ur highschool bully gojo was chefs kiss 💋 what do u think about them going to the same college and taking the same classes?? and the reader sitting next/talking to some other guy and satoru gets jealous?? arwahhhshdhshshs so many possibilities, i hope u continue writing it!!
hi nonnie !! thank you so much :) this is ur official part 2 ! i was struggling to think up some possibilities but this helped a lot :oo | read part 1 here ! -> cw: swearing, jealousy, i let it get fic length oops
(former) highschoolbully!gojo on the brain again… like. when you end up seeing him again however many months later, and you can tell that he’s changed. it’s not like its immediately obvious to anyone who doesn’t really know him like you (used to); but he’s a little softer-spoken and his smiles seem nine times more genuine. it’s not a hundred percent; the kind that really lights up his face instead of just barely falling short of his stark blue eyes, but it's something.
of course, you have nothing to base it off of, because when you do inevitably see him again it's the very definition of meet ugly.
college is a new frontier, but its also a clean slate. its your first time going into something so new without your old bestfriend at your side, but some faint flickering thought reminds you that it might be better that way. but the universe is against you from the very first day, when youre gettin yourself some coffee from the same chain you did the morning of that fateful presentation so many moons ago. you're too busy thinking to yourself what kind of strange parting ritual it is to relive your trauma to notice the lanky, white-haired boy who hits his head on the chiming bell over the doorway. people are giggling around you n sighing dreamily but youre too deep in the music pumping through your headphones to notice and your eyes are glued to the class schedule on your phone, trying to ensure you dont get lost on the first day when—
you blink and your ass is flat on the dirty floor of the coffee shop, and the first thing you register is that your stomach is soaked and burning. you'd spilled your coffee. it takes you a moment to realize, but when you do you're pissed. so you quickly get to your feet, trying to reign in what little of your ego you have left to give the offender who bumped into you a piece of your mind as you look up, then..
how unlucky do you have to be?
just like that, satoru's slid himself back into your life, after ramming through its locked gates. you forget that he always forgets the point of keys, both when it comes to his apartment (which you still have the spare key of in case of emergencies), and the door to your heart. to rub salt in the wound, the only thing that's stained with your coffee order are his shoes, which look like they cost three weeks of your old job salary, but it's all over your shirt. of course it is. because why not? make it look like you tripped and fell into a patch of mud on your way to the lecture hall and tack on an unwelcome reunion with your ex-bestfriend.
to you, it's like the cloud of gloom from your highschool youth has resettled over your head like a swarm of gnats on a dreary, hot summer day. the stars always seem to skew and misalign themselves for you. but for satoru, the stars have handed him one of those huge swirly lollipops that you only ever see being paraded about by toddlers. he recovers almost instantly, trading the burn on his feet and the way it sours your expression like he's just squirted pure citric acid into your throat for a pleasant burn of his own on his cheeks. but it's whatever. girls seem to like it when he blushes, for some reason. he won't question it, if it works on the only one he cares about.
he holds his hand out, ready to help you out like the good samaritan he's become— and it's like a real burn to his heart this time when you ignore it and stand up on your own, refusing to look up and meet his pleading gaze. might as well have taken an iron stoker right out of the fire and jabbed him with it. but he's gojo satoru! he won't be defeated by this one mere, maybe very significant reunion. he's got stamina.
so he offers to buy you a new drink, feels his heart sink when you shake your head (can't even spare a little 'no' in his direction), and talks enough for the both of you when you leave the dingy little store make your way down to campus and the lecture building. you clearly don't want to see him, but he ignores that in exchange to notice the way you shiver every so often. the previously searing-hot coffee that stains your shirt turns cold fast, and moisture n wind don't mix well. he wishes he could offer you some of his own warm coffee, no doubt sickeningly sweet, but he has some sensitivity now, apparently. so, in a brash moment, he decides to take his blazer off and drape it over your shoulders instead.
when you cross the threshold between city and campus, you expect him to yank it off your back and be on his merry way. but he keeps walking next to you, so you walk a little faster, and you absolutely loathe the cheeky little grin that curves the corners of his lips up to show a glint of teeth when he effortlessly keeps up. you curse his long legs when you find yourself winded, but at least you can lose him when you get there.
or, that's what you think. once again, your constellations break themselves to rebuild anew for satoru. you're about to call him a stalker when he follows you all the way to your classroom with that smirk that's growing exponentially until— oh, no.
your phone that's been on the schedule up until now desperately scrolls to the roster— and there it is. he's in your class. needless to say, not another word goes between you as you stomp in and take a seat. luckily for you, you've already corresponded with your roommate's brother (who's annoyingly cute, satoru notices) and agreed to sit next to each other. satoru takes the seat right above you and never stops kicking his freakishly long legs against the wood the entire time.
so yeah, it's obvious he's not a saint; he still has that undoable ego and he's cocky as fuck (as you have the misfortune of finding out when he quickly bullies your professor), but there's a certain familiarity in that no matter how ugly it might appear to others. and if you asked (which he really, really hopes you will someday), he doesn't hang around douchebags who use kids' foreheads for ashtrays and treat girls like they're candy from a glittery pez dispenser. and at least he's switched harassment targets. even though he has an overwhelming sense of superiority over others and never has his lips together for more than five seconds, and even though he has this hellish habit of clicking his pen whenever he's not talking (or when someone else is), it seems like he's changed.
and over time, you gradually find yourself warming up to him. the spunkiness that used to get on your nerves ceaselessly becomes an object of endearment, and you don't really mind the way he never seems to stop moving anymore. it's a nice sort of distraction in the lifeless still of the lecture hall, albeit the pen clicking still drives you near insanity. you notice he always does it obnoxiously and quickly when you're talking to your roommate's brother, but you ignore it.
and for satoru? he hates that he can kinda sorta really tell that you're the only one who can read him like he's a damn book, cus you slowly start to soften up in the nostalgia of his presence like cold playdough between warm fingers that tell you he may have finally caught you again after letting you slip the first time. and he notices it. this time, he's determined not to let you be the one that got away again. but youre really giving him a shit time outta it with the way you constantly entertain the guy who always has his breath in your face.
yeah, he's got a cute face that's sunkissed by freckles. yeah, his hair looks like he models for shampoo companies. and fuck, he has a nice voice. but what of it? satoru's the one with the mesmerizing blue irises and the cloudy white hair your professor wishes he had instead of sad little wisps of old age. still, as chilly days turn into frigid weeks, he gets the perfect backseat angle of the growing relationship between the two of you. the boy's kinda dumb so you copy off of satoru’s work when you need to (he has to hide the 1-0 scoreboard between him and the guy on a sticky note from you when you take his notes), but said guy’s always buying you stuff and lending you erasers and laughing when you flick the shavings at the annoying girl who never stops whispering in the front of the room.
satoru tries to act unbothered, and he almost convinces everyone. including himself. but the angry, burning knot in his chest that's entirely different from coffee stains suggests something more. that should be him at your side. him, making balls of paper with rude scribbles and silly doodles to throw at the people he knows you don't like. him, surprising you with little gifts and the cheap trinkets he knows you adore so much instead of all the luxury things he could afford. there's no way this punk could possibly measure up to him, right? but at least you and satoru are well on your way to becoming friends again. not as close as you used to be, but it's something. substantial. and he's learned to be patient in the time you've been gone.
but he'd be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn't tired of it. he’s endlessly plagued with thoughts of increasing intensity— first, it starts out with just you. only you. the way he likes it. the way he likes your face, and your pretty eyes and your gorgeous lips and your soft hair and your figure and the complimenting clothes you wear. but it takes a turn; thoughts turn into dreams that turn into fantasies and he's lying when he says he doesn't enjoy them when he accidentally lets it slip during a group study session— and it’s all fine— but then, that guy appears. the brat who seems to sit a centimeter closer to you with each coming day. not only does he haunt satoru in real life, he’s tormenting his dreams, too. tainting the image of beautiful you.
needless to say, satoru starts to wake up with his hands gripping his damp pillow like he's choking it, acutely aware of the sweat sliding down his neck and over his chest as he stares up at the ceiling, listening to the dorm's air conditioner run and thinking of what it'd be like for dreams (the ones where he replaces the boy) to become reality.
it's a buildup. and soon, he reaches the apex; it's like a rollercoaster, that stomach-twisting moment when you reach the top of the rail that points to the steep descent downward. but this time, he hopes it's a thrill he gets instead of the usual falling fright; the one he got when he realized he’d slipped between your fingers in highschool.
and satoru finally comes to a grinding halt at the top of the ride one breezy fall day when he decides he wants you back in his life after you smile brightly at him and wave goodbye for the day. he’s tired of you having one foot in and one foot out of his heart; he wants, needs more. he always has, he realizes.
so he’s thinking about you and how to approach the feelings he’s realized during those long lectures, and one morning he comes up with some semblance of a plan when he’s high on the sugar from the fruit tea you bought him that morning. and he hopes that, by the end of it, he'll leave your apartment with your hand in his currently empty one, chilled with the remnants of cold condensation from the bottle.
soon enough, satoru finds himself extinguishing his nerves and raising a tense fist to knock on the door with nothing but the clothes on his back and a flimsy plan to ask you out on a midterm study sesh and maybe even a date, but he stops when he realizes it’s slightly ajar. a brief thought of what look might be on your face when he surprises you crosses his mind, so he lets himself in quietly, because he knows every single floorboard that creaks like the back of his palm from his childhood. he’s hit with a wave of warmth and an achingly familiar scent that twists at his heart, and your apartment is cozy and safe and it screams you and he thinks he catches sight of his jacket slung across the back of the couch in your living room, but he’s not sure so he takes a step forward and—
he’s greeted with the sight of that stupid guy with the nice hair and the freckles, and it makes his heart drop. but even worse, he’s kissing you and his arms are winding around your waist but you’re kissing him back with a slight hesitation that’s blinded to satoru by his shock and the fingers he thought would end up in his own tonight card through the boy’s hair and your lips glisten with the strawberry-kiwi flavored gloss he watched the boy give you a few days back and his world is turning red and he feels like his throat is constricting and he can’t breathe—
and he doesn’t even realize you’ve parted lips and you’re calling his name through the newfound tightness of his chest and the painful ringing in his ears thats even louder than any silence of a lecture hall, or the void that should’ve been filled with your voice during the time you were apart. but now satoru realizes he’d take that any fucking chance to have that again because it’s so much better than what he’s stuck with now. having you, but not really having you, because you’re there but you’re someone else’s and you’re not his and he isn’t yours. the best thing he could ever hope for was for you to own an article of his clothing and a piece of his shattered heart, broken into a million fragments. some cruel voice in his buzzing head reminds him to change the scoreboard to 0-100.
and he could buy you cheap hot coffee or earn your smiles from scrunched up paper balls or even hear your laugh with crude jokes, but there’s no point when he realizes he can’t buy you with caffeine or earn you with hitting the back of people’s heads with his bio notes or have you and your laugh all to himself anymore.
it’s almost pathetic, the way satoru’s voice cracks and changes. the look of unadulterated concern on the face of the boy who stole your lips just adds fuel to the fire.
“gojo? what are you doing here— hey, are you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
he noticed you’d stopped calling him satoru a few weeks back. he should’ve seen it coming.
“huh? oh, yeah. i’m good. i think you’re the one hallucinating.”
he’d never told a bigger lie in his life.
satoru had left after excusing himself for intruding. how very unlike him to be so polite, you think.
so in the end, he leaves your apartment with something in his hand, after all. but it's not your own— just his blazer that you’d given back to him before he stepped out the door, taunting him with the faint scent of coffee and lingering perfume. his hope was foolish, so it seems. it’s too bad, he thinks. if it were him, he would’ve sandwiched you against your counter while he kissed. but it wasn’t. apparently, it was your turn for your stars to align at the price of his.
and so, gojo satoru, the boy force-turned man with a chipped ego and a completely broken heart, loses you again.
bonus bonus.. part 2….
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okay reading again is making me very happy but also a little stressed when im not reading bc im not in that state of like. detachment. like. im in the here and now and not ... idk, lost to time and place and enjoying myself??
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Chapter 1: Welcome Home
main masterlist || series masterlist || next chapter
summary ~ Hired by the elusive Aemond Targaryen, you arrive at Harrenhal House to care for his niece and nephew. Things go bump in the night.
warnings below the cut for your convenience
warnings ~ spooky ghostly stuff, angst, mentions of death, loss of a child, blood, wound care
note: and so begins our spooky adventure! I hope you enjoy it!
banner made by the ever lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs, ilysm ange!
Harrenhal stands on the edge of our world atop lush, green hills. The God’s Eye Lake is the biggest in the country, more like the sea than any landbound body of water you’d ever seen before.
As the Uber driver creeps along the bend of the God’s Eye, the old manor begins to come into view. A thick layer of fog seems to cling to the bricks; gray tendrils creeping onto the driveway and spilling onto the lawn.
“Are you a long way from home?” your driver asks, meeting your eyes in the rearview as he attempts to strike up polite conversation. You assume it’s because of the rather rough start you got off with him.
“Harrenhal House?” he had asked, face red, eyes wide, “That place is cursed.”
Not exactly the warm welcome you had wished for when you arrived in the Riverlands. Not exactly the impression Aemond Targaryen had given in his email when he offered you the job. The interview had been completed over the phone. His voice was cold, words clipped as though he wanted to find someone qualified and quickly to care for his niece and nephew.
The car pulls up to Harrenhal, tires crunching against the gravel of the driveway. The iron gates were open as you’d driven up, expecting your arrival. Hedges and statues covered with moss decorate the path toward the main house. The car slowly creeps closer. Your driver clutches the wheel as though the house means to swallow him whole.
Harrenahal stands out like a stain against the clear blue sky. It is an enormous manor, with shutters, and brick the color of pitch. The terrifying eyesore of the Riverlands. Crows have made their nests in several of the gables, their beady black eyes watching intently as the car comes to a halt.
A murder.
Of course, you’d done your research before accepting the position. Both on the home and on your host.
Harrenhal had a grizzly history. Your driver wasn’t wrong when he called it a cursed place. But the dead didn’t scare you. You had ghosts of your own.
Aemond Targaryen was a different story. Second son of Viserys Targaryen, whose recent passing was still hot news in the corporate world. Not that you paid close attention, but you’d heard there still had been no decision on the naming of the new CEO of Fire & Blood Co.
The death of the patriarch seemed to trigger a chain reaction of devastating events. If Harrenhal was cursed, so was the Targaryen family tree. Wherever the silver-haired blue bloods go, tragedy seems to follow.
The death of little Jaehaerys is the most tragic of all.
You’d yet to see a child-sized coffin and desperately hoped you never would.
They’d whisked Helaena Targaryen away from the boisterous streets of King’s Landing rather quickly after the funeral of her first son. After her accident.
You didn’t know what had happened, it was omitted from the press. Even the tabloids had only guesses. You doubt there are many limitations to actions caused by a mother’s grief.
Jaehaerys left two siblings behind; a twin sister and an infant brother still too young to toddle. Aemond Targaryen was hardly ready to be a father. You’d researched him as well and read about his ascent up the corporate ladder.
The boost of nepotism couldn’t have hurt, but from what you could tell, as you hunched over your laptop in the darkness of your hotel room, Aemond Targaryen had worked hard for his success. A tragic accident when he was a child left him blind in his left eye, leaving it cloudy and sightless, though nothing more was disclosed online about the incident.
There were other Targaryen siblings; an elder sister from a first marriage, a party boy, and another brother backpacking through the eastern continent. You flipped through countless articles and stalked the Instagram pages of the elusive family.
However, Aemond Targaryen did not have social media.
What he did have, was a marriage announcement, followed soon after by an obituary.
A handsome young widower. Not even thirty.
The deceased wife was much older. You’d browsed through Google images while slurping cold pad Thai, though there were hardly any pictures of them as a couple. Aemond seemed to avoid the press at every chance.
There weren’t many photos of him; just candid shots here and there—a dark suit, a flash of silver hair. You had shut your laptop after that, feeling suddenly self-conscious, as though Aemond would know you’d read about him the first time he laid eyes on you.
Your Uber driver helps deposit your bags onto the gravel, shutting the trunk with a grunt. He turns to you, eying the manor nervously, as though it's a living thing waiting to open its jaws and devour you.
“You be careful, love,” he tells you, nodding towards the house.
“I’m tougher than I look,” you assure, awarding him a wry smile.
The smile he offers in return is more of a grimace, and he is quick to return to the safety of his vehicle. You grab your carry-on and the handle of your suitcase, gazing up at the manor. A crow caws, alerting the others to your arrival.
A group of crows is called a murder.
You walk up to the doors, knocking once, twice. There is no answer. Turning the handle, you stepped into the grand foyer. A large staircase is the first thing you see, though you’re distracted by the man walking down the steps at a leisurely pace.
Aemond Targaryen is more intimidating than the candid photos you’d hungrily browsed. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a slender waist. His long, silver hair is braided into a bun resting at the nape of his neck, a few tendrils ghosting around his face. Pouty lips, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and a beautiful straight, pointed nose.
You’d always had a thing for noses.
Seven hells. Stop that. This guy is your boss, your employer.
His eyes. One blue, the other milky and lifeless. The gash of a faded scar running up the side of his face only served to make me more handsome.
He greets you with the title of Miss, the gentle timbre of his voice floating down to you. It’s so formal, as though you’ve walked through a portal into a Jane Austin novel. He doesn’t smile, just watches you, sizing you up.
Fucking hell, he’s even more handsome in person.
The man could be a model if business doesn’t work out for him.
You swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him descend the steps. With his hands in his pockets, and white button-down sleeves rolled to his elbows, he oozes an air of cold confidence as his eyes trace over you. He doesn’t offer a hand to shake, despite his formality. Even when he removes his hands from his pockets, letting one drag slowly down the railing.
“You didn’t arrive with any other baggage?” Aemond quips, the fingers of his left hand uncurling from a clenched fist.
You blink, before glancing at your suitcase, at the carry-on bag beside it, “No…?”
Aemond hums to himself, lips pressed firmly together. His face gives nothing away, an emotionless mask of disinterest.
“No estranged boyfriend who’ll be coming looking for you?” he asks pointedly.
Your cheeks warm at his statement. You should have guessed he’d be direct. He didn’t ask you in the interview about a partner; just made sure you were able to commit to the position for at least six months.
“No,” you tell him, “No boyfriend.”
His eyes, both the blue and the milky sightless, hold your gaze intently before he nods.
“Follow me then.”
Aemond gives you a tour of the house, showing you all the rooms you’ll have access to. Mysteries are hidden behind closed doors that Aemond doesn’t acknowledge, including a closed door decorated with paintings of vines and flowers. He omits the majority of the west wing of the house which includes the location of his study.
A man has his secrets, you suppose.
What he does show you is the kitchen, along with the nursery and the library. Despite the age of the house, the kitchen is large and modern, with cabinets painted a deep forest green beside stainless steel appliances. A gas stove houses a tea kettle, ready and waiting.
He shows you to your room last; on the eastern side of the house close to the nursery. You follow him down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the silence. Aemond has not attempted small talk throughout the tour of the house.
Aemond has stayed silent unless he is informing where he is taking you next, his hands clasped behind his back. It almost looks uncomfortable, the way he holds himself upright, his spine straight as an arrow.
“Your sister lives here as well, right?” you ask absentmindedly looking at the tapestries that decorate the hall.
Aemond stops in front of a door, turning back to you. Those cold eyes stoke a fire within you, setting you ablaze with each glance. He is silent for a moment before he opens the door.
“This is your room,” he continues, ignoring your question, “There are extra sheets in the lower drawers, and on Sundays, the housekeeper comes to strip the beds and tend to the rest of the house.”
He opens the bottom drawers of the large oak dresser. A large mirror rests on top of it accompanied by a dark jewelry box. The dresser matches the rest of the furniture in the room; all dark stained wood as though each piece was dunked in ink. A large four-poster bed sits in the middle of the room, the green comforter is warm and inviting. You can see God’s Eye from the large arched window; the water sparkles with the afternoon light cascading across the surface like diamonds.
“I hope you’ll find it satisfactory,” Aemond says.
You turn to face him, standing in front of the window letting the warmth of the sun on your face.
“It’s more than satisfactory,” you tell him, “Straight out of a Shirley Jackson novel.”
Aemond shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, seemingly perturbed by your praise. He purses his lips, glancing at the carpeted floor. You swear he’s smirking slightly.
“A backhanded compliment.”
“It’s not meant to be,” you assure him, your face warming with embarrassment.
“Yes well,” he says, clearing his throat, “Let's hope that’s how the buyers feel as well.”
“I didn’t realize you meant to sell,” you tell him.
“It’s ours for now, but I mean to relocate to Summerhal,” he comments, “This house isn’t held long.”
That’s all he says on the matter. You don’t ask him to elaborate. You doubt he would anyway, he seems keen to ignore your curiosity. Aemond leads you down the stairs once more and out through the kitchen onto a stone patio. The view of God’s Eye is spectacular, it’s close enough to stand at the edge if only you run down the hill.
A garden disrupts the spacious greenery and you walk beside Aemond, struggling to keep up with his long strides.
