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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 10 months

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Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Six

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Mentions of infidelity, angst, strong language, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, smut. Word count: ~3k

Chapter summary: Daemon makes two life changing discoveries. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Author's note: No tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Maester Orwyle drops heavily to his feet once Daemon’s grip on the front of his robes loosens. He scurries away fearfully, scarcely even sparing a glance behind him.

Daemon’s temper still burns hot within his veins. How dare she hide this from me?

The force with which he throws open the doors would be enough to wake Melessa up ordinarily; but under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t be under the influence of milk of the poppy. Thus, she remains asleep.

He softens upon taking in her appearance, his anger leaving him as he watches her laying there. She’d look peaceful were it not for the tear tracks upon her cheeks—tears he has caused her. His wife.

The mother of his child.

She does not deserve his anger any more than he deserves her forgiveness, as much as he yearns for it. He sits carefully on the bed next to her, longing to reach out and brush his fingers against the peachy softness of her face. He refrains. She has expressed a wish for him not to touch her. He owes it to her to respect that, even in sleep.

Whether she is prepared to allow him to make amends now or not, he knows he cannot permit her to return to Highgarden. Not now that she carries his child. She has given him a reason to do better, to be better.

He wants to watch her grow round and full with his offspring, to see the effects that he has had on her body as it adapts to the life nestled within. He feels his cock stir at the thought and swallows thickly, attempting to push the urge away. Perhaps her shape had begun to change already and he hadn’t noticed. He finds himself thinking back to the last few times they’d been intimate. He had been so rough, so hurried, so desperate for fulfillment that he had barely registered her beneath him. If he had the opportunity to go back he would take his time with her, run his hands over her curves and appreciate them, notice the subtle swell to her breasts and the added plushness to her hips.

There is an ache in his chest as he continues to look upon her. He has to make this right. A child of his own is something Daemon has never thought about; never wanted, until now. And now, he does not think he has ever desired anything more desperately.

He has no idea how long he continues to sit there for. Soon, the sky is breaking into vibrant hues of yellow, orange and red upon the horizon, indicating dawn’s approach. He hadn’t seen Melessa eat since Rhaenyra’s coronation feast the previous afternoon. She will awaken soon and surely feel ravenous with hunger. Daemon cannot abide that, not when their child relies upon her nourishment.

Reluctantly, he rises from the bed and makes his way to the kitchens. There is plentiful food left over from the day before; he orders the few staff that are awake and working already to put together a platter. Salted meats, pies, bread, hard cheese and tarts are piled high upon the tray, enough to feed both him and Melessa for today and the day after that. He knows it is too much, but this is as much to prove a point as it is to give his wife breakfast. Even in the wrong, Daemon cannot resist the urge to maintain the element of surprise.

Melessa is stirring, sleepily rubbing her eyes as he re-enters her bedchamber, setting the heaped tray upon the foot of the bed. She sits up, her brow furrowing as she looks upon the food that’s been placed before her.

“What’s all this?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.

“Breakfast,” Daemon tells her with a smirk, leaning against the bedpost and folding his arms as he watches her.

“There is so much of it…” Her blue eyes glance up towards him before dropping back to the spread of food.

“Yes—I suppose there is,” he says. “It was tricky for me to know how much to have brought up to you… considering you are eating for two now.”

Her hand that had been reaching towards the food pulls suddenly back into her lap. She stares at him, brows raised in shock. “You know.”

It isn’t so much a question as it is a statement. Daemon simply nods, attempting to mask the satisfied smile that spreads across his face. He may have caught her out, but ultimately he is still in the wrong.

“How?” she asks, pressing her lips into a tight line.

“I caught Maester Orwyle sneaking out of your chambers in the middle of the night,” he tells her matter-of-factly.

“Oh gods. Daemon—what did you do to him?”

His wife knows him too well. He is unable to help the upward tug at the corners of his mouth. “Nothing he won’t recover from. Eat.”

Melessa sighs and reaches for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with her hands as Daemon resumes his earlier position beside her.

“How long have you known?” he asks after a few moments pass between them in silence.

“Since we arrived back in King’s Landing,” she replies between bites.

“And how long since you last bled?”

He can see her considering his question as she chews, trying to recall. “About three moons.”

Daemon can feel his mood darkening and draws in a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. His voice is tight when he asks his next question. “And not once did it occur to you to tell me?”

“I was going to,” she begins softly. “There was so much going on already, with your brother passing away. I had planned to tell you after Rhaenyra’s coronation, but then…”

She trails off, her bottom lip trembling slightly and Daemon feels his heart squeeze at the sight.

“Then I fucked it all up,” he says sadly.

“Hm.” Melessa places her half eaten bread back on the tray, leaning back against the headboard. “You’re not going to let me leave, are you? Not now that you know.”

Daemon feels like he’d be serving another blow to her, to admit this aloud, true as it is. He wants nothing more than to comfort her, to pull her against his chest and breathe in the sweet scent of her golden hair.

“I need you to know that nothing happened…with that girl,” he tells her. “I won’t deny that I tried, and I cannot begin to explain why I did, but I couldn’t…because she wasn’t you, petal.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” she asks bitterly.

“No, but it is proof of the fact that I care for you.”

“And yet you have never told me you love me.”

“I’ve never told anyone that before, not even my own brother. Perhaps that is my mistake.”

“But do you love me?”

He is determined not to leave the pause that he did yesterday, to not make her doubt his feelings for her any further than he already has. He takes a breath, steeling himself against his impending vulnerability. “Our time on Dragonstone together was the happiest I ever remember being. I hated having to give that up to return here. Everything in this wretched place serves as a reminder that I am not good enough for you, not good enough to be Hand of the King.”

“And yet, you are my husband and Hand of the Queen,” Melessa reminds him.

“I stole you from my nephew. My niece made me Hand because my brother would not.”

“Perhaps you ought to spend more time appreciating what you have, rather than resenting the reason you have it.”

He huffs through his nose. She is right and he despises it, but it is one of the things he has grown to love about her. Yes. Love.

“I think about you all the time,” he tells her. “I find myself wishing for your presence when you are not by my side. Your scent is imprinted upon me in such a way that nothing else satisfies; I yearn for you more than I ever have for anyone. If that is love, then—yes. I love you… as much as I am able to love another person.”

She stares straight ahead as he speaks, her expression unreadable. The quiet hangs heavy between them when he finishes. Daemon’s heart races, worried she’ll reject him despite him having opened up to her.

Melessa shifts slightly in the bed. “Can you take the food away?” she asks. “The smell is making me feel unwell. I will not return to Highgarden, but I would appreciate some time to myself. I need to rest.”

Daemon nods, standing and removing the food from the end of the bed. He hovers by the door as Melessa settles back down to sleep, debating whether to try to kiss her or not. Deciding against it—he sees her eyes flutter closed—he pushes the tray into the hands of a chambermaid and makes his way out of the Red Keep.

He expects that Rhaenyra will summon him at some point today. It is her first official day as Queen; she will no doubt want a meeting of the Small Council. It is still early, however, and with yesterday’s festivities, he doesn’t anticipate her being ready to call everyone forth until the afternoon. He decides a ride on dragonback will help clear his mind. He has much to think about, though he is glad at having convinced Melessa to remain in King’s Landing without the need for force.

As Daemon approaches the Dragonpit, he notices excited commotion amongst the Keepers. The head of them gives him a beaming smile when he spots him and hurries over, staff in hand, to clap Daemon on the shoulder. He scowls at the overfamiliarity. Before he can enquire as to what the meaning of all of this is, he hears what the Keeper has to say.

“Syrax has laid a clutch! Her first in two decades!”

Daemon raises his eyebrows, the perceived slight immediately forgotten. “Dragon eggs?”

“Yes, Your Grace. We hadn’t known she was gravid. It appears the return of Caraxes has been fruitful for her.”

“Show me,” Daemon commands, excitement fluttering within him.

The head Dragon Keeper guides him through the gloom and humidity of the Pit until they reach a mucus-coated membrane upon the earthen floor.

Daemon crouches, breaking apart the protective layer that coats the top of them. Beneath lay four dragon eggs. His eye is immediately drawn to one that is iridescent shades of orange and red, fading into a vibrant green towards the bottom.

Carefully, he lifts it, turning it over in his hands, feeling the warmth of its hardened scales against his fingertips. “Perzys se rūkla,” he whispers.

Two Keepers approach, a steaming pot meant to incubate the eggs carried between them.

Daemon rights himself, keeping a hold of the egg he’s taken. “You may take those three.” He nods towards the ground. “And inform the Queen of Syrax’s clutch. I am taking this one.”

Melessa is still dozing when he returns. This time, he has no hesitation in waking her. He grins down at her as she grouses to herself, blinking her eyes slowly open.

“For the babe,” he tells her, holding the egg out.

She gasps, reaching out to place her hands over it, her fingers overlapping with his.

Daemon releases a steady exhale at the contact, the first physical touch they’ve shared in what feels like an age. He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers as they hold the egg together, the aroma of almond oil and rosewater flooding his senses. Finally, it feels as though everything may work out exactly as he wants.

This time, he does not fear it.

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

Daemon paces the room. Each of Melessa’s pained screams cause him to wince as they echo off of the vaulted ceilings. A gaggle of attendants rally around her, mopping away sweat and blood as she produces each fluid anew.

Should there be so much blood? Is she going to be alright?

His throat constricts at the possibility he might lose her. He has ignored the pleas for him to leave the room, does not trust that she will not meet the fate of his brother’s first wife, Aemma, should she fall into difficulties.

He will not have her carved open like some roasted hog, just for the sake of some squawking brat. He will end this child’s life long before he ever considers taking hers.

He longs to brush her dampened hair from her temples, to hold her hand and encourage her through her labours, but he has not been allowed beside the bed. The birthing bed is no place for a husband, he is told. Daemon thinks that is utter shit.

He stills when he hears the first wails, too high-pitched to possibly be his wife’s. He turns to see Melessa exhausted but still very much alive, panting against the pillows as a bloodied, squirming mass is lifted from between her legs.

“A boy,” announces a voice from somewhere. He barely registers it, everything seeming far away as the child is separated from his mother, swaddled, and placed into Daemon’s arms.

He has never held anything so fragile before in his life. His arms wrap instinctively around the tiny bundle, a lump forming in his throat as he gazes down at the scrunched up, reddened face that looks up at him with apparent displeasure.

“Ñuhus trēsȳs,” he whispers. “You have a face I’m sure your mother will love.” My son.

He walks around to the side of the bed, and places the child in Melessa’s waiting arms. “Well done, petal,” he murmurs, kissing her temple. “You have given me a son.”

Daemon’s heart swells at the adoration with which she looks down at the babe with, her fingers tracing over his tiny cheek.

“What shall we name him?” she asks, voice hoarse from her labour pains.

“I was thinking Viserys, after my brother,” Daemon says, perching on the edge of the bed and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“A fine name, indeed.” She smiles. “Little Viserys.”

“Avy jorrāelagon,” he whispers, pressing his nose to her hair. It is a sentiment he ensures his wife and child will never go without hearing from him ever again. I love you.

**SIX WEEKS LATER**

Daemon’s hands wander over Melessa’s nightgown, pawing and squeezing at her flesh as she lays beside him. Under instruction from the Maesters, he and Melessa have not laid together for six weeks in order to allow her body to heal from having given birth. The wait has felt agonising to him; the last time he had been inside of her had been during the last few weeks of her pregnancy. Towards the end, Viserys had sat too low in her womb for them to be intimate without it causing her discomfort.

The wait has been maddening for Daemon. His fist will never satisfy him the way that the warmth of her cunt can.

She squirms uneasily against his touch. “Daemon— please,” she whimpers. “My body has changed since I became a mother.”

“And what is your point, petal?” he murmurs, his hand cupping her breast through the flimsy cotton that covers it.

“I do not look as I was before. I worry that you will not want me anymore, that you will seek out the comfort of another again…”

Daemon takes a gentle grip of her chin, tilting her face towards him. “There is no one that I desire more than you, sweet wife.”

He grasps her hand, guiding it towards his hardened length. “See what you do to me? Even in that oversized sack you insist upon wearing to bed.”

She giggles, and he captures her lips in a searing kiss, pulling at the lacings that keep her shift fastened as he does.

When she is bared beneath him, his eyes travel over the fullness of her breasts, the tautness of their hardened peaks slightly ruddier than they used to be. Her stomach bears the markings of having carried life, her hips more rounded, plusher than they used to be.

A low growl of approval rumbles in his throat. She is irrevocably marked as his and has never looked more beautiful to him.

He inhales a sharp breath upon finding her wet and wanting when he snakes a hand between her thighs. He wants to spend more time preparing her, but the way his cock aches painfully does not allow for such endeavours this evening. He needs her too badly.

When the tight heat of her walls envelope him, he groans in relief. It is like returning home after a lengthy absence. She sobs with pleasure at his every thrust, his hands vice-like against her waist as she eventually shudders and comes apart around him. He follows her over the edge soon after, white hot pleasure licking at his lower spine as he spills himself deep inside of her.

She is almost asleep against his chest when the piercing wails of Viserys startle them both into wakefulness. Melessa sighs, moving to leave the bed when Daemon places a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Allow me, petal,” he says, brushing his lips against her temple and rising from the bed.

Viserys cries in his cradle, little handles clenched into fists. The moonlight that streams through the gap in the curtains shines upon what has disturbed his slumber.

The dragon egg that lays beside him—vibrant hues of red and orange that fade into a brilliant shade of green towards the bottom—has begun to crack apart.

Daemon’s lips part as he watches it. A little dragon for his very own little dragon.

Perzys se rūkla.

FIN.

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jasmines-library · 8 months

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14 years

WHUMPTOBER DAY 16: Prompt: Experiment. Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Torn from your parents at a young age, you were experimented on. Your body and your mind were altered until you no longer recognised yourself in the mirror. During your time with HYDRA, your only solace came in the form of Bucky Barnes' voice on the other side of the wall. That was, until he left. Now, years later you have the chance to meet him again.

Warnings: Human Experimentation, pain, minor mentions of blood and gunshot wounds, brain surgery? kinda.

Word count: 2.2K

Note: I don’t own the art work in the header. This has not mention of skin colour despite the image on the right, I was using it for the cybernetics. My work is for everyone to enjoy :)

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

Darkness. It was all you had known since you were young and torn from your family’s arms. But that was years ago and you had long forgotten that touch could be tender. Since that fateful day, you lived in constant fear of the men who would drag you away from the little relief of sleep you got at night, although it consisted of curling up on a small mattress on the floor. You lived with the fear of waking up again and being forced through another day of poking and prodding in your mind. There was one voice that offered solace. You heard it drift through the vents many times, offering words of comfort. He had been there when you had arrived, soothing you of your nightmares when you woke up in a cold sweat. The voice would disappear for months at a time, until one day it never came back. Your blood ran cold whenever you began to think about what he had done. Part of you was certain that Hydra had done something to him - you knew he was defiant, and more stubborn than you, but all of you hoped that he had gotten himself out of this hellhole. Soon after his absence, without those gentle words drifting from the vents you began to feel less and began to gain control over your abilities. They had told you that emotions clouded your judgement and you had begun to listen without the defiance of your friend. But you supposed, that still wasn’t enough for them. You were never enough.

As part of your daily routine, you were forced awake at the crack of dawn. This time it was a bucket of icy water. Spluttering, and sitting up abruptly, you groaned when you realised the situation. You hated water; it messed with your cybernetics if it got in the wrong places and wasn’t dried properly, and a malfunctioning cybernetic caused you extreme discomfort; migraines and sharp pains where the metal was connected to your body and to your brain. Sometimes, in extreme cases they could cause seizures or body shut down. One thing you were certain of was that although Hydra were technical geniuses, they had no care about the effects their experiments had on their patients as long as they functioned enough to benefit them.

Dripping wet and shivering, you pushed yourself up onto your feet and were gripped harshly by the two guards. As they walked you forwards, your bare feet padded across the tiles. They were cold and bit at your skin. You were dragged through the corridors quickly and you tried to figure out where you were going, but everything looked the same in this facility; sickeningly pristine. When you saw the golden doorway, your chest constricted and you tried to push away, but they forced you into the room and towards the chair which sat in the centre of the square room. There were a number of unfamiliar faces dotted around the room, each tending to a laptop. It was the cart of tools next to the chair that caught you by surprise. It was lined with rows of screwdrivers and odd shaped instruments.

Shoved down unsympathetically you fell into the chair, and the blinds closed seamlessly around your arms. You furrowed your brow when the halo of machinery that sat aloft didn't descend into your face to cause you more pain. Instead a man slid in front of you on a chair. He spoke to you about your cybernetics. You had one that ran around your right temple and down your cheek, it was the one that connected to your eyes and allowed extreme accuracy, as well as the ability to identify anyone in the database- and that was a whole lot of people. You had two more; one which made up the entirety of your knee- that one was accidental. You had sustained it after a gunshot to the knee on a mission. The second was your largest. It was from just above the nape of your neck and down your spine. Many of the nerves in your spine here had been replaced by cybernetics, allowing for complete motor precision and effortlessness when moving. It also ran directly into your brain, altering its pathways to create an advanced way of thinking. Supposedly, this one was a problem. The man told you that when they had created this cybernetic, they had allowed you to feel too much, and this compromised you in missions. They said it was how you ended up with the machinery in your knee.

“You have to learn to comply.” The man told you bluntly. “And to do that, you must not let pests like the winter soldier interfere. He does not care about you, child. The only people who care about you are Hydra. Remember that. If you cannot learn that on your own then we must teach you a lesson.”

He reached slowly towards the tools, picking up a screwdriver and a small hand held object that sparked.

“No…No.” You shook your head.

