#but at least in death he's growing and he's free and more comfortable and he's loved

[catabasis]

despite how tragic and heartbreaking the Captain's death was, at least he died while being comforted by the love of his life, with his hands held by him, almost confessing his love to him and receiving acknowledgement of that love. the Captain died knowing that the man he loved knew about his love. the Captain's last words were the name of the love of his life, and the last thing the Captain heard before dying was his own name coming from the lips of the man he loved. death is all it took for the Captain to finally find love, both from the man he loved in life, and from the family he found in death

[eluxcastar]

Hello Riri! :]

I'm in my platonic harbingers with a child reader era, and you're one of the few people I follow who writes platonic stuff on an occasion. So here's my request!

Here's the small storyline I have. Reader is the child of a god (you're free to decide what they are the god of, if you want) who is extremely well known around Tevyat, and puts on a very intimidating and serious presence. Yet one unfortunate day, the readers parent dies, so now they have to take on their legacy at a too young of age. Making them grow up out of their childhood much faster and pressuring them into becoming exactly like their parent. Cold, intimidating, and serious.

And out of all the mortals the reader has met, the harbingers are who they find comfort in. They could be lecturing some other mortal one minute, and the next minute, they see one of the harbingers. They're grabbing them by the hands, bouncing on their tip toes with a bright smile.

(Hope you're having a good day! And please don't overwork yourself<3)

Fatui harbingers with a child god

── ୨୧：fatui harbingers & reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: child reader taking over as archon and basically immediately proving why child rulers are a bad idea but it's ok because it's cute and endearing

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, god reader, signora might be ooc tbh I struggled to think for her, not proofread

୨୧﹑words :: 3k

this has been in my inbox for some time, even though I've really wanted to do it for ages. I'm sorry honey it took me a while to get to it. the description of their parent at least to me was giving mr zhongli when he was morax and I immediately thought of the ramifications of him faking his death in the rite of descension which makes me wanna write something else BUT THAT'S FOR LATER

I meant to post this four and a half hours ago but suddenly it was like twice the length I thought it would be and uh yeah that was not the plan but enjoy the food served hot and fresh

There has hardly been a moment of grief since you were orphaned, and the people are turning to you for their next overseer. You, small, fragile, and ill-prepared, are the one they wish to see take up the pillar left in your father's wake. You weren't ready, and maybe you never would've been, embraced by the caring side of your well and truly mellowed-out father and cherished by the people as the child of the nation.

Your transition from people's treasure to people's guide was jarring, and you're still not used to it. You move with what pleases and hide what brings deep frowns and disappointed eyes. The people no longer want a child but a god. They want their pride, once a god who had walked by their side for millennia, now the passing generation of a god as the mantle shifts to his blood.

It's hard not to notice what they make you, now the spitting image of your father, though you can only parrot his earned wisdom and show a brave face to keep the nation from despair.

You have but a single ally—the Tsaritsa—someone whose messengers approached you to ask for your father's gnosis and who gladly agreed to offer you an invitation to Snezhnaya at your request to speak to her personally, quite honestly not knowing how to say that you frankly didn't know what to do with the gnosis. Though you could keep it, you're unsure how to harness its power, wield it, or even control it. Your father was strong, you're not.

She is an intimidating presence but gentle. She knew of your father for as long as she had been an archon—though they weren't on good terms toward the end—perhaps you could understand her more than he would. He was the original archon in his seat, but you are an inheritor like her. In her lands, you are the careful balance of both a god and a child, spoken to with the grace of a higher power but the softness that is befitting to a young child.

It is as you are.

Tartaglia is the first to seek a test of your strength, though you wish not to hurt him and convince him to wait. So long as the answer is someday, he allows you to let him down easily and settles at indulging your requests to join the snowball fight you noticed him having. You want to join in, fidgeting and with your gaze flickering between the smiling children and your feet. You push away your every want to join them and play as well, but remind yourself of the people who would scorn you. It's unfitting for a god to behave like an immature child, you remind yourself, but every hope of remaining steadfast to that is gone as Tartaglia notices you watching.

His offer is merely that—an offer. He speaks with a snowball forming in his hands as he approaches, his thick coat engulfing his form and the red scarf bundled around his neck to keep him warm. You have to look up to meet his eyes, playful and perhaps a little mischievous. Tartaglia holds the snowball out to you as if it were his peace offering.

"You look like you want to join the fun. Care to throw a snowball or two with us?"

"May I?"

And with that, you take his offering.

Pantalone's musings and the intentions of his gifts are not beyond you. He means to win you over and perhaps spoil you a little. It is coddling, and you notice it. He wants what he wants, and he will get it out of you, but it is also not beyond him to recognise that you are...naïve, endearingly. Pantalone can lavish you in fine silks all he wants, but you have received many offerings, so they don't particularly sway you as he had hoped, and he moves on. Your true weakness lies in children's toys, the many things you have been denied since you have been forced to steel yourself. The smile that twitches at the corners of your lips as he presents you with the first is enough to confirm it.

Toys are made for children; though you try to deny it, you are still a child at heart. Gifting a child a toy they will try to pretend they don't cherish but will protect with their life is perhaps the quickest way to earn their favour. He watches as you fiddle with the arms of the plush cat when you think nobody is looking, asking it questions and then responding to yourself in an all-too-dedicated voice you put on for this cat. 

"Oh, Mr Cat, would you like some borscht too? It's very good."

"Yes, please, I would love to try some!"

Pantalone admittedly can't deny that you come with your own charms.

Signora spoils you what many of your aids have tried to before you, the chance to fix your hair, marvel at a pretty lady and wish you were half as sophisticated as her. She is your role model, second only to the Tsaritsa. She is beautiful and elegant and willing to teach you her ways as long as you continue to show up as cute as you are. Fix your posture a bit, head up, and walk everywhere with purpose, even if there isn't one. She has mastered the art, and you want it. Pantalone has his own appeal, a sophisticated man who learned through blood, sweat and tears, but there is something so distinct about Signora that makes you run to her at your first problem of presentation.

Like your mother, she will take you by the hand, lead you to a mirror, straighten your back, tilt your head up by the chin, and tell you to look at yourself now. Each time, you stare dumbly in awe of her reflection standing behind you, observing you like something precious, and it fills you with the confidence you need to heed her advice. It doesn't occur to you that Signora looks at you that way only because she thinks you're cute in your efforts, but too much like a child who got into their mother's perfume to be taken seriously.

"How others see you is important. Do you think they want to see their god with their back slouched and head hung? Hold your gaze above the people."

"It's-- well, different. I think I just look tense."

Sandrone has also come to realise that your weakness lies in toys, though she will not admit to aiding and abetting Pantalone's endeavours to find you a plushie. Instead, she shows you Katheryne. You have seen Katheryne before; you are sure of that, and that is only confirmed as Sandrone informs you that she exists in every branch of the Adventurers' Guild, including the one in your homeland. Katheryne is your access to knowledge, and the Northland Bank is your connection to Snezhnaya. Sandrone offers you comfort, the path that will lead you back to where help is and where you can go when you become overwhelmed by responsibility.

She likes your company, a reluctant admission that does not come cheap as she bargains your silence with the knowledge that she's aware of your liking for your cat toy. The embarrassment that overwhelms you is palpable until she offers you her workshop to play when your quarters are so overcrowded by your aids. You couldn't come to Snezhnaya alone for your safety, and it leaves you stranded without a moment of peace at times.

"Really?...and I can just, stay here? For as long as I want?"

"Isn't that what was offered to you?"

"Well...yes, thank you."

Scaramouche, whom you meet adjacent to Sandrone, is ill-tempered in the presence of others but a tad nicer when it comes to you. He does not drop his rough-around-the-edges personality to melt his heart out of his chest for you, but you manage to strike the perfect cord in his to gain liberties others cannot, having him share sweets with you. You learned at one point he really doesn't like them, leading you to wonder why they suddenly appeared ready and available for you to stuff your pockets full and snack on them when nobody's looking. You earn his favour through endearment and talk to him like he's normal because he is.

He is the child of a god, though in a different capacity to you. He was not loved quite so dearly by his mother and cannot share with you the pain of losing someone who treasured you. He was merely abandoned. There is the vague part of you that shuns the idea his softness is pity, sympathy even, as you're stuck stumbling through the world alone. It is all too familiar to him, and if candy will make you smile at him so cheerfully and hug him so tightly, then candy is a simple trade-off.

"Are you sure you don't want any? These are yours."

"Sickly sweet things make me feel like my teeth are fusing together. You can have them."

Pulcinella reminds you of home, the trinkets gathered on a whim that he keeps, the years showing through the rooms dedicated to him as you notice things your father told you of in stories. These are stories that Pulcinella will start off on without prompting, indulging your curiosity before you even lowered your guard enough to show it and casually enough that you slowly ask more. Every item holds a story: what it is, how he obtained it, why he kept it, who it was for. You see many such things around what used to be your house, but you don't know all of the stories, treasuring the ones you remember.

Pulcinella doesn't recall every story either, as some of your pointing and questioning is met with remarks of how long it has been. It is the only thing you feel you share with him, a living space filled to the brim with memories. Many of your trinkets don't belong to you, but his do, and it's nice to hear someone tell you stories again as he lets you pick from the collection of sweets in your pockets to eat when it suits your fancy.

"What about this? It reminds me of a lumenstone, the ones from the chasm."

"It is, and it came from Liyue when I asked that one of my subordinates bring it back for me. You must have a fine eye for these things."

"Not really, only lumenstone and noctilucous jade glow like this."

Arlecchino's offering to you is company, and plenty of it. Children who are so far removed from the stretch of news beyond the issues of the Steambird they manage to get their hands on that they wouldn't know your face from a haggler on the street. Father brought a guest to play with, and that's what matters as they induct you into their games, teach you the rules, and regard you exactly as they regard every other child their age. You are given the choice to simply become nobody, and you love it. Though you were once only a child, you were still the child of a god, and everyone knew it. Now, you elicit excitement only because someone new enters their lives, someone to learn about and befriend, merely a guest their father brought them.

Despite her sharp exterior, she is sweeter to you than you expected. You thought Arlecchino might be scarier, meaner, harsher, but she softens when she speaks to you. It is not with the cutthroat demeanour she holds speaking to the Harbingers and lacks a degree of the stern attitude she fronts to the children. You are not the average child, and it's necessary to treat you with some degree of respect, but you notice she's gentler with you than others, and it almost makes you feel special.

Columbina has sung you to sleep many times during your stay; her voice is sweet and more than enough to calm you. You let her hold your cat plush and dance with you in the hallways with the excuse you need knowledge of these things should you aspire toward being an archon, even if spinning around until you fall on the floor from dizziness and burst out laughing is a tad non-traditional. Columbina can see things others can't notice more than the human eye is capable of, and you'd rather not know what that's like. Something in the way she speaks tells you that it's hardly adjacent to anything human, closer to you, but still quite far off. It's interesting to hear the strange things humans have no business knowing.

Your hand is grasped in Columbina's, her fingers holding you tenderly. Her eyes are partly obscured beneath the lattice of a mask she wears. You're not sure if you could really call it a mask. She steps back, tugging you with her, and spins you in time with the steps she takes, each accompanied by a shift that forces you to keep up with where she moves, her other hand on your shoulder. It is the closest you will get to proper dancing, though merely a fool's waltz. You can't dance; being spun down a hallway while you struggle to match her movements feels much like you imagine a waltz would.

"It's not really proper dancing if we have no pattern to it."

"There is no such thing as proper dancing. If you'd prefer it, I could sing."

Dottore is someone you did not expect to be so open to the idea of you, and your assumptions were proven correct by his apprehension to engage with you. He is curt with you at best and avoidant at worst. You are a child filled with the yearning to touch everything that doesn't belong to you, desperate to hear too much about the things that don't concern you. You are young, needy, and with no concept of what is beyond you. Dottore's unique abundance of knowledge is appealing to you, however. He knows things your father did, many of which he didn't tell you, but Dottore will, so long as it gets you to sit still and stop interrupting him. You may be convinced you have pocketed your unnecessary emotions away, but he has seen you, and that is an insulting lie.

Your wants are written on your face plain as day, so long as people pay enough attention to you to care what you feel. He does not especially care, not for the child of a god, but it helps to know what you want to stick your nose in most. It helps to know how you benefit from him, and on luckier days, you might even catch him in a better mood when he is willing to indulge your interest in his knowledge. Your capacity to understand, let alone remember, hardly worries him.

"So you have clones of yourself? And they just...work for you?"

"Not exact clones—segments. They have wills of their own and use them as they see fit."

Capitano is strong, a man of few words, and he does not abhor your presence quite so strongly, nor does he indulge your more childish desires. What you get from Capitano is respect, the highest honour you can get from his book in your eyes, and it comes from your perseverance. You're running around working so hard when you're so young, and you deserve a break sometimes. You deserve a quiet place to curl up in the corner with that cat he's caught you hiding under where no one can bother you, and maybe with a few sweets you always seem to have these days. That corner still does not exist, though he will find you one if you want it. 

You show no signs of slowing down, are energetic and eager and are far too committed to the act of being something you're not to listen to him when he tells you to rest. Gods must all be fickle. The most he can do for you is make sure you're safe and happy as you will be in your position, maybe wipe your hands of powdered sugar when you find pastries at the market you want and recklessly eat them without thinking of how you'll clean up short of wiping the remnants on your clothes, but you'll never do that as you are.

Pierro once made you nervous. He is a stern, serious man who never smiles. Pierro is steadfast in loyalty and never wavers, which is precisely what you have begun to aspire to be now that that is what has been asked of you. You could never hope to replicate the kind of dedication he has, and perhaps that is part of what sways you. Though you have become so comfortable behaving childishly around some people, you fear you may never be around him, whether because you fear his disapproval or yearn for his approval. Despite that, he is arguably who you trail around behind most, quiet, observing, trying to figure out how to copy and apply what he has to yourself.

It settles the quick realisation he reminds you most of what the people saw in your father. Someone like him is someone people envision fostering a nation to prosperity, and you fight your own subconscious to keep all of your slipping habits, making sure he never sees you sneaking candy, hiding your cat plush from him, refusing Tartaglia's every offer to play games around him. You're not sure why you think that will make him like you more, having long ago gained his favour, unable to notice the faint smiles and the conscious effort to make you believe he doesn't notice you out the window barreling snowballs at Tartaglia.

You are still a child at heart; he is just about the last person you can hope to hide that from.

[welovelouisandbucky]

My two favorite Slytherin boys headcanons bc why not?

T/w: few swear words, my writing, and some out of character stuff because im delusional, little suggestive if you can call it that, and yes aside from that if you find any pls let me know:) also my writing

A/n: hi y'all, I just want to say pls be kind as this is my first time writing for these characters so if there's any mistakes pls overlook them thank you! Also I tried my best to keep this GN so everyone can read and enjoy this and yeah that's it, have great day!!!

S/n: requests are open so feel free to send in ideas, I'll love to write what you guys suggest. Also feel free to ask for more Slytherin or any Harry Potter characters you want headcanons/blurbs about, I'll love to write and add more🤗

Masterlist

Mattheo Riddle

(gifs credits to the rightful owner)

Also this one's long as you can see I got carried away😁

Mattheo who always looks forward to see your face after the end of the day

Mattheo who will fight any one who looks at you funny or talks shits about you

Mattheo who glares at every single person but the seconds he spots you his eyes softens up in millisecond in adoration

Mattheo who holds your books or bag everywhere you guys go, because God forbid if his princess/prince ever has to worry about those things when he's there to do them for you

Mattheo who waits after you when the class is over so he can walk you to other class while he pulls you as closer to him as possible

Mattheo who searches for you before every Quidditch game so he can have his good luck charm kiss from you

Mattheo who pretends to hate and act tough when you baby him while secretly melting into a puddle inside every time you call him sweet names. ( He absolutely loses his shit when you call him baby but shush it's a secret 😌)

Mattheo who has probably drawn you only few hundreds of times in his super, super duper, very classified sketchbook that no one knows of.

Mattheo who always encourages you to do things you want to do but are too scared to actually do it.

Mattheo who always supports your decisions, even if they are stupid

Mattheo who appropriates your little hobbies and interests even if they are weird, he just wants to you to feel safe and heard around him

Mattheo who's always there for you whenever you need him, always there to hold you close on bad days because he knows how it feels when you are at your worst and there's no one to comfort you (thankfully he doesn't have to worry about being alone now that you are here as well as his friends)

Mattheo who struggles with expressing his emotions and feelings but still tries his hardest to show them to you because he wants you to know how much you mean to him.

Mattheo who's not that good at comforting but still pulls you to him because he can't stand seeing you cry and not do anything about it.

Mattheo who willingly listens to you rant about everything and anything because he loves hearing your voice (even if half of the things you said are going above his head but hey at least he's trying! ☺️)

Mattheo who hates not knowing what's happening around him because it makes him feel helpless and he hates feeling weak. That's why he always, and I mean always knows what's going on everywhere

Mattheo who's touch starved (bc yk all that being dark Lord's son and growing up with death eaters and all) and craves your touch. He's always in any way touching you, whether holding hands, or a hand on your thigh or waist just any kind of physical touch because he wants to be as close to you as possible.

Mattheo who loves loves cuddles, doesn't matter who's spooning who as long as you guys are in each other's arms.

Mattheo who loves you so much that it physically hurts him, and there's nothing he wouldn't do you

Mattheo who will always protect you no matter what

~~~

Theodore Nott

Theo who loves to tease you throughout the whole day just so he can see you all worked up for him

Theo who looks forward to your quick comebacks every time he comments on something he knows he will get reaction out of you and absolutely loses his shit when you roast the shit out of him for it

Theo who calls you sweet endearments in Italian because he loves to see your confused smile, contemplating whether he roasted you or called you something sweet in foreign language

Theo who keeps you company while you finish your homework in library

Theo who loves spending time with you on Astronomy tower (he just in general loves spending time with you but astronomy tower is more special to him) while you are snuggled up against his side as you guys look at stars.

Theo who will read with you, doesn't matter what kind of books you guys are reading as long as both of you are together.

Theo who prefers reading classic novels but will happily read cheesy rom-com books with you because you said so (secretly he enjoys them too but hush🙈)

Theo who actually enjoys reading poetry, and sometimes when you guys are alone he'll read few to you

Theo who's always there to comfort you whenever you have problems with your family because he knows how it feels.

Theo who's always there to stand up for you in any situation

Theo who starts to smoke less around you if it bothers you, but if you smoke too then both of you guys will smoke together at the Astronomy tower

Theo who loves silence and doesn't enjoy talking much but is always ready to listen to you talk for hours, you are the only person he can talk and listen to for eternity without ever getting sick of it.

Theo who loves when you wear his clothes

Theo who said I love you first time when he saw you curse someone out because they said some shit about him, he doesn't really care whatever shit they were saying but seeing you stand up for him made him feel emotions he never felt before.

Theo who just absolutely loves you and wants to spend entirety of his life with you

Thank you so much for reading, likes and comments are very much appreciated. As well as positive criticism, pls don't hate this is a safe place for everyone!! Bye bye have great day!!!

~~~~

Enzo's headcanon!

[milswrites]

Hobbies Epilogue.

~ Azriel X Reader

Summary: In an attempt to keep Azriel away from Elain, Rhys sends him on a sabbatical to the Day Court. With a lot more free time on his hands Azriel needs to find something to keep him occupied. Unfortunately he meets Y/N who has the annoying habit of not staying away. Can she teach him that there’s more to life than he thought?

Grumpy!Azriel X Sunshine!Reader

Series masterlist

Warnings: Mentions of sex. Mentions of drinking. Crippling sadness over the fact that this series is over maybe? (Just me? 😭)

Feyre and Y/N were hurriedly running through the streets of Velaris towards the townhouse, Nyx held lovingly in the latter woman’s arms, his little legs too small to be able to keep up with his rushing family.