“She’s here, she’s here!” a small voice calls, followed by a young girl bursting through the doors and out onto the patio.
“Jaehaera!” a woman calls, chasing after the young girl.
She races down the steps to where you stand with Aemond in the gardens. Cheeks rosy, smiling brightly, Jaehaera Targareyn boldly walks up in front of you. Her blue eyes are wide and she holds out a fist full of daisies.
“I’ve picked these for you,” she declares and you kneel to meet her height, “Talya said I needed to wait.”
You take the flowers from her, pressing them against your nose and inhaling their sweet scent. You’ve always loved daisies.
“Which you did not,” Tayla says, catching her breath as she arrives, “I’m sorry sir she didn’t-”
“It’s fine,” Aemond quips, arms tucked behind his back, “They needed to meet anyway.”
“It’s nice to meet you Jaehaera. I love your dress,” you tell her, and she twirls letting her baby-blue skirt billow around her.
“You’re much prettier than Kepus told me,” Jaehaera says, eyes drinking in every inch of your face.
“I told you I hadn’t any idea what she looked like,” Aemond gently corrects.
You smile, chest feeling warm at her kindness. You tell her your name and her nose crinkles.
“I’m going to call you Miss Gevie,” Jaehaera declares softly, “Because of how perfectly lovely you are.”
“Someone’s been practicing their High Valyrian,” Aemond remarks, “Have you had your lessons today?”
Jaehaera sighs, a very small sound, “Kessa kepus.”
“Syz riña,” Aemond says, a small smile appearing on his face before glancing at you, “You’ll have to meet Maelor as well.”
“Though he’s rather boring,” Jaehaera interrupts, “He only sleeps. I told muña I wanted a sister. I already have a brother.”
Your stomach flips at her words and you glance at Aemond. His expression is stoic, though Talya pales beside him. She steps forward, kneeling next to Jaehaera, who is busy counting the petals of the daisies you now hold.
“Jaehaera,” she says, forcing a small smile.
“What?”
Tayla grimaces, placing a hand on her shoulder, “We’ve talked about-”
“I want to see muña,” Jaehaera interrupts, shaking off Talya’s comforting hand. She glances at Aemond for help, though he offers none.
“She’s resting now….”
“I want to see her!” Jaehaera insists, louder this time lower lip wobbling.
“Why don’t you say goodbye to Talya first,” Aemond says, “She’s been very kind accompanying you here.”
“You’re leaving?” you ask the woman.
“I’m needed elsewhere, this was a very temporary arrangement,” she tells you.
“She works for my mother,” Aemond clarifies, nostrils flaring slightly, “She was unable to make the journey here.”
You remember reading about Alicent Hightower. You don’t see any of his mother in Aemond’s features. Where Alicent is soft, Aemond is sharp; nose straight and long, chin prominent. The word lethal comes to mind.
Aemond has looks to kill.
You shake your head trying to clear your thoughts.
“Can I show you my room?” Jaehaera asks, smiling once more.
“I’d love that,” you tell her, letting her place her small hand in yours and lead you back towards the house.
You glance behind you, watching as Aemond and Talya converse before Harrenhal swallows you once more.
“Miss Gevie,” Jaehaera asks, tugging her comforter up to her chin, “Are you going to stay with us for a long time?”
You stop picking up some of her toys from the floor. You’d been playing with dolls since after dinner and had just settled down to read a story before bed. You smile, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“I am,” you tell her, “Your uncle is working very hard and needs a little extra help.”
Jaehaera nods, taking in the words you speak. Her blue eyes watch you carefully, seeming wiser than her years.
“I like you,” she says softly, “Kepus likes you too. I can tell. He just doesn’t say so.”
You smile at her. Aemond was clearly softer in the presence of Jaehaera. He’d been more pleasant at dinner than when you’d first arrived. Helaena was absent from supper.
“You’re not going to leave? No matter what?”
You stroke some hair from her face, “I am not going anywhere, any time soon.”
Jaehaera scoots down, laying back against her pillow. You stand, pulling the covers up when something catches your eye. You reach under her pillow, removing a doll that was hidden there.
“Who’s this?” you ask, staring at the doll.
It’s barely a doll, more a stick of melted charred plastic, warped from the heat. You can see remnants of legs and arms, the path a flame must have licked up through the plastic; the hair burnt to the scalp. The face is unrecognizable.
Jaehaera reaches up, closing her small fingers around it.
“He stays here,” she tells you, “He likes to stay inside his castle.”
Geez. Creepy or what? You force a smile, letting her take the weird Barbie.
“Okay,” you tell her, “Goodnight Jaehaera.”
“Goodnight Miss Gevie,” she sing-songs.
“You know, you can just call me by my name,” you remind her.
“I like Miss Gevie better, it suits you,” she insists, yawning.
You find yourself yawning as well, and head to bed. The manor is quiet as you make your way to your room, tucking in for the night.
Sleeping in a new place can cause strange dreams.
A bloodcurdling scream tears through the halls of the sleepy manor, its icy tendrils ripping you from your dreams and back into your bed. You awake with a gasp, sucking in air as though you’d been held underwater, just breaking through the surface. Hand clutching your throat you sit up, hair sticking to the back of your neck from the layer of sweat that covers your body.
The house is quiet once more.
Breathing heavily you sit up in bed for a moment, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart. You rise on shaky legs moving towards the door, and the ancient doorknob groans in protest as you turn it.
The hallway is dark, moonlight shining through the window at the end painting the floor with streaks of silver.
Maybe you were still dreaming.
But then, a low groan begins, the guttural sounds of a mourning mother’s wail. It washes over you like ice water and your stomach turns as the scream reaches its highest peak. Despite the alarm in your mind telling you to turn back into your room and hide under the covers, you race down the hallway towards the sound.
With each and every step toward the western wing, the screaming gets louder, broken up with deep sobs. You quicken your pace, bare feet padding against the carpet as you reach the source. The door you’d passed earlier, painted with flowers and twisting vines is open now, yellow light pouring into the hall from the lamp.
Aemond holds a girl in his arms--not a girl but a small woman; she’s frail, elbows poking against flesh like a starved baby bird, tears streaming down her ashy cheeks. Her silver hair is damp with perspiration, clinging to her face and neck as she clutches Aemond’s forearm. They’re in a heap together on the floor, Aemond’s arms tensed around her as he gently shushes her.
“Helaena…it's alright, it was just a dream,” he assures her, his voice softer and warmer than you’ve heard since meeting him.
He glances up at you, acknowledging your presence but saying nothing; his entire attention is on his sister.
“It’s never just a dream,” Helaena wails, nails digging into Aemond’s forearm, “Or maybe it is, maybe I’m asleep even now.”
A chill runs down your spine at Helaena’s words.
“Maybe I’ve been sleeping all along,” she continues, eyes glassy and her voice hoarse, “I could feel him, Aemond, it was so real.”
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into her hair.
“I could feel him…in my arms….against my breast like when he was a baby…feeding, it was so real,” she says, her voice dropping into a whisper.
Helaena’s lips trembled, parted in a silent sob. The hand that does not anchor her to Aemond rests atop her breast, as though she can feel Jaehaerys against her chest even now.
“It’s alright dōna mandia,” Aemond murmurs, still stroking her hair. He rocks back and forth, starting a gentle pace to soothe her, “Go to the kitchen.” His voice is directed at you this time, your eyes meeting his. The tone he uses is still soft, and when you don’t move, he gestures toward the hall with a nod of his head.
“Do you hear him?” Helaena continues, “Running down the hall? Jaehaerys! Māzigon kesīr dōna valonqar!” (Come here, sweet boy).
“There’s no one there, Helaena,” Aemond soothes.
“I hear him,” she sobs, turning her face into Aemond’s chest, “Why can’t you hear him?”
Helaena’s sobs and questions are still ringing through your head as you leave the room, heading downstairs.
You make your way to the kitchen, standing in the dark, shocked for a moment before turning on the light. Helaena’s cries and pleas still echo in your mind as you fill the kettle left on the stove and turn on the gas burner. Searching through cabinets you find an array of handmade mugs, choosing a purple one with a twisted handle.
You rummage through some more drawers until you find some herbal tea, setting it beside the stove as you wait for the water to boil. You tap your fingers against the counter, a nervousness curling in your belly as you gaze out the window that leads to the backyard. You had known Helaena wasn’t well, but you didn’t realize just how serious it was.
You inhale a deep breath trying to steady yourself. It’s shaken you up quite a bit, hearing her agonized screams. Your hands tremble and you press your palms flat against the counter. A door slams from somewhere upstairs and you glance at the ceiling.
You look out the window once more, peering into the darkness. The God's Eye is just a still pool reflecting the light of the moon. A shadow moves behind you, reflecting in the glass and you gasp turning around.
“Seven hells!” you curse as Aemond walks into the kitchen, “You scared me.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just watches you for a moment, chest rising and falling with his breath. He must have also been asleep when Helaena’s terrors began as he’s clad in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, silver hair loosely braided down his back.
Ruby-red beads of blood blossom from the crescent-shaped marks on Aemond’s left forearm. You watch them swell into ruby marbles against his porcelain flesh before he grabs a rag on the counter, covering them.
“Are you alright?” you ask, as Aemond sits in a chair.
It’s almost like he doesn’t realize you’re talking to him; he takes a moment to process before he nods. You watch him as he stares at the table, tension rolling off his shoulders. The kettle begins to whistle and you quickly remove it from the stovetop, turning off the flames.
You pour your own mug before moving to the cabinet where you’d found it, retrieving a second. This one is green with gray streaks. Another handmade treasure, you’re sure.
You make Aemond a cup of tea, placing it in front of him before taking the seat next to him. His eye flickers toward the steaming cup. Though he hesitates for a moment, he wraps his long fingers against it, pulling it closer.
“It’s hot,” you tell him, as he lifts it to his lips.
“I don’t mind,” he murmurs. You’d likely burn your lip if you didn’t wait a few minutes. Aemond sighs contentedly, violet eye meeting yours.
“Thank you,” he says softly, “I should have told you…”
“It’s alright,” you assure him, “I figured she was grieving. You’d mentioned she’d been unwell.”
“The doctors say it's night terrors,” Aemond comments, taking another sip, “Due to the trauma she’s experienced.”
“That makes sense.”
“I’m meant to speak with her psychiatrist later this week,” he says, “She’s begun a new medication to help her sleep. I don’t think it’s been doing her any good.”
“Sometimes those things take time,” you tell him, trying to ease some of his distress. He merely hums in response, as though he’s heard it all before. You glance at the rag on his forearm, biting on your lower lip before deciding to speak again. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
Aemond nods, bringing a hand to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and squeezing his eyes shut.
“Above the fridge,” he murmurs, not looking up.
Rising from your seat, you retrieve the small kit, and place it on the table in front of you. You reach out toward him, tentatively moving the rag from his forearm, revealing the crescent-shaped marks. They’ve begun to clot, and you fold the rag into a small square, placing it on the table beside you. You dig for a few bandaids settling for the smallest ones.
“She had nowhere else to go,” Aemond says, more to himself than to you as you place the bandages on his arm, “Jaerhara, and Maelor they need to be with family. There’s no one else. Nowhere else.”
“They’re lucky to have you,” you tell him, pulling your hands away. You reach for your mug, placing your hands around it and letting the warmth seep into you.
Aemond hums, not answering, though he seems unconvinced by your statement.
“I mean it,” you tell him, “I can see how much you care about them. And your sister.”
Aemond meets your eye once more, his gaze softening.
“She is the best person,” he tells you, his voice even and calm, “The best mother….the best sister.”
There’s pain hidden behind the words that he speaks; you can hear it coating his voice.
“She’s just in one of her hard times,” he assures you, “She goes through phases. Not..not wanting to see Maelor…it comes and goes.”
You reach for his hand. In the heat of the moment, you’re not sure what else to do. There are no more words of comfort to offer him. Your hand fits in his perfectly, resting on top of the table. His palm is warm, the skin surprisingly calloused. Your lips part, a soft gasp slipping free at the feeling of his hand in yours.
Eyes wide, you smile softly at him before squeezing comfort into his hand. Aemond doesn’t squeeze back, but he doesn’t pull his hand away either. You sit like that for several minutes, neither of you moving.
“Your tea will get cold,” Aemond eventually murmurs, breaking the silence.
Your hand slips out of his grasp, the sudden emptiness making you shiver. Clutching the mug, you bring it to your lips, sipping carefully.
It’s already cold.
How long have you been sitting here?
Aemond is watching you still, as you lower the mug. He stands then, taking both mugs to the sink.
“It’s late,” he comments, “We should get some sleep.”
You nod, standing. Aemond pushes into your chair, walking beside you back upstairs. He turns toward the western wing.
“You’re not going to sleep?” you ask, unable to help yourself.
“I am,” Aemond says, turning slightly, “I prefer to stay in my study.”
“Oh,” you comment, “Well ... .goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.
You return to your room, lying underneath the covers trying to get warm when you come to a realization.
That was the first time Aemond had called you by your name.
note: let me know what you think! as always, comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated but never expected (though you will receive a forehead kiss from me if you do any of them)
if you would like to be tagged in this series, please let me know!
ACP taglist: @aebi12 | @lokiofasgard12 | @darkenchantress
bold means I could not tag!
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I’m so intrigued….do you think chrollo could ever be taught from his darling how to love in a “healthy”/“normal way? Like could he learn to change? And also do you ever see him as growing tired of his darling and leaving her after a while?
in a normal relationship with chrollo, you might actually be able to sand away at the edges of his more unhealthy tendencies... even if he isn't yandere, he'd still be doing some questionable things without your knowledge. after being with you romantically for a while, he'd fight the impulses better. unless you leave your journal out in the open. that's an opportunity too tempting to resist.
this progress isn't so much his way of settling down and becoming an upstanding citizen, either. you've gone from being the cute person at a café reading a translation of a novel he's itching to tell you doesn't do the original work justice, to someone he can't ever see himself being without. even then he still isn't normal when it comes to you. his loyalty, once earned, is intense. if your boss ever passes you up for a promotion he's stealing their car and leaving it at a harrowing crime scene. he considers that an act of mercy, compared to what else he's capable of.
yandere chrollo, though. hm. you can try setting up your 'how to love normally' academy. he'll attend your lectures, do the reading, submit his assignments on time... but the material isn't applied how you hoped. he isn't going to have a miraculous change of heart. no, he'll apply what he's learned on a superficial level. you've essentially handed him a wealth of knowledge for him to use to his advantage. he's no stranger to deception — if you want him to change his behavior, he'll give you the impression that he has. he's game for almost anything, so long as it doesn't involve you going out and about by yourself.
as for him getting tired of you, it isn't going to happen. his devotion is an iron chain there's no freeing yourself from. he derives too much enjoyment from your interactions and just you in general to ever give it up. he's very much a 'til death do us part' type.
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✰࿐ ˊˎ- “BITE ME.”
Hi Doves!! This is my first fic from the Saw franchise!
I’m really excited for the months following as I’ll be posting more frequently and have a lot more lined up!! I hope you all enjoy this fic!
🫧Pairing: Adam Faulkner-Stanheight x Fem!Apprentice!Reader
: ̗̀➛ WARNINGS🦢: I am NOT responsible for the media you read and consume! Your warnings are the following: Kidnapping, Stalking, Taking pictures without consent, Sex, PIV, Blowjobs, Pervert Behavior by Adam and Reader.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Summary 🕊️: Adam believed his life would be over, but it turned out a certain apprentice had a different idea in mind. Now he has to follow a new set of rules
The scraping of metal tinged in your ear as you hauled the heavy contraption down the grimy hallway. You just nearly felt the vibrations through the tile flooring beneath your feet.
Adam’s eyes were droopy and his body frail and tired, yet his mind was widely awake. He couldn’t remember where he was last; he recalled picking at the skin of his shoulder that once was flushed with dried blood and the means for infection, courtesy of Dr. Lawrence Gordon’s gunshot that still rang in his ears weeks later. He hadn’t expected Lawrence to come back for him; in fact, he truly believed that he would die in that room, only surrounded by white tile and shit stains on the walls. His ankle was covered in blood and blistered skin. The friction of the chains caused his skin to burn and ache, leading his voice to scream and call out to anyone who was listening. His last wish was for someone to hear him, but he didn’t ever expect to truly be out of this nightmare. He wasn’t aware someone was coming for him, stalking him and preying on him.
But you did.
You pulled open the door to the room, and it screeched like nails on a chalkboard against the concrete wall. Adam’s blurry mind at the loud noise Other than his own desperate screaming and beckoning, he hadn’t heard any relevant sounds to aid him in his escape in days.
There was no sound to indicate another life. Lawrence had abandoned him; Jigsaw was nowhere to be seen, and all that was left was the burning ache of his wailing and the sound of the security cameras buzzing.But none of those things are registered in Adam’s mind now. His eyes were wide and fearful. The sight of an unknown face—someone who looked like them—was enough to make him startle and panic. His mouth was gagged, and his neck was embellished with a metal collar. On the inside of the collar were several rows of nails, and the tips of the needles were each plucked and perfectly arranged to suffocate him and create panic. Connected to his collar was a chain padlocked into the wall.
He was just barely being suffocated by the claustrophobic heat of the room and the relentless tugging of the chains that bound him to his collar. The air that entered his nostrils was thick and stale and tasted sourly of iron.
Sweat poured from his forehead onto his already sweaty hairline. It pooled at the small of his back. He began to quiver once he realized that whoever came into this room had no intention of leaving it anytime soon. “Hello Adam. I want to play a game.” Your voice echoed throughout the chamber-like walls. “You’d consider yourself a photographer, wouldn’t you, Adam? I sure would.” You stepped further towards him and shoved a box of photos in his lap, the box containing pictures of yourself in excessively vulnerable situations, like finding yourself in the hallway of different hook-up apartments or in your own home, some even depicting yourself getting undressed in the shower. “You’ve spent your life following others, but you’ve chosen the wrong person to follow, Adam.” You took another step towards him, reaching your hand out and pressing it against his face, caressing the side of his cheek. “You probably thought you could live your life without consequence for your actions, but you’re wrong. Just like how one wrong move could be the end of your life, so follow my rules and play nice, sweetheart." You smiled a thin smile filled with malice and lust.
A grin so fake that it was more than believable, if a bit unsettling. You grabbed his collar and yanked him upwards, the metal biting deep into his flesh, untying his makeshift gag and throwing the fabric onto the ground. His swollen cheeks and puffy eyes only made your lust for him grow so much stronger. “What do you want from me?” His voice was hoarse but whiny and strong with misery. “What’s wrong? You wanted to see me so badly before, and now that you can, you don’t like it? You should be grateful. John wanted to leave you there to starve; Mandy wanted to put you out of your misery, but not me. I wanted to meet you face-to-face." He let out a small breath as your hands slipped over his bare shoulders, down his chest, and back to his arms, squeezing them as you reached them, his muscles flexing under your hands. “I guess you’ll finally get to see everything in live motion, and not just from one of your silly pictures.” You moved your lips closer to his ear. His breathing hitched as he looked at you with glossed-over eyes, and his pupils dilated to slits as he stared at you. “Tell me what else you think is wrong, Adam. Tell me how you feel about being here. Tell me how you really are." As you whispered in his ear, you squeezed your fingers harder onto his upper arm.
You watched him squirm and whimper. “Oh fuck, man.” His hands found their way to your hips. “What did you do with those photos of me, Adam? Did you think about me at night?” You gave him a sly smile as you toyed with the lock on his collar. “Do you want me to take off my shirt? Do you want me to lay it across the chair so you can touch me? What kind of fantasy do you have of me, baby?” You leaned forward so that your chest pressed firmly into his.
Your lower leg rested against his crotch, pressing down and giving him his strongly desired relief. “Do you want me, Adam?” Your hand brushed his hair back; it was greasy and had dried blood and sweat in between strands, but at that point in time, nothing else mattered; only he did. "Shit, you’re fucking crazy, dude.” Your face snapped at his response, changing from pleasure to anger. “I would watch your attitude if you want to get out of here alive. Remember my rules, Adam; play nicely.” You tugged on the chain binding him, drawing a few beads of blood out of his neck. “Bite me.” He spat at you, his words stinging on your lips as you captured his in an angry, heated kiss.
He sucked your tongue into his mouth while you moaned into it; your lips parted slightly as you explored your tongue with his, and your hands were wandering his body. They slid up his chest to his shoulders, then his neck, then his jawline, until they tangled in his dirty locks. He pulled you closer until you were completely wrapped around him, grinding your hips into his groin as minutes felt like hours with your lips interlocked. “Fuck, I fucking knew you were perfect, so pretty.” He cried out against your lips, his hands gripping your waist tightly and pulling your hips down against him.
You both moaned when you felt his erection rubbing against your clitoral area through your trousers and underwear, his cock hardening even more against you. Your hips slid against his jeans as you sat on the floor, tucking your knees under your thighs. Cold hands slid across his jeans, unbuckling his belt and sliding off his blue trousers, hooking his underwear, and pulling them down.
You opened your mouth slowly, sliding your bottom lip along the tip of his erect penis. Your tongue danced delicately, sucking him off gently and softly. His head hung low as he groaned against your mouth.
