages as you turn them. Your mind keeps wandering: south to Storm’s End, north to Bear Island, into the future, into the past.

There is a knock against your doorframe. Aegon leans there in gold and green, smirking, pleasantly tipsy but far from drunk. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He waltzes inside, flourishing the wine cup in his hand. “Are you utterly tormented? Are you inconsolable? Have you chewed your fingers down to the bone?”

“Not yet. But this book isn’t helping as much as I’d hoped.”

“That’s because it’s a book.”

“Perhaps I should try whores.”

Aegon cackles and throws himself down into the plush reading chair across from you. He props his boots on the footstool and crosses them one over the other. “Can you believe that this is my fourth cup of wine today? Not fourteenth. Fourth.”

“I’m very proud of you,” you say, and you mean it.

“It’s the strangest thing. I train with Sir Criston and I attend council meetings and I make my public appearances…and before I know it each day is gone. I set my cup down on tables or bannisters and then I forget all about it.” He glances to the bed, noting the dusty pale-pink remnants of the protection spells you’ve cast there. “What happens when all the bears relocate from the kingswood? What happens when Balerion runs out of teeth?”

“I’ll start pulling yours.”

He is amused, but there is something dismal about his expression as well. His face is less puffy, more serious. The reflections of flares and embers glow in his eyes. “I don’t know why you would want to protect me,” he says, remembering the night before his coronation. “If I die, Jaehaerys is next in line to the throne, but he’ll be a child for the next decade. Aemond could be regent. The task would suit him. It would please him, I believe. It is a role he was built for. The gods used entirely different bricks when they made me. Your life would be simpler without me in it.”

“Simpler, perhaps. But not better.”

He smiles; and this time it is shadowless and pure. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Bear Island,” you reply; and you both burst into laughter as you sit together in the crackling firelight. Outside, rain drums against the windows and the wind howls as the storm intensifies. “Also, I think Jaehaerys might be deranged.”

“Yes, well you have to watch out for firstborns, you know. They are often incorrigible.”

“Personally, I have a weakness for second sons.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What happens if Rhaenyra won’t accept the terms?” you ask quietly, looking at Aegon. “What happens if there is war?”

“There won’t be.”

“But if there is?”

Aegon shrugs, unconcerned. “Then we’ll win. We have the support of the Westerlands and the Reach, and probably Storm’s End too. We have Sir Criston, the best swordsman in Westeros. We have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and Vhagar, who easily counts as two or three ordinary dragons put together. We have my supernaturally manipulative grandsire. We have you. And, of course, we have Aemond.”

“I fear losing him,” you confess. “I hate how much I fear it. It makes me feel pathetic. I didn’t used to be like this. But now I’m filled to the brim with dread.”

“Are you worried that he’ll march off to battle and fall into the soothing arms of some other enchanting, adulterous Northerner? That’s quite impossible, I assure you. He’s never been one inclined towards romance. What liaisons transpired before you—and there weren’t many, believe me, I judged him plenty for that—were…” He ponders how to phrase it. “More educational than impassioned.”

“No,” you say, smiling wanly. “I’m worried that he’ll come home a different man than he left. I’m worried that he’ll succumb to his blind hatred for the Blacks and be poisoned by it.”

“I don’t think that will happen. He won’t allow himself to lose his way. His love for you and the baby is too great.”

“Will you show me?” you ask, holding up your book. There is a map of Westeros on the page, mountains and rivers and borderlines carved like knife wounds in flesh. “If there is fighting, where it will happen?”

“Sure,” Aegon replies. He has attended enough council meetings to know their schemes by now. He gets up and rests his elbows on the back of your chair, hovering over you to point out the pertinent locations. He is very close; you can smell wine on him, and perfume scented like pomegranates, and soap and sun. There are ink stains on his hands. His silvery hair brushes against your cheek. “Control of the Riverlands would be essential. It is the closest thing Westeros has to a center point, and we would need it to have ready access to the surrounding regions. Its rivers carry trade goods. Its lords have many men and horses at their disposal. Its flat, fertile soil is good for feeding soldiers. And killing them.” He grins. “We would need a foothold there. Maidenpool or High Heart, perhaps. More likely Harrenhal. That’s Lord Larys Strong’s castle, conveniently.”

“It would be an uncommon sensation for him. Being useful, I mean.”

Aegon’s index finger travels around the map. “Battles would pepper the Riverlands and the parts of the Crownlands likely to support Rhaenyra. Duskendale, Rosby, Rook’s Rest. We’d stay out of the Vale. Men can’t fight on the sides of mountains. We aren’t goats.”

But your gaze has snagged somewhere else. In the belly of the Riverlands, there lies the largest lake in Westeros: vast and crystalline blue and with an island at the center known as the Isle of Faces, a legendary and unconquerable mystery that turns all sailors away with fierce winds and flocks of squawking ravens. “I’ve been there,” you say. “The God’s Eye. We stopped to swim and picnic on its shores when my family brought me south to marry Axel Hightower. It is a place of magic, of deep, ageless power. I’d like to go back someday. I’d like to try to visit the Isle of Faces.”

“Aemond can take you, when all this is over. He can land Vhagar right in the middle of that fabled, forbidden little island. And then burn it to ash if you’re unimpressed.” He plucks the book out of your hands and snaps it shut. “Now let’s desist with the geography lesson and do some gambling instead.”

You play cards for several hours—thunder booming, lightning striking ever-closer, Aegon unashamedly robbing you of your coins as you fumble along without much strategy, distracted and nervy—until you tell the king that you’re going to bed. You’re a liar. You bathe and slip into your nightgown and then sit and stare at the dying cinders in the hearth, pulsing like fireflies: garnet, jasper, carnelian, tiger’s eye. When you begin to nod off at last, your vision blurs and the pinprick infernos become distant and indistinct, like stars. They form constellations you can only decipher pieces of: a claw here, a wing there, eyes and blades and teeth. You jolt awake when you hear the bedroom door creak open. The fire rekindles with the gust of cool new air. You know exactly who it is. You recognize his footsteps.

“You’re back already—?”

His face stops you. Everything about him stops you. He’s drenched to the skin and shivering, staring at the wall. His hair is in disarray. Wet, silver twists hang loose and wild; his tie has come undone and he hasn’t even noticed. Water drips from his coat and forms reflective pools around his boots. You can see firelight dancing there. Helaena’s words whisper through your skull like cold wind: He comes home late, covered in rain.

“What?” you say, standing. “What happened?”

Aemond is silent. Lightning illuminates the room in stark, white-blue rage.

You take his hands, and he allows this but won’t look at you. Every angle of his body is wrong: his shoulders, his spine, his jaw. You’ve never seen him like this before. Perhaps nobody has. What could it be? What could it POSSIBLY be? “Did the Baratheons deny you?”

“No, they are with us. Daeron will marry Floris.”

“Then what…?”

At last, his gaze meets yours. His words are slow and heavy, so heavy. His eye—blue like clear skies, like the ocean, like veins beneath paper-thin skin—is more than just stunned. It is afraid. “Luke was there too.”

You don’t understand. “…At Storm’s End?”

“Yes.”

There’s blood on him, you realize now; not much, but enough. There’s a smudge on his right temple, a stain on his throat, flecks in his hair. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Aemond says again.

Just Luke. Not Jace, not Rhaenyra, not Rhaenys, not Daemon…just timid little Luke Strong. You take a step back, dropping his hands. Your stomach plummets; cold sweat slicks across your pores. You are suddenly terrified to know more. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What happened, Aemond?”

You call him by his name, and you never call him by his name. Your husband does not seem to have caught this. His fingers go unconsciously to the bear-hilt dagger he still wears at his belt. “Luke was sent to compel Lord Borros to honor his father’s long-past commitment to Rhaenyra. He was so pitiful, so weak, he brought nothing but his mother’s admonishment. Borros turned him away. And then, I…I…” Now his fingertips ghost over his scar. “I stopped him. I threw him your dagger. And I told him to put out his eye.”

Timid little Luke Strong, alone in Storm’s End…small and afraid and outmatched just like Aemond had been all those years ago on Driftmark when he was maimed. “You…?”

“As payment for mine.” He smirks, a ghoulish little half-smile with no humor at all. “I told him that I planned to make a gift of it to you.”

And there is something gut-wrenching about this, it hits you harder than you could have anticipated: that the same man who gave you tenderness and devotion and whispers and faith and a child was going to give you another child’s eye. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed. “But he didn’t do it.” If he had, Aemond would now be radiant, victorious. Instead, he is horrified.

“No,” Aemond says. “He refused. And when he left on Arrax…I followed him.”

Your voice is hoarse, brittle. “You killed that boy?”

“I did not give the order,” he insists fiercely. “I meant only to frighten him, to shame him, but Vhagar…she…she…” He shakes his head, like casting out bad dreams. “I tried to stop her.”

Surely there can be no greater betrayal than this: his dragon, his first conquest, his path to redemption. And he will never be able to admit it to anyone but you. Helaena’s warning is a specter hissing through fanged teeth from the shadows of this room: Be cautious with her. She will not always listen. “Vhagar against Arrax, that is no battle, that is murder. The realm will see this as murder.”

“I know.” His reply is helpless.

You reach for him. “Aemond…”

“Do not comfort me,” he flares. “I am not worthy of it. It is you and our daughter who I have endangered.”

“We can win,” you say quickly, desperately. “There will be war now but we can win it, the Greens have the Reach and the Westerlands and Storm’s End, and half of the Crownlands too, we have wealth and armies and dragons and magic, and we already hold the capital, we need only to defend it—”

“I have to send you away.”

Every frenzied thought in your mind falls silent. “What? Where?”

“Starfall.”

Dorne? Some remote, desert castle in a land I’ve never known? You watch each other in the firelight. “No,” you reply simply.

“This will destroy Rhaenyra. She will want me destroyed in return. And Daemon knows exactly how to do it.”

“No,” you repeat, furious. “I’m not going anywhere, we don’t run from battles, I don’t run from battles—!”

Aemond grabs your wrists and holds them against his chest, gently but stubbornly. “Listen,” he says. “I will have to leave King’s Landing to fight this war. And Daemon will come for you. He knows what you mean to me, what you are to me, he knows. He will do it himself, or he will send someone to do it for him, or he will do it if the Blacks sack the city, but no matter how it happens he will not stop until your blood is spilled. He will not honor your status as a noncombatant. And he won’t just kill you. He will do excruciating, unforgivable things to you, because that is how he can hurt me best. The way he looked at you…here, in the Red Keep, as Viserys lay dying…that was the first time I ever saw you as what you truly are.”

“A burden?” you fling at him like a blade.

“No, Moonstone.” He releases your wrists and clasps your face with his hands. “A weakness.”

The fight bleeds out of you. Not so long ago, it was not believed that Aemond One-Eye had any fears, any weaknesses at all. “I don’t want to leave you. Any of you.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I can’t go to Dorne. They don’t have any heart trees there. The Old Gods won’t be able to hear me.”

“You cannot stay here,” he swears. “I cannot leave you in plain sight and undefended.”

“Then send me back to Bear Island instead,” you plead frantically.