They were running late, the two having decided to meet for a coffee in the Rainbow before Y/N and Azriel set off on their long travels. A honeymoon of sorts, Azriel’s gift to Y/N for finally accepting the golden bond between them after a year of taking it slowly.

A year of the two taking in turns to visit the other’s court, of spending every minute they weren’t working in the other’s company. Azriel’s shadows were a great help in this, aiding the male in swiftly travelling to her home at the end of each day, ensuring that the pair slept soundly in the comfort of each other’s arms by the time night fell.

A year of Y/N getting to know her mates family. Her family. Who didn’t just see the woman as Azriel’s mate, but as their sister. Her bright aura being the missing piece of their puzzle, her shining presence a sign that their family was now complete.

And what a family it was. Azriel sometimes miserably complained that he swore Y/N only visited him to get to spend her precious time with everyone else.

To paint with Feyre in her studio, using Nyx as their giggling muse as he failed to sit still for them. Wriggling and squirming, as the women attempted to capture his beaming face on the canvas. Wanting to capture every minute of his youth as they could before he grew old.

The drinking with Cassian and Mor and Rita’s, there being many nights where a grumbling Azriel had to hide his smirk as he had to lift a wobbly Y/N into his arms in order to carry her home to sleep away the alcohol in her system.

Amren and Nesta were always up for a reading session with Y/N. The women spending hours of their time perusing through the dusty shelves of all the quaint bookshops in Velaris. Excitedly exchanging reviews whenever the woman from Day returned to the Night Court.

Y/N had even began to help Elain in her garden. Bringing trimmings of the plants that blossomed in Day, hoping that with Elain’s tender nurturing they would bloom just as beautifully in Night. Growing a piece of Y/N’s home in Azriel’s court.

Life had been perfect. A constant upwards spiral of contentment. The shadowsinger doing everything in his power to ensure that Y/N always had a dazzling smile across her face, the male undertaking this task with a grave seriousness as if it were a matter of life and death.

Now the shimmering bond had been tethered permanently between them, life could only keep on getting better and better. And it was going to, starting with this magical trip he was going to take her on across the courts, just as Azriel had promised Y/N before the bond between them had even made its appearance.

