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naffeclipse · 13 days

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Charm Brought It Back

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

I am so excited to present this Hocus Pocus inspired AU requested by the lovely @jackofallrabbits! The boys star as the witchy brothers who return once a fated reader lights the starry candle. They simply must show their gratitude! And what better day to post such a spooky and fun fic than on Friday the 13th?!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, and heavy touching.

———

You turn the key and cut the engine of your car. With a flick, you turn off the headlights. The beginning of a sunset swoops down onto your ill-adjusted vision. The horizon is drenched in purples and oranges as shadows begin to crawl off of trees and their yellowed leaves. It will take a minute or two for your sight to adapt, but you have tilted and revolved the structure waiting just at the edge of the forest within your mind’s eyes for days now. It’s beyond the dirt road you’ve pulled onto the shoulder of.

Blinking slowly, you find the house’s dark silhouette through the boughs of clustered trees, and you sigh at the beauty of its preserved history.

The building is an artifact dating back roughly to the 1630s. A post-medieval English-style home, it contains two stories with an overhanging jetty and stunning clapboard siding that has survived a little under four centuries of existence. Your eyes catch on the windows and your heart sings at the sight. Diamond-paned casement. And there, decorative pendants of celestial bodies, including iron-casted suns, moons, and overlapping symbols of the two. The steeply pitched roof is common for the era and is more renowned in its descendant the saltbox form, but this style boosts its spooky aura.

The Puritan colonists were the ones responsible for importing the style to America as they landed here on the eastern coast.

It’s no stretch of the imagination to think of witches and execution trials while gazing over the beautiful home. You’re particularly intrigued by the history of the Salem witch trials, and as a historian, you couldn’t deny yourself the chance to enter the building and feed the gnawing need to stand within a piece of history.

Stepping out of your car, a gust of wind carrying the bitter edge of autumn cuts through your brown sweater. You shiver and shut the door as quietly as you can manage. This is hallowed ground. This will supply your ever inquisitive mind which is always looking to the past with a curiosity most insatiable.

You face the home. A footpath lightly serpentines between the trees. Hooligans with destructive tendencies and teenagers on dares will venture here for a spooky, fun time, but are usually caught by the police because the building sits on private property. You asked for permission from the owner of the hundreds of acres of forest land that includes the so-called “Witch House” if you might enter the premises. Given your credentials, you were certain the owner would trust you with exploring the home.

Much to your relief, the owner agreed.

You look up, arms clutching your knitted sleeves to fight the chill of an October breeze, in awe and reverence.

From your pocket, you slip out a wrought-iron key with the symbol of the moon overlapping the sun to form a black eclipse and marvel again at the intricacy of ancient beauty. Your fingertips grow chilled in the late hour. The sun shifts from orange to dark, bleeding red like blood from a heart spilled across the horizon. You walk towards the home.

Perhaps you should have arrived sooner. You were caught in another historical journal depicting the specific timeframe of when this home would have been occupied by its original inhabitants.

The rumors even now speak of curses and cursed artifacts within the building. Some of it is true—you have confirmed with your own scholarly sources. The original owners were a trio of brothers. They were accused of witchcraft and hanged for the crimes. That much is historically documented and verified.

What is fantasy is the tale of the brothers casting a curse with their dying breaths, declaring they would one day return if a virgin lit a starry candle on the anniversary of their executions.

Superstition. Most likely, the fear of the townspeople transcended to their children, and their children, down and down until it became a tale to spin on Halloween night around these parts.

The door is black as you approach it. A stray branch catches on your sweater, pulling on a thread, and you yank yourself free and silently mourn the roughen fabric before returning your attention to what really matters. You must be careful. This entire place is iconic and in need of preservation.

You slip the key into the lock hole and turn it with a thick, heavy click before the black wood door groans and slides inwards as if inviting you into its sphere. You take a breath. Your boots cross the threshold and you enter the home.

As is typical of some homes built in the early seventeenth century, an open hall greets you. In the far back is the fireplace with a cauldron still sitting upon an ashy bed. An original wood-carve table and chairs are set to one side as a staircase climbs up into the darkness of the second level. What little red light leaks inside is narrowed and cut up into diamonds by the panes. To one wall, shelves contain dusty and forgotten cooking utensils, once glimmery copper pots, and dinner dishes with designs considered much too gawky in the Puritan era but it causes you to softly gasp.

Your hand covers your mouth as you gaze around you, overwhelmed with the beautiful intricacies of metallic chandeliers holding half-burned tallow candles, and to the other wall lies a bookshelf covered in cobwebs as if the spiders refuse to let anyone examine such precious reads. Your fingers already itch to gently pry out one manuscript and gaze at the original script of whoever wrote it.

But the light—it’s far too dark now. The red has given way to blue and pale indigo. You squint. You reach into your other pocket for a lighter and flick it on. The tiny flame spouts a delicate light. Never would you dare admit this out loud to a living soul, but you so desperately wish to see the home in its authentic state, lit only by the technology the brothers had at the time: fire.

There are thick, yellowed candles lying on the table and clustered together on the narrow window sills. You have no hope of reaching the metal chandeliers but you do spy a candelabra positioned near the bookshelf on a small end table. You light it first with a careful touch of your lighter flame. The wick catches, even after all of these years. You smile softly, your heart warm within your chest as you bask in the essence of this beautiful place.

A few more candles should suffice.

You slip to the table to light the thick and tall candles. The flames bloom and warm the space in rich light, casting thick shadows from support beams. You almost set your lighter away when you spy one last candle set upon a golden candle holder. The fashioned metal twists and twines with elaborate engravings of shooting stars and slices of sun rays were placed in the corner of the room almost out of sight. The curiosity within you urges you to take a step, then another, and another. You stand in front of the almost forgotten candle.

The tallow is black as midnight. Strange. How did they color this? Embedded within the darkness are speckles of white, splattering the candle like an array of stars. Your eyes stray in search of constellations before shaking your head.

It’s true. There is a starry candle. Perhaps the brothers did dabble in the occult, playing with cards and fortune telling, and being punished with death for their interest in unholy magic.

The wick is dark and untouched as if it were never lit before. You bring the lighter flame closer. Superstition might worry another, but you concern yourself with logic and reason—explanations of humanity rather than inexplicable forces beyond comprehension.

Something stirs from a nearby corner shelf. Two long ears twitch. You catch a glimpse of a rabbit with creamy white fur just before it leaps off of the shelf and directly onto your arm. You yelp. Nearly dropping the lighter, you scramble back as the rabbit hits the floor, collects itself, and sits on its haunches.

Green eyes glare up at you. The rabbit, small and bunny-like, stays firmly between you and the starry candle.

You stand with your chest heaving and your lungs scraping out air, almost burning your thumb on the lighter flame before turning around yourself. Where did the woodland creature come from? Did it crawl its way inside like a rat and become trapped within the colonial home? The shot of adrenaline still flowing through your veins leaves your hands shaking.

The rabbit is still watching you with uncanny eyes. Prey animals so rarely stare back at bigger, larger threats. Perhaps it’s a pet. A runaway pet that somehow ended up here, of all places.

You slowly offer out your hand, keeping the lighter away in your other, as you take a step towards it.

It thumps a foot once, as if in warning, then bounds away. You watch it disappear into the house, still reeling from the fright it gave you.

If Michael was here, he would have laughed and told you to leave with him, now. He never wanted you to go here, especially alone, but you shake such ominous warnings away. He said curiosity killed the cat. You disagreed. This house is a part of history, not a curse. Witches are mere stories, conjured out of historical unrest and the longing to blame bad luck and tragedies upon an individual or three.

There’s always an explanation for fear superstition or mistrust. It’s far more sad than it is spooky.

You shake your head, smooth out the creases in your sweater, and face the starry candle again. The lighter flame flickers softly as you draw near it.

It is the anniversary of the brothers’ executions. You remember now as the shadows from other candles drape over you like a veil. You are also a virgin.

You laugh to yourself, covering your mouth as you do so. Look at you! You’re getting so worked up because a rabbit jumped at you.

It’s only hocus-pocus.

You tilt the lighter until it engulfs the wick. The flame catches, and you at last snap the lighter shut and return it to your pocket. Your eyes squint slightly at the candle. The wick snaps and bursts into sparks. The flame is not yellow or orange or even blue—it’s pure white like a comet streaking across the sky.

A crack of thunder splits the night sky with a bellow so monstrous, you feel like a child again, fearing a storm. You drop low to the ground, shielding your head as if the very world was going to fall upon you. A spark cracks in the fireplace, conjured out of ash underneath the cauldron before it burns hot and bright. The cauldron immediately begins roiling and bubbling with water. Laughter, great and terrible, and filled with the most jester-like joy sweeps over the room.

The pulse in your ears drowns at any sense but the need to hide. You scramble into the corner, tucking yourself behind the stand of the starry candle and hunker down. Holding your breath, you grab a fistful of your sweater while clutching your chest, and watch the door to the almost 400-year-old house fly open.

Three figures stride inside, looking about the place with wide eyes and disk-like heads framed in jutting adornments not unlike sun rays or shrouded in a heavy, dark blue hood.

“Brothers! We’re home!” The first one, tall and dark with deep red hues to his form, accent in sharp orange sun rays and an eclipse upon his face, turns to face his brother with bright, cat-like yellow eyes. “Isn’t it glorious?”

Another figure steps forward, yellow and off-white. Pale eyes beam. His head is crowned in bright sun rays as well. His spindly fingers twindle together in exuberant energy while he glances about the room eagerly. “Oh, yes, yes! More than anything! It’s as if we weren’t gone for more than a day—though the dust and cobwebs beg to differ.”

He draws a claw—you suck in a sharp breath—along the table’s edge and rubs his taloned fingertips together in disappointment.

“We must get to cleaning at once.”

“No,” the last figure fixes his hood with silvery digits. Golden jewels hang down the back of his unusual skull, the last and most prominent adornment a thick, golden star pendant. His eyes cast around the room, scarlet, and searching. “We must thank the little mouse who lit the candle.”

He flashes sharp teeth within his wide mouth, shaping it into a hungry grin. You gulp.

“Where are our manners?” The red and dark one twists back to the room with a flourish of his arms. His yellow gaze sweeps over the shelves and floors with a blade-like glint. “Of course, we must thank one so lovely.”

A dark cape drapes about his person. Underneath, a white flowing shirt hangs loosely to his lithe and slender figure, causing you to balk upon staring at such an exposed chest. The other two are no different, wearing similar shirts and dark trousers, but the hooded one bears a thick, longer cape while the sunny figure shares a cape similar to the first.

The yellow one lifts his wrists and frowns at the red ribbons tied around them. Golden bells jingle softly in an ominous chord.

“How terrible a reminder of our current impermanence,” he growls low in his throat, all cheerfulness lost and causing you to squeeze your ribs in fear.

“Patience, Sun,” the red one speaks, though he too casts a narrowed glance to the black ribbons and golden bells adorning his wrists. “We will affix ourselves back to this world in due time.”

“Eclipse, what a delicious creature I smell.” The hooded figure steps deeper into the home. Blue claws scratch at equally blue ribbons knotted to his hand bones but his attention is terrifyingly fixed on the candle stand just above your hiding spot.

You shrink further into the corner.

“Yes, Moon? And how lovely?” Eclipse, you assume, asks. His yellow eyes flash.

“As lovely as the stars,” Moon answers.

You watch claws curl around the wooden side of the candle stand, scratching deeply into the wood before a half-moon face emerges from behind, teeth set like a predator’s upon the sight of a wounded animal. Your heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.

“Hello, little mouse. Won’t you come and play with us?”

You scream as he leaps behind the candle stand, takes you by the arms, and pulls you to your feet. You struggle to free yourself, crying out as he grabs hold of your wrists and fixes you firmly in place.

“My, how sweet,” he purrs in a dangerously low voice that rolls in the back of his throat. “You are the darling virgin who lit the candle, no?”

“Let me go!” You thrash but Moon grins in delight, as if you’re simply too precious.

“You deserve proper thanks,” He lowers one hand, forcing you to submit with slightly bent knees. “Here is my gratitude, little mouse.”

You freeze as he brings your hand towards his mouth, and a hundred, horrifying visions of him biting your fingers off or sinking his teeth in your palm send your blood into a frozen sludge of fear.

The witch, however, presses a kiss to the center of your palm. The softness catches the gears in your mind and jerks them to a halt.

“Thank you for allowing us to return once more,” he rasps. His scarlet eyes find yours between the space of your thumb and forefinger, and a strange stirring takes hold of your middle.

“This isn’t real,” you breathe. Dizziness begins to take hold.

This must be a dream, a thought gone wild, or inhaled bacteria triggering hallucinations.

Moon’s grin widens. He lowers your hand, loosening his hold for one precious moment. You rip your hands free of his grasp. A low growl escapes him but you’ve already slipped away, your eyes upon the door and spilling with the need to rush out into the night, away from the impossibilities standing before you—

Arms snatch your waist and lift your feet from the ground. You gasp.

Held in the air, you squirm before a hot breath dusts the shoulder of your sweater. You fall still, your throat bobbing as a mouth presses into the corner of your neck and lays a kiss on the sensitive spot. Gooseflesh prickles up and down your body.

“I assure you, I’m very real, little mouse,” Moon purrs. His hands squeeze your hips once. “And as nice as this… attire is, I would dress you in blues and silvers. You would look proper and powerful, like my brothers and I.”

A squeak escapes you. You shrink against him, caught in his embrace.

“Brothers?” The word rattles out of your throat.

“This is our home,” Moon whispers. “And you are our most honored guest.”

You manage to pry off his hands from your waist. With a sinister chuckle, the blue and silver hands release you. Without looking back, you run, ignoring the twinge in your stomach that whispers it was too easy to get away.

You hardly get a few steps before the sunny one—Sun—steps into your path. He catches you in his arms and spins you in a waltz at breakneck speed, your feet never touching the ground, before stopping without warning as he dips you low. He looms above you, his smile filled with sharp teeth.

“Let me get an eyeful. Oh, yes, you look good enough to eat,” he simpers. His hand splays along the small of your back and you gawk up at him, still trying to regain your balance after the sickness-inducing whirl. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”

“I just want to leave,” you whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Sunshine,” he laughs, and it echoes with all of his heart—do once-hanged witches have a heart? There is no historical journey to give context to this very moment, you fear.

He lowers his sultry gaze to you. “I wish to only thank you. And I intend to.”

He pulls you back to your feet. You’re still clasped in his embrace like lovers on a ballroom floor. His hand hooks tight to your hip, and his other catches the side of your face. Heat spreads through the marrow of your bones.

On the tabletop beside you, something white moves across the plane of its surface, hunkering behind the thick stack of candles still burning.

His head lowers to your neck. You stiffen as he tilts your head away, opening you to his parting teeth. A tongue, dark and sinuous, flicks out of his maw. A gasp slips from your lips at the wet lick up the column of your throat. Eyelids fluttering, you start to sag as weakness fills your knees. He drags his tongue higher to taste your jawline and finishes at your cheek with a swipe for good measure.

Your hands find him and clutch tightly to his slender arms. He presses his lips to your ear and with a misty warmth, whispers.

“Thank you for—Gah!”

The white rabbit leaps up from the table, squirming directly between you and his chest, breaking you apart. Instinctively, you jump away just as Sun snarls. The heart-wrenching sound shakes your entire frame as he snatches the rabbit by the scruff before it can scramble back from his wretched claws.

“I’ll boil you alive!” he thunders. He steps towards the cauldron, back where Moon leans against the wall, watching the spectacle with an amusing twitch of his grinning maw. Behind you, Eclipse stands at the door like a sentinel, his eyes still hungry and even furious as he follows his brother’s movement to the cauldron.

Sun dangles the rabbit, now struggling and kicking but unable to find purchase against the witch’s hold, above the boiling water of the caldron.

“No!” you cry.

Sun’s eyes widen. He turns back to you just as you close the distance and scoop the rabbit in your arms. His claws, pale-boned and wickedly curved, clench around emptiness. Without thought, you turn and run again though there is little hope as you come to the door. Your boots stamp against the wooden floorboards.

