Summary: Ormund Hightower has been underestimating his wife capabilities, and he intends to use them to his advantage. (A.K.A You've been praying for a way out of your circumstances, and the gods answered in a way you didn't expect.) (wc. 1.5k)
Warnings: Religious themes (Faith of the Seven). Little Blood. Reader has she/her pronouns + fem bodied; is younger than Ormund but only a few years; prays often.
Listening to: 'The Tradition' by Halsey - "Take what you want, take what you can, take what you please, don't give a damn. It's in the blood and this is tradition."
Masterlist || AO3
You were the perfect wife for Lord Ormund Hightower.
Young enough to bear sons, daughter of a fair lord, with a mild temper and pretty face. You were everything a wife should be, and you were so good for him, so good to him. You’d go to the sept often, and he caught you praying under your breath more than he heard you speak otherwise.
The perfect wife.
So imagine Ormund’s surprise when he awoke to find you atop of him, knife at his throat.
His hands flexed in the sheets, then they found your thighs, thick and soft and bracketed over his hips. He felt himself swallow, eyes narrowing at yours though the barely-lit candles.
You looked wild, distressed - a sight he’d never even heard your maids say you were in the mornings before they would dress you - you were always so composed. Your hair was messy, cotton slip clung to your skin with sweat.
Were you sick? Was that the reason for this? Had a disease of madness struck his dear wife?
“What are you doing?” He asked, voice quiet but smooth. He felt you shift above him, then a sting at his throat where his adams apple moved.
“I prayed,” you said. Your voice was the opposite to his, albeit still quiet, but so nervous. “I prayed everyday to the mother. The maiden. The father. The crone I begged -” your voice broke then, “- a way to see out of this cage. I cannot stand this madness, this gilded cage of doves. I cannot bear it any longer.”
Ormund’s fingers flexed into your flesh, it gave under his grip and he could feel your fist tighten on the dagger - where you procured it from he had no clue, he also had no clue how you knew how to hold it so steady when every other part of you told him you were more nervous than a doe on fawns legs.
“If something troubles you, you might speak your mind instead of taking a blade to your husband while he sleeps. I’d provide you any solace you need.”
“The stranger answered me.” you said as if he hadn’t spoken at all, and he stilled in his bed. Your eyes reflected gold, orange, red in the darkness. “He spoke to me. I saw him when I went to the sept last night. The warrior and father stood behind him. He told me to take a blade to your throat, to let it taste your blood.”
This was not ideal, for a number of reasons.
First, he was in a very real situation where one wrong move would have him helplessly bleeding out on his bedding. Second was that you were fully convinced you needed to harm him - kill him perhaps, he didn’t know the extent of your intent.
Third, well.
Who was he to question who the seven appeared to? Who they spoke to? You were in the sept, you prayed often, you never strayed out of line once - you were the kind of person the gods would speak to, and if you were a man no one would question it. If it were the seven who wanted his blood now, who was he to deny them? If you were the vessel they used, who was he to deny you?
“So be it.” he said. At his words, he felt you flinch. You were not expecting that as an answer. For him to become so compliant under your hands. Your eyes flickered in the dim light. He felt the blade withdraw from his throat, the cooling air of the room causing it to sting again.
He realised then that you’d cut him already.
Ormund watched as you held the blade to your face. Your finger ran along the edge, collecting his blood on the tip of your pointer and bringing it between your lips. You kept it there for a moment, long enough for something to stir inside him - exactly what stirred, he couldn’t say - before very swiftly removing yourself from his grasp and off the bed completely.
He sat up as he watched you walk over to the last embers of the fire in the hearth, knelt beside it and placed the blade amongst them. Then you clasped your hands together and brought your knuckles to your lips and started mumbling.
Praying. You were praying again.
He rose from his bed, using the same quiet speed, and made his way behind you. He knelt too, close enough to nearly make out what you were saying but not quite. He was also close enough to smell the oils that lingered on your hair. Rosemary and lemon.
He would remember those.
You stilled, and so did he. You’d stopped praying, now you just sat. Watching the hearth where the dagger sat. He lent over, the new angle helping him see the blade also, and sat watching and waiting.
He didn’t know what you were waiting for, but you seemed to be holding your breath.
Then something happened. Something he couldn’t deny - no one who saw it would deny it - and if he doubted you before he didn’t now.
The embers caught fire around the blade, catching and growing as if another log had been placed there again. As if it was wood instead of iron. They enveloped the dagger, consuming it like flies swarming a carcass, cleaning it and picking it dry, before dying again.
A divine fire.
At the hands of his wife.
His perfect, fair, mild, pretty, good wife.
His divine wife.
You twisted on the stone floor, staring up at him with the edges of your hair backlit. He expected you to say something cryptic, something he’d need to sit and mull over for the next few hours. Instead -
“I want to rid myself of all the noble ladies in Oldtown.” you said. Your meaning was obvious. “They bore me. I want to think and with them I cannot.”
“My wife requires more stimulating conversation?” he mused, you nodded. He nodded along. “This can be done.”
He watched your shoulders fall, relaxing under his words. Your head turned, and he studied the shape of your nose through the glow behind it. You hummed and he knew he had gained your approval. This was good. You had the ear of the seven, and he had yours.
“I also wish,” you started, voice softer and almost hesitant. He leant closer, fingers grasping the hem of your sleeve.
‘I am here,’ he was trying to show, ‘Speak your mind.’ he willed.
“I’d like to stay here tonight.” you said, “With you.”
Ormund stood. He looked down at you looking up at him, sitting by the smouldering fire with your slip sprawled around you. He knew, now, that you had a power over him and he couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t deny you. He also knew that now he wouldn’t have as many chances to hold that same power over you.
Not anymore.
This would be the last chance to look down on you. To deny you if he so wanted to. In these few minutes that passed since you woke him, the cards he once held close to his chest had been stripped away and this was the last one left.