“No. The North is likely to side with Rhaenyra, and Daemon would know to look for you there.” He strokes your hair, your cheek, the pendant that swings from your neck. “Dorne will remain neutral, and Starfall is on the Summer Sea. You can get there by ship, easily and inconspicuously. I cannot fly you. Vhagar could be sighted, and everyone knows who she belongs to. And I…I…” His eye goes vacant, haunted. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

A shudder claws down your spine. I’ve ridden that dragon. My daughter has touched that dragon. “So you’ll ride off to battle against Syrax and Meleys and Caraxes and I’ll…just…what, stare out a window and wait for you to show up and rescue me? Wake up every day wondering if you’re still alive? If Aegon and Sir Criston and Otto are still alive? I’ll read books and play cards and embroider pillowcases and go on meaningless fucking strolls through the gardens? I’ll be useless, I’ll be worse than useless because I could have helped you if I had stayed, I will—”

“You will survive.” He smiles faintly. “The maesters of Starfall will offer you and Laurel shelter. They will keep you secret. They will keep you informed of how the war progresses. And if…somehow…the Greens are on the losing side…then they will help you start over someplace where you will never be found.”

You think of all the letters he’s exchanged with Dornish maesters over the past ten months, letters you’ve never pried much into, ravens loosed and received. “How long have you been considering this?”

“Since I met you. Just in case.”

You try to imagine it—hot blaring sun, bobbing ships, the ocean, castle walls—and perhaps Starfall won’t feel so very far from King’s Landing after all. Perhaps it will be a respite, not an exile. Perhaps you will be back in the Red Keep with every living soul you’ve ever loved before the year is finished. Even if I can’t bear to do it for me, I can do it for Laurel. I will have her. I can protect her.

Aemond touches his forehead to yours, and only now are you aware of the tears streaking down his flawless right cheek. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I’ll go to Starfall. If that’s what you need, if that’s what’s best for our daughter, I’ll do it.”