At least it would be if Y/N actually got there in time.

~~~~~

“And you’ll make sure to write to us every week right?…And starfall! You have to come back for starfall!” Feyre panted heavily as she spoke to Y/N, the shadow of the townhouse appearing in the distance as they continued to quickly dash towards it, the figures of their impatient mates coming into their view the closer they got to the building.

“Oh of course we wouldn’t miss it Fey! Besides I promised this little man that I’d save him a dance this year” Y/N lovingly pecked Nyx on the cheek as she answered Feyre, the young boy blushing profusely at the action. His little heart belonging entirely to the woman who held him in her arms, Feyre’s child having a youthful crush on the lady. Threatening Azriel that whilst Y/N was his mate, he would be the one to marry her.

“I know” Feyre flashed a gentle smile over to Y/N as they slowed in their approach to the waiting males, “I just know Azriel would keep you wandering around Prythian for an eternity if he could.”

“No, we’d miss our family far too much. We can’t stay away for too long, we wouldn’t want to.”

Y/N plastered one last affectionate kiss onto Nyx’s cheek before passing him over to Feyre, the boy starting to cry as he left her tender embrace.

“Finally” Azriel huffed, walking over to the two women, giving Nyx a gentle squeeze to his cheek when he finally came to stand before you, “I was thinking you’d started to have second thoughts about this.”

“Second thoughts about spending night after night alone with my dashingly handsome mate? I think not” Y/N teased, her eyes moving to rake over her mates form. Azriel was once again wearing one of her own creations, it was all he wore these days when he didn’t have to be in leathers. He said it was because he didn’t like to waste money on clothes, Rhysand said it was because he was whipped.

Feyre rolled her eyes at the scent which had started to radiate from the shadowsinger, his dark eyes locked onto Y/N. “Save it for the trip Az” she chided, tapping him on the chest as she passed by him, moving to stand by Rhys.

Azriel came to stand behind Y/N his arms wrapping protectively around her as he pulled back into his chest, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Thank the mother you’re here, the sooner we set off the sooner we can get away from Cassian.”

The woman looked over the silvery-eyed male who was hiccuping from the overwhelming force of his emotions, tears rolling down his cheeks at the realisation that his brother was leaving him for a few months.

“Oh come on Az he’s not so bad” Y/N muttered, eyes going wide in shock as the General released a particularly loud sob.

“He spent three hours crying last night at Rita’s over the fact we’re going.”

“See he loves you!”

“I think he was more so crying over the fact you were leaving him” Azriel said this jokingly, but failed to cover the bitter jealous edge to his voice. The frenzy of the bond’s acceptance still not quite fading, even after the two months you had spent feeding his desires.

“You’ll miss him” you smiled softly, warm eyes looking to your family who had gathered to wish you goodbye as you set off on your journey.

“Yeah” Azriel admitted, his own contented amber gaze taking in the same view of yours, “but something tells me we are going to have a lot of fun these next few months. We have to make the most of our time together before you go back to Day.”

Y/N stilled, going slightly stiff in Azriel’s arms as she lifted her head to meet his face, shyly speaking to her mate, “What if I told you that I don’t have to go back?”

“What?” Azriel asked, anticipation building in his chest as he turned Y/N around until her body faced his, needing to properly absorb her expression to see if what she was saying was really true.

“What if I said that Helion offered me a promotion? Emissary to the Night Court. He seemed to think that you guys needed some cheering up, something about you being miserable whenever I wasn’t there.”

Azriel laughed, a deep, earthshaking laugh. Sweeping Y/N into his arms as he spun her around, his enthusiastic movement gathering the attention of his family.

“Then I would tell you,” Azriel started, his forehead pressing lovingly against his mates, “that I’m ready for whatever adventure life will throw our way.”

“You’ll never be bored again” Y/N grinned, eyes bright and lively at the prospect of an eternity with her mate in Night, “not if I have anything to do with it.”

“My love” Azriel breathed deeply as he hovered his soft lips over Y/N’s, “It’s impossible to be bored when I have a mate as captivating as you are.”

There was no doubt in his mind that Azriel would never find himself short of anything to do again. After all Azriel was no longer alone. He had found his mate. His other half. And he would allow himself to spend an eternity trying out new things, as long as he meant he got to do it with her. With the woman who stole his heart.

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

Notes: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Excuse me while I go cry.

Just want to thank you guys for all the love and support and comments and enthusiasm you’ve shown this series. There’s absolutely no way this would have been done without you guys and you’re all amazing and I appreciate each and every one of you so so much <3

Taglist:

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[formulaforza]

—everywhere, everything

keep my hand in yours ('til our fingers decompose) pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: parent death, angst, language, driving under the influence, underage smoking/drinking love, mackie... 6.6k. part two of this guy (but I think can be read stand-alone). I hope I make u all sad enough that you never ask me for a part two ever again <3

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine—the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

— —

Danny is notably absent from your mom’s funeral. Granted, he is in Budapest at the time, and he had two races this weekend. You know this because you still keep tabs on him, even if he’s not yours to keep tabs on anymore, even if there’s nobody to blame for that but yourself. 

If you didn’t know better, hadn’t spotted Grace, Joe and Michelle a dozen or so people back in line to greet you and your dad, you would have been able to convince yourself Danny didn’t have a clue your mom was even sick. She went quick, less than eight months from her death sentence to… well. From death sentence to death. 

Two hundred and thirty-one days since her diagnosis means two-hundred and twenty-eight days since you broke things off with Danny. So even if he was in town, you probably wouldn’t have seen him. You wish you would have though, that he would have appeared in the plethora of grieving faces. Not for you, but for her. She always loved him, even before you did. 

Grace’s arms feel like the light at the end of a dark tunnel when she finally gets to the front of the line. She squeezes you tight, the only way a mother knows how to, and you cry in her arms. Grace doesn’t tell you how sorry she is, or that your mom loved you so much, or that she’s in a better place now. She just hugs you and wipes away your tears. 

“Danny wishes he could be here,” she tells you, but you don’t want to think about him and you don’t want to believe her. 

“Tell him I said ‘thank you?’” you say, a forced smile on your face. It’s got to be the hundredth of the afternoon. If there’s one thing your mom is—was. If there’s one thing she was, it’s loved. Tell him I hate him, is what you wish you could say to Grace. Or maybe tell him I love him. 

A million and two hugs later and you find yourself missing his arms more than you should. He was always a good hugger, and you could use a good hug right now. 

— —

You showed up at the property fifteen minutes after the event started. You’d hoped to slip in and out, to at least be able to say you went, that you tried. You had no intention of trying to find Daniel, and you figured it would be easy to avoid him, especially if you showed up after everyone else did—it’s his show, he’s the man of the hour, everyone will be fighting for his attention. 

You don’t even know why you came, really. Maybe it’s to figure out how the hell Daniel even got your address to send the invite in the first place. You’d moved half a dozen times since he last knew you. Or maybe it’s that you don’t believe, even after seeing it with your own eyes, that somebody actually had success with growing berries in the heat. It could be that you just… It could be simple, that you miss your Mom, and that everything about that place reminds you of her. 

Whatever the reason, you put on a long, flowing sundress, tied your hair back, and slipped on a pair of comfortable sneakers and a denim jacket. You didn’t even bother to tell your Dad—knew he’d want to catch up with Daniel, or maybe want to strangle Daniel. You didn’t want to give him the chance to do either. You park on the dirt road that leads to the vineyard, because the parking lot is overflowing, a pattern you’re beginning to notice since he’d taken over. 

The place looks the same as it did last time you were here. DR3 Wines still adorn the fleet of ATVs out front, and the wooden letters on the perfectly red barn are still perfectly white. You give your name to the woman working the door, regret it as soon as you catch her announcing your presence over the radio-headset she wears. 

Momentarily, you consider turning around and walking right back to your car. But, you aren’t one to waste a good outfit, not if you’d gotten all dolled up like this, so you walk into the Barn with your head down. 

It smells the same inside; wood, lavender, citronella and alcohol. There’s candles burning to make it feel cozy, but they do a poor job at changing the aroma in the air. The walls are still hung with photos, and the counter is still that slab of wood. It’s exactly the same as it was a few months ago, and manages to remind you of the place you grew up without wearing your childhood memories like a costume. 

Daniel has always been easy to find in a room. He’s loud, his voice and his laugh vibrate off the walls of whatever room he’s in. He’s loud and he’s confident and sometimes it feels like he’s the only person in a room that’s really alive. That’s how it felt then, at least. 

It’s been thirteen years since you last shared a space with him, but the fact you can hear his laugh on the other side of the crowded room assures you that while everything has changed, some things have stayed exactly the same. 

You can’t see him, but man can you hear him. 

You sign the guest book—proof, in case anybody asks. Proof that you did show up. It’s the top of a wine barrel, DR3 2023 branded into the oak—two tops, because so many people are here. It’s covered in signatures and messages from people he loves. You feel guilty even signing it, but you do. 

Congrats Dan—your marker pauses. You scoff at yourself. Congrats Daniel. Time flies, 13 years! The place looks beautiful. Wishing you continued success, you write, finishing it off with your signature. 

He still wears the same cologne, you realize, when you look up and he’s leaning against the table watching you write. He wears the same cologne, and the same smile, even if less crooked. Everything else about him is different. His hair is shorter, eyes older. His arms are covered in art, face is all together thinner, and his five o’clock shadow is less of a pipe dream and more of a full-fledged beard. He’s taller, maybe. Or you’re shorter. It doesn’t really matter, you suppose. 

You purse your lips into a curt smile. He matches—you didn’t even know he could smile like that. “Hi, honey,” he says, leaning over to read your message. 

“Hi.” “Who’s Daniel?” He teases, the smile on his face growing into one you’re much more familiar with. You look back at your writing, but you don’t laugh. If anything, you’re sure you look a little scared. “I’m teasing.”

“I know,” you nod.

“Okay,” he nods right back, slow, apprehensive over your apprehension. 

“Sorry,” you force out a chuckle. “I’m being so weird,” and you adjust the strap on your dress. He shoves his hands in his pocket, rocks back and forth on the sole of his shoes. Do you know how weird it is to be face to face with someone you were head over feet in love with? It’s really fucking weird. You put your best smile on your face, “Hi, sorry,” you continue, opening your arms for what you think might be the most awkward hug you’ve ever given. 

He’s quick to pull his hands back out of his pocket, like he’s worried if he doesn’t act fast enough you’re going to rescind the offer. 

His touch is uncanny; familiar and comforting and unsettling. It melts the years away and you feel just like you did some twelve years ago when you wished so desperately for one of his hugs. You’re nineteen again, and he’s twenty, and everything feels like it’s going to be okay. 

“How are you,” he asks quietly, his arms tight around you. “You look great.”

“I’m okay,” you say over his shoulder, and then again, as if you’re trying to convince yourself: “I’m okay. How are you?”

“Oh, y’know,” he shrugs, pulling away from the hug, gesturing your question away. “Same old, same old.”

“Yeah,” you nod, even though you don’t know. Even though it’s been eleven years since you forced yourself to ignore his existence, since you last kept any sort of tab on him. You can’t get over how different he looks. How you’d still recognize him without a second glance. “You look different.”

He laughs, looks down at himself. At his arms, his hands. He can’t look at his face, but it’s different, too. “Yeah, I guess so, huh?” He keeps looking back at you every time he laughs. He makes sure you’re laughing, or smiling at least, before he lets his slip. “Is your Dad here?”

“No. He uh, he wasn’t feeling well.”

Once upon a time, Daniel could spot your lies from the other side of the vineyard. You get stiff and stuttery, he told you, it’s easy when you know what you’re looking for. That was once upon a time, though, and this is now. Now, you don’t know if Daniel remembers any of those little things about you. 

His eyes go momentarily soft, worried, almost. “Just a cold, yeah?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, can I get you a drink? Give you a tour?”

You look around the place—not much to tour. Not when it used to be yours, not when one of his teenaged employees gave you a tour a few months back. He seems so excited about the idea, though, so you go along with it. “Sure. Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Nice, awesome,” he says, looking around the place like he forgot where everything is. He claps his hands together, pulls them apart into a snap, and points at you with both hands. “Stay here? I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” you chuckle, and it’s genuine. “Staying here.”

“I know you, Bee,” he says, walking backwards away from you. B. He totally knows you’re full of shit about your Dad having a cold. “Don’t try to sneak out while I’m gone.”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

You nod. “I promise.”

— —

You, Daniel, and your Mom worked the closing shift that night. When he was around, that’s almost always how it went, because the two of you were the only ones who’d worked there long enough to know how to properly close up without a babysitter. 

Your Mom worked tediously in the office counting all the money—she was the slower counter of your parents, but it wasn’t like anyone was ever sitting around waiting on her. There was always something to be done, and Daniel was always good at making sure those closing tasks took up more than a chunk of the evening. 

You’d cleaned inside, swept the floors and vacuumed the rugs and cleaned the tables and the counters. You washed glasses behind the bar and restocked displays. The landline on the counter rang while you were writing up the day’s inventory, and you almost didn’t answer it, but your parents had told you to improve on your customer-service skills, even when you or the customer weren’t on site. 

To your surprise, the voice on the other end was Daniel’s. He was calling from the cellar, is too lazy to come over there to get shot down. “Is your Mom finished counting?” He asked, and you pulled the phone away from your ear to try and listen past the office door. 

“I think so,” you say, bringing the phone back to your ear. “We should be heading out soon.”

Sometimes you feel like you can hear Danny’s smile. “You wanna do the lock check with me?”

You slot the phone between your shoulder and your ear, returning your hands to the task of finishing up your paperwork for the night. You needed to be done when he got here, or there was no chance your Mom let you go with him. “How do you know I’m done with my shit?”

You can hear the lull of the old beat up golf-cart engine in the background, can almost feel the vibrations, can see clear as day Danny sitting there, lounging on the leather seat—tanned skin, unruly hair, toothy grin. “You always finish fast so you can daydream about your boyfriend,” he says, turning the last word into his own little sing-songy ballad. 

Your pen pauses on the paper, and you roll your eyes. “Jake isn’t my boyfriend.”

Danny laughs, and you roll your eyes again, pretend like you aren’t smiling. “Oh? But you knew who I was talking about!”

“Because you never shut up about him being into me.”

“Because he is!”

You set the pen down for good, now, grab the phone again because you want to make sure your next words come across loud and clear, even if it is the millionth time you’ve told him. “He’s my friend, Danny!”

“Oh, come on!” His laugh intensifies. “I don’t think a guy has ever been just friends with you.”

“You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

His laughter quells, and you’re sure he’s picking on the plastic of the steering wheel. There are so many scrapes on it from the same thing. He’s always picking at it, ever since you told him to give his poor nails a rest. He has to destroy something, you suppose—teenage boy and all—but you prefer a destroyed golf cart steering wheel to a destroyed Danny, so you let it slide. He sighs, and then he clears his throat, and the memory of your question dies in the silence. “Are you coming with me or not?”

“Are you coming to get me?”

— —

The air is chilly—nippy almost, especially with the sun dipping below the horizon like it is. You’re walking stride for stride with Daniel over the gravel path to the cellar, glass of sweet pink wine in your hand. He’s taking you to the strawberry field, per your request, because even after tasting it, even after telling you which field it’s in, you still don’t believe him.

“So,” he asks, one hand deep in his pocket, the other hanging in the space between your bodies. He’s very hesitant with you today, you’ve noticed. It’s nothing like the brash boy you called your first love. He’s gentle, softer, like he’s scared of his next words. “Who finally put that ring on your finger?” The threat of a smile is weak, but the idea of it alone is charming. 

You look at your free hand, carefully decorated with several different rings. “Which one?”

He drops his head to his shoulder, gives you a pathetic smile and a matching chuckle. “The only one an ex-boyfriend would ask you about, Bee.”

The sunlight—the little bit that’s left of it—catches the diamond on your ring finger. “Oh,” you shrug, dropping it back to your side. “It’s Mom’s.”

“I know,” he nods solemnly, and your head shoots over to look at him. You don’t know why he would remember that. “Who put it there, though?”

A smile pulls on your lips, and you bury it in the lip of your wine glass. “I’m not engaged, if that’s what you’re asking,” you laugh. “I just wear it… I don’t know, it makes me feel close to her.”

Sunsets at the property have always been gorgeous. When you were younger, you thought that maybe it was the most beautiful place in the entire world. The blues and the pinks and the yellows all mix together into some grand watercolor and tonight is no exception. 

The silence that lingers in the air should be awkward, but it’s not. It should be harder to be here, to watch the sunset, to walk the paths you have memorized, to stand next to Daniel after all these years. It’s not hard, though. It’s comfortable, like it was when you were sixteen and seventeen and eighteen and barely nineteen. Like it was all the time you knew him, even before you loved him. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally speaks. “She was really cool.”

You chuckle softly. It’s a familiar routine, consoling those attempting to console you about her death. “That’s what everyone says,” you say, even though Daniel might be the first person to posthumously describe your mom as cool. Lovely, you’d gotten more times than you could count. Beautiful and kind and oh honey, she loved you so much, you knew already. She was really cool, that’s a Danny-original if you’ve ever heard one. 

“I should have been at the funeral.”

“It’s okay,” you nod, because his presence wouldn’t have changed that your Mom was lovely and beautiful and kind and that she wasn’t around to be any of those things anymore. There wasn’t anything Daniel could have done to remedy that reality. “You were busy. We weren’t together,” and before he can come back with something, insists that it’s a bigger deal some decade later than it was, you change the subject. “What about you, though? Putting rings on anyone’s fingers these days?”

He laughs. A person can only get poetic about Daniel’s laugh so many times before it’s easier to just leave it at that. He laughs, everyone around him lights up, and he laughs some more. “Believe it or not, my work-life balance isn’t super great at fostering long-term relationships.”

You don’t exactly know what Daniel’s work-life balance looks like. The last time you paid any attention, he was racing with Toro Rosso. Every update you’d heard since had been one you weren’t looking for—commercials and posters and billboards and word-of-mouth; more than a couple ex-boyfriends and a few stray friends. 

You never cared much about racing. It was Daniel you cared about. 

There aren't a lot of specifics you remember about Daniel’s schedule, but you remember that he was almost always coming or going. There wasn’t much staying, and that was before he’d even made it to the big show. “You mean, women like it when their partners are around for most of the year?”

“They do, yeah,” he nods, dimples digging into his cheeks. “Crazy, right?”

“Crazy.”

— — 

Danny didn’t go down without a fight. He caught what had to have been the first flight home—home, you’re not sure that he can call Perth home now that he doesn’t live here. He caught the first flight to you, threw wood chips at your window at three-in-the morning. He didn’t need to wake you up, it’s been two weeks since you had any kind of meaningful sleep. You spend the majority of your time in bed looking at the ceiling fan spin or staining the sheets with your tears. 

You let him throw mulch for twenty minutes though, hoping that maybe he’ll give up and leave so you don’t have to face him. 

You’d done the breaking up over the phone for a reason. It wasn’t that you couldn’t wait until whenever he was home next. You could. It was that you couldn’t break up with him while looking him in the eyes, and you knew it. 

Eventually, though, you pull your pajama-clad frame out from under the warm covers, drag your feet the entire way to the window, pulling the curtains open just enough to confirm what you already knew—that it was him in the driveway. His entire face relaxes when he sees you there, forcing the window open. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What the fuck am I doing?” He scoffs. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You cross your arms over your chest. The night air is cold and your pajamas are scarce. “I’m trying to sleep.”

He rolls his eyes, always dramatic, always over-the-top. “Come down here, honey.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

You stand there in silence, shivering in your bedroom window. He stands there in silence, thick jacket on and a handful of wood chips from the garden in your driveway. It’s a stalemate, and you don’t know which of you is more exhausted. Appearance points to him, but you dread that fact that you’re standing, that you’re tired enough to give up the fight this quick. 

“Fine,” you relent, and it’s less than two minutes before you’re running into him on the back porch, slowly closing the sliding patio door behind you so as to not alert anyone else in the house of his presence. “What do you want?”

“Where are your clothes?” He asks, and is already taking his coat off to wrap around your frame. You huff and puff the entire time he’s doing it, because your lack of clothing was a choice—you were hopeful that he wouldn’t keep you long if you were shivering. 

“What do you want, D?”

“I want you to talk to me,” he says. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

Your lip trembles, and you bite down on it to try and stop it, chew on the skin until you taste copper and then it still trembles. You don’t look at him, you can’t. “You can’t fix it.”

“No, no,” he argues, grabbing your elbow in a plea, stepping closer to you, speaking hardly above a whisper. “Just tell me, baby.”

You yank your arm away, tone a direct contrast to his when you insist: “You can’t fix it this time, okay!? Nobody can fix it.” You point an accusatory finger, like there’s actually something he’s done to deserve this. There isn’t, there never will be. “You can’t fucking fix everything just because you want to.”

He matches, points his finger at you, presses it into the middle of your chest. Your heart races. “You can’t just fucking break up with me because you want to.”

You swat his hand away, offended by the accusation that you wanted this, that any part of you is enjoying this, finding relief in this. You hate this. Fucking loathe it, but it doesn’t change any of the facts. “I don’t want to,” your lips downturn into a frown, all pathetic and trembled, and your voice cracks and shakes half as much as your lips. The tears that burn in your eyes are reflected back in his, tired and bloodshot and wet. 

“Then don’t do it,” he pleads. 

You gulp around the lump in your throat, voice leaving your body meekly through tears. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” he assures you quickly, his hands slotting on either side of your face, the pads of his thumbs wiping your tears, his fingers locking into the hair at the nape of your neck. He shakes his head before he speaks, brown eyes searching yours, begging you to change your mind. “You don’t.”

His hands on your face are what push you over the edge, turn you from poised and sniffly to half-wrecked—choking on sobs and swallowing snot. It all hits you at once, all the weeks of testing, the days of trying to come to terms with a diagnosis, the hours spent grappling with the fact that nothing will ever be the same about you. You’re changed, now, and you’re only going to continue to change. It’s not Daniel’s responsibility to see you through any of this fucking shit.  “I do, I do,” you sob. “I have to, I’m so sorry, I have to.”

He presses his forehead against yours, your tears mixing with his every time your noses bump. It calms you, if only slightly, and your eyes close, mind focused on remembering this, on remembering what it feels like to have his skin on yours, to feel his voice in your bones, to breathe in the same air, the same space, the same atoms. 

Your breath is shaky, but the pattern is steady. In, out. In, out. Your nose is so stuffed you can’t breathe through it. Your lips are all but touching his, a stray tremble holding the power to force them together. You don’t know if you want to kiss him or not, if it would make things better or so much worse. 

He swallows hard, pulling your faces apart. “I love you,” he mutters softly, like a wounded animal, and then he presses a long, hard kiss into your forehead. 

You sniffle, your hands holding onto his wrists. “I’m sorry.”

He nods, drops his arms, your hands falling into his. “Yeah.”

He lets your hands go, lets you go. You feel like you might be sick watching him walk down the steps of the patio, along the path of pavers to the gate. A shiver runs up your spine, and you pull his jacket closed over your chest. His jacket. 

You wipe a new set of tears from your cheek with the back of your hand. “Your jacket,” you sniffle, “hold on.”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even turn back to face you. “Keep it,” he says, unlatching the gate and slipping through to the other side. You sigh, and then you cough, and then you cry some more before finally finding the ability to move again, to go back inside and up to your bedroom, and that was that. That was the last time you saw Danny. The last moment that he was yours. 