To send you back to your chambers, to your own bed, or keep you here with him.
But his mind was made. He held his hand to you, a shiver running down his spine as he felt your fingers slip into his hold.
“How could I deny you.” he said, helping you rise to your feet.
Indeed Ormund would now keep you close. By his side, by his seat, in his bed. The seven may not bless him with their ear but he had no need of it when he had you. And now he had you he was going to keep you in any way he could.
He lifted the covers of his bed, slipping under as you came in beside him. Your legs tangled with his, your hand found his chest, nails lightly dragging over his skin. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, and turned his nose into your hair. He felt your heartbeat thump into his ribs, chest to chest.
That heart was his too.
You were already valuable, a pretty thing to flaunt around to everyone who didn’t have you. No you were more. He would take you everywhere now.
There were rumours swirling around Oldtown - there had been ever since his cousin made a spectacle of herself by wearing the Hightower colours of war. When the king died there would be a fight for the throne. He didn’t doubt he would be sent to Kingslanding. to march upon it no matter who ruled there.
You’d go with him, he decided in the dark of night.
He’d make you petition the gods with every decision that needed to be made and he’d take your word like you were a council unto yourself.
This he swore.
(You've come this far; remember to support the writing you love by giving a reblog <3)
Forgive the long wait, travelers. Let me introduce you to two of my OCs, who for now I will address as the Keeper and the Grey One. Their story is based on Irish folklore, specifically around selkies, which is one of my favorites to interpret as playful tickle monsters.
The Keeper is an Irishman that has recently inherited his late grandfather's cabin on a secluded lake front. While renovating the property, he befriends a selkie, the Grey One.
The two eventually discover they share a playful interest as well as feelings for one another.
Allow me to share with you a snippet from their interactions. Please let me know if you'd like to hear more about them!
I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading 💚.
Summary: The keeper meets the grey one for a picnic, but not before a playful greeting.
Word Count: 661
The keeper approached the dock as dusk settled over the lake with a dull orange hue lingering on the horizon.
Ever since inheriting his grandfather’s property on this particular part of the Irish coast, the keeper visits the dock with picnic basket at the end of his work day.
One late summer evening, the keeper stood waiting on the edge of the dock. After a while, he slipped off his sandals, sat down and dipped his feet into the water. He shuddered at the cool temperature but enjoyed the water’s comfort and the slight warm breeze.
It wasn’t long before the keeper felt something brush against the bottoms of his feet. He gasped and lifted them immediately out of the water with a splash, only to see a familiar shape beneath the surface once it settled. He chuckled with relief.
A grey human-like face with round-marble eyes and whiskers looked up at him. It appeared to smile, wrapped in a cloud of silver hair as it floated beneath the water’s surface. A grey hand with long fingers and claws beckoned the keeper to return his feet to the water.
The keeper smiled warily but slowly lowered his legs back into the lake, ready to begin the playful ritual his friend liked to perform before joining him on the dock.
The grey one’s face faded deeper into the murky depths, while its clawed hands remained visible as they reached up to trace and poke the entirety of the keeper’s feet with practiced gentleness.
The keeper quickly clamped his hands over his mouth, whimpering, as he shuddered from the grey one’s ticklish touch. He immediately curled his toes when he felt claws trace from his heels to his arches, where they lingered. He trembled with suppressed laughter, struggling to keep his feet in the water. He always saw it as a personal challenge to try and endure the grey one’s exploration, despite always knowing how it would end.
Eventually the keeper’s efforts shattered when the claws began to scratch lightly under his toes. Following a loud cackle, he pulled his legs out of the water.
When the keeper looked over the dock again, the grey one’s face was visible under water’s surface, scrunched in an obvious pout.
The keeper offered a sheepish smile and an apology, before he lowered his feet back in the water. He knew he was in for it now.
The claws returned in earnest, skittering up and down both of his feet. Unable to help himself, the keeper fell back onto the dock, hugging himself and laughing hysterically.
It was just like the first time he met the grey one, at the beginning of the summer when he chose to rest at the dock, only to be greeted by a curious “tickle monster”. Ever since then, the keeper would return to the dock and dip his feet in the water as a signal that he was ready for a visit.
The tickling claws gradually came to a stop and left his feet, leaving the keeper to giggle and catch his breath on the dock. As always, he felt slightly disappointed that it was already over.
When the keeper finally opened his eyes, a pale man with silver hair was hovering over him with a concerned look. The keeper yelped when cold water dripped from the man’s hair onto his cheek. He sat up and rubbed it away before turning back to greet the grey one, now a man, with a spotted grey tunic around his waist.
The keeper dipped his head apologetically and the pale man sighed. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against the keeper’s and both men closed their eyes.
Once their picnic finished, the keeper took the grey one’s hand, guiding him up the dock towards the cottage. As the sun set finally set on the lake, both individuals whispered a silent prayer to their gods, wishing that they could continue meeting like this forever.
The Grand Master of the British Rite couldn't help but feel a sense of wholeness, as he looked outside the arched window of his solar, the only place in the whole manor where he knew he would be left alone with his own thoughts.
After the snow had stopped to fall the night before, the weather had decided, in its infinite mercy, to grant them a pristine sky and a gentle sun, overall, a far kind weather than what was most often offered that time of the year.
It was a pleasant feeling, one of relaxation almost.
He so rarely allowed himself to take rest during the hours of the day - in fear of falling into indulgence -that the thought of letting that delightful torpor lull him into sleep was almost too tempting to resist.
He himself was surprised he felt that unperturbed, despite Phillip’s latest rapport currently resting on his desk, accounting for a situation that might prove rather troublesome, if left unattended.
His thoughts brought back to the situation at hand, he furrowed his eyebrows, glaring at those papers.
The Rook.
Despite the feel of urgency that transpired through his nephew’s words at the presence of this mysterious rabble-rouser that had sought to take a particular interest in Whitechapel -and Kaylock in particular- he was not overly preoccupied.
