#jest-at-destiny

[dk-thrive]

Almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of Psst that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer.

— David Foster Wallace, "Infinite Jest" (Little, Brown and Company, 1996) (via Dylan O'Sullivan)

[friendlyneighbourhoodfreak]

Huntercorp Sam and Dean have definitely fucked. Those two seem more incestuous that the regular Sam and Dean (if that's even possible)

[fili-the-jester]

Long Xiaojiao: Who?

Ao Lie: Hey! There you are! Oh good, you’re not dead. That’s quite a relief!

Long Xiaojiao: Dead?! What?! What’s happening?! Is this what dying is like?!

Ao Lie: *laughs* No, no, no! Trust me, I’ve experienced dying and this is not it. Just a little spiritual communing. Completely harmless. I think.

Long Xiaojiao: Hey, I heard that!

[taxus-fraud]

8 hours in LFG hell was worth it for one of the coolest emblems they've ever made

[prommytheus]

by the way the title spirit of justice has always bothered me. not only are you repeating the word justice fucking again in your titles but Spirit of the Law was already a phrase

[luna-light-eclipse]

@orbdotexe Okay here she is- Aster who’s utterly pissed at the world because A: She did not want to be drawn I had so much trouble why was it so hard? And B: She’s not in armour either. And C: She’s just very eepy she hasn’t taken a nap ever.

[lopmon1234]

Piemon: aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

ピエモン：あああああ…

Piemon: Ā ā a…

Dub

Piedmon: aaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

[idkyetxoxo]

Cregan Stark - By Choice or Chance

Summary - Weary of courtly schemes she entrusts her brother Jace to choose her suitor—only to be blindsided when he selects his closest friend. Chaos and wit ensue as she wrestles with frustration, family bonds, and an undeniable spark. A reluctant union begins to feel like destiny.

Pairing - Cregan Stark x Velaryon reader

Warnings - None

Word count -2339

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"I am so utterly tired of this," I groaned, my voice heavy with exhaustion as I walked alongside Jace. 

His hearty laugh echoed through the corridor, clearly finding amusement in my predicament, a cruel sort of merriment that only an older brother could revel in.

"Mother knows better than anyone how loathsome it was for her to parade around the realm in search of a husband. So why, in all the Seven Hells, must I suffer the same fate?" I grumbled, tugging at Jace's arm with a mixture of desperation and annoyance. 

His grin only widened, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"You know that's not why she's making you do this," Jace replied, effortlessly guiding me toward the grand hall, where I knew far too many eager, power-hungry men awaited like vultures scenting blood.

 "She simply wants a show—appearances, nothing more. You could refuse every single one of them, twice over, and she'd still be amused."

"I do not wish to endure this farce anymore," I muttered, forcing a practised, empty smile to settle upon my face as we crossed the threshold. 

The buzz of voices hushed as our presence commanded the room, countless lords straightening, eyes alight with thinly veiled ambition.

Jace cast a sideways glance at me, a flicker of sincerity breaking through his usual playfulness.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, his tone turning uncharacteristically grave. I bit my lip, closing my eyes against the cacophony of noise, my heart pounding with an odd mix of frustration and resignation.

"Choose for me," I whispered, the words a surrender as I nodded, the weight of my decision pressing down on me. Jace stared at me, stunned.

"You would want me to—" he began, disbelief colouring his words. I reached for his hand, pulling him down beside me before he could say more. 

"Do not jest, and do not mock. I trust you, Jace. You are my older brother. Choose someone worthy—someone kind and honourable. No one cruel, no one who would shatter what little peace I hold," I said, my voice low but firm. 

My plea was raw and earnest, and I saw something shift in his eyes—a hint of moisture he quickly blinked away.

His gaze softened, and I rolled my eyes to break the tension, pinching his thigh hard enough to make him yelp. 

"I trust you," I repeated, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "Pick someone you would trust to be kind."

He studied me for a moment longer, then exhaled, a hint of nervousness betraying him as he turned his attention to the gathering crowd. 

Ser Erryk had begun to announce the lords, each name a dull drumbeat in my ears. But then Jace leaned closer, his voice barely audible. 

"Cregan Stark," he whispered.

I blinked, confusion clouding my features. "What?"

He nodded toward the entrance, where a tall, imposing figure with a warm smile strode purposefully into the hall. Lord Cregan Stark. 

My heart stuttered as I recognized him—Warden of the North, my brother's friend. His smile grew as he greeted Jace with a strong embrace.

"I have chosen Lord Cregan Stark," Jace declared suddenly, standing and turning to the crowd. His voice rang with an authority that left no room for argument.

"My prince?" Cregan asked, stepping back and glancing at me with a mixture of surprise and cautious formality.

"Princess," he greeted, bowing slightly as I rose, fighting to keep my composure amidst the whirlwind.

"Jace, are you certain?" I asked, my voice low but urgent. "Do not simply choose a companion because he is familiar. Think this through," I implored. Jace's lips curved in a soft, genuine smile.

"He is kind. He is honourable. Above all, I trust him," Jace said, placing a reassuring hand on Cregan's shoulder, though the poor man's expression remained one of utter bewilderment.

"My lords," Jace announced, addressing the room. "The princess has made her choice."

"She has?" I whispered, incredulous, eyes darting between my brother and Cregan. The assembled nobles erupted into disgruntled murmurs, their dissatisfaction palpable. 

Cregan's wide eyes met mine, his bewilderment almost comical.

"Jace, he hasn't even agreed!" I hissed through clenched teeth.

Jace turned to Cregan, feigning surprise at the oversight. "Ah, right. Lord Stark, would you accept the hand of my sister?"

I groaned inwardly, smacking Jace's arm with more force than was strictly necessary. "I was a fool to leave this in your hands," I muttered, my voice thick with regret.

Cregan cleared his throat, his deep voice calm despite the chaos. "My prince, I would be honoured, but—"

"Excellent!" Jace interrupted, beaming like a child who'd just gotten away with mischief.

"My deepest apologies, Lord Stark," I rushed to say, stepping forward. "We have thrust you into an impossible situation. My brother is a reckless fool, and I assure you, this can be undone. You owe me nothing."

Cregan opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it, seemingly at a loss for words. His eyes flickered with a mixture of confusion and faint amusement, but he remained silent. 

I turned my gaze toward the dispersing crowd of disgruntled lords and courtiers, who murmured their discontent as they made their way out. 

My eyes snapped back to Jace, and I felt a surge of hot anger rising in my chest.

"You," I spat, each word dripping with exasperation, "are an idiot, a fool, and most importantly, soon-to-be-dead." I punctuated each insult with a slap to his arm, which he only half-heartedly tried to dodge. 

Jace's expression was a mix of sheepishness and a smirk that betrayed far too much enjoyment of my ire.

"Princess, truly—" Cregan began, his deep voice calm and measured, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

"My lord, I insist," I said, my tone urgent but polite. "Please, attend to whatever matters have brought you so far south. I will see that this... misunderstanding is corrected." I shot Jace a furious glare and shoved him aside. 

"Go on," I added, more to myself than anyone else, already plotting how I might fix this mess.

As I strode purposefully toward Ser Erryk, my blood still boiling, I extended my hand with a commanding air. 

"Ser Erryk, your sword. For just a moment," I demanded, my voice firm. 

The knight hesitated, glancing between me and Jace, whose eyes had widened in genuine alarm as he rapidly shook his head.

"Princess, perhaps it would be wise to reconsider—" Ser Erryk began cautiously, his hand not moving from the hilt of his sword. The edge of his voice suggested he'd rather face a dragon than step into the sibling quarrel unfolding before him.

I let out a groan of frustration, turning back to Jace, who had the audacity to grin, albeit nervously. I pointed an accusing finger at him, my voice sharp.

"You will listen to whatever Lord Stark has to say. You will grant whatever request he makes. Then, and only then, will you come find me—so I can kill you myself," I declared, each word laced with the promise of retribution.

Jace's grin faltered slightly, and he swallowed, but a trace of his usual bravado remained. 

"Understood, sister," he replied, a hint of humour still lingering despite the severity of the situation.

Jace had always been both my greatest tormentor and my fiercest protector. 

His ability to infuriate me in one moment and remind me of his steadfast loyalty in the next was a skill honed over years of sibling rivalry. 

Yet now, as his antics threatened to reshape my entire future, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to strangle him or thank him.

Spinning on my heel, I stormed out of the hall, the thud of the great doors closing behind me echoing like a drumbeat. 

My footsteps reverberated down the stone corridors as I sought a moment of solitude—a moment to cool the fire raging within me.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

Dinner that evening was a grand affair. The great hall was bathed in the warm glow of flickering candlelight, casting long shadows on the stone walls. 

The scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation.

 I entered with a mix of trepidation and resignation. 

The events of the day still burned vividly in my mind, and I could already sense the watchful eyes of courtiers waiting for any sign of discord or scandal.