— —

You’re walking back from the unbelievable strawberry field, quickly approaching the still lively barn, people and smiles and conversations pouring out into the adjacent spaces. Someone appears in front of you with a camera, with two cameras—one professional, and one a cheap polaroid. Smile, they said, and you laughed, your cheeks burning red. 

Daniel slinks his arm over your shoulder, and you step closer to his side. He flashes a toothy grin and a shaka sign to the camera. You hear the shutter of the camera take a dozen photos, and then the photographer holds up the polaroid—one for the road, she says, and Daniel pulls you that little bit closer, you blush that little bit harder. 

There’s a flash, and then you both relax, the photo printing out of the bottom of the camera. She holds it out Daniel, but he nudges you with his elbow to take it. You do, even though you aren’t sure you want it. 

You shake the polaroid while the two of you make your way into the barn. “What do I do with this?” You ask, looking carefully at the developed print. 

Daniel shrugs, leaning over. You flip the photo in his direction so he doesn’t have to lean as far, but he still does. “It’s cute,” he says. “You don’t want it?”

“I mean, I’ll take it, but…” But. But I’m going to throw it away when I get home. But it only reminds me of you. But it only represents what won’t be. 

He looks to the wall of photos behind the counter, eyeing the display carefully. You follow his sight line, your eyes going to the exact place you remember the photos of you being. You don’t know why you’re surprised that they’re still there, like you knowing they exist means they’d vanish. “Hang it up,” he says. 

You laugh. “Where?”

Daniel shrugs. “Anywhere you want.”

— —

The best part about only being able to afford cheap workers, was that you spent every day at the property with a new teenager looking to have just as much fun as you were. Between that, and the plethora of college kids that were constantly leaving to go back to school, to get a grown-up job, to get any job that paid more than your family could offer—there was always an opportunity for going away parties. And party, you did. 

You and your coworkers turned friends had slept down by the river more summer nights than you could count, hiding six-packs in the staff locker-room and hiding ziploc bags of joints behind the six-packs. 

Tonight, the going-away party is to honor someone whose face you won’t remember in a year, much less thirteen. He’d worked there for the holidays and not much more, and there wasn’t much memorable about him. 

The bonfire on the back of the property snaps and crackles, sparking off into the night and lights everyone in flickers of orange and yellow. The breeze has picked up after dark, and the tank-top and shorts you’d donned earlier in the day aren’t appropriate any more, one of Danny’s hoodies—a purple one that sits in his locker just for you to steal and smells like weed and wood from all the past nights just like this one—takes the chill out of the night and keeps the goosebumps off your exposed legs. 

The sky is clear and cloudless, a big moon staring back at you and a million shining stars fill the night sky. It’s times like these you think there’s no prettier place on Earth, nights like these where you feel completely rich. 

Two joints are being passed around the circle lazily, laughter and conversation filling the air. The first one comes your way from the left, from Daniel. He takes a long hit, the embers at the end of the paper burning orange with his inhale. He holds it in, nodding his way through someone else’s joke, and exhaling into a laugh. 

He looks at you, hesitates to hand it over. “I really don’t want a lecture from your parents tomorrow morning,” he teases, playful smile pulling on his lips, mischievous glint in his eye. 

You roll your eyes. “They won’t know,” you insist, to no avail. Daniel chuckles, but holds his resolve and passes the joint around you to the next person. 

Undeterred, you keep your eyes on the joint that moves clockwise, that comes to you from the other direction, a path with no Danny-sized roadblock. With practiced ease, you take a hit, exhaling slowly, savoring the warmth in your chest. You meet Danny’s eyes on exhale, find them half-amused and half-concerned, brows raised and smile drawn. 

“Whatcha got there?” He laughs, gently taking the joint from her. “I told you not to,” he continues, taking a hit himself before passing it along again. You grin, a wave of giddiness washing over you. It always goes like that when he laughs—makes you all warm and fuzzy and silly. 

“It’ll be okay, Danny-boy,” you laugh, leaning against him. Lazily, without hesitation, he tosses his arm over your shoulder and pulls you that much closer. You like being closer, can feel his laugh instead of just hearing it. You like the way his arm rests on your shoulder, the way his fingers trace patterns over the fabric of his sweatshirt, every touch echoing on your skin for minutes. You like being close, even if it makes your palms a little sweatier and your heartbeat a little faster. You could get used to being closer, you think. 

The fire is starting to die out now, and the air gets colder. You wonder how long your parents waited up for you to get home. The original excuse was that Daniel had forgotten the lock-check, that you wanted to come along and really, it’s no problem to drive her home. After about fifteen minutes, you’d snuck away from the newly-built fire to make a phone call, to let them know you were grabbing food on the way home and don’t wait up for me. You’re sure they did, though, even if only for a while longer. 

Anyway, the air is colder and the joints have been smoked through and the beers have been drunk—not by you, you’re too messy when you’re crossed. And not by Daniel, either, who refuses to drive drunk but insists on driving high. 

You yawn under Daniel’s arm, find a way to somehow lean in closer. “Sleepy?” he asks, and you nod. Carefully, like he’s done it a million times before, he presses a kiss into the crown of your head. It’s not the millionth time, it’s not even the second time he’s kissed any part of you. It’s the first time you've felt the press of his lips and you think that you’ll feel it there forever. “You wanna go?”

“No,” you say. “I’ll stay, make sure the fire gets out and everything.”

It’s not much longer, anyway, until the fire is being doused with water bottles and beer and everyone is taking turns spraying the same perfumes and colognes over their clothes in a poor attempt to mask the smell of smoke and weed. 

Daniel drives you home. It’s not the first time you’ve been the passenger in his old Ford Bronco. It’s not even the first time you’ve been in the truck while he was high. Usually, car rides with Danny consist of cranked down windows and loud music, of louder conversations and excessive laughter. This drive is quiet, though. 

His hands are steady on the wheel, eyes focused on the road ahead. There’s no music, the windows are up, and he doesn’t talk. You watch him carefully from the passenger seat, study him in your paranoia. You haven’t done anything, you don’t think. There’s no reason for him to be mad at you. Unless there is. 

“Did you have a good time?” You ask. Danny nods. “That’s good.”

He turns to face you at a stop sign. “Sorry,” he laughs. “I’m trying to focus.”

“It’s okay,” you nod. 

“It’s harder,” he explains. “It’s hard with you here.”

— — 

The evening you’d anticipated is far from the evening that unfolds. Fifteen minutes, maximum, in and out. That was the plan. But then Daniel—Daniel, and all the far-fetched dreams of him making himself at home in your life, all the passing thoughts you’d had over the years about the what-ifs; the grocery bills and the taxes and the white wine and the rusty barn doors. He glues you to his side for hours that feel like minutes. 

The event is winding down, people keep coming up to him, firm pats on the back and handshakes and hugs goodbye. They tell him how great the place is, how great the wine is, how great he is, and you move around like his shadow, smiling awkwardly whenever someone catches your eye and waiting for the next joke Daniel has to crack quietly, just to you.

You stand at a high-table next to him, elbows on the tabletop, shoulders bumping everytime one of you moves. There were people around the table, a reason—an excuse—for the proximity, but they’re long gone now.  “You know,” Daniel says quietly, dropping his head against his hands, speaking to nobody in the room but you. “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“Yeah,” you nod, speak just as softly. “Me too.”

He takes a long drink from the wine glass in front of him. Liquid courage, you know now, for what he was going to do next. The glass returns to the tablecloth with a soft pat, and he lets out a heavy exhale. “I heard there’s a new coffee place opening in Northbridge?” He asks, and you assume it’s because he knows your neighborhood, wants to know more about it. The wine has made you naive, or maybe you’d just pushed the reality of his implication so far from your mind that it’s an impossible thought. 

“Yeah,” you nod. The new coffee shop in Northbridge is a seven minute walk from your apartment, and is on your way to work. You’ve been eyeing the place since the empty building went up for lease. “It’s got this super cute bakery right next door,” you add. “I think they opened last week.”

Daniel nods. “I’d love to try it out.”

“Yeah,” you continue, still genuine and naive and oh-so silly. “You should. I’ve heard good things.”

He laughs, then. Laughs this specific kind of Daniel laugh that you used to get so excited to hear. It meant he was going to do something for—or to—you. He’d laughed like that before he kissed you for the first time, and he’d laughed like that while orange juice ran down his arm and he asked you out for the hundredth time. He’d laughed like that on every anniversary, every birthday, every holiday. It’s Danny’s you laugh. “I’d need someone to go with, though,” he says. And the laugh and the words and the whole thing clicks. Daniel is trying to ask you out. “I don’t really know my way around Northbridge.”

A lie, objectively. One that confirms the assumption you’d just jumped to. Daniel’s first apartment was in Northbridge. He lived eleven minutes from where you live now. He knows the place like the back of his own hand, knows the streets like he used to know you. 

You nod into the bottom of your wine glass, watching the liquid spin around the clear glass. “You don’t?”

He purses his lips, looks all deep in thought. “No,” he shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Oh,” you frown, your eyes meeting his. It’s really hard to mess with him when he looks at you like that. Hard, but not impossible. “My dad’s usually around.”

He chuckles. “Your dad, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod, a smile pulling impossibly hard on your lips. “Retirement and all, you know.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I guess…” you shrug, stop spinning your glass and set it down altogether. You push it slowly across the tablecloth towards the center. “I could always show you around, too.”

He leans back, stands up straight and scratches his beard, makes a piss-poor attempt at wiping the dimpled smile off his face when he cocks his head to the side and says, “As much as I like your dad…”

“As much as you like my dad.”

And, because Daniel was never really Daniel, because he’s always going to be your Danny, no matter the time or the distance or anything else that should get in the way, he says: “You’ve always been my honeybee.”

— —

“Don’t call me that, Mom,” you shouted from the office, gathering your morning gear. You were working tours with Danny, today, and the two of you had spent all morning bickering over who gets to be lead and who has to be secondary guide. While you shoved the batteries into the walkie-talkies, you could overhear Danny successfully pleading with your Mom. Honeybee, she’d called out to you. Let Danny take Lead today, won’t you? 

She laughs. You roll your eyes, slipping behind the counter where she leans, where Danny lounges on a stool. You toss Danny’s walkie at his chest, and he catches it before it hits him. She raises her brows pointedly, meets Danny’s eyes in some shared language, a shared silent remark about you. “Why not?”

“Because. It sounds like something Grandma would say.”

Your mom smiles, twirls the end of your ponytail around her finger. “But you’re so sweet”

Danny chokes on his laugh, shooting up straight in his seat to clear his throat, to cough into his elbow. “She is NOT sweet.”

You scowl, shove his shoulder gently. It only makes him, and your mom, laugh harder. “Hey!”

“You make my life sweet, baby girl,” she hums. 

Danny nods, falling back into his comfortable spot, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re kinda like a bee,” he says, leaning back even further. Your entire day would be made by him losing his balance and falling flat on his ass. “You make her life sweet but for me…” he pauses. “You’re just this annoying little buzzing I can’t shoo away.”

Silently, you hold up both middle fingers to him, walking backwards out from behind the counter, towards the back door. Your mom only laughs at you, always laughs at you and Danny. “Love you, Bee,” she calls to you, and winks at Danny. 

“Yeah,” he calls, the stool creaking underneath him as he properly stands up. “Love ya, Bee!”

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread. 

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness. 

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again. 

Haven't you given enough? 

Could they not show you mercy? 

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers. 

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further. 

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

 He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too. 

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please." 

And you know he never begs. 

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity. 

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals. 

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket. 

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel. 

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white. 

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire. 

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact. 

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum. 

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath. 

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity. 

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well. 

You can't stop your body from aching for him. 

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours. 

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes. 

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant. 

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood. 

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed. 

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion. 

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him. 

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass? 

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands? 

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite. 

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons. 

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down. 

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty. 

Now you are plunged into doubt. 

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair. 

"What are we going to do now?" 

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself. 

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles. 

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream. 

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost. 

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust. 

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two? 

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance. 

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words. 

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"  

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it. 

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was. 

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier. 

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor." 

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice. 

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark. 

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you. 

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished? 

You don't know, but you accept the risk. 

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing. 

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.  

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly. 

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

 "And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead. 

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences. 

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything. 

Where you were that night when you didn't come home. 

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you. 

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support. 

You know it wasn't his fault. 

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder. 

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you. 

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

 Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door. 

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time. 

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her. 

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up. 

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again. 

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him. 

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course. 

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time. 

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired. 

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe. 

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks. 

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face. 

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too. 

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt. 

You know he is there. 

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him. 

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat. 

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried. 

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world. 

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward. 

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him. 

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family. 

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this. 

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate. 

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago. 

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?" 

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed. 

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence. 

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old. 

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach. 

You no longer blame yourself. 

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago. 

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

 "This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there. 

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought. 

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away. 

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory. 

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

[utahimeow]

swan song — satoru gojo

summary — why work so hard when you could just be free?

pairing — satoru gojo x f!reader

warnings — major jjk spoilers, graphic depictions of violence, hurt/comfort, angst, happy endings, reader has a cursed technique (mentioned once), established relationship

word count — 1.3k

author’s note — based on swan song by lana del rey. this is the most self indulgent selfship coded thing i’ve ever written but i needed to give gojo the happy ending he deserved idc if its cheesy or out of character

He’s dead.

Dead.

The strongest. Dead. 

Satoru Gojo is dead.

A flash, then his body becomes two — legs here, torso there. 

He’s not moving. Scarlet splatters the ground, blooms like a lily. 

The air is disgustingly thick, and it hangs like a noose, and it cuts your throat. Nobody is breathing. Everybody knows. 

This time, he’s not getting back up. 

A scream claws its way out of your throat, vicious as it pierces through the air. 

Someone else is stepping up to replace him already, a sorcerer with hair like seafoam. The King of Curses turns towards him, his stolen face twisting into a demonic grin, dripping with victory.

Right now there’s just one thing on your mind. Like instinct, like it’s your destiny. You don’t care about the politics, the consequences, the implications of his death. None of it matters.

You just want to be with Satoru.

Your feet are moving. They almost take off, but a steady grip pulls you back. 

“You should leave.” Shoko’s voice quivers as she speaks. You’ve seen her composure crack so rarely that when you do it feels like your first time witnessing it.

Your face is hot, and it’s wet now. Your eyes sting. You don’t try to stop the tears, or even wipe them.

If you were to look up, you’d find eyes full of sorrow and shock and pity—you’re the grieving widow. His students have lost a teacher, his friends have lost a friend. At least I’m not her, they all think, I haven’t lost the love of my life. 

Without another word, without even so much as one final glance at Satoru’s corpse, you leave. You can’t bear to be there any longer. 

The taxi driver does not question why you’re crying. He pretends he does not hear the way you sniffle and gasp for air. He drives you to your home and drives away when you’ve paid him.

You breathe out. Your shoulders sag with relief. You will yourself to stop crying.

He’s in the living room, a thick arm thrown over his eyes as he half-naps. As soon as he hears you enter however, he springs up, beaming like the sun. 

Satoru laughs a little at your puffy face and your glimmering eyes. He gathers you into a hug, his body hard and imposing and warm, and you cling to him. His heart pumps blood around his body and it’s loud in your ears.

“That was traumatic,” you say, but it gets muffled when you bury your face into his chest. He smells fresh, like the wind on a warm day. He must have showered since he teleported home. 

Satoru’s laughing again. You wish he’d never stop. “You knew it was fake the whole time, how bad could it be?”

“I had to watch you die, Satoru! It was horrible even if it was fake,” you admit, tightening your arms around his waist, where his torso meets his legs. 

He laughs, and it reverberates in his chest and rumbles through your body. You’re angry. You can’t climb inside of his skin and live there and you’re angry about it. His giant hands draw circles all over your back.

“I’m here, baby. I’m all yours now,” he tells you. For the first time, he means it without any exceptions.

…

“What if you faked your death?”

Satoru’s head whips over to look at you, scanning your face to find something that will tell him you’re not serious. But you are serious.

One word, he asks, “why?”

“So we can give up being sorcerers and leave Japan and never come back.”

Satoru grows quiet. There’s a pit in your stomach. He tells you constantly that he’d give you the world, and you believe him, and he loves you more than anything, yet he can’t bring himself to give up on humanity. Without him, the world doesn’t stand a chance. He’s the strongest, after all.

“Is that what you want?” he asks. It’s sincere.

“Yes,” you tell him, swallowing as you consider your next words. “I just got you back from the Prison Realm and now you have to fight Sukuna, who might actually kill you… You just give and give so much to the Jujutsu world and what do they give you back? Shit all. And I’m tired of watching you be wrung dry.” 

He’s silent again. All the years that you’ve known him make it easy for you to know what he’s thinking. More than likely he’s thinking of Yuuji and Megumi and Yuuta. Maybe he wonders what Nanami would tell him to do, or what Geto would say.

It’ll be selfish. He’ll be abandoning everyone at the worst possible moment. He turns your words over and over in his head. Then he thinks of a life with you, a peaceful one, where you’ve left behind your days of sorcery, where he doesn’t have to be some pseudo-god. 

Where he can grow old with you.

Perhaps, he thinks, it’s necessary for him to disappear. It’ll be a struggle without him, but he has faith. They’ll persevere. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks eventually.

“I’ll use cursed energy to create a clone of you. Since my clones can’t use cursed techniques it’ll have to be right when Sukuna is about to kill you. You switch out and teleport out of there.”

For a moment he stares at you, then he chuckles, shifting sideways so he can lay on his back and stare at the ceiling with resolve.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says. 

“I have,” you say. “For as long as I’ve loved you.”

…

He thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. 

He’s convinced of it, actually. Life has filled your cheeks out and erased your dark circles away. Your eyes shine brighter. Fear no longer lives in them, nor does hopelessness.

Your fingers are gentle as you pluck fresh, plump tomatoes off the vine. Satoru’s heart swells because you’ve been so excited to harvest them.

“It’s just a handful for now,” you tell him, letting him peer inside the basket you have on your arm. There are a few bunches of rocket and basil leaves, and a small squash too. 

He reaches in, takes a tomato and pretends to take a bite out of it until you snatch it from his hand and scold him. 

“They just look too good, baby,” he says between laughs. You roll your eyes, but you don’t manage to bite back the smile that grows on your lips.

“Go finish building my chicken coop,” you tease, calling him by his last name, the one he took from you, then brushing past him to head back inside your home.

“I told you it’s almost finished!” he exclaims, trailing behind you as you make your way to the vintage renovated kitchen of your house. 

Satoru settles on a stool at the island at the centre, observing the way you rinse the vegetables in the sink. To him it’s fascinating—well, you’re fascinating. The way your brow scrunches slightly with concentration. He hopes you never run out of vegetables to harvest and wash. He’ll make sure you don’t.

“By the way, what do you think about getting some mini goats?”

“I don’t care as long as you take care of them,” you tell him. “Do you want salad or roasted vegetables for lunch?”

Satoru’s heart races. He’s transported back to 2006 for a moment, when for some reason he wanted to be around you all the time and thought it was weird that he liked it when you teased him. Before he realised.

“Roasted vegetables, please. I love you.”

Satoru doesn’t look much different now. He’s gotten a little more toned, put on some muscle from some of the heavy work he does on the farm. 

And when he smiles, he’s not pretending anymore. 

[dimepdf]

★  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. Just when you needed him the most, Miguel was the one to save you.

─── ☆ notes. I haven’t seen the new Spiderverse movie yet, so no spoilers, but my tiktok fyp is starving for Miguel, so just something short and kind of emotionalish leaning more towards the personal self insert. I don't know, sorry if its too selfish and angsty. | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ genre and warnings. one-shot | not movie canon | hurt/comfort | angst | mentions of death | near death experience | crying | hugging | open-ended | we ignore typos here | taiyo vent fic posting again | title Inso from this song.

You were dying—well,  at least soon to be dead.

You couldn't grasp onto time as you continued to fall, windows flitting past your body as the wind carried you closer and closer to your demise.

You never would have thought the whole expression "life flashing before your eyes" to be something that you would have ever experienced, but there you were with the world's biggest migraine free falling from some ten-story building you got kicked off of just because you wanted to play the hero.