Squabbles between gang members were not something out of the ordinary, when dealing with the lowlife that festered in the city, and Kaylock had done his part to gather strong dissent from others.
Crawford Starrick’s cold eyes skimmed through the penned words with careful attentiveness: Phillip had been thorough, as he always was whenever he filed a report to send to him, updating him on all that his “little ghosts” had heard around town.
Crawford couldn’t help the small smile on his face: that young man had potential, much more potential than any of the Master Templars that were serving beneath him. He was ruthless. He was witty and had a penchant for reading people far better than he read books. He was focused and unwavering, sometimes to a fault. But, the Grand Master thought, he was impatient, and much too arrogant and insolent, and too eager for external adoration and validation, sometimes forgetting that they all served a Order much greater than themselves.
Despite everything, and with a touch of guilt that always constricted his heart whenever he found himself thinking about it, Phillip had all the qualities he had hoped his son would have, had fate bestowed a male child upon him and his Nettie.
Dorothea couldn’t have been more different from Phillip in spirit not even if she tried to.
His eyes moved from the rapport sitting on his desk toward the labyrinthine inner garden, where his daughter was playing with her yapping dog, running through the shrubs and making snow angels on the snow covered ground, and he felt another pang of paternal worry and guilt wriggling his heart like brambles.
Such an obedient child, she was.
Ever since she was able to understand the world around her, she wanted nothing more than to please him and his wife, in all expectations they had placed on her small shoulders.
He wasn’t blind to what her soul truly yearned: music and singing and poetry and reading. She had been blessed with the soul of an artist, and with such a gentle heart, sometimes he wondered how he had been able to sire a child so different from how he himself had been in his youth.
But as much as he hated the idea -as much as he wished for life to be different-, willing or not as she was, she had a part to play within the Order, and if his plans for her were to come to fruition, one day, she would be the one holding the British and the Swedish Rites in her hands.
It had to.
Dorothea was his only child: his legacy needed to live on through her.
He was the youngest son, but could never accept that his brother would be the one to actually bring forward their family legacy.
There could be no other way.
Their name needed to live through her.
All the pieces on the chessboard needed to be set, so that she could take over, once his job was done.
"Crafword Jospeh Starrick, I cannot believe my ears!"
Crawford Starrick looked up from the rapport, not expecting to hear his name called in full, let alone coming from his rather disconcerted wife, still wearing her snow-covered outdoor coat as she barged into his office like one of the Erinyes, followed suit by an upset Mr. Armstrong.
“My Lord! Forgive me! I tried to tell Lady Starrick that you were not to be disturb-“
With a mere gesture of his hand, he silently indicated his butler to make himself scarce and leave them to their business: he knew the gaze his wife was giving him - one of pure discontent- and this needed to be discussed alone, away from all prying ears.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the Swedish Countess accommodated herself on the chair across his desk and fixating that look of seething disdain toward her own husband.
Her chest was rising with the same intensity of an athlete that had just done running from one side of town to the other, and he wasn't against betting that it had been exactly what she had done.
Seeing her so agitated was enough to put him in vigilant alert.
Annette was not a woman prone to strong emotions or outburst of temper: she was the ice to his fire within.
"What is it, Nettie, dearest? What is it the reason for this disconcert of yours?"
He saw his wife’s nostrils flare, almost as if she was putting her whole effort in containing herself.
What in the bloody world had just happened to render his level-headed wife so out of herself?
"It just so happens that this morning I have heard,from the most reliable of sources - your own nephew, nonetheless - a most damnable news!”
Crawford frowned, his jaw tensing for just one small second.
She knew.
“Nettie, if you will allow me to explain-“
“You will have an American coming here on Monday morn and you have granted permission for an interview with our daughter! Without informing me first! " she sputtered, her lovely violet eyes wide open with incredulity. "An American! Pray tell, do we lack gentlemen on this side of the ocean, that you had to resort to summoning a Yankee here for our only child?"
Crawford blinked at her words, trying as he might to maintain his usual composure, even though he felt the threat of a bout of laughter bubbling in his chest.
A Yankee. He couldn't help but wonder how the man under discussion would react, if he were to be addressed as one, considering his birthplace.
"My dear," he started, carefully folding his hands in his lap, not letting a single emotion transpire from his face. "I can understand your concern and your worries. Do not think me so heartless to not have taken in consideration your opinions-“
But despite everything, Countess Annette’s ears were deaf to his controlled tone, engrossed as she was by her own predicament.
"My word, the absolute disbelief I felt when Phillip told me about this was unimaginamble! Even your cousin Pearl was completely befuddled by such lack of transparency and sensibility on your part, and yet, she related that she was not truly surprised by your behaviour! An American. AN AMERICAN! Do I need to remind you that they dumped tea in the harbour, husband of mine? The tea you absolutely rave about each and every day of our married life together?"
Crawford cocked his eyebrow, giving her a long, silent look, laced with barely concealed nerves.
"Then we will make sure that he is not to get anywhere near our larder, lest certain "revolutionary instincts" were to take a hold of him, don't you agree?"
"Ohh, Mister Starrick, do not dare mock me so openly!" she sputtered, her cheeks flushing red. "Why did you need to be so secretive about this?"
He weighted his next words carefully, as he shifted on the chair to make himself more comfortable.
"I was afraid - and correctly so, judging from this bout of hysteria you are inappropriately displaying - that this might have sent you into a fit," he then murmured, being as honest as he could be without causing ulterior anger in his wife.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, pointing her finger at him whilst deciding to ignore his comment. "So you knew I would have not approved!"
"I did, Nettie, dearest, if anything because I am extremely aware of your disdain for the Americans - or really, for anyone not ailing from those godforsaken frosted lands you called your home. But allow me to reassure you that, if you are able to see past his birthplace, Mr. Sterling is a businessman much like myself, a man of exceptional moral strength and integrity, with an amiable disposition and worthy more pounds than any ridiculous aristocrat here could ever hope to provide for our daughter.”