I moved to my usual seat at the long table, and as I did, Jace approached, a mischievous smile playing at his lips. 

For a brief moment, it seemed he might take the seat beside me, but at the last second, he hesitated. His eyes met mine with a flicker of guilt—or was it amusement?—before he strode deliberately to the far end of the table, placing as much distance between us as possible. 

I rolled my eyes, feeling a pang of annoyance and, perhaps, a twinge of disappointment. I steeled myself for another night of tense silence and forced pleasantries.

Just then, a shadow fell across my seat. I looked up, surprised to see none other than Cregan Stark standing there.

 His presence seemed to command the attention of the entire room. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a bearing that spoke of quiet strength, he inclined his head respectfully.

 "May I join you, Princess?" he asked, his voice low and rumbling.

I blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. Heat crept up my neck, and I hoped the dim light would mask the blush that rose to my cheeks. 

"Of course, my lord," I replied, perhaps a touch too quickly. 

He took the seat beside me, and I was keenly aware of his nearness—the brush of his arm as he settled himself, the faint scent of northern pine that clung to him.

Across the table, my mother, Rhaenyra, regarded us with a knowing smile. "Well done, my love," she said, lifting her goblet in a subtle toast. "An excellent choice for a husband."

I nearly choked on my wine. "No, Mother," I protested, setting the goblet down with more force than necessary. "This was not my doing. Jace was being impulsive and foolish, as he so often is."

Rhaenyra arched a regal brow, amusement sparkling in her eyes. 

"Is that so?" she asked, her tone almost playful. "Well, it seems Lord Stark disagrees."

I turned sharply to Cregan, who met my gaze steadily. There was no trace of discomfort in his expression; instead, he looked resolute, even gentle. 

"If you will have me, Princess," he said, his voice warm and sincere, "I would be truly honoured."

My heart skipped a beat. Time seemed to slow, and for a moment, all the sounds of the great hall—the laughter, the clinking of plates, the rustling of fine garments—faded into the background.

 I glanced at Jace, who was watching from across the room with a smug, self-satisfied grin.

 I shot him a glare, but it held no real malice. His plan, reckless as it had been, seemed to have worked better than even he could have anticipated.

I turned back to Cregan, searching his eyes for any hint of hesitation, any sign that this was a mere formality. But there was none. 

"Of course," I blurted, my voice a mix of nerves and excitement. "Of course, I will have you."

His smile was genuine and relieved. We began to speak then, softly at first, exchanging pleasantries and stories. 

We spoke of Winterfell, of his travels, of the Northern customs that differed so much from those of the South. He asked me of my own life, and for once, I found myself speaking freely, without the need to measure every word.

 His interest was genuine, and his laughter, deep and rich, filled the spaces between courses.

Throughout the meal, our conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by shared glances and moments of unspoken understanding. 

It was as if the rest of the hall melted away, and we were the only two people in the room. 

I caught Jace's eye once or twice, and he raised his goblet in a silent toast, a look of smug triumph on his face. 

I would have thrown something at him if I weren't so... happy.

As the evening wore on, I realized that this was the best possible outcome—an arrangement born of chaos and impulse that somehow, against all odds, felt right.

By the end of the dinner, my earlier frustration had all but disappeared, replaced by something far more promising.

As the last of the courses was cleared away, Cregan turned to me, his expression shifting from lighthearted to something more serious, more vulnerable. He leaned closer, and I felt the air between us grow heavy with anticipation. 

"I truly did not anticipate this, Princess," he whispered, his voice low and intimate, meant for my ears alone. 

His words carried a hint of wonder, as if he too marveled at the unexpected turn of fate that had brought us here.

A flutter of nerves stirred in my chest, and I couldn't bring myself to meet his gaze. 

Instead, I focused on the way his thumb traced a slow, careful path over his goblet as if searching for the right words. 

Hesitantly, as though testing the waters, he reached for my hand. His fingers brushed against mine, warm and reassuring, and then settled over them. 

The touch was gentle, almost tentative, as if he feared I might pull away.

"But I am ever so pleased," he said, his voice a soft rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. 

His eyes searched mine, and there was no mistaking the sincerity in his gaze—the promise of respect, kindness, and something that could become more.

My breath caught, and I found myself squeezing his hand in return, a silent answer to the unspoken question that lingered between us.

 "As am I," I whispered, the words barely audible, but the truth of them resonated within me. 

In that moment, beneath the flickering candlelight and the watchful eyes of our kin, the tension melted away, replaced by something softer, something I dared to hope could last.

 Perhaps Jace's reckless gamble had been worth it after all.

A/n - Everybody say thank you older brother Jace, this was so fun to write asw was lowkey giggling whilst typing away (lowkey got me out of a writing slump) 😝

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru

[xichilie]

Your Brant stuff is wonderful, thank you for your service 🫡🫡 truly grateful for the food akajdjad

Any thoughts on a Brant soulmate au? Or reader gets hurt in battle?

I'll pop back in, so may I be 🍣 sushi anon?

Hello 🍣 ♡

I'm glad you like my work, I'm here to serve you soulmate AU Brant 🫡

Brant x (fem) reader

A Fools fate

Brant had always imagined what his soulmate might be like.

As a child, the thought had been one of whimsical daydreams. Back then, he would steal moments beneath the high arches of the Cathedral of Mercury, lying on his back on the cool stone floor, staring up at the endless patterns of stars painted across the vaulted ceiling. He used to wonder if they would be kind, if they would laugh at his jokes, if they would understand the way his mind leaped from thought to thought like a performer on a tightrope. He imagined them as a partner in mischief, someone who would run through the streets with him, hands intertwined, hearts racing as they escaped some minor trouble.

Then the banishment happened.

Then the world taught him that hope was a foolish thing.

Brant had always been called a fool, but he learned that to hope—to truly believe in something as pure as destiny—was the cruelest jest of all. The Order of the Deep had sent him away, cast him to the sea on the Pilgrim's Sail, branding him a heretic for questioning what should not be questioned. He had thought then, as the waves swallowed his screams, that fate was not kind, that if he had a soulmate, they would never find him.

But despite it all, a small, stubborn part of him still dreamed.

Even after surviving Penitent's End, even after forging the Troupe of Fools and carving out a life among those deemed unworthy, he still let himself imagine. Would his soulmate pity him? Would they look at him with disgust upon seeing he is cast away labeled a Fool? Would they recoil, realizing they were bound to a man that all of Ragunna had forsaken?

For years, these thoughts lingered at the edge of his mind, unspoken but ever-present.

And then, on a night of golden light and laughter, everything changed.

The streets of Rinascita were alive with the pulse of the Carnevale.

Music filled the air, twining through the alleys and plazas, the rhythm of drums and the soaring notes of flutes weaving into a grand tapestry of sound. Lanterns of deep crimson and gold swung overhead, casting flickering light upon the masked revelers who danced through the city in a swirl of color. Everywhere, laughter and song filled the night, drowning out all worries, all burdens. For this night, and this night alone, the past did not matter.

And yet, despite the revelry, Brant felt something pull at him—a sensation like a thread wrapped around his ribcage, tugging him forward, guiding him through the throng of people.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. He had always had sharp instincts, a knack for following his gut. But this was different. This was urgent.

He wove through the crowd, past jesters and masked nobles, past merchants hawking jeweled trinkets and perfumed silks. The laughter around him faded into a distant hum, his pulse pounding in his ears. The pull grew stronger, more insistent, leading him away from the grand plazas and deeper into the quiet edges of the celebration.

And then—

He saw her.

She stood just beyond the glow of the lanterns, half in shadow, watching the festivities with quiet eyes. She wasn’t dancing, wasn’t caught up in the chaos like the others. There was something still about her, something that made the air around her feel different. A quiet presence, a beacon in the storm.

Brant stopped in his tracks.

He had spent years imagining this moment, playing out countless scenarios in his mind. He had thought that if he ever met his soulmate, he would know instantly, that there would be some great, grand revelation—music swelling, the world pausing, something unmistakable.

But in the end, it was something simpler. A deep, resonant certainty that struck him to his very core.

And then, as if fate itself wished to carve the truth into the very fabric of reality, it happened.

A golden thread shimmered into existence between them.

Brant barely had time to process what he was seeing before it moved, twisting like a ribbon caught in an invisible breeze. It wound itself around his wrist first, warm against his skin, before reaching for her and binding them together.

His breath caught.

He had always heard the stories—the golden thread of fate that tied soulmates together, a tangible mark of destiny’s will. But to see it, to feel it—

He exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at his side.

Would she flinch? Would she look at him with fear or disgust, realizing who fate had tethered her to? He braced himself, old wounds threatening to open anew.

But when she lifted her gaze to meet his, there was no fear.

Only wonder.

Her lips parted slightly as she looked down at their bound wrists. She raised her hand, fingers brushing the golden thread as if testing whether it was real. A flicker of something passed across her face—not hesitation, not wariness, but recognition.