His arms encircled your waist, keeping you pressed into his warm, hard body. “Are you enjoying yourself, Adam?” you asked quietly, licking away the last remnants of cum. He nodded quickly, turning his face away so he didn’t have to look you in the eyes. He couldn’t hold your stare and instead opted for staring at the ceiling, his arms still tight around your waist. He shivered as you continued sucking on his cock. “Yes, yes. That feels so good.” He gasped as your lips closed around the head, taking his full shaft into your desperate throat. He buckled his knees, his hips rocking into you roughly as you swallowed him down, moaning lightly as your nails dug deeply into his skin, nearly breaking it and almost bruising them as he tried desperately not to cum too early.
He clenched his fists, digging his own nails harshly into the skin of your shoulders as he guided your head up and down his hard cock. You licked the length of the base of it until it was throbbing painfully.
You took him to the back of your throat, holding him in place as you drank him down slowly. “Oh shit…” He breathed out as his body trembled, his eyes wild, and he panicked with desire, feeling his own orgasm rising in his abdomen. You pulled his cock out of his mouth, much to his displeasure and anger.
His whimpers made your hole clench around the emptyness that you so desired to be filled. “If I unchained you right now, would you scream and run? You remember the rules, right? Let’s see if you’ll still play by them once you’ve gotten your freedom. Get on your knees.”
His face was distorted in confusion, not quite understanding what for. "Look, man, I’m not into that sort of thing." He shook his head and looked at you in fear, sitting down on the cold floor anyway. “I’m taking your collar off, not pegging you with a knife.” The keys from your pocket jingled as you unlocked them, the heavy metal contraption falling to the floor. He removed his white shirt that was covered in dried blood, his pale body glistening with sweat and grime that covered every inch of his smooth chest. You placed the collar on the table next to you as you pulled him to the chair nearby. “Are you sure that this is what you want, Adam?” Your expression showed genuine concern.
Even though it was true you had locked him up in this room and kept him as your personal hostage only to give him a sloppy head, you still had a heart, and you were determined to give it to him in its entirety. “Put that pretty pussy right on my cock, please.” You smiled at him as you pushed your black pants and panties down to the floor, straddling his muscular thighs and kissing his neck.
His body twitched as you slid down his shaft, bottoming out as your pussy stretched around his dick, gushing around his flesh. “Shit, Adam.” You sighed, loving the heat of his body in the cold room, the wet warmth against your insides, and the way your juices trickled down the shaft of his dick and dripped in soft puddles onto the floor. You began moving up and down his cock with slow, steady strokes, adjusting your puckering hole to his shaft. Your legs started shaking as he lifted himself up, thrusting into you deep, your nipples pebbling, and your core tightening as your body began to move in rhythm to his movements.
His face flushed red, his eyes became glassy, his head thrown back, and his mouth opened in pleasure. His hands gripped your waist tighter, taking full control of your body movements as they related to your wet heat. His hands ran up and down your hips, his fingers sliding up and down your waist, causing you to tighten and pull harder on his shaft. He groaned loudly, his cock hitting all of your sweet spots as he pumped into you.
You were panting, your eyes closing as you focused on the way your walls tightened around his cock. “Did you ever touch yourself with those pictures of me, Adam? Did you imagine what it would be like to fuck me?" He bit his lower lip as he began to growl against your shoulder, releasing his grip on your waist as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. “F-fuck, every night. I wanted to know what your tight pussy would feel like around my cock.” He ground against your pussyrelentlessly until your whole body started shaking. “I knew you were a disgusting little pervert." You were so close, and his confession only drew you closer.
You could feel your juices dripping into your pussy as he continued to pump into you, pushing you further and further toward your release. You arched your back, reaching your hands behind you to grab onto something to help hold on to as you came. You screamed his name as you came hard, your pussy clenching around his thick cock, still chasing his orgasm as he pound into you, overstimulating your sore nerves.
His body tensed, his muscles trembling violently as he spilled his seed inside you, filling you to the brim. His arms wrapped themselves around your back as he held you close. “That felt so good. So fucking amazing.” His voice shook as he spoke against your neck. You turned so that your faces were level, and his arms were still wrapped around you. You kissed him tenderly, your lips lingering on his, before you pulled away. “Congratulations, Adam. You’ve won your game. You have been reborn.” He smiled and wet his lips. “So was that, like, a reverse rebirth kind of thing?” Your face turned from joy to bewilderment, and it only took one sentence from an idiot. “Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
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Holiday Rec List.
Hi everyone, this is long overdue, but I promised so here's to starting off the New Year right with some fics for you to check out. I didn't add any descriptions, so check them out! Some are series, some require you to be logged into your ao3. These are in no particular order. You are sure to find something you will love. We've linked the authors where possible so be sure to check out their other works, encourage (not pressure) them to finish their in progress works please or even write new works! Trust me! Happy New Year!
So many awesome stories did not make this list because I didn't want to overwhelm anyone, but many are already in mind for another special rec list!.
I love you more than anything (bio dad au) - iron_spider
But Only Hope and Sorrows End - iron_spider
Lazarus, come forth - iron_spider
Four times peter cheated death (and one time he didn't) - iron_spider
A Life of Crime - intothestorm
Up Came the Sun - WhimsicalEthnographies
Hey Ragazzo - WhimsicalEthnographies
Becoming Belonging - sahiya
A Soft Place to Land - sahiya
The Third Option - Uncertainty_Principle
Men of Iron - Spdrmain
The Little Things - soupshep
First Wednesday of March - soupshep
You'll Always Get There First - soupshep
The Time Traveler's Mentor - Diaz_evan
Three Weeks, Two Days, Seven Hours - soupshep
Never Go Home Alone - Orphan Account
Here's to all New Beginnings - Gruoch Orphan Account
Even Children Get Older - LittleMissAgrafina
A Snapshot Moment - soupshep
Hold Your Breath While You're Safe - Gruoch Orphan Account
The Hearth - Sagemb
Everyday Superhero Verse - Stoneage_woman
College Applications: The Biggest Meme - Sagemb
The Long Way Back - Gruoch Orphan Account
Allston Christmas - Gruoch Orphan Account
Hard to Love - Groo_ock Orphan Account
Aperture - Gruoch Orphan Account
Holdfasts - Gruoch Orphan Account
I Am One of You Forever - Gruoch Orphan Account
Neon Liar (Hiding in Plain Sight) - isaDanCurtisproduction
Constant Internal [Spider] Screaming: Semi-Connected Scenes from a Graduating Senior’s Life - isaDanCurtisproduction
As Luck Would Have It - blondsak, whumphoarder
Poison Apple - whumphoarder
Inevitable - imgoingtocrash
Knowing (of everything she doesn't) - imgoingtocrash
287 Miles - imgoingtocrash
Out of Darkness - StarryKnight09
I Would Lay My Armour Down - losingmymindtonight
Webcams and Webshooters - losingmymindtonight
Call You Home - Madelinedear
The Guardian - Emily_F6
Survivor's Guide to The Galaxy - fanfic1892
A Little Late On the Blood Work - Pixiemage
With Kind Regards and Completely Serious Warning - jennylarner
The Chain - RayRox360
Was that a Star Wars reference, Dr. Stark? - Jen27ny
You Are My Sunshine - M4rmalade
I told you I had issues - Bergen
PS: If you make it here then awesome sauce! Send us your fave fics to read as well, you never know they may end up on a special rec list someday! No promises though! Thank you all! Have an awesome 2024 everyone!
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꧁⪡ Alea Iacta Est ⪢꧂
Aaahh so here is part 2 of Housecat!! This continuation is written from Pantalone’s POV and features much darker content. Read the first fic before you proceed :>
Once again, thank you to @bye-bye-sunbird and @ddarker-dreams for the inspiration!! Same goes to @diodellet for your entertaining peer review and @yandere-romanticaa for your interest in reading this (*´∇`*)
Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, coercion, electrocution, offscreen death, psychological damage, Dottore is here, mention of drugging, mention of nsfw, dubcon, spice, MINORS DNI
Note:: Female cat-hybrid reader, pre-release Pantalone based on current lore crumbs
♡ 5.5k words under the cut ♡
i. the red string of fate
Love is nothing more than a contract.
The Regrator, of all people, is well aware of this fact. Love is an agreement easily forged and broken, an attraction founded on set conditions and self-serving fantasies. In a world of inequity, it is impossible for any relationship to be purely selfless nor unconditional.
The illusion of love persists, however, supported by centuries of myths. Soulmates. Star-crossed lovers. The red string of fate spun by the will of the gods.
How romantic.
Many would claim that Pantalone’s feelings are anything but love. They would dub him greedy, ambitious, obsessed, possessive, and so many other negative traits which ironically constitute the true essence of love. What he finds most insufferable are the claims that his efforts are futile against destiny.
If the gods deem him unworthy of love, he will pursue it on his own volition.
If the red string of fate ties his beloved to another, he will sever the threads and bind her to him with his own chains.
If his precious jewel rejects her owner, he will ruin her until she finally accepts her place in the world.
⬩◈⬩
Since her horrific revelation, his darling has become an amusing juxtaposition of obedience and defiance.
“What do you think of the present, my darling? Isn’t it a perfect fit?”
Pantalone clasps the jewelry around her neck. ______ blankly stares at her reflection.
The necklace is a simple accompaniment to her collar. The silver bell pendant makes soft tinkling noises with every little movement.
Its luster cannot compare to his darling’s tears.
“It’s…minimalist,” she answers. Her ears fold back. “But the bell is in poor taste. Do you expect me to wear this at all times?”
Pantalone smiles at her in the mirror.
“You wound me. And you are normally so enamored with my choices,” he replies. His hands rest on her shoulders. “The collar is already a perfect statement piece on its own.”
Zero wounds from the Electro Crystals. Sandrone’s craftsmanship is commendable.
Her tail relaxes. The violet bow is slightly askew; she must have been extra agitated today. Pantalone unravels it and reties the ribbon.
His hand brushes against her Vision. ______ immediately covers it with her own.
“You should get back to work,” she tells him. “I saw the reports on your desk earlier. What would the Tsaritsa say if she knew you were wasting your time on me?”
How foolish of her to bring up Her Majesty’s name.
“Matters of the heart do not concern Her Majesty so long as my work is unaffected. I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of separating my private and professional lives.”
His hand wraps around her tail. His grip is light but he can already feel the soft fur standing on edge.
“You know, it has been a while since I last saw you use your Vision,” he muses. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to watch your enchanting display again.”
“...All right.” His darling stares at her collar this time. “If that is what you want.”
Her hands are shaking. The sparks and red threads are thinner than usual.
Her fire is such a pretty spectacle. But it can only be viewed from a distance, a beacon of hope untouchable to its audience.
“There is no need to hold back, my love.” Pantalone waits for the fire to extinguish before he wipes her tears with his handkerchief. His other hand taps her collar. “You will only get shocked if you abuse your Vision. You won’t do that again, will you?”
She does not look at him. Recalling her previous attempts, most likely.
“I won’t. The last thing I need is to wake up to another one of your lectures.”
There is a bitter edge to her voice. Her tail slips out of his grasp and knocks over the empty necklace box.
He pats her head, smiling. “What a well-behaved pet. If I finish work early, I can take you to the shopping district tomorrow. We haven’t gone out in weeks.”
“I see. Do keep track of my purchases. I might just exceed my allowance.”
With that, ______ takes off the necklace and leaves the vanity table. She makes a point to push her unused shackles onto Pantalone’s side of the bed.
Despite her denial, she truly does act like a housecat at times.
As petty as she has become, his darling is making the most out of her cage. A pampered pet can never hope to gain the self-sufficiency of a stray. Any escape attempts would only bring her back to her owner.
Pantalone returns the necklace to its box, humming an old tune from Liyue. ______ covers her ears with the pillow.
Her neediness is sorely missed, however. He could easily demand her affection through more threats and gifts, but that would not be enough to satisfy his greed.
He would rather have her seek him out willingly.
ii. fool’s gold
A formal invitation announces a grand ball held in the capital of Snezhnaya. Another opportunity for the Regrator to make new business connections and to show off his darling wife.
“There should be a limit to the number of times I wear your colors,” she tells him. “By now, they likely view me as your little dress-up doll.”
“You are overthinking this.” Pantalone fastens the final accessory and fluffs up her tail. “We would not be the first couple to wear coordinated outfits. And think of it this way: An object takes after its master.”
He stands beside her in front of the mirror. They are only wearing matching jewelry this time. The violet jewels twinkle like artificial stars against their dark clothing.
______ frowns. “This necklace is too ostentatious, wouldn’t you say?”
Ungrateful pet.
“My priceless treasure,” he replies, the smile leaving his face, “you would do well to appreciate one’s generosity.”
A necklace of this price could feed so many empty stomachs in Liyue.
He grips the chain, allowing the jewels to press against her throat, and glares at her in the mirror.
“I’m sorry!” she says quickly. Her hands move to her neck in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure. “It must have been expensive. The…the design simply isn’t my type.”
“It is either this necklace or your collar, ______. Or are you secretly impartial to showing off my marks to the world?”
His other hand touches the love bites dotting her neck and chest. He had chosen an off-shoulder gown and an elaborate festoon necklace for that reason.
She averts her gaze. “...No, I’ll go with the first option.”
He lets go of the chain and readjusts the necklace.
His darling grips her tail with both hands. Her nails are newly trimmed and manicured after their last night of intimacy. Pantalone’s back is still healing from her scratch marks.
Even when he was kind enough to pleasure her, his darling took the opportunity to spite him. He had to use the shackles for their remaining rounds and her declawing session.
He adjusts her Vision this time. “I trust that you won’t cause a scene.”
“Of course.” She turns around and gives him a false smile. “This was part of our marriage contract, after all. I will assume the role of a loving wife for my sake.”
That is all. No clauses requiring loyalty or affection.
Pantalone’s smile is equally deceptive. “Stand by your promise. I will keep a close eye on you.”
⬩◈⬩
The ball is a waste of time—just the usual congregation of humorless businessmen, proud aristocrats, and annoying social climbers. The gilded superficiality of high society is no longer an otherworldly realm to the Regrator, but he is still grateful to have a companion.
It is more enjoyable when his darling is clinging to him like a frightful pet.
“My dear, you don’t need to stick to my side all night.” He shakes her tail off his wrist, smiling. “Are you that afraid of losing me in the crowd?”
“I’m not,” she whispers. Her hand grips his arm. “I don’t know anyone. They will just rope me into some meaningless conversation and gossip about ‘the Regrator’s trophy wife’ later on.”
They are nothing more than a crowd of foolish sycophants. But his darling is no different from them. If not for his riches, Pantalone is certain that she never would have spared him a glance.
Another admirer greets them and initiates a long speech about their loyalty to the Tsaritsa—a desperate farce before a Harbinger of all people. ______ smiles and nods along.
Well, the same may be said for his own attraction. He could have been apathetic to his darling’s existence had he not glimpsed her at the Shang family’s gala. She had looked so reserved, so pristine, until he came close enough to notice her cracks. Until he decided that he would be the one to break her.
The orchestra begins playing a lively symphony. The guests disperse to the dance floor and the edges of the ballroom.
“Would you care to dance?”
His darling’s thinly-veiled desperation is truly entertaining, especially as her gaze darts to the still-blabbering admirer.
He takes her hand, smiling. “Of course, my love.”
iii. odi et amo
Another letter is intercepted from Liyue.
Pantalone dismisses the messenger and opens the envelope. The letter is from his sister-in-law this time. Less valuable information, then.
It is just the usual family update, sans the necessary details which his darling would like to know. It ends with a sermon about marital conduct and the importance of “not being a nuisance to the Regrator.”
He smiles at the last line. The Lai family must have been quite shaken after the visit of the last Pyro Agent. Their previous letters are written in a similar fashion, all formal lectures with no ounce of concern for their little ______.
Had they met years ago, he would have envied his darling to the point of hatred. But now he can only feel pity for her.
Unfair as the world may be, there will always be certain pros and cons to one’s social status. Competence or inadequacy. Independence or loneliness. Ambition or sorrow.
Another agent knocks on the door.
“You may enter.”
They open the door and kneel. “My lord, your wife is returning to your office. As per your orders, she and her guard were only permitted to roam the eastern wing of Zapolyarny Palace.”
“You are dismissed.”
His darling’s letters are beginning to take up space in his desk. Pantalone adds the missive and locks the drawer.
The Fen wife recently wrote about a charm bracelet which his darling might like. He should add that item to his shopping list.
⬩◈⬩
Another obstacle to the Fatui brings extra work hours.
“Are you almost done? It’s late.”
Pantalone opens a new document. “I still have mountains of paperwork to go through. If you are tired, you may go to bed without me.”
The Northland Bank will be flooded with blood as soon as he catches those traitors.
His darling remains on his lap.
“It’s fine. I’m not sleepy yet,” she replies. She points at the stack of unchecked reports. “What are these about, anyway?”
“A few traitors. Some unforeseen interferences. A pesky little Traveler who has proven themselves to be quite the infernal threat.” He takes off his glasses and polishes the lenses.
He is due for another all-nighter.
______ turns her head. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He gives her a wry look. “You seem awfully concerned about my wellbeing. If you plan to take advantage of my current state, you are better off using subtler tactics.”
Her ears twitch. “You are still my husband. If anything happens to you, my welfare is at stake. I can’t assist you with work but I can at least provide some stress relief.”
Stress relief, huh?
His darling faces forward again. Her ears are pushed back, a clear indication of anger. It is an ineffective warning—they are nothing more than the soft, fluffy traits of a domestic cat.
Pantalone puts his glasses back on and pets her ears.
Her gasp is preceded by soft purrs. “What are you—? Stop! My ears are—”
He laughs, pressing a kiss against the back of her ear. “I know. So sensitive.”
His hand moves to the front of her dress and pulls down the neckline. Her love bites have already faded to near-invisible spots. It is about time for him to renew his marks.
“Pantalone.” She stands up and turns around, tail puffing up. “You still have work.”
“It won’t take long. Besides, was it not you who offered to alleviate my stress?”
He pulls her towards him, forcing her to straddle his lap, and touches the base of her tail.
“But still!” She bites back another purr. “Could we at least do this in the bedroom? The servants are still in the corridor. They might hear us—this is hardly appropriate!”
Until now, she still finds it necessary to retain her modesty. Her debauched noises during the act say otherwise.
It only takes a kiss to shut her up. He cups her face, smiling at every hitched breath and plea for air.
He will never grow tired of tainting her.
“My love,” he murmurs. He breaks off the kiss and presses their foreheads together. “Just think of it as fulfilling the contract you agreed to.”
⬩◈⬩
“Pantalone?”
“Yes?”
“Do you…plan to have children in the future?”
The pen hits the desk. It rolls across the wood, stopping just short of falling off the edge.
This is unexpected.
Pantalone clears his throat. “Can you repeat that?”
For someone who had made such a serious inquiry, his darling refuses to even look at him. She shifts in his lap, staring at his unfinished report.
And to think that he would not be the first to initiate this conversation.
“If this is about the contraceptives, I already told you that we are using a high-quality medication with no side effects. It is my turn to take them, anyway.”
Her tail thumps against his chest. “It’s not about the birth control.”
“Then what is this about? If you remain ambiguous, I may assume that you are asking for children.”
That would be a delightful surprise. Families do make for efficient binding agreements.
“I don’t know if I want that,” she mumbles. Her hands grip the desk. “It’s just…if you have any plans for the future, I want to be prepared for it. I spend enough time idling about and causing trouble for you.”
Not a direct refusal. What an interesting answer.
Thinking about it now, she had broached this topic in the early days of their marriage. Something about her lack of responsibilities and the Fen wife’s maternal duties.
Pantalone picks up his pen and continues writing. “As of now, starting a family is of low priority to me. We may continue this conversation once the Tsaritsa’s perfect world has been achieved.”
And when that happens, he will have all the time in the world to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
Ironically, that statement only makes his darling more agitated.
“I see. I’ll enjoy my last pieces of freedom,” she mutters.
He puts down his pen. “My darling, are you merely bored with your current routine? Or are you looking for an excuse to devote your time to someone other than me?”
At the last statement, she turns to face him.
“Not at all!” she exclaims. Her eyes are wide with panic. “I like your company; I really do! Anyway, I couldn’t possibly treat a child with your degree of care and attention.”
It is good that she knows that.
“That is good to hear.” Pantalone smiles and wraps his arms around her, pressing her back against his chest. “I won’t demand a child or anything else from you. End of discussion.”
“I see…thank you for telling me.”
His darling stares ahead, but the relaxed positions of her ears and tail are a substantial response. He rests his chin on her shoulder.
“Besides,” he adds, “I would rather have you all to myself for the time being.”
iv. faustian bargain
The next few months are relatively peaceful. A pattern of gifts, dances, galas, red threads, intimate nights, banter, and mind games. Pantalone is pleased to note that his darling is gradually becoming more resigned to her cage. She has almost reverted back to her needy, pliable self.
Unfortunately, the gods always choose the best of times to tip the scales.
“I’m home.”
Pantalone has barely closed the door before his darling stomps over to him.
“My necklace is missing,” she informs him.
He pauses, coat in hand. “Which one?”
She leads him to her dressing room without so much of a word.