“Money!” Countess Annette could barely contain herself from snorting at the notion. “As if you and I were lacking, to begin with!”
Unnerved by his wife not relenting in her fury, Crawford raised a hand to ask for her silence, in a gesture that did not allow questioning.
“I am not done talking, Annette. Money is but one of the reasons I found Mr. Sterling to be a suitable suitor for Dorothea, but it was not all. Aside from his considerable fortunes, he is an extremely respected member of the Order in America, one that Grand Master Tweed himself would vouch for. When he approached me at Michaelmas and formally asked to meet Dorothea for an interview, upon her return, I could not dare refuse without a single reason for it."
"But you could have told me!" Annette reproached, her eyes narrowing even more than before.
“And pray tell, what good would have done it?”
The Countess sputtered, her cheeks turning a blazing red.
“I am Ditte’s parent just as much as you, and I had a right to say “yes” or “no” to whoever were to approach us with the intent to marry our daughter! And I cannot accept this! Not now! Not with this being the year our daughter will finally be introduced in proper society!"
"And what other solution we might have? Who would be worthy enough to marry our daughter, in your vision, darling wife? Who would possess all the qualities and virtues that would make him the most ideal guardian for our darling fawn?”
Annette didn't answer right away, staring her husband straight in his eyes, her answer clearly written in her glance despite the silence.
The Grand Master's face turned dark, as it always did whenever his wife make him apart of her own true intentions.
They rarely disagreed, and when they did, they were always able to find together a compromise of some sort.
But not this time.
Not on what she was suggesting.
"No, Absolutely not. Not him. We have already discussed this aplenty, and I refuse to even entertain such ludicrous suggestion any further! I will never give my consent."
The Swedish woman’s face hardened, her stare becoming pure steel.
"Byron Harrison would make an excellent husband for our daughter, and you know that. Everyone knows that, even Mama, your own mother, knows that. She declared so in the last letter she exchanged with me, if you require any further proof about the legitimacy of my claim. No man can be declared more devoted to our daughter than Master Harrison, and you know that."
"No, Annette, absolutely not! I forbid you to entertain such nonsensical notions any longer than you already have!"
But the Countess was a stubborn woman, whose mind was not easily swayed, and the Grand Master knew that, probably better than anyone else.
"He is a Gentleman, differently from your “morally exceptional businessman”. He is strong, reliable, loyal, unwavering in the face of anything that might come his way. You know it, you know him. You know what he did the night those Assassins had tried to have your fourteen-year-old daughter killed in her bed. You know what he did to them afterwards. Yes,” she added, as Crawford’s gaze went from grouched to attentive. Her voice was filled with what could only be described as profound admiration.“I am able to finally sleep in my bed because I know, in exact detail, everything that Master Harrison has done to ensure that none of those dogs were to draw another breath. I know he would cut his right arm out for you and her, were you to ask him, and that is exactly why you dare not allow yourself to see that he is the most suitable candidate for Dorothea! Our daughter, while showing intelligence, is still abysmally naive to the ways of the world and gullible still. He would protect her! From all threats." She paused for a moment, letting the air hang between them. "External and internal."
Crawford stood up from his chair, hands folded behind his back as he stared down toward his wife with eyes that did not allow for any further argument.
"Despite your heartfelt oration on behalf of Master Harrison’s unquestionable loyalty and exemplary services to our family, I said no. I find it absolutely preposterous that you are still entertaining this ludicrous idea! Preposterous, I dare say! There will be no threat of any kind, not while I am alive! Take this notion away from your head, Mrs Starrick, once and for all, or I swear, I might let my temper take the best of me! I will not entertain this nonsense any further!"
Annette took a long moment before answering, starring at her husband almost in challenge. She knew he would never do anything of that sort, as much as she was aware that such proposition always sent her lord husband in a fit of rage.
Still, she had to raise her own proposition to him.
She crossed her arms against her chest, raising her chin as an haughty air of sober disdain painted itself all over her fair face.
"Very well, seeing that this displease you, Crawford-" she whispered his name with a voice laced with ill-hidden sarcasm. "I shall press this matter with you no further. But please, oh husband of mine, do allow your simpleton wife to at least inquire about this wondrous American of yours. He sure is of money, you let me intend that much, but what about his family? His pursuits? Is he of good fortune and breeding? Can he say to be hailing from a respectable family that had belonged in the Order for centuries and, as much as my very own blood, occupied the highest position at the Court of the King of Sweden? From a family who is not only respectable in the eyes of society, but admired as well? Because you know that I will never accept anything less than someone that hails from the most respected part of our society for our daughter.”
Crawford shook his head in vexation. He knew what his wife was implying, and he wished that "that" particular aspect of her lineage didn't matter as much to her as it did. He knew the moment he had married her, years before, that her heritage - her legacy - would have been cause of dispute in the future.
He was never one to care for titles, believing them to be nothing more than poppycock that showed nothing of a man’s worth. Even his own peerage had been bought, so as to please his father-in-law and convince him that he was a good enough man for his daughter.
But he never appreciated to judge a man’s worth for his blood and lineage.
He found that, if anything, such claims of nobility proved his lack thereof.
“What does it matter, Nettie? He is an hardworking man that shall care for our daughter in the most commendable of ways and provide her with all she might need! What more could anyone ask for their only daughter?"