He only moved closer, swivelling on the chair until he was positioned behind you. Then, with one swift movement, he began to fiddle with the machinery in the back of your head. You shrieked as the pain shot through your head as the screws were removed, unsettling skin and bone, but then came the agony of the machine as it sparked away, allowing pieces of the cybernetic to be shifted or removed. You clenched your jaw, grinding your teeth together to try and bite away some of the pain. The man continued to work, inching deeper into your brain. It hurt; a thousand agonies at once all trailing through your body. Your muscles twitched as he worked around your brain, alternating your wavelengths and your feelings. Soon, your body began to feel numb. The stabbing dulled down into throbbing and shortly after, you felt nothing at all.

~~~

Get in without being seen, take out the enemy, get the data, get out. That was the mission. A simple routine mission that hopefully didn’t require you to ambush your way out. You didn’t like to pull the trigger. It was messy and there was an odd feeling that twinged in your stomach when you watched the bodies drop to the floor like a sack of flour. You couldn’t place it, you just knew that it felt wrong. Especially when they were innocent people. They were usually innocent, your cybernetic told you that much. But your programing stated that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and would therefore compromise the mission and Hydra.

Sometimes, your mind would think that what you were doing was wrong. Sometimes you stopped what you were doing completely as you fought to keep a grip on a sanity that seemed more natural to you, though wherever you disobeyed, you were strapped to that chair again and experimented with until they made progress in a way that could get you to comply without fault.

You moved stealthily towards the door; it was heavy and made of metal. You could hear voices behind it, muffled by the thickness of the steel. You could place around three or four, and the sound of keyboards clattering away.

Reaching into the pocket of your suit, you pulled out a small device. It was round and attached onto the electronic mechanism of the door. Stepping back, you allowed it to work, listening to it whirr away and raising your dual pistols. When the device let out a burst of electricity and the door flung open, a set of heads turned towards you. You saw their names flash across your vision. Names, aliases, records, articles, all sorts of information that you processed and stored within your brain in seconds. It was the dark haired man who’s name failed to show up on your database that made you frown. If he was an avenger, surely Hydra would have something on him. You contemplated for a split second, before remembering your objective.

Before they had a chance to move, you had released a round or bullets into the room. Most, although accurately placed, ricocheted off of the trained soldiers armour or shields. One however found itself within the shoulder of a redheaded woman. Gunting in discomfort, she dropped, manoeuvring herself around the room to cut you off from the data. You tried to turn, only to collide with a tall blond. You ducked, rolling across the floor to escape his swing. You fired at him, but it was blocked by his circular shield. Turning to move, you came face to face with the woman again, blood dribbling from her shoulder. You backed away, trying to find a gap between the circle they had created around you. And that was when you realised you were trapped. Then, something blunt hit the back of your head.

The first thing you noticed when you awoke was that you weren’t lying on the cold floor. Instead you were chained to a hospital bed by a tight cuff secured just above the hydra insignia they had messily branded into your skin. There were tiny sicker-like pads pressed to your temples, monitoring your brain activity. They made you feel like a child again; helpless with no control.

The man who wouldn’t show up on your database was watching you from afar, leaning against the doorway with his metal arm folded over his other. You could see the angry scarring around it under the top he was wearing. It was similar to the ones on your face and your spine. His dark hair fell in front of his eyes and he tilted his head, studying your movements. You tried searching the database again for him, assuming that in the action your cybernetic scanners had failed to pick anything up, but once again his profile came up blank.

“Who are you?! You asked, furrowing your brow. Too many thoughts raced across your mind. If you were the enemy, why hadn’t they killed you?

The man frowned, inching hesitantly into the room. His moments were precarious as though he was trying not to frighten you. “You don’t remember me?”

That voice… you knew that voice. He had spoken to you before, a long, long time ago.

“Bucky..?” You queried. There was a name you hadn’t heard in a while. A name you unknowingly had yearned for everyday since he left you.

He smiled at you gently. You weren’t sure how you had really pictured him from the other side of the wall, but you weren’t disappointed. He had this gentle look about him as he watched you, though hidden behind it was a haunted look that only someone who had seen the worst could have. “Yeah Doll. It’s me.”

“You left.”

“I know, doll. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave without you but I had no choice.”

You sighed. “Why am I here, Buck? Why didn’t they just shoot me when they had the chance.”

“Because, Barnes is one annoying man.” Another voice chimed in from the doorway. He was an older man with tired eyes. He had a small beard too which sat below the hair above his upper lip. “He thinks that we can help you, like we helped him. Although, I don’t know if you deserve that considering you broke into our home, shot one of our agents and tried to take all of our data. Nat should make a full recovery, by the way.” He added just to jest.

“Stark-”

“You know I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to get torn apart and pit back together over and over and turned into some weapon. I didn’t ask to be one of their little toys.”

Tony pursed his lips. Hot tears streamed down your face as years of your life replayed on loop in your mind. This feeling was something so foreign to you. You didn’t know how to comprehend it. Bucky faltered as he watched your mind fight itself, as you fought between what felt right and what you were told was right.

“Fourteen years. Fourteen years of pain and loneliness. Fourteen years of my life that I will never get back because they were spent being forced to do things that I never asked to do.”

Tony pondered for a moment, gaze lingering on Bucky. He saw how tender he was with you. He knew that Barnes could sympathise with you better than anyone could. They had given him a chance, so why were you any different?

“Call T'Challa.Tell him we need his help.”

Bucky beamed. After quickly reassuring you that he would be back shortly after your protests, he began to make his way down the hall, with a skip in his step. He couldn’t help but smile at the fact that you were going to get help. They were going to remove your programming, and you would be stripped of the confinement that Hydra had wrapped tightly around you like a boa constrictor. He knew that it would take time and effort, pain and trust, but he was willing to stand beside you for it all because he knew that slowly but surely, you would realise that you were safe. Slowly but surely, you would become you again.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 15 ⛤ DAY 17 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

Note: I was listening to the song 14 years but guns n roses whilst I wrote this :)

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kxedeharas · 1 year

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jess until dawn icons !

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝙟𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙙𝙖𝙬𝙣 𝙞𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨 ˎˊ˗ ꒰ 🕸️ ꒱

✖ 〉. ❝ like or reblog if you save / use ❞

♪ ！ ﹒feel free to request icons / wallpapers / headers﹕❍

#until dawn #until dawn icons #jess until dawn icons #jess riley icons #icons #emily davis #wendigo #mike munroe #sam giddings #chris hartley #josh washington #matt taylor #blue icons #horror icons #jess until dawn #jess riley #k:jerii

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callmewrinkles3 · 1 year

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Come Back, Be Here - DR3 x Fem!OC

Masterlist

Summary: One race until the end of the season, and one race until Dan gets to go home for New Years and six weeks of family time. But he and Emmy are facing their longest separation since 2018, and neither of them are facing the truth of what it means.

Words: 7.2k

Warnings: Abu Dhabi 2021, angst (it’s this series what do you expect), explicit smut (18+ only pls!), mentions of breaking laws in Middle Eastern countries.

AN: We had to share something for the DannyRic GP, and why not the moment that started the downward spiral for these two? We are aware that they probably wouldn’t get in trouble for being physically affectionate in public, but Em sticks to the rules and is a worst case scenario person so here we are. We hope you enjoy! Alex and Cíara xx

December, 2021

This leg of the race calendar was punishing. It didn’t give you a moment to breathe, three double headers in a row. And hardest of all for Dan, the last three races were in the Middle East.

He’d learned more about the human rights side of things, but he’d never consider himself well educated on it. He’d talked to other drivers, looked online, all of that. But on a purely selfish level Middle Eastern races meant that he and Em were back to their old pattern of separate hotel rooms, one of them slipping out of the others at the crack of dawn so they weren’t caught sharing. It was stupid and illogical and he missed the feeling of getting to wake up slowly with her half sprawled across him, of soft kisses and slow sex to get ready for the day.

Instead it was mumbled goodbyes and kisses on her forehead. Qatar wasn’t too bad, they finished the race and got to head back to Europe. He spent more time on the sim, trying to get to grips with how the car reacted and bring back some of the magic from Monza. And then he’d go home and open up the door of that little flat to see Em on the couch still working away, or she’d arrive in just after him from Blake’s with a smile and a “I was asked to remind you the walls are thin, please don’t make me scream tonight again.” She always blushed and he grinned, kissing it away and wrapping her in a hug to put aside the mixed feelings he had about McLaren.

But they were in Saudi Arabia and he fucking hated it here. He hated that for the next two months he couldn’t hold Em’s hand. He couldn’t wake up beside her in bed. That he’d get on the plane to Perth and she’d be left behind because she was going back to London and he didn’t want to do it.

Originally how late the calendar ran because of covid was perfect. They would arrive into Perth just as the major restrictions would be lifted, the hotel was booked for two weeks, they’d be home just after Christmas. It would work. And then the rules changed and it was citizens and spouses of citizens only and there was no way around it. They were in Austin when they got the news, cancelling the flight for Em with tears.

It was just after the race in Saudi, sitting in his driver room and wanting to head back to the hotel when Michael walked in. Everything was ready and he stood, but one look from Michael made him sit and stay quiet.

“Are you gonna ask Em to marry you so she can come home with us?”

He thought he was about to laugh at the question, but Michael’s face was sincere.

“Mate, no. God I wish I could. But no. I have a plan, and her thinking that I’m only asking her so she can come is not in it. I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“You have a plan? Shouldn’t you at least go on a couple of dates? Have dinner out like a couple? Work out if it’s what’s gonna happen?”

He could see the surprise on his best mate’s face, watching as Dan took a deep breath and stretched out his back. He’d had the plan since the four of them were in lockdown together on the farm, when Em got off the wooden lounger she was sharing with him to get four more beers. He sat there, took the last gulp out of his bottle, and said “I’m going to marry her some day. Emmy’s the one. She’s it.”

Emmy had come back and curled on his chest again before they could say anything else, sitting there in the cooling night air while he ran his hand up and down her arm. It was perfect and he knew that was it, she was the one. The ring was sitting in his bag waiting for the right moment.

“Mate I know it will. We live together. We do dates when we have our Italy trips, and she still hasn’t forgotten I owe her for Lake Como last year because I won Monza instead. We don’t need dates.”

“Just take her on one. Mate, seriously, take her out. Do it properly.” The insistence was weird, it was never how Mike usually was. In fairness he and Blake usually stayed out of whatever he and Emmy were doing, unless it interrupted Blake’s sleep and he got an angry text. They’d gotten a lot better at not doing that though.

“Did she tell you something? Why are you making a big deal about this? I know what I’m doing.”

“She hasn’t said anything, but just…I see the way the two of you look at each other. You’re not gonna see her for six weeks, and I’m pretty sure the last time the two of you went that long without seeing each other was that gap between her coming to Monaco and whatever the race she went to after in 2018. Take your girl on a date and make sure she’s your girl.”

“I fucking can’t!” He was louder than he meant to be, opening and closing his hand and standing up. The fucking “cultural norms” and rules that meant they couldn’t do it. If they were just tourists then yeah, maybe. But there’d be cameras and people would see and he wouldn’t put it past a government to make an example of them.

“Why not? It’s easy. “Hey Em I’m in love with you and have been probably since I brought you to Perth for the first time, lets go for dinner before we spend six weeks apart.” That’s all you have to say. She’ll say yes.”

“Because we’re in the Middle fucking East. I’m not even supposed to get in a car with her, let alone be in public with her alone. And it’s pretty public that we’re not married so we can’t risk it. And don’t remind me that it’s gonna be fifty one days without her. That’s how long it’ll be till I see her once we get on that plane.”

“Dan…” But he was on a roll, finally able to explain everything that had been so painful to think about.

“We break so many rules in so many countries just to be able to sit at each others sides. I can get in trouble for sitting by her side in the car, holding her hand. It’s my thing every single day to be with her in the car. It’s our thing to go on ride to get to be alone for a minute before the rest of the world gets me. I can’t even stay in the same room as her if there isn’t someone there. I’m not supposed to go to bed hugging the girl of my dreams. Do you know the risk that I take every single time I sneak out of her room? The danger she’s in? There’s literal fucking morality police here. And every night we decide fuck it, it’s worth it and I just hug her tighter because it could turn into a living nightmare for her. So please. Don’t ask me “why not” like it’s some simple question because it’s not. There’s nothing I want more than that.”

It was quiet as Dan took a breath, the reminders of last year and the way they worried as he got back into the car after watching Romain escape the flames hit him again.

“Remember Bahrain last year? The way I hid in my drivers room with her?” Michael nodded. “That could have gotten us arrested for just being alone together and all that happened was she held onto me and stopped me from wanting to scream. The fact that we’re here so we have to do this? We have to pretend that it’s ok not to even get to hug each other? I’d kill for a podium, or even imagine a win, but then she couldn’t hug me. It’s backwards and it’s fucked and yeah I’m rich and white so we’d probably be fine but it’s not worth the risk. We do it anyway. Because we have to.”

“Mate. I’m sorry.”

“Just please. I have a plan. When we move into the new place I’m gonna talk to her about admitting everything. And next time she’s able to come to the farm I’m gonna propose. I’ve had the ring for a year. A little longer isn’t going to hurt.”

“As long as you know what you’re doing. I trust you, but don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I won’t. We’ll be good. She knows me better than I know myself.”

They nodded at each other and left the room, Blake and Em standing outside the hospitality with a few feet between them. Instead the four walked out to a car available for them to go back to the hotel. Ten days till the flight to Perth. He had to make the most of them.

—

Once they arrived in Abu Dhabi Em was counting down. They got in on Monday ahead of most of the rest of McLaren, checking into the hotel and getting their rooms. She had the emails and went to the counter, getting the keys and pointing out the boys across the lobby and the ridiculous amount of luggage they all travelled with. Travelling light was not a thing Formula One did.

The four envelopes were slid over, Em taking them and checking the keys. The little printed labels with their names were the same as in nearly any other Hilton, but seeing Dan’s on his own and hers on her own made her so frustrated.

She knew she’d been putting off thinking about the flight home after the race. Until they got to the airport she could pretend they were getting on the same plane, holding hands over the little divider like they did so often, curling up in bed and look at new apartments. They had months left on their self imposed timeline of the summer break, her lease was month to month, but they wanted this. A place that was theirs felt right for once.

“You ok?” Dan asked when Blake and Michael had gone up to their rooms. They were sitting on opposite sides of a coffee table, each fiddling with the envelope in their hands. The evening was a free one before the chaos of the final race of the season began. Both titles coming down to one race? It wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Yeah. Just…yeah.”

“It sucks.”

“It really sucks.” She smiled wistfully, trying to get herself together. They still had time. They weren’t leaving till Tuesday night, Lando agreeing to do the final day of tyre testing so Dan could make it home. The offer was there for Em to fly home early, as if that would happen. She hadn’t let them book her on an earlier flight to London. It wasn’t worth having a little less time with her boys.

“I just hate being apart. I hate not getting to share a room with you. Not even getting to give you a hug in public. I know it’s stupid, but this week?”

“It’s not forever.” Dan sounded different and she looked up at him, watching him search for his words. “After we move, y’know? Next year. We find the apartment and we move in and then we can figure out the rest.”

“That sounds really good.”

Their rooms were at least on the same floor, and she handed Dan the spare card for her room, watching him grin as she did. She went in and did her usual unpacking routine - toiletries in the bathroom, her planned clothes for the circuit hanging up neatly, checking the locks worked and the mirrors were real after one too many TikTok’s that terrified her. Her final step was putting her pillow on the bed, the habit Michael had made her pick up after one too many complaints about her awful sleeping habits. It didn’t particularly help, but she did it anyway.

They’d gotten in late, but there was only a one hour time difference. The room service menu looked good, a lamb kofta and lemon tart for dinner. The food arrived not long after she ordered and she settled at the desk to eat.

Three minutes later there was a knock at the door and it opened, Dan coming in with his own plate. A kiss to her head before he sat down with his steak, Em watching as he cut in and smiled at how it was cut.

“You’re a simple boy, eh Dimples?” She asked, enjoying how the first nickname she gave him that drunken night had stuck.

“I’ve got you and a steak, what else could I possibly want Emmy?”

“You know you don’t need to charm me, right?” He held out a forkful of peppers for her, in return she gave him some fries.

“But if I want to?”

“Then by all means, but don’t expect magic. I didn’t bring anything fancy considering what customs here is like.” The last time she’d brought anything involving what she considered her nice underwear was in 2019 when her luggage had been searched. She wasn’t doing that again.

They ate in mostly silence, Dan leaving only to put his room service cart outside his door and hang the do not disturb sign on it. Once he was back they got ready for bed, another episode of Criminal Minds on TV as they cuddled and got comfy. Em couldn’t tell you what happened, instead lulled to sleep by Dan’s fingers in her hair and a kiss against her forehead every few minutes.

The next few days passed, and she could see the seething rivalry between Red Bull and Mercedes was going to spill over. Thing were tense in the paddock, she’d never felt an atmosphere like it. Her first two years were a party mode, people glad a season was over, relaxing and looking forward to the break. Last year was covid and weird. But this felt strange.

She was sitting having coffee with Britta on Thursday morning before media really kicked off and asked her the magic question.

“Has a final race been like this before? It feels…weird.” The other woman laughed, checking her watch and taking a sip before answering.

“2016. 2012 a little, but we won so I kind of forget it. Things didn’t feel as poisonous then. Everyone knew unless Sebastian didn’t finish he’d probably win, so that was the aim. But 2016 was rough, and we weren’t near Mercedes then. It’s going to be interesting.”

“Definitely.” She wanted to see Dan at the top of the standings, wanted to see him race and race well. But this felt weird. She’d known Max just out of his teens, focused and sure and cocky. Lewis had become a friend. It was weird calling him that, but it was how things were.

Seeing Dan finish out of the points wasn’t great, but it was over and the season was done. The safety car finish that wasn’t a safety car finish, the way it all ended up left a weird taste in her mouth. Em had no loyalty to any team despite the friendships she’d made with people across both of them. Splitting the trophies felt just. But it was still strange. That night they all went to a party held by someone, drinking and dancing. In the rented out room it felt safe to be near Dan, but as soon as they were leaving for the hotel it was that gap between them. Into the provided car and through the lobby and up to her room, Dan stepping in behind her and pinning her against the wall. The sex was fierce and frantic and desperate, both of them putting everything they had into it. Dan rubbing against her, filthy words falling out of his mouth about how she looked, how she felt, how good she was as she begged him for more and more until they were seeing stars and clutched together.

Monday was promo. Em sat at the side of the garage with her iPad, already slotting in dates for the following season. Her earplugs were carefully in her ears as she watched the filming happen, content for the off season between Lando and Dan. It was exhausting, but the season was over. So many flights and hotels and this and that and the other. They’d done the maths and realised they spent more time in hotels than their bedroom during the season. She wanted to go home.