“There’s one last thing.” He takes your dagger from his belt and lays it in your outstretched palm. You think, without wanting to: If Luke had mutilated himself with this blade, he’d still be alive. Aemond lifts your chin to kiss you, an act so delicate and insurmountably heavy it could shatter. “Keep this with you.”

~~~~~~~~~

He introduces her to each type of blossom, skimming a kaleidoscope of petals across her miniature fingers: roses, wisteria, jasmine, calla lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, red poppies. He is cautious not to let her get too firm a grip, lest she decides to eat one. He insists on doing everything. He never wants a break from her. Soon you’ll both be gone, sailing into the horizon on some nondescript ship bound for Dorne. He knows his time is running out. Laurel devours him with those enormous, knowing eyes. She clutches clumsily at the petals with great interest, perhaps in part because he’s the one offering them. She gets upset when he tries to carry her through the cool, dark trellis archway grown thick with greenery; she wonders where the sun has gone.

At last he returns to sit beside you on the edge of the fountain. A pair of white stone dragons exhale gushes of clear water like flames. The gardens are quiet and still. It is late-afternoon on a magnificently warm and golden day, but the Red Keep feels abandoned. Bees and butterflies and beetles wheel in the air. You can hear waves crashing against jagged black rocks, windchimes jangling in the breeze, the distant snarls of dragons.

“She might be walking by the time we see you again,” you tell Aemond. You smile, hoping to lift his spirits; but he doesn’t smile back.

He presses his lips to Laurel’s silver hair. Someday soon, it will be long enough to braid. “She might have a dragon waiting for her.” Frostfyre’s egg will remain in King’s Landing, of course; it will be left in the care of the Dragonkeepers in case the beast hatches during the war.

“You will get to teach her how to ride. How to speak High Valyrian.”

Now he does smile, with hope and optimism and pride. “And you will teach her magic.”

There is the sound of dainty heels clicking against the cobblestones. Helaena appears, carrying a praying mantis in her palm like a beacon. “You are required in the Great Hall,” she says.

You and Aemond look at each other, mystified. “Why?” he asks Helaena.

“Everyone is waiting.” And then she turns and leaves.

You and Aemond follow after Helaena, struggling to keep up. You lift the hem of your dress—black with accents of silver, your dagger secured by a belt patterned with silver bears—to avoid puddles and ascend steps; Aemond carries Laurel against his chest. She peers over his shoulder, eyes alert, cheeks chubby and with dimples like her father’s. You will have to be mindful in Dorne to ensure her skin isn’t burned by the sun. As you near the Great Hall, you can hear muffled music and voices and clanks of cups and silverware.

“Oh, gods,” Aemond groans, realizing too late.

You begin: “What—?”

The guards open the doors. Inside the Great Hall, there is a raucous feast in progress: dancing, drinking, gorging, whoring, wolfing down enough pleasures to last until the war is done. Everyone knows that time is disappearing like a starving crescent moon. Everyone knows the blood will soon begin flowing. The royal family has a table above all the chaos: Otto, Alicent, and Sir Criston are seated there with grim faces. Aegon is laughing hysterically about something that no one else seems to appreciate. Helaena scurries across the room to take her rightful place in the empty chair beside him.

“Ah, the guest of honor!” Aegon booms when he sees you and your husband, tottering to his feet and raising his cup of wine. He is grinning hugely beneath glazed, groggy eyes. He’s not just drunk. He’s ruined. “A toast to my brother, Aemond, the champion in the very first engagement of the war. To the prince, to Vhagar, and to a hasty victory!”

There are dutiful cheers, but when the nobles of Westeros turn to Aemond their faces are not congratulatory; they are wary, mistrustful, repulsed. Even the most fervent supporters of the Greens have trouble stomaching the murder of a child. Aemond’s own face is stone; he is seething, of course, but he hides it well. You take Laurel from him so he can meander through the hall accepting obligatory compliments from the guests: sword-wielding men, blanching women, reticent daughters who are for the first time relieved that it was not one of them he chose to wed. As you make your way to the royal family’s table, you swim in a sea of noxious whispers.

“…Nothing left, I heard…not a single piece…just a head of the other dragon…the boy must have been swallowed…”

“You saw Rhaenyra’s son when he was here, didn’t you? Nothing but a scared little runt…”

“…More like an execution than a battle…”

“Look, not even Aemond’s Mormont wife can summon up enthusiasm for this travesty. When was the last time she wore black to a feast? She’s always in that strange pearlescent color…”

“…Vhagar is five times the dragon Arrax was…”

“I have it on good authority that Rhaenyra was considering terms before what happened at Storm’s End, and now it will be a bloodbath…now all our sons will be expected to bleed…”

“…There is no decency in this…”

“Aemond One-Eye, they call him. Maybe they ought to change it to Aemond the Kinslayer.”

There was a moment—at Aegon’s coronation, at the beginning of the end—when there was a chance for the people to meet Aemond, to witness his gifts, to learn to love him. Now that chance is as dead as Lucerys Velaryon.

You greet Alicent and Otto, then tell them that you’ll return after you’ve put Laurel to bed. It is not customary for young children to attend feasts, nor do you wish to frighten her with all of the unfamiliar sights and scents and sounds…although, and perhaps you should have anticipated this, Laurel doesn’t seem frightened at all.

“Nonsense!” Alicent says, rather ferociously, and gleefully lifts the baby out of your arms. She and Otto pass Laurel back and forth: snuggling her, tickling her, showing her off to mostly-indifferent courtiers. Your adopted family knows that this is one of their last chances to see her before your departure to Dorne. They have been informed of Aemond’s plan—Alicent, Otto, and Sir Criston—and contrary to being outraged (as you had been) they are in agreement that it is a wise course of action. Helaena was not explicitly told, but seems aware of it nonetheless; this morning she was offering you advice about packing lots of light, breathable fabrics. No one has told Aegon yet. Aemond doesn’t want to be the one to do it. You aren’t sure how.

You pick at your food and sip your wine and try to keep your expression as neutral as possible. There is no winning here. If you appear joyful, you are celebrating the murder of a child; if you are morose, you are betraying your husband. In truth, you are neither, and you are both, and you are everything in between. As Aemond traverses the Great Hall, he keeps you on his good side as much as he can. He glances at you—over and over again like the cyclical phases of the moon— storing up visions to be conjured when he is on the field of battle and you are in Starfall, not even a whisper, not even words on a page. He will not be able to visit you until the war is over. He will not be able to send you letters that could be intercepted.

“Should we go see the Iron Throne?” Otto asks in a high, squeaky voice as he struts around with Laurel. “Yes, let’s go see the Iron Throne. Once upon a time, there was a man called Aegon the Conqueror, and you happen to have some of his blood in you. You have his hair too, but that’s a separate story. We can talk about the trials and tribulations of hair later. Now, Aegon was born in…”

A very different Aegon saunters over to you, wine cup in hand. You ignore him.

“You look tense,” he says, swaying. He begins ineptly massaging your shoulders.

“You look wasted.” You swat him away.

“Dance with me, Moonstone,” he begs, plopping down in Aemond’s chair, swigging the last of his wine and then refilling it. “I am soon to be sent off to war. I could be killed, or worse, mortally wounded and rendered incapable of debauchery at the level which I aspire to.”

“No thanks.”

“Why, do you have other plans? Will you be sneaking off to any dusty stairwells? Do you need someone to guard the doorway for you and protect what scraps remain of your honor?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood tonight.”

“I’m always in the mood,” he says, grinning. “What do you think, did little Luke Strong go down smooth, or are there still bits of him caught in Vhagar’s teeth?”

You see it in a nauseating flash like lightning: that same boy who cowered beside his mother and attempted to defend Jace and loved Rhaena Targaryen reduced to a jumble of blood and bones. That’s really all we are. Beneath the names and the banners and the faiths and the magic, that’s all any of us are. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being supportive,” Aegon counters.

You glower at him, half-angry, half-disappointed. The disappointment feels worse. “Why did you have to do this?”

He is genuinely confused. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture to the feast, the crowds, the tentative praises offered to Aemond like girls climbing—numbly and obediently—into the beds of old men.

Aegon slurs as he speaks. “Look, whether it was the honorable thing to do or not, whether it was the wise thing to do, the Strong boy is dead and nothing can change that. We cannot apologize for it, we cannot disregard it. All that’s left to do is celebrate it.” He clangs his cup against yours. Wine splatters on the tablecloth. “There is one less Black. There is one less dragon for them to burn us alive with. And I have made Aemond a war hero.”

“You have made all of us profoundly uncomfortable.”

Pain rushes into his face like blood to flushed cheeks: true, repentant, defenseless pain. “That was not my intention,” he says softly.

“No, I see that now.” I don’t have much time left with Aegon. I don’t have much time left with any of them. “I’m sorry. And as my act of contrition I will dance with you.”

Aegon smiles again and leads you down into the crowd. You and the king are an island in a sea of depravity. To your right, some Lannister is practically undressing a more-than-enthusiastic Swyft girl. To your left, a Costayne lord has passed out on the floor; people step around him as they twirl and stumble. Aegon grasps your waist—chastely, careful not to offend—with his right hand and weaves his fingers through yours with his left. The music is quick and plucky, almost restless, almost perilous.

“I know I’ve been excessive tonight,” he admits, meaning the wine. “I hope you are not too angry with me. It’s just that I am acutely aware it will be my last chance for a while.”

This is true: there are armies massing, plans being drawn up, new weapons and armor being hammered into existence. Your ship leaves tomorrow. “I forgive you. Your brother will too, although it will take him longer.”

Aemond has at last arrived at the royal family’s table. He has somehow wrestled Laurel away from Otto and has her clutched to his chest as he confers with Sir Criston. Still, he is watching you. “So you remain opposed to the prospect of my untimely demise,” Aegon teases.

“Quite vehemently.”

“And I will continue to have the benefit of your gruesome, illicit spells until all the Blacks’ heads are secured on spikes outside the Red Keep.”

You hesitate. Aegon’s ungainly steps slow. The crowd around you is rowdy and oblivious.

“What’s the matter, witch? Have you embraced a non-heathen religion? Have you renounced the ways of your hairy, half-human, cave-dwelling forefathers?”

“It’s not that,” you say. “I would want nothing more than to help you…if I was able to. If I was staying in King’s Landing.”

He stops completely: a sudden lurch, an inebriated wobble. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be going tomorrow.”

He rips his hands away from you. “Going where?” he demands. His eyes are sharp with betrayal.

“Aegon…”

“Going where?”

You answer in a whisper, pained and sorry. “Starfall.”

He whirls and storms out of the Great Hall, tripping occasionally, pushing himself off walls when he careens into them. In the chaos of lust and gluttony, few guests even notice. You chase Aegon out into the hallway. He is moving with truly impressive speed for a man in his condition.

“Aegon, wait!” you call after him.

“Whose idea was this?” he hurls back, still racing through empty corridors. “Aemond’s, right? It couldn’t have been yours. I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t run.”

“Please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what, that you’re abandoning me—?!”

Aemond comes soaring out of a hallway, grabs Aegon, pins him roughly to the wall.

“You can’t send her away!” Aegon pleads, struggling. There are tears spilling down his cheeks. He slaps clumsily at his brother’s face, inflicting no damage whatsoever.

“And who will protect her if she stays?” Aemond says, his voice low and serrated and dark like volcanic glass. “I will be needed in battle, you will be needed in battle, Sir Criston will be leading the infantry, so tell me, who will be here to stand between her and Daemon when he comes to King’s Landing with fire and blood?”

Aegon stops fighting. His white-blond hair shags over his eyes. He is savagely bitter, glaring, hateful. “This is all your fault.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Why did you do it then?!” Aegon shouts. “Nobody told you to kill the Strong boy, nobody told you to make this war inevitable and incur the eternal wrath of the Blacks, so why the fuck did you do it?!”

Aemond doesn’t reply, but the truth speaks through the collapsing lines of his face, his shoulders, his spirit. His hands fall away from the king. His rain-blue gaze drops to the floor.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aegon realizes with hushed shock, with horror. And then, much louder: “It wasn’t on purpose?!”

“No one can know,” Aemond says.

“Oh gods, oh gods…” Aegon rubs his wet, ruddy face with both hands. “Seven hells, how does that happen?!”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“You’re telling me that you possess the largest, most lethal dragon on the planet and you can’t control her?! Someone explain to me how I’m still the family disappointment when I ride Sunfyre around the Crownlands all the time and I’ve never accidentally killed someone!”

Aemond says nothing, but he looks miserable, he looks broken.

“And now you send her away,” Aegon pitches at him. “You take her away from us, from me, not because of anything I did but because you made a mistake, because you fucked up—!”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“I am the king, every decision is my decision to make—!”

You flee from them as they slice at each other with venomous accusations, blades aimed at hearts and jugulars. You run beneath the torchlight, beneath the fading sounds of music and shouts and the crumbling realities of the world. Nothing will ever be the same again. That thread of fate disappeared down Vhagar’s void-black, scorching throat. We’re not supposed to be attacking each other. We’re supposed to be winning the war.