The rabbit in your embrace turns its face up to you and mutters in a woman’s voice, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

You gawk, stunned before hands catch you by the shoulders. You’re brought to a dead halt. The rabbit leaps from your arms, drops to the floor, and races away into a shadowy corner of the room with only one glimpse of its fluffy tail before you’re left alone.

You twist and face the eldest witch’s attention. Eclipse. His yellow eyes go up and down your body, and you watch in muted shock as two additional arms emerge from the shadows of his cap. He forces you backward, one step after the other until your back is pinned against a dusty wall.

You stare into his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your pulse pounds in your eardrums.

“I don’t believe this is happening,” you utter.

The witch tilts his head with a wicked grin.

“We’ll make you a believer yet.” He promises, and his deep cords vibrate through your form. “My dear, we simply must thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”

His claws slip over your collarbones. Your breath quickens, a stirring you cannot name unfolding deep within your middle. His extra set of hands fall to your hips and begin caressing the bones. Daintily, carefully, his warm fingertips slip just underneath the hem of your sweater, touching your bare flesh. A shiver runs down your entire body, leaving you to squirm.

“Be a good little comet,” he says softly, “Let me pour my gratitude all over you.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it was true,” you stare into his face, marked with a red crescent over a dark shadow, and his eyes pierce into the very nature of your being. “You’re back.”

“Because of you,” he rumbles softly in his chest. His grin pulls higher at the corners.

His claws slip over the nap of your neck and card gently into the small, sensitive hairs at the bottom of your skull. You breathe in. His eyes brighten in pleasure before he slips his sharp but controlled talons over the shells of your ears and follows the arch of your cheekbone. His gaze drops to your lips. Your heart thumps and thumps against your sternum so powerfully, you fear he may hear it.

His lips pull over his razor-sharp teeth and you stop breathing.

His other set of hands begins working up the sides of your torso. He rubs slowly and gently, but you squirm despite this. He touches you far too intimately when you have never experienced such affections before. A mewl escapes your lips. You wriggle as he refuses to relent.

In answer, his upper hands lower and capture your hands together in one, and pin them above your head to hold you in place. He coos, chastising. A great roil starts in your stomach and expands upwards until your face becomes pink and flushed.

“Hold still, little comet,” he chuckles, and you whimper. “I’m not finished with showering you in all my adoration.”

“Eclipse,” your breath is harsh and hot.

“It is good to hear my name upon such lovely lips,” his voice lowers, husky and scorching. “I knew a virgin would light the candle. I swore it to my brothers as they set us on the gallows and draped nooses around our necks. You are our light, our savior. How could I ever thank you?”

In his words, his burning stare that singes with sincerity, it clicks into place. All at once, you believe what you are seeing with your own two eyes.

It’s true. He’s back. He and his brothers have returned with magic.

“I have questions,” you say hesitantly in your demureness, “I want answers.”

“Of course,” Eclipse agrees easily. “But first…”

A dark claw brushes your hair back from your face. The flutter in your heart can’t seem to hold still. Eclipse’s grin widens and his eyes soften.

“You have freckles like constellations,” he murmurs in the manner of one gazing at the night sky or one studying an ornate painting.

Before you can shape words to reply, to say anything that might free you from his grasp, his mouth is upon yours. A sound softly catches in the back of your throat. You fall still under his caressing hands still moving below your sweater. He traces the row of your ribs. You have just enough mind to wonder if he feels your skin prickle in your sensitivity. His other hand clasps your wrists tighter. You gasp against his teeth.

He pulls gently, hungrily, taking you as if a bite of honeycomb. You become melted honey, easily malleable between his teeth and then molded by his mouth. His tongue invades you. You moan softly at the claim he lays upon you until you become weak in the knees and almost fall. His kiss seals your fate.

He releases you from his maw. You sink slightly, and his arms fall out from under your sweater to properly catch you. He lowers your wrists, returns your hands, and brushes your hair once more from your face.

A chuckle emits from his lips, and you burn.

“You’ll stay with us, won’t you?” he asks, but he waits for no answer as he scoops you into his arms. Feet dangling, you have no choice but to cling to his shoulders and endure his brothers’ attention as he twists around and faces them.

The rabbit’s right. You are in trouble. Michael warned you. He said curiosity killed the cat.

But charm brought it back.

#naff's writing commissions #witches and rabbits and candles oh my #if michael was there he would be so mad at you for lighting the candle smh #hocus pocus au my beloved #witch!eclipse #witch!sun #witch!moon #charm brought it back #naff writing

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ahhhwomen · 6 months

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Eternal Slumber.

Vampire Empire

Part 5

Pairing: DarkVamp!Wanda Maximoff x DarkVamp!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

A/N: This is kinda just a filler chapter while I work on requests (if anyone else have any feel free to drop by my inbox), so it may be a little while until part 6, that being said, enjoy lovelies!

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. All mistakes are my own.

AU Warnings: Human pets, abuse, violence, possessiveness, probably incorrect vampire lore, angst, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, kitten play (?), death, suicidal ideation Minors DNI 18+

Summary: They say a taste of death can change a person forever. However, they never take into consideration, that maybe, that’s the only thing coating your tongue on a regular basis.

Word Count: 2k

Taglist

There are tiny spikes of ice against the metal, almost like a layer of fuzz over the orange rust. It creeps into every crevice, the metal bars groan and creak, and the water, frozen inside some of the weaker spots, bursts and tears apart the material.

The cold was affecting everything.

You stare at the metal hook responsible for keeping you in place. The concrete around it is dented and smoldering. With a microscope, it would look like a mountain falling apart. Stone by stone.

It wouldn’t take much force; you ponder if you could release it with just a weak tug. You probably could, but you don’t bother.

Your body sinks lower, and the concrete scratches against your stomach. Red welts burn in displeasure as the friction reawakens the former punishment. It’s as if the weight of your body has doubled overnight, you can’t keep yourself up.

It’s hard to breathe.

It’s hard to stay awake…

The cold was affecting everything.

Including you.

You glance out the window with meager eyes. The trees pass by faster than you can keep track. Your head pounds, and you want to rest.

Just for a moment-

A gruff voice disturbs your peace for the hundredth time.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep.”

You had been lying in your enclosure all day, preserving your movements for only necessary situations. You wanted to dream it all away, but you knew you shouldn’t.

With both your nose a fresh pink and fingertips a bleak blue there wasn’t much to do other than to study your surroundings.

Your eyes glide over the same small details you have stared at for years, though there was a beauty to your misery, every corner and prickle of this place glittered against the slim beam of light from the hallway. The golden gleam reflected like sunlight against the ice, however, where you lay chained and tense under your red lamp, it felt more like a mockery.

With a sigh, you looked over to the empty shackles, frozen to the ground opposite of you. Your muscles burn as you grip the ground firmly and attempt to lift yourself up. Your arms shake in effort, your nails grinding against the pavement, but you can only manage to push upward for less than an inch.

Then a light thud echoes as you fall back down.

You’re so tired…

Your eyes slip closed for a second, there are a select few in the hallway that whine and growl, and you try to shift your focus onto them. Their hoarse voices screech against your eardrums, and you can’t help the grim expression as you listen to their cries…

There were more yesterday…

Of course, it was a given that this place took away some hope, but you know that isn’t the reason the numbers of distain more than halved overnight.

The rag over your lower half shifts away from you with every minuscule movement, it slides against your bottom, and slowly, the grime and dirt settled within the flimsy material slather itself against you as it leaps the final length and falls off.

It’s almost as if it knows you are too tired to move it back.

You are so sick of this place.

The cries are silenced as you hear the familiar thunder of shaking keys.

With a bitter glance to the other side of the room, you pity yourself; if you had any strength left, you would wrap the chains around your neck and hang yourself.

You huff in annoyance as the redhead shakes you vigorously yet again.

You can feel a swift, but gentle, slap on the back of your head. The redhead’s hand taps against you, her palm making quick contact with the greasy hair.

At your whining Wanda voices her opinion, “Don’t start with me, I told you not to fall asleep.” The powerful woman’s annoyed voice wraps around your lingering headache. Her calm tone was more like a booming against your forehead.

Shifting under the red leather, you whimper even more. The heating blasting towards you feels strange. Hot air sifts around you, almost like a tunnel of wind directed solely at your slumped frame. A noise, a mix of a hoarse cough and a weak cry, can be heard as Wanda shifts her own heat toward you too.

Realizing you won’t back down on your bitching, Wanda retrieves her hand with a roll of her eyes and refocuses on the road in front of her.

Trees and livestock pass by in a blur, there are tiny speckles of muck and dirt against the expensive windshield. Snow sits snug in the more stubborn corner of the window, small flacks forming a pile unmovable by the front wind.

Goosebumps prickle Wanda’s skin, the bite of winter making its entrance this early must really do a number on places like the shithole you´re from.

The car lifts for a moment as one of the bumps rustles the lambo, you shrink in on yourself, your pale skin retreating to hide under red leather. The redhead’s foot pushes downward harder, the exhilarator vrooming as she frowns.

Wanda doesn't even know what possessed her to take you, but if she left you there, you would surely be dead by the end of the day.

Natasha was always far better at understanding humans, however, given the little bond you two have, she is unsure how the other redhead will react to your current state. She glances at you in her peripheral, your lips are tinged blue, same with your fingertips and toes.

You don’t even shiver, and Wanda passes another stop sign with no regard. Shivering is a good thing; it means your body is aware you are cold. No shivering is bad, like really fucking bad.

Her hands tighten against the steering wheel, the skin between her rings and knuckles, clamp and squeeze in an irritating pinch.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand that if you aren’t yet hypothermic, it won’t be long until you are.

With a sigh, Wanda reaches over to settle the jacket more tightly around your frame.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive to the house, Wanda makes it in seven.

Natasha frowns, and the smell of burned vegetables invades her senses. With an irritated scrunch of her nose, the redhead goes to trash yet another pot of attempted soup.

The goo of estranged ingredients jiggles unsettlingly at the top of the trashcan as Natasha pours the substance out. The ring on her left pointer clinks against the pot as she places it back on the stove.

She can never get it right.

With a huff, the redhead pulls out her cell phone, her hand wraps around the silver piece and she goes to find her messages. Her thumb makes quick work of checking on Wanda yet again, the pad of her finger taps the screen rapidly, the remains of her failure smudges against the glass, and Natasha cringes.

Her unread reply to Wanda’s previous questions remains the same, wiping her hands and phone off with the kitchen rag, the redhead walks over to her preferred room of leisure.

The clacking of her heels hitting the flooring is dampened as she steps onto the carpeted part of their little den.

A soft glow illuminates the living room, and the tenseness of her shoulders lessens as she lets the orange hue wash over her.

Plopping herself on the green couch she reaches over to her purse, the case reports she needed Wanda’s thoughts on lying on the very top. The paper brushes against her fingers, the white sheets threatening to tear as Natasha's nimble fingers search through the mess lower down.

She is just about to read them over again, when the familiar rumble of her wife’s car, pulls into their parking lot.

Shifting the gear stick, Wanda finally manages to park, your shuffling and whining had certainly not been helping. She can see her wife waiting for her by their door, but Wanda knows she is going to have to wait a moment longer.

You sit beside Wanda, your body wringing and shifting, you feel hot, and sweat rolls down your forehead.

The black belt meant to secure you through the drive feels more like a restraint as you push your shoulders against it. Bone threatens to pop out of the socket as the strong treads hold your weight back with ease, the pressure against your bruised body does little to deter you.

Wanda tusks, “Stop that.” Her hand reaches over to you and unfastens the belt, “Calm down baby, we are already here.”

Wanda pauses.

She scrunches her eyes, her left hand tightening the hold against the steering wheel.

Wanda doesn’t do nicknames, or sweet ones anyways, not unless it’s her wife.

Yet, the nickname had slipped without a second thought.

She has little time to think about it however, the sound of weak banging calls out to her, the redhead’s attention shifts and she groans in annoyance as you have now moved on to trying your luck against the metal door.

Your fingers run along the interior of the door, the pounding in your head makes it hard to see, and everything blends together in a mess of colors and sounds. You try to feel your way to the handle, but only expensive patterning can be felt as you try gripping the handle.

“You can never make it easy for me, can you kitten?” The redhead mumbles to herself.

The black tinted windows stop anyone from seeing what is happening inside Wanda’s car, but the taller woman can see Natasha shifting uneasily at how slow her usually effective wife is being.

With a sigh, Wanda rolls up the sleeves of her blouse, the silken material gliding and scrunching at the crease of her elbow.

In an attempt to settle you, if only for a moment, Wanda presses her right hand flatly against your chest. With a controlling movement, she pushes up and down to signify a breathing cycle more suitable than your erratic one.

She holds her unoccupied hand against your thigh, rubbing it up and down gently. The friction does nothing but alarm Wanda further.

Knowing she can’t turn around now, Wanda steps out of the car, your scent leaking out into the chilly wind outside their estate.

The shift in Natasha’s behavior is one not entirely surprising yet distinctively fascinating as the smell of your cold blood clings to the inside of her nose.

The taller woman moves to your side of the car; she secures you tightly in her arms. You try your best to squirm out of her hold, your hands clawing against Wanda’s covered biceps, but with how tired you are it’s little use.

You slump into the redhead’s body. Her leather jacket forces you even deeper into the scary woman’s embrace.

Realizing there is no winning this, you finally fall into the deep exhaustion that lies beneath your skin.

Natasha stands as still as a statue. Every muscle within her expands and contracts, but she can’t move.

Until she can.

At a young age she was taught that every choice one makes has consequences, every decision she has ever seen through in her life has been planned to the very tee before any move was made. She never “vamped out”, she never made a mistake, and every notion of her life was just how she planned for it to be.

Why, because Natasha knows restraint.

Your limp body lies seemingly lifelessly in Wanda’s hands.

Natasha doesn’t think.

The weight of your slim body is removed from Wanda faster than even she can comprehend, her leather jacket that was lying close to her chest, just as you were, is now gone, just like you. For a reason she cannot explain, anger bubbles beneath the exterior of the older woman as she watches Natasha carry you to the house.

With a speed unchallengeable Wanda stands just behind her wife. Her hands wringing the material in front of her in a firm grip, the black fabric is soft inside her clutch.

Holding her back by her jacket Wanda questions her wife, “What are you doing?” her anger lingers within her tone.

Enough so that any other day Natasha would stop dead in her tracks, today, however, was not one of those days.

The thick fabric of Natasha’s suit slips from nimble fingers as Natasha rips herself away from the redhead. With a blank face, she turns toward her wife, two prominent canines peeking out between soft lips.

“She is freezing to death.”

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ellemarianne555 · 10 days

Text

Something Wicca This Way Comes

Author’s Note: I wanted to write something different, so read at your peril whoooo.

Summary: Aegon thinks his girlfriend might be a witch. Very halloweeny, get your pumpkin spice candles out and grab a cup of tea. Medieval AU, no specific time period or place but beware of ye olde dirty talk.

Word Count: 3k ish

Content Warnings: mdni, sex dreams, fingering, ass play (male receiving), eating out, brief 69ing, face sitting, unprotected sex, sickly sweet smut.

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Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, wasn’t sure what led him to a gingerbread house in the middle of the night. He also wasn’t prone to listening to his subjects’ requests, but their complaining had somehow roused him from his normal nap during the afternoon appointments.

He opened his eyes blearingly, he had gotten rather well acquainted with a jug of wine and a rather attractive wench the night before. Sadly he had fallen asleep before their union had been consummated. And had woken up rather early in the morning with his face in a tankard of ale and the tavern closed. He had barely stumbled back to the Red Keep before Aemond had rudely roused him from his slumber and forced him to come listen to these peasants complain. But mentions of a witch had unfortunately rattled around in his head and forced him from his sleep.

“We believe there to be a witch in the woods, Sire.” The peasant who spoke trembled, his clothes filthy and looking as though they were beginning to mould.

Aegon harrumphed crossly, sliding his eyes to Aemond who was standing in his usual position, chest puffed out and chin high, beside the throne.