But she didn’t. She didn’t want to be in the cold London apartment alone. She didn’t want to sit on their couch and hit her leg off the coffee table Dan hated. She didn’t want to put his helmet on the shelf alone. They had a ceremony for it, Dan’s arms around her as she slid it into its new home. But their time together was ticking away shorter and shorter and she didn’t want to think about it. So she pulled up the latest apartment listings he’d sent to see if any of them suited. And then frowned when she realised he was looking in his rental bracket, not hers.

“Penny for them?” Blake asked, slipping into the chair across from her. She made herself smile up, hitting the lock button on the iPad and closing the case.

“Not a lot. Looking at apartments, wondering what the hell Danny is thinking of with some of them. I told him my budget.”

“And you know Dan. He wants the perfect place. You two doing ok?”

“There’s no us two, Blake.” Her words were short but she’d had enough of everyone saying they were together.

“Tamothy you’re either being wilfully or deliberately blind. He worships the ground you walk on. You’re moving in together. I live beside you, I hear too much.”

“We’re moving into a two bedroom.” She took a breath before continuing, letting that sink in. “Dan and I are…we are complicated and messy but he is my best friend. He knows me better than anybody else does. And whatever is going on with us is between us. You know I love you, you know you’re my brother, but you have to let this be between us. Ok?”

She took a sip of the iced tea beside her, stretching out her shoulders and arms the way Michael had instructed her to every half hour she was typing away. Blake looked like he was going to say something but Dan arrived over, grinning and wearing yet another OKX shirt.

“Did you take a look at the listings? I really like the SE1 one, it’s got balcony views over the Thames. If you can view when you’re back we can do the deposit?” He took her bottle and half emptied it, handing it back to Em who took another sip before looking up at him.

“I saw, except it’s five times the budget we said. Dan, seriously.”

“Emmy we can afford it. If we decide to do a budget by income like we should it’s me covering most of the expenses. Have a look at it?” He tried widening his eyes but she was immune from them. Mostly.

“No. We’re looking in the price range you and I set. Then if we can’t find anything that suits we’ll go higher. Understood?” He nodded. “This shoot is only supposed to be another twenty minutes, how’s it going?”

“My part’s nearly done. What’s next?”

“You get a full thirty minutes for lunch if you’re on time. Then it’s a couple of Android ads. I got them to give Blake a Pixel phone and tablet so you can look like you use them all the time instead of being the Apple geek we know you are. Once that’s done it’s a Gulf Oil pre-tape, a couple of holiday messages to record - Christmas, New Years, Lunar New Year because that’s before you’re back from Australia - and then you’re mostly done for the day. Apart from the Pirelli test meeting at five. That’s just going over the tires for tomorrow, the aim, introduce you to how the mule cars will work. That kind of thing.”

“You are my calendar countess, thank you Emmy! Going back to work now, are you both getting lunch then?”

“I’ll drag her from her desk!” Dan grinned at Blake’s response before jogging back. Once he was gone Blake stared at Em with wide eyes. “You drank from your bottle.”

“And?” She waved her hand at the papaya insulated metal bottle she carried with her everywhere. Water usually, but in hotter places it was iced tea with ice cubes carefully prodded through the lid. Everyone regularly in the garages had one.

“You never do that. I saw you nearly slap Michaels hand away for doing it. But you let Dan who was sweaty from being under huge lights all morning drink out of it and you drank out of it straight away.”

“So? It’s not a big deal.” It wasn’t. She was sanitary, that was all. Dan’s tongue was in her mouth most days, it wasn’t a big deal to share a water bottle. She forced Blake’s words out of her mouth as she started planning the 2022 Ric3 release schedule, only interrupted by going for lunch before spending the rest of her day on it. That night she didn’t do her usual day before checkout routine, instead curling up in bed with Dan for a lazy make out session before they went to sleep.

The next morning Em stopped packing and looked up at Daniel, watching him pace around the hotel room that he hadn’t left that morning, needing the extra time with her. He was more anxious than usual before getting in the car.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” She pulled his chin down so he stared at her before getting on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“I just wish you were going to be in Perth with us. The kids miss you and want to see you, Mum and Dad keep bugging me that I have to be able to do something to get you in. We could do Melbourne or Sydney and spend it—“

“And you’d spend it away from your family when the entire reason you’re going back to Oz and spending fifteen days in a very small hotel room with Mikey is to see them. It sucks. It completely sucks that we’re going to be apart for two months. It sucks that we’re not spending Christmas together when we’ve spent almost every day of the last two years together. But you need to see them.” She couldn’t help the tears falling at her words, the realisation that she had to spend so much time away from her boys hitting her. They’d been her entire life, but they needed to see the other people who loved them even though she couldn’t go. She and Dan had poured over the regulations but had come to the same conclusion. She wasn’t Australian, she wasn’t married to an Australian, so she couldn’t enter Western Australia. None of Dan’s connections could get the restrictions lifted, even though she’d asked him not to try. He still had because of course he had.

“Emmy, don’t cry.” He sat on the bed and pulled her close, cradling her the same way they’d curl up on a jet together. Mike would be at the door any minute telling him to get his ass downstairs, testing was starting soon, but he didn’t care. She came first.

“I’m sorry. I just…ugh. I want to be there. I miss everyone. I want my big hug from everyone and the reminder to eat up because we don’t settle down in one place enough. I want to spend a day cooking with Grace and Michelle and getting shown the recipes she doesn’t trust you with. It’s just not fucking fair.” Dan’s hand ran through her hair, pushing kisses to her forehead as he soothed her. Seven fucking weeks. Fifty one days. It was the longest they’d spent apart since she’d gone to Barcelona in 2018.

“None of this is fair. I’ll come back to London, we can spend Christmas in the flat and start looking for our new place. I don’t want you alone for it or having to get the train to Liverpool.”

“You’re going to Perth. You already paid the stupid amount of money for hotel quarantine, we both know you don’t have a choice. I’ll be fine.”

She nearly convinced herself as she got off his lap the moment before Mike came into their room, wiping her eyes and picking up her tablet before joining them in the car. Blake had told her to take the day off, but there was already dates for sponsor videos and the next car launch, and some stupid OKX campaign involving Dan as a magician that she thought was ridiculous but she’d seen how much money they were personally paying him so it had to happen. While Dan drove laps around Yas Marina to put the season that had the highest highs and the lowest lows behind them she worked, tapping away at the keyboard with more force than she intended.

“What did the poor machine do to you?” She turned at the American accent, Zak Brown standing behind her looking her up and down. Emmy shook her head and put her press smile on.

“Decided to push more things onto a schedule than there’s hours in the day. What can I do for you, Mr Brown?” The older man’s expression was smarmy and she dreaded what he was about to say.

“We need Daniel to drive tom—“

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“You want Daniel to drive tomorrow morning instead of doing the full run today. That’s not going to work. He’s booked on a flight to Perth at three in the morning and is booked into his hotel quarantine for when he arrives in Australia. This is non negotiable.” She wasn’t afraid to stand up to Brown anymore, not after the rumour Carmen had slipped her he’d spread.

“Lando can’t drive in the morning, he’s booked on a flight then.”

“I don’t care.” She stared at him, taking a breath before speaking. “Lando’s family is in England and he was able to spend most of 2020 and basically all of 2021 with them. They were able to be at races with him. Dan hasn’t seen his family since April last year apart from FaceTime, and thanks to the season running so late this year he’s already missing Christmas and Boxing Day with them. He’s not delaying seeing them by extra time. Plus, there’s flights to London nearly every hour, Lando can get any one of them. Dan’s flight isn’t changing. Don’t ask again.”

“And if I ask him to?” She hadn’t realised the car had pulled back into the garage, Dan making a beeline for his manager’s assistant and the CEO speaking in harsh whispers at the back of the garage.

“If you ask me to what?” He swallowed part of the protein smoothie Mike had handed him while waiting for Zak to speak.

“I was telling your little assistant here that Lando needs to go back to London tonight to see family, so I need you to do tomorrow morning’s testing session. She told me you wouldn’t do it, but I know you will, right?” Emmy looked at Dan, dreading his response

“I can’t. I’ve organised hotel quarantine with the WA government, I’ve paid for it. If I’m not on that flight then I miss my quarantine spot and there’s no guarantee I’ll get another one. Lando told me yesterday afternoon he was fine about it, he had plans to spend Thursday golfing in Dubai before flying home. If Emmy says something about my schedule then that’s my schedule, she’s the one who keeps all that.”

They were a united front, and she could feel the heat radiating from his sweaty race suit just behind her. Instead of leaning back like she wanted she stayed still to watch Brown take in Dan’s words.

“Ok. We’ll make it work. Dan, Emmy.” He turned to walk away, but Emmy stopped him.

“Mr Brown?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Emma, if you don’t mind. Only certain people call me Emmy, I’d like to keep it that way.”

They watched him walk out of the garage towards hospitality and it took Dan less than five seconds to grab her hand and pull her back to his drivers room.

“Dan?” She asked once he’d closed the door, pushing her against it.

“That was fucking hot. Making sure I get to go? Standing up to him? Not letting him call you the name I gave you? Hot as hell.”

His lips dropped to her neck, tracing the length of the silver chain she always wore until he reached the number three on it. It was her birthday present from 2018, given to her during the summer break. Just weeks after they’d decided to be friends who slept together.

She hated the word friends.

“You have to eat. And drive. We can’t right now.”

“At the hotel? I want to say goodbye to you properly. Two months is too long.”

“I know, Babe. I know.”

She pressed open mouthed kisses to his jaw before pushing him slightly, pulling her ipad to her as she perched on the little desk before Mike arrived back. They were the picture of professionalism, apart from Dan’s pinkie running up and down her thigh.

When he was back in the car she had her last meeting with Michael, the two of them running through the final plans for the online platform over the winter, the pre recorded information ready to go.

“You doing ok?” Michael asked and she nodded, trying to smile. “Really?”

“I will be. It’s just gonna be weird spending time without the three of you. Dan and I haven’t been apart since we were all in lockdown.”

“Any news about you and Dan?”

“Gossiping, much?!” She tried laughing, not letting her worries show. “He’s my guy, he’s my best friend. Whatever the media or anyone says doesn’t matter. Danny knows more about me than anyone else.”

“You know we’re on your side.”

There was nothing else she could say to that. Fortunately Dan appeared out of the car, changed but unshowered.

“Winter break, here we come! I’m thinking hotel to nap, and then we can get food before we change and head to the airport? Book the restaurant for eight thirty?” Dan’s curls were wild and he still had the balaclava marks on his cheeks that Em loved to kiss off his face. Instead she stood up, adjusting the bright orange shirt as she picked up the last few things she had.

“Yeah, works for us. Make sure we’re all packed up so we can just grab them and go straight to the airport. Who’s driving? Emmy?”

“Nah, not tonight. I’m too tired, and considering the way things are around here a woman driving a car full of men?” She smiled, Blake and Mike realising the excuse she wasn’t saying.

“I’ll drive. Be fine. Let’s head back.” Blake shepherded them out, everyone saying goodbye to the team they’d worked with for the year. Em checked her watch, eleven hours until she’d have said goodbye to her boys for two months, and she wasn’t ready.

The drive back to the Hilton was quick. Mike took the passenger seat without asking leaving her and Dan holding hands in the back. When they were in the garage they waved goodbye, everyone going to their room and agreeing to meet later for dinner. Once the door to their room was closed Dan pulled her close, his hands half lifting her as her legs wrapped around his waist when she jumped.

“Dan,” Em groaned, holding onto his shoulders.

“Ive got you baby girl, I’ve got you. I promise I’ve got you.” His lips moved further down her neck as he pulled the team shirt off her body to reveal a new pink bra. “For me?”

“Wanted to look pretty for you, give you something to remember.”

“You say that like I could ever forget you.”

She was lost in the sensations, both of them shuffling clothing off in a desperate attempt to be closer. Dan’s fingers slid through the matching underwear, long digits brushing through the wet folds.

“Dan I need more. Please?” Her hips bucked up and he laid her on one of the beds in the room, hovering over her.

“I’ve got you, Emmy. I’ve always got you.” Dan’s brown eyes were clear, the depths of emotion starting. She gasped as he entered her fully, filling her to the hilt in that way she knew so, so well. Every single time they slept together it felt right, Dan stretching her perfectly. She rolled her hips and smirked at the groan he let out, taking the hint to move.

Never ask Emmy what he did in those moments, the way he moved and brought her to her first orgasm, and then her second. They were chasing their highs together, lips clashing and his thumb rubbing circles around her clit just above where she was so gloriously full.

“Let me feel you, Emmy. So perfect right like that, let me feel how good you feel.”

“Danny…Danny please babe, just there please.” She couldn’t tell who came first, the two of them hitting their climax at nearly the same time.

The last thing she wanted was for him to pull out and move, to remind her that their time together was getting shorter and shorter and they’d have to say goodbye soon. Dan seemed the same way, pushing kisses to her chest before being forced to move. Getting cleaned up after sex was easy for them now, but instead he lifted her up and carried her into the bathroom, ignoring Emmy’s complaints.

“Dan! Put me down! PUT ME DOWN!! What are you doing?!” She called, trying to wriggle out of his tight grip.

“Bath. If we don’t get one for a while I want a proper one. We don’t have wine, but we can relax for a little while. Please?” She could never say no to his big brown eyes, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

“Sounds perfect.”

The tub in the suite was large enough for both of them, Em leaning back into his arms in the hot water. Every so often she felt Dan push a kiss to her head, smiling at the movement.

“Are you going home for Christmas?” He asked and she fought but failed to stop her body going stiff. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine. London’s as much home as anywhere else, either there or Monaco or Perth. But no, I’m staying away from Liverpool. I didn’t even get a text asking what I was doing for it this year.” The realisation that she hadn’t gotten anything after her happy birthday text in August hurt a little, but she just relaxed into Dan again.

“I’m sorry. It’s not fair.”

“None of it is, but it’ll be fine. I’ll curl up, take care of Blake’s plants, get your schedule for the start of next year done. Who knows, I might use some of the ridiculous salary you pay me and take a holiday. Chloe said she and Scotty are spending New Years in Switzerland. She doesn’t want me to be lonely.”

“They’re good friends. You should go. Don’t spend it all alone in the flat without me. I might look up some places for us? I’ll find some that are in your price range, I promise.” She leaned back against him to relax before she replied.

“That’s the plan Roomie.” The moving in talk gutted her every time he brought it up. As friends. Friends who slept together and were intimate together and who loved each other so much it hurt to be separated.

“I’ll see what I can find. Somewhere with lots of light and a balcony I think.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She could have fallen asleep there but the alarm she’d set went off, making her stand up as Dan ran his fingers down her legs.

“Emmy…”

“No, Danny. We need to get ready. Once we leave here you know what the rules are.” The stupid unmarried couple UAE rules. The reason she insisted she stood between Blake and Mike for most of the time they were outside, because if she and Danny were beside each other holding hands was the least they usually did.

“You know, right?” His voice was plaintive, Em dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

“I know. I know you do but y’know, right?”

A squeeze of her hand was the only response.

Dinner was fun, the four of them at the table, laughing and joking. The time of year and what was about to happen was strictly off limits for discussion, as was the safety car that had fucked up Dan’s chance of points in the last race. Instead they talked about watching other teams do tyre testing, Kimi’s retirement party that the guest of honour had left after twenty minutes, the way teams had shaped up for the next season.

“Yeah I’m surprised Haas kept Mazepin, but I guess money talks.” Blake gestured with his fork as he spoke, Em rolling her eyes.

“Just keep him away from me next year, ok? I…yeah. The rumours are bad enough. He creeps me out.”

“Did he do anything?” Dan put his cutlery down and looked at her, Em shaking her head immediately.

“He didn’t get the chance. But he knows exactly where to go to find certain people, he knows what to do. Nothing I can report and say is inappropriate, but enough that I can tell he knows he’s crossing the line. It fucking sucks. And I can’t prove it but he was spreading the worst of the rumours over the summer.” She twirled spaghetti around her fork, eating it before she could say anything else. Spending time with Mick trying to badly teach her German generally meant Mazepin was around and she hated that.

“If anything happens.” An eyebrow raise told her the rest.

“I know what to do.” She took the chance to run her foot along his calf, making sure he could feel how calm she was. She wasn’t ruining the last part of her day with her boys with crap.

The drive to the airport was fine. Two cars had been ordered because of the law that she wasn’t supposed to be in a car with any of the boys, but instead of her slipping into one of the SUVs alone Dan got in opposite her. The driver was discrete and kept quiet, Em and Dan holding hands for the entire drive to Dubai. The hour passed too quickly, and they arrived ready to go in the dark night.

Check in and security was quick, Em picking up a few things in the duty free shopping. Once they were ready the four of them went to the Emirates lounge, settling into a corner. Mike and Blake took the outer seats so she and Dan could be beside each other, a glass of champagne for everyone on the low table between them.

She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing now, the clock past midnight and the realisation she was saying goodbye to them. Her fingers were linked with Dan’s and they were silent, three occasional squeezes the only form of communication between them. She could tell when Blake and Mike noticed what was happening, their nudges between each other. Em held her breath, but then Dan realised what was happening and pulled her in.

“We can’t,” Em gasped out, worried about what would happen if anyone saw.

“I don’t care. Emmy, you need some comfort. This isn’t…fuck. Fuck it all. I’m done. I’m going up and changing my flight, I’m going to London. How the hell am I supposed to leave you like this? I don’t want you to be alone.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“Danny, you can’t.” She looked up at him and made him stare at her, fixing his gaze with her own. “You haven’t seen your family in more than eighteen months. You’ve got your hotel quarantine ready to go. They’re holding Christmas dinner until you’re out of quarantine and can see them all. You have to go.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.” He squeezed her hand three times but she could see his resolve breaking.

“I’ll be ok. We’ll FaceTime every couple of days. But look here.” She lit her phone screen, showing him the photo of her, Isaac, and Isabella from Christmas 2019 when the kids were so much smaller and a pandemic was barely a thought. “Those kids are so excited to see their uncle Dan again. You have a full suitcase of presents waiting to be loaded. Grace is dying to hug her boy and she and Joe just want to congratulate you for Monza. You have to go.”

When Dan pulled her into a hug she knew she’d won, and the two of them stayed curled up in a chair like that together. Mike and Blake moved chairs so nobody could see them as a just in case, but Dan held her and Em breathed in his scent deeply. Fifty one days. She could do this.

“Passengers for Emirates flight EK 420 to Perth, First Class is boarding shortly. Please proceed to the boarding gate for transport to your plane.”

She went to stand at the announcement but Dan didn’t let her go, squeezing her tight.

“Another minute. Please?”

“Ok.”

They got another three before Blake shook Dan’s shoulder to get them to move.

“Mate, we have to go. C’mon.”

Em forced an all too fake smile on her face as she hugged her boys, Michael holding her close for a moment.

“Look after yourself,” she murmured, watching as he nodded seriously.

“And I’ll look after him for you, Wiggle. I’ll email you those new video ideas and we can see what works?”

“Perfect.”

Hugging Blake was the same, arms wrapped around her as he pushed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Wish you were coming back with us. If we could…”

“It’s not your fault. Blame Australia. Gonna miss you Blakey.”

“Miss you too Ems.”

Dan was the final one to grab her and she didn’t want to let go. He pushed the quickest kiss to her lips as he hugged her, Em wanting to deepen it but knowing she couldn’t.

“I’ll change to the London flight. I’ll do it now.”

“And then your family will hate me. I’ll see you soon. You know, right?”

“I know. Y’know, right?”

She kissed his cheek before letting go, stepping back to give distance between them all.

“Go get your flight. I’ll text when I land in London, please let me know when you get into Perth. Good luck with the quarantine.”

She waved as they walked away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ever since they’d been locked down on the farm she’d spent every single day with at least Dan, if not Blake and Mike right there beside her. But now she was facing fifty one days alone and all Em could do until they announced her flight was cry.

Taglist (let us know if you want to be added!)