The farthest corner of the room is reserved for her old accessories. It is a haphazard mess of half-opened drawers and scattered jewelry boxes.
______ opens the topmost drawer and points at the necklace section. There are large, even spaces in between the necklaces.
“Someone rearranged it. My brother’s wedding gift used to be on the far left,” she explains. “It was a gold necklace with a pendant shaped like a Nilotpala lotus.”
Pantalone glances at the boxes on the floor. “Are you sure that you didn’t misplace it?”
“How could I? You don’t let me wear it to begin with,” she snaps, gesturing to her collar. “This isn’t the only one. I can’t find the box holding my Sango pearl necklace.”
A thief in his own estate. What a wonderful surprise.
In their entire marriage, this is his first time seeing his darling in such an incensed state. Aside from her swishing tail and folded back ears, her eyes are filled with enough burning fury to rival his own glare.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
He raises an eyebrow at her. “My darling, for what reason would I engage in petty theft behind your back? I could easily confiscate your possessions.”
“I don’t know. But I am not trusting the same person who chose what I could bring to Snezhnaya.” She glares at him, eyes filling with tears. “I am fine with wearing your gifts, but is it too much to even look at my old belongings?”
“Wild accusations will do more harm than good,” he shoots back. “Did it not occur to you that someone else could have done it?”
His darling only laughs. “The servants, maybe, but they wouldn’t dare to steal from you. Unless you paid them to do it on your behalf.”
She opens the closet and takes out her coat.
“______.” It takes effort to maintain his composure. “Where are you going?”
“To the gardens. Forgive me for not being able to stand your presence.”
She leaves the dressing room. Pantalone follows her.
He reaches for her hand. “Darling, I—”
“Just go away!”
A burst of flames appears out of thin air, almost grazing him. Pantalone stumbles back, glasses clattering to the floor.
The sound of glass breaking is followed by the shock of Concentrated Overload.
His darling screams and collapses to the floor.
Pantalone takes a step closer. “You shouldn’t—”
“Don’t get any closer!” she shouts. She claws at her collar, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You ruined my life. I wish I never met you!”
Her honesty could not be any more brutal.
Pantalone draws back as though he has been slapped. His darling’s glare remains fiery.
At this point, diplomatic attempts at reconciliation are futile.
He picks up his glasses. The frames are warm from where the fire touched them. The chain is broken and one of the lenses is cracked.
“I do not blame you for your lack of trust in me,” he says coldly. He walks past her and opens the door. “I will give you some space if that is what you truly want.”
More sobs. Pantalone leaves the room and almost crashes into one of the servants.
“Lord Harbinger!” she squeaks. She bows immediately. “I apologize for not seeing you!”
“It is all right,” he replies, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He glances at her uniform. “You are one of my wife’s handmaidens. You go by the alias Myshkin, correct?”
“Y…Yes, my lord!”
A glint of silver flashes in her hand.
He frowns at her. “What are you holding? Have you found my wife’s missing jewelry?”
She jumps and averts her gaze. “What? I…yes, I did!”
Her hands are trembling. She opens her palm to reveal a familiar Vajrada Amethyst ring.
That little rat.
Myshkin is speaking a mile a minute. “I found it in the living room and was just about to return it. As soon as I saw it, I knew it must have been the ring Lady ______ was looking for!”
His darling has not worn it once in Snezhnaya. Neither did she mention the disappearance of that ring.
Pantalone takes it, a grateful smile on his face. “Thank you, Myshkin. I will remember this.”
She turns to the door. “Is Lady ______ all right?”
“Just a little shocked. Go tend to her.”
“Yes, my lord!”
Had she entered the room a second later, Myshkin would have witnessed the Regrator’s death glare directed at her.
⬩◈⬩
The Doctor’s office is a place of nightmares. Beyond the laboratory, his section of Zapolyarny Palace is filled with preserved specimens, glowing test tubes, anatomical sketches, and a pervasive aura of malevolence. Even the meeting room is far from welcoming.
“Ninth, I assume you summoned me for another private commission. How is your wife? I believe your wedding anniversary has recently passed.”
“Spare me the formalities, Dottore.” Pantalone takes a seat on the sofa. “I received your request for additional funds. The numbers are out of proportion, but I can overlook that if you throw in a personal favor for me. I believe you will find this commission more suited to your preferences.”
Dottore puts down his test tube and sits across from him. “What do you mean?”
Pantalone gestures to the package on the table.
“I would like you to soak these garments in a flammable substance, one so potent that it would guarantee inescapable death for the wearer once they come into contact with fire. The chemical should have an inconspicuous scent and remain effective after numerous washes.”
“What an interesting request. And who is this unlucky victim?” Dottore opens the box and takes out a set of maid uniforms.
That Myshkin had been stupid enough to steal memorable jewelry. Everyone knows that the wealthy are less likely to notice the disappearance of smaller pieces, moreso if those items are sold to a reasonably far-off pawnshop.
“You are quite literally playing with fire, and it seems that your employee is not the only target. Tell me, is it not easier to deal with them and your darling separately?”
Pantalone straightens his glasses. The new chain twinkles under the dim light.
“Think of it as killing two birds with one stone. It would be uncharacteristic of me to ignore an opportunity when it is presented to me.”
Dottore snickers. “Your poor little housecat. And to think you started out with something as innocent as catnip-laced perfume.”
“That is none of your business. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal.” Dottore sits back, a maniacal grin on his face. “Though I must demand payment. A chemical of this potency will be costly to produce, especially if I am to ensure maximum quality by using test subjects.”
Pantalone clasps his hands together, smiling. “Name your price.”
v. alea iacta est
Pantalone upholds his promise and grants his darling her desired solitude. He moves her to a different bedroom and works longer hours in Zapolyarny Palace. On the rare occasion that they cross paths in the estate, he scarcely acknowledges her.
Myshkin and her fellow handmaiden provide daily reports of ______’s activities and behavior. The former wears her new set of uniforms.
His darling holds on to her pride. She makes no requests for gifts or company. She continues her flimsy pastimes, sans the use of her Vision. She bristles at his silent treatment but makes no effort to approach him.
This is what her life could’ve been like had she married Chairman Jin. If she knows what is good for her, she will not compare that nullified fate to her reality.
The days are longer for Pantalone. The situation reminds him of their former days, that year spent patiently waiting and working behind the scenes and settling for the lightest of touches. But the reward had been worth it.
This time, he must only wait for his darling to come to him.
⬩◈⬩
“Lord Harbinger!”
The door slams open. The agent does not bother to kneel.
Pantalone barely looks up from his contract. “We are in the middle of a meeting. What matter is so important that you must disturb me and my client?”
“It concerns your wife, my lord! An accident has occurred in your household.”
About time.
He faces his client. “My apologies, but I must ask that we resume our negotiations some other time. I am afraid that my wife’s situation seems to be of dire urgency.”
“Naturally! It isn’t a problem.” The diplomat bows and puts away their reports. “Thank you for your time, Lord Harbinger.”
Pantalone leaves the conference room and faces the agent. “Tell me what happened.”
“Your wife attacked a servant with her Pyro Vision. We have already extinguished the fire and summoned a doctor, but her handmaiden is in unstable condition.”
All according to plan. “Are there any additional details which I need to know?”
They pause. “I was not present during the event, but I was told that the incident took place in your wife’s dressing room. She is currently afflicted with her collar’s Concentrated Overload as well as psychological shock.”
He resists the urge to smile. “Anything else?”
“Your wife asked for you, my lord. She specifically requested your presence as the guards were restraining her.”
How endearing.
“Cancel my remaining appointments for the day. That will be all.”
⬩◈⬩
The collateral damage only costs a few hundred thousand Mora. A singed carpet. Scorched closets. The doctor’s fee. The silence of the servants.
Pantalone barely regards the charred corpse in the servant’s quarters. According to the doctor, Myshkin had succumbed to her wounds shortly before his arrival.
In the end, she paid back her debt in blood.
Not a sound can be heard from his darling’s room.
He unlocks the door. Warm light spills into the dark room, highlighting the figure chained to the bed.
His precious jewel has never looked more pitiful. Her ears lay flat against her head and her tail is tucked between her legs. There are tearstains on her face.
Her Vision is on the floor. He wonders if it was her or the servants who had thrown it.
“You’re back.” She looks up, a fresh wave of tears trickling down her cheeks. “It was an…I didn’t mean to! I just…”
“Shh, I know.” He presses his handkerchief against her cheek. “They told me what happened. We couldn’t have predicted that your Vision would cause such a disaster.”
Her voice comes out in choked sobs. “It is my fault. I caught her…I was angry but she didn’t deserve—I can still hear her screams. What will I do?”
No friction burns or signs that she struggled against the shackles. Pantalone frees her wrists and hugs her.
“It is all right,” he whispers. “I will take care of everything.”
Another sniffle. She buries her face into his coat, soaking the fabric with her tears.
“I am more concerned about you,” he continues. He breaks off the hug and looks her in the eye. “My love, how are you feeling? It must have been such a difficult experience for you. If you need anything, just tell me.”
For a moment, his darling only stares at him with glassy eyes. Then she shakes her head and holds his hand, gripping it so tightly that her nails dig into his gloves.
“Stay,” she pleads. Her tail wraps around his wrist. “Please, I…just don’t leave me.”
Pantalone kisses her hand, a kind smile gracing his face. “I promise.”
vi. diabolic waltz
Myshkin’s death is covered up as a furnace accident. The false notice is sent to her relatives, along with a large sum of Mora for financial aid.
It is the least the Regrator could do for a desolate family.
His darling moves back to their bedroom. She spends the majority of the first night crying in his arms and seeking out his comfort. The next morning, she meekly accepts the Nilotpala lotus pendant and Sango pearls he had bought back from the pawnshop. The subsequent days are filled with silent apologies and thank you’s.
A week after the incident, she leaves their room to visit his private office.
“Are you still working?”
Pantalone looks up from his report. “This can wait. Do you need anything, my darling?”
“Not at the moment.” She stands in front of his desk, tail tucked between her legs. She is wearing only her nightdress and collar today. “Take this.”
She places her Vision on his desk.
He reacts with a carefully crafted frown. “______, why are you giving this to me? I believe you know the risks of losing a Vision.”
“I am better off without it,” she mutters. She pushes it into his hands. “It has always been wasted on me. You deserve to have it.”
In the end, fire is just another illusion. Despite the light it offers, it can only consume.
Pantalone lifts it up to the window. The Pyro Vision is brighter than any false star in the sky. He can feel its powerful warmth through his gloves.
The gifts of the gods, now in his grasp. But there is a far greater treasure standing before him.
He sets it aside. “I will take good care of it, then.”
“Is there anything else I can do?” His darling moves closer to him, tail raised. “You’ve done so much for me. I will do whatever it takes to repay the favor.”
Pantalone smiles at her and leaves his desk. “You only need to stay by my side. Though, I would not be opposed to other modes of payment.”
She nods and walks into his embrace.
⬩◈⬩
“I have a new gift for you.”
“Another one?”
His darling frowns at the package. “You know how I feel about your gifts. Just being with you is already enough.”
“Think of it as a gift for myself, then.” Pantalone pats her head, ruffling her ears. “I do enjoy spoiling my beloved pet.”
She purrs and hugs him again. “Fine, all right. That just means more cuddles for you.”
His precious jewel has shattered. She is much more affectionate nowadays.
The servants finish unpacking the phonograph. They pull back the curtains and leave the room.
______ regards it with curious eyes. “A Witch’s Chorus. What sort of music does it play?”
“Why don’t we find out?”
Pantalone places the record on the turntable and flips the power switch. The instrument begins to play a slow, festive orchestral arrangement.
Her ears prick forward. “This…it sounds familiar. Where did I last hear it?”
“Quite nostalgic, isn’t it? It is the musical score from our first dance.”
“That explains it.” She turns to face him, eyes shining brightly. “It was a waltz. How could I forget?”
The fire in her eyes has been completely extinguished. Though her gaze never fails to light up at any mention of their lost memories together.
Pantalone holds out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
Her hand feels soft in his grip. “It would be my pleasure.”
No red threads this time. His darling follows his lead, a peaceful smile on her face. During the final spin, she is quick to return to his grasp.
“Pantalone?”
“Yes, my darling?”
She meets his gaze.
“I love you.”
Pantalone almost stumbles. He stops in the middle of the dance floor.
It is difficult to hide his surprise. “Please repeat that.”
“I love you.” She says it clearly, still holding his gaze. Her expression becomes anxious. “Is there…something wrong with how I said it?”
He never imagined that those words could be said to him with such utmost sincerity.
Pantalone only laughs and resumes the waltz. At this point, they are dancing off-beat to the music but there is no crowd to judge them. Only the stars visible through the windows, twinkling across the sky like unfathomable jewels.
“No, it was perfect. You just caught me off-guard,” he admits. He smiles, pulling her closer. “I love you too.”
♡
Read the Author’s Note here!!
It is done……I am finally free from this fic. I never want to see Pantalone’s pretty face ever again. This greedy man rlly made me write a two-part fic that was longer than Herbarium and Fairytale combined (੭ ˃̣̣̥ ㅂ˂̣̣̥)੭ु
I hope you all enjoyed the Regrator’s twisted love story. I hope you all liked my yandere characterization of him. I hope you all suffer from brainrot while I get some rest and question my life choices. Thank you for reading and have a lovely day, everyone <3
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Prove It Princess: Chain Matty! - The Sequel
Perfect Girl
A/n: a huge thank you to @lottiecrabie and @lastnightwaskindofablur for reading this for me and helping me 💘. This is long awaited I feel and I'm sorry to everyone who really wanted a sequel, but it's here (kinda?) it's not fully finished but I'm kinda of done with it. Hope you all like it 🩷
MINORS DNI 🫵🏼
Matty's eyes haven’t left you the whole day. No matter what he does, they always seem to land on you. When you’re not there, he's been searching for you, needing to see you. Clad in a lace bodysuit that was entirely too similar to the ones you wear for him, tucked into a leather skirt, teasing him. Forever teasing him.
But what got him the most, is the silver chain resting around your neck, worn like it was a medal. His chain, grazing the skin he so desperately wants to mark. To cover with beautiful hues of purple and red. A reminder to everyone that you are his girl. But the chain is not enough; it still gives too much room for guessing. People who do not know him, don’t know the true owner of this necklace. Have no idea it claims you as his. For all they know, you don't belong to anyone. Though it doesn’t really matter when it looks that good, and God, does it look good. Even the shining ring on your left hand isn’t enough, not for him. He needs to mark you. Show everyone that you are taken.
He watches the way your thumb hooks underneath the dainty chain, playing with the metal, letting it graze against your skin. He is in a daze, obsessed with the way you run your thumb against it absentmindedly, caressing the metal. Your finger runs along the silver and he swears he feels the sensation on his own skin.
You talk to George, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, skin grazing the metal. Matty doesn’t care that it’s his best mate's arm that’s wrapped around your neck. He smirks. In fact, seeing his friend's skin touch the metal that was once coated in him, it makes him feral. It's a disgusting thought. Erotic, but vile. If only he knew…
You pull the chain with your thumb, the back of it digging into your neck as you listen to George speak about some after party, running through his supposed ‘un-thought of’ idea of a remix he wants to play.
Matty swallows as he sees the metal bite into your nape, leaving an indent. His eyes are focused on the hollow of your throat then, wanting nothing more than to nip it himself, right next to his chain. To make you bleed and bruise. To leave traces of him on your skin for the whole world to see. To remind you of the sinful things he loves to do to you. That you beg him to do to you.
Your eyes finally land on him. You take in his dark, blown-out eyes and his bitten lip. You knew that look all too well. You smirk as you bring the chain up to your own mouth. Matty knows your next move before you do it. He shakes his head and draws in a shaky breath as your lips wrap around the necklace. His mind flashes back to that night. The way your lips sucked the silver coated in him, the way you licked it clean.
It was then that he made you promise to never take it off, ever. Your attention is pulled from him by George again. You mumble a little “hmm?” and the metal falls from your mouth, almost in slow motion, landing against your chest. It bounces slightly upon impact, drawing his attention to the swell of your breast.
He notices the faint remnants of a hickey there, the bruise nearly healed, looking more like a blemish than anything else. He wants to place his mouth there again, darkening the skin over and over until his imprint on you is nearly a branding iron.
He needs you. God, he needs you desperately.
His blood almost boils when he sees George lean down, his lips grazing your ear. Matty doesn’t know what he says and he truly doesn’t care. He doesn’t even care that it's his best friend, one that he trusts with his life. Not when he sees you smirk, eyes snapping up to him, smiling as the drummer murmurs into your ear.
“He hasn’t been able to stop staring at you all night,” is what George says, making you smirk, your eyes finding the curly haired man in question.
"It's the chain," you mutter back into his ear. Your eyes find Matty, he sits with his legs spread beside Ross and John. Matty isn’t listening. Instead, he glares at you and George, ever focused. Your eyes rake down his form, noting the way his thighs part further and one hand grabs the back of his neck, drifting up to his hair, tugging the curls.
"He's so…" George pauses, pulling back to look at his friend, smiling at him and watching him nod back. He leans down again, arm slipping from your shoulder, hand gently holding the back of your neck. “Possessive over you," he breathes into your ear.
“I say we give him a little show, hmm? Make him finally do something about it,” he speaks and your smirk spreads, breaking out into a toothy grin. You chuckle, eyes flicking up to the man as he pulls back from you. It doesn’t matter that his girlfriend is somewhere in the venue. Heck, she’d probably join in on the fun. For that’s all it was, a bit of harmless fun.
George continues to speak slowly into your ear, lips nearly grazing your skin with every word. Matty doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t move, not yet. He’s entranced sure, but nothing has hit a nerve just yet. He was enjoying the show… for now. He breathes shallowly, watching as your lips twitch, smirking and smiling and fluttering your eyelashes up at his friend, wanting Matty to react. He watches as George’s eyes flick to him, throwing an evil little smile his way, playing with him as much as you were, daring him to move.
George’s eyes fall back to you, drifting along your skin, not in a predatory way but searching for something, something he could focus on to draw out the needed reaction for Matty. His eyes fall on the silver jewellery resting against your chest and he smirks.
“This is nice.” His fingers hook underneath the chain. That's all Matty needs to see before he’s moving. He rises in an instant, practically falling over himself to get to you, and he stands with you before George has even had a chance to raise the chain upwards.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend to bother mate.” His words are harsh and they have both you and the drummer smirking. George jokingly hisses at the man for his catty words, making you chuckle. Matty’s eyes snap to yours, silently warning you to watch your mouth. Your lips close and you swallow.
He stares his best friend down until he drops the metal, letting it fall and collide with your skin. George inches back, still standing close to you but raising his hands up in surrender.
“Alright don’t have to tell me twice,” he says, but he quickly leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek making Matty practically growl. Before he’s walking backwards, raising his eyebrows at you and mouthing a “you’re welcome” as he leaves.
“Having fun, were you, love?” Matty says, hand hooking behind your neck and squeezing. Just hard enough that he feels the chain against his palm. Enough so you know what’s to come. Enough so you know exactly what he’s going to do to you. The singular gesture makes your core clench, preparing for him. You know if he was to spread his fingers through your folds he’d find you wrecked, wet and ready for him. You also know that despite the fact you’re surrounded by your friends, you’d let him take you right there, quenching all of your wanton desires.
"Just having a friendly conversation Matty," you say innocently, hand finding his chest, running along the covered muscles, gently, soothingly. But your eyes hold a storm behind them, something dark and all too dangerous brewing behind the teasing stare he is fascinated in.
"Friendly my arse," he murmurs, eyes leaving you and searching for his friend, only to find him standing with Charli, arms hooked around her. They’re both looking back at him, Charli giggling into his neck whilst he smirks at him.
"Fucking twat,” Matty murmurs to himself more than anyone else. “Fuck off mate” he shouts, across to his friend who just laughs loudly, pulling his girlfriend away with him. You coo up at him with a pout, leaning forward until your lips graze his neck.
"Poor little Matty… doesn't like it when his best friend talks to his girl." His eyes snap to you then and you smirk. Rousing a reaction from him was way too easy, and too fun to refrain from.
"He wasn't just talking to my girl… he was flirting," he says with a raised eyebrow. You just lean forward, lips finding his neck again, grazing the flesh with your tongue.
"Sure… your best friend was flirting with your girl." He doesn't like that you're making fun of him. You raise your lips to his ear, brushing them against the flesh. He shudders, a low growl slipping from him. “Maybe you should show him who I belong to." You take the lobe in your mouth feeling the cool metal of his hoop that you finally convinced him to wear again against your tongue.
He grunts and tears you away from him, dark eyes finding yours as his arm hooks around your shoulders and he smirks. "Come with me." He pulls you with him, walking out of the room, turning a corner and then another and then another until he's found his dressing room. He drags you in and slams you against the door.
"Such a dirty slut… begging for daddy's attention. Flirting with his best mate just so I'd give you some attention…" His lips find your neck, tugging against the metal. "Little greedy thing, huh?" He says, asking you for something, anything: to confirm his words or deny, he doesn’t care. All he wants is those breathy, whiny moans of yours against his ear.