As if sensing his disbelief, Aemond opened his mouth and boomed pompously; “This wretch speaks the truth, my Lord. My knights have found mysterious things throughout the Black Forest that can not be explained.”

“Such as…” Aegon droned, he was already bored of this. Who was he to care if some witch had been turning pumpkins into mouses or what not.

“I can not explain exactly, but the trees no longer seem the same. It is almost like… they can speak.” The peasant hung his head shamefully as though he knew what he was saying was ridiculous. Aegon rolled his eyes and slumped back into his throne. How much longer did he have to sit through this? Surely being a King was less about sitting on his ass and more about doing something heroic. He remembered the stories his nursemaid had told him, of brave kings who had vanquished mortal enemies. All he seemed to be vanquishing so far were the brothels.

“Last night, my Lord…” Aemond drawled, his sharp tone cutting into his brother’s fantasies of donning a suit of armour and being embraced by a fair maiden. “The night patrol reported their horses had been mysteriously cut from their posts while at a stream, and ran faster than the wind through a river that appeared out of thin air. When my soldiers tried to cross, it was though their feet had turned to stone until they waded back to the shore.”

“Well, all this could be simply explained by the weather!” Aegon spluttered. “There hasn’t been a witch in the kingdom… since, well…” He finished, unsure of exactly when. All he knew from his childhood stories was that witches were fearsome creatures, with soft hair and sharp teeth who lay in wait for handsome men. What they did with these men was never known, but they never returned home.

“Well, brother.” Aegon spoke slyly, “Your people demand a solution.” The peasant looked up from his dirt-crusted nails and nodded frantically. “Please, sire. No one will travel through our woods and our town has already lost business with neighbouring villages who refuse to come barter.”

Aegon frowned, he hated when his brother put him on the spot like this. Aemond had been baiting him his entire childhood, and once they both matured, his resentment had turned into a bitter jealousy. But he was a competent Hand of the King, and the soldiers were fiercely loyal to him.

“Well… I shall ride out there and show this creature who truly rules these lands!” The king burst out. Fuck, he’d just said that out loud hadn’t he. He’d been trying to think what the knights from the stories would have said, and in reality he just sounded like a pompous twat. A pompous twat who had just promised to charge into the hinterlands and go hunt down some imaginary threat. Well he had to go now, Aemond would never let him live it down if not. Aemond smiled, as his eye slid across to where his brother sat, what a fool.

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The woods were dark that night, and every screech an owl made pricked Aegon’s skin with fear. Still his horse plodded on into the looming blackness, oblivious to his riders agitation. Aegon had crossed the river that Aemond had spoken of, and found that the water did not slow him or Sunfyre down. Instead it almost seemed to flow faster, the brook babbling as though to whisper encouragement in his ear and spur on their movements.

Aegon gripped the reins tighter as they crossed a broad clearing, and suddenly the trees started whispering to him, as the beggar had said. “Come closer…” They teased, their soft fronds stroking his hair softly as if in a lover’s embrace. Yet when he whipped around with his sword raised, they seemed to melt back into the darkness.

A little while later, Sunfyre suddenly stopped, halting his feet to the ground as though refusing to go any further. Aegon tied him to a tree stump and left him munching on a carrot, while he began to creep towards the house in the distance. The lights in the windows seemed to twinkle at him in invitation. The house was decorated in soft swirls of pastel icing, the door knocker a lacquered candy that looked as though it would freeze your tongue if you dared to lick it. Aegon had dared to lick many things in his lifetime, but wisely decided to draw the line here. He gulped, there really was a witch in his kingdom. He reached for the sword sheathed in his scabbard, but before he could; the door flew open.

The woman standing there in the doorway was possibly the most beautiful he had ever seen. And that was saying something, Aegon had bedded many a beautiful women in his time. But there seemed to be something unnatural about her beauty, her eyes glowed a little more vibrantly, her hair that flowed seemed to sway in the wind though no breeze blew. And shit, she smelled great. Aegon cursed himself mentally. Most women normally smelled good, but this one smelled like she had soaked in cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. The warmth radiating from her seemed to soak through Aegon’s clothes. Genuinely, he was starting to sweat.

“I-I’m sorry to disturb you at such a late hour.” Aegon spluttered, unsure of what was coming out of his mouth. Was he really apologising to a witch? The same witch whose door he had come to in order to rid her from these lands?

You smiled wolfishly, and was it his imagination or did your teeth seem a little sharper than most? You leaned against the doorframe, almost seductively. Aegon gulped, this really wasn’t going well for him. “Yes?” You questioned, an eyebrow raised in amusement. It wasn’t so often that such handsome men came to your door, you were used to the solitude of the woods you travelled through. Never stopping for long before the pitchforks and angry mob loomed over your peaceful existence.

A black cat rubbed against your ankles, purring loudly. This seemed to shake the beautiful stranger out of his stupor.

“W-well, I came here to ask you a question.” He again stammered, seeming to have lost his ability to talk to women. An ability he had once prided himself on, his slick tongue had made many women cry out in ecstasy but not in laughter as this one seemed to be struggling to hold back.

“You better come in then.” You smiled, and before he knew it, Aegon had walked into your house as he heard the door creaking to a close firmly behind him.

The house was surprisingly cosy, snug compared to his own apartments, yet warm and inviting nonetheless. The cat moved from its position around your ankles, and lept onto a soft chair by the fire. It began to lick itself, utterly bored with whatever the stranger had come to say.

“Tea?” You smiled bewitchingly, with those same strange teeth of yours. Aegon wondered what if would feel like for them to sink into his neck amidst the throes of passion. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts, but you viewed it as a rejection to your invitation and frowned. Shit, how did he make you stop doing that.

He opened his mouth as if to apologise, but you held out a pale, long finger as though to halt his speech. “Let me guess… you are the lord of these lands and have come to ask me to leave.” Aegon froze, it was almost as if, well you were a witch.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, I only move when the moon is waxing or waning. And tonight, there is no moon.”

“My subjects are scared of your presence.”

“Not everyone is so brave as to come see for themselves. But I am a peaceful witch.”

Aegon frowned, he had never heard of a benevolent witch before. But then again, so many stories of your kind lay shrouded in fear and confusion. Many men could not comprehend the idea of an immortal beauty who lived alone and kept to herself. What is strange is often feared, and what is beautiful is not always understood.

“Why don’t you stay for the night?” You questioned and his eyes suddenly caught on how your body was illuminated by the firelight. The glow of the embers illuminated your silhouette under the previously unremarkable black dress. The material seemed to be otherworldly, shimmering in the warm glow and looking soft to the touch.

“Well… The way back to the castle is far and I am not quite sure where I left my horse.” You grinned again, delighted that he was so open to suggestion. You would have fun later, if the way he was eyeing you up was any hint.

“I insist you sleep down here by the fire.” You pointed to a soft rug that suddenly seemed to materialise out of nowhere. Yawning, he suddenly found himself very tired and before he knew it, he was sound asleep by the roaring flames.

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Aegon woke up sweating fiercely, even though at some point during the night the fire had gone out. He’d never had a dream quite like that before. Long, sharp nails scratching and carving up his back. Pointed incisors breaking his soft skin and the sharp, dull ache they had left made his cock throb. He had had dreams like this before, normally in his teenage years as he worked out his frustrations with a slick palm behind a locked door. But never had he woken with his dick throbbing this violently, it was hard and sore to the touch and he whimpered pathetically.

You were in his lap, tits almost smacking his face as you moaned desperately. He caught hold of your nipples in his mouth and nipped them sharply. If the way you were carving up his back with your fingernails was any indication, you liked a little bit of pain. His leaking cock was rubbing pitifully against your slick folds as you rocked against his length softly. The pace was torturous, yet he was out of breath. He couldn’t even remember his own name, where he was. Until you started gasping his name as you hit your peak, “Aeg-Aegon! Please don’t, d-don’t stop!”

“Aegon?” A voice broke into his dreams, and he furiously rushed to cover his aching cock with a soft blanket.

“I don’t remember ever telling you my name.”

You smiled, in a way that seemed to again mimic a predator eyeing up their next meal. “It was quite obvious, I’m afraid. The royal steed outside my cottage, your crest of armour and the insufferable air that only men in power have. Not to mention the smell.”

“The smell?” Aegon asked indignantly. “I will have you know I bathe at least thrice a week!”

You laughed, a sound that sent shivers across his skin. “Not like that. It’s more of a scent, royalty always tastes a little bit sweeter.”

He froze, seeming as if only to remember you were a witch. Sex dreams aside, this was very bad business.

“Are you going to eat me?” He choked out, at the words his prick seemed to pulse weakly at the thought of him eating you, or your cunt that is. Stupid cock, he moaned internally, I can never keep it in my pants even when I’m in mortal danger!

You laughed, “Is that what you think we do?”

“Well, the men you take never seem to come home.”

“Did you ever think they didn’t want to? I’m not keeping you here, you are welcome to leave at any time.” An elegant finger pointed at the front door. As it flew open, Aegon shivered, but not because of the cold air. Was he scared? He didn’t think so. In fact he was rather aroused.

His gaze was drawn to your blood-red lips, the way your skin seemed to glow brighter than the early morning sun, your breasts high and firm inside your sheer gown. It had never occurred to him that all those heroes in his childhood stories had found something better than killing the witch.

You noticed his gaze, and smiled somewhat shyly. The door closed, jolting Aegon from his blatant ogling. “You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like. But I have a few things I need done around the house.”

That was how Aegon Targaryen, ruler of the seven realms, found himself sweating in an overgrown garden. The sun was beating down, hot and relentless, freckles bloomed across his shirtless, pale skin as he mopped his brow. He wasn’t used to hard labour, or really any labour. But it was strangely nice, doing something for someone else.

“Thirsty?” He turned, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sight of you. Your hair flowed down your back and again seemed to catch in an imaginary breeze. You were barefoot, and despite the midday sun, not a drop of sweat hung from your smooth skin. He took the glass you offered, and swallowed down the liquid greedily. In his effort to quench his thirst, he had not bothered to ask what it was. It was sweeter than water, but not as heady as wine. He drained the cup easily, drops falling from his mouth and landing on his heaving chest. Your eyes traced the droplet, and you found your fingers tracing its path down his sternum. Down his pale, white abdomen to the thatch of soft blond hair that trailed down below his breeches. He groaned, as though he couldn’t help himself, watching those wicked incisors poke into your plump lower lip as you smiled.

“M-my lady.” He choked out as your fingers halted their path. You grinned wickedly, “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m not anyone’s lady.”

The kiss was sudden and bracing, it wasn’t like any Aegon had felt before. It was like his lips were on fire and he couldn’t get enough of the way your tongue snaked into his mouth. He deepened the kiss, crushing the hand in between you as he pulled you against his body.

“Is this alright?” He questioned, unsure if he was reading the situation correctly. You laughed, “I wouldn’t have sent those dreams if I didn’t want you.” His eyes widened and before he knew it, your dress had vanished. His eyes clung to every inch of you, luminous in the sun, sparkling almost.

Before he knew it, he was on his knees. And he knew it wasn’t witchcraft that had done it, but this need to have you, the earth soft below both of your bodies. His soft hands bracketed your thighs, forcing them apart slowly as his fingers traced his way up your dripping cunt. You groaned, hands wrapping in his hair, pulling softly as though he were a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings. Aegon smiled mischievously, he wanted to be the one in control. And from the second his fingers breached your cunt, he knew that you were both equally done for. The high-pitched cry you let out made his cock throb, and he was hyper aware of the fabric preventing his length from finding release against you. He pulled you down to the ground softly, as you smiled down at him. Your head blocked out the sun, and Aegon knew in that moment that he no longer needed its light. Not when he felt the warmth of your magically slick hand wrapping around his length.

He froze, his fingers halting his attack on your clit. You didn’t like that. You took his hand off his cock and whispered into his ear, “Make me cum first and then we’ll see if you deserve what comes next.” He groaned, head falling into your shoulder as fingernails scraped his back teasingly. He ate you out like a man starved, his tingue licking and kissing your cunt as if it were your lips. He crooked a finger inside you, at an angle that made your eyes roll back into your head. He certainly was a talented king. He groaned, furious red length smacking against your thighs as he hissed in agony. You took pity on him and laid him down softly, his eyes looked up at you questioningly as you wrapped those red lips around his cock. Aegon was now incapable of thought. But he saw the way your ass shook as you sucked up and down his length and pulled you over to him. You squealed around his dick as he positioned you so that you were sitting on his face. You moaned around his length again, the vibrations driving him crazy as he doubled down on his efforts to suck on your clit. He was fiercely competitive, you’d be the one coming first or he just might die.

You took what couldn’t fit in your mouth in your wrist and pumped him slickly. He groaned into your cunt and you had a wicked idea. You were a witch after all. Coating your fingers in his copious pre-cum, you traced down his balls until you found his tight entrance. “Is this okay?”, Aegon moaned into your folds in confirmation as your finger breached the tight ring of muscle. The reaction was instant as Aegon pulsed, hot and heavy in your mouth. He pulled his mouth from your cunt, gasping out as he released into your mouth. You kept your lips positioned around his cock, sucking him dry as he squirmed against you. Sharp nails piercing his thighs and forcing him to remain still, as he babbled incoherently. He lay there, panting on the soft earth for a minute. Before reaching for you and pulling you down beside him.

His fingers found your cunt again, and his thumb brushed teasingly against his clit as he again began pumping his fingers inside you. You both panted into each other’s mouths, his eyes soft with lust and sated as he traced his finger down your face and sweetly kissed your forehead. You bit down fiercely into his pale shoulder as you started to feel your release growing. You rocked against his fingers as he continued to hold you gently, through your orgasm and the resulting tremors that your cunt experienced as his fingers stayed buried inside you.

You lay next to him softly, aware that he would probably pull on his clothes at any moment and start his journey back home. Your heart ached a little bit, you hadn’t let a man into your home for many decades. You liked this one. He was soft and sweet. But in a way that made you want to keep him, let colour fill those pale cheeks and gaunt eyes.

“Would it be alright with you,” the king started, stopping hesitantly. “If I were to stay here for a while longer?” You grinned, your heart filling with hope and the soft promise of something starting anew as you tackled him back to the ground and kissed him fiercely.

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Author’s Note: Ah I hope you enjoyed! I quite like witchy reader, Aegon deserves to live his best cottage core life.

#aegon ii targaryen #hotd smut #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd fanfic

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mermaidgirl30 · 2 months

Text

✨Always In My Heart✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

A/N: I lost my best fur baby today. October would’ve been 3 years since I adopted him. From a stray on the streets to a spoiled house cat. He battled so much. From FIV+ to broken teeth to diabetes and then to cancer. He was the best kitty ever and was my very own first cat, so he was extra special. I wrote a little one-shot to try to express how hard this loss is for me and to try to cope. I miss you, little Biscuit. Mama loves you 🥹 This is for everyone who’s ever felt the loss of losing a beloved pet.

Summary: Losing a pet is never easy, but you’re not alone because Joel is right there with you, keeping you afloat.

Word Count: 1.2k

Tags: Grief, love, soft Joel, losing a pet, angst with comfort, no use y/n, no outbreak au

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The misty rain pelts on your drenched skin, and you’re cold. You’re so very cold. You can feel the chill burrowing down to your shaking, fragile bones like they may break at any moment.

Thunder booms through the gloomy sky, lightning flashes in the far distance, and you swear you can hear the faint cry of a lost soul deep in the woods. Can almost hear your favorite meowing coming from the covered grave in front of you…

The grey clouds completely cover the sun, the pattering rain seems to mourn just like the cold tears that stain your cheeks. You feel lost, broken, just like your heart is. Completely shattered.

The crunching noise of the shovel meeting the earth is almost too much for you to handle. This is too much. On your knees, fingers curling in the hollow dirt, your jeans ruined from the muddy ground. And you can’t look up, can barely open your swollen eyes as you mourn the loss of your favorite cat who had made you so very happy.

He was your entire world.