@dr3lover @sabrinaselina55 @majx00 @tall-tanned-tattoo @lovingdennishauger @lauehr @msolbesg @f1medlife @idkwtfimdoing2 @leclercsbae @hiphopdancer101universe @mehrmonga @lewispool @saintandrea-droidsmuggler @coldheartedmar @sugarbabygirlofdaddy @nonsensical-nonce @a-distantdreamer @tita010 @leslizzle @javden @mloyer @magical-imagination-kgp @danarysstormborn @kakorrhaphiophobia @g-l-o-b-e-w-h-o-r-e

#daniel ricciardo x reader #Call it what you want fic #ciwyw writing #daniel ricciardo imagine #Daniel ricciardo oneshot #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo fic #formula one imagine #formula one fanfic #formula one oneshot #f1 fanfic #f1 oneshot #f1 imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 oneshot

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red-riding-wood · 5 months

Text

✔ Yellow Light (x reader)

✐ 🔞 Darkness Until Dawn (x OC)

✐ 🔞 Do it For Me (x reader)

✔ Made For You (x reader)

✔🔞Coldfire Pt. I, Pt. II (x reader)

✐ 🔞 Devil, Devil (Dark!Tommy x reader)

✔ As The World Caves In (x reader, modern war)

✔ Saltwater Tears (x reader)

✔ Bang Bang (x reader)

✔ Lost in the Rhythm (x reader)

~NEIL LEWIS (have to make more of these headers, bear with me lol)

✔ 🔞 I Want You to Want Me

← MAIN MASTERLIST

#m: cillian murphy characters

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irafuwas · 11 months

Text

The Enemy Summary: Lilia did not call the child "Silver" because of the lunar gleam of his hair or the starlight in his eyes. No, he chose the name out of spite. Content Warnings: Depictions of violence against a child, strangulation, blood, expletives, book 7 spoilers Pairings: None Length: 3.8k (Header artwork from here)

You can either read it after the cut or on AO3!

The princess’s death struck the nation like a meteor. The Knight of Dawn had killed her, contemptuously, brazenly, at what was meant to be a peace conference. Before the fae could even draw their swords, he and his troops had scattered like a bevy of doves into the golden light of daybreak. Most of the congregation rushed to gather around their sovereign’s limp body, but not Lilia. He stood at the window, staring at the backs of the retreating soldiers, transfixed by the reflection of the sun blazing in their iron armor, a yellow blot in a sea of white fire. It looked to him like an evil eye.

Dazed by the hot stupor of his great injury, Lilia hunted down the man and killed him. And then he killed the man’s wife, and then the chambermaids and the kitchen staff and the guardsmen and the stewards. He executed them impulsively; their bodies fell before him like heavy ragdolls slumping to the ground.

The glint of his blade was a bright smudge in the darkness of the castle that night. It moved through the air like an emerald wraith – at times languidly, at times striking faster than an adder. For those who’d sought refuge in the pitch-black shadows of the underground passageways, its viridity was the last thing – the only thing – they saw before it pierced them.

His path was methodical.

He stalked from room to room, listening for stifled breaths and choked back sobs, tearing apart every quivering shadow and wrenching open every closed door. He found the pageboys cowering together in one of the storerooms, their small faces shining white with a vicious fear. He told them to run, and they did. They fled crudely, tripping over the hardstone floor and entangling their wiry colt limbs into each other as they stumbled down the halls.

He waited until they left before moving on to the final room. He’d overlooked it earlier; the door was concealed within the tall bookcases that lined the knight’s bedchambers, and he’d only noticed it after one of the maids had left it ajar as she fled. He flung open the door apathetically and marched inside, scanning the room for any sign of life. A wooden object in the corner caught his eye, and a sharp unease pooled in his stomach once he realized it was a cradle.

When he peered inside it, a baby with eyes the color of the aurora peered back up at him. He had seen those eyes before, staring down at him triumphantly as a sword plunged through his sister’s chest, staring up at him from the pale face of a corpse lying in a pool of blood in the adjacent room. And now those same eyes blinked at him dully, as though he were the source of all the light in the world.

He didn’t know the Knight of Dawn had already sired an heir. No one did. He placed a weary hand on the cradle and rocked it absentmindedly as he thought. He easily could’ve walked away, could’ve turned around and left that rotting pit behind him and reemerged into the night’s black embrace, could’ve gone on to live the rest of his life wallowing in the murky waters of his deep grief. And he should have. But he knew, with a firm surety that scared even him, that his grieving peoples would soon come to claim the boy - long before the first light of dawn could reach down its shining hands and begin to soothe their wounded nation.

Lilia’s hesitation possessed him. His gaze flew between the cradle and the door and back to the cradle again. He reached down and gripped the baby’s throat. He stood there, dazed, unable to tell if he was fighting the urge to complete the act or the urge to let go. The muscles of his forearm bulged and tensed, writhing like pale snakes underneath his skin. When the child smiled at him, he ripped his arm away as though he’d been electrocuted.

After a final moment of trepidation, he plunged his arms back into the cradle. His hands had torn that castle asunder mere moments ago, and now they trembled quietly as they pressed the heavy head into the warmth of his chest.

The night held its breath as he left that place. The only witnesses to his transgression, the somber oak trees surrounding that land and the black-eyed creatures concealed in their lofty boughs, watched him silently. He tried to ignore their expectant gazes, but they dug into his skin like daggers as he raced back to camp with the child in his arms.

Later, when he stood with Baul in the heavy heat of their tent and confessed what he’d done - and what he had failed to do - the man nearly exploded.

His barrel chest swelled in contempt. His face flushed hot with a venomous rage. He loomed over Lilia as massive as a grizzly bear, his thin lips pulled back into a snarl, the whites of his eyes blazing like spotlights out of his ashen face.

“Are you fucking insane!?” he roared. “That… That thing is that bastard’s son! It’s the enemy!”

“Baul, I can’t kill a baby,” Lilia croaked.

Baul scoffed. “So you can slaughter a whole castle full of people, but a baby’s too much for the Great General Vanrouge, huh?”

Lilia looked away, and Baul continued, aggrieved, “Fine. If you won’t do it, then I will.” He tightened his grip around his halberd, and the wooden staff groaned in his hand. He dipped the axe head towards the baby sleeping in Lilia’s arms.

“No!” Lilia yelled, taking a step back. “Please, just… just give me some time… A decade. Give me a decade, and then I’ll do it, I’ll kill him.” He licked the cold sweat running down his lips, his eyes flicking between the glowering man and the axe hovering before him. The cold metal shimmered threateningly in the dim candlelight.

“Sure you will,” Baul spat, retracting his weapon. “Sure you fucking will.” He stormed out of the tent, muttering angrily as he threw back the tarp with a growl. The stifling air evaporated with his departure, and Lilia took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked down at the child and sighed.

When Lilia returned to the castle town, he discovered that Baul had revealed his great failure to the rest of the world. In the wake of their general’s betrayal, he and the other guardsmen had ransacked Lilia’s room in the barracks, carelessly strewing his meagre belongings before the castle as though they were garbage. Lilia found the blanket from his cot entangled in the branches of one of the courtyard trees, fluttering sadly in the gentle spring wind. He dislodged it and wrapped it around his body, using it as a makeshift sling for the child.

None of the guards, not even Baul, came out to speak with him. They didn’t need to – he already knew their judgement was final. He stooped over as he gathered the rest of his items, weighed down not by the tiny infant strapped to his back, but by the enormity of his decision, of his failure. Here was the home he’d spent the last three hundred years of his life defending, here was the honor and prestige he’d finally won for himself after centuries of flawless servitude and thankless atrocities, the only family and friends he had ever known – would ever know. He understood that he was a traitor, a fool, but his inanity was far overshadowed by his revulsion at what they demanded from him.

He looked up at the castle one last time, craning his head back, trying to memorize every jagged stone and turret and tower, trying to memorize the curve of the windows, the green of the flags flapping weakly in the breeze and the faded grey of the ancient masonry. He stood there until the strained muscles in his neck begged him to stop. And then he turned around and left.

His legs carried him unbidden to the edge of the forest surrounding the castle town, where he found a small house hidden in its verdant shadows. The walls were rotted, and the roof lay sunken under a tangled mass of vines and moss. He couldn’t tell whether humans or fae or wild beasts had last lived there; he only knew he was too tired and too apathetic to continue his search elsewhere.

The first night in that house, they slept on the floor. The child dozed soundly, but Lilia could not sleep. He stared at the stars peeking through the holes in the roof, counting each pin prick of light until his eyes burned. As the black-blue sky began to fade, he realized with a start that he didn’t know what the boy’s name was. He raked his exhausted brain for something – anything – he could call him over the next ten years. The answer struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Silver. It wasn’t a name; it was an utterance. Two syllables that weighed heavy in his mouth like poison - air that passed between his lips and nothing more. It was a word he’d hiss on nights when the mist lay heavy over the forest and his mind would sink into the quicksand of old memories he wished desperately to forget, when he’d dream of his sister’s face, pale and drained of blood, her mouth frozen open in a scream that would never come out. The Silver Owl had tainted his heart the darkest black, and this was his chance to finally rid himself of their scourge forever.

From then on, Lilia kept the boy at a distance. He fed him and bathed him and clothed him mechanically, moving most days like a puppet on strings. He tolerated being called “Father”, but staunchly refused any concessions beyond that. His anger was a bulwark against the child’s affections.

Only during the winter would Lilia let the boy sleep next to him. The small body would shiver offensively at his side, interrupting his faded dreams, and he would groan and tuck the thin creature against himself before falling back into an uncomfortable sleep. He would push the child away as soon as he awoke the next morning, repulsed, as though the thing clinging to him were a disease.

It wasn’t just the boy’s neediness that vexed him. Lilia hated everything about him, hated his shy half-smile and his crescent-eyed laugh, hated how the walls around his heart he’d spent so many long years carefully constructing would groan under the terrible weight of the boy’s love. But what disturbed Lilia the most was his eyes. Many of the valley residents were dumbstruck by them – they’d murmur how, on the night of his birth, Nature surely must have plucked the northern lights from the sky and pressed their iridescent glow into his supple skin. But Lilia only saw evil in their lunar beauty. And he watched, incredulously, as the boy grew older, stronger, the infantile roundness of his face hardening around the angle of his jaw, watched the back straighten, the eyes narrow, the smile broaden, watched the child melt away and the visage of his sister’s murderer slowly and steadily emerge in its place. Some days he felt suffocated, like every inch of that small cottage was tyrannized by the boy’s meagre presence. The only thing that stilled his hand was the child’s youth. He could not kill him yet.

The days were long, but the years whipped past him like a tempest. The hot coals of his anger gradually cooled to a tepid warmth, and Lilia at last conceded to the child’s innocence. He wore the clumsily made daisy crowns and ate the burnt and misshapen cookies, he no longer denied the pleas for one more race across the meadow and one more story, accepted the tiny hand that groped across the bed for his own on cold nights when their breath hung above them like fog.

A year before his tenth birthday, Lilia began taking the boy with him on his evening walks. As they padded through the darkness of the hushed forest, Lilia would teach him the names of all the wildflowers and the trees, of the prying creatures observing them from the black shadows, of every star and moon and planet that peered down at their upturned faces. One night, emboldened by his newfound knowledge, the child thrust a single, bony finger into the air and betrayed where the North Star had concealed itself in an ocean of shimmering lights. Lilia looked up. But his gaze did not follow the line of the boy’s indication, beyond to the heavenly body shining above. No, his eyes rested on that tiny, outstretched hand. In that moment, Lilia finally understood that he loved the child.

The realization that he had surrendered his heart to his oppressor, to his enemy – to the hand that’d been gripped around his throat for the past ten years and had torn his beating heart right out of his chest – paralyzed him. (Oh, but what is a decade of pure torment to eyes of liquid moonlight! What is a man – shriveled up and broken, stupefied by his hatred and rendered ignorant by his grief – in the face of pure love!)

He tried, in vain, to suppress his burgeoning feelings with the heavy mass of his anger, but his love would burst open the fortifications of his heart time and time again, threatening to drown him in its raging waters. He fought back against it the same way he had been the past decade - with his ignorance. But as the child’s tenth birthday rapidly approached, he found that for the first time, he no longer took solace in counting down the days.

Lilia awoke the child shortly after midnight. He tugged on the boy’s arms until he finally sat up, grumbling as he rubbed at his tired eyes, only dimly aware of the world around him. Lilia sighed. He dressed the boy impatiently, his fingers trembling as he fussed with the lacing on the small tunic. While he worked, his eyes darted between his sword hanging on a nearby wall and the child sitting slumped over in front of him. He decided against taking it.

He led the child outside into the balmy spring air. The heat prickled at his skin. He inhaled deeply, forcing out the tension gripping his body as he exhaled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl let out a plaintive call, and a nightingale began its serenade in reply. The moon was a shining pearl overhead. Lilia could not bring himself to look at her face, didn’t dare defile her perfect visage with his great shame. He turned and stepped down the dirt path leading away from their home, and the boy followed.

The forest watched disdainfully as the man and the young child walked deeper and deeper into its bowels. Once, the boy asked where they were going, but Lilia did not answer. He felt too shy to speak again, and they spent the rest of the journey weighed down by a pregnant silence.

When they came to a glade, Lilia finally stopped. He turned around slowly, like a cornered beast reluctant to face its hunter.

The boy’s eyes – the enemy’s eyes – reflected the moonlight. The evil shone dimly in their argent depths.

Lilia lunged at him like a panther.

“Fath-!”

They slammed into the ground with the force of a hurricane. The boy cried out as his back struck the earth, pain shooting up his body like shards of ice. He lay there stunned. He could not understand what had just hit him. It had looked like a black storm, impenetrable and overwhelming. His mind blankly refused to reveal its identity to him. But he knew it could not have been his father that struck him, and he knew it could not be his father now pressing those cold hands around his throat and staring down at him with eyes the color of blood.

Not once in his life had the boy ever known fear. He had always ignored it, looked past it, content with the knowledge that his father would always be there to protect him from its ploys. Anything that scared him, anything that invited unease into his stomach or agitation into his heart, was dispelled in the comfort of the man’s steady presence. But now his father was the thing itself. An animal panic gripped his body, his eyes blew wide open like a spooked horse.

They wrestled. He tried wrenching the arms away from his throat, but the bony limbs felt like rods of iron under his hands. He clawed and pounded at the man’s chest, his mind racing as tried to remember every movement, every self-defense technique his father had ever taught him. When the whirlpool of his thoughts stilled for a split second, he ripped from its calm waters the lone memory he’d been desperately searching for. The boy hooked one hand over his father’s wrist and gripped the other one higher up his arm, around his elbow. He kicked a leg free and swung his foot over his father’s ankle. The hands tightened around his throat. The world blackened before him; his lungs begged for oxygen. Using the last bit of his strength, he bucked his hips and rolled over, bringing Lilia underneath him. The hands at last released their grip; he was free.

He shot away from his father like a bullet. He scrambled to his feet and feverishly gulped in the warm spring air until his lungs burned. He took a trembling step forward, trying to flee, but Lilia was upon him in an instant. The man wrapped his arms around the heaving chest and threw the child back to the ground, crashing into him as they fell. The boy writhed frantically in the cage of his father’s arms, almost slipping free, but Lilia shoved him flat on his back with a snarl. He crawled atop the boy, straddling him once more.

The child fought back feebly. His hands pawed against Lilia’s arms, his face, anything solid his trembling fingers could grab onto. Lilia swatted away the flailing limbs, trapping the boy’s arms in one hand and seizing his throat with the other. The child’s screams contorted into a panicked screech as white stars exploded before his eyes. He kicked up his legs and thrust his knees into Lilia’s back, but the man was immovable, his arms and legs pinning him down as heavy as pythons.

Lilia’s hand tightened around the thin neck; the child’s heartbeat pounded against his palm like a thunderstorm. The boy’s flesh melted underneath his fingertips as soft as dough. He squeezed until the eyes began to burst from their sockets, until blood seeped into their auroral haze and foam spilled from his half-parted lips.

The seconds passed by in an eternity. At last, the child’s body stilled, his gasps terminating with a final, strangled sob. Lilia released the neck slowly, marveling at the purple-black splotches blooming across the skin, the imprint of his hand stark against the ivory flesh. He closed his eyes and panted, exhausted.

He sat there, waiting. For a decade he had envisioned this moment, had clung to it like a promise of salvation, had dreamed of the pure relief that would wash over his body and befree him from the prison of his immovable grief. He waited, but it did not come. The enemy was gone, yes. But with it fled the black shadow of Lilia’s anger that had obscured the child from him all his life. He looked down. His eyes flew open in shock. For the first time in a decade, the first time since he peered down into that cradle all those years ago, he finally saw the boy. He finally saw Silver.

“Silver!” he gasped, recoiling, as though the name burned him. He threw himself off the body and crawled away from it on his hands and knees. He pulled himself up against a tree and doubled over as he began to vomit. It felt like this was the pure poison of his rage leaving him - like a decade of repressed anger was erupting from his body all at once, pouring out of his throat and his nose in a scalding torrent of acrid bile, burning his eyes, his lips, his tongue. He stood there heaving until his knees gave way, collapsing into the ground with a mutilated groan. As he rubbed his raw throat, he suddenly remembered the boy.

He whipped his head around in a panic and found Silver lying motionless where he’d left him. Lilia staggered over to him. The few meters between them seemed to stretch on for miles, and he tripped and stumbled as he clawed his way across that great divide, falling to his knees once he finally reached him. He cradled the limp body in his trembling arms. He kissed the boy’s eyes, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips slipping weakly across the wet mess of tears and blood. He pressed his face into the silken hair, filthy with dirt and grime from the forest floor, breathed in his soft lavender scent, drowned in the milky white flesh, ice cold against his own feverous skin. He nuzzled his face into the crook of the boy’s neck, choking back a sob as he felt a faint pulse throbbing weakly under him.

Silver’s mind reentered the world conscious only of the sharp pain in his throat and his father’s white face hovering above him. He stared at his father, and for the first time in his short life, the man did not look away. The eyes that had long haunted Lilia, had aggrieved him and insulted him, finally revealed to him their beauty. They were bloodshot and swollen, the skin underneath enflamed with irritation, but they were more resplendent to him than any gemstone.

Silver swallowed weakly and opened his mouth to talk, but Lilia shushed him with a shake of his head. As he gazed at the boy, a faint memory flashed before his eyes – he remembered the heavy head pressed into his chest, the limp neck resting in his hand, the wet mouth opened in a gasp, the shining eyes boring into him silently. Lilia shivered violently. Yes, it was just like that night, all those years ago. The days-old babe he’d stolen from that cradle was in his arms once more, born anew before him.

As he embraced the child, he decided that he would try to do better, to be better. He would try, falteringly, with the desperation of a marked man begging for a pardon, to rectify the decade of his ignorance.

He would try until it no longer hurt him to speak his son’s name.

#lilia vanrouge #twst silver #twst #twisted wonderland #twst spoilers #sorry if this is cringE im not using to writing evil stuff dfkgjdfg #when i said i been brainrotting about ch 4 this is what i meant #also tried writing in past tense for this which i dont like to do cause its gross but i did it #obligatory no i do not condone or aim to glorify any of this

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starlostastronaut · 5 months

Text

DAY 20 | TAKE A CHANCE

PAIRING: yang jeongin x reader

GENRE: fantasy au, idol au

WC: 1.02k

CW: supernatural beings, use of y/n (1x)

PROMPT: "normal is boring"

i don't even know what this is supposed to be, just know i wrote this after two glasses of wine lmao (dw i am not drunk). i don't have much to say, except that i love the photos in the header. innie looks like a cute little fox 🤭 anyway, enjoy reading <3

title from break down the walls - ross lynch

general masterlist here

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"You should tell him.” That was the first thing Seungmin told you when he found out you and Jeongin were dating. When he introduced you to each other, he thought you would be good together, and he was right. Fast forward two months later, and you announced your relationship. Was it fast? Probably, but you and Jeongin just clicked in a way you had never before with anyone. You told each other everything, and even after such a short time, you felt like you knew everything about him. Yet now, six months into being together, Jeongin still didn't know your deepest secret. You were a witch. Seungmin knew, of course, but he promised not to tell Jeongin until you were ready. But that moment seemed to never come, and Seungmin was growing impatient.