You know that Laurel’s bedroom will be deserted. You take shelter there, supporting yourself with the railing of her crib, empty except for Frostfyre’s egg. Through forge-hot tears, you stare out the window at the starless blur where Bearstone must be. You have not been there in the three days since Aemond returned from Storm’s End. He doesn’t want you to ride Vhagar. He doesn’t want you anywhere near her. Everything’s falling apart. How can I stop this? How can I stitch us all back together?

You wish there was a way to turn back time. You wish you had known to cast a protection spell for Lucerys Velaryon.

In the window’s glass, you catch a reflection of movement behind you in the dimly-lit bedroom. You catch the flicker of moonlight on metal.

Someone is in here with me. Someone with a blade.

You spin. A man is stepping out of the shadows, broad and black-haired and bearded. For a second, you can only gape at him with slow, stupid bewilderment. This doesn’t feel possible. This doesn’t feel real.

How…?

And then you know. Aegon uses the hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep like arteries; and, once upon a time, so had Daemon Targaryen. And this is the man he’s sent to kill you.

Aemond was right, you think, and realize that until now you had never truly believed him.

“Where’s the baby?” the man rasps, only half-illuminated. His dagger glints in the moonshine. “You’re supposed to have a baby with you.”

You reach for your bear-hilt dagger. He lunges for you. The second intruder, the one you still hadn’t known was there, crawls out from under Laurel’s crib and grabs your ankles. You scream like clashing swords, like a gutted animal as they grapple with you and slam you to the floor. You pull your dagger free and stab half-blindly at the larger man’s face as hands clamp over your eyes, your lips. He shrieks when your blade pierces his cheek, nicks his tongue, fills his mouth with blood. He pins your wrist to the floor and coughs up scarlet globs, spits them on you, calls you a bitch and a whore. You bite the hands that cover your face. You try to scream through their murderous fingers and palms. One of them rips your moonstone pendant off your neck, snapping the chain. The men are tearing pieces of your dress away. They are cutting the laces with their daggers. They are talking about what they plan to do to you.

Daemon wants this. Daemon told them to do this.

In his distraction, the larger man’s grip around your wrist loosens: only for a second, but that’s enough. You wrench your hand free and bury your dagger in his eye, all the way to the hilt. He howls and rocks backward, blood and remnants of his eye gushing down his face.

“Just kill the bitch!” he roars at his companion. “Just fucking kill her—!”

The bedroom door bangs open, and through the smaller man’s fingers you can see Aemond and Aegon burst inside. You hear Aemond drawing his sword. You hear the men Daemon sent struggling with him. Aegon drags you to the other side of the room and crouches over you, steadying himself by pressing a hand to the wall, wine and sweat oozing from his pores.

“No no no no!” the smaller man screeches as Aemond’s sword comes whistling down. The man’s skull is suddenly no longer attached to spine; his head rolls away with thick, sickening thuds. His blade still dripping with blood, Aemond turns to the larger man and slits his throat before he can beg for mercy. The bedroom falls into an abrupt silence.

“That is why she has to leave King’s Landing,” Aemond says, pointing to the would-be assassins’ corpses, still breathing heavily. Aegon just gawks in blank, speechless horror. Then Aemond sheaths his sword and gathers you into his arms. You dissolve into tears of fear, exhaustion, pain, shock.

“They were asking about Laurel,” you sob. “They, they, they were sent to kill her too—”

“Shh, she is safe, my love, she is safe. She is with Mother and Otto.”

“I didn’t believe it,” Aegon exhales, sinking to the floor. “I really didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“Double the guard on Mother and Helaena. They go nowhere alone.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately.

“And my wife sets sail for Starfall tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Aegon says again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry.”

“Aegon.” You reach for him, and he comes to you and Aemond on his hands and knees. The three of you sit on the floor together in the bloodied, moonlit quiet. You tuck the king’s hair behind his ear, whisk a tear from his cheek with your thumb, smile with soft, kind sorrow. “I’ll miss you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In Blackwater Bay, there is a ship with no destination.

It is small, inconspicuous, loaded with enough supplies for a handful of passengers and a skeleton crew. It is decorated with no banners. It carries no nets for fishing, no treasures for selling, no soldiers for transporting. In times of conflict, it is rare for such a seemingly available vessel to not be requisitioned for the war effort. Not even its captain knows where it is headed. When people—fisherman, traders, passersby—inquire about his purpose, he smirks slyly and replies: “I’m going wherever the wind blows me.”

Most accept this unfulfilling explanation with some mild bafflement, continue on with their business, and promptly let the exchange slip out of their mind like sand through the gaps between fingers. Some pester the captain with further questions until he waves them off. Some chatter innocuously with him about the weather or the sea or who he believes will triumph in the impending war for the Iron Throne. But when several Gold Cloaks from the City Watch happen by, something about this captain and his enigmatic ship catches in their minds like a thorn in flesh. Something about him reminds them of signs they’ve been told to look for.

And just as nearly a year before when Aemond Targaryen publicly announced his scandalous marriage to a willful, insignificant, already-wed daughter of House Mormont, a raven carrying this news finds its way from King’s Landing to the rocky, salt-lashed shores of Dragonstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Laurel is asleep in a crib in the corner of the bedroom you share with Aemond. Neither of you will allow her out of your sight. The feast has ended, the guests have been sent home to prepare for combat, the castle has been searched from top to bottom, from the godswood to the Great Hall to the weblike design of secret passageways. There are no other intruders. You are safe. There are guards stationed outside the bedroom door, guards beneath the windows, guards pacing the gardens. Aemond is sitting up in bed and mending your pendant with a pair of pliers and spare links of silver obtained from the maesters. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders and chest. His eyepatch hangs from a knob on the dresser. His forehead is wrinkled and determined.

You climb into bed beside him, candlelight painting you both with a brush made of heat, rage, lust, devastation, rebirth. “Can I ask you something, Silver?”

“Anything.”

You graze his face—you’re so fucking beautiful—with the backs of your fingers, first his good side, and then his ragged scar. “Why a sapphire?”

“Because of Symeon Star-Eyes.”

“I regret to remind you that you have married an uncultured Northerner.”

He smiles, still working on the damaged chain. “He was a knight during the Age of Heroes. He was blinded when he lost both of his eyes, so he replaced them with sapphires. That’s how the singers tell the story, anyway.”

You can picture it with aching clarity: Aemond as a small, lonely, tormented boy consuming book after book about ancient warriors and legendary beasts. He kept every piece of lore he learned about them like secrets, like jewels, like bricks to build himself with. “And he never stopped fighting.”

“And he never stopped fighting.” Aemond finishes the chain and lifts it over your head. The moonstone pendant returns to rest exactly where it belongs. Then your husband tilts your chin, turns your face one way and then the other, his gaze wandering over the bruises and crimson scrapes left by Daemon’s would-be assassins, troubled and pensive. And then he kisses you, his lips gentle.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “I want to make sure you know that. I don’t blame you for what happened to Luke, or what happened today, or what will happen tomorrow.”

“I just can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I was that stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid. You were hurt, you were angry.”

“When I was chasing him through the storm…when he was so weak and helpless and I was so powerful…” His eye goes vague and far away. About six years away, you believe. “It was like I was carving out every part of myself that had ever been afraid, ever been harmed: by Luke and Jace, by Rhaenyra, by the world, by my father. It was like I was destroying that child who was once so friendless and overlooked and unchosen.”

“You can’t destroy him, Aemond. He’s you.”

He stares into nothingness. “You would have been safer as Axel Hightower’s wife.”

“I would choose you again. And again, and again.”

“Would you?”

“Always.”

Your lips meet his, delectably slow at first and then faster, bolder, more hungry. He matches your fire with his own. His hands steal beneath your nightgown. Your fingers knot in his hair. His mouth smiles into yours as you straddle him, nip playfully at his lips and tongue, reach down to feel how hard he is.

“Now,” you murmur. “Give me one last good memory to take with me to Starfall.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the garden, Helaena braids daisies into your hair and introduces you to a walking stick that you pretend not to be repulsed by; you even let it creep up the downy-soft underside of your forearm. In her chambers, Alicent gives you a warm, rather desperate embrace that feels like it goes on forever…and then she offers you a package wrapped in green silk. It is a book she requested from the Citadel about the history of Bear Island. “I thought it might keep you occupied on the journey,” she explains, almost self-consciously. “Perhaps you could even read it to the baby if she is restless.” And in the shadow of the heart tree in the godswood, King Aegon—dreadfully hungover, more racoon-eyed than ever—lounges with you sipping wine and talking about anything except the fact that you’re leaving. At last, it can’t be avoided.

“I don’t feel bad for you, just so you know,” he quips.

You grin. “No?”

“No. You’re going to be sunning yourself on a beach in beautiful, debaucherous Dorne. What’s there to pity? You’ll probably have a dozen paramours by the time Aemond returns for you. You’ll have forgotten all about us. You’ll be clinging to the castle walls begging Aemond to leave you there. He’ll have to pry your fingers free one by one. Now Daeron, that’s someone deserving of sympathy. He’s being dragged out of Oldtown to help us burn cities and butcher men and his great reward, if he survives, will be marrying Floris Baratheon, the realm’s most eligible donkey. His children won’t get dragon eggs. They’ll get bits and bridles.”

You laugh, then peer up at the clouds. “Daeron. I can’t wait to finally meet him one day.”

“You’ll like him. He’s the best of us, clever and kind and unruined. He’s the good one.”

Now you look at Aegon. Both he and Aemond slept with the protection spells you cast for them under their beds last night. It is the last magic you will perform until the war is over. It is the last advantage you can give them. “You’re all the good one.”

It is not until after nightfall when Aemond walks you out to the waiting ship. He wants no witnesses, no rumors. He carries Laurel all the way there; he has to blink the tears from his eye when he surrenders her to the wetnurse. You will take two wetnurses and three handmaidens to Starfall. The ship is stocked with provisions for a trip of several weeks. The captain, an ardent Green, has not been told the destination in advance, nor of your identity; he has been told only that he will be abundantly rewarded, that he will never need to work a day in his life again, that his five children won’t either. Everyone else goes aboard. You and Aemond linger together on the dock under more stars than could ever be named. He is solemn; he is intensely quiet.

“Fear not, husband,” you say. “You cannot rid yourself of me. I am yours for life.”

“For life,” he echoes, kissing you, filling himself with you like you’re the air in his lungs, the marrow in his bones.

Your fingers brush the bear-hilt dagger at your belt, which you will take to Starfall at his insistence. “I wish I had something more to give you, a piece of me to carry through the war.”

“You have given me enough, Moonstone. You have given me everything.”

“Wait.” You lift off your pendant and stand on your tiptoes to hang it around his neck; you watch the gemstone, gleaming in the moonlight, settle on his chest by his heart. “I’m coming back,” you tell him, smiling, tears like constellations in your eyes.

Aemond admires the pendant with reverent incredulity, and then he kisses you again: one last time, his hands on your face, you tugging him closer by the collar of his coat, the wind whipping through you both. “Not soon enough. Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough.”

You board the ship. He returns alone to the Red Keep, his head down, his arms crossed, his mind presumably lost in the nebulous future.

The captain greets you warmly, and you give him the name of the location you are to be taken too. He nods and confers with the navigator before guiding the ship out into Blackwater Bay. You venture below deck to check on Laurel. She is sleeping peacefully in her cabin, loyally attended by her wetnurses and handmaidens. You study her for a long time—your skin, Aemond’s hair, one tiny balled fist propped against her cheek—before ascending the stairs to watch the firelight of King’s Landing fade into the past.

Sails crack in the wind above you, waves break against the hull below. The moon is obscured by indigo clouds; the night is dark and cool and placid. As you pass Bearstone—rendered nothing more than a murky, inconsequential pool of earth in an endless sea—you think of all the moments you shared there with Aemond, all those sun-drenched afternoons and whispered promises and swims in the sea, all those letters he scrawled to Dornish maesters as you laid dozing beside him, still naked, blissfully content, trusting and oblivious. You will have each other like that again, certainly. You and Laurel will survive the war, and Aemond will win it, and a night will come when the stars shine down on your reunion, flesh and words and soul.

Like knuckles, like a stone, Helaena’s words hit you. If they were solid, they could crack ribs. They are so loud you can hear them, her voice as clear as the lines on your own palms.

Because there is a great deal of fire in your future.

The wind tears viciously at your hair, your eyes, your cheeks. The flames of the ship’s lanterns bend and flicker, never extinguished but always imperiled.

The sea is calling for you.

You lean over the railing at the stern of the ship, contemplating the ocean: the eternal secrets below, the voyages above. This is the same sea that touches the Vale and Dragonstone and Storm’s End. This is the same water that Lucerys Velaryon was killed over.

Stay away from the fire.