You miss him so much. The feel of his long, soft fur. He felt like velvet, smelled like a warm summer’s day, and you miss the way he’d curl up on your shoulder at night, purring with affection and love. You miss his little meows, the ones that would echo down the long hallway. It always was your favorite thing to wake up to.

But now he’s gone. Faded into the afterlife when the cancer became too much. He was a fighter, the strongest fighter you’ve ever known. But now he’s just a precious memory.

And it hurts. God, it hurts.

Your tears blur your vision, your face buried in your dirt covered palms, fighting the bitter sting of losing your best fur baby. You only had him a few short years. It wasn’t enough time. And now he’s gone…

The sobs escape your lips, and you’re now a blundering mess on the ground, asking God to just give you one more day. One more day of long cuddles and top of the head kisses. And his slow blinks. The ones he’d give you every single time you told him how much you loved him.

You just want him back, but life isn’t fair, and pets don’t get to stay nearly as long as you’d like. Life is cruel, and you wouldn’t wish this awful pain on your worst enemy.

You shrink against your drenched raincoat, not even caring that your hair is tangled and dripping down your back. You don’t much care for anything right now; all you can feel is the large hole that’s gaping in your broken heart.

The rain continues to pelt down on your shoulders, your body shaking like you’re stranded in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. The frigid waters are dragging you under, and they’re about to swallow you whole.

Just when you think the dark depths will win, strong arms encircle your back and envelop you into a warmness that soothes the screaming voices in your head.

“Hey. Easy now, sweetheart. Easy.” His thick, deep drawl shrouds you in comfort while big teardrops fall against his dark green flannel. He cradles the back of your head with one hand, the other gently drawing soothing circles down the middle of your back.

“I… I didn’t get enough time, Joel. It wasn’t enough. I should’ve done more. He could’ve had more days. I didn’t…”

“Shhhh. S’alright, babygirl. You did more than enough. You gave him the best life he could’ve had. Do you know how lucky he was to find you? You were the best cat mama I’ve ever seen. You loved him so much, and he loved you very much,” he coos, pulling you closer to where you can smell his woodsy cologne and a hint of tobacco wafting off his tongue.

He feels like home. He is home.

“You really think so?” you sputter out, tears breaking over your lash line and falling onto his soft button-up shirt.

“Look at me,” he says gently, his hand cupping your chin and tilting your face up to look into his soft brown eyes. Eyes that make more tears spill over the edge. He catches them, wiping them off with the pads of his thumbs and softly traces them down your cheeks until you feel warmth flood your insides. “You’re such a brave girl, my love. So very brave. And you were nothin’ but loving with that cat. Even made me fall in love with him, sweetheart.”

You giggle, your breath shaky and eyes misty. Even when you’re sad, Joel Miller can make the rainy days turn to blue skies. “He loved you, Joel. He followed you everywhere you went in the house. Especially in the mornings when you made your coffee.”

He laughs and shakes his head, his brown eyes a little teary from the memories. “Yeah, he sure did. And I’m gonna miss him a lot.”

“Me too,” you squeak out quietly, gripping onto him like he’s your lifeline.

He leans forward and traces his plush lips against your forehead, leaving you breathless with the semblance of comfort he leaves on your skin. He’s like a blanket of warmth, and he’s just saturated you in love.

When he pulls back to look at you, he pushes a wet strand of hair behind the shell of your ear and lingers there on your cheek, sparks radiating through his touch. “I love you, sweet girl. And I know this hurts. It hurts like hell, but you’re so strong and brave. You’ll get through this. It’s gonna take time, but I’m right here to help you through it. You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but you will be. And I’ll be here through it all with you.”

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and then you’re crashing into him, throwing your arms around his broad back as you sniffle into the soft material. “Thank you, Joel. For being here for me. For helping me lay him to rest in our backyard, for loving him as much as you love me.”

His fingertips brush your skin, and then your head tilts back automatically, knowing what that touch means. He leans in and places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips, the kind you want to melt in, one that tastes like honey and longing and pure comfort. When he breaks the kiss, he places another on the top of your head and pulls you flush to his chest, strong arms enveloping you once more. And it feels like peace, a place you can rest and bring life back inside your worn body.

Joel brings you to life time and time again. And this time is no different.

“‘Course, sweet girl. I’ve got ya, always. I love you,” he whispers, blanketing you in love that only Joel can make you feel.

Suddenly, you know you’ll be okay. It might hurt for a bit, but Joel will always be here. Even on your worst days, he keeps showing you that he’ll never leave you struggling. He’ll be here for it all, loving you till the end.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pet grief #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller fic #joel x female reader #joel the last of us #no outbreak au #no use of y/n #joel miller fan fiction #angst with comfort

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sammy-is-not-smiley · 2 years

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steve x fem!reader fic please!! soulmates to lovers but it's initially one-sided on reader's end. lots of angst please <33

Let It Hurt (Pt 1)

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Steve has been your best friend for years despite his douchery in early high school. You would tell him anything... well, anything except for the fact that you've been feeling his physical pain since elementary school. The way he finds out is less than ideal.

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: Soulmate au (kinda), language, no use of (y/n), depictions of severe pain, injuries mentioned, crying, passing out/fainting, angst, set in season 3, soulmates to lovers, friends to lovers, hurt/no comfort (yet), I think that's all??

A/N: I really love this request, the only issue was I've never written or read a soulmates fanfiction before 😅 But that didn't stop me cuz I instantly had an idea for it and ran with it. It's gonna be a 2 parter too! I really hope you still enjoy. Thanks so much for reading and requesting. <3

Part 2: Right Here!

Steve Harrington hadn't always been a dick. In fact the mask he wore through a majority of high school was just that: A mask. One that he used to blend in.

From an early age, you two gravitated to one another. It all started one day in elementary school. You had managed to get a soccer ball stuck in a tree while playing kickball. Being scared of heights, you knew you wouldn't be climbing up to get it. That didn't keep you from staring up at it though, trying your hardest to get the ball to fall with your mind. Steve walked up next to you to see what you were looking at. When he caught sight of it, he didn't hesitate to begin climbing the tree, as if that had simply been routine for him. In awe, you watched him scale through the branches, throw your ball down next to you, and climb back down.

You picked up the ball and just stared at him then, surprised at the ease he managed the task with.

He dusted off his pants, looked at you, gestured to the ball, and asked "You wanna be on the same team?"

From then on, you were inseparable. It didn't take long before you discovered something new. Steve took a fall while running bases one day, earning a nasty scrape on his knee in the process. As he sat in the dirt and held it, holding back tears, you were doing the same on the other side of the field, clutching a knee that bore no injury. Yet somehow, you could feel the pain. You could feel his pain.

Through your life after that event, you would get random strong bouts of pain that you knew weren't yours, all in random places. As a kid it was mostly just things like your knees or elbows, like you skinned them, always when Steve skinned them. In the summer you would sometimes feel a sunburn that never turned red, only for Steve to return from a trip with a sunburn. In your mind, all the evidence wasn't evidence enough, at least not to tell anyone. You tried your best not to look in pain in front of anyone when it happened, and you got pretty good at it. Eventually it became the norm for you to hide it, and you didn't plan on changing that. You were worried Steve would react badly to it somehow if you told him, or call you crazy and ditch you. So it stayed your little secret.

You and Steve lived on through the school years, friendship staying relatively the same.

It wasn't until freshman year you sensed a shift in him. Something bitter to the taste that didn't belong, a sprinkle of salt where there used to be sugar. That salt was Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins. Somehow they wormed their way in, pushing you out with glares. Steve only hung out with them when he wasn't hanging out with you, which slowly became less and less. He wasn't getting into any trouble, he just became a gigantic jerk to anyone Tommy deemed worthy of being a jerk to. Eventually Steve was seen as the lead in their escapades, 'King Steve' as it were, but you knew the truth. Steve was just the limp head that Tommy turned in one direction or the other. By tenth grade, you barely spoke to him anymore… and you missed him.

In 1983, one of the largest pains happened - 'attacks' is what you began calling them after this because, honestly, that's what it felt like. It felt like Steve had been attacked, beaten to a pulp. For days after this one, your lip, nose, and especially your upper brow ached. You were sure the skin had been broken somehow, however it remained an invisible ghost. After it happened, you tried calling him. However, he never picked up.

In school, you saw him with a scabbed over face… and he looked miserable. But, as much as it hurt, you assumed he didn't need you anymore. After all, he had a smart and pretty Nancy Wheeler now. Surely he had forgotten about you and didn't want your help. You don't know how many nights you cried over that. How many times you thought to try and call him again. Instead, you waited.

It was a long while before you felt pain even close to that again. On a cold Monday night in November of '84, it happened again, but even worse than the year prior. Another attack.

It was the middle of the night, awaking you from a normal slumber. When you first felt it, it was only a couple hits. When it subsided, you took a breath, slightly annoyed at Steve for getting into a fight this late, and got up to get a pain killer to hopefully numb the ghost pain. From what you could tell after past experiences, it helped. As you rounded your bed for the bathroom, your knuckles bursted with pain and made you stop and grasp at them. Steve must have thrown a punch and hit his target. You didn't have much time to process that thought before an onslaught of attacks bombarded you. Harder and harder and harder, one after the next you could feel the swings and blows. Every punch to the face and gut, explosion after explosion of searing pain rattled your skull. You couldn't breathe, couldn't even cry out for help. Eventually you became too dizzy to stand and found yourself collapsing to your carpet in a whirlwind of invisible strikes to your head and face.

That night, you passed out on your bedroom floor. When you awoke in the same spot, you were greeted with an angry agony you had never felt the likes of before. Every heartbeat made your sight shift, your eyes strained and ached, your nose felt as though it were broken, and your mid section felt deeply bruised. You were stuck in bed for days afterwards, sensitive to any kind of loud noise or light. You were certain Steve had managed to get a concussion, however you were too miserable yourself to try and pursue him. Headaches became your best friend, and it wasn't a kind one.

When you went back to school, you were met with Steve looking literally like death. From a safe distance, you could see that both his eyes were blackened, his lip looked busted and healing, and he had a few scratches over his forehead. Rumors circled around you that Steve and the new kid, Billy, had gone at it a week prior, and Steve was obviously the loser in the fight.

You found yourself staring at him more than you probably had in the past year. You had no intention of speaking to him, but you couldn't avert your eyes. Your head still throbbed with his and you couldn't deny that you felt pity for him. Once or twice he happened to catch you staring, sharing a moment before you eventually turned away sadly. That happened a few times in fact, so you should have expected him to be at your doorstep not long after.

He held a single flower, your favorite kind, and your favorite candy. His bruised, purple face practically pouted at you as he rambled on an apology, saying he understood if you didn't want to be his friend again, that he was a douche for no reason and he doesn't deserve much, but he wanted to try again and make it up to you. The longer you let him ramble, the harder he was on himself, until finally you leapt forward and embraced him.

"I knew it wasn't you," You spoke into his shoulder. "I was just waiting until you figured that out too."

After many long talks about the time lost and the mistakes made, you both managed to pick up where you had started. You sat with him at lunch again like old times. Not many people did anymore. You gave him some tips on how to better heal his scarring, you came to watch him play basketball, and you offered him pain killers when you could feel one of his head aches coming on. You noticed he tended to get more of those since the fight with Billy. He always looked so shocked when you offered, but you made the excuse saying you had a headache and wanted to offer while you had the pills out. It seemed to appease him enough, and he never dug any further about it.

It didn't take long for you to realize you liked being around him… like, really liked it. After some thought, you realized you always had. And it wasn't like it was hard to find time to be with him. Other than Dustin Henderson, you seemed to be his only close friend again. It got to the point where by spring of the next year, you were sleeping over at his house quite often. You never slept in the same bed, but you'd be lying if you said you hadn't wanted to ask to.

One day he picked you up for one of the last days before graduation with a sour look on his face. His greeting was deadpan as you got in his passenger seat.

You snickered at him as you pulled your seat belt on. "What's up with you, grumpy?"

"Parents, that's what's up," He grumbled, backing out of your driveway. The way he put his hand on the back of your headrest made you stare for a moment.

Damn him.

"What they do this time?"

"Dads not letting me work for him. And he won't pay for college either."

Your brow came together in confusion. "Wait, what? Why? I thought that's been the plan all these years. You graduate and then help him or go to school."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too," He sighed, "But the old man's making me go out and work to get a job. Said he doesn't want to hand me everything and that I need to learn respect and responsibility, blah blah blah…"

Well at least he didn't hit you this time, you thought to yourself. Unfortunately, you always knew when his dad hit him… Every single time. His favorite technique was to slap Steve square in the face, hard. No one else did that. No one else even knew. Steve didn't even know you knew.

You tilted your head as you thought. "Well… What if you tried to work with me? At the new mall this summer? I'm pretty sure I have a solid 'in' at the ice cream place."

Steve scoffed, half smiling. "An ice cream shop?"

"Oh come on, it's not the worst place. It will at least give you something to put on a resume. Just a summer job. Ya know, work your way up, get experience or whatever."

"I guess…" He thought, then brought his hand up and pointed at you. "But only if you work there too."

"Aw, what, would you miss me working somewhere else? Need me to hold your hand at your first job?"

He rolled his eyes, finally smiling for the first time that morning. "You wish. No, see, the plan is to make you talk to all the bitchy 40 year old moms while I eat free strawberry ice cream in the back all day."

Your brow perked up. "Strawberry ice cream? Strawberry? When did that become your favorite?"

He shrugged. "Since, like, forever….. Don't look at me like that, it has clear supremacy over the other flavors."

The rest of the ride to school that morning was spent in a useless debate over ice cream flavors and how you had managed to go so long not knowing his favorite. You insisted on gaslighting him that strawberry had never been his favorite.

Later that month, right after the end of the school year, you both were locked in to work at Scoops Ahoy together.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

"Another 'you suck', Harrington. What a surprise," Robin teased flatly from the back room, a squeaky tally added to the many others accumulated on the whiteboard that day.

You smirked, which was hidden from Steve behind you as you refilled the banana and strawberry slices for that afternoon.

Steve groaned and slapped his hat down on the counter next to you. "What am I doing wrong?" When he was answered with only your chuckles he shook his head. "No, really, what am I doing wrong? There's gotta be something I could change and you guys just aren't telling me."

You and Robin stole a glance at each other before snorting and continuing to laugh.

"Look buddy," You offered, turning to him. "I'm going to put this in the nicest way possible."

Steve raised his brow and stood straight in attention.

"You're coming off super desperate."

His posture sagged again and he rolled his eyes. "Desperate, okay… Well how do I not come off as desperate?"

"Don't BE desperate, dummy," Robin laughed.

"I'm not actually desperate!"

"Yes you are," You and Robin chimed at the same time.

You grabbed your trash from the counter and looked at the girl in front of you, shaking your head with a half smile. "He asks us for help and then ignores us." You say as you push past Steve to get to the back.

She shrugged. "The life of every woman talking to a man."

"Oh, come on," Steve interjects, following you at the heel, "What makes you the expert at flirting with girls anyway?"

"I don't know, cause I am one?" You call over your shoulder, tossing your trash and gloves in the bin before walking over and sitting down at the table.

"Fine," He mutters, striding over to you and leaning on the table to loom extremely close over you. You could smell his cologne and the way his hot breath brushed your forehead. "How should I flirt then, Miss Professional?"

Like that, you think to yourself, butterflies suddenly having a party in your stomach. The smug look on his face was one you'd seen many times before, the one he wore when he tried to get under your skin… The one he wore when he knew he would.

Immediately you remembered Robin's presence not 10 feet next to you. You quickly glanced at her, saw that she was watching, and in a panic you kicked Steve in the shin. Just as immediately, you regretted that decision as you felt an affliction on your own shin.

Steve let out a yelp as he stumbled and squat down to hold his leg. Robin laughed while you pulled your own leg up into the chair, holding it as if it were casual and not because you were doctoring pain as well.

"Does that count as another 'you suck'?" Robin asks joyfully through giggles. You can't help but smile back at her.

"I'll let you judge it," You reply, pretending to be neutral. In reality, the butterflies hadn't calmed down in your tummy and you knew you'd be thinking about that interaction for the rest of the night.

Damn him.