“This might very well be said be said of the lowest of cattles that work in the field to provide the wheat our cooks use to make our bread. I need to know what this gentleman has that makes him so commendable in your eyes!” She continued, absolutely undaunted. Then, in the same breath, she added: “And what about her residency, Crawford! What about the place where this American shall choose to drag Dorothea, once the marriage is sealed and done? Would she move to the Colonies afterward? Is this your plan for Ditte? To send her away? Our daughter has been home for merely a month - a month! - and you are already planning to pack her up and ship her to the Wild West? I cannot accept that! I will not accept that, husband, not with Queen Charlotte's Ball approaching soon enough, where Dora will debut, and the Season starting right after, where all the Ton will be present and she will have her pick! With her lineage, she can aspire to be a Princess of this country, and you would have her being the wife of a cowboy-" she wrinkled her nose in disgust at that word, finding the notion absolutely abhorrent. "-who would be too busy spending his days following his cattles around rather than taking care of my darling daughter the way she deserves?”
Her husband gave her a long look and drew a small sigh.
He always thought he was the one to be too apprehensive when it came to his daughter's wellbeing, and he had all but forgotten how prone to hysteria his own wife was in regards to their only child.
“You should not concern yourself with such matters as of yet, dearest. Nothing has been decided, and I can assure you, despite what you might think of my judgment in not delivering to you my resolution for this meeting with Master Sterling, I would have not taken any final decision without your invaluable counsel. Monday’s call would be just a mere interview. The man has asked to be introduced to Dora and talk with her, and after careful consideration, I saw it adequate to concede him to at least meet her this one time. Nothing more than that. There had been no promises of pursuit nor understanding, let alone marriage."
After his wife gave him another long unconvinced look, he took in small breath.
Walking around his desk with light pace, he reached for his wife and gently cradled her face in his hands, caressing her cheeks in a comforting gesture. Seeing that she wouldn't retract from his touch, despite the frown not disappearing from her brow, he took confidence that she was at least willing to listen to him.
He gently pressed a kiss on the tip of her nose, before brushing his lips against hers in another soft kiss.
"Nettie, my love, you know how much I missed our daughter, how contrary I was in sending her away in the first place, so far away from our own gaze. Allow me to reassure you in this, for it is not my desire for Dora to leave England at all. Not now, not ever, and especially not after she had been absent for three whole years, cooped away in those godforsaken forests and lakes,”
Hearing her husband’s voice crack with melancholy, the Swedish Countess allowed herself to feel pity for him. She knew she had not been alone in the predicament of their daughter’s absence. She placed her hands on her husband’s, returning his kiss with another one of her own.
“You should be thankful for the foresight I had in sending her somewhere safe,” she muttered underneath her breath, daring to caress his cheek with gentle hand. “After what nearly happened in 65', after we nearly lost you in 66', I should have not risked our daughter’s life, not for such thing as proximity or missing. And you know how terrible I felt in sending her away.”
Crawford gave her a small, sad smile: he knew all too well.
"I will concede that. You know that despite our different view on the matter, I trusted your instinct, and with good reason, considering the outcome. But let me assure you that it is not my intention to see our daughter away from our gaze ever again. You know well all that we have discussed about,"
"I certainly do, which is why I am not letting you stray away from all that we agreed upon, Crawford,"
"Had you allowed me to finish, I would have told you immediately that Mr. Sterling resides here in London for the best part of the year."
"Well, that's certainly is a small positive instance compared to the the unsavory alternative you have presented me with. But mark my word, husband, I still have my reserve."
He raised his hands in defeat, shaking his head with a smile.
"Since my word is not enough to reassure you that I do have our daughter's interests at heart, I will let you conduct the interview yourself, and you will ask all manner of questions that you deem necessary to finally convince you. Even the most impertinent ones."
"Trust me, husband of mine, I will. I shan't spare myself and he shall comply."
She looked at her husband with a mischievous smile, and Crawford couldn't help return it.
"I know that smile, Mrs. Starrick. Something's afoot with you,"
Her smile widened even more.
"Entertain me in this,"
"I am listening."
"How about…a little wager, between you and me?"
"Oh? And tell me, my dear, what kind of wager would you like me to entertain?"
“I’d like to put Mr. Sterling under a test of my own concoction. If Mr. Sterling can navigate the complexities of our social circle and win our daughter’s favor, then I will consider him a worthy suitor and allow an understanding to take place.”
“And if he does not?”
The Countess’s eyes glimmered with an impish light, her jaw tensing as she found her determination once more.
“Then, you will support my proposal for our Byron to be a suitor for Dorothea. Then, you will consider him to be a husband for our daughter.” When she saw Crawford starting to protest again, she made her voice even firmer. ”You must. You must see what I see. I know you do. You have to concede this to me.”
The Grandmaster took a deep sigh, as he closed his eyes in an effort of blocking the irritation that was growing once more in his chest. He knew she was immovable. He knew that, no matter what would happen on Monday morn with Mr. Starling, her mind was set on Master Harrison, despite all her talks about introducing Dorothea to the Ton and wanting her to marry into this country peerage.
What kind of game was his wife playing?
But he knew that, in order for that question to be answered, there was only one thing to do.
“So be it, Nettie,” he murmured, begrudgingly taking his wife’s hand to seal the deal. “I accept your wager.”
[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - Awakening of the Hunter]
[NEXT CHAPTER - "The West Wind's Coming" ]
It has been a long while since the last update, and I am not sure anyone is still around reading this tbh, but if you are, thank you for still being with me :) I mostly focus on artworking and put my greatest effort in becoming a better artist, but this story is still very dear to my heart, so, I truly thank you if you are still with me <3
And also, pardon any typo or mistake I might have made: even when I beta read myself, some things might escape my eye.😅🙏
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Title: Ties That Bind (Trazyn/Orikan, rated E, 54k words)
Summary:
A matter of debt has been raised in the Awakened Council concerning Trazyn the Infinite and Orikan the Diviner. They have not repaid the gifts in the eve of their nuptials during the Flesh Times. One problem though, they are not married. Trazyn and Orikan have to work together to convince the Awakened Council of their statuses as bachelors. Should be easy, right?
Somewhere in the deep, dark past, the Last Seer of the Necrontyr sees a coming end. Is there anything to do to stop it?
A/N: Another year, another Big Bang, same old divorced coots. Hope you enjoy!