"Tell me how much you want me." You move forward, just an inch, needing him closer to you. His hand snaps to your throat, pinning you against the door. You moan and your back arches. It makes his head spin, a loud groan rumbling from his chest.
"Need you so bad Matty… so fucking bad" It's not good enough. You know by the way he tilts his head to the side and he tuts.
"Daddy, please." with the way his eyes sparkle and a menacing grin rests against your lips, you know you've got him hook line and sinker. Or at least you think you do.
His lips are on yours not a second later. His tongue is in your mouth almost instantly, aggressively pushing against yours. Your head nearly hits the wood upon impact, but it’s cushioned by one of Matty's hands. It weaves between the strands of your hair, fingertips threading through before closing. He tugs your head to the left, making you moan into his mouth. His lips slip from yours, dragging down your neck slowly, landing against your chest before following his previous path back up, halting at your jugular, right next to the silver chain.
“You drive me fucking wild, baby girl.”he bites your neck, the cold of the chain on his tongue. Your flesh tastes like metal and salt and heaven and you. So much like you that he moans into the hollow of your throat. The sound that slips from your mouth is a glorious melody that he’s obsessed with. It makes his pants tighten. He swears if he’s not buried inside you in the following minutes, he’ll combust.
He pulls back a little, the chain slipping slightly, colliding with his lips as he talks again, "And this fucking chain," he says, fingertips hooking underneath the metal, pulling until it's taut against your neck. It chokes you slightly, leaves you breathless.
“Shoulda never given you this fucking chain,” he growls the words out, his fist taking up the place of his teeth, clenching around the chain and tugging slightly until your lips are against his. You don’t move. You can’t; you’re choked. But if you said you didn’t love it, you’d be a liar.
You moan out a breathless sigh of his name, groaning when his hips thrust forward, just once. Enough so you can feel him, heavy and hard against your core. “Wanna fuck you in nothing but that chain and the pretty little ring on your hand," he admits into your neck, tongue running along your neck, hitting the edge of the cool metal.
"Please." The word barely leaves your mouth before Matty’s hands find your hips, turning them until your chest is against the wall, his mouth buried into your neck as he grinds his cock against your arse.
“Fucking hell,” he says, groaning once before he steps back. You turn again and your eyes find his dark stare. The way he runs a hand through his hair as the other is fumbling with his belt has you sighing, head falling back against the door. He peers your body as his hand continues to struggle with his pants.
You reach forward and grab his hands, halting his failed attempts, easily undoing the belt buckle and slipping the leather from it. You sneak under the waistband of his trousers and tug at it until he’s in between your legs again. You then find the zip, pulling it down torturously slowly whilst you smirk up at him.
“Here I was thinking you were going to be a good girl, but you just can't help but tease me, can you?” He says. You coyly shake your head up at him, biting your bottom lip. You watch the way his eyes somehow darken further, a near impossible feat.
“You prefer me this way,” you say as you finally tug down his trousers, not bothering to waste any more time and tugging his underwear down too. Your eyes fall to him, enthralled with the way his hard member snaps up against his abdomen. He watches as your mouth opens and he smirks.
A hundred ideas flash through his mind. He debates pushing you down to your knees and fucking your throat until you behave like his good girl. He toys with the idea of stripping you and fucking you against the wall until you crumble around him. Right now, he much prefers the idea of watching you strip for him, until your jewellery shines on you and your thighs glisten for him. So he steps back, inching further away from you. You try to take a step towards him, but a singular tutt has you freezing.
“Who said you can move?” He says, moving further back until his legs hit the sofa. You watch as he lowers himself, legs parting and hand wrapping around the base of his cock.
All the air in your body, the room and probably his body too, could be taken away with the deep inhale you take. It makes him chuckle, a mean sound that would make you pout if you weren’t as focused on his hand, slowly working up and down his cock. You watch the way his eyes never leave you, they trail up and down your body twice before he utters a word. The only word you need to hear.
“Strip.” His voice is perhaps the deepest you’ve ever heard it and it shocks you. It has you freezing up.
“I said,” he says, hand stopping at the base of his cock again, he squeezes slightly, “strip!”
You’re unsure whether to strip quickly or make a show of it. You opt for the later, deciding that if he made you wait, you could do the same. You could torture him far worse than he could you and you were certain of it.
Both of your hands weave into your hair, you pull it up, revealing your neck, tying it into a sleek ponytail, knowing the things it did to Matty. He instantly regrets his decision but knows he can’t back down now. His hand moves slowly against himself, working himself up, teasing himself, just like he knew you would.
He watches your neck like a hawk. He swallows when you do, seeing the way the chain shifts slightly. The hands once in your hair drifts down your body slowly, inching across the curve of your breasts, dipping in at the waist before beginning to trail down your legs. One hand continues whilst the other finds the zip at the side of your skirt. He swears the sound of the zipper is amplified, and he can hear his heart beating in his ears. He sees the fabric loosen slightly, watches as you turn, tugging down the fabric slowly, revealing the lace of your underwear inch by inch.
“Fuck,” he says when your arse is revealed to him. He wants to move forward, to reach out and touch you or spank you, but your movements have him frozen. The lace bodysuit you wear clings to your body perfectly, the thong of it revealing you practically entirely to Matty, the swells of your arse that he loves so much virtually begging to be bitten. He nearly cums right then and there when you bend slightly, hand finding the clasp of your heels.
“No” you stand and look over your shoulder “keep them on”
"Good girl, now turn."
You turn back around slowly, eyes snapping to his hand again, staring intently at the way his veins swell as his hand works himself slowly. Far too slowly. You know Matty, perhaps more than he knows himself. You had received a plethora of phone calls from the curly haired man when he was on tour, calls where his hand would be wrapped around his cock and he'd be groaning down the phone the minute you picked up, begging you to join him on tour, telling you how much he missed being buried in your tight cunt. You remember those moments well and you distinctively remember the sounds, the movement of his fist far quicker than his current pace.
He was teasing himself, just like he knew you would.
"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to give Daddy the show he deserves?" His voice snaps you out of your thoughts. It's deep and commanding and it has your fingertips eagerly finding the poppers of your bodysuit.
They come undone with a "pop" that seems to ring around the room, only drowned out when Matty thrusts his hips upwards into his hand, groaning as his eyes fall to your core. The sound he lets out lets you know he likes what he sees. And boy does he like it.
"Fucking hell" he says, hand momentarily halting its movements. You watch his dark eyes flick from your folds to your eyes, he bites his lip and he sighs.
"Fucking dripping" he bites his lip for a moment before his mouth is opening again but you cut him off before he can continue.
"All for you daddy" you sigh, hands finding the fabric around your waist and hitching it upwards a little revealing more of yourself to him.
"Really?" His hand continues, he groans and his eyes shut but they open a second later, trained on you again.
"Of course Matty" you say, he scolds you, you apologise, correcting yourself "daddy". You don't miss the way he smirks and mumbles a "good girl".
"What with the way you were flirting with George… I wasn't sure" your mouth opens at that and a mean chuckle falls from his lips.
“Matty” the name falls from your lips softly and he doesn't correct you this time, His eyes soften but only slightly and he allows you to step towards him.
You walk until you're towering over him and you sigh when his hands clamp around your thighs, running up and down the skin, goosebumps and shivers forming.
“What is it hmm? Feeling guilty that you made me feel this way?” You know he's committing to the bit, degrading you only slightly so you could both get what you want. Hot, hard and heavy fucking.
Your lip ruts out slightly in a pout and you nod. Matty copies you before he smirks slightly. You place one hand on his clothed shoulder and hike your leg over his lap, one at a time, slowly lowering yourself down onto him.
He sits hard and heavy against your cunt and you both sigh as he ruts up against you. Both of you want nothing more than for him to hitch his hand around the base of his cock and thread himself through your folds, but this was a cat and mouse game now, and he didn't want to be the first one to break.
He wanted to break you, until you were begging for him to fuck you. He could easily lean forward and press his lips to your neck but two lean fingers hook under the chain and he tugs. He uses the hand that was wrapped around him, the remnants of his pre cum coating the skin near his knuckles. Stickiness that has bubbled over as he tortured himself.
One jerk of his hand and his teeth are enclosing round your throat. His other hand grips your hip firmly.
“Show me how bad you want it” the hand on your hip forces you to roll them, giving you permission to take control of your movements. You're hesitant at first, eyes flicking down to his lips, watching the way he bites the bottom one. You finally roll your hips forward against his, revelling in the way his hands grip your hip and the way he lets out a low grunt.
You repeat the motion, rutting against him slowly, making your eyes flutter and a sigh fall from your mouth. You roll your hips forward again, Matty surprising you with a thrust of his own hips, the tip of him jolting against your swollen clit. It has you throwing your head back and a blissful moan falling from your lips.
You feel Matty hook his hands under the chain, gently pulling until you're looking at him. He smiles when he sees your eyes, blown out and completely wild.
“My beautiful wild girl” his other hand clamps around your hips, forcing you to apply more pressure. He knew how to get your begging for his cock and your current movements just weren't enough. You were playing it safe and safe isn't what he wants.
“My sweet, sweet girl” his name falls from your lips again and he tutts.
“I said show me how bad you want it” he thrusts up then and it's as if he's shocked you into motion.
Your hand clamps around his shoulder, hips moving backwards and forward harshly against.
“Fuck Matty… you're so hard, feels so good” you lean forward to claim his neck with your lips. They move against the skin, teeth nipping here and there, noticing the way his breath picked up. Little grunts slipping from his lips. You feel the tilt of his head, down, you didn't need to pull away to know what he was staring at.
“I need you so bad Matty” you beg. He knows you do, he can feel it. A small “fuck” slips from his lips and his hands clamps down on your hips, slowing your movements. You can feel the way he twitches beneath you, so close. You were winning and he didn't even know it. You had hardly begged and here he was, precum leaking against your folds, eyes trained on your cunt and the way his hardness was coated in you.
“Only you can make me feel like this, just you Matty, only ever you” he pulls you back from his neck at those words, smearing his lips against yours as he forces you to raise your hips. You feel the tip of him at your entrance, you sigh into his mouth and he swears.
“Yeah? Only me?” He says, his words moulding against her mouth, tongue teasing hers as he smirks, on hand clamping round the base of him whilst the other lowers her hips down onto him. They sigh in tandem, both groaning when he finally bottoms out.
“Prove it to daddy, princess”
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Like A Movie Part II
Summary: Jenna comes back to iron out some details on the movie with reader. Flirting ensues.
Word Count: 3.1K
Warnings: I cuss alot...so language
A/N: How do we feel about a slow burn friends? I'm gonna be up front and tell you I'm terrible with angst. Like I physically can't make myself do it. Life is sad enough, I just want to write happy things...for now. Also, I kind of picture the reader as an older Zendaya as Rue, but hey this is your fantasy so interpret away.
Like A Movie Part I
It took you hours to tidy the hot mess you called a living room. Even with Nando’s help and a case of beer, it still wasn’t as nice as you wanted it to be. Nando gave up trying to help you after hour three, claiming it was never going to be good enough, and Jenna had already seen it at its worst, so why did it matter?
You knew he was right, but you still felt the anxiety bubble up in your gut as you sat in your kitchen the next morning. The half-full mugs of coffee that littered the apartment before were now clean and awaiting their duty in your cabinets. Your clothes were shoved into laundry baskets or actually folded and put away. The three throw blankets on your couch were neatly folded and hung over the back of it. There were still mountains of scripts around; there wasn’t much you could do about those. Jenna seemed to like seeing them, though, or at least that’s what you told yourself to stop from burning your life’s work to get it out of the way.
You made a dedicated effort to look more put together this morning. You convince yourself it’s because Jenna is technically now your employer, but you know deep down you’re trying to impress her. You’re not sure if she’s single or not, but it’s not like you’re trying to date her. You just want her eyes to linger a little, that’s all. Lord knows yours did yesterday and likely will again today. Hell, could anyone with eyes blame you? The woman is gorgeous.
You have on a black short sleeve button up with a white collar, white hems on the sleeves, and black jeans over your old skool Vans. It’s all very Wednesday Addams, you note as you’re sitting at your table waiting for your coffee to brew. Even down to the crew length black socks. You hope she doesn’t think you’re mimicking her. This is the most professional thing you’re comfortable in, and you know you look good too.
You run your fingers through your hair, shaking it out and fluffing it up all at once. A clock ticks on your wall, the minutes slowly slithering by. Jenna had come to your apartment around 10 yesterday, and it was currently 9:50. You get up to peek out the window over your sink, hoping to see her car in the parking lot.
Nothing. Only Janice tottering around the chain link fence. You puff your cheeks and let the air out all at once. You side eye your laptop, which is sitting open on your desk, a half finished screenplay mocking you from across the room. You may have sold one now, but that wasn’t going to stop you from writing more. A writer should always have multiple pots on the flame, as your screenwriting professor loved to say.
You glance back out the window once more, seeing nothing different. You shrug, grab your coffee and head to your desk. You may as well work while you wait.
You quickly get lost in tying together scenes, eyeing your outline and plot points, mouthing the dialogue as you write it. The story is moving along nicely, but you can’t help but worry that you were burying yourself in a particular scene and you couldn’t find a way out of it. You’re so concentrated on un-fucking the scene you’ve dug into that the knock at your door nearly scares the lights out of you.
You flinch at the sound, looking around wildly. You look at the clock, it reads 10:23. Amazing how quickly you’re able to immerse yourself in a story, time feels unreal. You felt like it had been hours of writing.
You stand and straighten your shirt out, run your fingers through your hair again for good measure. You make your way to the door as another knock comes. When you pull it open, Jenna is there, undisguised this time. She must have found solace in the fact that no one was around aside from Janice in the parking lot, if she didn’t feel the need to hide. She’s wearing a form fitting black long sleeve with black jeans, and this time she’s a few inches taller in her high heels. You fight to keep your eyebrows from flying off your head when you see her.
“Hi.” She says simply, sliding her sunglasses off her nose and into her hair.
You fight to remain composed. This is your boss, for goodness sake.
“Hello, Ms. Ortega.” Ooof, fumble, you think as soon as the words leave your mouth.
She scoffs and shakes her head, “No. absolutely not. Just Jenna.”
You grin at her, “Okay. Hello, Just Jenna.”
She blinks slowly at you, trying to keep a straight face, but you can tell the comment has tickled her by the slight uptick in the corners of her mouth. “Do you make it a habit to have guests stand on your doorstep for this long?”
Your eyes go wide and you scramble to the side, “Sorry! Come on in.”
You can smell her perfume as she brushes past you; it’s Chanel, you’d recognize it anywhere. You sigh as you close the door. When you turn around, she’s already in your living room, exploring your scripts again. If she notices the difference in cleanliness from yesterday, she doesn’t mention it.
She glances up at you as you follow her and lean against the archway between the kitchen and the living room, crossing your arms. She looks you up and down, and you feel the need to pull at your collar and gulp.
“You’re dressed up today,” she says, “Got a hot date?”
You try to play it cool, “Nah, I always dress like this when I’m selling screenplays.”
She smirks, knowing full well this was the first one you’ve sold. “Sorry I’m late, I had a thing this morning that ran over time.”
You shrug and jerk your head toward your open laptop, “No worries, gave me time to ruin a few scenes of my newest work.”
She eyes the laptop with curiosity, but politeness keeps her from going to it to read. She looks back at you, she’s waiting for something, but you can’t for the life of you figure out what it could be.
“So you promised me coffee yesterday.”
You smack your forehead, “Shit. Yes I did. Make yourself at home, I’ll grab you a cup.”
She follows you into the kitchen and lays her bag on one of the chairs, sitting in the one next to it. You busy yourself with the espresso maker, watching her in your peripherals. She rolls her ankles stretching them out before leaning down to pull a fat manilla envelope from her bag. She sets it on the table and crosses her legs, watching you now.
You blow your hair out of your face, only for it to fall right back into place as you’re pouring her cup. You turn with it, placing it in front of her delicately.
“Still a no on the sugar and oat milk?”
She smiles, “Unless you have white chocolate mix here, I’ll just have it black, thank you.”
You make a mental note to get white chocolate mix as soon as possible. Then you kick yourself for thinking she’d grace you with her presence a third time. She sips her coffee from the white mug you’ve given her, and you can see the ring of red lipstick that remains behind. You try not to roll your eyes at yourself as you consider never washing the mug again.
You sit at the table across from her, sliding your coffee over from her side. She was sitting where you usually sat in the mornings, facing the window. The midmorning sun streams in, reflecting on her dark hair and turning her brown eyes into a golden hue. You weren’t about to tell her she’d taken your seat though. You now had the best seat in the house.
You eye the envelope on the table, then watch her as she sips the coffee, closing her eyes and smiling.
“That good huh?”
She nods, eyes still closed. When she opens them, she says, “They always serve drip at interviews. It’s depressing.”
You laugh, “Couldn’t you just have an assistant run and grab you something better?”
She shrugs, lacing her fingers around the mug the same way she had the day before. “Yeah, but he has more important things to do than get me coffee. Plus, I knew I could count on you for a better cup.”
The sentiment makes you blush but also swell with pride. Who was this magic woman who could fluster you so? You shake your head, smiling, knowing full well nearly any woman that good looking would have you turning into a barista and blabbering like an idiot. She raises an eyebrow at you, your internal dialogue lost on her.
In an attempt to save the moment, you point to the envelope. “What’s that?”
She frowns as if she’s forgotten what you’re saying, her eyes following your finger. Realization washes over her features when she understands the question.
“Oh, it’s your contract. You can bring it to your lawyers to review before you sign it.”
She slides the envelope over and you open it, pulling the thick stack of legal documents out. You try to read the first few sentences but the legal jargon makes you feel cross eyed.
“Yep. Can’t understand a word. I’ll take it to them today.” You bluff. You don’t have lawyers. You’ll need to find one quickly.
Somehow, she sees right through it. “You don’t have a lawyer, do you?”
You smile sheepishly, “No I do not.”
She takes her phone out and scrolls to a contact before sliding it over to you. “Here, call this firm, tell them I sent you. You can work the agreement to have the production company pay them a portion of your check once they cut it.”
You take your own phone out of your pocket and add the contact, “Thank you.” You say, and you mean it. She doesn’t need to help you that much, and yet here you are.
She drinks her coffee and hums. Once you’ve added the number, you slide her phone back to her. She sets down the mug and slides the phone back to you.
“Put your number in there too.”
You’ve lost control of your face now, your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline and your mouth drops open. She just smiles back at you, leaning back in her chair with her coffee. She looks smug, like she knows what she’s done to you. She probably does, if you’re honest with yourself. She’s not naive.
You take the phone and add a contact, typing your name and your number underneath. You slide the phone back over and she picks it up. She snaps a quick picture of you as you’re looking down at your mug and you protest.
“Awh no come on Jenna-“
She waves you off, adding the photo to your contact, “Stop, you look cute don’t worry. Candids are the best.”
Your phone vibrates in front of you and you see a text message has come in from an unknown number. You open it to read: Jenna Ortega. You have her phone number now. You’re trying not to hyperventilate. Of course she gave you her number, you are going to be working together. She called you cute. Were you sweating? Was it warm in there?
As you battle your internal crisis, Jenna reaches for her bag again. This time she pulls out a dog eared copy of Secessus and gently lays it on the table. It’s full of multicolored sticky notes, and you can see highlighter marks spilling over the sides of the pages. The script looks like it’s ten years old when it has only really existed for a few months. The thought of her pouring over the pages makes your stomach flip.
You look up at her, “Who do you want to play?”
She looks down to the cover page, tracing her finger along the title. Her expression is thoughtful, she bites her lip.
“Who do you think I should play?”
You squint your eyes, looking up to the ceiling to remember the characters. The film is horror, but it’s cerebral. Any of the characters written in the pages would suit her, but you can only think of one that would let her talent truly shine.
“I think you should play Judas.” You lean back in your chair with your hands on your knees, your leg bouncing.
The grin that spreads across her face is devious, and you can tell she’s pleased with your answer. “You think I should play the killer?”
You nod, “Well she doesn’t really kill anyone though, she just convinces her cult to do it for her. I think the part would be perfect for you.”
“I want to be offended, but I’m really just flattered.” She says as she takes a lock of her hair and twirls it in her fingers. “It would be a big change from being the final girl.”
You shrug, “This film doesn’t have a final girl.”
She frowns, “Sure it does.” She flips the script open and thumbs to a page close to the end. “Judas lives, and so does the demon she summons.”
You raise your eyebrow at her, smiling in disbelief. “Are you seriously arguing with me about a script I wrote?” You jab at her playfully.
She’s fighting a smile, looking down at the pages. She looks back up at you and you can tell she’s ready to fight you on this. “You’ve left it open to interpretation. So it is whatever the reader thinks it is. I’m the reader. So I’m right.”
You scoff, a goofy smile plastered to your face. “I’ve never had anyone fight me on the content I’ve written in my life. You ma’am, are something else.”
“I’m your director and your star. So I hope you’re prepared to fight with me for the next year or so.”