You look at the lanterns again. No, that’s not what she meant. You pace frantically around the deck as the Red Keep becomes just a haze in the distance, searching for the source of Helaena’s prophesies. You pry open barrels and crates with your dagger, upturn buckets, study the weblike rigging. You hunt like a wolf, like a killer.

I want to help you.

Help why, Helaena? Help how?

He waits in the lagoon, coiled, red.

Your steps die. There is only one lagoon you know of in King’s Landing. You turn towards Bearstone. There is movement there, but indistinct in the darkness. There is a flapping, a shrill clicking. It grows louder. It approaches, it retreats, it vanishes. And suddenly, randomly, it occurs to you that despite all those protection spells you breathed to life under the heart tree, you never thought to cast one for yourself.

Moon on the water, fire in the sky, moon on the water…

The clouds are heaved away from the moon. Silvery light cascades down, dances on the waves, brightens the night. A shape passes high over the ship, blindingly swift and unreadable. Somewhere, there is a sound that could be laughter.

It comes from the sky.

You stare fixedly up into the night. It is a bottomless inky sea, one on top of the other. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Your fingernails bite wounds into your palms. You hear it again: wings, distant cackling, clicking shrieks. And—too late for it to matter—you understand.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond’s hand closes around your moonstone pendant as he watches from the window in Laurel’s bedroom. On the dresser hangs his eyepatch. On his face is a smile, just a hint of one. He has ensured your safety, your survival; he has secured his peace offering from the gods. He can envision himself arriving in Starfall in six months or nine months or a year, you barreling out of the castle to meet him, Laurel no longer an infant but a little girl; perhaps she will be walking, babbling, grinning with tiny white teeth. Perhaps she will recognize him.

The ship, its lanterns dots of captive light, is barely visible by the time it sails past the island he now calls Bearstone. It will soon drop over the horizon like a falling star. Aemond half-turns from the window when something wrenches him back: a flicker of motion, an interruption in the moonlight. He leans closer to the glass. Dimly, he can glimpse his own reflection in it.

It is only when Caraxes unleashes his flames that Aemond can see him in the night sky, wings outstretched, blood-red contorted body hovering above the ship. The vessel does not merely burn. It explodes, it is eviscerated, it ceases to exist entirely.

“No!” It is not a scream but a rupturing, a splitting open and hollowing out of the man he could have been in a different world. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is a fire that burns his humanity to ash.

Vhagar, he thinks, the first word he can discern from the clamoring inferno of wrath, grief, madness. Fire and blood. He is faintly aware of gasps and screams spreading like a plague through the Red Keep. Someone is wailing like they are being slaughtered, their organs dismantled piece by piece; his mother, he believes.

He bolts from the room. He is halfway down the hall when Aegon crashes into him, catches him around the waist, knocks him with great difficulty to the floor and fights to keep him there.

“No!” Aemond screams, pulling away. “Let me go, let me go—!”

“Stop it, Aemond, stop!”

And then Sir Criston appears, and Otto, and Alicent; they join the king in restraining Aemond. It takes all four of them to hold him down.

“Let me go!” His voice is raw and mindless, more animal than man. He struggles so forcefully they fear his bones will snap. Aegon grabs his face with both hands.

“Look at me, look, Aemond, look at me!” Aegon pleads. The king is sobbing, panting, frantic. Aemond’s right eye lands on him. His sapphire gleams with cold, soulless fire. “You cannot catch Daemon, he is already headed back to Dragonstone, he—”

Aemond screams again and tries to free himself. They manage to hold on to him. Helaena has materialized in the hallway like a ghost; she is shellshocked, almost catatonic. She says nothing. Her eyes leak constant, soundless tears.

“You cannot catch him,” Aegon repeats patiently, like he’s speaking to a child. “Vhagar cannot catch him, even if you had left the second it happened. Not even Sunfyre can catch him. If we go after him now, he will lead us into a trap on Dragonstone. He has surely planned for that. He is hoping for that. He—”

Aemond claws at the floor, trying to drag himself out of his family’s arms, but a part of him knows it is hopeless. His fingernails leave white lines on the wood, and then ruby ones when his nails tear out. Aemond is not aware of this. He howls and roars and finally collapses. Alicent, weeping freely, strokes his hair. Sir Criston watches her, longing with everything he’s made of to fix this. It cannot be fixed; it is not just shattered pieces, it is ash, it is dust. Otto’s face is a wasteland: desolate, brutal, a million years old.

“Look at me!” Aegon demands, still gripping Aemond’s face, still sobbing. “Aemond, you cannot kill him if you’re already dead. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want vengeance. You want fire and blood. You want to kill them.”

“Yes,” Aemond chokes out. That’s all he wants. Nothing else exists.

“And I will help you do it,” Aegon vows. “But we cannot do it now. We have to prepare. We have to do this right, or we will not live to see vengeance. Wait for me, Aemond, and I will help you. You can have Daemon, but I want Rhaenyra. And I swear to you in front of all the gods that we will burn them alive.”

Aemond is beyond words, but Aegon can read them in his eye: Yes, I understand, I yield. The last of Aemond’s ferocity vanishes. Sobs pour from his throat. Aegon embraces him. So do Alicent and Sir Criston and Otto and finally Helaena. They cling to each other, bound to the world by a multitude of glimmering strings like a spider’s thread and yet alone. The moonlight floods in. The future, dark, merciless, bathed in dragonfire, dawns like a sun.

And every second of every minute of every day for the next year—as Aemond wages war at Rook’s Rest and Harrenhal, as he burns the Riverlands, as he inspires immeasurable horror and agony and hatred, as he abandons strategy for blind revenge, as he flies to meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle above the God’s Eye—it is still there around his neck: the moonstone pendant, the silver chain.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc

[mskenway97]

There is an idea that does not leave my mind, the human sacrificed to the bot (in the form of a beast). Seriously, it can come out in so many possible ways:

it takes you one with it to its lair while you try to let go but it grabs you tighter, thinking about what to do with you. He knew what the sacrifices were about and all the humans were running away from him but you had the guts to show courage in front of him. You were a helpless creature in a world that had cast you aside like him. So he decides to stay with you despite the complaints you were making, with a hug.

He leaves you on the floor in a secluded place, he grabs you by the legs as if you were a rag doll, while you scream… The bot likes to hear your screams while he sees what he can do with you. He will demonstrate his power in front of you and you will have nothing to do. If you don't accept your fate, he can show you his mouth where you can see his teeth or feel how his servos can crush you in a moment. You have become his pet whether you like it or not.

Both he and you are curious about each other and at the same time distrustful but to survive you have no choice but to lower your pride and trust that huge metallic being who watches amused as you try to hold on but at the same time little by little that bot sees the determination you have to live. Maybe you will turn out to be a worthy companion. Although it doesn't show it, the bot secretly helps you to find food. You are the most enigmatic thing it has found but it doesn't want to let you out of its sight either.

#sam writes #transformers #transformers x human #transformers x reader #maccadam #maccadams #first contact #first contact au #g/t #giant/tiny #transformers g/t #transformers prime #tfp #mtmte #tf mtmte #robot x human #please be free of add if you want

[blueiskewl]

The Mona Lisa Painting Attacked in Paris

Protesters hurled soup at the Mona Lisa painting in Paris on Sunday, but it was protected from damage by its glass casing.

The environmental group Riposte Alimentaire – which roughly translates to “Food Response” – said two protesters involved with their campaign were behind the vandalism.

The Louvre has since reopened the “Salle des Etats” room which houses the Mona Lisa after it was evacuated.

“Two activists from the environmental movement ‘Riposte Alimentaire’ sprayed pumpkin soup on the armoured glass protecting the Mona Lisa, this Sunday, January 28, 2024, around 10am (4aET),” a statement from the museum said.

“The Louvre’s security staff immediately intervened.”

The museum said it was lodging a complaint.

Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece the Mona Lisa hangs in the Louvre museum and is arguably the most famous painting in the world, drawing millions of visitors each year who line up to pose with the small artwork, which is just over 2.5 feet tall and under 2 feet wide.

The enigmatic portrait is no stranger to both vandalism and thievery.

It was stolen in 1911 by a Louvre employee, raising its international profile, and the bottom of the canvas suffered an acid attack in the 1950s, leading the museum to beef up protective measures surrounding the work, including bulletproof glass.

In 2009, a woman angrily threw a ceramic cup at the painting, breaking the cup but leaving the painting unharmed.

Then in 2022, a visitor smeared frosting all over the Renaissance-era painting’s protective glass.

By Stephanie Halasz and Chris Liakos.

#Leonardo da Vinci #Leonardo da Vinci The Mona Lisa #The Mona Lisa Painting Attacked in Paris #The environmental group Riposte Alimentaire #Salle des Etats #the Louvre museum #italian artist #painter #painting #art #artist #art work #art world #art news

[cerastes]

I have to wonder how Specter is perceived in-house at Hypergryph because both times they’ve done something big with her it’s been trouble for them and harsh complaints from the fans, “both times” being her 1st Operator Record and Specter the Unchained.

In the case of her 1st record, it’s because they had an ambitious, interesting idea that nonetheless was both executed poorly and ended up being a huge nothingburger that centered on Suzuran of all people instead. The concept, I insist, was interesting: Specter does not appear in her own Record, rather, we see her being spoken of in whispers and murmurs as this enigmatic Operator that is only sent on the most dangerous of operations and whose existence in Rhodes Island is strictly on a need to know basis, with Kal’tsit alone being allowed to do her medical checks… and That’s All We Learn. The rest of the Record is like 80% “look at how precious Suzuran is”, which obviously almost nobody liked, we’re here for Shark, not moeblob, and it’s otherwise all ultimately stuff we already knew from Specter’s Files. This happened at the same time CN players were angry as hell over Passenger having been, well, severely undertuned on release (he’s good now), so that only added kerosene to the firestorm. Hypergryph apologized and said they’d release a 2nd Operator Record for Specter. This gave birth to the idea of some Operators having more than one Record. Her 2nd Record is great, by the way.

Then there was the Unchained situation: Specter the Unchained is not at all a bad unit. She’s a great unit, even! The problem is that she exists in direct competition with her perpetual god-tier 5* Guard iteration. Unlike the other Alternative versions, her original iteration is the best at doing what she does (immortality stalling + burst damage) and is very good at other roles otherwise (cornerstone, solo lane holding, helidrop assassination). Ch’en and Skadi, for example, aren’t bad, but they certainly suffer Early Game Syndrome in that they are very inflexible units that only do few things, and aren’t the best or non-replaceable in these roles, and Nearl isn’t a bad Defender, either, but 1) her role and toolkit runs contrary to what most people play like and 2) the breach between her and Saria, the 6* version of her role, is HUGE, especially notable in that a breach this big does not exist between other archetypes’ 5* and 6* characters. This isn’t because Nearl is undertuned, it’s because Saria is overtuned, and being a launch 6* means a lot of people have her already. 5* Specter, however, regularly sees play in high level content, and the role her 6* Specialist iteration fills is closer to her 5* than any other non-3* Alternative is to their original. That is to say, they compete in a way other characters do not with their Alternate version. S2, Specter’s immortality stall signature move, has more time as Unchained —20 secs vs 15 secs— but she is not helidroppable, and the loss of AoE attacks and 3 block means you play her differently.

Unlike the situation with her Operator Record, which I do believe was mishandling of the character and that the complaints levied against HG were legitimate, I don’t think HG handled Unchained wrong. I think this was more a case of the Operators being similar enough that people didn’t like that Unchained had to be played differently than Guard, and judged Unchained by Guard standards. As time passed, players have found Unchained to be really good, but the complaints had already been launched, and in response, they announced another Module altogether for Unchained, the first time someone got an alternative Module.

With this in mind, I go back to the start of this post: I imagine that whenever they plan something with Specter now, they immediately take stomachache medicine preemptively and start drafting a new gameplay system because they know they’ll get complaints one way or another. Which is funny, because both times Specter has had something, it has come with a Special Gift for everyone else, like a deepsea santa, as various Operators have 2nd Records and 2nd Modules now.

#arknights #specter #emotional support shark

[inbarfink]

OOC Discourse is always a complicated topic, cause on one hand it IS reductive to go like... there ARE instances where the fans have a better grasp on a character than the actual canon writers do. Especially when you consider bigger creative projects with multiple writers, and especially especially the long-running ones where the original creators are basically uninvolved and everything ‘canon’ that’s being made right now is basically copyrighter-holders-approved-fanfiction. And even in the smaller-scale projects, sometimes the creator writes in something kinda OOC for the sake of pacing or plot or a stupid joke, or maybe they’re just not very good at it and they fucked up. There are cases where fan complaints about canon-material being ‘OOC’ is valid and should be considered.

But on the other hand, there are far too many fans who throw in the “OOC” claim when, like, canon just happens to contradict their favorite not-actually-textually-supported-headcanon, or contradict a version of the character that has kinda mutated through a fandom-wide game of Telephone. Or just like, refusing to engage with the idea that the character might contain more than the surface-level we were initially introduced to, or that people might react Differently in Different Situations, or that Character Development is a thing. And I feel like the folks who are complaining that the Deltarune “The Newest Girl Girl” blogpost is “OOC” for Kris, Susie and Noelle are really a case of the second thing?