Summary: Leon never wanted to work at the DSO, but the only thing worse than being forced to work for the government was being forced to work a desk job. Good thing he's a field agent, and his desk work always involves you. (wc. 1.4)
Warnings: Leon and reader are both pervs (more Leon tho). No age-gap warning bc they were both fighting in Racoon City during the outbreak. Reader works at the DSO; wears skirts/glasses; is female body coded; she/her pronouns.
Listening to: 'She Keeps Me Up' by Nickelback - "I need her so bad sometimes I think that I can taste it... I can't trust my friends 'cause she's what everybody chases, and I know where she's been 'cause it's on everybody's faces."
Masterlist || AO3 link
Leon Scott Kennedy. Ex-police officer. Survivor of the Raccoon City outbreak. DSO agent extraordinaire. There were many ways to describe the man whose desk sat near yours, and you were starting to believe hopeless romantic or pervert was also one of those ways.
He was nice though, and attractive, so as bad as it sounded you didn’t mind him perving on you. It was only fair since you often caught yourself staring at his ass, the work slacks did him all the justice in the world - tight but not too tight. And then his shirts, how his biceps looked and his forearms when he’d roll the sleeves up during summer -
Hopeless. Maybe you were the hopeless one. But that hopelessness was not a habit you were going to break any time soon. You’d been gawking at him for years, ever since that horrid day at Raccoon City.
Both caught in the middle of the mess, fighting for your lives. You didn’t know what point in the day you ran into each other, but he saved your life that day. If you’d been on your own for another hour you probably would’ve died from paranoia alone. But then Leon showed up.
Young, blonde, round faced and still full of his innocent rookie charm. Between his arsenal of police-issue weapons, and the sawn-off shotgun you’d found under the counter of the store below your apartment, you both survived the day.
You’d been picked up by the government early on. You learnt they snooped into the records of all the survivors of Raccoon City and they picked you out as an office worker who had much potential to be trained up as an agent. With Leon they weren’t so lucky, they had to wait to get him to join. When he did, founding the DSO upon his arrival, he was like a seeker missile with how fast he found you on his first day of work.
And if he wasn’t out getting his hands dirty, he was sitting in whatever free cubicle was nearest to yours.
“Another coffee Kennedy?” You asked, leaning over the divider above his computer screen. His head perked up, eyes softening. He was obviously very focused today, usually he’d already be looking your way by the time you started walking in his direction.
“If you’re going that way, thanks.” he said, handing his empty mug into your outstretched palm.
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” you replied, sliding around his cubicle until you nearly stood at his side. You watched his eyes flick, down then up again, you could tell his eyes wanted to linger, but he was trying to be decent in not ogling you when he knew you could see him doing it.
“You don’t have to go out of your way for me.” He said. You stepped closer, crossing your arms and tapping his mug on your hip.
“Again, I wouldn’t offer if I was.” your voice softened, “You’ve taken bullets for me and refuse to let me return the favour, the least I can do is get you a fresh coffee.”
“You could always buy me a drink instead.” he suggested, offering you one of his smirks. One of his eyes nearly shut at how he was nearly smiling, creases around his eyes crinkling. Even with the light catching the grey in his whiskers, he could still remind you of that rookie from all those years ago.
“One of those fruity ones with a little umbrella and slice of lime?” You said, starting to turn on your heel.
“Those are my favourites, now you’re talking dirty to me.” he said, throwing your cheek back at you.
“I’ll make sure to add that to my usual order of scotch.”
You drove Leon insane. It wasn’t always like that though.
Sure when you first met all those years ago he would’ve given you a second glance, you were pretty and any guy like him would want to give you the time of day if you asked - but then he got to know you. He was a goner.
He was a little older than you, only by a few years, but a lot of time passed between you and no doubt he grew as a person too - but to see you grow from a pretty young lady to a woman who demanded attention without ever asking for it was, as Grace would say, ‘a whole thing’.
Leon rarely saw you outside of work, and then it was more often in the office than in the field, but he didn’t mind. Getting distracted by you was a lot safer when the only thing at risk was turning in a report late.
And you were a distraction.
No one else in the building made a white blouse and pencil skirt look as good as you did. Black heels and a long expanse of your stocking covered legs on display.
He remembered clearly the first time you’d caught him eyeing you - he was too busy following your figure as you walked away, thinking about those heels… well it didn’t matter really. What mattered was how far back he leant in his chair, and how it gave way under his weight. He crashed to the floor, chair falling over beside him. He landed hard, and if anyone wasn’t looking at him gawking at you, they would be looking at him sprawled out on the floor like a fool.
It was years ago now, back when he first joined the DSO offices, but he still copped flack about it.
“Another coffee Kennedy?” Speaking of the devil, there you were. Perched over his cubical divider, looking down at him with a half smile. It took him a second to register what you were saying, he was too distracted at the way your glasses were half-down your nose.
“If you’re going that way, thanks.” he said, handing his empty mug into your outstretched palm. You fingers brushed, and he watched as your perfect manicured fingers curled around his mug.
Fuck, he was in trouble.
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” You walked around until you nearly stood at his side. He loved when you wore slacks, it showed off your thighs so nice, but he was weak for your skirts. How could something so basic look so good? But he couldn’t linger on the way your hips smoothed down to your thighs, or how that soft bump of your stomach looked above the apex of your legs. You deserved better than to be openly gawked at, he knew it.
“You don’t have to go out of your way for me.” He said, trying to remember what you were here for, what you were talking about, but then you stepped closer. Your arms crossed, pressing your chest together and up, a button of your blouse strained, but he refused to look. He decided to just look at your eyes.
As if that was any less distracting.
“Again, I wouldn’t offer if I was.” your voice softened to something smooth, “You’ve taken bullets for me and refuse to let me return the favour, the least I can do is get you a fresh coffee.”