Today he was over at yours, yet again trying to convince you to tell Jeongin about your true identity. But you were scared. What if he wasn't going to accept you? You loved him too much to lose him over something like that. Seungmin strongly disagreed with you, and he told you every time you would ask. Often, he told you when you didn't ask as well.

“Look, all I'm saying is, you should tell him,” Seungmin said for the approximately millionth time since the start of your relationship. He plopped down on your couch, accepting the drink you handed him with a smile. His eyes followed you as you sat down opposite him. “I promise, Jeongin won't be mad.”

“You don't know that,” you answered. Of course, the two of them were best friends, claiming to know each other like the back of their hands. But not even Seungmin could predict what Jeongin would do in a situation like this.

“I do,” Seungmin insisted. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his thighs. “Just tell him. I promise you, he will accept you as a witch. I mean, with his-” Seungmin cut himself off, hoping you wouldn't notice. Fortunately for him, you were silent, thinking about what he said earlier. Seungmin seemed very insistent, and truth be told, you were starting to believe him. Maybe it was worth a shot, you decided. After all, Seungmin knew Jeongin better than you. And it would get Seungmin off your back, which was a welcomed plus.

“Okay,” you decided, months of persuasion finally settling in. “I'll go call him right now.” Seungmin grinned, feeling victorious. His eyes had that mischievous spark that appeared whenever he knew something the others didn't.

Later that day, you heard the bell ring as Jeongin came over. You greeted each other, both of you feeling nervous. Oh God, Seungmin didn't tell him anything, did he? With your anxiety spiking up again, you reached for his hand. When he took it into his, you led him inside the apartment.

“You wanted to talk about something? If I did something wrong, I'm so sorry!” Jeongin hurriedly apoloziged, barely setting foot into the living room. “You just sounded so serious on the phone, and I..." He left the sentence unfinished, and the realization dawned on you. Seungmin didn't say anything to him, you did. You called him, asking him to come over because you had something you needed to discuss in person. And Jeongin, always being the more insecure one, must have thought you were going to break up with him.

You grabbed both of his hands and squeezed them to reassure him. “You didn't do anything wrong, and I'm not breaking up with you, Innie. You might want to break up with me after I tell you everything, though,” you said, giving him your best smile. “You see, I haven't been completely honest with you.” You took a deep breath. It was better to rip the bandage right off. “I'm a witch, Jeongin.”

He stayed silent after that. His mouth was hanging slightly open, and his eyes were widening in shock. Translating his reaction as disgust, you began frantically apologizing. “I know how it sounds, and I'm sorry. I completely understand if you want to break-”

“Y/N.” His firm tone stopped your rambling. Now it was Jeongin's turn to take your hands so you would stop waving them around. “I don't want to break up. I don't care that you're a witch.” Jeongin looked down, with a barely-there pink dust covering his cheeks. He was feeling embarrassed, but you didn't know why. “Now that you mentioned it..." He let go of your hands in order to play with his rings, a nervous habit of his. You found it adorable at almost any given time, but now it was kind of scaring you. What could he possibly want to tell you that was worse than being a witch?

“I wasn't completely honest either. I'm actually a werefox,” Jeongin mumbled, taking his eyes off the floor to show you how they glowed yellow.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. And then, face-to-face with the absurdity of the situation, you began to laugh. Jeongin gave you a confused look, but then the corners of his mouth were turning up, and soon he was laughing with you. You didn’t know what was so funny, and you were sure Jeongin was just as clueless, but that didn't stop you. You stood in the living room, looking at each other and laughing until your cheeks were sore.

“We're quite the couple, aren't we? A witch and a fox,” you managed to say in between fits of laughter.

Jeongin grinned even more, and his eyes turned into those adorable crescents. “Normal couples are boring anyway,” he replied, and you had to agree with him. In a world of magical beings, normal was overrated.

“Seungmin's been trying to get me to tell you for months. I'm glad you brought it up, because I wouldn't find the courage on my own,” he confessed when you calmed down enough to speak. You almost wanted to laugh again.

“He's been pestering me about the same,” you laughed. You and Jeongin exchanged a look. Damn Kim Seungmin, who was, yet again, right all along.

taglist: @stayconnecteed @saintriots @vivioluh @ivaneedssleep @jazziwritesthings @darkypooo @sleepyleeji

©starlostastronaut 2023 | do not repost/translate my work without permission

#moony's countdown to christmas #mctc #stray kids x reader #yang jeongin x reader #yang jeongin #fluff #fantasy au

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maepersonal · 2 months

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What up, I'm Mae, I'm 19, and I never fucking learned how to read

main blog: @lockyle-and-skull

*all likes and follows will appear to come from there, even if we interact here*

about me: name: Mae or Ames age: 19 pronouns: ae/aer, it/its, she/her queer?: aroace + agender :3 why am I like this™?: autism, ocpd, bpd, ocd, adhd, anxiety, depression, alexithymia, aphantasia, dyspraxia, sometimes nonverbal & semiverbal, pots, tic disorder, sometimes agere (9-13ish) MBTI: ISTP :) aesthetic: here! :D element: water (duh) hogwarts house: slytherin ;) (I actually hate hp but I'm proud of my house) favorite colors: blue, green, purple nationality: american (canadian + german parents) shit I like: kpop: Lunarsolar, Xdinary Heroes, Ateez, Yena, Bibi, others more casually music: hardcore punk, punk, hard rock, symphonic metal, alt rock, nu metal, power metal, glam rock, hyperpop, Elliot Lee, Andrew Polec, Meat Loaf, Sick Puppies, In This Moment, Black Market Kidney Surgeons, Anti Flag (fuck justin sane), Iggy Pop, Car Seat Headrest musicals: Sweeney Todd (1982), Newsies, Ride the Cyclone, Bat Out of Hell, The Lightning Thief, Bonnie & Clyde, everything Starkid (but especially Starship, Black Friday, and Trail to Oregon) movies: The Human Centipede II: Full Sequence, Velvet Goldmine, Star Wars prequels, The Sorcerer's Apprentice, Narnia, Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets tv shows: Lockwood and Co, Julie and the Phantoms, Haikyuu, The 100 games: Palworld, The Enchanted Cave 2, BATIM, YTTD, Children of Silentown, The Mortuary Assistant, Little Witch in the Woods, Until Dawn, The Quarry, SCP Foundation, Project Kat, definitely more stuff I'm forgetting other stuff: wet specimen taxidermy, punk diy, collecting weird shit, tornadoes, alchemy, statistics, photography, The Council <3, insects, being a non-theistic satanist (inspired by LaVeyan satanism), being punk, being an anarcho-communist tech support: op tag: #oh mae oh my pfp: Bronté Barbé as Katherine in Newsies UK header: MUU (ex-LUNARSOLAR) - Shooting Star MV not safe for littles tag: #nsfl - BLOCK IF NEEDED

let me know if you want anything tagged differently!!

FAQ:

why are u reblogging/interacting with therian/DID content? because I am very close with a system that has therians and non-human alters :)

what do you use this blog for? this blog is mostly for irl, kpop, bpd, other mental disorders, anarchy, aroace, agere, vents, and anything else I feel like doesn't fit on my main :)

no DNI, just don't be a dick.

#accidentally deleted it so here it is again ig #oh mae oh my

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lightsoutletsgo · 2 years

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masterlist

here you can find all my works listed by driver! happy reading! key: ᡣ𐭩 - fluff | ✧˖ - smut | ☾ - instagram au/smau | ꕤ - angst

CARLOS SAINZ

good night's sleep (18+) ✧˖ you wake up feeling more than a little needy, luckily your sweet doting boyfriend is there to help

CHARLES LECLERC

the playlist series masterlist ᡣ𐭩 (future✧˖ ) (partially ☾ ) surely travelling the world means you won’t bump into the same person twice right? wrong. everywhere you go, charles is right there and as he keeps appearing in front of you, he keeps appearing in your thoughts and eventually your heart… (or, the one in which your manager is a big F1 fan and decides to plan your world tour to match the F1 calendar and your bandmates like to play cupid) (singer!reader)

bear hugs au masterlist (bearman!oldersister!reader) ᡣ𐭩 ✧˖ ☾ ꕤ step into the world of you and ollie bearman and your boyfriend charles leclerc. a selection of longer fics and shorter drabbles with a sprinkling of social media chapters. the original fic can now be found on the masterlist!

love letters (a two part fic) ☾ ꕤ to ᡣ𐭩dear... (part 1): after you breakup with your boyfriend rather publicly, you struggle to compose your new album, until you hear this mysterious guy's music on spotify... with love from (part 2): it's been a year since you released your breakup album and now everyone is eagerly awaiting your new love songs about your new man

GEORGE RUSSELL

blooming soon!

LANDO NORRIS

tour diaries ᡣ𐭩 ☾ lando is the most supportive boyfriend while you're on your world tour with your band (singer!reader)

red carpet ᡣ𐭩 ☾ lando joins the spoilers club, learning scripts means you take over the apartment and the internet loses their minds over your red carpet look (actress!reader)

LEWIS HAMILTON

blooming soon!

LOGAN SARGEANT

unpacking ✧˖ ᡣ𐭩 moving into your new place with your boyfriend has some interesting consequences when he finds one of his favourite boxes when unpacking

MAX VERSTAPPEN

flowers are a language of their own ᡣ𐭩 ꕤ four times max gives you flowers through your lives and the first time you give them to him (childhood friends to lovers)

girl dad ᡣ𐭩 max verstappen is such a girl dad and everyone knows it, especially you... (snapshots into max's life as a girl dad)

OSCAR PIASTRI

i told the stars about you (royalty au) ᡣ𐭩 ꕤ no matter how much this romance was fated to fall apart from the start, you still find yourself longing to tell the stars about how oscar makes you feel pretty girl (18+) ꕤ ✧˖ everyone needs a reminder when they feel insecure sometimes, luckily oscar knows just what to do to help anxiety gremlin ꕤ ᡣ𐭩 your anxiety gets the best of you and you finally open up to your boyfriend about your diagnosis, he just wants to know how he can help welcome home (18+) ✧˖oscar comes home after a triple header and catches you in a rather compromising position... he might as well take advantage of that, right?

MISCELLANEOUS names they would call their partner (ln.4, op.81, ls.2, cs.55, cl.16, gr.63, lh.44) ᡣ𐭩

DRIVERS I DON'T USUALLY WRITE FOR — unless requested

MARCUS ARMSTRONG

sparks fly ᡣ𐭩 a timeline of your friends to lovers relationship with marcus, based on taylor swift's song "sparks fly"

MICK SCHUMACHER

matcha latte ᡣ𐭩 you're crushing hard on the cute barista at your friend's cafe and he's crushing on you too. the problem? neither of you will admit it (cafe/barista!au)

FELIPE DRUGOVICH

la vie en rose ᡣ𐭩 you perform a song to show your boyfriend just how much he means to you (singer!reader)

PIERRE GASLY

holiday ᡣ𐭩 ☾ snaps from your summer vacation with pierre

home weekends ᡣ𐭩 ✧˖ weekends with pierre are your favourite, they're his favourite too. especially when he gets to wake up to you wearing nothing but his shirt and the marks from the night before

DANIEL RICCIARDO

sunlight ᡣ𐭩 the sunlight marks your favourite times with daniel; dawn, morning, midday, afternoon, sunset

oh, baby! ᡣ𐭩 ☾ you announce your new addition to the world!

#mimi.writes #masterlist #f1 masterlist

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kriz-fics · 1 year

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The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: Nooses and Axes

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 15K !!!

CW: Please take note. This chapter deals heavily and quite graphically with executions. If you are NOT COMFORTABLE with imagery and descriptions of hanging and/or beheading, please do not interact. Or skip the first two POVs (Eren’s and YN’s first POV) which are marked with the bird header and the winged orb header.

Other CWs: Graphic description of corpses / allusions to massive age gaps and necrophilia (not graphic) / Pieck's foul mouth / Period-Typical Attitudes

The day dawns as beautiful as the countryside. And it truly is beautiful, Eren can see that now, as he ambles along the lush green field on the back of his faithful bay rounsey, Yorik. When not cloaked in cold rain, Zheletov shows her true grace. She is enchanting, a land of fertile pastures, bright blue skies, and dense forests.

A soft breeze dances past, making the grasses bend beneath its light tread. Overhead, Lusin’s sun shines down upon them all, its harsh rays made gentle by the pervasive northern chill. By and large, the green is the very image of rural bliss: pastoral, picturesque, peaceful.

As peaceful as the grave.

Eren reins up beside one of the many gallows erected upon the sward. And there are many, rows and rows and rows of them, as far as the eye can see.

Yorik snorts and whickers, tossing his head and stepping back restlessly, unnerved by the presence of death. Eren holds firm to the reins to steady him and rubs a pacifying hand down the horse’s sleek neck until he settles.

The boy is fair, with hair of curling gold; his eyes are gray glass, pale and glossed over, unseeing. He cannot have been more than ten. But it is hard to tell with the corpses of the young, Eren has just now come to find - death seems to shrink them, making them look younger, frailer, more vulnerable.

He wonders what the boy’s name is.

Eren tries to recall what it was like to be ten. That had not been too long ago. He had been a grieving ten-year-old, newly come to court and suffering the loss no child should have had to bear so soon in his life.

But for that loss, he had everything to gain. He had everything to play for, it would all start for him at last, here at this greatest of courts. He was a fledgling, mourning yet poised to spread his wings and take his first flight. His whole life was ahead of him still, everything and anything could happen.

This golden fledgling’s wings have been clipped too soon.

A couple of flies buzz around him, poking and prodding at him with great interest. Against his gray pallor, the dried blood that seeped down from the cut on his brow is a shocking red. He must have struggled as they dragged him to his fate, a little fighter to the end, and so there was nothing for it but to beat him into submission. Stringing him up along with the others should have proved less of a challenge after that.

The sutures across his brow itch something fierce. Eren resists the urge to scratch it. Healer Dima would approve - he is not to lay hand nor finger upon the healing flesh unless it is to smear it with extract of dittany. To help with the inflammation and the scarring for brow and arm, the priest had declared, as he handed Eren a sizable pot of the stuff for his personal upkeep.

Several moments pass and still the itch torments him. Eren’s gaze slides over to the next body. Musing on the boy’s injury had made the wound flare up; perhaps staring at this one will help alleviate it.

The boy has her look, Eren notices. In a flash, a whole lifetime’s worth of comments flood his mind, people, kin and strangers telling him how much he favors his lady mother, the Lady Carla of blessed memory. He had often sat in front of a looking glass, pulling and prodding at his face and wondering what people saw to make them hold to that claim. He always thought he looked more like Father - they had the same hair and eyes after all. And he looked nothing like a girl. For a long time, little Eren had hated being likened to Mother, because he was not a girl, damn them all.

But those were a little boy’s thoughts, and courtly Eren was ten, almost a man grown and above such childishness. Now he can see what people see, see the features so soft and womanly on his mother harden into something more robust, more manly on his visage. Now he can feel pride at the thought of having Mother’s face. It truly isn’t as terrible as his younger self would have had him believe. Were he a woman, he would be fortunate to be half as exemplary as his lady mother. And it is nice, comforting to know that he need only look in a mirror to know that Mother is still with him, that she lives on in him.

Eren stares up at the woman’s lifeless body, watching her swing slowly back and forth as the wind blows past. Mother would have been of an age with this mother, had she been alive at present. Her hair, so much like her son’s, makes a tangled cloud of gold around her head. Tear tracks streak down her waxen, grimy face. Unlike her boy, her eyes are closed.

A sense of detached curiosity comes over Eren then, irresistibly drawn as he is to these condemned. Did she close her eyes to spare herself the anguish of watching the child of her body choke and convulse and struggle as he took the most excruciating path into the Fields? Did she weep as the noose constricted with every dying heartbeat, knowing that this was the selfsame pain her little one was subjected to? Did she succumb to despair before the last, knowing she was mere feet from her sweeting but was powerless, helpless, unable to save him, bound as she was?

Eren looks beyond her, at the rest of this gallows’ tenants. There are four to a frame. The grandparents, he surmises, noting the likeness of the wrinkled dead features of the elders to their daughter and grandson.

But beneath the gallows, all look the same. All their hands are bound behind their backs, and the rough hempen rope cuts into the soft flesh of their throats. Already, the black is slowly creeping up their pale miens. It will not be long now until death has its way with the fallen, leaving them all with dark and bloated faces. Then will their likenesses be more profound. One big family of the damned. The resemblance to each other should be most uncanny.

Above, the carrion crows circle, crying their harsh, raucous cries, waiting in the wings for them all to leave so they may commence with their feast. Below and closer to the banquet, flies are starting to bear down on the bodies. Soon, they will descend upon the field in earnest, covering each corpse like some dark living shroud. Flies and crows, the staunchest of companions. Where one converges, the other is sure to come.

Eren looks beyond his little family but there is no escape from the dangling dead. Countless elders, women, and children, some even younger than the golden boy, dead, all dead, because their sons and husbands and fathers played the traitor to their lawful king and broke their solemn oaths. Their lawful king will have his blood price, whatever the means, wherever the source.

Sir Symon Skaryn slowly weaves between the gallows on the back of his dun courser. It must be strange, unreal, to know you are the last of your House. Eren’s gaze lingers on him a moment, musing, pondering, watching the studiously blank face of the last and only scion of House Skaryn as he plods slowly past each frame, eyes sliding over their occupants as though they never were. Eren recognizes the look. That one has gone away inside.

Some ways away stride Sir Julian Halkin and his bay gelding. This one is beloved of the gods. It must help, being wardens of the Old Faith. It certainly saved his blood from the axe - piety is of use, after all, and makes for a good savior. Almost as good as Father. And he would have been incapable of doing that were it not for Eren and his timely heroics, such as they were.

It is cruel of the king to send the pair of northmen to see to the deaths of their countryfolk. Eren has to question the wisdom of this - it does not seem very prudent to offend further those whose families he has dispossessed and stricken from existence. But then, His Majesty can hardly offend them any more than he already has. This morbid duty may very well be a ploy to distance himself from two likely kingslayers.

Not since Marius Zackly has the realm seen the like amongst the Guardsmen. It is commonly held that the Guardsman had murdered the second Urklyn Reiss in cold blood by dint of his mistreatment of the knight’s younger sister, Queen Mariya. Others allow him a nobler cause. Urklyn II, the Unfortunate as he is called and the last wielder of the Founder, is a highly reviled figure, after all. Zackly cannot be faulted for ridding the realm of a despot and ending the threat of the Titans forever. Still, others argue that despot or no, the Guardsman had sworn to protect the king, whatever his sins, whatever his failings. If one such as Sir Marius could break a solemn oath, what does that do to the sanctity of vows? He had not been the first kingslayer, to be sure, yet he was the first such Guardsman and remained a decidedly polarizing character in the annals of history.

It will seem that Rod Reiss is not so remiss in keeping his northern Guardsmen well away from his royal person. Only a century parts Marius Zackly and the knightly northmen. His sin is still fresh, and vows seem to hold little weight nowadays. These northmen have seen to that.

Eren lightly presses his knees to Yorik’s sides and makes to move on. The golden boy stares at him, sad and forlorn. Stay a while, please, sir, his blank eyes of glass seem to convey. Eren hunches his shoulders and leaves. He is not here to keep the dead company.

Sir Julian comes to cross his path, and their eyes meet. A hint of what looks remarkably like deference flickers across those hazel depths, and the older man inclines his head toward him before passing on. Eren watches him trot away, feeling disquiet, bemusement, and pity well up inside him. A peculiar concoction of emotions, indeed.

It is a surreal thing, carrying the knowledge that a whole lineage lives on still because of him. Now he is tied, irrevocably, immutably, absolutely to the Halkins, whatever they do, whatever becomes of them, come what may. And they to him, whatever he does, whatever becomes of him, come what may. Eren does not know how to feel about that. He has never thought of being on the receiving end of a blood debt. It is a thought too large to comprehend, especially for the likes of him.

More than anything else, he does not know how to feel about being used as leverage for a boon, like he is some sort of bargaining chip in a game of dice. It was all to the good, in the end. Pointless to rail against something that benefits all in one way or another, he supposes. In their world, being used is a matter of course, he has come to realize. They all of them are bargaining chips, even those who fancy themselves as players. This is hardly the first time he has been played at the courtly table, nor will it be the last, and being used for a just cause is better than the alternative. Yet he cannot help but feel… something. And it is not entirely pleasant.

A handful of men-at-arms traipse across the field, slipping sprigs of mint into pockets and aprons and making sure all life had fled from their wards. The unoccupied Guardsmen, the Lord Commander among them, oversee the whole undertaking. Knights all, as Marius Zackly had been, and bound by the same vows, bound by the same calling to save innocent lives. Eren will soon be held to the same calling and yet he could not even save these. That does not make for a good beginning, it seems to him.