Like, first things first, trying to authoritatively label anything Kris does as “OOC” is, in my humble opinion, aboslutely friggin’ clownshoes right now. Kris is the most enigmatic character in Deltarune’s main cast. Because we’re controlling them, we can only can only infer what they are like from the glimpses of their true personality and behavior slipping in through the cracks and from stories told to us by their friends and family. There’s a lot of cool interpetation and analysis work done by the Fandom about Kris’ personality from the little info we have and a lot of it is well-reasoned and well-argued-for but... 

When we get one of the first canon scenes descriptions featuring a (probably?) not posessed Kris, and their behavior in some way happens contradict your Kris Interpetation? I think the correct reaction is less “this so OOC” as much as “hmmm, maybe I need to reconsider some things in my personal interpetation of the characrter?” We’re still in the early stages of the process of assembling the puzzle pieces of Kris’ personality, this is not really the time where we can throw away pieces cause we think they won’t fit?

And Noelle, she felt very consistent with her character so far to me? We already know that freezing up during scary situations is a problem for her - her inability to actually stand up against jerks was, like, her whole character arc in the second chapter. Mostly the focus was about how folks kept overriding her desires and forcing her to do things, but there’s also an undercurrent to how it’s stopping her from meaningfully defending her friends. Espacially when you consider her dynamic with Berdly and his dynamic with Susie and Kris... Honestly, if she behaved better through that whole encounter that could have somewhat diminished the importance of her Big Moment in the climax of Chapter 2. 

And as for Susie.... Yeah, right now we all love and appreciate Susie as the most Wholesome Delta Warrior and the bestest friend of them all - but you remember what happened in Chapter 1, right? She did start out as a bully. She slammed Kris against a locker, threathened to eat their face, constantly insulted them and then spent a good chunk of the Chapter just beating up everyone and everything in the Dark World. These actions stand in contrast to the sweeter side that she shows later on in the game, but it doesn’t negate them or negate the idea that she might’ve done more stuff like that before.

I think you can argue that what Susie did in the blogpost is worse than what she did in Chapter 1, just in the sense that “your mother WILL abandon you and will be happier without you!” is crueler in a much more personal way than “I will eat your face”. But not really in the sense of “Susie would have NEVER said something like this!” as much as “what would prompt Susie to say something like that?” Was she going through a praticularly rough time after moving into Hometown, causing her to take out her own frustrations and insecurities on Kris much more than later on? Was this a spesifically Bad Day? Did... whatever Kris told her in reply really shook her emotionally that much? Did she end up regretting her words and deeds on some level and started mellowing out even before Chapter 1 start? There are a lot of interesting possibilities!

I guess that’s what frustrates me the most about a knee-jerk “OOC Writing” reaction for every time a character catches the fandom off-guard. A sort of refusal to really engage with the text and it’s implication for the characters before you just chuck the text in the grabage. I think this is very much supposed to be a ‘how far they’ve come’ sort of thingie, contrasting the characters as they existed in this blog pre-character development with the better-adujsted post-Dark World Adventure versions we experienced in the game. We’re supposed to to feel some sort of emotional vertigo from how Noelle, Susie and Kris interact here to how they interact by the end of Chapter 2 - but that’s not because of Bad Writing, just cause these kids are changing and growing!

#deltarune #kris #kris deltarune #kris dreemurr #Susie #susie deltarune #noelle #noelle holiday #noelle deltarune #spamton sweepstakes

[mantis-dea]

When a Good Deed Causes a Series of Unfortunate Events - Chapter 2 - The Object

Chapter 1

The echoes of a metal door slamming reverberate through the alley. For a moment, the air becomes thick with the stench of rotting garbage. You instinctively wince and mutter incoherent complaints about your life. You open your eyes to the discolored brick wall that reflects the dim light of a single flickering streetlamp overhead. It’s nighttime.

Realizing what transpired, you quickly got up on your knees and gave yourself a pat down.

Condition? Uninjured.

Satchel? Still there.

Items? Not Stolen.

Pants? Still on.

With a sigh, you dust off the dirt on you, aware that a shower would be necessary after this whole ordeal. Just as you were about head back, your eyes gravitate towards the grimy pavement you were unconscious on. You are puzzled by what you are seeing – a small, dull object, no larger than half your thumb. You cautiously pick it up to inspect it closer. It seems to be a fragment of something, with its outer edge colored silver and the rest golden-brown. You can’t discern what is had once been.

“HEY!” A shout jolts you out of your stupor. You snap your head towards the commotion. Near the end, where the alley meets the main road, stands a man wearing ragged clothes. He swishes a broken beer bottle in the face of someone familiar – a resident who lives a floor below you. Screeching to the top of his lungs, the resident runs away.

Ah, that’s why I haven’t gotten robbed.

The drunk begins walking towards you, albeit clumsily. Without hesitation, you sprint towards your apartment and slam the door shut.

Slowly, you make your way towards your living room area, carefully placing the fragment on the coffee table before sinking into your couch. Your fingers interlock, creating the perfect bridge to rest your head upon. You are fixated on this enigmatic object. A terrible, sinking feeling crept over you – you know this item will bring complications into your life.

Abandoning it is an option, of course, but the mere thought scares you. You have a feeling that if you got rid of it, it would either find its way back to you or fall into the wrong hands. You just know it.

With a trembling hand, you pick up the fragment to examine it once again. Now, it appears ordinary, lacking the allure it once possessed. Why was it so difficult to part with this object? Just what is with this object?

Ring. Ring.

You unzip your satchel and pull out your phone.

Incoming Call: Creedence Clearwater

Creedence Clearwater is the owner of the SPW Bar. You’ve only known him for a few months, but you’ve come to appreciate him as a boss far more than any of your previous employers. Unlike previous bosses, he is always ready to lend a hand when you ask for help. He makes a point of addressing his workers’ concerns promptly and efficiently. Creedence can be found at the bar every day, from the moment it opens until it closes, tirelessly ensuring that everything runs smoothly.

You’ve built a good rapport with him in the short time you’ve known him, and he has earned your respect with his dedication. Whether it’s jumping in behind the bar during busy shifts or resolving conflicts among staff members, Creedence is always there, leading by example and fostering a supportive work environment.

However, these past nine days have been different. He’s been in Florida, trying to help his daughter resolve a wrongful accusation of murder. In his absence, you’ve found yourself taking over almost all his responsibilities, resulting in more hours. Creedence assured you that he’ll compensate you more, as he felt guilty leaving on such short notice. While the extra money is nice, you long for his return.

“Good evening, Creed. How’s everything?” you answer.

“Oh, it’s going. Can’t believe I paid $150 per hour for a consultation with a lawyer,” Creedence responds, frustration evident in his voice. “By the way, you know the new guy, Joshu? Yeah. Well, he walked out. I was wondering if you could close the bar with Gwess. Time-and-a-half.”

“Say no more.”

You bid each other farewell, leaving the object on the table before getting ready for work.

[marahuyomae]

His Mother's Prodigy: A Decision of Moral Justice: The Bitter Cost of Doing What is Right.

The road to redemption can be a difficult and treacherous one, and for Osamu, a former member of the notorious Yokohama mafia, it's no exception. Despite his best efforts to live an honest life, a part of his past still haunts him, and he struggles to reconcile with the man he once was.

But when Osamu meets an innocent young lad in need of rescue, he finds himself in the position of helping someone who reminds him of the person who originally introduced him to a life of crime. Even as the prospect of doing good weighs heavily on his heart, he grapples with the difficult decision of choosing to do what is right, while navigating the demons of his past.

Alternate title: Dazai gets peer pressured (More likely that it is work pressure)

Osamu Dazai is a peculiar yet idle individual with exaggerated pride in his abilities. Despite his attempts to act elusive, Dazai's demeanor revealed him to be transparent to anyone with similar cognitive capabilities. As much as he might look like a very great of a man, he was simply a Narcissus with a head, the beauty he was but with burdening intelligence instead. Despite his impressive physical attributes, People may have admired his unique gestures and enigmatic demeanor. Still, his carefree attitude and youthful exuberance seemed ill-suited for his role as a detective. In truth, he might have found more fulfillment in pursuing a career as an actor, model, or performer, with his distinctive appearance likely drawing attention.

But enough of describing such a portrait of the significance of something similar to another Dorian Gray- the more we talk about him, the more he would feel like a balloon soaring too high. Let's go back and retrace our steps to what he is currently doing, lazing on the Armed Detective Agency's couch as he hums the tune of a very concerning choice of song.

Osamu's colleague/partner was seated in the farthest corner of the office, grumbling about wasted time. The two had a significant workload, yet they risked further delays if Osamu's laziness continued to interfere. 

Kunikida's eyes drifted toward Osamu's relaxed state, accompanied by a heavy sigh. "Please show a bit of consideration and pay attention to the President's instructions now. As Atsushi has made clear, the work we need to accomplish has been piling up due to your lack of cooperation," the taller man stated, indicating the albino who had begun bemoaning the consequences of Osamu's self-centeredness.

Dazai is humming the lyrics to a rather morbid suicide song. He rolls his eyes, annoyed and bored with the lecture but remains silent, not wanting any sort of confrontation. He looks over at Atsushi, who has finished his complaints, and he sighs. “I know, I know... I'm just so tired! Plus, these files are so boring... Do I have to work with these files? It's so unfair!” Dazai says, sarcastically.

Kunikida gazes at Atsushi, watching him finally stand up in apparent annoyance at Osamu's response. "If you are feeling ill today, it is only acceptable for us to carry on without you, but you should have informed us sooner if you were feeling overstimulated," the taller man mutters, to which Atsushi nods in agreement.

"Indeed, Kunikida-san is correct. If you felt unsteady or overwhelmed, it would have been acceptable for you to stay home and relax, as we are quite capable of fulfilling our obligations on our own," Atsushi supplements their senior's statements, offering assurances.

Osamu's reaction to their tolerance made his heart stop and his stomach churn, overwhelmed by the realization that he had repeatedly exploited their empathy for his benefit, resulting in their kindness feeling like a waste. He was ashamed of himself for continually utilizing his mental condition as an excuse to avoid work, while feeling powerless due to his inability to proceed with his tasks, despite his desires. This left him feeling nauseous and disheartened.

Dazai looks shocked as if his mind is in a spiral of thought. He wasn't expecting such an understanding reply and was taken off guard. He feels ashamed for exploiting his mental condition all this time. ‘They haven't given up on me yet... I can't just betray their kind demeanor like this..’ he thinks to himself.

While he had no energy to perform tasks at the moment, Osamu was able to push aside his negative emotions and force himself to get up and join his colleagues in their shared obligations. Dazai gets up and pulls out a file, he opens it and begins reading. He's silent and surprisingly attentive. He takes notes and appears very focused. He still feels shame for the recent events, but he's working through his guilt to be of assistance.

Kunikida and Atsushi both gaze at Osamu with gratitude, occasionally offering gentle gestures of support such as patting his shoulder or providing refreshments to assist him in his tasks. In addition, Kunikida expresses concern by repeating the question, "Are you sure you can manage? We do not wish to make you feel worse or fatigued?" He proceeds to jot down notes in his notebook to monitor Osamu's condition for the next 40 minutes.

While his mind still lingers on the previous events, he's determined to stay focused on his current task. Even though he was tired, he was getting work done. He replies to Kunikida, "No worries. I'm fine!" while taking a swig of coffee. He resumes work, making it obvious that he's trying his best to get his job done.

Kunikida nods as he briefly scrutinizes his notes again. "My apologies, I left out a significant piece of information. We are scheduled to investigate the Osanbashi Yokohama International Passenger Terminal this afternoon due to reports of suspicious activity from nearby residents.", he informs, taking a break to re-evaluate their schedule. Kunikida seems concerned about the amount of effort Osamu may be capable of mustering after an earlier crisis, not wanting to overtax his partner who has special needs. "I do understand if you are not feeling up to the task. Let's ask the President to allow you to depart early if that's what you prefer.", he offers, expressing accommodation to Osamu's situation.

‘Special needs... Huh..’ Dazai thinks to himself, not wanting to be perceived as someone with issues. He's determined to make it seem like he's perfectly normal. "Nonsense! I can do the job. Just a little tiring, nothing more. I'll be able to keep up just fine." Dazai says, taking on a reassuring tone.

Despite Osamu's attempts to downplay his condition, Kunikida is aware that his partner has particular requirements and chooses not to push him to his limits. Therefore, he opts to permit Osamu's participation while reminding him to wrap up as many duties as possible before handing the necessary files over to Tanizaki to ease the burden. "That seems reasonable. Finish up your tasks and entrust the necessary paperwork to Tanizaki if necessary...", Kunikida grants while maintaining mindfulness of Osamu's welfare.