He’d take more than bullets for you, he’d catch a grenade with his teeth if you asked him to and never ask for anything in return. He doubted he was the only one - surely he wasn’t the only one, not with how intense you made him feel.
“You could always buy me a drink instead.” he suggested, offering you a smirk. You looked at him and he couldn’t help how that look faded and was replaced by a real smile. You could strip away whatever womanising part of him was still left and render him a virgin cop-in-training any day of the week with nothing more than a whiff of the perfume you’d been using since you were nineteen.
“One of those fruity ones with a little umbrella and slice of lime?” You started to turn on your heel, thank god, and better yet replied to his quip with familiar and comfortable territory. He can do jokes in his sleep.
“Those are my favourites, now you’re talking dirty to me.” he said, attempting to make himself sound less like a pining fool as you walked away.
“I’ll make sure to add that to my usual order of scotch.” You threw back at him. He could feel his jaw grind behind his smile as you left him with the clack-clack of your heels and a perfect view of your swaying hips.
Yeah, Raccoon City was the worst day of his life, leaving him with day after day of trouble. But at least you were the good kind of trouble.
(You've come this far; remember to support the writing you love by giving a reblog <3)
A/N: Better late than never, as they say 🫠! This is a gift fic I wrote for a good friend of mine. We've only been friends for a few months but I feel like I've already learned a lot from her and I’m very grateful for her company 🫂. She loves Alucard (and honestly, can you blame her?) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fluffy ler!Alucard fic as much as she did! It's also my first time writing a full reader POV story! Thank you for reading 💚.
Series: Castlevania (TV)
Characters: Alucard, Reader (romantic)
Summary: While journeying with a melancholy Alucard, you decide to cheer up the dhampir with a traditional game of hide and seek after stopping to camp for the night.
Word Count: 2,114
You are traveling with Adrian again.
After two weeks of journeying, the two of you find the ruins of what appears to be an abandoned village.
Despite the state of the place, you are relieved. With these types of ruins, there is a chance for not only a roof over your heads, but a proper hearth for keeping warm and fixing a meal.
“This village must’ve fallen victim to my father’s armies,” Adrian says, approaching a stone wall covered in claw marks and sliced in two; clearly the work of night creatures.
You stand beside Adrian. He appears to be scrutinizing the damage, his expression, blank. But you know that despite his outward indifference, it pains him to see the consequences of his father’s rage – to see what he could not protect.
It’s not your fault, you want to tell him. But you’ve told him this before and so have the others. You decide that now’s probably not a good time, opting to bring it up again after you both have had some food.
“Why don’t you go find some food for us?” You offer, smiling. “I’ll look around the village for a good place to settle down and get a fire started in the meantime.”
Adrian glances at you but you can see that he is smiling too, “very well.” He turns away, “I won’t be far. But do be careful.”
“You know me,” you chuckle. “I’m nothing if not careful.”
“No, you are…” But his words trail off for a moment, then, “…you are many things.” Then the dhampir is walking briskly towards the village’s limits without another glance, leaving you with the start of a blush radiating from your cheeks and tips of your ears. You think that he needs to work on his flirting, but you can’t help but grin fondly at the memory of his attempt anyway.
After scouring the village’s remnants, you find a house with a complete roof, a hearth and enough floor space for two bedrolls. Thankfully there are no human or otherwise remains, only signs that the former residents had left in a hurry. You see a stuffed goat left by the front door and try not to think of who it belonged to.
As you set up the fire in the hearth, you sigh heavily, feeling the familiar weight of anxiety creep up on you. Dracula’s armies and enemies have been vanquished. The people affected by those battles are rebuilding. The world has entered a season of peace. And your travels with Adrian help ensure that. There is no reason to despair, not anymore.
“Not anymore,” you whisper aloud to the crackling fire. How can you keep away these melancholic demons? You grin as an idea comes to mind. After a quick look around, you decide to retreat to a dwelling next door and hide under the sill of a window facing the house you’ve chosen for camp. You peek occasionally, checking to see if Adrian will appear. Eventually you hear a door open in the other house and Adrian’s boots lightly tap against the floorboards. You don’t dare peek now, surely he’ll–
“What are you doing?”
You shriek and nearly jump out of your skin as Adrian appears out of thin air, kneeling in front of you with a raised brow.
“Ugh! How do you do that?!” You cry with your hands to your chest, trying to catch your breath and still your rapidly beating heart.
“Vampire magic,” he says, then lifts up two rabbit carcasses by their ears. “Dinner is acquired. But I don’t see a place for it in the hearth. Only that you are hiding next door.” The blond’s eyebrows narrowed, “did you sense danger?”
You roll your eyes at his simple reply. “No, not yet, at least,” then push yourself to your feet. “I do have a proposition for you, though, if you’ll hear me out,” you say with a tiny glint in your eye. “What do you say?”
Adrian stands with you, squinting, “depends. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like it can wait until after dinner.”
“Well it can,” you rub your arm, having not expected Adrian to be hungry. “I just thought that we could play a quick game to... get all the ‘doom and gloom’ out of our heads, you know?” You feel a new blush creep up on your cheeks inadvertently.
Adrian keeps eye contact with you for an uncomfortably long time, long enough that you’re starting to expect that you upset him. But another agonizing moment later, his lips curl into a grin. You bite your bottom lip, all too familiar with that look. You’ve been found out.
“‘Doom and gloom’, you say?” Adrian places his free hand on his hip. “Pray tell, how do you suggest we remedy this then?”
Found out but he’s still willing to play along. Good, you think, as relief settles over you. “Hide and seek,” you offer, crossing your arms in front of you. “I’ll hide. But you have to find me at least three times in ten minutes or… um…” You look around, desperately trying to find ideas for your own reward besides what you want from this game in the first place. “Um, I get to wear your coat for a day.”
Adrian scoffs then clears his throat, “are you serious?”