All are powerless before the will of the king. He has been robbed of the Halkins, he must have his blood price elsewhere. Eren did not think he would dare touch these commons, innocent and valueless as they are. To him, Rod Reiss is a middling king, with very little to commend him. Stout, sedate, lecherous, amiable, and unassuming, if a tad bit petty, that is all this Reiss king has to his regal name. And then they served him treason and treachery, and it tore him open to expose the dark and the sinister that moldered within. The middling king is not so middling, after all, and this one wants the North’s fear more than its love.

Eren sits up straighter in his saddle, swaying slowly with his horse’s gait as he spies Sir Levi turning his black courser round and making his way toward him. Best not to get too mired in his head. He saved a bloodline, that should still count for something. And he saved the holy traitor from his cruel fate.

Lord Grisha had milked his son’s deed for all it was worth to dampen the fires of the king’s rage. All it bought him were the Halkins (but for their lord, he must die withal), Sir Symon Skaryn, and a gentler death for the old lawyer. No longer will he be hanged to near-death, sliced open and shown his own innards as he lay still living upon the boards, and have his body quartered, the head, the arms, the legs, all to be buried in separate corners of the realm. Robert the Lawyer will be hanged to true death, wrapped in chains - a quicker death than that of most of these in the field.

The priest will die on the morrow, Eren remembers with a jolt. He wonders if he will be in attendance. Robert’s is not a private execution, the court will not look on as he takes his final steps to meet his Father Above. Eren reins back a bit as Sir Levi draws up to him at last and pulls ahead to take the lead. Should the Lord Commander order his soon-to-be erstwhile master to the affair, Eren will be obliged to attend him.

Robert of Feyhill still holds to his innocence to the last. Eren had asked Father if he believed the claim.

“The man still holds, even under duress,” Lord Grisha said.

Perhaps they could stand to handle him a great deal more sharply. Only then do criminals break. The old man truly is resilient. Again, Eren had felt that admiration, grudging and reluctant, but admiration nevertheless. He can see why Father is disposed toward the priest. He recalls the private audience he had seen between Lord Grisha and Robert the Lawyer three months past. His father would have gotten the full measure of the man then. Most like he found him as admirable as Eren did. Perhaps that was even enough to persuade him to back the northern cause to the best of his abilities. He had come through on that font and managed to help the lawyer sway the king away from his Tybur pet. That backing is proving to be of little help now that they have shown their true skins.

Yet Robert isn’t the only one balking at the charges, even under the sharpest of torture. The spearheads of the outlaw factions, who will be joining him in death come the morning, echo him to a man. They have naught to do with the attack on the royal party if they can be believed. Father had found that more than passing interesting. “There are other hands at work here, my lord. Believe what you will but me and mine still hold our oaths sacred,” the holy Father claimed.

Of course he would claim such. The criminal sort will say anything for the slimmest chance of a pardon. Were he truly honest and knew of no attack, then perhaps his hold on his folk was tenuous at best. Factions within factions are not unheard of, perhaps these ones were prevailed upon to go their own way, unable to reconcile themselves to the king’s peace and mercy.

Even so, his claim is worth looking into, Lord Grisha and even Zeke felt.

It was too little too late, though. The king must hand down his punishments, the sooner the better; an inquiry would further delay things and he was already determined to see them all guilty and have them eradicated. For all his clout and influence, Father was powerless to stop him. Right hand of the king he may be but that is all he is. The hand is not the head, only its servant.

The Traitors’ Thicket looms ahead, dark and forbidding and swarming with flies. It is here where the bulk of the carrion feeders hold court to pass the time until they can start their next course. They have made a fine start to their feast already. The strung-up outlaws each have a murderous retinue to attend him. One man must have been incredibly delicious; more crows converge on this one than any other. His eyes and most of his face have been pecked clean, so the birds move further down his body, tearing and clawing at his rags to get to the sweet meat beneath. His whole head is thick with flies, darting in and out of his empty eye sockets and tongueless, gaping mouth. Around him, his fellows are much the same short a crow or four. With each passing heartbeat, the traitors look less and less like men.

Eren turns his head to look upon the innocents once more. Nearby, a young woman of an age with him sways with the wind, her hessian apron blasted with dirt and mud. The rest of the Guardsmen stroll past on their mounts amid the dead, faces blank and hard as stone. Eren averts his gaze, as they do.

Knights protect the innocent. He has never wanted to be a knight for them, though. But truly, what knight at present can claim to such ideals? Such lofty principles only live on in the tales. He doubts if even Gerald Kirschtein, paragon as he was, had such charitable aspirations when he set out to become a knight. Men the likes of Sir Anselm of the Moonmere, Albert Reiss, Prince Rodion Siljan, and their ilk… Now he can believe the best of them. These were men of the people, true knights every one. And all figures of fancy and legend. Eren has only ever thought about the honor and the glory.

No anointed knight here is protesting this savagery. Perhaps it truly doesn’t matter that he couldn’t save these at all. Perhaps this is not so bad a beginning for his calling as he had first thought. Zheletov had escaped justice once, it cannot do so again. She has committed the highest of treasons and the wages for treason is death. It is law. It is better to be feared than loved. It is a sharp lesson but they must learn. This will give them pause should treacherous thoughts flourish once again. Now they know how traitors are dealt with in this kingdom.

The men-at-arms are all converging upon the Lord Commander. It will seem that these Zhelevic, innocent and traitor both, are well and truly dead. Eren takes one last glance at the countryside. The green is vibrant, the air as yet untainted by the stink of rot and decay, so still and peaceful. Zheletov is enchanting. An enchanting lichyard, the most enchanting lichyard he has ever seen. He turns his back toward death and trails behind Sir Levi as they and the others strike out for Merrydell. Above, the waiting crows begin to descend.

You had been eleven the first time you had seen a man die.

The late Lord Dietrich had been a cousin on your mother’s side. Distant cousin, Lady Theresia will be quick to claim. He was a traitor, attainted and disowned, there will be no immediate kinship with his lot. You do not much remember him. He had given you a gold and ruby bracelet on your tenth yearday, that is the extent of your familiarity with him. You still wear the piece now and then.

Eduard Dietrich claimed royal Eldian blood, through the female line. In the Old Way and with the Old Blood, that would have been enough. Yet he was Paradisian-born and his claim meant little and less than a rat’s arse to his and the Eldians’ sort. That did not stop him from entertaining delusions of grandeur. He had taken it into his head that he should be king and started to gather his levies to mount his usurpation. The realm could hardly have ignored such sudden suspicious conscription, and so the king had him taken in for questioning, only to uncover his treasonous plot. Witnesses were called upon, each one accusing him of listening to prophecies about the king’s death, hiring hedge witches to ill-wish him, and plotting to kill him come the Winter Fete. His death warrant was sealed in light of such damning testimonies.

It had been a cool spring morning on the Month of Showers, the day of his execution. It had not rained during the event, to the court’s great fortune; the showers would come much later, you recall. You also recall plenty of hunger pangs. The court had not yet even broken its fast, the king was in such a state to rid himself of this would-be pretender to the throne. You sat with the young Princess Historia and her other maids on the bench, wriggling your toes inside your new silk slippers (such a pretty pale pink, like your new gown) and longing for fried sausages and mashed neeps soaked in good beefy gravy.

The whole thing seemed like a masque, a play, a court entertainment no different than the ones you had of a night. You had been far away, unwitting and favoring your stomach. Your appetite vanished when the axe fell. He had a strangely stumpy neck, you thought then, as his head thumped to the straw beneath the block. And there was all that red. You had never thought that blood could be so… red. Like Rhyzkov red yet unlike it in equal measure. The headsman then lifted the head of the traitor lord so the court could take its last look. Eduard Dietrich smiled at you all, defiant and mocking to the last. It had not looked real, not to you. For all you knew, the headsman could have been showing you all some mask he fetched from some costume box. Yet you had seen the head part from the body, so it must be real after all.

Madam Anastasia, your then-governess, had praised your composure. Proper ladies know how to comport themselves even in the face of such barbarism. You had floated through the rest of the day, composed and numb and stuck inside your head. It had taken half a year for the nightmares of mask-like faces and headless men to stop tormenting you.

The Dietrichs of Goldcap lost much of their lands to their more powerful cousins, the Dietrichs of the Crown Hill, from which Mother hails. They had been fined heavily for their lord’s sin, leaving them much impoverished. They make a quiet presence at court now. The only one of some renown from their blood is a knight, Sir Ian Dietrich, yet only just. By and large, he is little more than a household knight, barely a step away from being a hedge knight. He is a doubtful scion of a doubtful line.

Whispers and murmurs erupt from the court assembled on the green below the platform they had hastily built to accommodate the Royal House and their retinue. You sit in your accustomed place beside the Princess Historia, looking on as the two condemned are led to the scaffold at the front of the main yard of Merrydell Castle.

Valko Skaryn walks to his death as defiant as Eduard Dietrich. Yuri Halkin looks about ready to piss himself. And piss himself he does, you note, with mild disgust. His courage leaks onto the flooring beneath his boots, forming a puddle that darkens the wooden planks. One of Death’s Hands glides forward, enigmatic and inscrutable in his robes of black and white, with the bronze key of the afterlife resting on his chest. He reaches inside his black left sleeve for a small scroll of parchment, which he unrolls so he may recite the lord’s crimes and pray the prayers for the condemned. No one pays heed to the mark of incontinence the frightened man left.

It is strange how much the liege cuts a poorer figure than his vassal. One will think it is Halkin who has lost everything, not Skaryn. Poor doomed, pissy man. The Halkins have been fined heavily for their lord’s crimes and lost the wardenship of the State of Kostrokan. Moreover, little Yakob Halkin, the new Lady Halkina’s younger brother, is to be sent to Midford to serve as the king’s new ward and cupbearer. A hostage, everyone knows, to be kept in custody for the Halkins’ good behavior. The Goldcap Dietrichs, worse or better off I cannot say. Circles within circles.

At least Lord Yuri and his have gotten off lightly compared to the Lesser House. The Skaryns are all gone, quietly expunged the day before. It was valerian that did for them, a softer and gentler death than their lord’s. A thimbleful of the stuff produces a light, dreamless sleep. A whole bottle produces a sleep that never ends, and it was such that was given to each member of the House. Better to be gently poisoned than feel the pain of a beheading. In a fit of twisted arrogance, Grigoriy Skaryn had demanded to be drowned in a cask of red instead. That is the rumor, in any case.

Death’s priest, having finished with his prayers, tucks his scroll into his white right sleeve and floats to the back of the scaffold. The black-masked headsman strides forward as another Hand half-leads, half-pushes the very disinclined Lord Halkin closer to the block. He is white as curdled milk as he stumbles and nearly falls over the waxed wood.

Some semblance of pity rises inside you as you watch this sorriest of productions. What a wretched creature. It is almost hard to look upon the petrified Lord Yuri as the executioner asks for his forgiveness, for he is only performing his calling and it should not be held against him. The lord gives the man a lost and uncomprehending look, as though he is speaking in another tongue entirely, and does not answer.

When it is clear that no reply is forthcoming, the Hand forgives the headsman for him and pays the man his customary fee of twelve silver crescents before asking Halkin to speak his final words. Once more, no words are forthcoming, hence they bid the lord to kneel upon the straw they have scattered around the block. To catch the blood, you know. Your heart begins to thrum faster in your chest, and you lace your cold fingers together on your lap. Apprehensive you may be but you are a proper lady, you will not look away.

Yuri Halkin will not kneel, so they have to force him down. He is sobbing by then, great, fat tears rolling down his fine, pointed nose as he lays his head upon the block and clutches at it as though it can save him. The sight magnifies the pity within you and makes your insides squirm uncomfortably. What an undignified way to die. You glance at the king askance, to where he is sitting upon a makeshift throne near his daughters’ bench. His face is dark and hard around the mouth. Clemency is well and truly dead as these lords.

The headsman raises his axe and waits for the lord to fling out his arms, the sign of his consent that the axe can fall at last. Halkin will not give it. Still he clutches at the block, trembling like a leaf, until some knight - Sir Levi Ackerman, you realize, recognizing the mop of short black hair and the pale purple cloak - strides forward to wrench his arms from the wood and hold it wide before him so the axeman may finally do his duty. Close by, Sir Julian Halkin watches his brother aid in his cousin’s shameful end, face blank as fresh parchment.

It takes only one stroke, to the wretched lord’s fortune. Sir Levi stalks away, looking mildly annoyed and inconvenienced. Spots of blood fleck his cheeks, dark against his pale skin. Sir Mike Zacharias hands him a kerchief he has conjured from somewhere so he can wipe down. Blessed with luck, you think, eyeing a couple of the more superstitious lords and ladies slinking forward to dip their fingers into the beheaded lord’s blood, so they may attract better fates. It is one of the stranger customs of the Creed you have come to witness, but it is a fascinating one as well.

The executioner puts aside his now scarlet-smeared axe and bends to pick up the lordly head by its mahogany hair. Its expression is twisted in grief, and tear tracks carve a path down his cheeks.

Overhead, the crows caw. You lift your eyes to the surrounding walls. The Skaryns might have died gently yet their bodies were not treated so. Each head has been dipped in tar so they - and the lesson - may keep longer. From your vantage, they are no more than dark orbs adorning the spikes upon the ramparts. The saddest orbs are the little ones. You watch as a crow perches atop a little head and tugs its ear off. Little and great, it makes no matter; the crows feast on them all. The longer you look, the more you forget they are even human. You turn your attention away and back to the scaffold. Their lord and their liege will be joining them soon.

Valko Skaryn goes to his death a braver man than his liege. He had gone pale as a sheet as he watched them bear his lord’s head and headless body away in nondescript boxes, but still he stands firm and does not crumble. He manages to forgive and pay the executioner himself before stating his final words.

You glance at the king once more and see his dark countenance grow ever darker at the lord’s continued insistence on his innocence and his lack of humility. Your eyes alight on the king’s hands as they tighten on the arms of his seat, more than certain he is on the verge of leaping out of his throne to shout, ‘Off with his head!’ had the lord not finished his spiel at last.

The way Skaryn throws out his arms to give the headsman his consent is almost triumphant, defiant. Would that his death is as dignified.

A lady screams and a gasp flies out of your mouth unbidden as the axe slams down the back of Skaryn’s shoulders instead of his neck, making the lord jerk upon the block. The court buzzes loudly in horror as the executioner checks and tries once more, only to botch it again. And again. And yet again.

Cold and sweating hands scrabble quickly for your own, and you look at your princess as she squeezes your hand almost painfully, eyes wide and aghast yet unable to look away from the bloody botch of an execution you are all now forced to witness.

The executioner, it transpires, is young and new to his trade. Halkin’s pitiful and unseemly death had discomfited him more than he thought it would, so he could not replicate his earlier success. Now a half-mangled man in red linen sprawls atop the block where once a lord in white knelt. In the end, Sir Mike Zacharias steps in and makes an end to it himself, to the court’s relief. Sir Symon Skaryn is gray as the stone walls around him; he could have been a corpse himself, such is his pallor.

Historia’s grip is cold and tight around yours. You can feel her slender fingers trembling, and you hold tighter, trying to convey what comfort you can in your touch. On the throne nearby sits the king triumphant with his face of grim pleasure, looking on at the head in the axeman’s gloved hand with its face of twisted pain. Hiring a green and untried headsman has produced the desired result. The scaffold is a mess of blood. Rhyzkov red yet unlike it, too.

Your face is prickling, familiarly so. You turn your attention away from the scarlet scaffold, almost reluctantly, and find yourself looking back into your betrothed’s green gaze. There he stands between his wan father and stony brother upon the sward, and he is looking at you intensely, ardently, admiringly, as if you are a spot of light in the darkness, the only good thing in this dismal world.

All at once you are warm and everything else ceases to matter. Not the bloody scaffold, not the undignified, awful deaths, not the cruelty of kings. There is only him. There is only Eren. He is all that matters, in the end.

Fifteen are made knights that day.

The Warrior’s transept in the Great Temple of the Creed smells heavily of incense, and the Grand Marshal’s deep, rumbling voice echoes off the high vaulted ceiling of the chamber as he prays his martial prayers to the martial god’s massive monument looming in front of them all. A far cry from last night’s peace and silence, Jean thinks, fighting to keep himself alert and on his feet.

That stimulating concoction of sage, knight’s garlic, and a bundle of other herbs he does not care to know nor name is wearing off. The Marshals had given them all Flasks of Awakening after their ritual baths, so they might complete their vigil with great success. It was a potent brew, that Flask. None of the fifteen had disgraced himself by nodding off in front of Sir Tardon.

Now sleep is doing its utmost best to make him shame himself in front of the court. Jean digs his nails into his palms, hoping a touch of pain may give his senses that necessary jolt awake. He had not disgraced himself last night, he is not about to do so now, not on this most auspicious of days.

Mikasa Ackerman is standing with her parents off to the side of the transept, not far away from him. A jolt shakes off the sleep inside of him at the sight of such pure beauty. The white gown she is wearing to match the initiates only elevates that cool and speckless grace. Her hair looks so black against the white, it is almost startling, and now he is gazing upon a queen of ice and snow, come among them from the northern songs and tales. Truly, she is a beauty. His Queen of Love and Beauty. His Queen of Ice and Winter.

Jean bites back a smile as he gives the Grand Marshal his attention once more. The sight of Mikasa Ackerman is a restorative more potent than any brew.

They have not long to wait, in any event. The High Priest dispenses with his prayers and the dubbing proceeds apace.

A handful of men-at-arms had acquitted themselves most admirably during the outlaw ambush. These will be knighted first, followed by the squires of the lordly knights. Last will come the Guardsmen’s lads, the few of them who proved their mettle in battle and showed the realm what training under the very best can truly yield.

The ceremony goes by smooth and quick, and all too soon, the Guardsmen’s lads will come into their own.

Their Bull is a knight at last. He should be well-pleased by that, Jean thinks, as he watches Sir Mike Zacharias lightly tap his foregoing squire upon each broad shoulder with the flat of his blade. Perhaps that pissy little tosser Galliard will finally ease off on Reiner now that they share a title. Perhaps he’ll ease off on all of them, for that matter.

Not anytime soon, though, Jean reconsiders, inwardly grimacing. The northern ambush had brought the summer progress to a crashing halt, and the court flew back to Belris soon after the executions. Lord Pixis, while upset at the fact that his preparations (and expenses) went to naught, did not complain overmuch. Northern sentiment has soured after the attack; best not to remind the court of his own Province’s earlier grievances with the king and raise concerns of another uprising. The Galliards - that is, Porco - have not been as magnanimous. The last stop was theirs, and the prickly Porco is not taking this perceived snub well. He will be unpleasant as sin come the next week or so, Jean knows.

Sir Porco is standing not too far away from Reimund Braun, knightly mien in place. His foremost rival’s lord father is not too far from Reiner, face hard and stern as he watches his boy rise to greater heights. Jean wonders if he ever felt proud of his only son. The way Reiner deals with and speaks of him leaves a lot to be desired. These are private matters, however, for the Brauns to work through, not anyone else.

The Braun lord is quiet of late, in any case, unusually so, in Kirschtein opinion. Tybur has won Zheletov now that the Skaryns are gone, something that would have rekindled Braun’s passion for territorial expansion. And northern stock is low at court nowadays, he may find the king with a more willing ear should he choose to push his old claims upon Trost once again.

And so House Kirschtein finds itself lying low with both eyes keeping a careful watch on the lay of the land. Their Province of Egstatten has just seen itself freed of Tybur’s yoke, any misstep of theirs will see it flying back into his hands sure as sunset. They had best tighten their leash on their side of the North. The cruel slaughter of Zhelevic innocents is starting to cause a stir in broader northern sentiment last they heard from their anxious vassals. Egstatten especially is seething with rage at the senseless murder of kin. Father has promised Lord Pixis a company of men to bolster his garrison should the commons boil over into a riot. No whisper of upheaval must leave their borders.