Brant swallowed, suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath.

"Well," he said, voice softer than usual, lacking his usual theatrical lilt. "That’s unexpected."

A breath of laughter escaped her, quiet but real. "Is it?"

"Not the soulmate part." His lips quirked into a wry smile. "But I thought the universe might have a crueler sense of humor."

She tilted her head slightly. "You don’t seem too disappointed."

Brant exhaled, glancing at the golden thread still wrapped around their wrists. "Disappointed?" He let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. "No. Just... wondering how I’m supposed to make a grand first impression when fate has already decided this for me."

She smiled, a small, knowing thing. "You don’t need one."

His heart stuttered in his chest.

For all his wit, all his charm, all the ways he had learned to deflect with humor, he found himself at a loss for words. Instead, he lifted his hand, gently brushing his fingers against the thread. The moment he did, warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading like sunlight after a storm.

She felt it too—he could see it in the way her breath caught, in the way her fingers curled slightly as if to hold onto that sensation.

Brant let out a shaky exhale, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "Well then," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "It seems I have a lifetime to make up for lost time."

She smiled, and this time, it was brighter than the lanterns, warmer than the night itself.

Brant didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know what trials they would face, what obstacles lay ahead. But as he stood there, hand still bound to hers, he knew one thing for certain.

Fate had not been cruel after all.

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : Blood, deaths, injury.

A/N : This is the prologue, I only have three chapter written so far but at the second I get my wifi back I’m getting into writing. Hope y’all like it. (Minors can interact).

•| ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ |•

Rome was built on blood. And you were the hand that spilled it.

THERE ARE STORIES CARVED INTO THE BONES OF THE EARTH, whispered through the winds that sweep across ancient ruins. Tales of glory and conquest, of gods and mortals entwined in fate’s cruel embrace. The foundation of Rome is one such tale—a story of two brothers, bound by blood and divided by destiny. But as with all legends, there are truths buried beneath the myth. Forgotten truths.

They say Romulus built Rome, that he was chosen by the gods to raise its walls and reign as its first king. They do not speak of the blood spilled to make that city rise. They do not speak of the brother he killed to crown himself in glory.

There were once two brothers.

Romulus was the elder—clever and kind, the embodiment of law and order. He dreamed of empire, of power forged in marble and blood. He believed in destiny, a thread spun by the gods that he alone was meant to hold. He was a man of ambition, of unyielding will, a figure carved from Vesta.

And then there was Remus.

Wild and untamed, like a storm that could never be captured. His laughter echoed through the forests, and his rebellion burned brighter than any hearth fire. He saw the world not as it was, but as it could be—free from chains, free from the gods’ cruel games. Where Romulus sought order, Remus sought freedom. Where Romulus spoke of duty, Remus spoke of love.

And you—

You were a thread woven between them. Promised to Romulus, a symbol of unity and strength. But your heart… your heart belonged to Remus. From the moment you met him, you were lost to him. He was the untamed sky, and you were a restless sea, drawn to his wildness, to the way he saw you—not as a pawn in a king’s game, but as something free.

For a time, you believed love could overcome fate. That you could be more than what the gods decreed. But love, like all things, demanded a price.

When the brothers stood on the banks of the Tiber, planning their city, it was not the gods who chose the victor. It was betrayal. It was blood.

It began as a game. The brothers sought a sign from the gods to determine who would build their city on which hill. Romulus stood on the Palatine, and Remus on the Aventine. Romulus claimed twelve ravens flew above him, a symbol of divine favor. Remus, desperate not to lose, lied—saying six ravens flew above him first, trying to claim the gods had spoken to him before they turned to Romulus.

Romulus saw through the lie, and his heart hardened.

To Romulus, the betrayal was unforgivable. His brother had not only tried to take the city meant for him but had tarnished the will of the gods. The gods had chosen Romulus, and in Remus’s defiance, he saw rebellion, chaos—a threat to everything he dreamed of building.

When Remus leapt mockingly over the boundary Romulus had marked for the city walls, Romulus saw not a jest, but a challenge. His sword met his brother’s heart before the laughter faded from Remus’s lips.

Romulus knelt over his fallen brother, his hands stained with blood. He did not weep. He whispered words of duty, of sacrifice, convincing himself that this was what the gods demanded.

But Romulus hadn’t struck his brother down only for his mockery. He had seen you with Remus, seen the way you looked at him with love meant only for a husband. His rage was not born of ambition alone—it was born of betrayal. His brother had taken what was his.

The gods watched as Remus fell to the earth, his blood seeping into the soil that would one day grow Rome. They watched as you wept over his broken body, as your cries pierced the heavens and as your body was thrown into the Tiber. But the gods are cruel, and they do not weep for mortals.

For your infidelity, they cursed you.

You would be the goddess of legends, doomed to remember the forgotten brother. While the world praised Romulus, calling him the founder of Rome, you would walk the earth, whispering stories of Remus to those who cared to listen. His name would fade from history, but it would never fade from your lips.

You became a wanderer, a keeper of forgotten truths. You roamed the ruins of Rome, tracing the paths you once walked with Remus. You stood by the Tiber where he fell, your fingers brushing the reeds as if they still held his blood. You told his story to passing travelers, to poets and dreamers, hoping that someone—anyone—would remember him.

Centuries passed. Empires rose and fell. But your curse endured. The world forgot Remus, praising the greatness of Rome, built on his bones. Romulus was remembered as a hero, while Remus became nothing more than a whisper on the wind.

But legends are never truly lost.

The gods are cruel, but fate is crueler. Time is a circle, and stories never end—they simply begin again. The soul of Remus, restless and wild, could not be bound by death. He would be reborn, again and again, destined to cross paths with you across the ages.

And now, in the heart of Rome’s empire, he lives once more.

He is not a prince or a king this time. He is no longer a man of noble birth, destined to build cities. He is a gladiator, a slave, bound in chains, his body scarred by the lash and his heart hardened by loss. But his eyes—those storm-blue eyes—are the same.

You see him in the Colosseum, fighting for his life with the same reckless abandon that once made you love him. His name is no longer Remus. He is Anakin now—a man forgotten by the gods, but not by you.

You watch him from the shadows, aching with the weight of centuries. You want to reach out, to call his name, to tell him that you remember. That you have always remembered. But the gods are watching, and they will not forgive you for defying them again.

Still, you cannot stay away.

Your paths will cross. They must. The gods may curse you, but they cannot erase what was written into the stars.

Rome was built on blood, on betrayal, on love lost and found. And as you stood among its ruins, you knew that history will repeat itself. The immortal and the reincarnated. The forgotten brother and the wandering soul.

But heroism was not your fate.

And what nobody knew, was that before the creation of Rome and before their names were changed by layers of history, the brothers true Jedi names, the one they were born with as simple mortals…were Anakin and Obi-Wan. 

[littlefireball]

ꜱʜ|ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴄᴀᴛᴄʜᴇʀ (ᴍ/ᴀ)

Write about a dream assassin who is tasked with fighting a nightmare that disturb people's sleep. (ref)

a/n: find it on pinterest and an idea just pops up in my mind

ᴇxᴏʀᴄɪꜱᴛ (ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴ) ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴋ*ʟʟᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴇx ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ (ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ)|ᴏʀᴀʟ|ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ|ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ|ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ|ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ʙʀᴇᴀꜱᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.8ᴋ

Summary: As an exorcist, your mission was clear: eliminate the demon. Yet, destiny had other plans. You found yourself captivated by him. Even after vanquishing his true essence, his spirit lingered within you, refusing to be forgotten. The only way to find peace was to confront him once more. But could you summon the strength to do it? Or would you surrender to the pull of your heart and let yourself love him all over again? 

"Here you are, nightmare." A deep voice shattered the silence as Seonghwa turned to confront you, a gun aimed directly at him. Ever since that tragic moment when you took the life of your beloved, believing him to be a demon rather than a mere mortal, a haunting darkness has consumed you. It was only natural that you would return here, driven by the desire to finish what you started─killed the demon.

"Ah, what a pleasant surprise, darling." He approached you, arms wide open, his demeanor relaxed as if your threat was nothing more than a playful jest. After all, in his world, he could control everything. 

"What can I do for you?"

"Easy. Stop making a nightmare and go back where you belong."

"My bad. Here I am. The dream is my true home."

"Absolutely not." You tightened your grip on the weapon, advancing toward him. "Hell is."

Seonghwa's smile never faltered, even as you closed the distance between you, the barrel of the gun now inches from his chest. It felt like your weapon was a mere toy in his eyes.

"You see, my dear, you misunderstand. I am not a mere nightmare conjured from the depths of someone's subconscious. I am the guardian of dreams, both sweet and terrifying."

Your finger trembled slightly on the trigger, but you refused to let your guard down. "Guardian? You bring nothing but fear and despair. I've seen the havoc you've wreaked on countless minds."