Robin whirled around to put yet another tally under 'you suck'. When she did you looked at Steve to see him standing in recovery shaking his pained leg as he did so.

"Screw you guys, I'm going on break," He announced. Before he walked through the door, though, you caught him glancing back at you, a boyish glint in his eye.

No really, damn him.

As soon as he was gone, Robin whirled back around to you and squinted her eyes. "I saw that, you know."

Shin still aching, you rubbed it mindlessly. "Saw what?"

She rolled her eyes and walked closer, leaning down with her palms on the table. "That split second look on your face that said 'Whatever you want, Stevie!'" She mimicked in a high pitched mockery. "It was pretty gross."

"Woah, okay," You croaked, trying to ignore her knowing smirk, "That's- That's not what happened, okay?"

"Oh please, your cheeks are still as red as those strawberries," She tutted. "Not the first time that's happened either, you know. I've seen you blush plenty because of him."

All you could do is fight the heat on your face and shake your head in disbelief, trying to play it off as not a big deal.

But it was a big deal.

Nobody knew of your rather new acknowledgement of your crush on Steve. And of all the people you'd want knowing about your secret crush, Robin was VERY low on the list. Sure, in the short time working with her she had become a pretty nice work friend. You even hung out with her and Steve a few times after work every once in a while. But in the short time you'd gotten to know her, you learned one thing for sure: She was absolutely ass at keeping secrets.

Alas, that thought slipped your mind before what you said next.

"Rob, just drop it, it's not like I'd have a chance anyway," You muttered under your breath, standing from your seat to go back out to the front.

Your co-worker cut you off, jumping between you and the door. "Hold on, what? You actually do-....." You gave her a warning with your eyes. "Oh, I knew it!"

"Shut up, shut up," You whisper yelled, now realizing your mistake. "Look, just act like I said nothing, okay? He can't know- He shouldn't know."

Robin snaked her head back in shock. "You kidding me? Why? You see how badly he wants a date, right?"

"You see the kinds of girls he asks on dates, right?" You countered.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but none of them are remotely interested. He's going for all the wrong girls. You on the other hand-"

"Rob, Rob, listen," You hands grabbed hers in a hopeful grasp, "I need you to do everything in your power to keep this all to yourself, okay? He's my closest friend and I don't want anything screwing that up right now."

Robin could see the desperation in your eyes and she sighed, a small pout on her lips. "That's what you really want?"

You nodded fervently, hoping to wrap up this conversation before Steve returned.

She sighed again, this time overdramatically, and stomped her foot on the ground like a child. "Fine. But I'm making a new tally board for you. It'll just be on a piece of paper in my pocket." She smiled proudly.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

Working at Scoops with Steve was the worst possible thing you could have done. For one, you had to stand there every day and watch him flirt with every girl in the vicinity. Every girl except you, that is. Unfortunately, your feelings had done nothing but grow, making each shift with Steve heaven and hell at the same time. You didn't think it could get any worse.

And then it did.

Because now you were trapped under the mall in a secret Russian base, tied up and locked in a room with Robin.

Yeah, working at Scoops was a mistake.

"Why did they separate us?" You asked, voice trembling as you stared at the locked metal door in front of you. "Why would they need Steve?"

Robin looked up from trying to chew through her bindings on her wrist, sweat shining on her forehead. "I don't… I don't know, maybe to sort this out?"

You turned to her, a hopeless manner about you as you lifted your own bound wrists. "This doesn't look like harmless sorting out, Rob."

"We can at least hope, right? I mean… I mean Steve's charismatic or whatever, he can tell them that us getting here was a mistake and that we just work at the mall and… Yeah, he can do that. He's good at talking, I mean he talks all the time. They'll just…. just take us back to the surface and-" Robin rambled, pacing circles around you like a toy car on a full battery.

"I just don't have a good feeling about thi-" You were cut off by an invisible punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you and causing you to double over slightly.

Shit.

Robin was immediately at your side. "Woah, hey, hey, what's wrong?... It's okay. It's okay we'll get out of here-" She continued on, her panicked voice becoming like white noise in the background.

Another searing pain, this time square on the nose, then again in the gut. You let out a groan, both in pain and realization.

What the hell were they doing to Steve?

You inhaled carefully, putting your bound hands up to your face in agony.

"Shit, please, tell me what's wrong?" Robin's worried voice faded back in as she grasped at one of your shoulders.

You shook your head as you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling another blow to the face. "Steve," You choked out, tears brimming your eyes.

"What about Steve?"

You looked up to her in terror. "They're hurting him- agh!" Another punch, this one you felt deep in your ribs and made your legs give out, falling to the floor.

Robin followed, kneeling next to you. "How do you know that? What's going on?"

You panted, trying not to wheeze as it became painful to breathe properly. Another punch, right in the eye socket pushed a whimper out of you as the tears started to fall.

"Does this have to do with that weird portal thing or something?"

You shook your head helplessly, knowing just as much about that weird experiment as she did. Somehow Steve and Dustin knew about it, but that fact was far in the back of your mind now.

Another hit to the already bruised nose exploded over your face, making you struggle to hold in an audible cry.

Robin was now also on the brink of tears. "Please, please, give me something, I don't know what to do!"

With all your will you looked up at her to answer in shallow breaths. "I can feel- feel it. They're torturing him."

She put her hand up to your face scrunched up in pain. "How do you know?"

"I've always-... augh," You groaned again, letting your head drop out of her grasp as you tried controlling your reactions. It was no use. Your head was beginning to hurt as a whole. Eventually you laid down on the cold floor, helpless to any attack Steve was receiving in the other room. Helpless to stop it.

In your state, Robin didn't dare ask any more questions. Things were more complicated than she realized. Although she didn't fully understand, she knew that whatever was happening was bad. Very bad. And she was as helpless to stop it as you.

The time went by so slowly, and the punches never stopped. They kept hitting the same spots over and over and over again. If anything, they got harder and more frequent. One after the next. Occasionally you were given a break, but those breaks were experienced in tense anticipation for the inevitable next hit.

The tears were uncontrollable, slowly soaking the concrete below you. Movement hurt. Breathing hurt. Being awake hurt. Steve hurt.

What if they killed him? Would you feel that too?

The thought only spurred on the flow of tears.

The entire time, Robin was knelt beside you, a hand on your arm stroking, attempting any way possible to comfort you through your obvious torment. Both of you sat in helplessness together.

Then, finally, your tense body went limp and your whimpers halted.

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fic #season 3 steve harrington #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington reader insert #stranger things reader insert

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shadowmaat · 9 days

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Shatterpoint Shuffle, pt. 2

Here's more of the Padawan Mace & Initiate Kenobi AU. Part 1 can be read here. Credit for the original idea once again goes to @bitter-chocolate-stars and @krazykupidspoems.

Padawan Mace Windu did not stomp down the corridors; he had far too much control for that. It wasn't that he was mad about his test score, no matter what others might say. His issue was with the fact that Master Radorm refused to accept two of the sources on his paper the Last Battle of Ruusan even though the Master of the Archives herself had found and approved them.

A small, muffled sob broke his concentration. He stopped, head canted as he listened. There were several sniffles, the quality giving the impression of a small, enclosed space.

"I don't care! I don't wanna see him!"

The voice was high-pitched but came out in a hiss, as if the speaker didn't want to be heard.

Expecting to see a pair of younger Padawans, perhaps, Mace stepped around the corner and regarded the empty hallway. There was an access panel of some kind near the floor, looking slightly off-kilter.

"Hello?" He took a step closer. "Does someone need help?"

Silence, broken by the sound of hitched breathing and smothered snuffles. Could two younglings even fit in that vent, or had one of them abandoned the other?

He considered his options, but really, what choice was there? Someone- and they had to be small, judging by the side of the panel- was hurting. Misery, shame, anger, and resentment hung thick in the air.

He'd be late to his next class, but that was fine. He sat, leaning back against the wall next to the panel.

"Perhaps I'll just stop here to meditate," he announced.

He closed his eyes, centering himself before stretching his senses in the Force. It twisted around him, spinning him in circles.

He clapped a hand over his mouth and reached into his pouch for one of the anti-nausea pills he always kept with him.

As it dissolved under his tongue, he took deep breaths, waiting for his stomach to settle. At least now he knew the likely identity of the person hiding in the vents.

He'd crossed paths with the human Initiate Obi-Wan Kenobi several times over the past few years. Part of that, he was sure, was due to his Master's machinations, but sometimes, like now, it happened more… organically.

Obi-Wan was still an absolute mess of shatterpoints, but he'd come to terms with the fact that it wasn't the boy's fault, it was simply how he was. As unsettling as he could be to look at directly (and even worse in the Force), he still shone with a clear warmth to Mace's senses. A warmth that had dimmed since their last encounter.

"It's strange that this hall isn't as bright as it should be," he said. "Almost as if there was someone very sad nearby."

The vent huffed.

"If only I had some way of finding who it was, I might be able to help. It is, after all, one of the duties of a Jedi to help those in need."

Another huff.

"I know what you're doing," Obi-Wan said.

The vent cover rattled and Mace helped set it aside and extracted a dusty, disheveled Obi-Wan Kenobi.

His eyes were red and tear tracks cut through the dirt on his face.

"I don't need your help," he continued with a sniff. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his Initiate tunic, smearing more dirt. "I'm sorry to have interrupted your day, Gen- Padawan Windu."

Prickly. Very prickly.

"It's a welcome interruption, if I'm honest," Mace said. "What about you? What brings you to this conveniently broken vent at this time of day?"

"It was already like that!" Obi-Wan snapped. His glare turned to one side and he rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I just needed to get away from people for a while."

He shifted, turning his back on whatever was in the hall that Mace couldn't see.

"I understand," he said. "People can be overwhelming even at the best of times, and when the Force has blessed you with a particular gift it can be even harder."

Obi-Wan gave him a narrow-eyed look. "A gift?"

"Sometimes gifts can feel like a burden," Mace said, rubbing his thumb against the base of his wrist. "Like psychometry. Or shatterpoints. Or whatever ability it is that you are developing."

Obi-Wan scoffed. "Or maybe I'm just crazy, like Bruck 'n them keep saying."

Shock, followed by an all-consuming rage that threatened to swallow him. Mace closed his eyes and breathed deep, acknowledging the anger while recognizing that it wasn't helpful in his current situation. Calmness replaced the rage, but it was the calm of purpose. Banking the fire, as his Master called it.

"No," he said, looking Obi-Wan in the eye. "You are not crazy. The Masters may not have found a reference for your ability yet, but it's clear the Force has gifted you with an important tool. You may not have learned how to use it yet, but-"

"Gossip seems like a stupid tool," Obi-Wan said, glaring at a point past Mace's shoulder.

"Gossip?" He resisted the urge to glance back. "Gossip can provide a lot of unexpected information. Spies in particular covet it."

"Whatever." Obi-Wan shrugged and began trying to straighten his hair and clothes. "Not like I'll ever get to use it anyway. Everyone says I'm too angry to be a real Jedi."

Mace's eyebrows shot up. "Everyone?"

Obi-Wan stood, shaking out the wrinkles in his tunic. "Master Tlah, my teachers, the training Masters, Bruck."

Mace joined him in standing, banking another wave of anger.

"If anger disqualified you from becoming a Jedi, I wouldn't be here right now," he said.

"What?" Obi-Wan stared at him, wide-eyed. "You? But you're perfect!"

It startled a laugh out of him.

"Please be sure to tell my Master that. She'll be very surprised." Waving off Obi-Wan's attempted defense of him, he continued. "No, but I'm serious. There's nothing wrong with having negative emotions, it's even healthy to experience them."

He checked over the Initiate, smoothing down a tuft of hair and unkinking the hood of his robe. The shatterpoints seem to have stilled. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"What's important is how you handle those emotions. Has anyone shown you how to channel your anger into something more productive?"

Obi-Wan shook his head, and Mace began to mentally compose a letter to the Master of the Crèches for their lack of oversight into the management and teaching of the Clans.

"Well, then. How would you feel about some private lessons from a lowly Padawan Learner about how to use your anger for good rather than letting it control you?"

"What, really?"

"Really."

The Force didn't express emotions, but if it did, he was sure it would be laughing at him. Cyslin would definitely laugh when he told her about it later. She could tease him as much as she liked, but this was less about picking a future Padawan and more about giving a struggling child the tools he should have already been given to help him.

"Yes! Thank you, Padawan Windu!"

Mace watched, distracted, as some of the shatterpoints around Obi-Wan actually healed. He'd never seen that before.

Then Obi-Wan grabbed his fingers to walk with him, and for half a heartbeat he thought he saw figures in the hallway with him, gone before he could fully register their presence. A possible future, an echo of a different present, or just a sign he needed more sleep? Whatever, as Obi-Wan liked to say. Best to focus on the now and leave the rest to be Future Mace's problem. He gave the boy's hand a companionable squeeze and set off for their first lesson.

#jedimindfic #shatterpoints AU #yeah the timeline is fucked up but it's fun

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utterlyazriel · 8 months

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whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: chapter twoooo i hope you guys enjoy!! and i take this as pure reason to knuckle down and finish chapter three tehe <3 let me know what u think!! a million mwahs to @strangerstilinski for being my beta too, even tho i yelled at u sorry :/

word count: 3.5k

synopsis: Azriel trains you and is particularly unforgivable about it. Together, you tackle tonics. Azriel ponders the unmistakable pull he feels and you try your best to keep your secret under wraps. fem!reader, mulan-esque au

— CHAPTER TWO :: ALLIES

The storm had calmed come morning. The Mother's Kiss slowed, quietened to only a whisper between the trees.

With it, the ache in your forearm too. The torn skin knitted up in the night, the heat from the fire like a balm on the wound.

But right now, the ache was threatening to make a reappearance.

You glare across the clearing at Azriel from your place in the mud, where he's just knocked you down. Your lungs burn. Your chest heaves as you try to catch you breath. The last hour has been spent on the same infuriating exercise.

The sludgy dirt, still sloppy from the melted snow of last night, drips off your arms as you scramble to get to your feet. Your wings shudder, flicking off the cold dirt with a shake.

"Try again." Azriel says, his voice calm.

He has no weapons on him today with the exception of one knife, strapped high on his thigh. Its obsidian hilt glimmers under the winter sun, rays catching the decorative jewel on the end. The rest of his weapons won't be far you're willing to bet. No Illyrian warrior lets themself be so unprepared.

Or perhaps he truly only needs one blade to hold his own in a fight.

A flicker of envy. You suppose you should feel little more gratuitous of his offer to train, especially considering he's such a mighty warrior.

But between the built-in wariness that comes with having a secret such as yours and the way he keeps throwing you in the mud... it's hard to dredge up some gratitude. You must have been at this for hours now.

Besides, a little part of you can't help but be skeptical of his offer. What exactly did he stand to gain from helping you?

"Why are you helping me again?"

You're panting lightly, bent over with your hands on your knees. Your bound chest twinges in pain. You weren't out of shape by any means — you were an Illyrian warrior after all. But getting knocked down endlessly was beginning to wear you down.

"And," You huff, waving a hand behind at the mud pile he keeps dumping you in. "How does this help?"

Azriel crosses his arms across his broad chest. In the daylight, his shadows shimmer and wisp about. You had been unsurprised to find he's even more devastatingly handsome in the light of daytime.

After his final words the evening before, Azriel had disappeared out into the storm without further explanation, his shadows swirling around him like falling snow.

Come morning, you rose before the sun and stepped outside, prepared to head to training—and there he was. Posed up against a tree, the obsidian-hilt blade his hands, sharpening it in long, precise strokes.

"Lord Mylind has been spoken to regarding your training." Azriel had said, in place of a greeting. "He knows of your expected absence whilst you train under me."

You hadn't said anything; half convinced there had been something coated on Brudam's knife that made you hallucinate the whole thing.

"Though," The male before you continued, finally sheathing his dagger away into the holster on his thigh with casual precision. "He tells me that your absences during training have come to be somewhat expected."

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

"Why do you think they hate me so much?" You asked, a bitter edge to your voice. It's a non-answer.