Butterflies explode into your stomach. You think she might be flirting with you. Is she flirting with you? What the hell planet are you living on? It’s definitely too hot in there.The idea from yesterday that you might be dreaming returns to you. She’s eyeing you now, seeing if you’ll rise to the challenge. You’re nothing if not stubborn, so like a phoenix from the ashes, you do rise. Even if it’s clumsy and half-cocked.
“I am ready and willing to argue with you at your every whim.” You blurt out. Seriously? You may as well roll over and expose your soft underbelly for the kill.
Your answer seems to satisfy her because she leans back into her chair again, but she’s still eyeing you keenly over her mug. There’s a strangely comfortable silence that settles over the room, the two of you sipping your coffee. Jenna’s phone rings, breaking the silence and causing you both to flinch. She looks down at it, then back up at you.
“It’s my driver, do you mind?”
You shake your head no. You get up from your chair when she answers and head into your living room to give her some privacy. You flop onto your couch and pull up your phone, scrolling through tiktoks absently. After a few minutes, Jenna wanders into the room. She hesitates, but you gesture for her to sit down and she follows suit. She sits on the edge of the couch like she’s nervous to get comfortable, spinning the rings on her fingers. You wonder if it’s a nervous tick.
She sucks in air through her teeth and looks at you, “So. I know we hardly know each other and everything but…my driver just got pulled away for something.”
You stare at her blankly, not following. She screws up her mouth like she’s fighting against her better judgment and continues.
“Would you mind if…like do you have any plans for today?”
You frown, confused and still not following. “No. Just working on that dumpster fire over there.” You gesture to your laptop.
“Is it okay if I stay here for a few hours? Just while I wait for him to come back? I promise I’ll stay out of the way.”
If you were a cartoon, a bright yellow lightbulb would have popped over your head. Finally, you’re picking up what she’s laying down. “Of course!” You say, probably a little too enthusiastically judging by the look she gives you.
Jenna relaxes a bit, shifting back on the couch. It’s a good sign, you think, she’s getting comfortable. There’s a pile of screenplays stacked higher than her head next to the arm of the couch, and she glances over at them.
“May I?” She asks you, referring to the stacks of paper.
“Have at it. Most of them are shit.”
She tuts at you and grabs the ream at the top. You can’t remember which one it is, and you’re slightly nervous. She runs her finger along the page again, the same way she did with Secessus. You are beginning to realize she has a particular veneration for scripts. Which makes sense, seeing as they were the center of her career. But you think there’s more to it, she really loves something about the writing.
“Haze,” she reads the title out loud.
You blanch, realizing it’s a very R-rated, very gay story. “Oh uh, that one is… underdeveloped.”
She gives you a look, making you feel the need to justify yourself further. “It’s smut. Not good either. And very gay. Maybe not for your eyes.”
She blinks in surprise, and then interest alights her face. She opens to the first page and says, “I’ll decide what’s for my eyes and what’s not. You don’t need to entertain me,” she gestures back to your computer, “You can get back to work.”
And that’s how you find yourself lying on your sectional, typing away. Jenna is curled up on the other side of the couch, reading your screenplays with her feet tucked up under her, heels discarded. Every once in a while, you glance over at her and secretly watch her chew on her cheek or twirl her hair as she reads. You’ve made her another cup of coffee and she sips it from time to time, savoring it.
This is the second time you’ve been in her presence and you’re already beginning to feel like you could get used to this. It’s dangerous and hopeful, and you let it steer your writing as you dig yourself out of the hole you had fallen into earlier. Yeah, you could absolutely get used to this.
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Darkly, delicately
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Character
Warnings: Minor character death, mentions of period typical crimes and their punishments, prostitution, implied smut.
Word count: 4.7k
Summary: All her life Meynara has struggled to belong. Captured and taken to a land far away she's made her place in the world of Westeros with allies she can count on one hand. With the siege of Duskendale by the army of King Aegon II, she finds herself facing odds that change the course of her life once again, weaving her fate to the tune of the dragon in a dance hidden through time, as the war between the blacks and the greens rages on.
Link to read on ao3: here
She hears the bell ring twice as the castle erupts in chaos. “Noom, Narrah, Nyel” she chants to herself as the third dong reverberates through the wind drowning the screams around her before she's shoved hastily to the safety of the dingy cellars below. The scent of sweat fills her nostrils as she navigates the musty cramped quarters, filled to the brim with anxious ladies clasping their hands in prayer as they kneel together trying to stifle their whimpers. Lady Meredyth wrings her hands nervously as she stares into the distance, somber in demeanor. A moment of recognition seems to pass through her eyes as she spots her near the hastily barred door, before she turns abruptly to question her ladies maids’ who bow their heads in response. She finds her place near one of the walls, turning away from the woman reprimanding those around her to assess the scene in silence. Ever since the war began she knew the siege was inevitable. The family of the dragon had torn themselves in two embroiling most of the realm in their chaos and it was about time they too were hit with the consequences of their support. One of the dragons would soon grace their skies, she only hoped it wasn't their queen. Rumors of the kinslayer had wafted through Duskendale these past few moons. Round the winding harbor and the cobbled streets, onto the market square threatened over a bargain gone wrong, passed around taverns along with a drink in hand all up to the Dun Fort and it's gates in hushed whispers carrying over inwards to the pale walls enclosing winding threads weaved together for their lady, his name had evoked fear, disgust and surprising wonder alike. As the clashes of metal drew nearer to them she wondered how long it would take for him to finally reach his mark.
Seven blows was all it took to bring down the giant gate of the Dun Fort. The irony of the number isn't lost on her as they are rounded up in the central courtyard by noon. Captives surround her in haphazard lines along the posts and below the outer gate manned by armed men in green, their banner of the three headed dragon glinting maliciously in the sun. Some of the women struggle to stifle their sobs as they watch their husbands and sons being rounded up for slaughter before being hushed with a shove and a sharp word. She cranes her neck to see an older man at the head flanked by two heads of silver around a familiar face kneeling in chains.
“People of Duskendale, you face the price of your betrayal! Lord Darklyn has condemned you all but the King is just and merciful. Whoever wishes to make good on their vows again and pledge allegiance to the true heir to the Iron throne need only speak it now and his grace shall consider their folly pardoned” booms the older man, his tanned skin streaked with the blood of the burning ports. She hears a few whispers of indignation and fear before a handful of knights step forward to pledge their allegiance. It is a meager number which she realizes dissatisfies them deeply.
“Very well then” murmurs the King before they hear a shrill roar near the top of the castle. There in all his glory, perched atop the highest parapet, she sees a beast so beautiful, unworthy of the carnage it has wreaked, yet as it growls and makes its way towards them with its scales of shimmering gold she feels the true power that the men before her yielded. More of the folk around her now rush to bend the knee, hastily murmuring their pleas and apologies as the men in green smile haughtily. A lone eye, stern in its gaze, catches her unmoving. She suppresses the shiver that runs through her as she curtsies in response. The urge to live has long outlasted whatever moral code runs through the heart of the realm and it does not fail her today. Somewhere to the side she hears a familiar scoff of distaste. “It won't be my head on a spike when they're done with us” she thinks as she stares at her rival in defiance. Lady Meredyth scorns her in response as she's dragged off to witness the event of the day. Lord Gunthor kneels a few paces before her, locking eyes with their captors before turning to face her with hurt and disdain. She sees him gaze at her for a moment before offering a few words of comfort to his wife along with affirming his allegiance to the Queen with pride. She feels a quiver of fear pass through him, a cry of anguish a few feet away and an unrelenting stare on her as he's beheaded. A hush falls over the courtyard as the deed is done and the guffaws resume their way to the main hall shoving all in their path. Somewhere in the distance her heart leaps, far away across the fishing villages dotting the skyline towards the ruins of Hollard castle near the fork of the Crownlands. Duskendale would face a similar fate tonight.
She wastes no time in making herself scarce. She trains her ear on the whispers clinging to the walls as she makes her way downwards. They have been sacked by a little under three thousand men amassed during their journey through Rosby and Stokeworth that are to stay on till further word from the King. The lower kitchens and the halls are filled to the brim and are easy to blend into as she hurries towards her destination. She finds herself taking the familiar flight of stairs past the makeshift bakery to wind down to a hidden door below. Exactly three knocks later it opens to reveal a harsh face staring right at her.
“You are late”
“Forgive me for trying to stay alive” she huffs in return.
“Did they hear you?”
“Not yet”
“Let us keep it that way then.”
She knows he means to assess the threat before them both before feeding her to it. That is how it has always been, her body for the price of their safety. For all her bravado she hasn't been able to escape the clutches of home and the thread that ties her to it remains the one that cuts her the most.
“I know what I have to do”
“You move on my command Meynara, not before, nor after. We've made a decent life for ourselves here, do not go ruining it now.”
“I suppose the head of the lord staring at us as we walk through the hallways is enough of a hurdle in our path” she retorts shakily.
“As if you were ever fond of him”
“No, perhaps I wasn't. Doesn't mean I wanted him dead either”
“Life and Death are right around your corner”
“Faith shines the ability to prevail in both” she finishes turning away from him. Those were his father's words, ones that he'd told her on the boat to Westeros as they lay together shackled and starved. She remembers his eyes shining with a promise in the dark, willing her to forgo her fear. It seems a lifetime ago yet the man before her stares at her just the same. It is her gaze now which is filled with apprehension rather than the faith she's long left behind and no feelings of ardor can bring back the naive trust she has lost.
There is a feast to be held in honor of the King as Duskendale had yielded with ease, unprepared and caught off guard. Perhaps if Gunthor had insisted on better fortifications and riders rather than her religiously mounting him each night, his head wouldn't be hollow and unattached at the moment. She finds herself slinking into the shadows, with that thought, trying to keep an eye on the party at hand. The ale flows freely in the lower halls with the men getting handsy with the serving girls despite their indignation. Her only option is to reach the upper halls unnoticed hoping the stronger wine would dull them long enough to be done with her faster. She spots him in the distance as she makes her way up. He stands still near a burly man, eyes as empty as the dead hanging outside. A brief flicker of warning passes through to her before he's consumed to his farcity. Faith shall have to suffice for both of them tonight.
The main hall is decorated with banners of gold yet much sparse compared to the mess below. Anyone with a title should occupy the benches ahead of her, some newly appointed lords and generals, who all sit jesting and drinking below the dias as the men of the hour watch on. She watches the King engrossed with the head cook’s daughter fully partaking in the merriment. She sees her blush and smile coquettishly turning a lock of her hair as she entertains him and wonders how much persuasion it took for her to be offered up on a platter. Freshly plucked and naive, innocence was always coveted first at the altar, of worship and sacrifice alike.
Next to him sat two men with equally stern faces. She recognised the first with the booming voice, still in his armor refusing woman and drink alike, surveying the crowd for an imminent threat yet the man flanking the King's left drew her attention the most. To see him in person after their loss at noon made her skin tingle and the rumors had not done him justice. He sat poised, with his hair still braided for battle, eye lazily surveying the crowd like the elder man next to him, sipping from his chalice at ease. His gaze seemed unfocussed, unwilling to seek out anything in particular yet she saw through the haze. A predator responds only when it spots a worthy threat.
“What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone” she hears someone say before being grabbed by pudgy hands. The man near her reeks of nauseating sweetness. Arbor red she discerns as he leers close to her.
“Apologies my lord, I was on my way to serve the King” she lies promptly.
“Perhaps you might serve me first then. His grace would not refuse his loyal subjects tonight” he spoke earning a few jeers.
“Wait” she hears a crisp voice break through the crowd. “That one is mine”
There is no room for argument as she's pulled by two armed knights towards the dias, under the eye of the dragon.
“My my brother, you've caught a pretty one. A shame she's too old to be plucked” smirks the King playfully biting the girl on his lap.
She sees the prince ahead of her regard her with interest before beckoning her forwards with his finger. It isn't long after his appraisal that he takes her by the arm retreating to the sounds of muffled cheers. She feels him make his way around the castle assuredly, neither in haste nor at leisure, before he pulls her into the nearest chambers he can find.
“What can you do for me?” he asks abruptly, leaning against the door as he surveys her again.
“Whatever you desire my prince” she responds, as demurely as she can muster.
“I do not wish for pleasantries”
She balks at his refusal as she stands before him, tilting her head to observe him closely.
“I meant what I said”
“Are you a whore?”
“I am what you want me to be”
“If I wanted a whore I'd find one more willing, you may quit your farce”
“And what if this isn't one” she finds herself saying.
“Then I have wasted my time and I do not wish to be proven wrong”
She stares at him in bewilderment and defiance meeting his gaze as he turns to pour himself another cup of wine.
“I can entertain you to your heart's content”
“I am not a man who revels in the pleasures you seek to offer”
“You are hard to please, as any prince should be, yet I am not one to yield. Allow me to show you instead” she says confidently walking towards him. He looks at her skeptically, before his eye widens slightly upon hearing the clinks that follow her. He lets her lead him to the chaise nearby, raising an eyebrow at the sound that clings to her while she smiles at his astonishment, ready to finally play her part.
She keeps her gaze on him as she begins her routine, serpentine and sinuous, twisting her arms above her head with precision entrenched in her bones. She feels his eye take in her form, the flow of her wrists twisting like waves to the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each turn, moving in tandem with her hips all while the room jingles with the ring of threes; Noom, Narrah, Nyel. He continues his trail along her frame trying to match her pace and she sees him relax through her lids, taking in his enraptured face.
“Is this to your liking, my prince” she smirks as the ringing comes to a halt, the chanting of her soul, awake at the appraisal in his gaze. She finds her answer soon in the nights to come.
“You move to the sound of the gods” he says as they lie together, sweat clinging to them as the wind wafts through the open windows. It is the second night under the new command of Duskendale and all seems to be at rest, lying in wait for the bells to strike.
“Do you believe in them?” she whispers back, turning to regard him with mirth “I thought the Targaryens fashioned themselves as gods”
“The blood of Old Valyria leaves little to imagination.”
“But Valyria is gone and all you have left in this strange land is the power you wield through the skies” she continues stroking his bare arm.
“Which strange land should I thank for gracing me with such beauty tonight” he whispers, turning a lock of her hair between his fingers as he gazes into her eyes.
“Norvos, across the narrow sea”
“Norvos” he repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue regarding her with awe. “Are all Norvoshi so,”
“So?”
“Quiet”
“I thought you found my chatter incessant”
“I never heard you” he stops her, “Not once as you crept around the castle all the way into my bed”
“You wish to know my secret?” she asks him playfully “Perhaps my blood is as special as yours”
He scoffs in turn earning a crease to her eyebrows which does not go unnoticed. “We are not so different, you and I. We both seek to soar far beyond what fate plans for us”
“Your riddles can exhaust a man far more than your movements” he huffs petulantly.
“You are only displeased because you cannot decipher this one” she hums thoughtfully earning her a pinch to her hip which she swats away promptly.
“Careful, I am not fond of that wayword tongue of yours” he warns her with a smirk.
“Why when it has given you such pleasure? What is the use of depriving yourself of such an investment” she finds herself giggling in return to the bashful pout of his lips.
It has been long since she's been so enamored with a man. There have been a few, young and beautiful, not immune to the charm she summons at will but none so rigid yet tender that makes her heart want more.
“Dance for me” she hears him say as he lies back, hair splayed around the pillows like a halo.
“As you wish your grace” she responds devilishly, slinking away from his embrace to twinkle under his eye.
Their nights continue with well practiced rhythm as their days stretch on. She finds herself at the precipice of good fortune, confined mostly to his chambers as his prize, content to stay hidden till she's displayed with pride. The King she learns takes offense to her growing presence in his brother’s life yet is dissuaded to take action by his elder hand, his disapproval making itself known in its own way.
“My lady, the prince is betrothed to Lady Baratheon of Storm's End and is to be married in a few moons”
“With the tide of the war changing ever so often I feel it best to practice restraint Lord Hand. I'm playing my part just as everyone, as a loyal servant to the crown won't you agree?”
“As I am certain you are” he responds with distaste.
“The prince seems quite sated does he not? What then I wonder, merits such growing concern. As long as your plans come to fruition I am sure a woman such as me should hardly pose a worthy obstacle” she bites back eager to send him away from her new chambers. Victory in the face of adversity tastes almost as sweet as the dreaded wine she brings to her lips, sipping at it with mock delight as she watches the commotion enfold out her door. As he walks to give way to someone, she hears a familiar scream of anger grace the threshold. Lady Meredyth barges in, red faced and fuming. She finds her predicament almost hilarious were it not for the state she's in. Dressed in mourning for a neglectful husband who managed to give her a daughter too young to give away for the dwindling power she now tries to hoard, she tries to muster whatever pity she can find for the woman, before she opens her rotten mouth.
“You seem mighty pleased with your situation, finally living up to your true potential as the whore you are”
“Widowhood suits you my lady. The black brings out your eyes” she responds back sarcastically.
She sees her spit at her feet before she's escorted away, spewing curses through the halls. There is no greater joy in watching the old crone claim her late husband's chambers where she rode him to death while she lounges on her very own bed waiting to be taken in the arms of pleasure at night.
“What did I tell you about that tongue of yours” he retorts as he pulls her into an alcove at midday.
“To use it more often” she whispers, running her lips along his jaw. The walk she'd managed to take away from her confines had proved to be a welcome change after that harrowing ordeal in the morn.
“You wanton thing. Do not vex me outside of these walls”
“You have my word” she says flightily resuming her course along his neck.
“And much more” he breathes, palms burning through the blue she's clad in. She finds herself smiling as she pulls him closer, enjoying his proximity during the quiet of the day. Perhaps nights are not the only thing to look forward to anymore.
She feels his presence in the hallways later, long before she turns the corner, trying to rid herself of the evidence of her dalliance.
“You've lost your faith” he remarks somewhere behind her.
“I've simply found it around another corner” she replies, turning to face the judgment in his dark eyes. There are bags underneath them, weary with doubt and the wisdom he seems to wield like a weapon.
“He is a dangerous man to be around. Someone who kills his own is not one to be trifled with”
“And yet we've faced far worse”
“Worse than treason?”
“Tell me you don't mean to support yet another foreign queen”
“You've grown slow” he states glaring at her. She finds herself at a loss of words. Her old self would have caught on to what was spoken almost instantly with an equally sharp retort in tow. Shame creeps up on her at being caught off guard, vulnerable and at his mercy.
“I will not fail you” she says, turning to avoid his eyes, tears glistening amongst her own. “I am only doing what I think best”
“And therein lies the problem”
“Lady Meynara” a voice cuts through the silence suffocating her as she turns to face the source of her shame. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back regarding her companion with distrust only for her to turn around to find him gone.
“Do all of you possess such talents of evasiveness” he questions her as she sighs and makes her way towards him.
“It has served us well”
“On the contrary, it makes you noticeable. The very thing you are ever so keen to avoid”
“I think you happen to have a keener eye than most, my prince. Do not fault the entire realm with the same flaw you possess.”
“I would hardly call it that”
“A flaw?”
“More of skill honed and fortune bestowed” he smirks leaning towards her.
“Something that earned you your birthright” she questions back impudently. “I've heard the rumors”
“I didn't think you'd put much stock in them”
“One tends to learn a lot through tales, true and false alike. Besides aren't rumors as such keeping your plan afoot”
“You know far too much to be jesting as such. Do you not fear for your life?” he asks her, eye glinting in the light.
“You'd have me hanging near the gate by now if I was such a threat”
“By your feet” he replies, watching her face darken. “You needn't worry as long as you serve me.”
“That is a threat my prince, far worse than what I'm accustomed to”
“Good, my intentions must be made clear then.”
“And what exactly might they entail”
“Your faith for a price” he says regarding her in earnest. The promise of more lingers on her lips as he leaves her wondering what it is she plans to do about it all.
“You mean to leave” she asks him on the third night they're together, with the moon at its height bathing them both in its embrace. He's reclined on the bed, one arm resting behind his head as he listens to her, eye closed in sequestered bliss.
“Rumors can only serve their purpose with cause to back them”
“You are to leave at dawn then?”
He hums in response as she fidgets with the sheets around her.
“Do not fret, I shall ensure your safety for your word”
“That is a hefty promise”
“And one I intend to keep”
“You will tire of me soon enough.”
“Perhaps,” he says, opening his eye to look at her. “Yet I'm certain it won't be so soon”
She feels the sheets pool at her feet as she rises to sate him for the night, eyes trained on him as she watches him cock his head in piqued interest. There is an unspoken understanding between them as she glides by the bed, running her fingers over the wood to stand in the center of the room, the light from the candles illuminating everything she wishes for him to see.
“Not tonight” she murmurs, running her hands over her hips.
“You'd deny the man who holds your fortune” he asks incredulously.
“I'd offer him something far sweeter”
“And what is sweeter than your company my lady”
“Joining me in ways a man would take his woman”
She sees the bed dip with his weight as he rises, moving with agility to stand before her. She cranes her neck to see him peer down at her, eyebrow raised at the game she wishes for him to play.
“In Norvos, we move like this to show our feelings. For emotion sometimes is best expressed through something tangible” she says reaching forward to steady his arms.
She feels him follow her movements with ease, twisting and turning with surprising accuracy never letting her out of his sight.