"Ah, but fear and despair are but facets of the human experience. They shape us, mold us, and make us stronger. Without them, we would be nothing more than hollow shells, devoid of emotion and understanding. I am merely a messenger, a catalyst for growth."

You shook your head, disbelieving. "No, you're just a monster hiding behind the veil of dreams. You feed on people's fears, twisting and manipulating them to your own ends."

Seonghwa's expression softened, and he took a step closer, the gun's muzzle pressing against his chest with each breath. "And what of your own fears, my dear? Do you not fear losing someone you love?I am but a reflection of those fears, a projection of your own mind."

You felt a surge of anger and frustration wash over you. "Don't try to play mind games with me. I know what you are, and I won't let you hurt anyone else."

"Hurt? I have never harmed anyone willingly. It is the fear within them that brings harm, not I. I am but a mirror, reflecting back their deepest terrors. If they can confront those fears, they will find strength within themselves."

Your resolve wavered for a moment, but you pushed it aside. "Enough of your lies. I won't fall for your manipulation. Go back to hell!" 

Without a second thought, you pulled the trigger; yet, he stood still despite the bullet passing through his body. The bullet hole in his chest closed seamlessly, leaving no trace of the violence you had just unleashed. 

"What?" 

"That's what you fear, honey." He cupped your face, gazing at your pitiful eyes. "You can't kill someone you love." Seonghwa's touch was gentle, yet it felt like a prison, trapping you in a reality that was both yours and not. The gun slipped from your fingers, clattering to the ground.

"I don't like you!Just get off me!" You shuttered, trying to deny the emotion that was bubbling up inside you. Yet, despite your words, your heart remained unable to hide the truth from him.

"Are you sure?" His voice was soft, almost soothing. "Or is it that you're afraid to admit it?"

Your heart raced as you struggled to find the word to refute him. "He was true, no. He merely glanced into the depths of your heart, then skillfully manipulated your subconscious to mold himself into the figure of your beloved." You thought. 

"Oh dear, dear." He muttered under his breath. "You know you love me." 

"No, you're evil and I hate you." 

"No.Y/N." He inched forward, his gaze piercing. "You're just afraid to admit who I truly am. You can't bear the thought that your beloved is a demon." 

"Please…no…" You shook your head, desperate to reject reality, yearning to escape the dream, but it held you captive. You shut your eyes tightly, and the only image that surfaced was that of your lost lover, the one you had taken from this world with your own hands. He smiled and waved, a siren luring you from the depths, beckoning you to surrender to this intoxicating embrace of longing.

"Love?" As you opened your eyes, you were greeted by the sight of Seonghwa standing in front of you,in the home you two shared, appearing entirely human. Gone were the devil horns, wings, and tail; everything felt just as normal as it had the day before you discovered his true nature. 

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, brushing away your tears. "What's wrong?"

Memories from the past flicker in your mind once again. He was a demon, having conjured a dreadful creation to dominate the dreams of others, disrupting their slumber and even devouring their souls. You were an exorcist, adept at eradicating the evil that tormented humanity. Yet, fate had a twist in store─you found yourselves falling in love during an encounter. Although you succeeded in destroying his true form, his spirit continued to reside within your heart, an unforgettable presence. 

"I had a terrible dream. I saw you turn into a devil."

"Don't be silly, girl." He laughed softly, wrapping you in a warm embrace. "How could I ever be a demon?" He rested his chin on your head, planting a tender kiss there. You nestled against him, your arms encircling his waist, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Could it all be a figment of your imagination? Perhaps he was merely an illusion, not a demon at all.

"I am afraid." 

"Shh, everything's fine." 

"Can you kiss me, hwa?" You murmured, your voice barely a whisper. "Please..." 

A sly grin danced across Seonghwa's face, aware that you had succumbed to him. With a gentle caress of your cheek, he drew you in for a kiss, slow and tender. Tears welled in your eyes, a painful reminder of the past. Those haunting memories clung to you like specters, dragging you into an abyss of regret, where you might never resurface.

You really missed him.

His kisses, warm and lingering, traveled down your jawline and neck, igniting a thrilling, tingling sensation that made your heart race.

"Be mine, Y/N." In an instant, he cradled your face in his hands and drew you into a fervent kiss. He intensified the kiss, his tongue probing for access with a touch of fierceness, a wordless assertion of possession. A wave of breathlessness washed over you instantly.

His hands crept to your back, slipping beneath your clothing to caress your skin, drawing a soft whimper of embarrassment from you. Your body ignited from the kiss, your thoughts dissolving as the world around you swirled in a dizzying dance. Yet, none of it mattered; you surrendered completely, allowing him to guide the moment. 

He seized your wrist with a firm grip, forcing you down onto the floor, and your clothes vanished into thin air. He showered your chest with tender kisses, his tongue gliding over your skin, punctuated by playful nibbles that sent shivers down your spine. His fingers wrapped around your bare thighs, parting them as he descended toward your stomach. His breath pooled against your clit, making you squirm and curl your toes. 

"Fuck…" You let out a small gasp as his flatted tongue licked your clit from the bottom to the top, shocked by the sudden touch of his wet muscle. "So sensitive, huh?" He drew back to your wetness, dropping a kiss before sucking your bud. A choppy moan and words flew away from your tongue, overwhelming pleasure made you lose words. 

You reached down to press your hand to the back of his head, ruffling his hair as your fingers buried in them. You arched your back and your bottom lips started shaking as soon as his tongue found its way to your cunt. Pushing one finger and his tongue to your depth, he slid in and out slowly, making sure you felt every movement. 

"Hwa─!!" Your whole body shook from his quick thrusting; he pushed in two more fingers to rub against your lovely wall, curling them to kiss your spot with different angles; his nose nudging your clit as he ate you out, tapping your bud and leaving a broken kiss on that. 

"Please…I'm so close…" Shutting your eyes tightly,a knot formed in your stomach that needed to be released. "Show me what you get from him, dear. Make a mess on my face, I want to taste you." His dirty words hung in the air, bringing you to the edge. His thrust went faster and faster, and you came on his face with a heavy pant. 

"Goodness, how delicious you are." Licking away the juices on his face, he then divided into your clit again to taste your sweetness. "Seog…" You tried to push away his head and drew back your hip, the overstimulation made you catch your breath; but he grabbed your ankles to pull you back, pushing them aside for better licking. He sucked even harder and licked faster, producing a loud kissing sound and mixed with your messy moaning. "Cum one more for me." He murmured before latching back to suck your juices. He let out a satisfied whimper, each vocalization caused vibrations that drove you insane. You couldn't help but cum again without warning.

"You're doing well, my baby girl." Seonghwa loomed over you, pressing his lips against yours. As you gradually opened your eyes, a chilling sight met you—an ominous creature lurking behind him, ready to devour your soul. A wave of terror washed over you as your eyes darted back to Seonghwa, who wore a sinister grin that sent shivers down your spine. You realized that retreating was no longer an option; you had to act before it was too late. For a fleeting moment, clarity returned, but it slipped away like sand through your fingers as Seonghwa pulled you deeper into his embrace.

"Look at me." He gently cupped your face with one of his hands, another followed to guide his manhood press against your entrance. "Say you love me, honey. I want to hear from you." 

"I love you…hwa…" Smiling, he pushed forward in one go, intertwining his fingers with yours. Your spine curved once more, your head sinking into his neck before it settled back against the ground. His towering figure obscured your view, leaving you unable to see what the creature would unleash in the next heartbeat."Hwa…hwa…" Your begging was ignored as he kept thrusting steadily. He was long enough to reach your deepest, making your legs bent more. 

He drew his hips a little bit and then pushed back in a quick motion, hitting your spot dead on. His pelvis grazed your clit each time he thrusted in. Everything was not rough but enough to bring you enjoyment; you soon forgot the excitement of the creature as he continued to roll his hips into you. 

"You're so good, honey." His hand slipped beneath your back, lifting you effortlessly and placing you on his lap. One of his legs encircled you, inviting you to snuggle into his warm embrace. With a firm grip, both of his hands clasped your hips, drawing you in with an undeniable strength, making your soft flesh hit his hard tip. "I can't get enough from you." 

"Oh my god!" You encircled his shoulder with your arms, squeezing your eyes shut as the unexpected jolt hit you. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, and then he playfully did it again. You let out a soft whine each time his tip shoved into your tightness. Your wall clenched, squeezing his cock hard, making a long throaty moan fly from Seonghwa's mouth. 

"I'll cum if you keep doing this." Seonghwa opened and closed his mouth for breathing, little did he know, he's already sunk in this love making. The spirit of an exorcist radiates a purity that is rare among humans, making it a sought-after prize. But is it truly easy to seize their souls? A direct approach is out of the question, yet what if they chose to offer themselves? It could be a risk worth taking. If he fails, he faces a return to hell, a place he loathes though. 