You were cutting through the air quicker than dead weight.

All you could do was stare up at your super mutant recent friends fighting for their lives, and it was ironic how you were the only one without the possibility of saving yourself.

You could see the moonlight above the clouds. The farther you plummet, the harder the building's rooftop is to see from the growing distance.

As the heavy breeze combed through your hair, your body felt numb, your fingers brushing through the air as your ears rang with each thud of your heartbeat.

You wanted to thank your emotions for washing away the fear as the tears blurred your vision. There was no point in fighting.

You were falling.

You were going to die.

Your eyes were closed before your body jerked through the air involuntarily. The cradle of your limbs smacked hard against someone's broad chest, leaving you grasping for more air in your lungs.

Two strong arms cradling you close from the whiplash of being snatched up in midair, you trembled in the strangers' hands, holding every nerve in your body fried as your bones felt as limb as the day you were born.

It was a shameless embrace of the familiar blue and red suit your brain somehow managed to recognize through its panic disguised as your guardian angel.

Tucking your head in the crook of their neck as they threw themselves through the sky, you held as tightly as your arms would let you, making a mental note to apologize for practically sobbing in Miguel’s ear.

He didn't seem to mind at all with his arm hooked around your thigh, only tightening harder as you could only manage to form a few broken sentences thanking him for saving your life.

You could tell how he actually felt; his reaction hid behind the blank, emotionless-eyed mask covering his features.

It wasn't until he had landed on the flat ground that you were able to fully collect yourself.

Your legs felt numb as Miguel tried to set you down as gently as he possibly could. You could only picture his annoyance when his hands reached out to brace you once more as your knees buckled.

In memory, you would no doubt feel embarrassed of yourself tripping face first into his chest, comparable to Bambi, as Miguel helped you stand on your two feet, who had disregarded his mask with a quick tug, his brown hair fluffed out.

His mean grimace was replaced with something of concern, and his dark, thick brows pulled together as his mouth parted from the permanent frown carved against his lips. 

"Hey, hey, look at me." Your stance stumbling as he yanked you out of trance, fingers tight dug into both of your forearms. "You’re okay, you're alive."

Crying was starting to become a bit tiring as another sob carried up from your throat, the tears forming a knot and stopping you from speaking even as his grasp traveled up to your face in a much more gentle and warming hold.

Miguel asses you once more and hesitatingly pulls you into his chest, your arms clutching onto him like your life depended on it as he's wrapped around your torso as you allow him to embrace you.

Sure, the pain that you felt wasn't at all physical, and the dull emotional ache that hammered your heart distracted you from asking why Miguel hugged you so tight.

🍀 ...

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[bloodycassian]

Divinity - threesome, Azriel x Reader x Cassian - smut with plot.

Angst and pining turns into tender smut - skip to +++++++++++ for just the smut.

warnings and themes below -

dirty talk, P in V, Oral, praise kink (slightly), mating bond, mentions of blood, mentions of death, stalker-ish behavior, suggested bondage, suggested BDSM/brattamer!Azriel, thoughts of suicide, jealousy and envy, alcoholism, mentions of painkillers

Cassian was a dog. He knew it but watched anyway. He didn’t know why it happened, why it had to be you, but he didn’t bother to deny the insatiable craving he had for you when he was this deep into his cups. He turned into an utter and complete animal for the sight of you before him. He was already drooling. He’d be on all fours in a second if it’d appease you. Entranced, he followed your every move, eyes lingering on all the perfect curves and dips of your body as you danced.

Then came the hands upon your hips, so similar to his own, in all but the scarring. 

His own brother in bond didn’t know how Cassian lusted for you. How, in the darkest nights when he knew none would hear, he often pleasured himself to the mental image of you. He once feared Azriel has become aware of the way he felt about the shadowsinger’s mate, but there was never an attempt on Cassian’s life. Surely if Azriel had known, Casisan would be dead on the spot. 

He his behind his pint, taking a long sip before banishing you from his mind. 

He turned in his chair, facing the rest of the crowd that swayed to the band’s music. His stomach clenched and unclenched, as if  not leering at the one he lusted for warred with his very being. He ached. His body, his mind, something deep inside his chest, in his diaphragm keened and pitched - gods he was drunk.

He slapped down a few gold marks and slid from his chair, pushing his hair back from his eyes. Sickness overwhelmed him exiting the bar. Patrons rustled in and out, several attractive fae that gave him looks as he strode out. None seemed quite right though. None were you.

He doubled over and vomited in the streets of Velaris. 

+

He found solace only when you shared quiet evenings together at dinner, Azriel idly brushing lightly over your hand and serving you different foods. Envy gripped Cassian, a noose and a leash. His guide and his demise. He couldn’t look his brother in the eyes when you were around. 

At least his body wasn’t aching. 

+

He found more and more reasons to be around you. His headaches and nausea were growing worse by the week. He’d visited Madja at least three times in the last month, but nothing could be done about his condition. “Perhaps you should take a break from Ritas, General.” She’d scolded, eyeing the way his hands shook and his pallor. 

He hadn’t admitted how the pain only subsided when you were around. If you were his solution, then he’d find another. Eventually. When he had the time. 

But he was so consumed by the pain, he found himself merely enduring life when you weren’t around. Rhys had even begun to question him, commanding that Cassian go to the Illyrian healers and make sure that the more spiritual side of him was alright. He knew how skeptical Rhys was concerning the ‘mage’ centers there, therefore it was no comfort that he’d been so adamant about it.

Cassian drifted. He drank more. He wallowed around at the house of wind, just to be free of the hold the pain had on him. It seemed to be the only place he could find relent from the aching in his diaphragm. His hands shook in the mornings after he’d dreamed of you, just a few doors away. He wondered if you felt his heated presence when he was around, if you saw the way his eyes widened and how he seemed unable to breathe properly when looking into your eyes. 

Then he’d glance over to where Azriel stood, strapping on his belt of weapons or leaping form the balcony, and the shame would shatter him. He’d hide from you for days at a time while Azriel was away, hoping to the Mother that his cock didn’t get him assassinated by his own brother. 

He would leave - he should leave. But what the hel was he meant to do about the migraines, the stomach cramps that accompanied him departing your vicinity? 

He could stay, and risk becoming a homewrecker, or he could leave and be hollowed out on the inside by some of the most intense internal pain he’d ever experienced.

He almost wished Azriel would end him.

+

The illyrian camps were the same as they’d always been. A part of him joyed in seeing the soldiers take up guard as he flew over. He was the Lord of Bloodshed here. A traitor, the male who’d killed an entire village of them for what they’d done to his mother. He would not be disrespected here. 

He winced at the landing, the only thing keeping him flying being the pain management he’d bought from the back alley of a mage’s shop. One known for peddling above average doses. 

He knew drinking himself stupid wouldn’t get him all the way to the Steppes. He also knew showing up to the mages caves would be somewhat dangerous, espically not knowing what’ they’d need to do to fix him. So he’d paid a hefty bag of coin for the shiny purple bottles, and it’d paid off. He would need to be sober for this interaction. 

The front door was a ragged, sunbleached patchwork of driftwood from the beach down the mountain. The gaps between packed with mud and moss, carvings dotting every surface. Some were clearly from children, faded scrawled names and hearts and wings. The majority of the others were symbols, whorls and shapes that almost resembled letters.

He knocked lightly, then entered. The sun on his back disappeared, and his teeth chattered slightly, not entirely from the shade.

“A rare visit from a royal such as yourself” A female voice called, deep and soft and something he would have found sultry if he could think of any female but you. She appeared from behind a partition, holding a bowl with twigs and things rising from the edges. 

He straightened as she breathed deeply. Her eyes flickered beneath her lids, scenting him. Taking stock of his recent history. He shuddered, and the pain lanced through him for a moment. His teeth ground together. He would not fear a female as small as her. But the power she held… it seemed to radiate from her, like the embrace of a fire. 

“I am no royal. I just happen to have a convenient connection to some.” He quipped back, mood souring as his pain spiked and faded. The sawing knives in his gut had grown sharper and hotter with every wingbeat away from Velaris before he’d taken the potion a quarter of the way to the Steppes. Was it already wearing thin? 

“What ails you then, Lord of Bloodshed?” She cocked her head to the side, daring him to dispute his battle earned title. She ran a finger over the lip of the bowl, her eyes tracking the movement of his hand to the center of his torso.

“Shouldn’t you know by now?” He couldn’t help the hand he used as support in that aching spot, just between his ribs. He wasn’t dying, he knew that at least. He’d been close enough to death before to know what it’d be like when it truly came for him. 

“I sense pain, yes. But to truly know you’d have to allow me access to  the afflicted area.” 

Reluctantly, he followed her to the area behind the partition, which was beautifully adorned with dried herbs upon the wall, hanging upside down from several strings. The candlelight flickered over every surface, making shadows dance and radiate a warm glow over the bed upon the floor. 

He removed his tunic. Her eyes darted over his body, every part of his sculpted muscle. Her tongue flicked over her lips. “If you want your coin, you’ll quit smiling like that.” He warned. 

She hissed a laugh, but motioned for him to lay flat on the bed. 

“You may find these methods strange, and different from how your healers in the courts handle things. But you must trust that I am going to help you.” She began, the words practiced and falling from her tongue so quickly he could hardly keep up with the pounding in his head. 

“We will begin with a full body check.” She lit something that began smoldering on a shelf to her side. “I will be sensing your energy from your key points, finding the difficult areas and allowing that to guide me where I sense it is taking me.” Something wet smeared against his cheekbones, but he was beginning to ease into the process with much more willingness now as she explained. 

“It may seem like your afflicted areas become hot or tense when we begin to heal them, but please refrain from moving. The flow of energy is determined by your positioning and your emotion.” She was prepping more things, her honey smooth voice lulling him into a trance. More cool sensations dotted his chest, his abdomen. “If you are running, your body sends more energy to your heart. When you are trying to think of things, more to your mind. Just as a plant cannot grow without enough sunlight, we may not grow without enough positive energy. 

Her hand began at his head, kneading his greased hair and the ever present headache eased into a dull hum behind his eyelids. Her fringers traced over his skin, goosebumps breaking out every time they skimmed too lightly. His mind went blank at the warm pressure when he would push lightly on whatever key points she spoke of. Moving to his face, then his shoulders and chest. 

She eased downwards, the moment she skipped over the center he was arching up, pain lancing through him like a hot spike. A firm hand on his shoulder held him down. His eyes flashed open and panic corrupted his mind. 

“You must relax your body, Cassian.” A voice, not the woman’s languid tone but one that was much more intimately familiar to him. One that set his head spinning and stomach doing flips. One he’d imagined everything from fighting with to fucking with. 

But there was no way you were here, this was a trick of the mind. He knew that. He knew it. 

But it worked. And once he was able to relax his muscles again, the roaring pain in his muscles eased. It faded to little more than a dull ache. And for the first time in months, he went fully and completely unconscious. 

+

“I’ve never experienced such a through sickness such as yours, General. What a grip that female holds on you.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“You came here for answers, didnt you? You left your answer back in Velaris.” She pulled a rag from her makeshift sink and tossed it to him. “She is all you need. Your mate. Some scholars believe that-”

“What are you talking about?” He repeated again, his voice echoing through the cave.

She leveled him a look, one that had him straightening. “As I was saying - some scholars believe the refusal of the mating bond is powerful enough to kill. I suggest courting her, if you wish for the pain to ease more quickly.” 

“I don't understand what you are saying. She has a mate. I-” He stammered for the words, unable to comprehend what this female was telling him. Was Rhys right, was all this a scam? A show of something desired for a quick pocket of coin? But that pain he’d experienced - it was eased now. As if temporarily fended off by her power. 

“It is possible to have more than a single mate, Cassian. Especially if both parties of the mated pair are willing.” 

“It is unheard of. Azriel wouldn’t allow it.” He attempted an angry tone, but everything seemed distant and far away. 

Her eyes flashed with the glean of the information. But she kept her composure otherwise. It must have brought pity, from the way her face softened. “Perhaps you do not know all of the Shadowsinger’s secrets. He likely has more than you know.” She blew out the incense and a few of the candles. “But there is no denying that there is a tether in you. A mating bond, quite strong if you’ve been having effects this violent.”

He sat, head spinning. His stomach pitched, but for once it wasn’t because of the illness that infected him when you weren’t around. 

“What do I do, how do I-” His lips were moving, but the words seemed spoken by someone else. He was far, far away from his body and his mind was numb with shock. The words died in his throat before he said them. There wasn’t a single right question to get the answers he needed, and it left him to an ocean of self pity to wallow in. 

“Go to them. At the very least it will ease your suffering.” 

But he was already striding out, leaving a sack of gold marks on the floor behind him. “Mother watch over you, lord of bloodshed.” Her voice echoed through his mind the entire journey home. 

+

Azriel’s mind tricks were strictly forbidden during training, which meant the sight of Cassian approaching with nothing but his leathers on and nothing more than a dagger at his side was real. A rare sight of the General without a sword strapped at his back. His hair was also different, disheveled more than usual. As if he’d been running his hands through it for hours. He was pale, deep purple marks beneath his eyes, standing out even against his dark skin. 

“Cas, what is it?” Azriel turned to the male, not bothering to take up a defensive stance even when Cassian approached him in the ring. 

Something was wrong. Deeply, truly wrong then. 

“I need to speak with both of you.” He said, his voice like gravel. Like he’d been screaming. 

You approached, and they seemed to have a silent exchange. Something in Cassian’s eyes hardened when he looked to the shadowsinger, and there was the slightest nod as he handed Azriel the blade, hilt first. 

Your mate took it uneasily. You’d never seen Azirel seem so uncomfortable with a weapon in hand. He held it loosely, as if it pained him. 

“I can’t say this right. There is no way for me to be able to ever apologize for this. But I need to at least say it once. I am sorry for this. I am sorry for how this is about to fuck everytyhing up. Azriel I understand however you react, and I hope, if you decide to kill me, it is with that blade.” He nodded to the one he’d brought, the tip of it pointed to his stomach. 

“Cassian what-” You began, but his eyes flashed with such pain, such torment and pleading, that it took your breath away. He held your gaze and steadied his mind. This was it then, the moment he’d always hoped for, in some sick way. A part of him joyed that he’d die and no longer have to live with the agonizing guilt. 

“You’re my mate.” He said it, lip curling in disgust at himself. He said it, and seemed to deflate. Azriel was silent, your mouth agape as everything quieted. A beat, two, three. “I’m know it’s at least you. I’m not sure, Azriel if-” He began rambling, his cheeks flaring red beneath the bronze of his skin. The tips of his rounded ears turning a shade of pink. 

Something aligned inside you. Something deep and powerful, shifting the world beneath your feet and settling you into a new reality that seemed wholly incomplete without Cassian. Your eyes went to Azriel for the smallest second, attempting to make sense of what had been said. 

Your mate - your mate, the one you couldn’t imagine life without. The strongest male you’d ever met stood beside you, shaking. 

His shoulders seemed to crumple inwards, his hands trembling fiercely. 

The blade dropped the the ground, the shrill sound of it shocking you from your stupor. Azriel was moving before you could say anything. His hands went to Cassian’s shoulders, pushing him back, and back - stumbling backwards until they were both on the ground. “I asked for the blade-” Cassian ground out.

But Azriel was not choking Cassian, as you thought he may be. When you approached, Azriel was merely staring at him, his eyes locked on the other males in challenge, and in something like awe. 

The same way he watched you, you realized. Your breath hitched in your throat. 

Cassian’s eyes went wide with shock, then they went glassy. His brows pulled up in the middle, and he was breathing something - chanting something over and over. Through the roaring in your ears, his voice  seemed to slip through. A tether, a bond slipping past your mental walls. 

“She was right. She was right, she was right she was right-” It chanted over, and over.

You gripped Azriels shoulder, pulling him backwards off of Cassian. Both of them lay where they’d landed, victims to the reality that was your newly shared bond. 

A tangle of emotion shot through you, forcing you to the ground with them. Pain welled in your mind, your stomach and Azriel groaned along with you. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry-” You weren’t sure if the quivering words were coming from Cassian’s mouth or if they were his mental voice, but it cracked and splintered through your very soul. 

The world seemed to be collapsing, turning inward and eating itself whole. Pain and joy, laced with the scent of sea air and warm woods invaded your mind. Light and fear and an all consuming love roared through every bone in your body along with that seaside forest. Your blood sang with it. You could practically taste it upon your tongue, it was so potent. Through a sea of despair and grief, relief flooded your lungs and refilled you with life again. Cassian. You couldn't’ breathe. Not when his mental self was so all consuming. 

Cassian’s presence flowed through you on a bridge of broken, fired swords melded together with every step he took upon them. Every lick of his essence upon them firing them together, forging a bond of unbreakable steel. 

Another angle of anger, a deep rage and pity appeared. Azriel. You’d know his darkness anywhere, it was a part of you. It was the part of you that was so essential, so ingrained into your life, that you couldn’t imagine living without him. His passion, his smile, his laugh, his eyes - mother above, you were nearly knocked breathless waking up to him every morning. You gripped on to the bond, familiar and comforting as he slid into your mind, meeting you halfway. He embraced you for only a moment, not lingering at your side. His presence flew to the new section of your shared mental space, erupting from the black space like an island from the ocean.

 The bond quivered beneath his wrath, threatening to break that path of shadowy webs and ice. A glacier. that's what Azriel was in comparison. But with the heat of Cassian’s forged bridge, it was not unpleasant. You shied away from neither of them. 

Something happened then, something that was so unexpected from the two of them that it had you questioning what you sensed. A truce of sorts seemed to unfold before you as their presence met in your mind. 

Azriel’s northern drift of snow and ice faltered upon meeting Cassian’s wall of flame. They twined around each other, and a great column of wind flowed between the three of you. Emotion raged, jealousy, resentment, brutality and violence. It was dizzying. But then there was also an undeniable love. A tender, tentative love that shone through it all.  Harmony, and heated desire. A shiver rolled through you, and their presence both seemed to turn towards yours for an instant, distracted. There, in that moment, an unbreakable bond of care radiated from both of them - at war with the violence that begged to be released.

 Your mind was lost to it all, strewn wherever it took you. Indignation, then mouth watering need. Sorrow, then shame. You wished you could stop them, to throw yourself between them and endure the pain of it all alone. You would take it. The honesty of the realization shocked you. You’d easily take the burden of it all if it meant you could have them both, still, without the pain you were feeling second hand. 

The same care washed through them. You could feel it, as real and palatable as the chilled wind that washed over your physical body. 

Light flashed, blinding and warm, and it was over. The sky appeared before you, painted pink from the sunset that shone over Velaris. 

The wind you’d felt had been Azriels shadows gathering, black as the deepest part of the oceans and just as cold. He was standing first, his teeth chattering as he helped you, then Cassian to a standing position. 

“I always thought the bond between us was somehow different than how I felt with Rhys… Like there was an entire world more -” Azriel admitted, his cheeks flushing. Their presence in your mind rose and fell together like the sleeping breaths of a giant.

“I didn’t know. I am truly sorry Azriel-”

You were shocked yet again by Azriel’s next words. “Apologizing is a waste of time. We’ve been destined together, likely for longer than we have been.” He gripped your hand for a moment and squeezed. You weren’t offended. It was probably true, and they’d both been in denial of it for a long, long time. You’d only met Azriel a few hundred years ago, in a freak accident in the Hybern sea - and it had seemed too strange to be anything other than the Caludron mixing your lives together. 

But why had fate - the mother - waited so long to pull the three of you together? 

The questions were forced to wait. 

++++++++++

Azriel pulled you both close, then he was winnowing you together into the house of wind, back to your room. The clothes strewn on the bed felt embarrassing now, but Cassian took in the details greedily. You blocked out the heat that flooded his bridge at the sight of the hook points on the bedposts. Azriel’s coolness fluttered with amusement. You smacked his arm, and he hid his grin while watching the other Illyrian. 

It all seemed so natural, as if accepting Cassian as your mate was as easy as speaking to him.  It fell so in line with how the male truly was. It wasn’t a stretch or any kind of adjustment to make at all, it was as if you’d turned your head and he’d been there all along. Waiting, hoping and hungering after you.

The weapons upon the wall, the shelf of odd books on the other side of the room, even the bedspread were not unfamiliar to Cassian. The books were ones Cassian knew well, from basics of different fighting styles to tomes on battle strategy from all areas of the world. He’d envied Azriel for several of the weapons mounted beside them, most of them won in battles. 

Azriel noticed his admiration and smiled - the two had always had similar taste, after all. The General’s eyes shifted to the other pile of books and slips of paper upon the desk, full of different sketches and stories to be told and read. The empty glasses of water and scattered clothes left atop the bed. 

His eyes settled upon you, his eyes taking on a new confidence, like he’d learned enough from the small observations in your room and he now felt equipped for what was undeniably coming next. He could feel it, roiling beneath his skin, a beast of lust and greed lurking inside him. It took all his strength not to allow it freedom. To battle it every second with you so heated and flushed before him, laid bare on that bond - opened wide to both you and Azriel’s raging desire to claim you..

“This is going to be delectable.” Azriel’s dark voice purred in your mind. Then, the vision of you and Cassian locked in a melting kiss appeared. It was something you’d seen more than a few times when you and Azriel envisioned bringing a third into the bedroom. Your heart sped, forcing blood to pump thickly through your throat. 

“Kiss her.” Azriel suggested, his eyes skimming over Cassian’s body as if drinking him in. As if he were finally allowed to do such a thing. 

“Az, I-” Ever the gentleman, Cassian had to enforce some kind of hesitation, for respect alone. He shivered at even the idea, his mind bending to the thought more than it did with a High Lord’s order.

“She likes it slow, at first.” Azriel described, and you could feel the heat flooding through the bond, swelling your desire further. The anticipation tingled upon your tongue. The green tinged nerves that flowed from Cassian made racing to his hand easier. He didn’t need much convincing to grip yours back, glancing between you and Az. 

“Grip her ass, pull her in and it’ll set her off.” The shadowsinger smiled at your glare, and placed a hand on the small of Cassian’s back, leading him forward. You couldn’t deny the pure heat that coursed through your veins at the sight of your mate wanting another male to fuck you. “Once she’s earned it, I mean.” He ended with a wink. 

You rolled your eyes, and raised your free hand to brush away strands of Cassian’s hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. “I’m looking forward to not having to deal with him alone any longer.” You let a finger drag over Cassian’s jawline, and he shivered.

Flames rushed down those mental bridges, Azriel’s just as intense as Cassian’s despite fact that the Shadowsinger stood to the side. Shadows darkened the room around you, the anticipation from Azriel apparent through the outline of his trousers. He gave you a nod with those darkened eyes, making your stomach flip, and you stripped your clothes off quickly. Eagerly, you realized with a small part of your mind that was not entirely consumed with arousal.

 Laid bare before them both, on the edge of the bed, just how Azriel’s eyes had suggested. Azriel knew just how to have you obey him. Just like how he knew to push the right buttons when he wanted you to give him attitude so he could punish you. It was a silent, wicked game you played together in private, but with Cassian here… Doubt crept in. A whisper of his thought floated to you. “Another time. He will not be punishing you until we go over rules first, darling.”  Your gaze flicked from Cassian, then back to him. He’d somehow bypassed Cassian with his implanted thought. You could see his pride shimmering behind his eyes at his accomplishment. 