Within the borders of the temple, Reiner stands at last as Sir Reiner of the House of Braun. Jean watches as Reiner moves off behind the line of Guardsmen, to take his place in the line of new-made knights in front of the Warrior’s towering likeness. The merest flicker of pleasure flashes across his sire’s face, like the swiftest of blinks, so easily overlooked if one is not paying him heed. Quiet he may be for the moment but Reimund Braun will play the field of politics again.

Sir Levi Ackerman comes forward to take Sir Mike’s place beside the Grand Marshal and his attending Marshal. Unbidden, unwanted, the old entrenched envy inside Jean flares up strong and hot at the sight of Eren Jaeger striding forward to take his much longed-for knighthood. Jean grinds his teeth behind his lips and tries not to glance over at Mikasa once again. The look on her face as she watches Jaeger being honored is not something he cares to see.

There he is, the Magister’s beloved second son and now savior to the king himself, the consummate golden boy. So brave, so daring, made of the stuff of songs and legends. Truly, graces fall onto his lap so easily and so freely. Jean wrestles with his resentment and forces it down back to where it will no longer bother him. He has put that behind him, he should no longer be its thrall. Let past woes stay in the past.

The golden boy does not look as proud nor as triumphant as Jean expects him to be. You would think he was kneeling before a bier at a funeral. The thought snuffs out the embers of his resentment. To be sure, most every man of them looks somber and grave as pallbearers. The northern executions have sapped the triumph in this investiture. He cannot say if it would be any different were they knighted before the punishments. Surely the knowledge of innocents going to their deaths would have accompanied them to the Warrior’s shrine as it does now. Perhaps this is all to the good, to time the ceremony just so. The court needs something, something triumphant to bring the light back to the last of summer.

All too soon, the gates of knighthood loom before him, and he walks toward it nervously eager. He can ruminate upon the horror of innocent deaths later. The present belongs to his achievement. He may not have saved the most important man in the realm but he had saved his brothers-in-arms and helped bring down the outlaw threat. That should count for something.

It does count for something, lest he will not be standing here, he reminds himself as he pads barefoot in his whites to stand before his very soon-to-be former master, the Lord Commander himself.

The marble floor of the transept is cold beneath his feet and hard upon his knee yet it is not so uncomfortable as sitting on his calves for the duration of the long night. The would-be knights had all sat thus, with their arms and armor laid down before them, surrounded by Marshals who made sure they kept their silence and prayed their prayers.

Come morning, the pain in his legs near made him weep like a little girl. That pain is just now accosting his legs again, his muscles crying out in protest, but Jean bears it all. Pain is a knight’s consort, they will be more intimate than he cares for them to be in the course of this vocation.

The Grand Marshal approaches him with an ornate cruet in hand to smear the holy oils upon his forehead and anoint him a true knight at last. The Marshal hands his elder a cloak of cardinal red, which he wraps around Jean and pins into place with a brooch of red gold shaped into a likeness of a lynx with deep red garnets for eyes. The Lord Commander, by tradition, should have been the one to cloak him with the ceremonial mantle; for want of an arm, the Grand Marshal himself is obliged to do so instead.

Now comes the time to swear his oaths. Jean takes a breath to steady himself and, with his hand above his heart, swears to uphold and maintain all that makes knighthood good and holy. To adhere to the truth; to be loyal to his lord but answer to his king first and foremost; to defend the weak and helpless; these and more he swears until the list is spent and the last ringing notes of his voice fade away into the stillness of the transept.

Sir Erwin steps forward, his sword Sunstrike clutched in his gauntleted left hand, ready to proceed with the rite himself as custom dictates. After all, a knight does not need two arms to dub another. The flat of his blade presses lightly upon one shoulder and then the other as he acknowledges Jean’s vow and bids him keep it, and it is done.

Jean knelt a servile squire; he rises a noble knight. And nothing can please him more. At last. At last. Sir Jean Kirschtein takes his place among his peers, gloriously and unendingly proud.

Not even envy nor regret can touch him as he watches the fortunate four come forward, the chosen ones, the new elite. Amusement is all he can feel looking on at the utter farce that is Connie Springer being knighted as one of the Royal Guardsmen. How a lackwit like him came to be part of such exalted company is beyond Jean yet he is happy for him all the same.

Jean sobers some at his friend’s uncharacteristically dour expression. Losing Sir Gunther had been hard on him, and that compounded with the executions did not do wonders for his fortitude. He is not a terrible warrior, Jean can give him that. He has earned his spurs fairly, just like every man of them. And this is all to the good for the sprightly lad; perhaps the threat of the expected honor and dignity that comes with such a lofty post can finally make him more of a Conrad and less of a Connie. Sir Gunther’s noble boots will make a strange fit at first, but Connie will grow into them. The pale purple cloak of the Guardsmen is a good look on him. Better than the mantle of the Knight of Joywatch, at any rate - that will be worn by little Martin Springer, who will be squiring for his older brother and taking up their knightly father’s lands and title in time.

Once, Jean had dreamed of donning a pale purple cloak. Mikasa Ackerman and her delicate prettiness dashed his aspirations to smithereens; little smitten Jean knew he could not wed her were he a Guardsman. Not that his lord father minded. Richard Kirschtein had not been subtle about his reluctance to let his boy take the purple. Doing so would have robbed him of his only son and heir, for the Guardsmen swear to relinquish all rights and titles they are born to in favor of serving the king for the rest of his life. Lord Richard would much prefer to see his line propagate House Kirschtein instead of some distant relation’s.

Looking back on it all makes Jean want to laugh at his childish presumptions, yet something in him still dares to hope. Father had gone courting once hint of his son’s interest reached him - the Ackermans are one of the oldest Houses of good Paradisian stock and one of the eight High Houses besides, this can bring them great prospects. Lord Lukas demurred, to Jean’s great disappointment, though he can take comfort in the fact that the offer was not met with an outright rejection. The Ackerman lord has been demurring all prospects for his only daughter for years, Jean has as much chance as any to win both father and daughter over to his suit.

He sneaks another glance at the younger Lady Ackerman and smiles at the look of sisterly pride on her face as Connie and his fellows receive their due honors. She is always so serious and austere that any moment of soft tenderness from her is such a sight to see. He drinks it all in for several heartbeats, before giving his attention back to the ongoing investiture with a renewed sense of invigoration.

Four good men had been lost to them in the North, and four good men have been named to assume their noble calling. It is always a pity to lose such paragons as Sir Eld Jinn and Sir Gunther Shultz, but Jean is more than passing certain that their squires will take up their mantles easily enough.

Beneath the resolute mask, Jean can sense Bertolt Hoover’s anxiety. He has often heard it said that Bertolt is the perfect squire: deferential, tractable, and so, so biddable. The less pleasant squires have taken to calling him the Squire behind his back, for that is all he ever will be; a proper knight should be able to lead as well as serve, and serving is all he knows. Yet the Guardsmen must have seen something in him to invite him amongst their ranks - meek and biddable he may ofttimes be yet Bertolt’s skill with arms is nothing to turn a nose up at. And being a Guardsman doesn’t require much leading, Jean supposes, unless he is the Lord Commander (and gods know Bertolt will never aspire to that). He should do well in the Guard.

Marin Tarasav will be taking Sir Adam Yaros’s post. Jean suspects this was done as some sort of apology to the Tarasavs for the Crown Prince’s… indiscretions with the Lady Gudrun Arlert. How well that will serve the late Lady Mariya’s kin is yet to be known; the appointment smells like a sop to Jean but it is what it is.

The last appointment is hopefully no sop as Sir Dorin Serech is more than eligible to replace his brother Sir Miron in the Guard. Here is another appointment that Jean can take pride in. Just like that, Marco finds himself squiring for a Royal Guardsman, and that is a boon upon a knightly aspirant such as him. Jean will see his friend rise as high as him, he is sure of it.

Four good men had been lost to them in the North. Now four good men are standing before them all, the king’s new protectors, clad in their purple cloaks clasped with their pins of silver and amethyst. The purple stones wink up at Jean as the transept erupts with thunderous applause, somehow suddenly putting to mind another entirely different stone altogether.

He wonders where the lawyer’s sunstone has gone to. The perturbed Lord Richard had discreetly gleaned the fact that the jewel was not in the priest’s person when they took him in, to their great relief. If the gods are good, it has been used for the betterment of their cause and sold off for the sake of the displaced Zhelevic. But greedy hearts are just as like to make off with something so precious. Jean hopes not; they did not risk implication just so some light-fingered bastard can make a quick profit.

Father Robert had claimed innocence to the absolute last. Jean was there at his execution, to attend his Lord Commander. The lawyer had been racked so badly that he had needed the aid of two burly men to keep him upright. Old as he was, it had not been hard to leave lasting damage; his hips, knees, and ankles had been stretched to breaking point, there was no using them ever again. But where he was headed, there would be no further use to them, not anymore. The image of the priest held up by his captors wrapped in chains, quietly bleeding, and grotesquely limp in all the wrong places haunts Jean once more. At least Robert’s had been a quicker death than his folk’s. Some of those in the fields had taken their time dying upon the noose. It was just ill luck that they did not have chains weighing them down and snapping their necks for them.

The Magister had wanted to look into Robert’s claims, but the king’s rage could not be quelled. Lord Richard is now trying to take on that mantle himself. Nice and discreet-like, as always. Tybur gaining control of Zheletov is a daunting prospect. Were the Zhelevic truly innocent, someone else was trying to tip the scales in the Consul’s favor. Father could see himself grappling with an unsanctioned insurgence, just as Yuri Halkin had. If they must point fingers, they had best gather hard evidence.

And all at once, Jean’s joy and triumph leak away to be replaced by dread. There are so many things lurking in the dark these days. These are early days, yet still… His eyes alight on the new knights before and next to him. It would seem that the realm will have need of the likes of them soon enough. What a time to be a knight.

The last enchanting strains of the high harp fade away along with the princess’s dulcet notes as she makes an end to her song. You applaud with all the rest in the queen’s presence chamber, gratified and proud of your lady. She truly has the sweetest voice.

Historia stands from her cushioned stool, giggling and waving away calls for a reprise. Her lady mother, Her Majesty Queen Linda, summons forth one of her ladies to fill the quiet her daughter left in her wake with more music. You sit upon a divan of purple velvet next to the lady and the high harp, enjoying the spell of the moment. It has been some time since last you picked up a lute or played the high harp. You quite miss singing for an audience; your mistress prefers the sound of gossip to the sound of song in her own rooms, and she would rather put your voice to spilling secrets than serenades.

There is a little rush as the young men of the court crowd around Historia, to her amused alarm. Foremost among them is Reiner Braun, who instantly waxes eloquent about the beauty of her voice and the grace of her form. You stand from your seat, inwardly shaking your head as you pass the mass of royal admirers. That one has always been the most cunt-struck of the princess’s devotees. Not that Historia will have them, anyway. The one she truly wants is beyond her reach at present.

It is a thing of great luck that you had been the one to catch the princess and her maid at their dalliance. This summer had been a blessing to them, perhaps the best they had yet received in the course of their courtship. You found yourself a conspirator in their forbidden romance the moment you were made privy to it but did not regret the fact. The happiness of your mistress and dear friend is of utmost importance. But it is not an easy thing, to keep a secret of such magnitude. As happy as you are for your princess, the fear of Historia getting caught compounded with the recent developments in the North make for heavy burdens.

Wine. I need wine.

A decanter of it sits waiting on a sideboard close to the occupied loungers by the hearth. You pour yourself a glass and walk toward the girls by the fire, who smile and hail you over.

“So good of you to join us. We were just commiserating with our poor Lady Pieck here,” Isabelle Seitz says, gesturing at the woman in black sitting on the purple velvet armchair across the one you claimed.

“I am very sorry for your loss, my lady,” you condole, which Pieck acknowledges with an incline of her head and a small smile. The only heir to House Finger of Mühllug is a striking figure. She does not have the beauty that singers and poets love but something about her dark looks draws the eye all the same; she is a great favorite of the young men of the court, and most go in thrall of her. After speaking to her that first time, you can understand why. The woman is charmingly affable and has an easy way about her.

“My lady is most kind. Although,” Pieck lowers her voice and glances around carefully, before continuing, “it wasn’t much of a loss, truly.”

Hannah Kefka shudders in her seat on the purple divan situated between the two armchairs in front of the fireplace and its gently snapping flames. “You will forgive my saying so, Pieck, but I do agree. Thank the gods for my sweet, darling Franz,” she gushes, dreamy and starry-eyed. “At least he still has all his teeth.”

“Oh, you can be sure my next husband will have all of his, Father must oblige me on that. Being gummed all over gets tiring before long. I want someone with more… bite,” Pieck gleams at you all, eliciting giggles.

“We would have the truth from you, Lady Finger. Was it gout or sex that did for your old man?” Isabelle asks eagerly, ever the busybody.

The old Lord Rahojsa had passed in his sleep three days past, leaving his young wife of two years widowed and flying back to the custody of her father. His gout prevailed over him at last, the Healers claimed, yet that proved to be too deadly dull to the tattle-loving court. His three previous marriages produced no living sons and so it was widely said that, with this new marriage and a younger, more fertile wife, he had sought to remedy that problem most enthusiastically. In the end, all that sex at his ripe old age of four-and-fifty had killed him dead, the gossipmongers giggled behind their deceptively prim and proper hands. He just could not keep up with a nineteen-year-old young woman in her prime; he lasted two years, at least, they all gave him that.

Pieck sighs and sips her wine. “I’m afraid the court has it right for once,” she announces, to Isabelle’s delight and Mina Carolina’s scandalized fascination. “That was very unseemly of him. And the disrespect. He didn’t even reach his peak,” Pieck smirks at that bit of witticism and goes on, “the least he could do is get me in pup and give me an heir but alas. Old seed is weak seed and no amount of fucking will make it take root.”

“D-did he really die while…” Mina trails off, face flushing a vivid crimson. The black-haired girl is always a delicate one when it comes to more intimate matters, yet still she oft listens in on them as though she cannot help herself.

“Oh, yes. He died in me, actually,” Pieck remarks, offhand, to all of the listening ladies’ stunned horror. “Now I have some inkling as to what it’s like to indulge in Sir Henlein’s particular penchants.”

A shudder of disgust passes through you, and you hurriedly down a mouthful of red to mask the taste of revulsion on your tongue. Sir Gabriel Henlein, by and large, is a respectable, unassuming man from a respectable and unassuming House sworn to the Reisses. He serves as castellan for his elder brother, the current Lord Henlein, and does his duty well and ably. Would that he is all he seems. The man has been seen frequenting the Phantasm, that most questionable of brothels in the Red Walk, heavily rumored to indulge in a man’s more… adventurous tastes, the least of which are beautiful corpses. You had once wondered, in revolted interest, how the place manages to acquire such commodities but decided not to satisfy your curiosity. The knowledge would most like scar you for life.

“Honestly, Sir Corpsefucker makes it seem a great deal more pleasurable than it truly is. Old he may have been but Husband - may the gods give him rest, poor soul - at least could thrust and pound away at me. Before doing so made him a corpse himself, to be sure.” Pieck shakes her head, mischievously dolorous. “While I won’t say no to taking the reins every once in a while, I would loathe having to do it all the time. I need… reciprocation, I need life and passion, and I find the dead quite lacking in those. But I suppose some men prefer their women less lively.”

A gale of laughter meets her words, and she continues. “Gout,” Pieck rolls her eyes at that. “These priests and their pretensions, I tell you.”

“At least you can have more of a say on your next husband,” you put in, once again extremely grateful to the gods (and your parents) for saddling you with the young, strapping lad that is Eren Jaeger. Such luck, indeed. At least he is less like to die in bed with you. You take another hearty gulp of wine to rid your mind of fancies that include Eren and beds. You can indulge in them later in the privacy of your chambers.

“Mm-hmm. And this time I’ll get one who actually knows where the clit is.”

Isabelle stuffs her knuckles into her mouth to smother her shriek of merriment as Hannah blushes to the roots of her hair and Mina squeaks in embarrassment, face buried in her hands.

“For all their prissy pretensions, these priests know how to name things, I give them that,” Pieck goes on, quite unmindful of the furor she has raised in your little circle. “Clitoris. Clit. I like it. The clit and the cunt, the woman’s greatest founts of pleasure.”

“Have you no shame, Pieck? You speak beneath the portrait of a queen of spotless repute,” you chide in jest, covering your mouth in amusement. It is a pity Historia isn’t with you. She would have much and more to contribute to the chinwag, were she free of her persistent zealots.

Pieck glances at the portrait hanging above the glass-fronted cupboard beside the hearth and snorts most inelegantly. “Oh, spare me your shame. All queens have clits and cunts, and that one’s were used often and well, as her fourteen children could attest.” Eleanor of Aviçon stares down at you all, a comely woman with pretty, brown doe’s eyes and hair cascading down her shoulders in soft, elegant brown ringlets. She certainly does not look very reproachful or scandalized. “But, truly, is she as spotless as they would all have us believe? You don’t get fourteen whelps by being a virginal nelly. Pretty thing, though, isn’t she? Small wonder Berthold the Buck couldn’t get his royal prick out of her. Now that’s a man who knows where the clit is, if his reputation was anything to go by.”

“Oh! Speaking of whelps-” Isabelle leans forward, sly and underhand. “I heard that the Constant Whore has gotten herself in pup.”

“Gods, that Alma woman,” you remark, voice snide and cool and forbidding all of a sudden. You do not think much of the king’s official mistress. The Alma woman had first entered court as Historia’s governess and, by all your friend’s accounts, did a botched job of it. She spent the barest time educating her royal charge and preferred to moon around court, preening and flirting with the men.

While you thought this fantastically negligent, it paled to the utterly appalling way the supposed governess had treated her ward that one fateful day.

Historia, ever the affectionate child, had tried to hug her lady tutor. The woman forgot herself entirely and shoved the little princess away so hard that she hit the edge of the desk the governess was sitting in front of. That broke Historia’s nose and the bitch’s contract. Furthermore, for harming one of the blood royal, Alma would have lost her own nose - had she not seduced her former charge’s kingly father.

It was some spell, some potion, some hedge witchery, that made the king so beholden to her, the court liked to claim. She escaped punishment and was given her old post back, to the queen’s horror. Long had she tolerated her husband’s infidelities but this she would not bear. He could do as he liked with this new whore, but never again must she go anywhere near the royal children. An easy enough stipulation to adhere to, for the king, and so it was done. Today, Madam Alma is a governess in name only - everyone knows what she truly is.

“Hmm, she’s been the official whore for a decade, and not once has she whelped. Why now?” Pieck wonders, tapping long, shapely fingers against her bottom lip.

“If she thinks to have her bastard legitimized, she has another thing coming. The king’s never acknowledged any one of them. And why should he? He has two living sons, six children in all by Her Majesty,” Isabelle opines.

“Someone forgot to drink her söga,” you remark, but then add, “He did acknowledge his get from Tatyana Alyokhina earlier this year, but that was only because she’s highborn.”

“Perhaps she thinks to get the same settlement as the lady?” Hannah puts forward. “He gave her rich holdings for her upkeep. Perhaps Alma’s banking on him doing the same for her since she’s been favored so long.”

Pieck stands and heads to the sideboard to refill her glass. “What’s her secret, do you reckon? How does one become a Constant Whore? The king flits and fucks where he will but somehow, he always comes back to her.” She returns and settles back into her armchair, glass sufficiently full. Gossip is thirsty work, after all.

You look away, mockingly prim. “I wouldn’t know. I’m still an honest maid, I wouldn’t know her whore’s tricks, I’m still pure and quite untouched.” Pieck snorts and shoots a swift artful glance over at Roman Meledin chatting animatedly with his betrothed by one of the tall glass windows.