"Because you neglect your duties as a warrior?"

"Ha. Did Lord Mylind use that word?"

"It's true, one is not considered a warrior until one passes The Blood Rite." Azriel commented, his head tilting to the side just an inch. "You're a warrior-in-training. Provided you go to training, that is."

The combined mention of The Blood Rite and your missing time during training had you tensing up. Azriel had noticed, his eyes shifting to your stiff posture. He hadn’t commented — just stalked off into the snow, wings held high and proud, not checking to see if you bothered to follow.

Now, muscles aching and skin coated in mud-slick, you briefly wonder if you were regretting following him.

"You're smaller than usual Illyrians.” Azriel says. “They rely on brute strength but someone your size is better to rely on your agility— a skill they've been neglecting. No doubt to try to discourage you."

A flush of nervousness rushes through your system at his comment on your size. There's a good reason you don't size up against Illyrian males—being that you aren't one at all.

For good measure, you wipe your face haphazardly with a muddy hand. Any pesky scents that might give you away get smothered beneath it.

"And I believe in what you're doing," Azriel continues, his hazel eyes watching you closely. "It's honourable, no matter what Brudam and his brood say."

Something akin to pride blooms deep in your chest at his approval, at his belief in your mission. Having fought on your own for so many years had taken its toll— one you weren't aware of until it eased. Just a touch.

"Could've sworn you just enjoyed knocking me on my ass."

That glimmer of amusement is back in his hazel eyes. You swear his lips twitch as if holding back a smile.

"Try again." He says, in lieu of an answer. Not a denial.

He gestures to his neck again. Tan skin that hides beneath dark, scaly armor. This has been your task for the last hour — get your hand on his throat, through hand-to-hand combat.

Considering how you'd managed to stick him with a fork just yesterday, you had assumed it was easy territory.

You had been sorely, sorely wrong.

Straightening yourself up properly, you roll your shoulders back and flare your wings out a bit. Your boots sink into the mud an inch. You assess the distance between you and Azriel, eyes narrowed, and try to put together each piece of advice he's given you in the last hours.

Plant your feet when you're striking.

Stay on your toes if you're advancing.

Use your environment to your advantage.

Punch through, not just at.

Your height is as much an advantage as it is a disadvantage.

Some of it was nothing more than a reiteration of your training in camp. And yet, when delivered from Azriel, under his focused gaze, it seems easier to absorb. It holds a different meaning.

This time as you survey your approach a thousand other details whisper in your ear.

The rustle of the trees, the whirl of the wind, the stance he sinks into like second nature.

If you can't overpower him, how can you get a hand on his neck?

Your boots sink deeper into the mud and you tense, your wings held taut and high behind you as you ready yourself to pounce.

The wind picks up, a whistle in the air, and you can see, even from afar, how the swirling of his shadows perk up — as if listening for any whispers in it.

Time to strike.

You burst forward and stay low this time, letting your knees take the brunt of your weight. Instead of trying to get past him, you need to bring his neck down to your level. A half-baked plan scrambles together.

Feigning moves against a proficient warrior like him is nearly laughable and his thick forearm moves to parry your punch as quickly as you form it. Good. It's what you're relying on.

You pivot your energy and focus it on kicking out his bent knee— and you catch him enough by surprise that he stumbles back a step. He doesn’t fall though.

You grit your teeth and know you have about half a second before he’s going to have you dodging punches and landing back in the mud. You keep pressing forward.

Skin meets leather as you land a sharp snap against his shoulder, your knuckles stinging deliciously but he deftly blocks your next blow. And the next, and the next.

Then you’re hitting more of his hands than you are anywhere else.

Frustrated, you snarl, increasing your speed and letting him focus on your incoming punches so he doesn’t see it when you send a kick into his groin.

His defense drops razor fast— both his scarred hands wrapping around your calf and capturing it between his legs, stopping it 2 inches from making contact.

Your eyes dart up to his face, nearly grinning at the incredulous look he gives you.

It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for — and something gleeful in you sings when you shoot your hand up faster than both his can move. The palm of your hand connects with the skin of his neck.

“Aha!” You shout, unable to help yourself.

You’re panting, out of breath from the fast combat and yet, still savouring the victory. A foreign glimmer of admiration and approval flashes deep in your chest. It's gone as quick as it appears.

Azriel doesn’t waste a second to sweep your feet out from beneath you.

Unprepared, you crumple and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. A groan rumbles in your chest. Mud squishes up against your cheek, sullying it.

For a moment, you just lay there and groan in pain.

You're pretty sure every single muscle in your body aches as you gather your strength and push yourself up from the mud, elbows quivering. If you thought regular training was rigorous, this has been brutal.

True, there's less hitting you while you're down which you were more than accustomed to — only once have you thought Azriel might give you a kick while you were defenseless and too tired to cover your face.

But instead, he had surprised you and offered a hand. You had hesitated before taking it.

And as you're finding out, when you're spending less time worrying about Illyrians unfairly targeting you due to your size, you're a hell of a lot better fighter.

With a much better opponent though.

You win some, you lose some.

"Anyone ever call you a prick before?" You seethe quietly; because you had done the task he wanted you to do and he'd still sent you back on your ass. You spit into the mud and wipe your mouth.

"Definitely." Azriel answers. Again, there's that hint of amusement in his voice.

You huff and push up to rest back on your heels, planting your hands on your knees and glaring up at him. The muck on your wings makes you shiver, sludgy trails of mud sliding off them unpleasantly. You're well used to the cold.

"Good." You huff. "Prick."

Azriel smiles at that, not bothering to hide it. You find yourself smiling back at him, an out-of-breath laugh making your shoulders shake and your head bow. The muscles in your stomach hurt as they move.

When you look back up at him, he's offering his hand again.

You take it, this time without hesitation.

—

The day is for training. Azriel, the mentor. You, the student.

The night is for learning. You're both students here.

The second part of his offer that you clearly hadn't expected, given your wide-eyed look when he turned up at your door on that first evening, bringing all manners of plants needed to make healing tonics. Things you hadn't been able to find or afford on your own.

It had been then, he thinks, that you realised how serious he was about helping you. That his offer extended beyond training you physically.

"Is there really a difference between cutting and slicing?" Azriel asks as he peers down at the table beneath him.

In his marred hands is a root vegetable, something that flowered prettily— nice purple skin with a golden centre. He frowns down at it, his gaze shifting slowly from the vegetable to the knife in his hand.

It’s strange, he thinks. Strange to hold a knife and have it not be for violence.

"There is a difference," Your reply floats across from the other side of the room.

Nearly a week he's been here. Azriel had been pushing you more each day he was here, brutal one-on-one training to hone your skills.

It’s working; already he can see the certainty of your stance, your increased agility, the hunter's glint in your eyes. The clumsiness of the first day of training has already been worn away. Beneath it, the Illyrian warrior emerges.

He's exhausting you, he knows. Working you twice as hard to try to fill every gap in your training that seems to be missed. Finding every weak point left by the Lords of this camp, to disadvantage you no doubt, and training it up.

But if you’re tired from it, you don’t complain.

Azriel lifts his head to look at you properly, his eyes watching your hands as you strip leaves off one of the plants he had brought with him today.

Hands, weathered and much smaller than most males, that work diligently at your task. Your focus remains strong, even as you talk over your shoulder.

"Well, slicing is cutting but a more precise form." You shift your wing back, tucking it in, as you finally turn your head back to look at him.

You're a very peculiar male.

Azriel can't say he's ever met a warrior, or even an Illyrian, like yourself before. You're small. It's the first thing he had noticed when he had slipped into your tiny home those nights ago, a sturdy shelter against the harsh wind of the mountains.

You're small but your wings are still large and beautiful, tucked up neatly behind your back. Most warriors in camp must have at least a head of height on you.

The armor you wear looks old. It's been worn down, softened against your body but even still, it sits a little too low on your hips. The shoulders hang out an extra inch.

You're small and you're hardened at every edge.

It's the way anyone who grows up here has to be. And for you to have made the cut to become a warrior, even with the impairment of your height... Azriel knows you're made of tougher stuff than most.

Within that, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to you.

Azriel hates the Illyrian mountains. Loathes the culture he comes from that festers here, their swift brutality and preferred cruelty against even their own. Invisible standards that made one Fae better than another.

The lives they taught him to take so easily.

So the last thing he had expected to find coming back here, to a place haunted with wretched memories, was... an ally.

But staring across the space to you, he can't think of any other word to describe the stirring in his chest. The drag on his heart, as if it's lurching forward.

"Look, let me show you."

You drop what's in your hands and take a couple steps to cross the space. The shelter is like you, small, just shy of cramped. The ceiling could stand to gain a few inches and the inside is as bare as Azriel would expect of a home in a war-camp.

One rickety table. A bed tucked into a corner. A fireplace with slanted, mismatched soot-covered bricks. There's the general rustle about the place that indicates someone sleeps here. Things hang off nails, bedded into the wall.

Hovering beside the table, you gesture for the knife in Azriel's hand. There's tenseness in your shoulders. You're still wary of him— or perhaps so used to your own company. He wonders which it is as he hands over the knife wordlessly.

"You just gotta—" The vegetable gets re-positioned on the board and when you bring down the knife, it's with an elegance that Azriel had been severely lacking.

You slice a long strip off, lengths-wise, and then pause, looking up at him to make sure he understands. "Slice?"

Azriel smiles despite himself.

That's the other thing.

You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful Fae he's ever seen in his life— not to mention, by far the most beautiful male he’s ever laid his eyes on.

It had taken him by surprise initially, even his shadows rearing back in shock when you had turned and sprung at him, cutlery in hand. Azriel had fumbled one of his blocks and it led to you sinking the fork into his shoulder— all because his mind had been whispering beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

It's the reason you had managed to land a hit at all— or Azriel tells himself that. Because otherwise, he had a serious reason to brush up on his own training.

He also tells himself it had nothing to do with his offer.

It hadn't swayed his reasoning in the slightest; not the way he can't take his eyes off you for some peculiar, unbidden reason. Training you and learning how to make tonics alongside you was entirely due to his belief in your mission.

Liar, one of his shadows seems to whisper in response.

Azriel was over five hundred years old — tangling with a male was not entirely foreign to him. And yet, Azriel had found it was not as to his taste as females were.

Another glance at you has him, once again, second-guessing that.

As quickly as it enters his mind, he snuffs it, his wings giving a minuscule twitch, right as you offer him back the knife.

He opts for a question instead. "How did you come to live here?"

It's one of the other unusual parts of your intriguing survival out here. Not only did you make the cut to train to become a warrior against the odds, but you also live alone. Azriel lets himself survey the shelter once more.

It's far better than some of the conditions he's been subjected to before and yet... it's not quite homey. As though you've never relaxed here, even when it's just you.

"I built it."

Azriel blinks. Then he turns his head down to look at you, perplexed.

"You...?"

You've walked back to the plant you were handling, starting to strip off the leaves again. You hum in response to his words, sparing a glance up at the ceiling.

That certainly explained why it was on the smaller side, made to your stature. Azriel can't fathom how you managed it in the blizzardly conditions of the mountains, entirely on your own.

"As I'm sure you're familiar, bastards don't get anything in these camps."

Your voice tightens with the pain of an unhealed wound.

Azriel doesn't say anything, just presses his lips together thinly. He nods.

"It was already a ruin, the fireplace and floorboards were about the only thing left." This time as you tug the leaves off the plant in your hand, it's a little meaner. "It took me years to properly finish it because the males in camp kept coming by to see if they could knock it back down."

Something roars in Azriel's ears, a familiar icy fury at the injustice that roamed so freely in these mountains. A plague amongst these people. So many Fae, so eager to kick those who are already down.

Looking up from your hands, your motions slow, and a distant look dawns on your face as though you've been whisked away into an old memory. A cold smile graces your mouth.

"So eventually when one of them came around, I showed them why they shouldn't fuck with my stuff. Or with me."

How you gained your solitary fortress out here.

It had piqued his interest on the very first evening, the sole shelter out from the cluster of cabins in the camp. That even though the drunken warriors were first to point it out when Azriel came asking who was causing trouble, none of them would go near it.

He can guess a multitude of things you did to protect it and yourself. Something akin to admiration blooms in his chest. Something heavier, deeper, lurks beneath it.

As your hands go back to work, Azriel can't help but watch you silently for a moment. His shadows pour over his shoulders, seeping down his arms the longer he looks; as though they, too, want to figure out the enigma in front of them.

You're a very peculiar male, Azriel thinks for the second time that evening.

The runt of the litter and a bastard just as him.

A natural born fighter and an Illyrian warrior against all the odds.

A Fae with long hair like Cassian's, chopped at the shoulder and scraped back — and a voice softer than most. A Fae with eyes that burn with a promise for retribution, with icy fury like his own.

Azriel picks up the knife and slices the vegetable as you had, slow and long. He steals one more glance at you — to find you're doing the same, chancing a split-second glimpse to look at him.

Azriel averts his eyes back to the table.

He feels the treacherous glow of his cheeks and is thankful you can't see his face clearly in the dim light. He slices again.

And as he mulls his thoughts, the pair of you working in tandem as the fire crackles loudly in the corner, Azriel makes a point to ignore the thundering feeling that seems to sing right out of his heart.

No matter if he's half-sure he knows just what word it's singing.

(Mate. Mate. Mate).

[NEXT PART: COMPANIONS]

—

tags below!

@janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka

(if i tagged u and u would like to opt out, no hard feelings! send me an ask and i’ll leave u off :D)

#ehehehehehehe #i need to finish chapter three STAT or everything will fall apart (no pressure tho)#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel acotar #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar #please feel free to tell me what u think!

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myeagleexpert · 7 months

Text

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕻𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝕳𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕬𝖜𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗

And if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

Howl's Moving Castle x Twisted Wonderland Au

The starry night at NRC was a spectacle of beauty and mystery, with the meteor shower painting the sky in shades of silver and gold. Yuu walked through the dark corridors of the Ramshackle dormitory, lit only by the flickering light of candles and a few points of failed electric light. Grim, the talking cat monster with dancing fire flames, followed beside her silently, his yellow eyes glowing with an unusual intensity and worried for his friend.

Today had been one of those days for the young woman without magic: Waking up late and almost late, she was intercepted by Crowley who had given exhaustive work that he himself had not done, the chemistry test that she and the infamous ADeuce had was a disaster, her crush had given the cold shoulder, Grim got into a totally unnecessary fight with some idiots from the fourth year and as a result they lost their lunch and got some scratches, and the front of his beloved Ramsharckle dorm collapsed, the damp and old wood had given way. The bitter taste in the mouth was not enough to bring a revolt from within Yuu so that she raised a scream of fury and stepped on the floor, her tired body just looked at the mess and walked straight past, the dejected soul took a shower where she hoped for the deep in her fragile heart, the shampoo would clean the dirt she felt and the tears would mix with the hot water.

At least I Tsunotaro will come today.- the only hope she could have that night was to see her dear friend. She put on her less tattered pajamas and sat at the study table waiting for the famous green fireflies to appear.

Unfortunately he didn't show up, the prince didn't answer the call.

The lack of Malleus's gentle presence made schoolwork become heavier and the lump in the throat tightened more and more, the clock was counting down the seconds to….

“Henchman, are you okay? Your eyes are red” with the little self-control he had, Yuu nodded, avoiding his feline friend's gaze and focusing on the blurry letters of school work and just in time the light in the dorm was cut off.

“NYAAH” “It was just what was needed!” Could it be Crowley's irresponsibility? The electricity bill? Was it an attack? A short circuit? Either way, it doesn't matter anymore.

The tired body got up and silently searched for the candles until strange lights passing through the window caught the girl's attention. Ah, the meteor shower. Like a leaf carried by the wind, Yuu's steps, even without hope, led her to the front part of the ramsharckle, the same part of which fell and collapsed. Pushing aside some wood, the girl sat down on the floor and Grim followed her shortly after, not trusting that her friend would be okay alone.

“Henchman, what are we doing here?” "I don't know…"

Will I ever really go home? Will I live forever in this place being this weak? I would do anything to see my family again… I myself will find a way to find my way back, whatever the cost.