Dazai nods and returns to his work, finishing up his current tasks within the allotted timeframe. As he finished up, he gathered the necessary files and handed them over to Tanizaki. It was then when the fatigue finally set in on him, his head starting to whirl and his vision blurring. He tries to focus, but his fatigue and exhaustion make it difficult to concentrate.

Kunikida, upon sighting Dazai's state, looks back one more time and queries, "Are you certain you have the stamina to join us? Avoid overextending yourself."

Dazai sighs. It is obvious that he is not feeling his best, but he continues to put on a front. He responds to Kunikida's concerns, "I'll be fine. It's just a little fatigue. I've dealt with worse." Dazai's breathing grows heavy and his head begins to spin. This was his limit.

(Your rizz is a rizz-training order)

Kunikida was acutely aware of Dazai's limitations and knew that his partner often spoke about what he could not accomplish. He understood Dazai well enough to recognize when he was brushing off work and knew that Dazai needed rest. During such moments, Kunikida would only sigh at Dazai's stubbornness and strive to reach a compromise, "Come along then, but do keep in mind that there's three of us, don't take all the work for yourself when we get there."

Dazai knows that Kunikida is wise in his behavior and habits, and he's rather persistent in keeping him from pushing himself too hard. He feels that he is just being stubborn, and perhaps his partner is right. Still, he doesn't wish to appear like a liability by leaving the rest of the work to his partners. Thus, he tries to maintain his composure as the three arrive at the Osanbashi Yokohama International Passenger Terminal.

At the Terminal, Kunikida takes the lead in conducting the investigation, surveying the surroundings and questioning nearby residents. Osamu is quieter than usual, taking sporadic notes and remaining aloof. Kunikida takes a few minutes to assess the situation, taking note of the fact that Dazai is not feeling well, before making a decision. He decides to let Dazai rest, asking Atsushi to accompany him instead. “I think it’s best if Dazai sits this one out. Let’s not tax him and have him rest. Atsushi, you can come with us instead.” Kunikida offers while checking in on his partner. The trio of detectives arrived at the Osanbashi Yokohama International Passenger Terminal later in the evening. The terminal was located on an artificial island in Tokyo Bay and featured an iconic architectural design of suspension bridges. It was a bustling terminal with commuters rushing to catch their flights or ships.

The three detectives began their investigation while maintaining a distance from one another. Kunikida and Atsushi were searching the area while Dazai took notes on the environment. Overall, the investigation goes smoothly and without issue, with Osamu completing his duties and maintaining his composure despite his fatigue. Kunikida and Atsushi's support and understanding of Dazai's situation make it possible for him to continue his work despite his limitations.

After completing their examination of the area, Dazai felt strangely unsettled. He looked around, trying to understand why so many civilians would complain about what seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. He reviewed his written notes, taking in the fragrant aromas of vanilla, anise, benzaldehyde, and almonds wafting off the pages. Despite the lack of obvious signs of suspicious activity, Dazai couldn't shake off the feeling that something was amiss.

"Hey, are you doing okay? You seem a little off." Kunikida inquired, breaking his silence as he examined their surroundings.

"I don't know... It's hard to put my finger on it, but there's something off-putting about this place." Dazai replied, visibly unnerved as he scribbled notes and scrutinized his written observations.

After walking in circles and intently studying every single syllable and word, Dazai came to a potential conclusion. Although the air was rife with a strong scent of iron, he considered the possibility of the pipes being the source. The reason why people would complain about rusty pipes despite the recent replacements and approvals could be attributed to either Phantosmia or an infection in the nasal passages caused by the heat and humidity lately. However, since the Terminal is not a closed space with the potential for suffocation due to heat, he wondered what could cause these complaints.

"So, what you're suggesting is that the smell of metal is coming from a leak in the pipework?" Kunikida inquiries, his face still bearing traces of concern.

"While that might explain the metallic scent, I find it hard to believe that the leaks are solely responsible for the complaints. After all, we're dealing with civilians, and they wouldn't simply cry foul over an unpleasant odor. There must be some deeper issue at hand," Dazai replies, still scribbling down his observations as he speaks.

"As we just pointed out, a damaged pipe isn't the source of the metallic scent. In addition, there's a sickeningly sweet, rotten fruit-like smell that mingles with it," Atsushi speaks with an exasperated sigh, his keen sense of smell being hindered by the strange odor in the air.

"You raise a good point. If damaged pipes were to blame, we would have likely come across the same issue in other locations by now. It appears to be an isolated issue," Dazai responds, crossing off some of the previous hypotheses as they attempt to narrow down the source of the peculiar scent.

With a fresh piece of data delivered by his companions, Dahzai's investigation shifted to other areas frequently frequented outside the terminal. The aroma intensified, becoming increasingly pungent and disgusting, and he felt a sharp stinging in his nasal passages as if the air was irritating his sinus cavity. He scanned his surroundings as sweat poured from his brow, the scent reminding him of his youth with the Port Mafia. The stench was almost too familiar as if it were a signature perfume he had worn for years.

His mind drifted back to his time with the Port Mafia, where the same intense odor lingered in the air. Uncomfortable with the familiar scent, he brought his stride to an abrupt stop, his eyes wandering to a particular location. His heart started to hammer in his chest, and his breathing became shallow as he slowly approached what seemed like a small storage shed in the distance.

With urgency in his voice, Dazai called, "Atsushi! Kunikida! I've discovered the source! Hang back for now!" He instructed, motioning for Atsushi to restrain Kunikida from advancing, heeding his command to stay at a safe distance.

Kunikida's expression shifted to one of slight anxiety as he noticed Dazai's sudden change in disposition. He promptly heeded his companion's instructions, halting with Atsushi while keeping a watchful eye.

"Are you sure this is a wise move?" Kunikida muttered, evidently concerned.

Dazai failed to acknowledge his colleague's query as his full attention was focused on the small storage shed door before them. He cautiously examined the entrance and proceeded to turn the knob, making sure to be mindful of any potential hazards.

The knob's surface was slick with perspiration as his mind raced, terrified of the imminent revelation he was about to uncover. The terrible aroma was too familiar and made him feel queasy, urging him to turn away and avoid the danger that was sure to come. However, despite the growing dread, he took a deep breath and turned the knob quickly, allowing the horrid fragrance to seep out like an explosion. The smell was overwhelming, inducing a near-gag sensation as he forced himself to keep his lunch down. His nose crinkled, and the taste of the delectable dishes prepared by Kunikida for their lunch break soured on his tongue. Clenching his fingers to his nose, he prepared to confront the source of the horrendous scent.

A wave of nausea engulfed Dazai again as the putrid scent assaulted him, almost causing him to lose his balance. His body's natural defense mechanisms kicked in, and he began to drench in perspiration, his abdomen threatening to expel all prior meals. He was cognizant of the source behind the smell and anticipated what would await him as he opened the tiny storage room's door. Despite his mind desperately attempting to force him to run from the confined area, he trudged forth, summoning all the courage he could muster.

His trembling fingers searched carefully along the perimeter, straining to locate the light switch until he felt his fingers brush against a small metal lever. With a light flick, a dim light flickered and buzzed above his head, illuminating the tiny room containing a gruesome sight. Dazai stood motionless in the space for what felt like an eternity as the lightbulbs sizzled and crackled, his hearing filled with their echoes. His stomach turned at the sight before him, his throat almost closing upon itself to keep his vomit down. The unfortunate girl lay lifelessly on a chair, her clothing stained with dried blood that had long turned brown, as though death itself kissed her already and would greet her in the afterlife if he did not intervene.

The memory of his life in the Port Mafia flashed before Dazai's eyes, his mind drowning in a sea of anger and resentment. The stench was sickening, the taste of regret and shame welled in his mouth, his stomach threatening to betray him at any instant. It was all too familiar, and he knew he had to act fast. Moving to the body, he approached it cautiously and evaluated it for further wounds. The girl's lifeless eyes met his own, and he couldn't help but feel like her spirit was calling out to him for help, to save her from whatever horror she faced before it was too late. The weight of the world's pain and suffering seemed to rest on his shoulders, the guilt becoming too much to bear.

A wave of relief washed over Dazai as his index finger brushed over the girl's neck, his hand finally sensing a slight beat - a pulse - that was almost too quiet to be true. However, the gentle vibration was evident, instilling a sliver of hope in his chest. The relief of knowing the girl was still alive and had a fighting chance helped calm his racing mind and steady the shaking in his legs. He could finally breathe again, his anxiety easing as he realized his presence might still make a difference.

With an almost inaudible murmur, Dazai confirmed that the girl was alive, his voice barely carrying beyond his lips. Despite the relief coursing through his veins, he struggled to keep his composure and remain grounded, trying hard not to let his emotions overcome him.

"Her heart is beating... she's alive, she's alive," Dazai whispered to himself, his voice quavering with concern. He carefully shifted the blouse that had concealed the girl's injury, examining the spot. He prayed silently in his mind, "Oh please, let her be alright. Let her injuries not be severe..."

Dazai's blood pumped so fast in his chest, that it felt like a macabre rhythm that threatened to break his sanity. He stood abruptly when his eyes caught sight of a yellow scab, an infection, a physical representation of his fears and a stark reminder that time was of the essence. With the girl's small form cradled in his arms, he bolted to safety at top speed, the weight of her body reminding him of her fragility and vulnerability. He felt his legs burn, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he ran, each step feeling like it might be his last. Every second counted, and he could only pray that his efforts were not in vain.

Dazai dashed out of the storage shed, his mind and senses becoming more focused with each step he took in carrying the girl to safety. It was a race against the clock and he knew that every second counted. As he exited the shed, he could hear the sounds of the other detectives calling for him. His heart began to race even faster as he approached the detectives' locations.

"What is it, Dazai-san?" Atsushi's voice called for him as he saw his mentor running towards them, the unconscious body in his arms.

With an almost disbelieving look, Kunikida turns towards Dazai and sees the unconscious girl.

"Dazai... you found her?" Kunikida knew they would find something, but it wasn't in his expectation to find a half-dead body.

Dazai's voice gains strength as he sets the girl down and gives a thorough assessment. "She's alive. Faint pulse, but there's breath too. She must have been stuck in here for hours, but the miracle is that she survived all this time."

Kunikida's gaze lingers on her for a few more seconds, his eyes assessing her condition and the gravity of her wounds. "This is nothing short of miraculous... if she can make it, she's the luckiest girl in the whole world."

Dazai never believed in miracles, but he hoped that Kunikida was right. 

While Dazai's past was checkered with acts of violence, his mindset evolved. With age came a certain degree of perspective, a recognition that life was precious and that even his worst enemies did not necessarily deserve death. So when he looked at the innocent girl, who wore frills and a dress that should have been white, his mind was devoid of any murderous intent. He wished for a miracle, for her to live and not suffer any further harm.

Dazai and Kunikida remained focused on the girl, carefully watching as her breathing and heart rate slowly showed signs of improvement. Kunikida continued to inspect the girl's condition, noting the lack of response and the pale color of her skin.

"We need to get her to the hospital immediately. She may need medical attention if she's been exposed to any toxins," Kunikida said, his expression turning serious.

Dazai, meanwhile, continued to monitor the girl's breathing and lungs, making sure she was still able to get air into her system.

"We should call for medical help," Atsushi suggested, clearly trying to be of assistance and contribute to the situation.

As the group of detectives considered their options, their minds seemed to be racing with questions and concerns for the unconscious girl. They all knew the urgency of the situation and were determined to do whatever was necessary to help her.

Dazai suddenly spoke up, with a determined expression on his face. His hands shook slightly, but the conviction in his voice was undeniable. "Call the fastest company vehicle, we need Yosano-sensei. This is a matter of utmost urgency, and we must keep it a secret for now," he ordered, his gaze fixed on Kunikida. The man nodded, then hastily exited the terminal with a phone in hand. Atsushi quickly followed, eager to help Dazai carry the girl. They knew that this situation required the immediate attention of their most trusted physician, and they were determined to do whatever was necessary to ensure the girl received the best care possible.

As the trio swiftly exits the terminal, they prepare to carefully lift the girl out of the building and place her in the waiting Company vehicle. Since Company vehicles can be ordered for many reasons, the one with the quickest response time is requested.

"Atsushi, you make sure her head is safe. I'll take care of her legs," Dazai instructs, getting ready to transport the unconscious girl out of the terminal and into the waiting car. He's being extra cautious to ensure that she's not further injured during the transportation process.