“You are a trained warrior”
“So are you, it seems. This is much like swordsmanship”
“All art is said to be inspired”
“What inspires you tonight little soldier” he rasps as he spins her around, arms enclosing her as she stares ahead. She feels his breath against her neck, her back pressed against the ridges of his body leading her to exhale before she writhes in his embrace.
“I do not wish to be a piece in the war you play at”
“We are all pieces to be moved about, each for a different purpose”
“It seems you've mastered my tongue in these past few days”
“I've only claimed what's mine” he says running his hands along her waist.
“Your plan will only work on trust, something the people here lack in abundance. Faith, which you scorn me for holding on to, is only meaningful if adhered to in earnest”
“I don't begrudge your faith” he whispers, turning her around to face him. “Just who it's tied to”
She finds herself mesmerized by the blue of his eye, so still yet violent, unrelenting yet open to the words that spill from her lips. “He is what connects me to who I am”
“To cherish something so deeply is a suffering in itself that I've come to accept. I think you understand that very well, Aemond.”
She feels him stiffen at the mention of his name, fingers clasping her arms tighter before he turns her around in a pirrouette, bowing before her as he ends their performance.
“Always your way, yes” she responds breathlessly.
“I do not wish to mold you Meynara, only to make you realize how well you belong. I can offer you something far more than the life you wish to subject yourself to”
“Wealth and power?”
“Purpose” he says with finality.
“Then I ask one thing of you. Bare yourself to me, in good faith” she whispers, watching him carefully “and I shall do the same.”
“Haven't I seen all of you?” he questions, removing the barrier across his face.
“Not without adornment” she says, reaching down to remove her restraints. “They are as much a part of me as this is of you” she finishes reaching up to cup his face. The sapphire glistens brilliantly as she stares at the angry scar accompanying it, intensifying his beauty.
“Is this what you've heard of” he remarks, gritting his teeth at her request.
“Indeed” she replies, reaching up to stroke his face. “We wear our shame and pride on our sleeve. It is time to embrace it together for the purpose you so wish to achieve”
“It will require much more than I've since asked from you”
“I think it is time I left the chains that bind me my prince, yours will have to suffice for now”
They wake again at the crack of dawn to the domestic bliss of togetherness. There in his chambers she experiences what it means to be a wife at last. The euphoria of nurture, she'd long dreamed of since she was a girl, envelops her in a sense of longing and nostalgia. As she bathes and readies him for battle, she finds herself gazing at him wistfully.
“I shall return soon”
“I am aware. I did not forgo my bindings for a lie”
“You wished to soar did you not.”
“You know, the Norvoshi do not trust a man without a beard. They say one as such lacks the honor to defend and the foresight to lead” she responds by running his blade across his face as he turns away from her.“You have your own honor though”
“Many would disagree. I am said to be cursed ”
“One man's curse is another's blessing. You shall return a King”
“Because I've given you the freedom you desire?” he jests “Your faith is truly boundless”
“As is your routine. Hold still while I finish or they'll have to wait the whole morn for you to ride out with glory”
It is an hour later after she meticulously braids his hair and secures his armor, over his eye and body that she finds herself truly bogged down with the weight of his departure. He kisses her temple as he leaves, the act too chaste for her to protest before he's gone. As she sits ruminating on her time spent with him, she hears the flap of the great wings of Vhagar, leathery and forceful as she rushes to spot her out of her window. A shadow falls over the Dun fort as she flies past, giving way to three rings of the great bell of Duskendale, thrice for the sound of freedom that soars through her heart.
Taglist: @arcielee @succnfuccubus @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @paprikaquinn @witheredoffherwitch
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within your walls (desire, desire, till there’s nothing left of me)
@febuwhump 2024: Day 2: solitary confinement
@badthingshappenbingo : locked in a freezer (card is at the end)
Rating: Teen And Up
Words: 2,367
Fandom: Hermitcraft
Warnings: Kidnapping, Torture, Human Experimentation, Unethical Experimentation, Temporary Character Death
Read on Ao3
the title is from Strangler Fig by the Crane Wives
this is inspired by @aquaquadrant and @lunarcrown ‘s Hels to Pay AU and From Eden by aquaquadrant.
i highly suggest you read that first bc it is both amazing and the context is helpful
this is the link to aquaquadrant’s From Eden master post
this is also inspired by this piece of art by lunarcrown
as well as lunarcrown’s orginal comic
anyways, enjoy some pain and suffering :)
Deep inside the Hels Tek facility, Tango stood, claws dripping with redstone dust, in front of a grid of circuitry.
The machine Dr. Atlas had sent him to repair wasn’t too complicated, in fact it wasn’t much of a challenge at all. It was just as simple as replacing a few components with the ones the circuit required and drawing a few more lines of redstone dust. The mechanism felt reminiscent of a puzzle you might give a toddler—Tango felt that all he was doing was placing the different shaped blocks in their corresponding holes—but he figured that it was just a test to see what he knows, which didn’t surprise him. This was like his entrance exam before being hired to work at Hels, he supposed. It explained why Dr. Atlas always seemed to be just a few feet away, no matter where they were. Tango hoped that that was a good sign.
A voice came from behind him. “Very nice.”
Tango jumped and spun around to come face to face with Dr. Atlas. “Oh! Doctor, didn’t see ya there. I finished fixing this thing for you,” He gestured at the contraption behind him.
Atlas took his eyes off Tango and studied his repair job instead, as Tango continued to talk.
“It wasn’t too hard, a few things were in the wrong places but that’s pretty much it.” He turned around to look back at his work.
“I see,” Atlas responded, somewhat distracted. His eyes had locked back onto the swirling crown of blaze rods floating above Tango’s head, and he reached into his lab coat.
“So, do you have anything else for me to do?” Tango fiddled with a spare comparator as he spoke.
Atlas stepped closer. “I think that you’ll be very beneficial to us here at Hels Tek.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Dr. Atlas.” Tango spoke, still focused on his redstone.
“So am I.”
Tango felt a sharp prick on his neck, and before he could turn to see what it was from, his legs gave out from under him and his vision went black.
A numbing chill spread through Tango’s bones as his eyes slowly opened. His mind was racing but his breathing was sluggish, muscles slowed by the cold. His senses seemed dulled—whether it was because of whatever knocked him unconscious or yet another effect of the raw, sharp iciness he was surrounded by, Tango didn’t know.
He was laying on the floor, staring up at a plain, white ceiling, dotted with glowstone lamps. They cast a warm yellow over the room, providing Tango with a false sense of warmth that he wished was real. He started to sit up, then immediately noticed an unfamiliar weight on his wrists and neck. The deep jangle of chains being dragged along the floor pulled him even further out of unconsciousness.
“Good morning, Mr. Tango.”
Tango’s eyes snapped up to see Dr. Atlas writing something into a small notebook. The pair made eye contact through the wall of glass separating them, and Atlas smiled. Tango tried to push himself up onto his feet, his arms trembling, but nearly fell onto his face instead. (He glanced up to see Atlas watching him fail to adjust to his lack of energy, then write something down.) His arms, his legs, his brain all seemed to betray him as he struggled to stand, but finally, he forced himself to do so. The heavy iron chains that connected to his collar and shackles and kept him tethered to the ground seemed to drag him back down, but he stood and looked Atlas in the eye.
“Hey, Atlas.” He called out. “What is this?” His voice was filled with confusion and frustration, but overall much less fear than there should’ve been.
“Your new assignment,” Atlas responded.
“Uh, no, thanks. What even-“ He looked around for a second, cutting himself off as he stared into the solid white room beyond the glass box he was trapped in. “What is this?” He repeated.
Atlas snapped his notebook shut and tucked it into one of the pockets of his lab coat. “Like I said, your new assignment, where you will be staying. Indefinitely.”
Tango frowned. “Yeah, no, let me out.” He looked down at the new jumpsuit he was wearing. “And where are my clothes?”
Atlas didn’t respond.
“Hey!” Tango raised his voice. “Let me out of-“ He stepped forward and the chain attached to his collar pulled taut, momentarily choking him. Hurriedly, he stepped back, coughing.
Dr. Atlas stepped up to the glass door, then punched a code into the keypad mounted on the wall next to it. The door opened with a click and Atlas stepped inside, followed by two other Hels Tek employees, who moved to stand on either side of him. Tango’s eyes flitted around the room, trying to keep track of all three at once. Then, Atlas nodded, and the other scientists stepped up, each grabbing one of Tango’s arms. Tango’s muscles tensed up—at least as much as they could—and he pulled against the scientists restraining him. Still, they held him fast, not much effort required.
Atlas stepped forward, reached up, grabbed one of Tango’s blaze rods, and yanked. The blaze rod sizzled, leaving a trail of sparks behind it, but it came loose from Tango’s crown and smoldered in Atlas’s hand. He brought it up to eye level to inspect it—golden, shining, smoking, and most of all, valuable.
Tango gasped in pain, but quickly regained his composure and continued to pull away from the scientists, while glaring at Atlas.
“Hey! Stop it! You can’t do that!”
Dr. Atlas tucked Tango’s blaze rod into his lab coat, then looked back at Tango. “Yes I can.”
The two scientists pushed Tango down, forcing him to his knees. He pulled against their grip with all his strength, but couldn’t do anything to stop them as they pushed him closer and closer to the ground, until he was on his stomach, his face pressed up against the concrete. One of them pinned his wrists behind his back, and the other held his neck against the ground until they had him under their control.
“Guys, hey-!” Tango protested.
Atlas leaned down, fixated on Tango’s swirling crown, then plucked each of the blaze rods out of orbit, one by one. Tango felt each and every one of them leave their place, their absence feeling like a pit in his heart.
“C’mon, not another one,” Tango pleaded. Dr. Atlas ignored him.
In the absence of any blaze rods, sparks fizzled up around Tango’s head, but no new ones formed.
Atlas frowned. “Hm. That’s a shame.”
“Atlas, stop this! Just- c’mon-“
One of the scientists forced his head back to the ground, slamming it into the concrete. Tango gasped at the impact. Then, from the sparks, a new blaze rod flared into existence. Atlas smiled.
“You know,” He looked Tango in the eye. “You and I are going to do great things together, Mr. Tango.”
“Atlas! St-“ he cut himself off with a wince as Atlas stole his final remaining blaze rod.
Still smiling, Atlas stood and walked out of the room, the other two following him out. The door slammed shut behind them, pushing another wave of ice cold air over Tango.
Slowly, he sat up, aching and fatigued, shivering. Then he tucked himself into a ball, too tired to fight back. He closed his eyes.
All of Tango’s days seemed to blend together, forming one painful, seemingly endless existence. Except it wasn’t really endless—Tango had died almost too many times to count over that long expanse of time. Almost.
Minuscule thorns like hypodermic needles jabbed into his skin from all angles. They seemed to suck the blood out of him, slowly and steadily, until there was none left. The branches wrapped around his arms and legs bore scarlet red berries, and the droplets of Tango’s blood scattered over the leaves and floor looked just like minuscule versions of them. They brought a constant, throbbing, piercing pain that Tango could never take his mind off of, at least until-
But that was too slow.
Deep red mist seemed to linger in the air, clouding Tango’s vision and filling his lungs. It burned his eyes and throat, adding to the pain swirling around his body. Each time a bottle dropped, he felt as if a portion of his soul was ripped away, claimed by the burgundy flecks that seemed to glimmer in and out of existence. He lost more and more of himself, never given a chance to recover, until-
<Tango was killed by magic>
But that was too effective.
Steam swirled up from the ground, enveloping him in a cloud of warmth. The red-hot, glowing coals were almost comfortable under his feet. The heat was scalding, yet familiar, and almost sympathetic. Tango was hardly surprised when the first sharp sting across his face came. The Doctors needed to have their fun, after all. So, he stood in the welcoming embrace of liquid hellfire and heard his bones snap, and break, and shatter, until-
<Tango walked into danger zone due to AtlasSyn>
But (as much as it was fun) that was too inefficient.
A cold, slippery nothing filled Tango’s throat, invading his lungs and emptying his mind of anything except panic. It was too thin, too slick to get a hold onto as it dissolved into his core, turning his embers into nothing but smoke. It filled him with terror like nothing else ever could. He was surrounded by it, and helpless to do anything to stop it from ripping away his life, his soul, his fire, until-
<Tango drowned>
But that harmed the product.
A prickling, unnatural chill crept over Tango’s bones. It seeped into his skin like salt dissolving into water—slow and gradual, yet present all the time. It seemed to touch each and every one of his nerves, somehow lighting them on fire and enveloping them in numbness at the same time. It sent a shiver down his spine so curious it almost could’ve tickled if it didn’t hurt so much. It ate away at him, bit by bit, until-
<Tango withered away>
It was perfect—slow, constant, enveloping, (painful,) impeccable. And so the experiments began.
Tango sat, unmoving, just like they told him to. He held still, just like they said, as rows of thorns were stabbed into his arms. Both of his arms were completely numb, yet seemed to be flickering with pinpricks of pain. Dr. Atlas himself was there to pluck the blaze rods from his crown, tucking each one into his coat as if he meant to protect them with his life. It was a constant cycle: Dr. Atlas would take a blaze rod from him, another thorn would be stabbed into his arm, and another blaze rod would appear, ready to be stolen once more.
There had once been a bouquet of wither roses in front of him. They were enchanting, almost would’ve been beautiful, if he hadn’t known what it was like to feel their wrath. Now, there was a pile of deep purple, almost black rose buds lying discarded on a table off to the side (they only needed the thorns).
As a scientist moved to place another bud in the pile, a clump of black, dusty pollen tumbled out of the flower and onto Tango’s arm. Almost immediately, it melted into Tango’s skin, turning the surrounding area a bit gray.
Dr. Atlas’s eyes instantly locked onto the still slightly gray spot. He pointed to the scientist holding the rose bud. “Bring that over here.”
They complied, and Dr. Atlas stuck his finger into the center of the rose, then pulled it out. Black dust coated the tip of his gloved finger, sticking to it like glitter. He turned back to Tango, then smeared the pollen across his forearm. Just as quickly as before, it absorbed into Tango’s flesh, this time leaving faint traces of black veins underneath his skin.
A newfound sense of pain rushed through Tango’s arm, pumping through his bloodstream. The sparks above his head flared, and a blaze rod shimmered into existence, taking its place in his crown. Dr. Atlas reached up a hand, then plucked it, a faint smile on his face.
The pollen was better, they’d found. It was more potent, more harmful, more efficient. The once discarded rose buds had suddenly become a treasure trove for the scientists, and Dr. Atlas couldn’t have been more pleased. And so the testing began.
Test #1: Tears welled up in Tango’s eyes as the now familiar prickling numbness drove him further to insanity. That black dust coated his throat and lungs, making him cough. A couple tears rolled down his cheeks as he felt one of his blaze rods get ripped away from him.
Test #60: Slowly but surely, they were tearing him apart. He felt like, as each blaze rod was stolen from him, a part of his fire went along with. His soul was being taken and sold to the masses for nothing but a bit of profit.
Test #157: Tango longed for the sliding metal doors to his blank white room to open. Even when they were there to refill the respawn anchor, trapping him here. Even when they came to empty the hoppers of his blaze rods, using him for their gain. Even when they came to chop off his claws, preventing any resistance. Because it was better than nothing, right?
Test #326: For Tango, crying was a constant. He took some comfort in it—among all of the deaths, all the malfunctions, through the never-ending blanket of prickling numbness, at least he had this. It was enough.
It wasn’t too much of a change for Tango when Dr. Atlas and the others came to move him into his new home. Just one torture chamber in a blank room to another. He could barely even notice a difference (maybe he didn’t care to).
Dr. Atlas smiled at him through the glass. “Welcome to your new home, Tango Tek.”
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a key on the chain (take it with you and run)
“Annabeth Chase,” the man repeated, as if it meant something more than just a random name. “Isn’t that why you chose this house?”
“Why, on Earth, would I pick a house based on whether or not this Annabeth Chase was my neighbour?” Percy asked.
“To catch the cat!” the man explained, and Percy sincerely laughed.
“What cat?” Percy asked, now wondering if he had drunk something that tasted bad or a bit out of the ordinary. He must have been sleeping, having those weird dreams some people claim have meanings but, in the end, were just a bunch of thoughts squeezed together in a juice jar.
“The one with the key."
OR,
Percy wants a new beginning back where he came from. He moves to New Rome, a quaint neighbourhood in New York, where every single man seems to make a life out of chasing a yellow cat with a key around its neck. Whoever catches it, apparently, won't be denied the prize they all seek: Annabeth Chase's — the most beautiful woman around — hand in marriage.
Percy doesn't get it, and much less wants to engage with such activities or with the mysterious woman. But it's a bit harder when she lives just next doors, and the yellow cat becomes a faithful companion of his.
Read it on Ao3
It was ironic, honestly, that he was standing at the door of his new house in New Rome, a quaint neighborhood in New York, New York, after he had decided to sell his house and get the hell out of the simple neighborhood he lived in Rome, Italy, for so many years. Ironic, to say the least, because Percy hadn’t even registered how the place was called before he had set foot back in the United States, his life all packed up in a bunch of luggage and Ms. O’Leary, his loyal companion, by his side.
And he should have registered it, probably, because it would be a responsible thing to do. But in the hurry he found himself in, and the crisis that was the catalyst for the sudden, brutal change of life and routine and choices, Percy didn’t think of much before buying the house and getting on a plane to sign the papers and get his keys.
Now, there he stood — in front of a small, dainty house, with brick walls and a wooden front double door and a large windowsill that gave it all a sweet, home-like air. It was the perfect definition of cozy, the front lawn mowed, and some flower bushes making it look even more graceful than he had first thought it’d be. The place seemed to come from a picture, those beautiful illustrations on books about fairies and magic and hope, and Percy wondered it that would be enough to settle his unsteady heart and calm his troubled mind.
Because the place was beautiful, and yet he couldn’t see or feel the hope of new beginnings that so many people had told him it would bring; he was standing in front of what now was his house, the boxes and furniture already inside for him to organize and distribute as he would like, and Percy could only feel tired. Not from his travels, not from having to put everything to a place — but he was tired, overall, and the weight of his choices and the paths he’d walked seemed to rest over his shoulder.
He was back in New York, and there was nothing really there for him. Not anymore, because he had decided to travel the world so many years before and, at some point, he had stopped keeping in touch with everyone he left behind. His mother, father, stepfather, stepmother, half-siblings and friends — he hadn’t talked to them in years. Long, long years that seemed to now taint his past and shadow his face and cloud his memories of what it was like to be with them, to be there.
And maybe being back should be inspiring. Perhaps being again in north American territory should give him the hopes and the energy to reach out and try to find them as soon as possible; but all he felt was dread. Dread, and dreadful fear that he had lost that part of his life — the one that made him who he was — forever, and because of his terrible choices and the terrible feelings that had settled in his chest so long before.
He was staring at his house, and Percy wondered how long it could take for him to feel at home.
Because it once was home to be in New York, and he had forgotten how it felt. It once was home to never belong anywhere, traveling around and meeting new people and meeting new cultures and faces and languages, until the moment there was nothing but emptiness and the everlasting feeling of missing someone, something, somewhere.
His family, and everything they meant. He feared their anger, despite knowing that was what he deserved, after all. After so long, after so much pain he was sure he had caused them through the years he never even gave a sign of life.
New beginnings should be scary, yes, and ultimately exciting.
Percy was simply terrified.
Ms. O’Leary, on the other hand, seemed thrilled about having new places to discover. Her tail hadn’t stopped moving from the moment they got out of the taxi — who charged him an absurd amount of money upon seeing the dog, but that was quite alright at that point — and Percy had opened the gate that matched the fence circling the property. She had barked and set off to run around, and Percy couldn’t help but chuckle.
At least one of them was excited enough for both.
Percy sighed, taking the key to his front door so he could finally come in and see the mess he’d have to face and make more of soon enough until he could properly relax and rethink every single step of his life. Ms. O’Leary had already made her way to the backyard, somehow, and he could hear her barking at something — probably nothing at all —, chuckling a bit more at his best friend’s happiness on stretching her legs.
He shook his head, rolling his eyes fondly at the mental image of Ms. O’Leary simply running in circles around the area he was yet to see. Then, he looked up again at the doors, and inhaled deeply.
And his dramatic entrance to an empty house as a metaphor for his empty life was rudely interrupted before he could even fit the key in the door.
“So, you’re the lucky one?” someone spoke behind him, and Percy snapped his head in the voice’s direction, turning his body around as well, key still in hand. A man stood behind his fence, a heavy terracotta coat hanging from his shoulders, a suit underneath it and a black Panama hat tucked to his head a bit too much. His face wasn’t sympathetic, and instead he stared at Percy as if he was a bug the man desperately wanted to step on.
Weird. To say the very least.
“Uh— Hello?” Percy greeted, unsure of what to make of the situation. “I beg your pardon; ‘the lucky one’?” he frowned, and the man seemed to snap out of whatever it was that crossed his mind.
“My apologies. Welcome to New Rome,” the man spoke again, now taking a few steps to walk past the open gate and offer his hand in greeting. When he was close enough, Percy, still incredibly confused, shook the man’s hand.
“Percy Jackson,” he offered. “Thank you.”
For the welcome. Not for whatever it was that had happened before.