Then, he crossed paths with you. Your emotional naivety stands out, captivating him. Through his love, tenderness, and affection, you fell in love with him. The ultimate goal is for you to be the one to end his life. Only then will your obsession ensure his soul remains tethered to you. He was right all along. He haunts your thoughts, tormenting you relentlessly, until today, when you finally gave him everything you had.

Throwing your head at the back to give him more access, he buried himself in your chest, peppering it with an open mouth kiss. He bit your nipple slightly, sucking it to leave a red mark on that and tapping it quickly with his tongue tip. You were so perfect, from head to toe. He could just make love with you endlessly; your body was made for him, your moaning was his favourite rhythm in this world. Gosh, maybe he was the one who couldn't forget you. 

"Cum for me again, honey. I need you." "Fuck…fuck…fuck!!" You couldn't hear anything but your high-pitched moan and rough skin slapping sound. Feeling you reach the peak again, your arms and legs lost all strength as soon as the numbness creeped in, finally came the third time before Seonghwa creamed your wall with his hot white seed. 

Gasping for breath, you fell against Seonghwa's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "You're mine now, forever." He cradled you into his arms, refusing to release you. As your vision sharpened, the creature lurking behind him came into focus. Before you could utter a word, it engulfed you, each fragment of your being transforming into a flicker of light and vanishing into the ether. Initially taken aback, you swiftly steadied yourself. Ha, you indeed couldn't get rid of him. Without any words, without any reaction, you disappeared in the air.

The world faded into a deep abyss once again, a familiar cloak of darkness that wrapped around him. A contented smirk appeared on his lips as he rose, feeling a rush of strength flood his veins.

It's worth it, even if it does consume time. Her soul was simply exquisite." Seonghwa stepped away from the dream, eager to hunt for his next victim. Yet, he was unprepared for the realization that no soul could compare to yours. An aching void settled in his heart, a persistent reminder of something lost. Why was this? Shouldn't he revel in the triumph of devouring an exorcist's essence? Shouldn't pride swell within him? Instead, he was met with an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

Had he fallen for you, too? He would never confess it. Yet, the memories of your shared moments haunted him—your laughter, your warm embrace, the sweetness of your kiss, the softness of your touch…everything.

—--

"What is the flavor of an exorcist's soul? Is it something delightful? Hongjoong sat opposite Seonghwa, savoring a sip of his drink. 

"Disgusting," Seonghwa declared.

"So you just wasted your time. I warned you."

"Not your concern." Seonghwa shut his eyes, wishing to avoid the conversation.

"Oh, I was actually going to suggest an exorcist for you. But maybe it's pointless now."

"Let me see."

"Are you sure? Didn't you just say it's revolting?"

Seonghwa shot him a glare that could freeze fire, prompting a chuckle from Hongjoong as he pulled a photo from his pocket.

"Here she is. I think you'll find her intriguing."

As Seonghwa gazed at the picture, a tremor of emotion coursed through his heart.

"Y/N…?" 

"Well, it depends on you how to deal with her."

Even though Seonghwa was unsure of why you remained, one thing was clear in his mind: he would once more make you his own.

tag list:@angelsaway, @yeosangcutie0615

[yourfavispolish]

Lord Saladyn z Destiny 2. Może i nie kanonicznie, ale to taki polski stary jest

Lord Saladyn from Destiny 2 is an honorary old polish man!

Lord Saladyn z Destiny 2 on ma staropolską energię!

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

An Invisible Thread | Illyrian Warrior!Bucky x Fae!Reader | Oneshot - 5k

After the war with Hybern your village is left defenceless. Despite only having picked up a sword to play with your brothers, you’re sent into the wilds of your island to track down the monster that has been stealing from the farms. 

But the monster is also on the move, and it won’t just be your limited skills as a hunter that are required to tame it or just your village that's pushing you to find it.

Warnings: the biggest warning here is Illyrian!Bucky, 18+ for language maybe, nothing scary here. Injuries, whump, hurt/comfort, some fluff, ACOTAR themes including fated mates/mating bonds. Rated W for whump and F for fluffy

Created for @buckybarnesevents Alternate Juniverse with all four prompts - fae, hunter, nurse and monster.

A/N: No ACOTAR knowledge required apart from Illyrian’s have big bat like wings and are hot as fuck. 

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and @reveriesources

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

You stood at the edge of the village, one hand on the pommel of your father’s sword and the other tucked into the fur lined pocket of your cape. 

After the war with Hybern the village’s protector’s had been depleted and, though you’d never shied away from practising with the bow and sword alongside your brothers, you had never imagined that you would become your communities only hope of protection. More suited to healing wounds than causing them, you shied away from the responsibility as much as you could. Spending your time replenishing your stocks of herbs and ointments and checking on the older residents of the village. 

Honestly, you hadn’t imagined there’d be any need for you to protect anyone. But then, isolated as you were on the Western Isles, you’d never thought that war could touch you either in your community of lesser fae. You’d never been bothered before, content to live quietly and ask for nothing. Yet here you were, back to the decimated houses and cottages of your villages, poised to leave them to hunt a monster. 

If the rumours were true, though, rumours of a beast running amok in the wild forest along the coast, then you had no choice. 

With a final look back at the squat white washed cottage where you’d left your mother, you set out towards your destiny. 

Across the island, by the shore, a towering figure bent to drink from the ice meltwater trickling into the sea beyond. 

Blood dripped from their open mouth and they howled as the salt water mixed with the fresh. They raised themselves again and slunk back into the shadows of the forest, following the waterline. 

—

As you trudged you recounted the tale the farmers had told at the inn the night before. A huge beast, black as night, had been spotted raiding their barn. The island was small enough that everyone knew each other, every sheep and cow and ploughed furrow was accounted for by name and the farmers shared the large barn that stood guard over the far end of the open fields. No stranger could have arrived without them knowing, no stranger could have tied their boat without the fishermen being alert. 

But this thing was no man, it was a beast, a fury, sent to torment them and the assembled village had turned to you. 

If it truly was a beast, something that could fly and steal cattle and destroy crops as the farmers claimed then you had no clue how you would slay such a thing. Your sword was heavy and sharp, but your skills were still basic no matter how you tried, this was not your calling. Your bow was taught and your arrows true, but practising with your brothers was a jest. 

After the weeks and months without them, perhaps it would be a blessing to sacrifice yourself for the village as they had. To be relieved of the torment of their passing. 

Sighing you pulled a hard biscuit from your pack and continued on into the dense trees that occupied one side of the island. You could remember far enough back to when the forest took over almost the whole island, your brothers and father clearing a space for the now well tilled farmland that insulated the village from the wildness beyond. The forest and the farm lived together side by side, each animal and plant having its own sacred place within the system. Each farmer conscious of keeping the wheel moving each season. 

No one had ever feared the forest as they did now. 

Your first night amid the trees past uneventfully, used to spending most of your time outside the creatures of the night didn’t scare you, neither did they fear you, choosing to approach your fireside. You weren’t entirely convinced of their being a beast within the forest either, no beast liked to cross the salt sea from the mainland, even if they could escape the Prison, there would be little for a monster here. You told yourself over and over, as sleep took you, that any monster would head to the middle, and not to the Isles. 

It seemed more likely that there was something trapped in the trees. Nevertheless you made sure to set traps around the clearing before finally laying down to sleep. 

There was a light in the forest, smoke pluming briefly before dying down into soft trails of grey that mixed with the iron sky, fading into the stars as the moon rose. Tempted by the smell it approached, its gait unsteady in the soft ground, weighed down by its own body, blood still spilling into the dry leaves. 

Closer, closer,  heaving its mighty body along the ridge of rocks that crawled across the middle of the island. It had been this way before, it had taken vegetables and savoured the earthy taste of them, raw and unwashed against its tongue. It had slipped into the barn and stolen a pail of fresh milk, still warm and buttery. 

Perhaps the smoke meant more food. But its body was tired, it groaned and slumped against a tree, wrapping into itself, a darkness thicker and colder than the world around. 

In the morning you kicked dirt over the small fire, putting out the flame. The forest was still yours to protect, even if it did harbour a threat. 

You’d sharpened your sword before sleeping, leaving it unsheathed by your side. Every arrow in your quiver had new fletching, the ash carefully crafted from the few small trees the village grew at its centre, a protection against any further cruelty coming to your shores. 

The forest was alive in the brisk early morning air, the sky pink and lilac through the canopy, rising with the mist like a slumbering dragon, stretching and yawning into a bright spring day. 

As you ventured deeper you found the ground already disturbed. When you were younger you may have doubted yourself, wondering if the tracks were your own. But you could navigate well enough now, the sun high above you leaning into the west of the island, its heat peaking. 

Whatever it was that had stumbled through here had done so some days ago, dragging itself if the scars in the soft soil were true. It was larger than you as well, larger by at least a foot. You trained your eyes up into the trees and sure enough there were broken branches there too. 