Loneliness and anguish weighed on Yuu's heart, like chains that tied her to a distant past, an overwhelming longing for her homeland. She longed for a home, for a place where she could be truly happy. Home….my home….my family….The starry night shone with a unique and mysterious beauty, the shooting stars cutting across the sky like tears of light. Each meteorite that fell seemed to echo the loneliness and anguish that Yuu felt inside her.

As she watched the shooting stars cut across the sky like sharp blades, one of them stood out, shining with a disturbing intensity that seemed to whisper Yuu's name as the golden ball of fire quickly fell towards the ground. Without knowing why the girl just followed her heart and with an irresistible impulse, Yuu ran towards the shooting star, her mind filled with a mixture of despair and hope that she didn't know where it came from.

The powerful ball of fire broke apart and reflected various colors and when the star finally fell into her hands. As she held the star in her trembling hands, Yuu felt a wave of magical power envelop her, making her tremble with emotion and fear. A magical energy enveloped her, and in an instant, the star fell apart, disappearing into her body. A warm feeling filled Yuu, and she felt her heart beat faster than ever. The star, now resident in her being, revealed its mysterious and enigmatic personality, whispering ancient secrets and dark promises in her ears and finally a deal was made between the magicless human and the fallen star.

As Yuu absorbed the star's powers, the old Ramshackle dormitory began to shake and transform in sinister and fascinating ways before his eyes. Walls contorted, furniture came to life, and the abandoned place metamorphosed into a lively castle, with sparkling towers and enchanted gardens. The magic of the falling star had awakened the true essence of the place, revealing its hidden beauty.

The animated castle, now filled with the dark aura of the shooting star, rose majestically from the ground, its dark towers rising like sharp claws against the starry sky. The enchanted garden has turned into a maze of thorns and shadows, where unknown creatures lurk in the shadows, watching with glowing, hungry eyes.

“H-henchman! What is happening??"

With an enigmatic smile on her lips, Yuu looked at Grim, whose gaze reflected a mixture of fear and confusion. "Let's go home," she whispered, her voice echoing like a whisper of unknown magic. The cat nodded silently and ran to the girl's shoulders, saving his questions for later, because maybe later Yuu wouldn't be looking like a crazy woman with a flying Ramsharckle.

The old Ramsharckle dorm floated to where the two were and the door opened waiting for the two to climb up to finally grant the previously magicless girl's heart's desire.

“I'll come back to say goodbye later”

Who knows if she would come back who knows if not

She looked back one last time, remembering her adventures with the troublemaking cat and all the friends she made there. And with a firm step the girl went up in her castle and felt more ready than ever to embark on this adventure.

As the castle floated toward the distant horizon, the lights of shooting stars and meteorites hovered above them, shrouding them in a veil of mystery and intrigue. Yuu felt a shiver run down his spine, but also a sense of determination and courage that had long been forgotten.

And so, enveloped by the darkness of the starry night and the sinister magic of the falling star, Yuu and Grim set out on a journey into the unknown, where ancient secrets and intertwined destinies awaited them in the shadows of their path. Amidst the darkness and starlight, Yuu and Grim's journey was just beginning, with the power of the shooting star guiding their steps towards their final destination.

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Every like, repost and comment is very welcome and appreciated. ♥

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newtkive · 8 months

Text

pixels [ newt x reader - modern text au ]

ch. 2 - drama queen core

summary: minho's drama finally catches up with him, but newt becomes a hero.

warnings: strong language, mutual pining, none really.

➥ m.list

THE GLADE

[ 12:08 PM ]

y/n: gm pookies

newt: it’s the afternoon.

y/n: yeah well

ur east coast

newt: so are you y/n

y/n: FINE BAD MORNING THEN ARE U HAPPY?

minho: drama queen is awake

newt: you’re the drama queen min let’s be fr

minho: u want me to die be honest

newt: see .

tommy: hey guys :3 been waiting for you all

y/n: awwww tommy <3 gm

tommy: morning sweetums

minho: ew stop

newt: how did you sleep?

tommy: good! used my new heated pillow

newt: not you

minho: not you

tommy: wtf

WHO THEN?? THERES LIKE 7 OTHER PPL IN HERE

minho: he means y/n

and there’s 4 other people not including newt and y/n dumbass

y/n: oh

why just me????

newt: cuz you stayed up til 6 am

y/n: ..

how do you know that

newt: i saw you were active on discord

gally: doesn’t that mean you were awake too then

newt: ok and?

minho: thats crazy newt

newt: no it isn’t

i just casually saw it

y/n: hehe

im ok i need to sleep more. sims 4 was really consuming me

why were you awake??

newt: up for work

minho: you get on discord before work?

chronically online..

newt: can you choke and pass out and hit your head please

minho: THE WAY U WANT ME DEAD IS INSANE

y/n: he’s gotta check on his discord hoes before hitting the grind

newt: there are no discord hoes

unless you count thomas

and i don’t

tommy: well why not

newt: because you disgust me

tommy: love u too :3<3

minho: y’all about to kiss aren’t you

newt: never say that shit again im outside your door with a b*mb

minho: why censor it

just blow me up it’s my grandmas house anyway. u want to jump her that bad????

gally: blow that bitch up i say

y/n: HELLO???!,!!

gally: minho not grandma

she loves me cuz im so tall

minho: tall people always gotta remind you they’re tall 😒

like we get it bigfoot

gally: shut up tinkerbell

y/n: you’re somewhat tall minho

minho: any man under 6’0 is considered short

y/n: yeah but newt is 6 ft trapped in a 5’10 body so not totally true

newt: what does that even mean

minho: give me a break

i can tell you exactly what that means

she wanna hit

newt: stop

tommy: don’t get his hopes up

newt: dude

stfu

y/n: what newt said

gally: can we appreciate the only one actually over 6 ft here

minho: no.

tommy: im the same height as newt!!!!

y/n: yea but ur like 3 ft trapped in a 5’10 body tommy not the same

tommy: oh ..

minho: kind of real

newt: can someone kick gally i’m tired of seeing his fucking name on my phone

gally: then turn your phone off don’t you have old ladies to tend to at the library

newt: yeah and they all love me

y/n: so real

if i was old i’d go in there and imagine you’re my young boyfriend and cling to everything u say

tommy: true im the old ladies

y/n: LMAO

minho: write a fanfic y/n why don’t you

newt: yeah you both are old and not beating the dementia allegations

y/n: IM THE YOUNGEST HERE

ur just mad you’re old as dirt

tommy: youth has left you newt and it has turn you bitter in your old age.

minho: thomas knows big words who knew

newt: which word in that sentence was big??

y/n: shut up minho

minho: wtf did i do

y/n: idk but i imagine you sitting there typing on your little phone and i got pissed

minho: WHAT???!.‘wKWHFO

newt: LMAOOOOOOOOOOO

yeah chubby little fingers hitting the wrong letters on his iphone 8

minho: im leaving

tommy: dont leave i forgive you for what you said

minho: i don’t give a damn

y’all mad y’all are all fake im the realest i’ve been prophesizing and reading scriptures 7000 years before y’all fake asses were born be so for real right now

y/n: not reading that

congrats

or sorry for what happened idk

about to drink my coffee in a wine glass

tommy: just drink wine

newt: it’s noon tommy??

tommy: ok and?

newt: explains a lot

minho: no coffee for me this new year only water and pussy juice fr fr

[ newt removed minho from the group ]

tommy: woah

y/n: woah..

newt: i can’t take it anymore

alby: How did you get that access..?

newt: don’t worry about it

in times of need i have to step in like that

y/n: hi alby!

alby: Hey y/n!

tommy: you’re such a hero newt

gally: that was deserved

who wants to play minecraft rn

y/n: me!!

alby: I’ll play, I’m off work today.

y/n: let’s go to the desert i want a camel

gally: alright but then the caves after i wanna mine

newt: if you mine with her you gotta bring extra food and storage when she dies so you can pick up the fallen items

gally: i forget you’re her designated babysitter

y/n: oh please no he isn’t

and i’ll bring my own food

newt: you always say that and then leave it in the stove oven

y/n: WELL I WONT THIS TIME

newt: sure ok

i’ll get on after work

[ alby added minho to the group ]

minho: when i get you.

newt: why did you add him back alby

alby: He was harassing me.

newt: be a man and take it

gally: im leaving

[ gally left the group ]

minho: im going to throw up and die

newt: im staying out of this

minho: (guy who caused it) im staying out of this

y/n: why does gally alwyas leave 😔

newt: why question a gift from the heavens

tommy: get online y/n gally is attacking my dirt house w a pickaxe :((((

y/n: NO IM COMING

minho: im coming to your work newt

newt: okay im locking the door early then

minho: i’ll smash through the glass idc

newt: i’m leaving my shift is over at 1 today.

minho: i’ll use life360 on you

newt: i deleted that app

minho: i’ll stand in the middle of the street

newt: ok let me position my car in front of you

just come to my apartment and we can play w them on pc and xbox

minho: …. fine but i hate your guts

newt: fine

y/n: HURRY GALLY IS ATTACKING MY SHED NOOOOWWW

newt: i’ll just rebuild it

minho: i’ll set it on fire just wait

237 notes · View notes

thursdaygxrls · 8 months

Note

this is a bit self indulgent to request lol but i’m very partial to any hunger games au just so my babies arent as traumatized by the end lmao😭

maybe pirate!finnick x reader where they take r captive? finnick brings her some food and makes sure the other pirates keep away from r

anon, i do not know how i feel about this one. i absolutely loved this request, but i may have screwed up the pic. apologies 🙏 i tried using second person for the first time also. the beginning may be confusing, please bear with me

a simple mistake

pairing pirate!finnick odair x maid!reader

summary when the pirates of the mockingjay planned to kidnap the princess, they thought everything would go smoothly. however, there's one big problem: they kidnapped the wrong girl.

warnings unedited shitty writing, kidnapping, guns, gale, modern language in a different time period

Wherever you were, it was dark. Or maybe it was just the blindfold.

It felt like moments ago that you were tucked cozily into her bed, your body encased by down. There was a crash somewhere in the castle - down the hall? You were only half awake as cloth that smelled like dirt and saltwater wrapped itself tightly around your eyes, and you were dragged from her slumber.

This was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. Tried tried to explain this to her captors as they tugged her, but all you could muster was a few muffled noises over the bitter-tasting gag tied around you. To their credit, those holding you right now were strong and fast: they kept a tight grip on her arm while being able to shove you forward at a fast pace. Lost in your panic, you didn't catch what they were saying to each other: "Are you sure this is her?" "Yes, I'm sure. To the right, four doors down from the window."

"Your right or his right?" "The right of the window!"

They kept their tone hushed as they began to descend a staircase. In the back of your mind, you recognized the pattern in which the steps descended: one, two, three, four, turn, five, six, seven, eight, turn - they were headed down the servant's staircase in the back of the castle. There was an exit hatch at the bottom.

With little hope, you thrashed in their grip. As expected, they handled it with ease. The thought that this may be a normal occurrence swirled in your brain, inciting more and more fear.

"Would you stop? It's hard enough going down these steps without someone kicking at me," the person to your left huffed. His tone was odd. For being the perpetrator of a kidnapping, there was no biting edge to his words.

Your bare feet hit the dewy grass with no warning. In between racing thoughts and heaved breaths, you'd made it to the exit. It was summer, but the coolness of the night air settled over your skin and made you shiver. You were only in your night shift, after all: shabby cloth that provided a nearly sufficient amount of modesty.

Boom!

The noise has you screaming against the cloth as the two holding you swear.

Boom!

There it was again, loud and threatening.

“Guards are a worse shot than I thought,” the man to your left says as they pick up the pace.

Boom!

Oh, God, the guards were shooting at them — were shoot at you! Hushed prayers are whispered from your lips, though, they’re unintelligible. The person to your right must pick up on the trembling in your body because they begin moving at an impossibly faster speed. You wonder how they haven’t fainted by now, how you haven’t fainted by now.

“Don’t worry,” they say, speaking to you through the gunshots, “Never had cargo die on us before. Plus, it’s not you they’re shooting at, it’s us.”

This does nothing to quell your fears, but a new sensation under your feet works to distract your ever rushing mind. If it wasn’t for the two people practically carrying you, you would be sinking in the soft earth beneath you. It was a bit coarse, but delicate, and parted to make way for your feet. Was it sand? There was yelling in all directions: next to you, behind, in front. Then you hit an incline, and the softness of the sand roughened under your feed. You were rocking, too, and not just you, the ones holding you up. There was a crash entirely unlike the sound of the guns, and another sway — oh, fuck.

This was a ship.

“They’re on us!” One of them screamed as you plateaued to a surface

“In a minute, they won’t even see us,” a gruff voice responded, seemingly unfazed by nearing sound of gunshots. There was a loud groan and suddenly, you were moving. Though the two still had a strong hold on you, you stumbled as the ship began to move. The gunshots, which had been getting louder, were sounding much more distant. Even if it was only a minute or two since you’d been hoisted onto the ship, it felt like hours.

“I was hoping this would be a clean job, y’know, no—” The gruff voice which had spoken before stopped. You could hear an unsteady breath as footsteps neared you.

“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.”

And then there was light, nearly blinding from the amount of time you’d spent in the dark. The owner of the voice ripped the cloth from your eyes in one swoop, and you cringed at the bleeding dawn along the horizon.

“What?” You whipped your head to the left, finding a tall older boy with dark brown hair and bright eyes.

“This is not the Princess.” You could now see the owner of the gruff voice, who was a middle-aged man with greasy, chin length blonde hair and scruff around his chin. His eyes were trained on you as he spoke.

“What?” The boy repeated.

“You grabbed the wrong goddamn girl, Gale,” the man’s voice boomed.

“I told you something was off,” the man on the right — tall and bald — groaned.

“Why the hell did you not say that before you kidnapped her?” The blonde man huffed.

“I did!” He argued back.

“What are we gonna do with her?” Gale spoke up.

“I…I don’t know,” the blonde sighed, “We can’t go back now, not like this. They’ll have the land and water covered in an hour. Just take her down.”

“Haymitch, I’m really—”

“Just take her down, Gale,” Haymitch, the blonde man, repeated in a stern tone. The boy bowed his head, and the bald man followed suit, turning you and hauling you away from the front of the deck. Had you not been so dimmed with exhaustion from running from gunfire and screaming against the gag in your mouth, you may have done a little more fighting during that conversation. Instead, you studied the crew of the ship who were running around as though you didn’t exist. They shouted at each other, likely still executing their speedy getaway off the main island. As they lead you to the door at the middle of the dock, you noticed Gale eyeing you.

“You’re…not the Princess?” He asked quietly.

“She can’t speak,” the bald man rolled his eyes before taking the gag from your mouth. Immediately, you heaved in a deep breath, finding that the air was still salty even without the seawater-flavored gag.

“You’re not?” Gale repeated his question as though you didn’t hear him.

“No.” You found your voice to be hoarse, but forceful as you glared at him. In finding this voice, questions exploded from your mouth.

“What the hell is going on? Let me go! Why did you take me? Where am I?” They ignored these questions.

“We should’ve asked her first,” the bald man groaned.

“She would’ve said ‘no’ even if she was the Princess!” Gale yelled. They pushed past the door and lead you down the steps to a small hall. They turned onto the first room.

“Well, we’re here,” Gale sighed, letting go of your arm. Your limbs felt like jelly from being pulled and shoved for so long, however, you tried your hand at pushing past them and running. The question of where you would go was a thought for later.

“Woah,” the bald man immediately grabbed ahold of you as you attempted your escape, “Please try to stay put, alright? There’s not many places for you to go.”

“Why am I here?” You asked again, your tone laced with anger.

“Just sit tight for a while, okay?” Gale spoke awkwardly as he and the other man kept you still.

“Sit tight?” You repeated indignantly.

“Please just go sit, I don’t want to tie you up,” the bald man sighed. To your surprise, there was genuine sympathy in his voice. Even so, you stared at them, unmoving. This silent chess match carried on for another thirty seconds before a groan left Gale, and he shoved you to the floor. Your behind hit the floor hard, and before you could scramble to pick yourself up, they were out the door. You got to your feet and helplessly tried the doorknob, but it was already locked.