He was cautious with his testing, you could feel it now, the way he cast shadows from your side of the conjoined bridges, to Cassian’s, then back. Attempting to find weak points, or ways to block out you and him. You would have glared at him, if it weren’t for the way he was also palming the hardness in his leathers. Your mouth popped open at the sight. Two males, both powerful and gorgeous and ready to fuck you. 

More than that. They were ready to lay their lives down for you, if it were commanded of them. This was far, far more than just a threesome. You’d have time for those relevations later, though. You reached down, toying with yourself, reveling in the way both of their eyes tracked the movement and how they both swore.

“Dont be shy now, Cas.” Azriel encouraged, his hands going to gently guide the larger male. The feel of the other Azriel’s skin against his own was like kindling to his flame, and the lord of bloodshed would never admit to the way his eyes fluttered back, pulling on years of hard willed training to not devour you before him. 

Here he was getting exactly what he’d envied Azriel for - Hel, being told to take you by Azriel.. And he was still cautious. He blamed his warrior mind. It was a trick, some way to test his loyalty, it had to be… but he coldn’t deny that connection in his mind that he now felt.

You gave a sinister smile, sensing just what your actions were doing to him, and winked. Upon the first touch of his hands - both of their hands - it was hard to hold back. Hard to keep from pulling them to you and fucking them both right there. It sent sparks to the base of your spine, heat to fuel your very bones. Cassian’s breath shuddered from him at the softness of your body, at the way Azriel was guiding him to touch you. 

Thighs, rubbing - massaging really - heavy, petting strokes of his calloused hands everywhere that he’d desired to touch for so long. Everywhere but your glistening cunt, which he scented with every breath. His mouth watered, but even when Azriel stepped away to watch from the end of the bed, Cassian didn’t immediately go to the feast before him. 

No, he wanted this to last. He wanted to savor every part of this experience. So he broke away for only a second to undo his belt, pull down his trousers and give himself a slight relief from the pressure building inside him. 

His cock was a gorgeous thing to behold. He was thicker than Azriel, but a bit shorter, and the slickness of his head had you anticipating the moment you’d taste him. You sat up to do just that, but a rope of Azriel’s shadow whipped forward and guided you back to the bed. You were going to protest but Cassian was grinning at the other Illyrian. 

“We can communicate openly or -” Cassian’s raspy mental voice lowered, and some part of you knew that the next words were just for you. “Privately. Just us, just for him or me or -” Cassian’s voice took on a more echoing tone next. “I can let you both know just how badly I want to bury my cock inside you.”

Your thighs clamped shut on his hands as he ended the thought with a soft thumbstroke over your clit. Azriel hissed, and you whimpered. The male atop you sucked the pad of his thumb between his lips and sighed. “Fucking delicious.” He muttered, his voice similar to his mental tone. 

His wings flared out, and he knelt before you, finally getting a full taste of your arousal. The heat of him was immeasurable, all consuming and completely fucking wonderful. He groaned into it, looking up to watch you, his mouth atop your clit. He lapped at it slowly while you arched and reached for anything - wanting to have Azriel in your hand, your mouth - anywhere. But he only shook his head, the corner of his lip pulling up slightly as he watched.

“Please-” You whined, unable to stop the way your body rolled and ground harder onto Cassian’s mouth. 

“Fuck-” Azriel panted, his hand steadying at the base of his cock. A bead of precome appeared at the tip, and he dabbed it with his finger. The next moment he was right at your side, shadows swirling from winnowing. His finger traced over your lips a moment before you sucked it into your mouth, reveling in the taste, the weight of it. It would have to suffice until he’d give you what you truly wanted. 

Cassian’s tongue flicked greedily lower, soaking you further with his saliva. You rocked into it, needing more than just the teasing licks. Your core ached, need turning into something that was controlling your very action, no matter how depraved. His tongue dipped into your hole, fucking you there for a moment while your eyes rolled back. You squirmed, locking your legs behind his head and pulling him deeper, closer, angling for more. You need the stretch, the fullness of his cock inside you.  the filthy exhilaration of his muffled moan had your legs quivering, weakening their hold enough for him to break away. Your insides quivered around the loss, and a wave of near orgasm pleasure washed through you, forcing your legs to shake. 

Had that feeling been Azriel? You hadn’t been touched nearly long enough to be so close already. Was Cassian - no, Cassian’s length didn’t reveal the same amount of slickeness that Azriels did. You shuddered at the thought of how much this was doing for Azriel. He’d wanted something like this for so long, but had always been too territorial to allow someone else in. The mother seemed to have answered his wish, and Cassian’s in one go.

Cassian sat up on his knees, a wide, smug smile spreading across his soaked lips. The shine of your wetness on his chin and nose sent you into a frenzy, and you moved to sit up, to taste yourself upon him. before you could, Azriel was at his side, kissing him, lapping it from him. Your mouth fell open, dry from the moaning. 

Watching them together was truly a gift. An extension of yourself felt exactly what they were experiencing, and that alone was so intense and heady you could barely focus on actually looking at the two. Cassian’s broad body was so different from Azriel’s lithe figure, so at odds with how many of your lovers in the past had been built. It made the need for his cock even more heightened. 

Their hands coasted over the plains of each other’s chests, their muscled backs, caressing and being much more tender than you anticipated them to be. Then Cassian’s hand landed at the base of Azriel’s cock, and pumped once. Az’s eyes flashed open, wide and wild. His teeth bared, his shadows devoured him and he re appeared at your head, his cock dripping precome onto your cheek. A rope of shadow pulled your leg back, allowing Cassian easy access.

“Fuck her good Cass.” He growled, then sighed at the heat of your mouth around him. You moaned around it, taking him in deep and humming as Cassian’s blunt head pressed against your entrance. 

He was fire, and he was all consuming, setting flame to every part of you he touched. Pure lava coursed through your veins once he entered you. The first few inches were bliss, and he kept going, and going, sinking into you until you were sure there was no space left to fill. There was nowhere for him to go but he kept pressing, pulling out and nudging back in, slickening his length more with your own juices so he could push in farther. Your mind buzzed with satisfaction. 

“So fucking tight.” He breathed, sweat appearing at his brow. Azriel relieved your mouth and instead positioned himself to your side, summoning at pillow for your head so he no longer had to hold you in place. No, he had much more important things to do with his hands. He languished in his strokes, matching the easy pace that Cassian set. Whining, you reached for him but were denied. 

A warning growl sounded in your mind, the desperation there palpable. He was on the brink, and just from watching. You cursed under your breath, but didn’t push him to give you what you wanted.

You watched Cassian break you apart, separating your lips and pushing deep until he bottomed out, a pinching sensation radiating through you, only to be drowned away by the exquisite pleasure of being so full. 

He rested there for a moment, and Azriel pulled at his cock idly, keeping himself hard while he watched was not a problem, fuck he’d do better with a break so he wouldn’t finish before Cassian.. His balls had tightened to the point of pain, forcing him to choose cumming down your throat or calculating the distance between his bedroom and the shop he’d have to visit tomorrow to buy a contraceptive tea blend. That worked to cool him off.

He was not here for the destination, he reminded himself.. The journey of discovery was something that thankfully would take several, several tries. Over years. Centuries, he hoped.Centuries. His mind unraveled that. Getting to know Cassian on the level he’d always wanted to. Getting to have experiences like this for centuries. His chest filled with heat, a different kind than the one that fueled him to nearly cumming in his own hand. 

It still nearly happened, watching Cassian lick his thumb and circle it over your clit while he pulled out, and gently pushed back into you. Blinding pleasure chased every rub, every thrust, and you pushed away his hand after a few more. “So close already?” He smirked, satisfied with his work.

He glanced to Azriel, and hissed under his breath at the perfection of the male. “I can feel her tightened up, nice and close for me.” Cassian said with a snap of his hips forward. You garbled some plea and tugged on the shadow bound leg that Azriel commanded. With your other hooked around Cassian’s back, you could almost force him deeper, to give you the angel that would have you coming undone around him.

“You like his cock, honey? You can tell me.” Azriel hummed.

Guilt did not burden you at this simple, animalistic pleasure. Not when there were two other sources of ecstacy contributing to your heady need. You nodded fervently, allowing them both to see how you’d truly become engulfed by the pleasure they provided. 

“Good. That’s a good girl, taking him so well.” He bit his lower lip and groaned. “I can feel you, like a ghost. This bond will be the death of me.” Azriel’s cock wept heavily, coating him with slick precome that you wished he’d let you taste. But every time you feebly reached for him, he’d sway from your touch. 

Cassian’s cock surged inside you, pressing up just as he thrust inward. Your body responded with a clench of your pussy around his girth, and gasps and moans echoed through the room, and there were no more games with either of them.

Azriel’s shadow melted away, and his cock was in your mouth at the same moment. Cassian sucked a mark onto your breast, and with both legs free you were able to latch around him and arch into his thrusts, meeting him with every one. 

Salt tanged your tastebuds as Azriel fucked your mouth, his hand keeping you in time with Cassian’s pace. And gods with every one of Cassian’s long, delicious thrusts he ground down onto your clit, sending you barreling towards the edge you weren’t sure if you were ready to be thrown from yet. 

You pulled Cassian forward slightly with your legs, angling him better and - gods. Your eyes rolled, and wetness seemed to burst from your pussy from the way the sound of Cassian’s cock sliding from you changed. Your toes curled, your mind went blank. There was nothing but the muffled, desperate moaning and ragged breaths as the pleasure tore through you. It was violent, and had you writhing on the sheets with the intensity of it.

Your walls spasmed, a hot and intense orgasm ripping through you and leaving you unable to move other than the rhythmic sway of your hips, silently bargaining for more once the intensity died down. Thankfully, Azriel had enough experience with your post orgasm needs that he continued fucking your mouth.

“Fu-u-uck-” Cassian drew the word out, and his eyes squeezed shut. Azriel’s hand tightened in your hair, then he held you there, his cock shoved deep in the back of your throat as he came and came, a breathy mess of loud moaning. 

Cassian wasn’t more than a second behind, spilling into you with a roar that managed to rip through your post-orgasm bliss. The feel of him, of his cum filling you sent your body into a heated need for more. You pulled back from Azriel, his hands had been frozen in your hair even after he’d finished. You climbed to Cassian, fixing your hands upon his broad shoulders and pushing his cock even deeper as you climbed him.

He knew what you wanted. What you needed. He grinned, eyes wild. And though he still shook from his own orgasm, hauled you up and off the soaked bed with corded, trained muscles. He pushed you to a small section of undecorated wall, and pined you there with ease. 

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” He rumbled, pulling your thighs high up his hips and fucking you hard and fast. Gods this was for you, all of him, and Azriel both -  for you and he was giving it his all- You could hardly think of how lucky you were with his cock nudging into that small place inside you with every brutal thrust.

He was muttering filthy things in your ear, getting you closer with every action. “Y’Just need to cum again, don’t even care how. Gods I can feel you-” He sighed, and his jaw ached with how badly he wished he could finish again, to have you quivering upon his cock as he came into you until you were both fully spent.

Azriel lay on the bed, watching and idly toying with himself, his cheeks flushed and shadows coasting over his thighs. His cock stood proudly, shining with your leftover saliva and his own pleasure. 

Cassian was not forgiving. He pounded into you ruthlessly, rattling the swords and artwork upon the wall. You curled into him, meeting his every thrust with arched eagerness that had you building to another quick, exhilarating finish that left you panting, clawing at his back. The intensity of this one had you shuddering, crumpling in his grasp, and he rode you through it, fucking into you with the same harshness as he had been.

Only when your teeth let the skin of his chest free did he relent with slower, softer rolls of his hips until he was sure you didn’t want more. Until he was sure he couldn’t make you finish again. He wanted to make you like this every hour, every minute of the day now that he’d had a taste. IT would be hard to do anything but this for his foreseeable future. To have you so in his grasp, so tangible now… he still only half believed this was real, and not a dream.

He decided that before he woke, if this really were a dream, he’d treat you right. Both you and Azriel. He lay you down next to Azriel, and pulled his cock free from you. A wash of his cum followed, soaking the bedding further. He stood back a moment, marveling at both his mates.

He would have to make sure to give Azriel more time during their next round. He’d been so consumed with you it had been hard to focus on anything but you and the encouraging words and feelings from Azriel.

The sight before him was his future, and all that mattered in it. His reason, his divine destiny from the Mother. He blinked the tears away before they could pour over.

Cassian joined his mates, avoiding the large wet spots on the bedding. “I hope to the Mother that these sheets actually get washed and not Glamoured…” He grumbled, eyeing the room around him. The house deposited a stack of books upon the end table a moment later. Cassian picked one up. 

“Mothering of the Fae and other Species of Prythian, by Lidia Knight.” He read the title aloud, then glared at the ceiling. Azriel looked over your blissful expression, to his new mate, and laughed.

[lovelybrooke]

IT IS I!! Now that I’ve written about Vox Val and Carmilla I will finally attempt my interpretation of ALASTOR. So just letting you know I was about to send this multiple times within the week but was never satisfied, and so this is an attempt :), I might send in more stuff if I feel this isn’t detailed enough/ incomplete.

Alastor see’s the reader as a fun little puzzle at first, putting them on the stop and trying to figure out what was going on in that little head of theirs, to him this was just entertainment, he really couldn’t care less about the reader, he just saw them as something to keep him entertained if he’s free or bored.

He only really starts to actually like the reader once their a little more comfortable, at least comfortable enough to engage in conversation with Alastor himself or the group, their views on the world, the hotel and whatever is insightful, he finds he actually likes conversing with them even if they don’t agree on most things, the fact that they’re so kind and helpful to everyone, even those who wronged them, intrigues and confuses him, but that isn’t a bad thing, it must just mean that they’re naive and ignorant, he reckons they haven’t actually seen the bad In people. Except he’s wrong, and he learns this during one of their small conversations (with or without the group), the reader spoke about it so casually, their neglect and abuse, it was completely fine to them, they still insist on being kind and helpful to the people who’ve wronged them. Suddenly it isn’t that they’re ignorant, or that they have just been surrounded by good, in a way they’re like him in a way, treated unjustly. (His backstory has yet to be explored but I’m going off of what Vivziepop shared relating to his mother’s death and his weird moral code).

Not to say reader is determined but in Alastor’s mind the reader’s perspective of life is a reflection on their own motivations, and he’s impressed, he might see parts of the reader in charlie but still thinks the reader is distinct in a way Charlie isn’t, they want to help but they aren’t out there, they help in ways that people don’t notice. (I have some examples but I’m shit at explaining so I’ll leave this somewhat up to interpretation) and now that he’s realized this he reflects back to old conversations and realizes how careful they are, not just because they’re anxious but they’re always paying attention, doing little actions that Alastor hadn’t realized is supposed to cater to him.

And now Alastor is really paying attention, is the reader naive? Yes, but they’re so thoughtful in everything they do that he just can’t help but keep watching them, he feels like he’s the only one who’s able to properly guide them, without taking advantage of them. He talks to Rosie about how insightful and clever the reader is, how lovely their company is and so on.

Then he finally notices the Vees watching, as it is he was obsessed but that amplified the second there was competition, suddenly he realizes that someone else could take someone he cares for away from him, and although he always knew there were people out to get him, he didn’t think those same people would want to snatch you.

And me personally I think, every time he feels his relationship with the reader is threatened he’ll become more and more obsessed, more possessive.

ANYWAY IM DONE! I decided to look at some stuff In the canon au master list which helped me a lot :) :), you are free to disagree with anything I wrote thank you for listening!!! (Please pardon any typos)

Omg more stuff I love it.

This was exactly how I viewed Alastor's obsession with reader. Like he views them as a puzzle and wants figure out how/why they're in hell, why they're so nice, what exactly is going on in their head.

And as time goes on this obsession grows and grows, so when he learns that no, reader isn't naive, they've gone through so shit and try their hardest to see the good in people, he's like, genuinely surprised, which is a first for him.

And you're right, Alastor has this idea that he's readers favorite person so when the Vee's and the other overlords start showing interest in reader he becomes way, way more obsessed.

I hope you're writing your own stuff because you're genuinely such an amazing writer, please keep sending stuff in I love it.

[soapymansuds]

Eternity and Counting

(Pt1) This is a running piece I've nearly finished, but the whole thing is way too long to post as one chapter sooooo... This part's pretty short just for the sake of timeline splitting.

Obey me! X Angel!MC (They/Them Pronouns)

TW: Suicide, depression, self-deprecation, death, big feelings, lots of sad, everybody is crying like all the time

MC just can't handle anything anymore and takes their own life. Imagine their dismay to find even death isn't the end for them.

(Takes place in the Frost Flowers event (sorta?), with mild "that chapter where MC finds out they're the Bridge" spoilers. Can't remember which chapter that was.)

~/\~

It's so heavy. This grand weight I've been lugging around since that day. I should have died. I was supposed to die. I would have deserved it too. All I've ever managed to do was cause problems for this family. And maybe I still am. The idea almost stopped me. Visions of their faces. Their tears. Their grief. It did, actually. A few times at least. But not today. It's happened again. Everything was going just fine until that God-forsaken dog decided I would be the object of his affection. Somehow, in spite of the threat it faced to the nation, the brothers refused to just hand me over. Almost losing not just their home, but their kingdom, for my sake. Yet again wasting their time trying to save me. Just like they did when my stupid power nearly killed Lucifer. When Lucifer nearly killed HIMSELF to save me. A bitter, evil part of me is still mad at Michael for stopping me. For saving me.

My arms feel heavy as lead as I lay here, counting away the seconds. I've got nearly an hour before anybody gets home from RAD. Plenty of time to make sure I stay dead. I feel a little bad for lying about being sick to get out of classes today. But maybe I am. Doesn't matter much now anyway. Really, my biggest concern in the current moment is how long it will take Barbatos to notice the ingredients I took. Sure, he's in classes right now too, but he pops in and out of the castle all day long. The likelihood of him stopping into the kitchen and noticing the cracked cabinet door, the scavaged shelves, and finally the open jars is uncomfortably high. In my defense, the chances of that happening while I was there were equally high, so I can't be blamed for the messy crime. But he's only got a few moments more before his discovery will be for naught, so I suppose it's not terribly worrying.

I can feel it, creeping up my spine like a cold massage. The ever-growing numbness. The slow death of my limbs. My lungs. Me. It's growing darker now, unnaturally so, even for The Devildom. I can finally free them of my burden. Free myself of it too. But I would like to offer a final scorn to whatever God allowed me to hear the gentle creaking of the front door.

~/\~

(Mammon's POV)

A chill runs through my spine,like something ominous is lurking behind me, but as I turn around, nobody's there. In spite of that comfort, I can't shake this overwhelming dread coating my nerves and sinking into my bones, urging me to move. Driving me to jog home. The gentle sway of the bag on my arm becoming notably more violent as it begins swinging by my side.

My hands can't work fast enough as I try to unlock the front door. I break into a near sprint as I approach their door, slamming it open.

"MC?" I call, it's dark in their room, but I can just make out the shape of their body resting in their bed. "Oh, you're just sleeping." I mumble, walking up to their bed and setting the bag on the ground next to it.

"Hey, I gotcha some human world medicines." I whisper, pulling a few bottles from the bag. "C'mon, you gotta wake up and take some."

I can't help but roll my eyes at their lack of reaction. "Been spending too much time with Belphie." I reach up to shake their shoulder gently.

Nothing happens. So I try again, fingers gripping just barely tighter. Tight enough to feel the unsettling chill of their skin. It seeps through my fingertips and into my soul. Gripping my heart in white hot fear.

"MC, wake up." I shake them again. "MC." Their name falls from my lips like a plea. "MC please-" I grab their other shoulder. "MC!" Tears spill from my eyes, breath shaky and ragged. "Wake up!"

(Raghhhh, sorry about this)

-Your dear friend, the author

[literaryavenger]

I just saw a skating show and one of the guys looked like bucky and now I NEED a yn × figure skating partner bucky one shot. With them working on a throw and he's all mad she can't land it then gets hurt and all the angst and comforting. Omg please I'll cry I love you! ❤️

Ok, I have to admit this was my first ask and I got so excited that this got a little away from me. I'd like to say I'm sorry for not putting much technical stuff about figure skating in it but I know really nothing, I did my best researching stuff but it's still not much. I hope you're happy how it turned out, if not let me know! I really just took it and ran with it, I really hope you like it. 🥹❤️

also, sorry it took me a little but my keyboard broke and I had to wait for the new one because writing on the phone I would've made too many mistakes.

On Thin Ice - Bucky Barnes x y/n Stark

Summary: you're paired with Bucky Barnes for an important competition but your negative feelings towards each other make everything much more difficult. Figure Skating AU.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!Stark reader

Warnings: Bucky being an ass. Reader gets hurt. Angst. Language cause why not. Minimal use of Y/N. My poor attempts at being funny.

Word Count: 6.6K

A/N: I didn't proof read it honestly, I was just excited to publish it. I'm going to double check it sometime tomorrow and edit it later! ❤️

Masterlist

Being a Stark isn't always easy.

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like you’re superheroes or anything, but being the daughter of Tony Stark meant that you always had to be not only on your best behavior but you had to be the best in general, no matter what you were doing.

It’s always been a lot of pressure growing up, but it's something you're used to at this point.

All your life there just wasn’t room for failure.

When you were little you hated it, sometimes even hated your dad for it, but you had to give it to him that it made you detail oriented and more driven and focused than most, so with time you came to be grateful for it.

His continuous badgering you into taking various lessons as a kid is also what led you to discover your passion: figure skating.

Skating was something that just somehow came naturally to you, and the more time you spent at the ice rink the more you fell in love with it.

You loved just spending hours going and going, to the point where the world blurred around you and you almost felt like you were flying.

After seeing how happy it made you, your father eased up a bit on you, but he still expected perfection, which you always worked hard to provide.

All you’ve always wanted was to make him proud of you. Which he was and never failed to mention, but you were still terrified of disappointing him.

All the pressure your last name came with was nothing compared to the pressure you put on yourself, you were always your hardest critic.

That is, at least, until you met Bucky Barnes.

You don't know why, maybe he just hates you and likes to humiliate you, but it seems like he always has something to say about your performances.

It all started the very first day you met, you were 18 at the ice rink your father decided to buy for you on your birthday the week before.

You were shocked to say the least when he told you, but he had always been better at showing his love rather than saying it, and don’t ever let it be said that Tony Stark didn’t love his daughter to death.

It was the same place where you skated for the first time when you were merely 5 years old, which you then changed for one closer to your home, but this one held so much more sentiment for you that the extra travel time was worth it, and it was also much bigger, the place where a lot of the important competitions happened. 

The Saturday after your birthday you finally had some free time having just finished exams week and finally being done with high school once and for all, so you planned to meet up with Natasha at the newly named ‘Stark’s snowland’.

Natasha was also a figure skater and you two have known each other since you were 8 years old, participating in almost a lot your competitions together, which usually ended with the two of you in first and second place.

Then Natasha started doing more and more couples competitions with various partners, but you were still always there to cheer for each other.

When she texted she was running late, you decided to just wait for her on the ice so you went inside, put on your skates and just got lost in your head, glad that the early hour meant nobody was around yet.