At a trot you ran between the trees, following the path of broken twigs and scored earth. There was something else, something in the air by each tree, metallic, like iron. Blood, you could almost taste it it was so strong. But it wasn’t until the seventh tree that you saw it, marked high on the bark, as if this tall beast had propped themself against it, a red smear. And underneath there were a few bones, feathers and leftover vegetables.

If this was a beast, it was a beast that didn’t like carrot tops.

It grew tired again. Sooner than last time. It looked into the sky, its eyesight blurring, as it made its way back to the cave it had begun to call home. Inside its howls were louder, but at least the rain couldn’t find a way in, at least the air was warm and the ground soft. 

It lay down and closed its eyes. 

The sky turned darker, thick clouds billowing overhead, the muggy heat of an oncoming storm weighing you down. It was too far to return to your village, you’d never make it before the rain started and you knew what could happen if the lightning struck the trees, so a camp in the forest was out of the question. 

At this rate you could make the other coast before the sunset and you knew there would be shelter there in the rocky outcrops before the dunes crept into the island. With a sigh you hefted your pack higher and began the uneasy walk through the rougher terrain. 

The rain began to fall just as you crested over the cliff top. A fisherman had advised you of the safest ways across this portion of the island but your feet still slipped on the shale as you made your way down the rocky face. You’d spotted the cave while the sun was still high. With a view down the banks of rock and sand it gave you a good look out, close enough to the woods for shelter but open enough to watch the weather change. On closer inspection there was a significant plateau in front of the cave, perhaps enough to start a small fire to heat the stone inside and cook something hot if you were lucky. 

Slowly you inched closer, sword drawn in case something wild was also sleeping inside. You hadn’t seen the blood trail for some time but you had a lingering sense of something that had you tightening your grip on the handle. It tugged at you, tempting you closer and making your heart beat wildly. 

Once inside the lip of the cave you dropped your pack and pulled out a box of tinder and some twigs you’d collected along the way, stacking up the kindling into a small fire. But without the light from the sun it was hard to even find a spark. With a sigh you abandoned your plans for heat and decided to set out your blanket and try to sleep instead, hopefully that strange feeling would pass while you dreamt and you could wake up refreshed and ready to search anew. 

The raindrops were heavier now, fat and cold and insistent, driving you deeper into the cave in search of a dry space where the wind couldn’t blow the weather inside.

As your eyes adjusted to the dusky darkness you began to pick out details of the cave, the jagged rocks on the other side, the low rock just right for resting your sword and bow on and, at the back, something large. The darkness seemed to move differently there, a different shade of black that sucked the light from the rest of the cave. Whatever it was, it was huge but still. 

Slowly you reached for your dagger, too frightened to lunge for your sword in case it made the darkness move too. But it stayed still. Carefully, you moved your feet over the rocky ground, your toes light and body ready to fight. 

The darkness didn’t move, but it did make a noise, a deep grumble and for a moment you wondered whether it was the darkness inside or the darkness outside that had startled you. 

Then it moved, slow and deliberate, the darkness expanded and flared outwards, turning towards you and despite everything your brother’s had taught you, despite your own mind begging you to stay silent - you screamed. 

It hurt, it hurt everywhere and all of the time. Its body ached, its stomach felt concave from lack of food and its head pounded from dehydration. The storm was close, the wind spoke to it through the rustle of the trees and the feel of the salt air, it spoke to it and told it to sleep, that the storm would pass but it should sleep. It shifted, stretching its aching body -

And then there was a scream. 

You lurched back, scrambling for your sword as you fell, grasping for anything that would protect you from the monster that continued to grow before your eyes. Up and up it stood filling the entire back of the cave, its body unfurling and its wings spreading into the rock above. The tip of one unholy claw scratched at the cave roof and you screamed again, turning to run from it, to take your chances in the rain rather than stay a moment with this beast. But it had other ideas, reaching for you with one huge arm it grabbed you and held you, the other came up to cover your mouth, its hand so large its thumb pressed against your nose. 

Not a monster. A male. With hands and arms, tanned and windburnt from days in the forest. 

“Please, stop screaming.” It growled again and you went silent but you didn’t still, wriggling and writhing in an attempt to free yourself. “Please,” it said again, and it was almost sad, pleading. So you stopped. 

He held you tight against his chest, his heart hammering, his muscles burning with the effort of his movement. Steadily he lowered you to the floor, careful to avoid the rocks that might trip or scratch you, and then let himself slide down the cave wall until he was once more huddled on the floor. 

“Please, don’t scream - my head.” He bent to lay his forehead against his knees, “the storm, lightning in the trees, don’t.”

He was so weak, so worried, so tired, he allowed his eyes to close, focusing on the sound of you moving. 

“Don’t.” He repeated and your footsteps moved again, closer, little rocks skudding under your boots, and then a small palm on the back of his neck. 

“You have a fever.” Your voice was gentle, now that the screaming had stopped, and your touch a relief, so cold, so soothing. “Rest.” 

Now that he wasn’t towering over you, there was something vulnerable and sad about the so-called monster. His voice stuttered as he begged you for quiet and, against your better judgement, you allowed the sound of rain rushing over the lip of the rock and into the sea to fill the space, echoing into the cavern like a heartbeat. 

Lightning flashed, lighting up half of his face in clammy, pale light. You took a step towards him, still wary, still conscious of the stories told to you by your brothers, and you touched his neck where his hair had fallen away in long strands about his face. His skin was clammy too and cold to the touch, but he shivered nevertheless. 

“You have a fever.” You said, matter of fact, “rest.” 

He nodded and all but fell sideways into the blanket roll tucked against one side of the cave. 

“You too.” He grunted, and for the first time you assessed your own damp clothes and the way you’d begun to shiver. Quickly you stripped out of your waxed cape and boots, placing them carefully in a dry spot. Your shirt and vest were dry, protected by the cape, but the long trousers you’d worn were soaked through. 

Peering at the male you made sure his breathing was steady and even before you removed your trousers and slipped between your folded blanket in just your shirt and cotton bloomers.

Sleep did not come easily for the male. He kept to his side of the cave but his fever made him grunt and shout in his sleep, his arms and hands lashing out along with his thrashing body. So you didn’t sleep, you observed him instead. Waiting for dawn to break the storm. 

Even in the moonlight he was still big, tall and broad, his muscles showing even through the dark leather and ripped linen of his clothes. And he was winged. The source of the fear and confusion for your neighbours, as well as yourself. Airborne he must have looked as majestic as he was terrifying. An Illyrian warrior, so far from home, circling the village. No wonder those who had glimpsed him had been afraid. 

Now those enormous wings were tucked around him, glowing a deep red every time the lightning crashed across the sky, tiny veins picked out around the edges as well as a large gash in his left wing. It lay almost limp on the ground while the right was tucked in tight to his side. It looked painful and blood oozed slowly from the delicate membrane but only slowly. The cut to his side looked much worse. 

The sun was almost back now, a wan light filtering into the cave and allowing you to survey the Illyrian more closely, especially the cuts and bruises that littered his body. 

At some point, he had removed part of his leather armour, discarding it to one side where the dark blue siphon blinked with light whenever he groaned. Without the protection of the armour and siphon, his side was entirely revealed through the matching cut in his shirt. It was deep and already looked swollen at the edges - infected, you were sure, probably the cause of the clammy fever. 

Despite yourself you allowed your tired eyes to rove over his body, the gaps in his shirt revealing the details of his toned chest, the swirling black ink running from his left arm, up over his shoulders and then down between his pecs and towards the v of his abdomen where the ink disappeared among a smattering of hair. 

Heat flooded your cheeks. He was an injured male, an Illyrian warrior, a revered race bound to protect your people. You were certainly not supposed to be drooling after him while he slept. 

You swallowed heavily and tried to concentrate on his needs, rather than your own. 

Daring to look again you followed the tattoos back up towards his face, long dark hair still tangled at his shoulders, a stubbled beard covered his chin, his lips tilting into a smile because - oh -  his eyes were open, bright summer sky blue, and tracking your every move. 

“Hello,” he croaked and watched as you shuffled back against the wall. 

He closed his eyes again, as if even having them open was painful. 

“Hello,” you whispered, keeping a keen eye trained on him. 

“I’m Bucky,” he said, his head still pounded. “Can you pass me the canteen from my pack?” Without looking he gestured behind him. 

“Yes.” 

He listened to the sound of you moving and then the cool metal of the canteen touched his fingers. You introduced yourself but as soon as he started to move you hurried back to your side of the cave.

Slowly, so as not to frighten you, he sat up and took a long swig before offering it to you. 

You looked tired, wrecked, but not injured. You were back under your own blanket and he noticed the too-big trousers you’d been wearing were now carefully arranged on a rock to dry. Bucky hummed to himself, that was why you’d scurried back when he’d opened his eyes. 