“Luke Castellan,” the man replied in earnest, his handshake firm before Percy let go of it. “First time in New York?” he asked, and Percy couldn’t quite pin down what it was that seemed so off about the sympathy in his tone.
“In a couple of years, yes,” Percy limited himself to say. Then, his curiosity got the best of him. “What did you say about me being ‘the lucky one’, may I ask?”
Luke’s smile seemed to tighten. Percy decided that it was best to be careful.
“The house,” Luke said. Percy frowned.
“Why? Is it better than the others?” he asked, looking back at the house behind him. When he looked at Luke again, the guy had an eyebrow raised.
“It’s beside Annabeth Chase’s house,” he spoke again, his tone implying that the fact was somehow obvious. Percy was sincerely beginning to think the conversation couldn’t possibly get weirder.
Rookie mistake.
“Who?” Percy could only ask, tilting his head to the side.
Luke frowned, then. Now, he seemed genuinely confused. Percy wanted to say that he had no right to — what, on Earth, was that man talking about?
“Annabeth Chase,” Luke repeated, as if it meant something more than just a random name. “Isn’t that why you chose this house?”
Percy’s face was probably odd to look at, now that he was sure it was completely contorted with his bewilderment. His mouth was slight open and twisted, and he couldn’t narrow his eyes more before completely closing them.
“I chose the house my realtor offered me,” Percy said. “Why, on Earth, would I pick a house based on whether or not this Annabeth Chase was my neighbor?”
“To catch the cat!” Luke explained, and Percy sincerely laughed.
“What cat?” Percy asked, now wondering if he had drunk something that tasted bad or a bit out of the ordinary. He must have been sleeping, having those weird dreams some people claim have meanings but, in the end, were just a bunch of thoughts squeezed together in a juice jar.
“The one with the key,” Luke spoke again, and Percy could really wake up right then. He moved his arms and hands in exasperation, completely lost, and shook his head, eyes wide as he tried to understand what the man could possibly be talking about.
“Do you seriously not know?” Luke asked, and he seemed truly surprised. Percy would need an analgesic for the building headache on his temples.
Percy shook his head in disbelief yet again.
“Man, I just got back from another continent. I do not have the most single idea of who the hell Annabeth Chase is, what a cat and a key mean or how the house I now own has to do with it.”
Luke stared at Percy, who just stared right back as he tried to get his point across. After the better part of a minute, the brunette man seemed to have accepted that the newcomer really didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and his gaze turned apologetic.
“Okay, then. I’m sorry, man,” Luke spoke, putting his hands in the pockets of his coat. “It’s just an ongoing competition for Annabeth’s cat and their key.”
Percy frowned again.
“Competition?” he asked. Luke nodded.
“It’s a thing we have around here,” he began, and Percy tilted his head. “The house beside yours belongs to Annabeth Chase, the most beautiful woman in the neighborhood. Dare I say, and any other person, the most beautiful woman in New York,” he explained, and something in his tone, again, seemed to put Percy on edge. Luke looked at the house he was talking about, the glint in his eyes with something much more distorted than what someone might mistake for affection. “Every single young man in the neighborhood had offered her their hand in marriage, and desperately wanted to wed her,” he told him, and Percy visibly winced. Luke didn’t notice.
Marrying someone for looks? Asking for their hand in marriage because they look pretty?
The discontentment was clear over Percy’s face. He was definitely going insane.
“She refused one by one, and yet they came back to ask her again. Expensive gifts, poems, songs; they tried to convince her with everything, anything they could buy and hand her,” the man continued, and Percy felt a pang of sympathy for whoever the woman was. What a tragic thing, to be seen as one more object those men could be handed and pay for. “One day, though, Miss Chase grew tired of all men knocking on her door and proposing ridiculous things. So, she made a challenge — whoever caught her cat and the key on the cat’s neck, would not be denied her hand in marriage. Since then, there’s been a whole thing trying to catch the animal: cages, traps, the most unhinged plans seen. No one could ever catch it.”
A wave of satisfaction rolled in his ears, and Percy made his very best not to let it trespass to his expression. He sympathized with the woman, and somehow was intrigued by her presence and the plan she had made — it was odd how she knew that the cat wouldn’t be caught, and yet a high risk to take if she didn’t want any of those men by her side.
Something, Percy thought, that no one could possibly blame her for. One needs to be pathetically vain to try and win someone’s heart as a prize, and not ever think about treasuring it as it should happen. And agreeing to go after a cat instead of just, perhaps, asking this Annabeth out and trying their luck by being normal people? Percy didn’t think that he would like a single soul in the neighborhood.
“They stopped coming to her house,” Luke carried on, taking Percy back from his thoughts and judgements. “And, to this day, everyone tries to catch the yellow cat with a hanging key and earn her love,” he concluded, and looked at Percy again, who was trying his best not to roll his eyes in front of his new neighbor. Those men could be trying to earn anything, but not her love. “We were all curious, then, as for who had taken the house closest to hers.”
Percy blinked, shaking his head.
“I have nothing to do with chasing cats and hanging keys, man, I can tell you that much,” he said. “I just got the house.”
“We all see it,” he said.
“And I would much rather the accusation stopped, Mr. Castellan, for I have no intention to add ‘trapping a cat’ to my routine,” Percy spoke, a little more serious. “I have nothing to do with this odd contest of yours, and I intend to keep it that way,” he explained.
Luke seemed a bit convinced. And a bit too smug for Percy’s liking.
“You’re a first, then,” the man said, and Percy arched an eyebrow. Luke sighed. “My apologies for the accusations, Mr. Jackson. The subject just tends to get on our nerves.”
“I figured,” Percy said. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Castellan; I’ve had a long day.”
The man nodded.
“Of course. Have a good afternoon,” he complied to Percy’s farewell, touching his hat and then turning around to leave the property. Percy watched him go for a few seconds, and then decided that it was too much to process standing at his doorstep.
He was intrigued, to say the least, about the whole scenario he had just been presented to. A woman with whom he couldn’t help but sympathize, being chased and wanted like some sort of prize for someone’s ego and pride. A cat that seemed to outsmart a whole neighborhood — though, after the whole story, Percy couldn’t believe it was that hard to do it —, and a bunch of grown adults who didn’t have anything better to do but to watch every person’s moves and doubt their smallest intentions.
Amazing. And he thought he’d find some peace by being back at his childhood town.
Read the rest on Ao3!
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A Filthy Fantasy: Aftercare
Notes: This ties into what happened in A Filthy Fantasy (Part 1 and Part 2) and deals with the repercussions of it. I had intended this to be a reader-revenge-piece, but, uh, something else came out. Please enjoy my probably deepest dive into the personality of Sebastian “I didn't mean it” Sallow.
Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!reader
Genre: Hurt, Comfort, Angst, Fluff, mentions of Smut
Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of sexual assault, red flags all around
Word count: 2.4k
Synopsis: Two messed up people. One who manipulates and then apologises, manipulating some more, and a willing victim who blames herself and can't stay mad for long. So many red flags. And still, it's a love story. A very messed up love story.
-- can be read on AO3 too --
A Filthy Fantasy: Aftercare
(For context if you don't want to the read the smut that is A Filthy Fantasy: Sebastian and reader agreed to do a rape fantasy scene (consensual non-consent) and that is kinda what happened when reader found herself being forced to things she didn't initially agree to or wasn't comfortable doing.)
Rolling onto your side once again because you just couldn't find a comfortable position to sleep in, you let out a groan and inhaled sharply when yet another jolt of pain rushed through your aching limbs.
“Are you sure you don't want to go to the Hospital Wing?” you heard a concerned voice from the other side of the bed.
“And tell Nurse Blainey what? My boyfriend tied me to a table and fucked me a little too hard?” you grunted quietly, your voice hoarse and strained because, of course, even your throat hurt. Everything hurt. “No, I'm sure the potion will work any second now...”
You had told yourself that for the last half an hour since you drank that awful concoction he had given you. Exhaling loudly, you rolled back onto your stomach. Everything hurt a little less like this, perhaps because your body remembered the position you were in when you had received all of these aches. Quite ironic.
Next to you, the mattress dented slightly and then you saw Sebastian slowly approaching you, almost tentatively, cautious, an apologetic smile on his face. He lay on his side and watched you, probably tempted to touch you, but you had told him very clearly that you needed a little time to yourself right now.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered, his low voice vibrating in your ear, sending shivers down your spine which caused a horrible chain reaction of shudders and twitches and in the end, you were groaning and whimpering again. Swallowing hard against the pain (and by doing so only increasing the pain in your throat), you closed your eyes and wallowed in your own sorrow for a moment, trying to ignore the boy next to you. “Please let me help you...” he tried again. “I can't stand seeing you like this.”
You only scoffed and breathed loudly through your nose, before you sighed. “It's not your fault,” you fought against your own dark thoughts that tried to remind you why you were in this sorry state. “I did agree to it... well, most of it... and I could have said the safeword... but I didn't...”
He moved a little closer, but he kept his hands away – and you knew he was really fighting with himself right now. “It got a little out of hand, eh?” he whispered.
You opened your eyes and looked at him, long and hard, hoping to convey all the mixed emotions you had swirling inside your heart.
“Okay, a lot, it got completely out of hand!” he quickly rephrased and threw you a sympathetic smile. “Please know that I feel horrible about it...”
“Why?” you simply asked, watching him closely. “Why did you do it?”
He frowned and inhaled deeply, then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I... I don't know, it just... happened. You looked so...” You saw him biting his lip. “I couldn't help myself. And that is no excuse, I know that. But... my mind was just full of... the scene we talked about.... and what we didn't talk about... and –” He sighed, then turned his head towards you again, his dark eyes wandering over your face. “I shouldn't have done that, all of it, I shouldn't even have suggested it to you!” He rolled onto his side and came even closer, genuine regret plastered all over his freckled face.
You stared at him, your eyelids fluttering slightly. His eyes were on you, those damn puppy-dog eyes, and you felt your anger and your pain and your overall discomfort dwindling. Before he could succeed in manipulating you out of your feelings once again, you closed your eyes and exhaled loudly.
You heard him shifting beside you. “Will you ever forgive me?” you heard him ask quietly. His question lingered on your mind for quite a while, long seconds, minutes that ticked by without any reaction to it, while you considered it and thought back to what had happened.
And in your pain riddled head there was one thing that kept pushing into the foreground over and over again. “It's on me,” you whispered, voicing the nagging doubt that kept you from completely distancing yourself from the boy next to you. “I could have said anything, at any point, but I didn't... I allowed you to do this, so I... I shouldn't be complaining now...”
“No!” he said firmly and now his hand was on your cheek. Your eyes flew open. “It's not on you! Absolutely not! I... I made you do that, I made you think you wanted it, if anything, it's on me, of course! Do not blame yourself! In that kind of situation... not being able to say anything against it... come on, give yourself a break! I can't even imagine what it must have been like for you... honestly, that you're still willing to talk to me after all of that,” he paused and chuckled darkly. “I do not deserve any of it... I don't deserve you...”
You gave him a strained noise of affirmation, then quickly changed your mind and groaned in disagreement. Furrowing your brows, you clenched your jaw against his subtle touch. You were quickly overwhelmed by your emotions yet again as not only your physical aches throbbed through your body, but also confusion and guilt and regret and all those things you couldn't even name. A tear dropped from your lashes as you blinked quickly and when he moved his thumb over your cheek nonchalantly, you let out a sob.
“Baby, I'm so sorry,” he whispered and when he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead, you sobbed even more. He shifted closer and stayed like this, his hand holding your cheek as you felt his warm breath on your hairline. “I didn't mean it...”
The way he said it, those exact words. You'd heard it all before. Numerous times. And you had to remind yourself: this is Sebastian, he's always been like this, running head first into trouble, getting hurt or hurting others, and then he'd apologise afterwards, bowing his head in shame for his brash actions. You knew that and despite it all, you'd fallen in love with him. Despite everything!
There was no rhyme or reason, it was all in your heart, engrained in your soul, those deep feelings you had for him, because after all, he wasn't always like that. He was caring and supportive and sweet and made you feel loved and safe and made you laugh and happy. The way he would hug you, hold you close, kiss you and... more.
What had happened was not the norm. He would never treat you like that. He'd always make sure you were comfortable and alright with what he did and you usually were. And in your haze, in your bottomless love for him, you'd agreed to something that had taken it all a little too far. You could have seen it coming, you had talked about it, he had made it perfectly clear what that scenario was about, and you still had allowed it, agreed to it.
With your aches thrumming through your body, you could see it for what it was now: you had been naïve, completely gullible, and he had indeed used that against you. And it felt as if you were both at fault here. Two stupid, horny teenagers indulging in things they thought might give them a thrill, when the reality of it was so much worse.
Inhaling sharply, you swallowed the lump in your throat, not remembering the soreness of it, and you winced deeply, only sobbing more. He leaned back then, looking at you with a grave expression. Your eyes wandered over his face and you wondered if you could ever look at him without remembering the things he had done to you. Biting your lip, you frowned and looked away, more tears spilling from your lashes.
“Okay that's it,” you then heard him say and without any warning, he suddenly turned you around and lifted you onto his arms, scrambling off the bed with you. Your mouth fell open and you stared at him, too shocked to acknowledge the pain that came from his brash action. “You are in so much pain, you need more than a healing potion,” he explained, his voice low and frantic. “I'm taking you to the Hospital Wing, I'll... I'll tell her you were... abducted and... and assaulted and...”
You gasped and grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. “No! No. Stop!” you exclaimed equally frantic. “You can't do that! Please, don't!” He stopped and stared at you, as if he had forgotten you were more than a body he could carry around with him for a moment. “Remember what Ominis said? We shouldn't talk about this any more, and he's right! You'll only get into trouble,” you told him quietly, your voice shaking badly. “And... and I don't want that! And I don't want the attention of.... of that, of being a... a victim, you know?” Your thumbs ran over his cheeks imploringly. “Please!” you whispered.
He frowned deeply, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darker than usual. “But... but you need help... and I... I have to help you!” he urged, sounding so utterly helpless you felt almost sorry for him now.
“Lay me down, please...” you said hoarsely, trying to sound firm. “Let's just... rest... I'll be fine... I'm stronger than I look, okay?”
You watched him intently, ignoring the aching of both your body and your heart. He eventually complied and brought you back to the bed, laid you down carefully and pulled the covers over your shivering body.
You rolled onto your side, forcing yourself not to wince, and beckoned him closer. “Lay down with me,” you whispered and watched him climb into bed with you, keeping his distance, but you grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, until you could snuggle against his chest. He put his arm around you carefully, then gently rubbed your back.
“I feel awful,” he mumbled into your hair as he pressed his lips to the top of your head.
“I know,” you breathed back, holding down a Me too!, because somehow this was about comforting him now.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know,” you repeated, falling back into that same old pattern of forgiving him yet again. It was what it was. That was the dynamic of your relationship. You would only see it for what it was in moments like these, where your physical pain was bigger than your emotional pain. And that clarity scared you more than you wanted to admit.
You loved him, with every fibre of your hurting body, as you had told him, and it was indeed scary how much you were willing to do and take because he had asked you to. But it was such a rewarding kind of love and you felt almost ashamed admitting to it: but whatever he would do to you, force you to do, you knew that he would be there for you afterwards, he'd care for you, cradle you in his arms, make sure you'd be alright, no matter the consequences.
It was a very twisted way of seeing things, you knew that, but you were both messed up people, you had your baggage and he had his and you shared so much of it also. It hadn't been easy these last years, but in being together and there for each other, you had pushed through and it had only brought you closer.
You took a shuddering breath and leaned back slowly, fighting the urge to wince at your aches, before you looked up at him. His eyes were immediately on you, as if he had been waiting for it. You raised a hand and gently touched his cheek, trailing your fingers over his temple, ignoring the shaking of your digits. He kept rubbing soothing circles on your back and just watched you.
“Tell me you love me,” you then whispered barely audible.
His eyebrows moved slightly upwards. “I love you,” he said quietly. “I love you more than anything in this world... and I –”
You put a finger to his lips and shushed him, knowing what he wanted to say. “I love you too,” you said instead and leaned a little closer, your nose nuzzling against his. “And whatever happened earlier, we will never talk about it again, okay?”
He stared at you. You knew he wanted to protest, but you knew better. This was how you dealt with these things: you never acknowledged them again. That was why you never talked about his uncle's death ever again, not directly at least. You comforted him, were there for him, supported him in his struggles to deal with it, but you never talked about it. And you would never talk about this either. You couldn't. Because admitting to the things that he was capable of only scared you more. And you wanted to love and cherish him and not be afraid of him.
And so you pressed your lips to his and kissed him softly, closing your eyes as you leaned into what mattered most to you at that moment: the comfort of his warm body, his engaging mouth, his soothing touches, him just being there. He kissed you back hesitantly, pulling you a little closer, just holding you.
“Okay,” he whispered against your lips. “But I'm –”
You shushed him once again. “No, it's fine,” you breathed against him, opening your eyes to look at him. “We are fine. Everything is fine.”
He pulled his eyebrows together slightly and you felt his lips trembling against yours. You didn't know if he was as keen in forgetting this as you, but like all those times before, he just followed your lead, he ignored it with you. And just like that you realized that you were just as good at manipulating him as he was at manipulating you.
Be it as it were, you were made for each other. Two messed up souls, desperately trying to hold onto the other in an attempt to not drown in the ever consuming world they found themselves in. A love story made straight in hell. But you always preferred warmer climates anyway.
End notes: Be honest, dear reader, if you were in this situation: would you forgive him? Would you just move on?
To be fair, as our reader is our HL mc, they both went through so much stuff together, I just see it working out for them because of it, if they choose to ignore it like those two did here. Always easier to suppress, definitely not healthy, but easier. And Sebastian is a walking red flag anyway and we are still all here for it, so, yes, I think this is how it would go.
No matter what he did, his lover would always forgive and forget. And you can't convince me otherwise!
I still plan on writing a little revenge piece, he does deserve that too.
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the gods grow tired
pairing: gwyneth berdara x azriel
rating: e (for everything hurts)
wc: 8k and some change
primary tags: angst, hurt/comfort, major character injury, arguing as a form of foreplay, sex. for more detailed tags, see ao3.
read on a03
In the aftermath of battle, Gwyn follows her heart… what's left of it. It leads her to the edge of chaos, where there is one more life to save.
a/n: happy gwynriel week(s) everyone! this fic isn't necessarily in line with any of the prompts (sorry!) but it tore its way out of me just in time to join in with the festivities. thank you to @gwynrielweeksofficial for throwing such an amazing celebration! i can't wait to work through all the fresh gwynriel content!
@damedechance - here's the tag you asked for, bestie. couldn't have done it without you 💕
warnings: there are some heavy topics in this one, boys. this is the seed that plants the PTSD… or like, exacerbates it. it's rough. the only way out is through and BOY are they going through it. please check the full tags list and take care of yourself first ♥
snippet under the cut!
When the last soldier fell and the scarlet rivers fracturing the battlefield slowed to thin veins, then, and only then, Gwyn let herself breathe. Gentle morning sunlight on the horizon lit the clearing for what it was— a massacre. Where once verdant green and lush copses of sycamores spread through flat meadows, there was now only blood, mire and scorched earth. Bodies, face down in viscera, were all the same. Friend or enemy, and all of them still. Silence, in the wake of war’s cacophony, curled tight around her spine — awaiting the ring of steel against steel, the sting of an arrow.
Koschei met them evenly matched and, in the end, equally damned.
Exhaustion dragged at her bones in the aftermath of adrenaline, its iron chains clasped to her boots and leathers. Five days. It had taken five full days for the battle to wage. Rhys had warned of how long it could take. A fortnight, his estimate. Heavy with hope, rations were packed to last the week.
Hers were lost the first night, along with four males from her cohort who died to protect it, and her, while she clutched at the edges of rest.
Sleep, apparently, was a luxury the Mother did not allow them. She did not attempt it again.
Food, water — all of it became second to survival. Second to the blade in her palm, the stained ribbon at her brow.
Despite the training, the blood rite, the experience gained along the way… nothing could’ve prepared for the ferocity, the unyielding brutality, of real and true war.
The bitter taste of victory was the only thing keeping her upright now, from falling to her knees on the sodden ground and screaming. As if tears could somehow cleanse the filth from her hands.
No, she had to keep going — to keep moving through violence’s cruel remnants, to find her team, her friends, her Valkyries.
Feyre and Rhys attacked from the field's distant edge, infernal power allowing them to mist entire battalions with hands entwined. Nesta had been back-to-back with Cassian the last time she’d seen them, manifesting death and destruction in their wake. Emerie had taken to the skies in one of twelve aerial legions, an obsidian pegasus lifting her above the cloud cover with over a dozen chosen riders heeding her command as gospel, Morrigan among them.
Gwyn had volunteered to take the flank, a smaller group of their swiftest, most vicious warriors tasked with infiltrating the scores of Koschei’s hoards by surprise. She’d taken the south and Azriel— oh Gods, Azriel — he’d headed north.
When the first explosion hit on the second day, it had been far from her side of the battlefield. Yet, her chest spiked with fear.
Then, silence. Horrific, terrifying silence. As if the mountains themselves had held their breath to hear it.
read more here!
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