You nod curtly, maintaining your confident grin. It was a stupid demand, but a demand nonetheless. Adrian was going to win anyway. He always did. But that wasn’t the point.
“If you say so,” Adrian shakes his head, setting aside the rabbit carcasses for now, then begins removing his gloves. “I’ll play this little game of yours.”
“Brilliant! Now, what do you want if you win?”
“I think you already know what I want.” Adrian winks at you and you feel heat begin to travel up your neck.
“Well?” The dhampir tosses aside his leather gloves, “aren’t you going to hide? I’ll count to ten.” He chuckles lightly, “one…two…”
You sprint away from the house, heading for the barn where you found the firewood for the hearth. This isn’t the first time you’ve played this particular game of hide and seek with Adrian. As you settle behind a large pile of dirty hay, you wish you were playing in the castle instead.
“Come out, come out wherever you are…” You hear Adrian announce some yards away with all the enthusiasm of an overstimulated parent. You cover your mouth to stifle your snort of amusement.
“You know I’m going to find you…,” he continues. “And you know what’ll happen when I do…”
A giddy excitement bubbles up within you. You are counting on Adrian finding you, but more so, what he plans to do with you.
A puff of air grazes your right arm, then you hear this next to your ear: “…I’m going to tickle you.”
Before you can protest, Adrian grabs your waist and pulls you against him, squeezing your sides repeatedly. You dig your heels into the dirt and try to push off him, but he has you pinned.
Your hands clamp down over his as you grin and writhe in wheezing laughter from the surprise of Adrian’s attack. He relents a moment later, taking your hands and helping you up as you catch your breath. “Y-You–you almost killed me!”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he chuckles. “Eight minutes to go now.” He lets you go and steps back. “One… two… three…”
It takes you longer than you wanted to get out of the barn, he’s already on “seven” by then and you’ve already forgotten the hiding places you picked out before he returned from his hunt. You skid to a stop near a chicken coop then squat behind it. Adrian plans to tickle you every time he finds you, that’s usually the way the game plays out, but when he finds you this time, you decide you aren’t going to let him.
A shadow then flickers in front of your feet, you look up just in time to see Adrian reach for you… but you roll out of the way and onto your feet before he makes contact. In a display of defiance, you stick your tongue at him before running away again.
“You’re going to pay for that!” You hear him call out as you turn a corner. Then the counting begins once more, “one…”
The ten minutes you picked was arbitrary. Adrian Tepes, also known as Alucard, Son of Dracula, could probably catch you twenty times or more in that time. But the chase was more fun for both of you, as was the reward in the end.
Panting, you arrive at a decrepit well. You put your hands down on the rim and hop in, catching the inner sides with your feet while you hold on to the misshapen bricks near the surface of the well with your hands. Maybe Adrian will still find you in a matter of seconds, but even he would have to admit you picked a good hiding spot. However, it had already been a minute and your muscles were starting to ache from the strain.
“Oh, no…” You dare to look down and there is nothing but darkness. Who knew how far down it went? You look up to see the sun setting and start to panic. You try to adjust your feet but slip. As you feel your grip on the brick loosen, two hands grab your upper arms and pull you out onto the dusty ground.
“Are you bloody stupid?” You wince as Adrian scolds you.
“Possibly,” you roll onto your back, panting and sweating profusely. “I thought… I thought it was a great hiding spot, personally.”
Adrian sighs, “yes, yes. Very clever.” Then he kneels beside you. “But that cleverness wouldn’t have saved you from a broken leg. Or worse…” He offers his hands to you.
You take them and he pulls you up once more. “I’m sorry,” you say, head down. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“I know.” The dhampir pushes away a few loose strands of his hair. “I suppose… you can add something to my reward for the inconvenience.” He says, a hint of mischief replacing his mild frustration almost instantly. “I pulled you out of there in nine minutes, by the way. It would’ve been sooner, but someone had to prove something.”
“A-Add?” You sputter, eyes widening at what that could possibly mean for you.
The dhampir takes your wrists and leans in, “I’m hungrier than I thought.” He makes a show of running his tongue over his fangs. “I’ll have my appetizer now, thank you.”
Your jaw drops. You were expecting tickle torture, not this! “Adrian…” You start to plea as he embraces you. “Adrian! N-No, wait! P-Please! N-Not THIHIHEHEHEHEE!” But it was too late, the blond had already buried his face into your neck, kissing your sensitive skin.
You shriek as wave upon wave of sensation shocks your body, making you squirm with all your might, but it is all in vain in the hands of the Son of Dracula. He then nuzzles closer to your ears, making you cackle. Your legs start to give out and you collapse slowly with Adrian’s help. But just when you thought he’d let you go, his fangs came out, running along your skin with the utmost gentleness.
You squeal, “EEHEHEHEHEHEE! A-ADRIAN!” He chuckles lightly against your neck as he continues exploring it with his lips and teeth, all the while, you are overcome with shrieking laughter until you are nearly in tears.
You fall limp against his chest, giggling and face flush.
“Feeling all right, sweetness?” Adrian asks gently, letting his affection for you leak through as he holds you in his lap.
“Y-You know that’s one of my worst spots!” You pout, bumping your head against him playfully.
“All the more reason I should take advantage of it every now and then, hm?” He kisses your hair. “Now then, I believe you owe me my reward.”
You gasp and turn to look at him, “You mean…. t-that wasn’t it?!”
“Of course not.” Adrian cracks his knuckles. “That was for frightening me. But this…” He raises his hands, wriggling his fingers. “…is my reward.” He grins widely, showing fangs and all.
You swallow hard, unable to take your eyes off his fingers, “but what about d-dinner?”
Adrian stops wriggling and leans in to whisper in your ear, “this is dinner.”
You squeak, feeling a chill crawl up your spine.
The dhampir chuckles then says, “tickle, tickle, sweetness…”
That evening, there was no more sign of melancholy. Only laughter, affection and peace. Your plan worked.