Your eyes flicked to the trousers too, and then back to him. “They were wet, I didn’t want to catch a chill.”

“Sensible,” he agreed, putting a hand to his side. 

“You’re hurt, and sick, you were feverish.” 

“I was, I probably still am.” He agreed looking you over with the same interest that he’d found in your eyes. 

You were a very pleasant sight after so many nights alone, a wildness to your bonny face and full body. Even hidden under the folds of your shirt he could tell that you would be soft and warm to hold. With a groan he closed his eyes again. To be held and cared for by a female, to smell the spring breeze in your hair, to taste the salt of the sea on your skin. Maybe he was halfway to the afterlife and an angel had been sent to rescue him. 

“Thank the cauldron and the mother.” He sighed happily, swaying sideways and passing out. 

The Illyrian had watched you with eyes that toed the line between hungry and hopeful. His bold gaze made you feel warm again, heat sitting heavy in your stomach, and then he mumbled something and slid to the side. 

Thankfully his arm stopped him from bumping his head, but looking at his now glazed eyes he had definitely fainted. 

Without thinking you sprang into action, rolling him carefully so that if he was sick he wouldn’t choke or swallow his tongue. His skin was cold again, but sweaty, sticking the strands of his hair to his forehead in curls. 

He needed help, quickly, but you had nothing of any great use in your bag. There was the canteen of water and some food in his own pack and a flask with what smelt like whisky in the side pocket. You withdrew the mess tin from your own pack and tried to make a fire again, hoping to boil enough clean water to be able to clean and dress his wounds. But the damp air and howling wind blew wet dirt over your kindling. 

Instead you tugged a strip of linen from the end of your shirt, trying to find the cleanest corner first and ripping higher until the long tails no longer brushed over your thighs but sat as high has your belly button, revealing your midriff to the chill air. Goosebumps raised over your arms, but you didn’t hesitate, tipping some of the whisky onto the cloth and gently dabbing at the gash to his side. There were splinters still protruding from the edges, which you pulled out as quickly as you could. 

Ash, an arrow, perhaps, or a long lance fired into the sky, judging by the way the gash lined up with the tear in Bucky’s wing. Bruises bloomed under his tattoos like flowers, colouring in the gaps of the patterns. He’d fallen, then, after the hit. Probably outside of the village. 

“Why didn’t you ask for help.” You muttered under your breath, placing a square of whisky soaked cloth over the wound and pressing down. 

“Because I was already ashamed.” Came the pained whisper. 

“Why would you be ashamed?” With a tug on his arm you helped him sit, passing a long length of cloth around his back, bandaging the makeshift plaster into place. 

With your arms around him you had no choice but to lean in close, your face below his, his breath fanning over your cheek. He held one end in place, leaning drowsily into you while you tied a tight knot on his right, well away from the injury. His left hand, clearly weakened by his fall, sat lightly on your hip, keeping you steady. 

“I let my battalion down, my friends down,I couldn’t fight.” His eyes closed again but his hands didn’t move, their hold surprisingly delicate until he began to slump to the side again, dragging you with him. “I was injured and, I’m not really sure why, but I flew here. It felt like the right thing to do, like the Mother was guiding me, so I let her.”

With a huff you tried to wiggle away, but his hand tightened. 

“I’m so cold, please stay.” His breath tickled your neck where he’d pressed his face into your collar bone and you couldn’t deny him. The tugging sensation in your chest was back and the thought of staying with him made you want to release it in a long contented purr.

Curling beside him you let his hand settle on your now bare waist, his broad palm on your back a relief from the cold air gusting through the entrance of the cave. 

Bucky’s breathing slowed to an even beat, his body relaxing into his dreams and you fell with him, pulled tighter against his chest, the smell of the whisky washed over you and his wing curled in, cocooning you in his embrace. 

You woke to find yourself surprisingly well rested. The storm, having blown itself out battering the beach and forest, had made way for a bright morning. Bucky’s hand was still at your waist, but you’d moved in your sleep you were now facing away from him, his fingers sneaking under the hem of your shirt and tickling your ribs. From his steady breaths you assumed he was still asleep and allowed yourself a moment to enjoy the closeness of his body, the way his wing curved over you both, filtering the light into a pink glow and blocking the boisterous breeze now coming in off the sea. 

There was something right about the way he held you, comforting and close. Despite knowing you should rise, you simply couldn’t, as if that invisible rope that had led you in now kept you beside him. In his sleep he dragged you closer, his hand splaying higher on your stomach, his thumb pressing the underside of your breast. In response, your nipples pebbled and you promised yourself it was just the cold air, just the breeze and the morning chill and nothing to do with the wonderful pressure of the male’s body behind you. Nothing to do with his rich scent of whisky and peat and possibility. 

He hummed in his sleep again, nuzzling the back of your neck and then, suddenly, he was awake. His hand was gone and your chest felt cold without his touch. The sound of his wing claws catching on the jagged roof had you whipping your head around and staring into his eyes. 

“I’d say I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but that was the best sleep I’ve had in a long while.” A flirtatious smile played at the corner of his lips and you returned it. 

“Pretty warm under the wings,” you agreed, looking at the expanse of tense skin and complex structure that curled over you both, now flared out along the walls of the cave, and then, as quickly as the butterflies had taken flight in your stomach, they fell like lead weights.“Your wing, it’s not healing.” 

You reached out and ran a finger close to the gash. Bucky sucked in air and bit his bottom lip, his top lip curling over his teeth and eyes crinkling in pain. 

“Please - don’t touch me there.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No - yes - it’s - just don’t touch me there.” Bucky grit his teeth and shuffled uncomfortably, placing a large hand over his lap and using the other to guide your hand away gently. 

“I could try and heal it - if you let me touch. Like I did with your side.” 

Bucky looked down at the bandage around his middle as if it was a surprise, perhaps he really didn’t remember. Leaving his wing, you reached out and touched his forehead instead. He felt a little cold, you both did, but not clammy. The fever had broken. 

“Can I check your bandage?” 

He nodded, sitting up and pulling his ragged shirt up with one hand. Slowly you untied the knot and removed the linen, it was clean on the top layers at least and the bottom ones showed the blood slowing. His healing had kicked in, once the ash had been removed, and the previously angry and infected gash was now a pink cut, knitting together slowly. 

“It looks a lot better.” 

You sat back on your heels, unable to look away from the cut in his wing. It too had started healing, but it would be a while before it was closed. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, sincerely. “I’ve been out here a while and - I should have sought help sooner.” 

“I’m sure it’s not easy, last night you said you didn’t want to let your battalion down.” 

Bucky flushed, his nose and cheeks going rosy and you watched as the colour disappeared down his neck and under his collar. 

“I understand, it’s hard to be brave sometimes, you want people to trust you and know that you’re doing your best.” 

He hummed in agreement again, “and is that why you’re out here?” He raised an eyebrow, lounging back against the cave wall. The movement made his stomach tighten and you watched the muscles flex under his shirt, trying to recall a time when you’d seen any other male like this, when anyone at all had made you feel so hot all over. 

“I was sent to hunt a monster.” 

“A monster?” 

“It’s been stealing vegetables and eggs, a pail of milk as well. Scaring the farmers.” You looked out towards the brightening sky and then back towards him with a grin. “He’s not so scary though.” 

Bucky returned your smile, his eyes softening as he reached out to guide your gaze back to his own, “I’m glad I didn’t scare you too much.” 

“Only a little.” You laughed. 

Despite the gash in Bucky’s side healing over the next few days, he still remained in the cave during the few warm hours the afternoon afforded. His wings lay heavily behind him, the muscles weak and aching from his time spent dragging them around the woods and his injured wing searing with pain when he tried to extend it. 

With some help he made it to the cave entrance and watched as you picked your way around the storm swept beach in the distance. You’d been kind and gentle, despite your initial fear, despite the clumsy way he’d tried to get closer to you. And his heart swelled, hoping he could hold you in his arms again when the sun got low. 

Each night he'd asked you to stay next to him, and each night you'd agreed. But he was no fool, you pitied him and that would only last for so long until you refused. So he treasured every moment like a precious gift. 

It’d been a long time since a female had looked his way, weeks spent dragging himself around the woodland, months spent fighting Hybern on their borders, years spent training in isolation at Windhaven. All to miss this, the feel of the salt wind in his hair and the sun on his healing wings, to miss the feel of a gentle, feminine touch and the way his body responded, singing with happiness at the warmth of your body and scent of your hair. He ached to have you near again, just to know you were safe and cared for. Something in his chest pulled, as if his heart had truly skipped a beat and he closed his eyes against the delicious pain only to open them and see you again, your eyes locked on his, the driftwood you’d collected scattered around your feet, shock on your features. 

In a heartbeat you were climbing back towards him, running over the sand and up the dunes, scaling the rocky cliff face with strong, knowing leaps, and then you were in his arms, knocking him backwards with the strength of your embrace. 