As the car pulls up and comes to a stop, the trio quickly gets in and settles in for the ride. Kunikida sits up front, while Atsushi and Dazai huddle in the back with the unconscious girl lying across their laps. The tension of the situation hung heavy in the air, with a tense silence enveloping the inside of the car. However, amid all the chaos, they all found a sense of relief in knowing that she was now in capable hands and that they were doing all they could to ensure her survival.

At this moment, Dazai appears to be somewhat relieved that they are on their way to the detective agency, where Yosano-sensei, with her extensive experience and expertise, should be able to handle the situation appropriately.

"Yosano-sensei has the most experience in the field, so she's our best bet to handle this situation," Dazai says as they ride to the agency.

In response to his statement, Kunikida nods in agreement and mutters, "I agree. At least now we have someone we can trust to take care of her medical needs."

The trio's ride to the agency remains quiet, with none of them feeling like it's the right time to talk about anything. Kunikida quietly stares at his notebook, occasionally peering over to check on the girl behind him. Atsushi, on the other hand, continually glances out of the window, afraid to even look at the girl lying on his lap. Dazai, meanwhile, continues to observe the young girl's condition. As he wipes away perspiration and dirt from her face, he feels a strange connection and attachment to her innocence. As Dazai tends to the unconscious girl, he's acutely aware of the delicate and vulnerable state she's in. He takes the time to clean away the sweat and dirt from her face and gazes at her youthful features. Despite never having seen her before, he feels a strong sense of protectiveness over her, almost as if she's his child.

"We'll do everything in our power to ensure she gets the medical care she needs... she will survive," he whispers to himself, still recovering from the shock of the situation.

As Dazai looks upon the unconscious girl, he is overcome by a strange feeling of familiarity. She seems to resemble a hazy memory from his childhood, and he can't quite place why. As he continues to stare at her pale face, a sense of unease grows within him. He doesn't understand why he feels a connection to this stranger. Dazai's thoughts are consumed by the strange sense of familiarity he feels towards the unconscious girl lying in his arms. As he stares at her face, a feeling of unease and confusion washes over him. It's as if he's seen the girl before, but he can't quite place where or when. The longer he gazes at her, the more intense the feeling becomes. His entire mind is lost in this state of perplexion and uncertainty.

As Dazai looks down at the face of the unconscious girl, a fleeting vision of a mischievous doctor flashes through his mind. The doctor, the leader of the Port Mafia, was someone he had once seen as his equal. The memory brings a bitter smile to his face, as thoughts of the hurt he had suffered at the hands of Mori Ougai flood back to him. It was an event that had forever changed their relationship.

Dazai can't help but find a sense of irony in the fact that such an innocent-looking girl could bear a striking resemblance to his former boss. The more he stares at her, the more it seems that she might be a physical manifestation of everything that had gone wrong between him and Mori. The memory of his old partner brings up a mix of emotions within him, and he can't help but wonder if he will ever be able to let go of the past.

As Dazai gazes down at the unconscious girl, the memories of his past with Mori Ougai begin to flood his mind. He can't help but feel a sense of guilt over how their relationship ended, even though he knows it was for the best. As he continues to study her features, he's struck by the uncanny resemblance she bears to his former boss and mentor. Was she somehow linked to the past that he so desperately wanted to leave behind? Could she be a physical manifestation of everything that had gone wrong between them? He wasn't sure if he would ever be able to let go of the past, but the memories refused to leave him.

As they reach the entrance, Atsushi quickly gets out of the vehicle and tries to remove the unconscious girl. He's met with Dazai's hand on the girl's body, though, and the older man refuses to let go. Atsushi is left puzzled as to why Dazai would prevent him from seeking medical assistance for the girl. "Dazai-san... the girl's infection...?"

"What infection?" Dazai snaps, still gripping the girl's body tightly. He's suddenly unsure if he wants to save her after all. It's an ugly thought, but one he can't shake.

Atsushi is left puzzled by Dazai's refusal to let go of the unconscious girl. Despite her dire infection, Dazai remains unmoved. He doesn't seem at all concerned about her wellbeing and instead, holds onto her as though his life depended on it. Atsushi's gaze turns towards Dazai, hoping to find some sort of rational explanation for his behavior.

"Dazai-san, is there something wrong? Why won't you let her go?" Atsushi asks, trying to gain a better understanding of the situation.

The trance Dazai finds himself in quickly fades as the reality of what he's doing sets in. The girl lying unconscious before him bears a striking resemblance to his former mentor and boss, the leader of the Port Mafia. Despite knowing that letting her live would be the morally correct choice, the thought of her resembling someone who had once caused him so much pain is overwhelming.

He knows that Atsushi won't understand his reasoning, but he tries to explain anyway. However, his words come out in a rush of emotions, making it difficult for his students to follow. With a heavy heart, Dazai reluctantly loosens his grip, allowing Atsushi to take the girl to get medical attention.

"I...." Dazai tries to get a handle on his sudden change in emotions. The realization of the girl's resemblance to his former mentor and boss is overwhelming, and he finds himself unable to explain his actions to his student. With a heavy heart and remorseful look on his face, he reluctantly loosens his touch on the girl, allowing Atsushi to take her away for medical care. Dazai can only watch helplessly as the girl leaves his care for the first time, wishing they could've found some other solution.

The panic immediately sets in as everyone rushes to the girl's side. Yosano begins her assessment of the girl's condition, quickly diagnosing her with acute sepsis. The girl is rushed to the infirmary, where she is placed on one of the hospital beds. The pure white sheets contrast her ghostly appearance, further exacerbating her condition from the lack of blood flow and difficulty breathing.

The girl's condition is dire, but the doctor is doing everything she can to save her life and keep her alive.

Thou Shalt Not Die

君 死 給 勿

As the doctor spoke, a stunning and graceful display unfolded before her. A flock of butterflies took flight around her poised form, their wing beats filling the air with a beautiful melody. The doctor's eyes were determined as if she were the goddess of the sun, Amaterasu, who shone a blessing upon those below her. With fiery resolve, she sought to save the young life before her.

The multitude of butterflies descended upon the wounded child, their proboscises delicately drawing nourishment from the injured flesh, akin to maggots in the process of decay. The butterflies persistently fed on the child's tissue, subsequently regurgitating it, contributing to the restoration and healing of the wound, ultimately returning it to its original form.

The delicate melody of the butterfly's wings resonates in the air, their graceful fluttering filling the environment with a harmonious melody. The doctor's eyes are determined, showing her resolve to save the life of the young child before her. The multitude of butterflies gracefully swirl around the child, their proboscis gently extracting nourishment from the injury, akin to maggots in the process of decay. The butterflies relentlessly feed on the tissue, eventually regurgitating it to aid in the restoration and healing of the wound.

They all watched as the child regained consciousness. Her expression quickly becomes one of relief as she sees the girl breathing comfortably. The doctor's lips curl up into a small smile at the healthy color returning to the child's face. Despite the girl still being disorientated, Yosano attempts to alleviate her confusion.

"It's alright, dear. You're safe here. No one will hurt you. Just take a deep breath and calm down..." The doctor, in a comforting and soothing manner, speaks to the child who has just awoken. 

The young girl's breathing becomes more and more stable as the doctor speaks to her in a comforting, soothing manner. Her expression shifts into one of relief, with a healthy color returning to her face, alleviating her confusion and disorientation. The doctor assures her that she is safe, and no one will harm her. The child takes a deep breath, taking the doctor's advice, and begins to calm down.

As the child slowly gains her bearings, she queries with a soft and barely audible voice, "Wha-what...? Where am I...?”

"Shh... Shhhh... Shhh... It's okay, honey, you're safe. Please, don't panic!" Yosano gently speaks to the child, using her most reassuringly sweet voice. She leans in closer to her and whispers.

"We're at the Armed Detective Agency. I'm Doctor Yosano. Remember, don't try to talk too much. It'll hurt your throat, okay? Take some deep breaths." The doctor gently rubs the child's back and guides her to engage in a series of slow, controlled breaths. As they slowly inhale and exhale, the doctor offers instructions, urging the child to remain calm and focus on her breathing.

The child, still trembling but gradually calming down, takes the opportunity to observe her surroundings. As she looks around, she studies the people in the room, taking note of the doctor who is instructing her. With her keen aubergine eyes, the young one turns her attention back to the doctor and poses her inquiry, "Was it acute sepsis?” she paused as she caught her breath, “I was on rounds to check on patients, but I accidentally left one of them unattended for a period. They were so incensed that they stabbed me with a scalpel out of spite. I didn't realize it at first, but soon after, I realized my mistake and the consequences I'd face. I didn't bother to tend to my wound, thinking it wasn't a big deal, but it turned out to be an infection..."

Dazai's eyes follow the conversation between the doctor and the girl. He notices that the doctor manages to keep the girl calm and relaxed, despite the serious condition she was previously in. As the doctor explains the cause of the infection, he realizes the circumstances that led to the injury.

Yosano instructed the brunet and albino to vacate her vicinity so that she could continue with the young girl’s care. At this point, Yosano realized that the child was a medical student- although they looked too young to perform hospital rounds. However, the incident gave her reason to pause and ponder her attitude and approach to her patients. She had to do better in the future, she realized, because if she didn't, she may end up causing more harm than good.

Dazai remains silent as he watches the interaction between the young girl and Dr. Yosano, taking note of how the doctor deals with the patient. Though he is happy to see that the girl is receiving proper medical care, he also notices the doctor's slight hesitation and pondering, which makes him curious. He wonders what the doctor is thinking and whether she is considering an adjustment to her practice as a result of the incident. Yosano shoos Dazai away, having noticed that he didn't fully leave her vicinity despite her instructions. Dazai, curious about what the doctor is thinking, lingers behind for just a little longer before finally heeding her orders, moving a reasonable distance away.

Out of stubbornness and curiosity, he hid behind the door to listen to their conversation, "So, you're a medical student?" Yosano asks with a smile. "And you're right about the sepsis." She adds.

The doctor watches the girl's movements with interest. She is observant, intelligent, and articulate, unlike most people her age. Even after undergoing such a traumatic injury, she is still able to speak eloquently and ask perceptive questions. She makes a mental note that this young female has potential.

Dazai remains hidden behind the door, listening to the conversation between the doctor and the young girl. He's curious to see how it plays out, and he takes note of the different traits and characteristics that the girl possesses despite her circumstances.

The child listens intently to the doctor's observation, slowly nodding her head to show her acknowledgment. Upon hearing the doctor's comment, her small form seems to swell with a sense of pride. With a soft voice, she responds, "Yes, that's correct. I'm a third-year medical student at Tokyo Medical School's college-prep course. Despite my young age, I'm proud to say that I have maintained high grades throughout my academic career."

Despite the lighthearted amusement on Yosano's face, the doctor takes a moment to ponder the intriguing piece of information that the child had inadvertently revealed. She notes with interest that the young one mentioned the Tokyo Medical School college-prep course instead of the present-day name of the university, the Faculty of Medicine, University of Tokyo. This revelation led Yosano to wonder if the child had arrived from the past, possibly 20 years ago or more, or if there was some other explanation for her statement.

Dazai remains hidden behind the door, listening to the conversation between the girl and Dr. Yosano, his curiosity peaking as the doctor ponders the revelation.

Dazai takes note of the doctor's reaction as she ponders the revelation that the girl may be from the past or at least 20 years ago. The notion intrigues him, and he wonders if there might be more to her than what meets the eye.

The doctor and the girl's conversation continues, with the doctor gradually shifting into a casual tone, teasing the young girl. Soon, the two begin bantering like they are familiar with each other, which catches the curiosity of Dazai who is still hidden behind the door and can't see the situation.

Dazai decides it's best to leave the doctor and young girl alone, realizing that the conversation has taken light and friendly direction, and they don't need any more interruptions.

He leaves the room, stepping outside to have a smoke, needing a moment to himself to clear his head to relieve some of the stress of the situation. He plans to take a break before facing the questions and concerns that Atsushi and the other detectives have for him.

 As Dazai puffed on his cigarette, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. Even though the girl resembled the leader of the Port Mafia, he had chosen to act according to his sense of right and wrong. It was a small victory in an otherwise difficult situation. He looked up at the sky, his thoughts turning to the friend he had lost.

He wished that Odasaku could somehow see that he had done the right thing.

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