Then, after having done a few easy moves and having just finished an Axel, you heard some clapping coming from the entrance of the rink.

You stopped abruptly and looked for the source of the noise when you spotted a brunette cheering on you like he was at the Olympics standing beside a blonde that looked kind of embarrassed by his friends' antics.

"Didn’t realize I had an audience." you said, while moving towards them.

"Well, you should with the way you move out there." the brunette said, shamelessly checking you out shortly before receiving a smack behind his head, courtesy of blondie.

"Sorry about him. My name’s Steve," the blonde said while you tried hard not to laugh at the look his friend was giving him. "and this jerk here is Bucky." He pointed at his friend, who seemed to suddenly remember you were there because he turned to you with a charming smile while you introduced yourself.

"Is this your first time skating here?" Bucky asked "I’m sure I would remember a pretty face like yours." he then added, making you blush.

"I usually only come here for competitions, but-" before you could finish talking you heard the door behind them open and Natasha screaming "Stark!" making the boys turn around to look at her.

"Romanoff!" you greeted her, laughing.

Bucky turned back to you, face suddenly all serious, which confused you a lot since he was all flirty smiles until two seconds before. He mumbled something about having to go and almost ran away as fast as he could.

You looked at Steve who seemed as confused as you felt, gave you an apologetic smile and went after his friend. 

You didn’t have much more time to ponder on the sudden turn of events because Natasha was in her skates on record time and raring to go.

All you know is, for the rest of the day you felt Bucky’s eyes on you but every time you turned to him he had a stoic look on his face, and every word out of his mouth towards you was criticism on whatever you were doing.

And here we are now, 6 years later and nothing has changed.

Now 24 and having graduated college, you can be found at Stark’s almost everyday while you figure out the next phase of your life.

It’s honestly not bad, your dad wanted you to intern for him at Stark Industries during college so, after you graduated, you could start working for him full time, but that’s not what you wanted.

If you’re honest with yourself you do want to take over your father’s empire one day, just not yet.

You wanted to keep doing skating competitions, therefore all the free time that you had during college was spent skating. And so, as a compromise, your dad had you teach a few kid classes during the week when one of the teachers unexpectedly quit one day, and you happily agreed.

You did this for all the duration of college, after graduating you kept doing it and, to your father’s delight, took on even more classes to keep yourself a bit more occupied.

It was at the end of one of these classes that you were suddenly approached by Barnes today, which was very rare.

Usually both of you did your best to avoid each other, even when you started being there everyday, you wouldn’t give each other even a second glance, as far as you were concerned.

You’ve liked him when you first met him, but after months of him being nothing but an ass to you, you decided to stop trying and largely ignore him unless you were in a larger group that consisted of you, him, Steve, Natasha, Sam, another friend of theirs that you quickly became friends with, and Scott, a friend you made your first week of college.

Needless to say, you were baffled to see Bucky walk up to you and not immediately insult your behavior during the lesson that just ended, like he usually does when he gifts you with his presence. Instead he said "Hey Stark, can we talk?"

"Uhm… sure. What’s up, Barnes?" you say while starting to put down the cones you'll need for your next class.

"You know the couples competition that we’re having here in a few months?" he asks, following behind you. You think he looks nervous, which you find weird as Bucky Barnes is as confident as they come.

"Yeah, what about it?" You stop what you’re doing and turn around towards him, too curious to not give him all your attention.

"Well, I wanted to sign up, but it seems like I’m missing a partner.,," he says while rubbing his neck, almost embarrassed by what he’s asking.

"Don’t you usually team up with Nat?" you ask him.

"I do, but she’s gonna be out of town that day, and all the other girls are either paired up or not interested…" he explains, still not going to the point.

"Where are you going with this, Barnes?" You ask, crossing your arms in irritation at the time he was wasting while you still have things to do before your next class.

"Are you really going to make me ask?" he almost whines and, when you merely raise your eyebrow, a clearly amused face at his almost desperation, he finally gets to the point of his interruption. "Fine. Will you be my partner?"

Although you suspected where he was going, it's still a little shocking to hear him ask. Before you answer him though, you feel the need to tell him "You know I’ve never done pairs before, right? Not even outside of competitions."

"I know, but I also know you’re a fast learner." at your confused look, he elaborates "You’ve been training here for what, six years now? I’ve seen you learn pretty advanced moves in a crazy short amount of time for last minute competitions or even just for fun. And, whether I like it or not, you’re one of the best figure skaters I’ve ever met." he finishes.

That last sentence has you scoffing at him and starting to get annoyed at him "You don’t need to lie to me just to get me to agree just because you’re desperate for a partner."

"Why would you think I’m lying?" he says while having the audacity to look confused at your anger.

"You do nothing but criticize me all the time! The real question is, why would I ever think otherwise?"

"Just because I criticize you, doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re good!" he says it like was the most obvious thing in the world. "Please Y/N, I really need a partner, and, right now, you’re my only choice. Please." he adds at the end, just for good measure.

To be fair, Bucky had never been this polite or patient with you, and has never even called you by your first name, so it was clear that this was important to him, which is probably what led you to say yes.

He seemed happy for all of two seconds before going back to being the usual jerk, which made you instantly start to regret your decision, but you figured old habits die hard, you just had to be a little patient and he would get easier to work with the more he got used to this. 

Boy, were you wrong. 

For the next three months you met with Bucky three times a week, working out your routine and training sometimes even for hours.

It wasn’t anything you hadn’t done before, but what really annoyed you to no end was finding out that Bucky’s favorite brand of training seemed to be complaining.

All he did was criticize every move you made, right or wrong, even the couples ones you were still learning.

You also found out that being so close to him for such long periods of time made you clumsier than ever, which did not at all help the situation.

All it took was for you to be near him enough to be surrounded by his cologne and suddenly you were falling more than usual, missing your cues and straight up forgetting the next steps of the routine, which only gave Bucky more fuel to add to the fire.

It also didn’t help that whenever Bucky asked you why you were so distracted you lost all your natural Stark sarcasm and could barely get out a sound, not knowing how to tell him even if you wanted to, which you definitely didn’t, that he was the problem.

But you somehow made it through it and, with a week to go before the competition, you had it down to a T.

Or almost.

"Damn it." you say, frustrated with yourself, after you almost fall again on the landing of the throw jump.

The problem with throw jumps is that Bucky has to pick you up and quite literally throw you in the air and, while he does that quite easily, being so close to him right before he throws you disorients you just enough to miss twists and fumble the landing.

A thing that you’d never tell Bucky, which at the moment is giving the most annoyed look you’ve ever seen on his stupidly pretty face.

"Seriously, Stark?!" He almost yells while skating closer to you. "Why the hell is this taking you so long to get right? You’ve done harder things than this both by yourself and with me, so what the hell is wrong with you?"

Like always, you don’t quite know how to respond to him, not even wanting to acknowledge the cause of your concentration problem.

"Let’s just try this again." You say, quieter than you normally would, and get in position.

Your back is turned to him but you can hear him sigh before you feel him move and position himself next to you. You nod at Scott who’s controlling the music, and he starts again.

Everything is going great, until, again you fumble the landing, but this time you fall on your knees. You can hear Scott shouting your name, so you hold a thumbs up to let him know you’re okay.

You can see Bucky getting closer to you with your peripheral vision, but don’t look up or even try to make a move to get up.

You can feel the tears starting to form in your eyes, not because it hurts, but because you’re so frustrated with yourself for not being able to do this.

You’re trying your hardest not to cry out of anger when you see Bucky’s hand in front of your face, a silent offer of help. The last thing you want to do right now is look at his stupid face, so you slap his hand away and get up on your own, ignoring Bucky almost altogether and putting yourself in position to start again from the top.

Bucky comes behind you, but this time you can feel him looking at you while he says, "We don’t have to go again. We can stop here for today." his voice much quieter than it's ever been before, which only fuels your anger more.

"The competition’s next week Barnes, unless you want us to make fools of ourselves, we need to do this until I get it right." You snapped, letting him see you angry for the first time since you started training.

He was a little shocked but didn’t say anything else while he got in position, signaling to Scott to start the music.

All you can think about at this point is the disappointment on your dad’s face if you don’t win the competition, or worse fall like you just did.

You’re not even focused on Bucky anymore, in fact you’re so distracted that you don’t even make it to the throw jump before you fall, except this time you can feel that something’s wrong as soon as you hit the ice.

You can feel pain shoot from your ankle through your whole body and get immediately dizzy, you could barely make out the lights on the ceiling, your eyes going in and out of focus.

You can hear yelling and, once you concentrated, you can make out Bucky's voice saying words like ‘stupid’ and ‘incompetent’, which made you wish you had just passed out so you wouldn’t have to hear him insult you.

Your mind seemed to clear a little and you realized your tears finally started falling at some point, but you didn’t have much time to ponder on that before you were being helped to your feet, Scott telling you he was taking you to the hospital and everything was going to be okay.

You realized Bucky was no longer next to you before you even realized you didn’t have skates on anymore and were barefoot, but you just assumed he was too mad at you to care about your ankle.

-

You’re sitting in a hospital bed with a stomp on your left foot when your dad walks in, worry all over his face.

"Hey junior, are you okay?" you roll your eyes at his nickname, surely you don’t expect Tony Stark to be any less sarcastic seeing you well enough, but you’ve begged him to drop the stupid nickname which he refuses to because ‘but you’re just like me, it's a compliment!’

"I’m okay dad, just have to wear this for a few days." you say, pointing to your foot on a pillow.

"Good. Wanna tell me what happened?" he asks, taking a seat beside your bed.

"Just landed wrong while practicing the routine with Barnes. Too distracted, kept fucking up landings." you tell him, not daring to look in his eyes.

"Pushing yourself too hard?"

He surprises you with this question, but you promptly answer it. "If I was, I would’ve been able to land all my moves correctly. If anything I’m not pushing myself hard enough."

You can’t look at his face just to see the disappointment at your failure, but when you feel his hand on yours you force yourself to look into his eyes, and, to your surprise, there's no hint of disappointment.

"You know, sweetheart, I do mean it when I say you’re just like me. And there is nothing more heartbreaking to me than looking at you and seeing the same self-destructive tendencies I have reflected on you." he wipes a tear you hadn’t realized was falling from your cheek and keeps going. "I hate that I passed that on to you. I should’ve been more careful with you. I thought that letting you know I was proud was enough, unlike my dad, but maybe I should’ve been more specific."

"What do you mean?" you ask, sniffling a bit.

"I’m not proud of you because you always come first in competitions, or because you get the highest grades. I’m proud of you because I know you always try your best and put all of yourself into everything you do. That’s what being a Stark is all about. Plus you’re my daughter so let’s be honest, I’d love you to death even if you were a high school dropout who deals fake drugs to college kids."

You laughed while drying your tears, grateful for your father’s inability to stay serious for too long.

You hug him and say "Thanks, dad. I needed that more than I thought."

You let go of him and tell him about the real reason you couldn’t concentrate: the long-haired asshole with eyes so blue you felt like you were flying in the sky while looking at them, and like you were drowning the second he opened his mouth to say shit about you.

Of course you didn’t put it on those exact terms, but your dad was pretty good at reading between the lines.

By the end he had a smirk that made you want to legally change your name and run away because you just know he’s never going to let you live this down.

"Well, sounds like he’s really something." that’s all he says, weirdly. You eye him suspiciously but he doesn’t add to his sentence.

In fact, he doesn’t say anything more about it until he’s helped you get comfortable on your bed back home.

"You know…" he starts "little boys pull little girls’ pigtails on the playground to get their attention, because they don’t know what else to do." he says.

"Yeah, boys are stupid, so what?" you deadpan and he laughs then surprisingly says "Exactly. Maybe you’re not the only one that feels something here. Maybe there’s a stupid boy that can’t take his eyes off of you, but doesn’t know how to get your attention other than criticize you." he says, clearly happy with where he ended.

"Is this your long way of saying that you think Bucky likes me the same way I like him?" You raise an eyebrow at him.

"This is my long way of saying don’t be a stubborn Stark and try actually talking to him about this. You’d be surprised how fast stupid boys grow up just to keep the girl they want. Just ask your mother." and with that he leaves with a wink, leaving you wondering how much more immature Tony Stark could’ve been to have to grow up enough to sweep Pepper Potts off her feet.

You spend the next few days as a little ball of anxiety on your bed, not being able to do much but overthink about Bucky, only getting a break when Scott came to keep you company.

The day before the competition you've enough and convince Scott to drive you to the ice rink, knowing Bucky was probably there.

When you get there you can hear music but you don’t think much of it until you get right in front of the door and realize it was the song you and Bucky chose. Frowning, you open the door and what you see makes your jaw drop.

There they are, Bucky and Natasha, doing your routine.

You don’t know when you got closer to the rink, but you cannot take your eyes off of them, that is until you hear someone beside you say "they’re good, aren’t they?"

You turn your head to see Sam and Steve, the latter looking at you in a knowing way that almost seems apologetic of Sam’s words, the effect of which Sam doesn’t seem to notice.

You always felt like Steve could see right through you when it came to Bucky, always looking at you like he knew exactly how you felt and how much his words hurt you.

Seemingly reading all the questions swimming in your mind right now, Steve offers you some answers.

"Natasha came back early from her vacation. He brought her up to speed and she agreed to help him out. They’ve been practicing non-stop everyday since the day after you got hurt." Feeling like you have enough information, you turn back to the ice. 

You watch them work in sync, almost like they're connected by wires and one can’t move without taking the other with them.

You watch as Bucky picks up Nat effortlessly and throws her like she's made of air. You watch as she moves so gracefully that it's almost surreal. You see her land every jump perfectly.

Again. And again. And again.

Every jump, every twist, every second you watch them something inside you brokes more.

You don’t know why, Natasha has been Bucky’s partner countless times before and it never mattered to you, and you’ve only skated with him for less than four months.

Maybe it was the fact that they're using the routing you and Bucky had come up with together, maybe you feel replaced.

Maybe it was the fact that you were coming here to talk to Bucky about your feelings and now you were seeing him flying around the ice rink as close with another girl as he was with you, maybe even closer.

They finish the routine and you can hear Bucky’s laughter, you can see his smile as he tells Natasha how perfect she was, how impressed he is at how fast she picked up everything, how glad he is that she showed up when she did.

Then it hits you.

Of course he’s glad she showed up. He never wanted to do this with you, you weren’t even a second choice, it took literally every other girl he knows to be unavailable for him to even think to ask you.

Why wouldn’t he be happy to have her back? He certainly never acted like this with you. He never laughed, barely even smiled...

He didn’t choose you, he got stuck with you.

Suddenly, it’s like everything he’s ever done, everything he’s ever said to you comes crashing down on you all at once.

It’s like you can actually hear your heart breaking and there’s only one thought on your mind: He likes Natasha.

It makes sense, the first day you met he seemed into you, right up until he saw her and the second he turned around he was done with you.

Maybe he started to be an ass just to make that clear, not wanting to actually say anything. After all, he always was very nice to Nat. To everyone but you really.

And it’s not like you could blame him, Natasha’s always been better than you. Growing up she was always your only competition, it’s a fortune you ended up friends really, considering how easy it could’ve been for you to hate each other.

She’s the reason you spent so much time trying to be better, and you’d like to say it was the same for her, but you doubt it very much.

She’s always been prettier, thinner, stronger, smarter, better with boys and at making friends. She was the obvious choice.

Of course she was Bucky’s choice.

You didn’t realize you were so deep in your thoughts, or that you were still staring at them, until you feel a hand on your shoulder and hear Sam’s worried voice asking if you were okay.

You look at Steve and Sam and all you want to do is get out of here. It was already a miracle you weren’t already crying.

Without saying a word you turn around and walk away as fast as you can with the damn stump on your foot. You aren’t fast enough though, because halfway to the door you hear Bucky’s voice, much too close to you to your liking, calling your name.

For a second you think you hear something seeming happiness in his voice, but quickly dismiss the idea and try to keep going, but then you feel his hand on your wrist turning you around to face him.

His face seems to instantly fall as he looks at you and all you can think about is how sick you are of being the only one that takes his smile away.

"What’s wrong?" he asks in a weirdly soft tone, but you can’t find the voice to answer him.

You two just stare at each other until you hear someone clear their throat behind Bucky, and you look over his shoulder just as Natasha starts talking.

"Hi, Stark. Heard what happened to you." she nods towards your foot "Sorry I haven’t been to visit you, we’ve been pretty busy."

You don’t look at her while you answer, turning your eyes back to Bucky, who’s still holding your wrist, while you say "I can see that. Don’t worry, Romanoff, I’m just glad Barnes finally has a partner that’s not incompetent."

All he does is stare confusedly at you, which makes you angry enough to yank your hand away from him, turn around and walk away, ignoring the calls of your name behind you.

You miss the sadness on Bucky’s face, or the way he questions Sam and Steve about everything you said and did since the second you entered.

Bucky, on the other hand, did not miss the tears starting to fall down your cheeks as you turn away.

You decide not to go to the competition the following day. It would be the first time you voluntarily miss one of Nat’s competitions, but you don’t feel like having a replay of yesterday’s show when it’s already been on replay in your mind all night.

Your absence doesn’t go unnoticed by your friends. Nat and Steve being the only ones that understand, even though they’re not very happy about it.

Another thing that doesn’t go unnoticed by the group is how much more agitated than normal Bucky seems to be.

Even during competitions, he’s usually very calm, but today the only thing that makes him stop pacing around the room is Natasha’s sharp ‘would you sit down’ that makes him sigh and sit next to her on the bleachers where they’re waiting for their turn.

He can’t seem to keep his body still as he starts to bounce his leg up and down out of nerves, and can’t seem to stop even when the redhead gets up abruptly with an exasperated ‘for the love of god’ and goes to sit further from him and near Sam, exchanging seats with Steve, who puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, effectively bringing out of his head and making his body still with another sigh.

"You know, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to." Steve tells his anxious friend.

"You know I have to Steve. Otherwise Fury won't let me do other couples competitions."

"I know, but the whole reason you started doing them was for the chance to pair up with Y/N, which never even happened until now." Steve points out while frowning.

"I’m not the one that chooses the pairs, Rogers, it’s always Fury. He’s the whole reason Romanoff and I worked so hard this week just so she could do this. Plus Y/N’s never been interested in these competitions so this whole idea was just stupid to begin with. Now after I finally convince her, she gets hurt and thinks I think she’s incompetent, for some reason." Bucky hasn't been able to stop thinking about what you said yesterday.

Why would you ever think he thinks you're incompetent? He knows he's been a dick to you for years, but never has he ever said you were incompetent.

It's really just constructive criticism given in a poor way. A very poor way... Yeah, he really just has himself to blame for the way you feel about him now, he knows it.

He doesn't even really have a justification for it, either. If he's being honest with himself, he's intimidated by you.

The first time he saw you he thought you were the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, you were so graceful on skates and looked like you were exactly where you belong, lost in your own little world.

Then when Natasha said your name, he realized who he was talking to: the daughter of one of the richest families in town.

He'd heard a lot about you and your family, your impressive achievements on and off the ice. He's ashamed to say he felt small all of a sudden, knowing just from hearing about you that he'd never be good enough for you.

Still, he couldn't help but be drawn to you, couldn't help but watch you as much as he could get away with, but the only way he could justify that without being seen as a creep was to criticize what you did. It made sense, right?

Bucky is pulled from his thoughts, again, by Steve’s voice.

"Well, you were basically yelling that at her when she got hurt last week." at his words Bucky's just as confused as he was yesterday when you stormed out.

"I didn’t…" then it hits him. "I wasn’t talking about her! I was talking about Scott because he wouldn’t hurry up!"

"Oh. Listen, buddy, we both know you like her. You fucked up, big time, and it’s gonna take a lot to get her to forgive you. You could start by stop being an ass to her and apologize." Bucky knows the blonde is right.

It will take a miracle just to get you to look in his direction, let alone allow him to apologize, but he has to at least try to make things right.

He stands up suddenly, startling Steve, and says, "you were there for all our rehearsals, right? You know the routine?"

Steve is confused, but answers with a slow "yeah, why?" but Bucky gives no further explanation, too busy picking up all his stuff.

When Steve puts together what his friend is hinting at, he quickly says "I didn’t mean right now!"

"No time like the present! Go change." he says, nudging Steve toward the changing rooms.

"Buck, if you go now Fury’s gonna kill you!"

"I don’t care!" he yells, basically running out the door and ignoring Natasha yelling his name, the only thing on his mind being running to you as fast as he could. 

Every thought in his head, though, is instantly forgotten as he comes to a sudden stop at the top of the stairs outside of the rink.

There, at the bottom, is you, looking just as shocked at seeing him there as he feels.

After a few moments of just looking at each other, you can’t take it anymore and decide to break the silence. "I didn’t know if I should come in. Didn’t know if Nat wanted my support after I was so rude, you know."

When he doesn’t say anything and just stares at you, you feel the need to keep going.

"What are you doing out here? Did I miss your turn? How did it go?" that seems to snap him out of it and he starts to move towards you, still not saying anything and making you even more nervous as you start regretting coming here.

When he comes face to face with you, finally, he speaks. "I was gonna come looking for you." your brows furrowed in confusion.

"why?"

"I have owed you an apology for a long time now. I’m sorry for being a dick to you for all these years… it really wasn’t about you. I just felt insecure and acted out about it, and eventually I felt so used to it I couldn’t help it..."

You were shocked to say the least, this was the last thing you were expecting tonight. "You felt insecure? Why?"

"Because you’re you!" he almost yelled, gesturing to your whole body and startling you a bit. "I mean you’re a Stark, you’re kind of a legend who lives up to the legend. You’re smart and talented and confident and beautiful. I never thought I’d be good enough for you... I still don’t."

You don't know what to say, but you aren't running for the hills so Bucky keeps talking. "I’d also like to make it clear that I’ve never called you incompetent. I was talking about Lang, that idiot took ages to get his keys to drive you to the hospital. I didn’t even realize you might’ve heard me until Steve pointed it out to me just now while we were waiting our turn and I just had to find you and tell you."

Once everything he said actually registered in your brain, the words came out of your mouth before you could stop them. "Wait, you left the competition to come find me? Natasha’s gonna kill you!"

He chuckles a little while saying, "I’d be more worried about Fury."

"Fury?" You're confused again. "Why would you be worried about Fury?"

"He’s gonna be pissed that I left. He’s the whole reason Romanoff and I trained so hard to make it here, I wanted to skip it after you got hurt, but he said if I did he wouldn’t let me do any more pairs."

"I thought this competition was important to you, that’s the whole reason I said yes. And you wanted to quit it?" You're more confused than ever.