“Bucky?” His name was half question and half exaltation on your lips and that feeling tugged at him again until his arms closed around your back, a hand on the nape of your neck drawing you closer. 

“Kiss me-” it was neither question nor demand, simply a statement of what you both so clearly needed. 

His lips were chapped when they brushed against yours, but warm nevertheless, he tasted of the sweet berries you’d found this morning on the edge of the woods and this close, your nose brushing against his, he smelt divine, perfect, the whisky on the bandages and the deep, musky, scent that was all his own. 

His uninjured wing curled around your back, folding you in a bubble of warmth where there was only you and Bucky and whatever this new thing was between you. You felt that tug again, the same deep feeling that you’d felt so often, and you pulled back enough to rest your forehead against his own. Bucky didn’t let you remove yourself too far, nudging your nose with his and pressing featherlight kisses to your cheek and jaw. 

“Bucky -” you sighed again and this time he answered, as sure and confident as the strong arms that tugged you against his body. 

“Yes, my mate?” 

[inkmonster21]

Wildflowers in the Wind

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Series Masterlist

Warning: none, just angst, yearning

29. A Sense of Normalcy

The Adlers welcomed you and your newborn with open arms, their kindness and compassion filling the void left by the trauma you had endured. Jack, in particular, played a crucial role in helping Will find a stable job, supporting your livelihoods, and offering a sense of security in this time of turmoil.

Jack was truly a blessing, helping Will find a job at the general store in Valentine. The elderly owner, Oscar, with no children or grandchildren to take over, found solace and joy in the presence of Will. His wisdom and kind demeanor provided comfort and companionship to the old man, who saw a glimmer of hope in Will's young energy. It seemed that destiny had brought Will to this position, and the elderly gentleman's gratitude knew no bounds.

With the promise of stable work and steady income, you decided to move to Valentine. Oscar was more than willing to offer you temporary shelter, seeing the value in Will's help and the innocent little life you held in your arms.

While staying with Oscar, you found solace and comfort in the warm hospitality. Oscar took a liking to you three, seeing hope in the future in the form of your new arrival. In return, Will worked diligently, ensuring that all Oscar’s needs were met and the general store was well-run. In return for his kindness, you diligently tended to the household duties.

You cleaned the house, did the laundry, cooked all the meals, and took on the responsibility of caring for Grace with diligence born of gratitude. Every day, you nursed and cared for the tiny baby, cherishing each moment as your connection with your daughter deepened.

As time passed and Will's hard work paid off, you and Will were finally able to afford your own home. However, the elderly shop owner, Oscar, was reluctant to let you go, offering a surprising proposal. "You kids could always just... stay," he said, his voice hopeful yet tinged with a hint of sadness.

Oscar's offer caught you off guard, the words settling in the air heavy like a question. It was clear that he had come to cherish your presence and the care you provided. A mix of surprise and gratitude washed over you, but you and Will looked at each other, silently debating.

You couldn't help but chuckle, a smirk playing on your lips as you posed the question to Oscar, "You know how much trouble we are, and you still want us to stay?" It was clear that Oscar's affection for you both had grown over time, making his offer seem almost comical.

Oscar retorted in jest, his tone carrying a mix of amusement and sincerity, "Hell, you're like the kids I never had. I'm just saying, you're more than welcome here, save your money." His eyes flicked between you and Will, silently hoping you would accept his offer.

There was a warm, fatherly concern in Oscar's words. His offer was one filled with affection and a desire to keep you close. Your heart felt a tug of gratitude, and you couldn't help but exchange a glance with Will, silently asking what he thought of the situation.

Will seemed to be contemplating the proposal, his emotions carefully concealed behind a neutral expression. His thoughts were a mix of practicality, affection, and perhaps even a touch of nostalgia.

Will's laughter echoed through the room, and a genuine smile graced his face as he agreed to Oscar's offer, "Alright, old man, we'll stay."

Oscar's face lit up with joy at Will's agreement, his heart feeling fuller than it had in years. "You kids stay and save your money.” Oscar chuckled and playfully jabbed at Grace's belly, his expression filled with joy and affection. "Lord knows you need the room for this little one," he commented, a warm smile on his face.

The routine became a norm, and you found yourself delving into a regular rhythm. From dawn to dusk, you would tend to your duties, caring for Grace, preparing meals, and cleaning the home. As evening approached, you would tuck Grace into bed.

The repetitive nature of the daily routine brought a sense of comfort and predictability, yet it was far from lackluster. There was a contentment in the simplicity of the tasks, a feeling that you were fulfilling your duties as a parent.

Yet amidst the routine, a wistful thought often crossed your mind about Arthur. Valentine was a known town, and the hope lingered in your heart that perhaps he might stumble upon it one day. It was a slim chance, but the possibility of a chance encounter, of seeing his face again, kept that hope alive.

Each time you went out to the general store, hope fluttered in your chest, and your eyes scanned the faces of the passersby. But each time, disappointment washed over you as the familiar face of Arthur failed to appear. It was a cycle of anticipation and dejection, the hope of seeing him mingling with the harsh reality of his absence.

In the quiet moments of the night, you couldn't help but ponder the thoughts that crossed his mind. Did his heartache with the same intensity as yours? Did he ever wonder about your well-being and safety? The unknown was a constant cloud over you, but the faint hope of reconnecting remained alive, like a flickering candle refusing to be extinguished.

Despite the loneliness and uncertainty, you held onto the promise you made to yourself. You would wait for him, for however long it took. Each day without him was a test of your resolve, a battle waged against the odds. Yet, your heart refused to let go, your spirit unwavering in its belief that someday, somehow, fate would bring him back to you.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, you watched Grace grow and thrive. However, her every milestone, every smile, and every tiny gesture carried a striking resemblance to the man you had loved. The resemblance was bittersweet, tugging at your heartstrings and mixing feelings of fondness with a poignant pain.

Each time you looked at her small face, you couldn't help but see echoes of Arthur in her features. The shape of her eyes, the curve of her nose, the set of her mouth—all were reminiscent of him. It was as if fate had woven a piece of him into your daughter, a constant reminder of the love you had shared and the absence you still felt. It was those captivating blue eyes that brought forward the most bittersweet sense of nostalgia. Every time you held her gaze, it was as if you were looking into the eyes of Arthur himself. The depth and color of her eyes were an undeniable reflection of her father, holding a piece of his presence within their depths.

You cradled her gently in your arms, stroking her soft hair as you whispered, "He'll come back to us." Your words carried a combination of hope and reassurance, a quiet faith in a future reunion that kept your spirits afloat.

On lonely nights spent in his tent, surrounded by the vast emptiness of the wilderness, Arthur found solace in the picture of you that he kept tacked up. It was a constant reminder of the love he had lost, a visual connection to the life he had left behind. Every morning, as he opened his eyes and saw your face, a mix of emotions would wash over him—sadness, longing, and a glimmer of hope. Despite his skepticism and lack of belief, he couldn't shake the lingering uncertainty that held onto a glimmer of hope. In the depths of his soul, he clung to the faint possibility that there might be something beyond life—a chance, however slim, that he could one day reunite with you. Until then, he remained on his rough path, torn between his own beliefs and the profound love he still harbored for you.

As new members of the gang arrived and settled into camp, their attention would eventually be drawn to the picture of you in Arthur's possession. Intrigued, they would ask curiously, "How on earth did you manage to capture a picture with that angel?" It was an undeniable truth—your presence in the picture stood out like a ray of sunshine amidst the rugged and rough surroundings.

Arthur would respond to those who inquired about the picture of you with a dismissive gesture as if it was nothing special. "It's just a picture," he'd say, his voice nonchalant. But behind his casual demeanor, his heart held the weight of the truth. To him, that picture wasn't just a simple snapshot—it held the memory of the love he had lost and the hope he held onto. His nonchalance was a shield, concealing the depths of his emotions.

On quiet nights in camp, when loneliness and heartache settled within him, Arthur would find solace in a bottle. As the alcohol coursed through his veins, he would close his eyes and imagine hearing your voice in his mind, singing soft melodies that had been etched into his memory. The sound of your voice, like a sweet symphony, would echo within him, bringing both joy and pain. In those moments, he'd cling to the bittersweet memories, finding comfort in the music that whispered of your presence.

In the dark recesses of Arthur's solitude, he believed he was a man cursed by fate. His past deeds and the choices he had made loomed over him like a shadow, and he believed that he was destined to suffer for his mistakes, forever barred from experiencing true happiness. His heart ached with a deep sense of longing, yearning for what he thought he could never have—you.

[moonknightproductions]

I can’t fucking look at him without being awed by his cuteness while Blackquill scratches his chin aughhhh

TAKAAAAAA

[lopmon1234]

Piemon: aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

ピエモン：あああああ…

Piemon: Ā ā a…

Dub

Piedmon: aaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!