“Whatever the case, poor Queen Linda, having to bear all of that for all this time. And she handles it with such grace, too,” Mina comments, a little sadly, and you all glance over at Her Majesty, where she is sitting on her throne at the end of the chamber, sewing shirts for the poor with her retinue. Her ladies are all huddled around her feet, skirts spread out around them in rich swathes of silk and samite and satin as they go about their work. Beside them all, the recently widowed Lady Elena Tarana sings her songs with a sweet sadness. The whole scene makes for a charming tableau.

“Speak of poor ladies, though, I do commiserate with the Lady Tarana.” Hannah watches the lady at her play with a gaze of solemn sympathy. “I cannot imagine what I would do if my sweet Franz leaves me for the Fields.”

And there it is. You shift a little in your seat, your grip tightening a little around the gilt stem of your glass. You knew it would come to this eventually. How can it not when it hangs over the court like a bloody shroud? It is all you can do not to leap off of your chair and sweep out of the queen’s rooms.

Pieck turns to you, to your utter dread. “Have they found a likely candidate for the new Procurator yet?”

You take a little wine and smile your courtier’s smile. “Father is of the opinion that the king has his man, though he hasn’t said who exactly. I suppose we’ll know come winter when the court reconvenes.” Poor mousy little Anton Taran. The lord treasurer had been a casualty in the northern ambush all those weeks ago, curiously and woefully the only one of the Conclave to perish. A chill runs through you at the reminder of how close Father had been to being one of those casualties. You give yourself a little shake, deep within. No use dwelling on the what-ifs. Onward and upward. Onward and upward.

“I still can’t believe the Skaryns are gone,” Mina says in a hushed tone, her fingers curling on her lap. “It seems like only yesterday when I was speaking to Margarita Skaryna about northern fashions… I cannot wrap my head around it.”

“The Halkins truly are lucky,” Isabelle speaks after a short silence. “They may have lost a lot but better their lands and prestige than their lives.”

Kostrokan now belongs to the Volnys, one of the few Kostrokish Houses who are partial to the king. The Halkins had lost most of their lands to the new Paramount House but were allowed to keep the wardenship of the Godsway. All important activity and business in the State will move to the new capital, Konicaj, the ancient seat of the Volnys, now bigger with the addition of the neighboring Elibine lands.

The Crown State of Mitras saw itself expanding as well with the addition of Zheletov to the royal lands of Herstadt. The Volny appointment had come as quite a surprise to the court, as many and more had thought that a wardenship was in the cards for Tybur. It will seem that the king is still short with his cousin, no matter the recent shower of favors. Perhaps he thought a wardenship would be too much on top of the governance of Ishvelune.

This has not been met with bleak silence. Already, reports of stirring dissidents from the rest of the North are coming down to the capital. Thus far, most of the northern lords, cowed by the show of royal rage, have kept the discontent from getting out of hand.

The brewing, ever-growing conflict in the highlands feeds the stuff of your worst fears. It is good that the autumn reprieve is upon you at last. The comforts of home are much welcome and sorely, sorely missed. Down in the far South, at least, the North and its increasing tensions are far, far away and will not touch you and those you love. Tomorrow cannot come fast enough. I need to be away. Away.

“I beg your pardon, my ladies, but the hour grows late and I still have much packing to supervise with my household,” you announce to your little circle, who groan and pout and plead for your continued presence, only to yield to your pretext with goodbyes and well-wishes for a safe journey home on the morrow.

Never mind that your goods are packed and waiting for the grooms to cord them all up in the baggage train in the morning. A nice calming soak in the bath (and a good book) will do you wonders. You have the winter season to reel in whatever fresh miseries the realm will see fit to give you. Let autumn be your escape.

And Eren. You smile to yourself as you make to leave the queen’s chambers, having just finished your goodnights and farewells with your princess, who looked mournful at the reminder of the court’s reprieve. Autumn and home and Eren. These are what await you soon, your greatest comforts.

Your plans of escape and baths are abruptly dashed by no less a personage than your princess’s betrothed. To say you are surprised will be understating things. Jurgen has never paid you heed in all your years at court together. He does not seem to be in his cups as well, which makes your wariness instantly rise along with your courtier’s mask. It would have been a great deal easier to put him off were he drunk - easy enough to outwit and outmaneuver a man in his cups than one outside them.

Linse brings you on with pretensions to poetry, and you sigh to yourself. Very well. If he wants to play at courtly love (please gods, let it be only courtly love) then you can indulge him. You are no novice to the romance of the court, the least and meanest sort of romance that, in the surface, seems to promise you everything but more often than not promises nothing at all.

And so you find yourself sitting on the window seat of one of the chamber’s embrasures, doing your utmost best not to glance outside the leaded panes in utter boredom as the Linse boy recites his (terrible) verses to you. He is now attempting to write sonnets to your beauty, waving away your politely pointed remark about his betrothed, the Princess Historia Reiss, and how he should be writing of her instead.

“It would please me to write of you, my lady,” Linse simpers. “A woman of such surpassing beauty deserves to be written of, to be made immortal in verse. Indeed, you are so beautiful that it is the duty of every man to love and praise you, and I have always been a dutiful man. Besides,” a dark, almost nasty look flashes across his face as he glances over at the crowd of young men around Historia, so fast you almost miss it, “my most beloved betrothed has all the sonnets she needs. She will not miss mine.”

The smile on your face has taken on a fixed quality, you are sure of it. A demurral slips onto the tip of your tongue.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself so short, Linse. I’m sure you can trounce them all, with that silver tongue of yours.”

Your heart stops and you look up with a hastily stifled gasp. Eren is standing before your seat, face dark as an autumn storm, utterly at odds with the saffron-yellow tunic he is wearing. The added couple of inches to his height are used to impressive effect; he towers over you and your aspirant poet, and you can see, from the corner of your eye, Jurgen shrink a little but recover himself almost at once.

“You flatter me, Sir, but I must confess I believe my wit and my silver tongue have been entirely spent in the service of the Amethyst Empress,” he gleams at you in your silver and purple gown and your hairpiece of amethysts. “And so I have nothing for any other, no wit, no words, no love.”

That last word makes your betrothed’s eyes flash. “Oh, surely you have wit enough to know when to fucking piss off. My lord.” His hand has gone to the ornamental bronze belt around his waist, to where his blade will normally hang if he has it.

You twine your fingers together upon your lap. The very air within the chambers has, all of a sudden, grown peculiarly hot and cold at the same time.

"Eren-"

“Very well. I have overstayed my welcome, it seems, I am wise enough to admit defeat. If you desire more… refined company, you need only ask, my lady. I bid you good night,” Jurgen Linse gives you a winning smile as he stands with his things in hand. “Sir,” this he directs at Eren coolly, before taking his leave, all proper and dignified.

Eren watches him go, his jaw clenched tight with anger. One year of betrothal and friendship had never given you cause to fear him yet now… You chew on your lip at the look on his face. Never have you seen him so livid. You reach up, tentative and uncertain, for his hand, nearly flinching back as his incensed gaze flicks to you, quick and abrupt and menacing.

His expression softens as he catches sight of you, and he sighs. His fingers, long and calloused, lace through yours, allowing you to draw him down to the window seat with you.

“Fucking prick,” he growls, and his hand tightens around yours. “Any other respectable man would’ve been put off by a betrothal necklace… the fucking gall-” And he trails off into furious mutters, something something something ‘how dare he mention love to someone spoken for’ and ‘fucking spoiled pretentious lordlings,’ and other invectives that make you smile despite the situation.

“I thank you, Sir, for delivering me from the utter tedium that was Jurgen Linse’s verse,” you interpose through his irate tirade, successfully breaking him from his monologue.

He looks at you a moment and smiles, a little grudgingly. “Isn’t that what knights are for? Saving ladies from cunts like Jurgen Linse. It’s a duty I’ll happily hold to if it concerns you.” He glares around at the rest of the room, at the young men with their marks for the night, flirting, endlessly flirting. “Had I known better, I would’ve asked if I was looking at Some Boy.”

You take care not to let your eyes stray over to Roman and his beloved, and ventures, “Still on the scent, are you?”

“No,” Eren says mulishly, then amends, sullen and sour, “It makes no matter, anyway. I still wouldn’t be able to get so much as a peep of his name from you. But I’m sure one of these outstanding paragons of chivalry was the former favorite.” He gazes around once more, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

The thinly veiled jealousy in his tone is gratifying and concerning in equal measure. “Well, I can’t risk you making mince of his face. Such a scandal is something I am not disposed to manage.”

“It’s no more than he deserves,” Eren mutters, thunderously dark once more to your dawning dismay. His fingers dig almost painfully against the back of your hand. You wince a little and flutter your fingers within his hold. At once, he loosens his grip with hasty apologies and gentle strokes of your skin with his thumb.

The true depths of his jealousy had never been made clearer to you as it was then. You are not entirely sure how to take it. It had seemed a light thing once, common enough in boys (and girls) who had a claim on another. Yet you cannot help but sense a certain darkness in his envy, something dark and deep and dangerous, a shadow beneath his abyss.

You being that familiar with another man doesn’t sit well with me at all.

A shudder goes through you at the memory of his ominous tone that spring night. There was something thrilling in it; there was something chilling in it.

You give him a placating smile. “It’s in the past, Eren. Whatever feelings and dealings there were between me and Some Boy are long gone. And how many times must I give you tokens for you to see where my favor lies these days?”

The smile he flashes you then is a deal more genuine, and what chill there is in the air slowly begins to dissipate. He has yet to let go of your hand.

You sigh inwardly, relieved. “So, what brings you ‘round these parts? Correct me if I’m wrong but I have never recalled you visiting the queen’s rooms before.” Which is not out of the ordinary, for him. Only the flirtiest men are constant guests in these royal chambers. The royal women’s maids and ladies are often to be found thereabouts in service to their mistresses, and so the men buzz about, drawn to beauty and elegance as bees are drawn to flowers. As it is, the queen’s presence chamber has always and will perhaps forever be the place of flirtation. Queen Eleanor the Elegant set a strong tradition for it, at any rate.

Another look at your betrothed has you wanting to stifle a laugh. Eren Jaeger, with his grounded earnestness, is entirely out of place amongst his fawning, sycophantic peers, masters all of the art of courtly love, the best and most passionate of liars. He is the least flirtiest boy you have ever met. Well, except for Armin. Like calls to like, as they say.

“I stopped visiting about… a couple of years after I entered court?” Eren glances around, taking in the tasteful music, the greatest beauties of the realm, and the myriad, endless circles of flirtation, and shakes his head. “Nothing has changed from what I recall of it. I was only here because I was new to court and easily biddable. I went my own way soon enough. I’d rather do something more worthwhile like training than waste my time here flirting and being idle.” A peek at your face has him quickly adding, “Not that everything you do here is idle. Sewing shirts for the poor is a noble task! It’s just the rest of it that I don’t hold with.”

You giggle at his little fumble, glad to see his features clear of the storm that had beset it earlier. You squeeze his hand gently (still he will not free you). “We’re more idle than not in these rooms, true enough. But going back to my question: what brings you ‘round these parts?”

Eren blinks at you, as though the answer should have been obvious. “You. I wanted your company so I looked for you. They told me you were here so here I am. Honestly, only your presence could persuade me to set foot in this place again.” The jaundiced, suspicious look from earlier returns to tarnish his face. “Perhaps I should make it a habit. If only to fend off the scum…”

The beginnings of a tremble start to assail your upper lip. You place a hand over your mouth and titter, like some milkmaid being given the best of the summer berries by the farm hand she has been eyeing over at the other pasture. His last few words do not even register, so great is your glee. A fleeting gaze around the room shows you the friends you are supposed to have left some time ago, looking over at you with raised eyebrows and quizzical smiles.

Elsewhere, you can see a handful of the younger, prettier maids eyeing your betrothed, giggling and whispering behind their own delicate hands. The sight is enough to curdle the joy inside you. You are not the only one enamored of Eren Jaeger’s dashing good looks - you have quite forgotten that. He’s not here for them, though, the girl inside you whispers, smugly triumphant. He doesn’t belong to them. “Jurgen Linse should take notes - your conversation is so much better than his verse. Your budding poet trumps his practicing poet by leagues.”

“Is that what you want?”

You stare at him, confused by the unexpected query. And by his expression. There is that strangely blank look again, the very same that he had worn the day he failed to kiss you. It perplexes you now as it did then. Before you can ask what he means, he goes on, “Are the flowers not enough? Do you want the flowery words, the poems, the grand gestures?” He looks out across the chambers once more, and the emptiness is filled with uncertainty. “It’s what you’re used to, after all. And… I’m not. What you’re used to. Did Some Boy write you poems? Maybe I could be more-”

“I don’t want any of that.”

That look of surprise on his sweet face will always remain so endearing to you. You bring both your entwined hands up so you can cup that sweet face into your palm and feel the warmth of him. “I don’t want the poems and the grand gestures and the empty flirtations,” you tell him, as earnest as he. “Any words you say are verse enough to my ears. I don’t need or want you to be a grand romantic, ‘Ren. I like you just as you are: a novice and utterly, helplessly useless at courtly love. Because that makes you more real. I’d rather have your simple truths than any man’s flowery lies.”

His eyes turn to green glass and you see, with a jolt of shock, the film of tears that gloss over and fill the verdant pools near to overflowing.

Oh, sweetheart.

“Are you crying, ‘Ren?” you ask lightly, gently, tenderly rubbing your thumb across the apple of his left cheek. You note, with a small pang, the new red scar above his left eyebrow - a token of his knighthood, of the day he earned it.

He sniffles and turns his head to bury his face in your hand as if to hide away. His grip on you tightens. “No,” he mumbles in a small, thick voice, muffled by your palm. The tips of his darling ears have turned a pretty pink.

Your heart melts even more. “I would believe that whole tosh about having nothing for any other if it came from you,” you tell him, wanting more, more of this sweet, endearing, darling Eren who is quickly becoming the delight of your eyes. The side of his face that you can see has turned a deeper scarlet, to your elation, his skin so warm that, had you known better, you would have thought he had a fever. “And, you know, I wouldn’t like you as much if you were flirtier.” He is no Jean Kirschtein or Reiner Braun, the most proficient of flirts. But that is good. He need only flirt with you.

And he is more than passing capable, you think, now finding your own cheeks prickling as you recall his many attempts at seduction. All true and honest and successful, oh-so successful, which is more than you can say for the ones you have received over the years. You cannot even claim as much; he makes a more candid flirt than you, who only know the language of courtly love and have never dabbled in love sincere.

Eren emerges at last from the cover of your hand, face still Rhyzkov crimson but with eyes a clear Jaeger green, no longer of glass. He smiles up at you a little tremulously, lifts your hand from his face, and places the gentlest of kisses across the back of your knuckles.

Your skin still tingles long after you had set yourself the task of fetching wine for you both. His lips are pillow soft and pleasantly warm. Your friends swarm up to you to make inquiries to your continued presence yet you hardly notice, interacting on reflex with your mind firmly attached to your betrothed and his gentle mouth across your skin.

You come to him with wine and a smile, and for a long while you speak of the morrow and autumn and home, everything but your brief intimacy. Yet still it lingers deep. You have never dabbled in love sincere. Perhaps it is time that you have. It is ridiculous of you, you have come to realize, to always deal with false coin in the market of love when all along there has been another, better, truer currency of pure gold. That pure gold is now in your reach - it will be foolish to continue to dismiss the true and the valuable for the false and the lesser.

The talk turns to knighthood at length, as it inevitably will with this new-made knight.

“How has knighthood been so far? The little taste of it you’ve had, I mean,” you inquire, cradling your wineglass and settling back comfortably in the cushions of the window seat.

“It’s strange not being at Sir Levi’s beck and call now, for a start. To think he’s actually a peer. The greatest knight of the realm himself is my peer,” Eren says wonderingly after a mouthful of wine. “And I’ve already met little Falco.” A fond smile spreads across his lips. “Good lad. I hope to make a fine knight of him someday. I’ll introduce you when we go back to court after the reprieve.” He lets out a huff of air, an anxious gesture at the thought of having such influence on another’s fortune. “All the rest of it’ll be arranged come winter. And then… my knighthood commences. At last.”

The way he said this last was less exultant than the statement warranted. The smile slowly fades from his face as he stares down at the depths of his drink. “I thought I’d be happier,” he admits after a time. “I have everything I want, haven’t I? Everything I’ve dreamed of, worked for, served for. I finally have it but… it holds no joy for me.”

Clear as day, you see the gleam of a falling axe. And the slow creep of red. “The horrors are still fresh. I suppose not even the savor of knighthood can wash the taste of copper from our mouths.”

“I don’t know who to rage against. The northmen for their treachery or the king for his cruelty.”

“Hush,” you say at once, looking around swiftly for too-close ears. All are far off and out of earshot of treason, to your great fortune. Eren shoots you a mutinous look but does not press on, to your relief. “Dangerous to say such things here, close to royal hearing,” you tell him in an undertone.

Eren sighs and drains his glass. “You’re right. As usual.” He smiles ruefully. “I didn’t mean to weigh down the air. And it’s such a good night, too.” He squares his shoulders and straightens up, extending a hand toward you. “I’m a knight, the reprieve’s upon us, and Arsechkala awaits. We have a lot to rejoice.”

You glance at his face to his hand and back again, smile, and lace your fingers through his. You leave the queen’s chambers light and cheery. No use dwelling on unpleasantness. It will always be there, waiting. In the meantime, you will live and carry on and snatch joy where you can.

“Don’t forget to finish your packing,” you remind him once you reach the set of corridors that will take you to your respective apartments.

Eren groans and whines like a spoiled child. “Yes, m’lady.” A look of mischief rolls over his face, quick as a wink. “Perhaps m’lady would like to help me with my packing. Two is better than one, as they say, and the work’ll go faster.”

“Are you luring me to your rooms? At this hour?” you reply without a hitch in your bearing, though your heart is threatening to leap out of your chest. “For shame, Sir. Knights are supposed to be paragons of virtue. How dare you tempt me into bed with you.”

Eren is smirking now, hot and sensual all of a sudden. “It was worth a stab.” And he pulls you toward him by your interlaced fingers.

Your heart stops as he bends down to brush his lips across your cheek. Soap and wood and Eren engulfs your senses, and the burn of his touch feels good. Terrifyingly so.

Eren straightens up leisurely and stares down at you. “Far be it from me to tempt you to sin. Though,” his eyes, turning slowly black as sin, skim over your face with a measured hunger, “you have the look for it.” His fingers slip from yours to run lightly over the spot where he had kissed you. “A token of good night. Perhaps you’ll dream of me, then. My lady.” He inclines his head, gaze dark and intense, and leaves you standing in the middle of the hall.

There is a loud pounding of drums, and it takes you a while to realize it is coming from your own chest. Absently, you find yourself touching your face. Burning, burning with fever.

I already dream of you.

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A/N:

At last! The first chapter of the year! Have a 15K word chapter for the month-long absence!

Soooooo the modern AU oneshot was shoved to the backburner because my inner muses decided to focus on this instead. Since it’s my beloved baby, I couldn’t resist. Alsosmutcomeseasiertomewhenitactuallyhasaplot... asdasdsdfsdfjsdfjskfs

Did I mean for Chap. 13 to be filled with executions and introspection? Not really, but the stars aligned ✨

Added one (1) throwaway sentence to Proctor Nick's dialogue in chap. 6 about not offending the North just to tie it neatly to things mentioned here.

And yes, clit is a word in this world. I tried making it sound better and more “poetic” but I risked making it sound awkward. I do not want to go down the route of wordy phrases and descriptions for a tiny body part that will see a lot of play later (HEH). It all ends up sounding horribly and awkwardly like 'fat pink mast' and I have to repeat words that sound like that every time the clit is mentioned and. Just no.

And have more kisses to compensate for the failed attempt! It’s still a start! (Was I giggling and taking so many breaks because I couldn’t handle Eren and his Eren-ness? Yes). ‘Home’ awaits next time and thank you for reading, to my readers!!!

Tagging: @alekstraszas @lukepattersin @aki-and-saltfish

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #snk x reader #aot x reader #eren jeager x reader #Eren Jaeger #eren yeager #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

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