"It was important because it was my chance to finally spend time with you." he says, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I’d rather not do our routine at all if I can’t do it with you." he adds, shrugging. 

"really?" you can’t help but smile at hearing him say ‘our routine’ "But you and Nat work much better than you and I do."

"perphabs, but I still think you’re the best there is. Even when it’s with me, a person you hate." He says the last part while looking at his feet, almost afraid of saying it aloud and perfectly aware that he’s the reason why.

"I don’t hate you." you say, almost too fast.

His eyes snap back up to yours. "You don’t? I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I’d hate me if I were you."

"Sure, I don’t always love the things you say about my skills, but you’ll never criticize me more than I criticize myself. Mostly, you’re just a distraction." you say shrugging, not fully realizing what you just confessed.

"I distract you?" he says with a smug smirk that kind of makes you want to punch him, bringing his hand to your cheek.

You groan but let him keep it there, loving the feeling of his warm hand against your skin. "Don’t get cocky with me, Barnes."

He laughs, but doesn’t say anything else waiting for you to elaborate with an expectant look.

"Fine." you sigh. "Yes, you distract me. You might be a jerk, but I can’t concentrate when I’m around you. All I can think about is the sound of your voice, and the way you smell and the color of your stupid pretty eyes... I can’t help but like you, no matter how much of an asshole you are to me, for reasons I’m sure have something to do with my father."

He laughs again at your last sentence and you swear you’d never heard a better sound. "So I guess I should be thankful for you daddy issues, huh." he says making you laugh with him.

"Yeah, you very much should be." you put your arms around his neck when his hand drops from your face and his arms wrap around your waist. 

"You distract me too, you know. Everytime you’re in the room you’re all I can see..." He sighs. "I’ll never apologize enough for all the things I said to you, but let me try. Let me take you on a date, for starters."

You pretend to think about it all of two seconds before you’re nodding with a smile, so he adds, "What about right now?"

"Slow down there, Romeo, why don’t we go cheer on our friends first." you giggle at his pout while you take his hand and lead the way inside.

When you take a seat next to Sam, just in time to hear the announcement of Natasha and Steve’s names, there's no wiping the smile off of Bucky’s face. His arm goes immediately around your shoulders to bring you closer as you greet Sam that had a knowing grin of his own.

You watch your friends go through the routine perfectly, to your joy and surprise. You really are proud of them, and you make sure to tell them when they are close enough to the edge of the ice while waiting for their score.

"Maybe after we can all go out to eat something." Steve suggests, still slightly out of breath.

"I’m sorry, punk. I have a date that I’m not missing for anything in the world." Bucky answers without taking his eyes away from you, his smile seared onto his face.

Steve chuckles at how whipped his friend already seems to be, moving closer to the judges with Nat when it was time for their scores.

Second place, not bad for a last minute thing.

As you cheer for your friends while they're given their medals, Bucky leans down and whispers in your ear "we would’ve come first."

You burst laughing and Bucky known in this exact moment that he would do anything to hear that sweet sound for the rest of his life.

You look up at him and raise your voice just enough for him to hear over all the screaming, with a smile big enough to match his "We totally would’ve."

[discordsmuse]

Discordsmuse Masterlist

❀•°❀°•❀

Hello friends! Finally putting together a masterlist to make it easier for you guys to find all my fanfics here since I only post to AO3!

These will be organized by fandom and character.

❀•°❀°•❀

Baldur's Gate 3

Halsin

dance me to the end of love, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav and Halsin admit to their feelings post-Moonrise and fuck on a balcony.

Silence, NSFW/18+ : Fem!Tav and Halsin fuck in a closet

Do Unto Others, NSFW/18+ : Fem!Tav wants to give Halsin some attention and convinces him to let her be the giver for once.

Enver Gortash

body more than just a flesh, you can sell it for success, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav is invited to dinner with the Archduke and things get a little heated.

i will give you all that you need, NSFW/18+: Sequel to the above, Fem!Tav and Gortash bathe together before Enver gets a little handsy.

gracious men are those who suffer, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav and Enver w/ a free use kink.

legacy with no memory, NSFW/18+: Fem!Durge and Enver Gortash w/a pregnancy kink

I wanna know my god, At least enough to fear Her, NSFW/18+: Fem!Durge and Gortash have a lil bit of hate sex

Gale Dekarios

be my nightfire, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav catches Gale mid-alone time. Feelings and sex ensue.

Abdirak

sanctify you bedsheets with the sweat along your hips, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav is fascinated by Abdirak and nervously asks him to teach her about Loviatar.

Raphael

delightful little detour, NSFW/18+: Canon rewrite for what happens when Fem!Tav tells Raphael he's bad at sex.

Let the Dream Begin, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav/Raphael Phantom of the Opera AU, slowburn

Office Hours, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav/Raphael College AU

Rolan

i wanna have a home, i wanna share it, NSFW/18+: Fem!Tav and Rolan get together post-saving the tieflings from moonrise.

❀•°❀°•❀

Pirates of the Caribbean

Hector Barbossa

The Pirate Lord, NSFW/18+: Barbossa/Reader post-Elizabeth being kinged.

All That Glitters, NSFW/18+: Longform Barbossa/Reader canon rewrite pre-CotBP

Liar's Bet, NSFW/18+: Longform Barbossa/Reader canon rewrite during CotBP and DMC

feel the edges start to burn, NSFW/18+: Barbossa/Reader where reader is friends w/Carina

❀•°❀°•❀

Harry Potter

Severus Snape

isn't it lovely (all alone), NSFW/18+: Snape/Reader closet sex

no death in rebirth, NSFW/18+: Snape/Reader longform amnesia oneshot

Brought to Life, NSFW/18+: Snape/Reader marauder's era classmates to lovers lol

❀•°❀°•❀

Dead by Daylight

Canon/Canon

Contention, NSFW/18+: Ace/Meg against a tree hatesex

Breaking Point, NSFW/18+: Megmillan first time

It's Alright, Teen/16+: The survivors and killers recover post-entity

Anna/The Huntress

Not so much taming as growing accustomed, Mature/16+, Huntress/Reader friendship to lovers

Herman Carter/The Doctor

Untethered, NSFW/18+, The Doctor/Reader where reader annoying him but in the fun, bratty way

❀•°❀°•❀

Resident Evil Village

Karl Heisenberg

Business Partners with Benefits, NSFW/18+: Heisenberg/Reader where reader is Moreau's niece

❀•°❀°•❀

Spider Man

Dr. Otto Octavius/Doc Ock

Working Overtime, NSFW/18+: Otto/Reader where reader is his lab assistant

Bedside Manner, NSFW/18+: Otto/Reader where reader is Doc Ock's lover

❀•°❀°•❀

Labyrinth

Jareth the Goblin King

Midsummer, NSFW/18+: Jareth/Reader at the midsummer fae ball

don't leave me lonely, NSFW/18+: Jareth/Reader sequel to Midsummer

❀•°❀°•❀

The band Ghost

Papa Emeritus IV/Cardinal Copia

Better Than, NSFW/18+: Copia/Reader where he's a little insecure about Terzo being better than him

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Dracula

Dracula (lol)

Nice Costume, NSFW/18+: Dracula/Reader in a modern setting at a party

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Our Flag Means Death

Israel Hands

we do get desperate, now and again, Mature/16+: Fem!Reader/Izzy hurt/comfort unrequited love.

i wanna be yours, Mature/18+: Fem!Reader/Izzy first time together

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The Quarry (2022)

Travis Hackett/Laura Kearney

• fell in love with the fever, Explicit/18+: Travis and Laura are forced to spend some time together 6 months after the incident.

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This list will grow/change as I write more :D Thanks for reading!

[tourettesdog]

I’m replaying Stray and it got me thinking of a DPxStray crossover

Like taking the core themes and setting of Stray, but mashing DP vibes, characters, and ghostliness into it.

Warning: Stray spoilers

So with Stray the whole thing is that it's been hundreds of years in an underground city, all of the humans have died off, and in their place the robots they had as workers have gained sentience and filled the niches people left behind. You, as the little kitty cat, find the last human whose consciousness has been uploaded into a drone that you carry around in your little backpack-- together you're trying to open up the underground city and get to the outside.

So in terms of a crossover, I'd imagine that the construction of the ghost portal and resulting war with the GIW has a disastrous effect on the world. The surface slowly grows less and less habitable, long years of war that are never-ending. During this time, the Fentons get roped into a project to help build an underground city with a ghost shield-- a last bastion for humanity. It's the least they can do, considering the harm their research caused.

Danny's accident still happened in this scenario, he still fought as Phantom, but he was grievously injured and reverted into his badly-cracked core. His parents think he's long gone, while Jazz holds onto it and keeps him safe, not knowing if he'll ever reform.

Decades pass and the Fentons eventually move into the underground city they helped make. They live in disgrace, knowing they caused the turmoil that tore apart the surface and caused the death of their son. They try to make amends by lending their minds and hands to the city. When illness ravages the city, they die with regrets.

When Jazz knows her own time is drawing near, she does what she can to keep Danny's core safe as her last act.

She's watched one of the smaller cracks on his core disappear over her lifetime, but Jazz knows she won't live to see her brother made whole again. Sometimes she can sort of get a sense of him flickering around his core. Feel his emotions. Know he's still there.

Jazz finds some old tech that her parents squirreled away-- even with their many regrets, they were always proud of their research. With it, she builds a container to keep Danny in with filtered ectoplasm, hoping that it will be enough. That someday he'll come back, and that he won't be too upset she's left him behind.

Danny grows stronger over the years, his energy feeding into the technology around him. His (electric) core feeds on it as much as the filtered ectoplasm, and he finds comfort in exploring the network-- the only sense of freedom he's had in a long time.

Hundreds of years later, a little ginger cat finds its way into an underground city. The screens and tech act oddly, guiding the little cat to the backroom of an old apartment where a bright stone floats in a green canister. The cat can feel emotions and thoughts coming off of the thing. It's urged by more than instinct to knock over the container and free the stone inside.

The spectral being that floats out from the stone startles the cat at first, but then the being greets the cat gently and strokes it with a hand that hardly ghosts through the tips of its fur. A friend.

Danny doesn't really know how many years he's spent in this container. His memories are a jumbled mess, his senses addled. He feels like he remembers someone telling him that he needed to survive-- to find his way back out to the surface.

However long Danny's been healing, however, it's still not enough to maintain a fully corporeal body. He's tethered to his core, only able to project his shape for short periods of time before he has to retreat back into it.

He knows he needs to get to the surface to find a steadier source of pure, fresh ectoplasm to help him.

Danny's not really sure if he should trust a cat with what is essentially his head, heart, and soul, but... he doesn't have much of a choice.

In terms of the robots with the crossover, I feel like they could either exist as-is, or they could also be ghostly in nature. Like maybe the people that passed away in the underground city still linger, their ectoplasm imbibing into the circuitry of the robots. I imagine the mass death of the residents in the city could have created a lot of blob ghosts, and that over time maybe those blob ghosts latched onto the robots and became something more substantial. 

In terms of the zurks, I imagine that either the Fentons made one last massive mistake, or someone used some of their research (perhaps altering bacteria with ectoplasm) and it had disastrous consequences. 

[sebastianswallows]

girldad!Feyd Headcanons

— WARNINGS: angst, but also fluff — A/N: In the canon, Feyd’s daughter with Margot was named Marie Fenring, and she dies a tragic death at quite a young age. This is going to be a completely self-indulgent fix-it. Enjoy ✨

Sure, he’s the most violent and unhinged madman this side of Gamma Waiping, but even Feyd knows there’s a time and place for everything.

The time being when the Atreides are defeated and the Emperor rewards him and he’s free to go after the Fenrings with his Harkonnen troops.

First, they find Count Hasimir, a frail little man with rodent-like features and thin greying hair. The Emperor’s oldest friend, and the best assassin in the known universe. Feyd knows better than to take him on in single combat, so he has his men deal with him while he goes after Margot.

He finds her in the furthest room of their castle past a cadre of guards that he makes short work of. She’s holding a little girl’s hand… Small and pale with thick dark ringlets, she looks just like he did as a child. He can tell even past the thick visor of the helm he wears — something made to not only protect but also block out sound. Margot knows it’s him just by his gait. She speaks, but it doesn’t matter. Her voice has no effect this time.

He sees the flash of a laser on the wall as his men join him and block the only exit. Feyd walks over to Margot, uncoils the little girl’s hand from hers, and takes her away. Lady Fenring will be brought to Kaitain to answer for her crimes against the once-young na-Baron. The Bene Gesserits, humbled after their near defeat on Arrakis, will not defend her actions — she has already served her purpose anyway.

The little girl looks up at him as they walk away with an unsettling and knowing light in her dark eyes. Feyd gazes down at her and, although she could not see his face, it was as if they’d always known each other.

But he also notices her little legs can hardly keep up with his stride. Oh, that’s right, children are smaller… He stops, kneels, and lifts her up into his arms as he carries her back to the ship.

He was actually nervous about taking off his helmet in front of her. What would she think of seeing a Harkonnen for the first time? They were so different from the soft and sunkissed people of the planet she was raised on…

But she had an eery calm to her even at the age of seven standard years. She regards him no differently than before and also does not acknowledge any need for reverence, even when he tells her who he is.

“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.” “Hello.” “And what’s your name?” “Marie.”

He found himself genuinely shy when he informed her he was her father, and was all the more surprised to find an impish smile grow on her face. “I know.” Margot must have told her after all…

She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t seem afraid, but Feyd comforts her the whole way to their home planet. He pets her dark crown of curls as she sits beside him on the ship, supports her back when she drinks, and makes out of galactic maps the most unusual of toys to distract her with on the long journey back. None of it comes naturally to him and for the first time he has to think before he acts. It leaves his nerves rattled, but every time she looks up into his eyes and smiles so innocently he gains his calm again.

Giedi Prime was not the first place he had in mind for raising a child, but the other planets he could lay claim to — Lankiveil and Arrakis — were not great choices either. Now that he was Baron, this was where he had to be — at least until the Emperor decided who should govern Arrakis following the trouble with the Fremen. The Corrinos left a cadre of Mentats in charge to oversee the change for now.

She hates the planet at first, scrunching up her little face at the stark white light during the day, at the poisonous smoke, at the vast black wastes filled with petrol. Feyd engages an ecologist the first week Marie is there and plans a series of greenhouses for her with the best water filtration systems spice can buy.

“Why can’t the whole planet be like this?” she asks when he first shows it to her. They walk through young trees, Feyd dodging thin branches of raw red and green while his daughter skips ahead like a lamb. “Because it just can’t,” he mutters. “But why?” “Because it would cost too much.” “How much?” “I don’t know.” “Why not?”

A secret communication arrives to the Emperor inquiring whether he has room in his court for a new assassin now that Hasimir Fenring is gone.

His days are split between official duties, training in the arena, and playing with Marie. He discovers a part of himself again when he is with her — that innocent part that had been lost or buried when he first got to Giedi Prime. There is a satisfaction in making it for her a less brutal arrival, even a pleasant one.

He finds her laughing as she runs through the long halls, tugging on the lances of the guards — who look horrified at the sight of a playful child for the first time, but stay obediently still — and throwing rocks into the oil pools outside the palace to gawk at the pretty rainbow colours.

She loves the vaporous transparent gowns the servants wear, and the servants love her too. They dote on her, fearfully at first but more boldly when they notice Feyd’s approval. The retention rate goes up starkly at the palace, as does the average longevity.

Everyone is puzzled about what to do with her hair, but Marie teaches Feyd to braid it the way her mother did. She’s not shy about berating him either whenever he gets it wrong.

And most nights he falls asleep with her in one arm and a holographic storyreel in the other. He wants to be the sort of parent he only briefly had, the kind he vaguely remembers from his years on Lankiveil.

He dreams of his mother now more than he ever did, and wakes up feeling sorry for how much he falls short. He has no idea how to care for a child, no idea of how to raise her, but he knows he wants to try. Wants to succeed, for her. Marie might not have been an intended child, the way he was, but she was his own flesh and blood and he’d be damned before he made her feel unwanted.

His harpies love her, of course. But he fears they do a bit too much and dismisses them not one month after Marie arrives on the planet. While he’s never indulged, he can only imagine with a frightful shiver how sweet and tender a child’s flesh is.

To the consternation of his people, he flies in tutors from other planets for her. Philosophers from Ecaz, musicians from Chusuk, biologists from Lernaeus, and even a historian from Kaitain itself. She has a Mentat but no Bene Gesserit to serve in her education. His uncle had been wrong about a lot of things, but the scheming of witches was not one of them.

Her bedroom — more white and pale blue than the standard inky black, and decorated with pink ribbons — has a court of dollies on one side and toy swords on the other. Feyd’s love of weaponry does not escape her and, in her childish innocence, she’s fascinated by it all. He takes delight in this, of course, but worries too. Imagining his little child with blood on her hands scares him, and it makes him wonder what sort of person his uncle was to encourage it in him.

In loving her, Feyd’s never felt more unloved himself. Sure, he had his mother and father at one point, but all of that was taken from him when he was Marie’s age. Since then, nobody had cared about him, nobody had even wanted him unless it was to fulfil a purpose. Not his uncle, not his brother, not even Margot…

He comforted himself now that he’d spared Marie of such a fate. His little girl would not become a glorified breeding horse for the Bene Gesserits nor a pawn in the Emperor’s games. He would fill her life with all the things he never had.

Marie grows as the gardens grow, and Feyd begins to speak with the professor from Lernaeus and a retired planetologist from Acline about plans for terraforming Giedi Prime, and one day putting Marie in charge. Her lessons become more structured.

A fact to which she protests, but not for long. She is clever for her age, and understanding, and nobody can explain to her better than Feyd that, although learning can seem useless and boring compared to play, she needs to prepare for the years to come.

“You like the gardens, don’t you?” “Yes…” “And you like eating fruit, right?” “Yes, and smelling flowers.” “What if you could do that all the time, then? Not just in the greenhouses?”

She comes to like the skies of Giedi Prime as well, and the way fireworks look like ink blots. Her every birthday is marked with an array of black and white that make the sky a work of art.

Marie never asks to be the sort of Baroness that always lays around, because Feyd doesn’t do that either. As she grows older he starts to spend more time with her during the day, letting her sit in on meetings, and they debate for hours afterwards on what course the Barony should take. He finds she is more brave than he is, but more reckless too.

“No, little melon, we can’t just declare war on them.” “But why? You know they’re spying on us…” “Yes, but we have no proof.” “Of course we have proof. How would you know otherwise?” “Proof needs to be physical or recorded.” “Let’s record them spying, then.” “Well now they know that we know, so they will have a different approach.” “I still think war would end the problem faster. Or challenge them to a duel!” “I’m getting too old for this…”

They see more of the planet together too, venturing to the caves and crevices that run beneath the surface, taking samples of the native life bubbling in hot springs and collecting crystalline samples.

He takes her to Lankiveil for her fifteenth birthday and they sail together through its icy floes. She loves the sign of whales off in the distance and sounding the ship’s horn, although the local food leaves much to be desired.

“It smells weird.” “It’s fish.” “They stink…” “You want a salad instead?” “Yes, please…”

By the time she turns eighteen, the Emperor has decided to put Arrakis back into Harkonnen hands, and Feyd is terrified. As bad as Giedi Prime is, he wants to see her on Dune even less. Marie can tell this, observant as she is. She’s grown more quiet when she’s thinking and less rash with her decisions, but loud when she wants to be, and daring.

Feyd doesn’t know what to expect of Arrakis anymore and has mixed feelings about it, but he knows one thing for certain: anyone who’s a threat to his daughter there, dies.

“I’ll miss Giedi Prime,” she says as they’re approaching orbit. “It’s finally getting green in places, and rainclouds have begun to form…” “You can go back any time, you know,” says Feyd immediately. “I won’t keep you on this piece of hell…” “I’ll stay,” says Marie. She has the same strange determination she had in her eyes the day they met. “I heard it has old terraforming stations… I’ll want to visit them one day.”

It isn’t easy ruling a desert planet, even one that’s been subdued, but the new spice flow makes it worth it. Feyd keeps Marie close, teaches her everything, watches her grow, and soon she’s sent in delegations reporting to the Landsraad. She represents House Harkonnen better than her great uncle did — and, to Feyd’s pride, better than he ever could.

[yourlocalstranger123]

[I was bored and wanted to take a break from writing....something 😳 👀💧]

The yandere sagau side: it's exactly the same but just a little too obsessed. They worship you, giving you sacrifices offerings. You couldn't exactly see since you have a limit to see what they offer you. You just maybe it's an item that has a shape of a human. Who knows... the experimenters like dottore and Albedo will work together to create a body for you that is made on the details of the ancient script. Ei/raiden would make the body eternity, Zhongli would put protection on it, Venti would give the blessing of the wind to alarm you of the danger and Nahida would give you knowledge since you only just protect and make people safe and ofc make them feel warm. So you don't know what's happening 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♀️🤷 and they made sure the body could at least withstand most of your power.

● Morax first felt a little alert. 'Who are you?' 'What do you want?' He was confused. He never felt a presence that felt more godly than the celestials themselves. He felt stiff. He asked the others if they felt this...presence. They say yes but it seems to have no harm. He couldn't risk it, he was still on high alert. But when the moment he was fighting, he felt protected, stronger too. Are you perhaps helping him..? Why? He did not worship you if you were a God of some kind. After the war, he cried, cried loudly as the people of liyue can hear his pain and the cries of his roaring. Suddenly he felt your presence once again but stronger. Were you here to attack him? "SHOW YOURSELF!" He yelled. Still no answer. Weird....he laid down then continued softly sobbing, mourning of his friend's death. He felt comforted though, he tried keeping it away from him, this 'comfort' feeling. But slowly he melted into it. Sleeping soundly. He felt safe. When he woke up he saw his friends, were they actually alive? Is this perhaps an illusion you made to taunt him? His knees went weak. 'No matter, even if this is fake, please...just let him hold them one more time..even if it's not real.' He actually woke up. He looked sad, as he was about to accept the death of his friends, he sees all of them. Even the yakshas came back alive. He saw Xiao on his knees sobbing in happiness. Is this your doing?...thank you..thank you so much. Truly. He accepted you. Your kindness. He made everyone know you, well the only people who didn't know you was the one who has no vision. The yaksha knows you, well only your doings and presence. They can also feel it. They worshiped you, and give you things. They weren't rich so they could only give you simple things like flowers but it didn't matter to you. They could feel the warmth grow bigger. They smiled. They wonder if you smiled back at them? Your truly a wonderful God. Slowly everyone in liyue finds out your the creator somehow and they worshiped you even more. Everyone who had one felt your presence even more. They felt very happy, truly they are blessed to have you as their creator. When Zhongli abandoned his duty as a archon, he still worshiped you. Although not fancy as it used to but he felt that you were still happy with these simple offerings. Everyone in liyue was so very happy. Azhada also felt it. He was set free and when Zhongli tried to make him go back, there was a note before he could attack. "He deserves a second chance. Let him experience the wonderful things in life. To: Rex Lapis" he was confused, was this the Morax he knew? His heart grew soft as he read the letter. Suddenly he felt his form start to change. He panicked and looked into the river. He looked like a mortal. Although he must give you credit for your taste. In the future, he brags on and on that you made a form for him. "Shall the Geo protect you with its heart."

● Heck, even the celestials were concerned and a little scared of you. 'What are you?' They thought. You felt familiar but yet not so familiar either. 'Are you an outlander?' Later they got used to it. They thought maybe you were a Supreme God that is watching over them, in the past, they were on guard. Waiting for you to strike. But....they felt a safe feeling, an addictive feeling. 'Who are you? Why are you so...nice?' Until it clicked. Are you...the creator? If you're not then why are you so nice to them?? But it does not matter no more. They will welcome and worship you even if you are a God who is an out-lander

I was too lazy. Oh well, thus is just for practice.