“That was just plain rude,” you could hear the muffled voice of the bald man through the door, “What’s wrong with you, man?”

“She wasn’t moving,” Gale’s voice was somewhat unfazed.

“You’re an ass, really.” The voices faded out, and it was then, for the first time in what seemed like forever, that you were alone. The room was small, wooden, and windowless. There was a cot with a threadbare blanket and a sorry excuse for a pillow on one end and a tattered table and chair on the other.

You tried to find ways to occupy yourself: banging on the door, screaming, punching the pillow, questioning God, picking at the wood, acquiring splinters. Any amount of time could’ve passed: seconds, minutes, hours, days. Well, maybe not days, but it felt like it. You were laying on the cot, counting the rings in the ceiling when the lock jostled. You sat straight up, jumping from your bed when the door opened. You rushed at the entry, only to be blocked by a rough hand.

“They said you’re quick,” a mellow voice followed the hand. This wasn’t the man who demanded you were taken here or either of the ones who followed his orders; he was new. Sandy blonde hair that gently spiked on his head, tanned skin, likely from his days on the deck, dark blue eyes, and pink lips that stretched into a crooked smile. While one of his arms kept you secure, the other held a tray with a portion of bread, a bowl, and a metal cup.

“What is going on?” You asked gruffly.

“I can tell you, but you have to promise you won’t run the second I step away from this door,” he said, looking a bit more calm than one might expect. You, still staring him down, considered the options, and with a relenting sigh, backed away. He entered the room, that easy smile still on his face as he shut the door behind him.

“So,” He spoke, eyeing you, “I take it you’re not the Princess.”

“No, I am not,” you responded, voice terse with frustration.

“I see,” he nodded, then gestured towards the cot for you to sit. You obliged cautiously. As far as kidnappings went, this one was rather polite — but it was still a kidnapping.

“I can assure you that the plan was not to kidnap you,” he sighed, taking a seat at the table. He extended the tray of food towards you, but you don’t take it. Not yet.

“And what was the plan?” You asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Well, darlin’,” he began, “The plan was to kidnap the Princess and ransom her back. Take that money and spread it across the islands, give back to those who need it.” Suspicion peaked in you, and it was obvious he could tell, because his smile stretched further.

“What, don’t believe me?” He hummed, cocking his head.

“Would you trust someone who stole you?” You fired back. He laughed gently at that.

“Probably not, but you’re lucky it was instead of anyone else,” he spoke.

“Lucky?” You repeated with a scoff.

“Darlin’, this ship we’re on? It’s the Mockingjay,” he set his palm on his knee. This struck a chord; the Mockingjay. You’d heard of them before, just rumors. Some called them the gentle pirates, others called them weaklings. They took what they wanted with force, but never caused any casualties.

“I’m Finnick,” he interrupted your thoughts suddenly, extending his hand, “And I’m just dying to know your name.”

Though you took his hand with reluctance, you didn’t speak a word. This creased a wrinkle along his forehead.

“I think it’s best if we do introductions now rather than later,” he said, keeping his deep blue eyes on you. A sigh escaped you before you turned from his gaze and towards the ceiling.

“Y/n,” you replied quietly.

“Pretty name. Wish we were meeting under different circumstances, but I’ll take what I can get,” he grinned, “Who are you, Y/n?”

“I’m a maid,” you spoke, unsure why you replied instead of ignoring him, “The Princess’s Lady in Waiting. Her companion.”

“Ah, I see,” he hummed, “That’s why you had yourself a room up there. You and the Princess close?” You don’t respond to this, jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry for this, Y/n, truly,” he frowned, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“But it was a kidnapping all the same,” you sigh.

“You’re right. You’re right, but we’re not perfect people. We do what we have to. And right now,” he grabbed the tray once more, extending it towards you, “I have to make sure you eat.”

“Aren’t you supposed to give me the tray and leave?” You glared at him.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, the tray still in his hands, “I guess I do what I want. And I want to sit with you while you eat.”

“Why?” You don’t let up with your accusing gaze.

“I wouldn’t want a pretty lady starving on my ship. That would just break my heart,” he grinned. Another second of silence.

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked, a weak shudder in your voice betraying your cold stare. It would make sense, after all: you were useless. The King wouldn’t pay a ransom for a maid.

“What?” The question seemed to genuinely shock him, “No, oh, God, no. I wouldn’t lay a hand on you.”

“What about them out there? The rest of the crew?” You gestured to the door.

“They wouldn’t either, but even if they tried, I wouldn’t let them get to you,” he spoke, surprisingly reassuring, “You’re not going to be killed, I can assure you of that.”

You swallowed hard, finally looking back at him to see the genuine look in his eyes. He seemed kind, which was strange. Was it some sort of manipulation tactic? A means to an end?

“Are you going to eat, or should I start spoon-feeding you?” He asked, that easy smile appearing on his face once more. Hesitantly, you took the plate from his hands. He stayed there, sitting across from you, watching you lift the cup to your mouth. Sadly, you couldn’t deny your manners, and before you took a sip, you looked at him.

“Thank you, Finnick,” you mumbled.

“My pleasure, Darlin’,” he replied, grinning as you tucked into your meal.

#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick imagine #thg finnick #pirate!finnick #pirate!finnick x reader #the hunger games #pirate au #pirates #thursday writes

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scribbyizhere · 6 months

Text

nothing brings me more joy than chopping Michael aftons arm off for au plot

#dirt is bitter au #fnaf #fnaf michael afton #fnaf gregory #fnaf micheal #fnaf mike afton #fnaf mike schmidt #my art #art #scribbits art

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violettduchess · 7 months

Text

A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view.

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof.

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories.

Sometimes she needs rescuing.

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts.

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace.

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana.

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze.

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath.

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls.

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite.

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain.

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers.

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence.

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–”

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip.

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion.

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating.

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.”

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then.

“Together.”

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri cyran #cyran rose #ikemen cyran #ikepri cyril #cyril rose #ikemen cyril #my ikemen valentine gift exchange #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic #violettwrites

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kakushino · 9 months

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Would you love me if I were a worm?

Rengoku Kyojuro x GN! Reader

He survived but at what cost?

Tags: fluff, slight angst, Kyojuro survives Mugen train AU

Word count: 0,6k

Masterlist | Rebuilding the ruins of castle Me masterlist

AN: Written as a Christmas gift for dear @glitchtricks94 - Merry Christmas!

I contemplated renaming it Kintsugi (hence the header) but I like this title more.

“Uma- ouch-” Kyojuro forgot, for the nth time, that he was still recovering from having a hole in his abdomen; shouting was a long way away from happening for him yet. Instead of ‘admitting defeat’, he whispered a strained “Umai…” before taking another dango into his mouth, chewing and enjoying the taste as he tried to focus on the sweetness of the treat rather than the bitterness of his wound.

It was a peaceful afternoon, the sun shone brightly, and the boys were training in his backyard while he enjoyed tea and a snack you had made for him.

You, his love…

All throughout your relationship, you had asked him, half joking, if he would love you were you to become a worm. The question greatly confused him every time, even stunned him speechless the first, but he had always answered a resolute yes.

What he failed to do was ask you the same.

Even so, each day he woke up now, feeling like a worm, a useless bug, and each day you took care of him - you built your home to suit his needs, helped him bathe, cooked for him, entertained him - when he had nothing to give you back. He had become someone you didn’t ask for, someone you didn’t ‘sign up’ to love.

Kyojuro had never asked the question, but your response was an infallible yes - all the more, you showed it, your actions proved it.

He had never fallen so deep for someone in his life, being near you made him happy, though there was always a lingering inner torment fraying him at the edges…

Underneath his carefully crafted facade, you knew he wasn’t fine. Kyojuro survived, at a great cost - an eye, and his career, his youth, his strength.

He used to smile even in his sleep; the usually peaceful expression had been replaced by a frown or a frighteningly borderline angry expression. He also couldn’t spoon you, not yet, which agonized him more than he could admit. He missed cuddling you, you could see that every time you went to bed.

You were aware he was always in pain, though he said nothing, so you quietly placed painkillers alongside his tea and dango today. Kyojuro couldn’t be more grateful you were in his life.

“The dango is delicious, my love,” he whispered to you as you finally sat down beside him. Tanjiro’s soft laughter echoed in the yard, Zenitsu’s crying and Inosuke’s howling a complementary melody adding to the usual chaos of your home. Something like peace settled in his chest.

“I’m glad. Don’t forget to drink the tea, it’s already cold.” You smiled at him as he reached for his cup. Kyojuro seemed to do so absent-mindedly, it was kind of endearing to see him trust you so much he gave no thought to your instructions.

Wooden clack clack became a distant rhythm while you both soaked in the warmth of the sun - the very same one which signaled the end of his last dance with the devil.

Become a demon, Kyojuro.

His scars throbbed in dull pain, his teeth clenched, an irrational panic set in, and he could not help but seek out everyone around him with his eye to make sure-

The boys were at it again, a goofy ball of energy rolling all over the training space, sweat making dirt stick to their skin. Tanjiro, alive. Zenitsu, alive. Inosuke, alive.

And you-

You were looking at him calmly; his feelings wild, all over the place but then Kyojuro looked in your eyes. He saw everything he thought he had lost, he felt as if you two were the only ones in your home.

Would you love him if he were a worm?

Yes. Yes, you do.

dividers made by the amazing @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

Probably will become a 3-parter, 2nd part coming on 24th December

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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

Text

Cupid

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You're convinced that performing a short incantation is the solution to all your martial errs (and perhaps you're right).

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: fem!reader, arranged/forced marriage au, wife!reader, emotionally constipated!aemond, secretly smitten!aemond, chaotic!reader, stupid king!aegon, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: i suggest you listen to Lion Heart by Girls Generation just cos in my head it be their theme song Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @slavyanskiyahui

Boots against dirt, steel against steel, sweat upon brow.

Aemond rather idlily dodged the attack of his sparring partner and looked out to the ladies that squealed and cheered for him for it. He looks back to the man and evades him as he charges.

He was used to it, having people spectate his every move, garnering the attention of women. It was just another thing Aemond learned to get used to growing up. It never phased him, or rather, more accurately, he never cared for it, the doting while he trained. Not even when he got married.

The prince side steps then spins, promptly kicking his opponent into the dust.

I mean, it was not like he chose his bride himself.

Another loud round of girlish cheers ring through the training grounds.

And it was not like they have been married long.

His boots skid on some gravel and sand.

Well-- Aemond looks over his shoulder, releasing a breath through his lips --perhaps there was a change when he was married.

He looks into the crowd of ladies muttering and grinning with each other. He does not see his wife, who is normally at the center of the gaggle. In truth, he only recognized their faces as they were your friends. He couldn't care less about them and their giggles though.

He surveys the crowd, finally deciding he was not going to see you here anytime soon.

It was his final straw. You had been rather out of character as of late, and your disappearance during his training, a time of day you endlessly gushed about that his ears nearly fall off his head whenever you do, is no light matter.

"A good match, ser Bartholomew," Aemond says as the man stands and readies for another round. He relaxes as the prince nods, "I have something I must attend to."

Ser Bartholomew nods in regard as the prince walks away.

He gives his weapon to an errand boy and grabs a towel from a servant. As he wipes off his sweat, there was a bitterness attached it. He blinks as he imagines the smile of his pretty wife, murmuring praises to him while affectionately dabbing at his forehead and cheek. He thinks about he would look down your form, your lashes, your jewelry, your bosom. Now all he was looking at was the dirt on his shoes.

"Thank you," he dismissively hands the towel back to the servant and walks away as she curtsies.

Aemond traces the steps he knows you would take within the day, trailing through the gardens, the library, your shared bedroom, finding that you nowhere in sight.

He passes by Helaena's chambers, offering her a smile when her lilac eyes catch his. He makes an excuse to his mother as Aemond checks, thinking perhaps you thought of visiting the queen mother. Alicent brushes his hair back and tells him he should come by her room more often.

Aemond doesn't know why, but he even checks Aegon's chambers for you.

His soul nearly leaves him when he hears your voice before he even reaches the open door of his brother's chambers.

"GIVE ME BACK THE BOOK, YOU TOAD!"

"YOU DARE SPEAK TO YOUR KING THIS WAY?" Aegon laughs through a grunt.

Aemond is about to run into the room, but then he freezes when he hears Aegon's pained screech that is then cut off.

He shortens his strides.

... perhaps it's better there be no witnesses.

Aemond looks front and back, agreeing with himself no one was around.

Perhaps... he was now king.

Aemond slowly walks to the open door when the silence lingers too long. He knits his brows at the sight of Aegon face flat on the floor and you standing faced back to him by a desk.

"You know," Aegon pushes himself on his elbows slowly, "I'm and idiot, and even I don't think that would work."

"That's because you're an idiot," you mutter as you seemingly go through a book.

Aegon huffs then grunts as he gets up off the floor, "do you truly like that gremlin so much to be doing something like that for him?"

Aemond narrows his brows, knowing it was he, the gremlin, being referred to.

Aegon arduously gets on his feet as you push the book aside and raise your hand up, stroking something with your fingers. He could not see it, but he assumes it was possibly some thread, or something just as thin. You drag a candle closer.

Aegon walks over to you as you eye him, "if you do something to my hairs--"

"I'M NOT GOING TO MESS UP YOUR INCANTATION!" the king cries as he walks up to you.

Incantation.

Aegon leans on the desk, effectively blocking Aemond's view of his bride. Aemond cranes his neck and moves from his spot as he tries to catch sight of you.

"Lest I be magicked by you," Aegon adds.

You respond with something Aemond is unable to hear. Aegon responds with a laugh. He sighs, "my. My brother does not know how honored he is to have you has his wife."

Aemond scowls. Dare he?

Aegon yelps when you twist his arm after he tries to touch you.

Aemond beams as Aegon is shoved away.

"Hey," Aegon yelps, "I gave you one of my hairs! You ought to show some respect. I will blow those strands off the desk and you'd have to steal hair from mother, Helaena, and--"

"If you do that, I will tell your mother where you went last week."

Aegon does not respond.

Aemond chuckles under his breath.

You then begin to speak the words on the book as you spin the hairs in your finger and throw it into candle fire. There is the faintest sound of crackling, but Aemond hears it through the silence, even from where he stood.

A beat passes.

"Is that it?" Aegon asks.

You turn to him and shrug, "that should be it."

"So, what?" he crosses his arms, "Aemond's gonna be head over heals in love with you now?"

Aemond pulls his head back.

You wave a hand, "well the woman who sold me the book said this incantation would make him want to be around me more."

Aemond furrows his brows, but he does. Why would you need a silly incantation for that?

"I reckon we do it again but with more hair and more fire," Aegon offers unhelpfully.

Aemond jumps away when you gather your book and move past Aegon. He vaguely hears you mutter something to Aegon as he hurries down the hall and clears his throat. He then brushes himself off and casually struts back down the hall, as if he just got there.

By the time you walk out of Aegon's room, Aemond is just making his way toward it.

You jolt when you see him, clutching your book to your chest. Aemond halts, boots stomping firmly into the tiles.

"My princess," he nods.

You turn to him and feign a look, not at all nervous, "my love, I-"

Aegon walks out of the room and stops when he turns and sees his brother.

Aemond looks between the two of them, suddenly realizing how this would have looked had he not seen what happened mere moments ago. The two of you seem none the wiser of what to do in this moment, and so Aemond tilts his head then motions to the book, "has the king given you a hard time over your books, my love?"

You perk, mostly at the pet name, for he did not usually call you such things, and turn to your book in hand, back to Aemond, then to Aegon, back to him, "yes I-"

Aegon grabs the book and raises it over his head, so you would be unable to get it from him even if you tried, "it's quite exciting to see how red your girl gets over some bound paper, brother."

He oversells it by eyeing you and turning to Aemond with a goblin look. Aemon grits his teeth, walking over the both of you.

Aegon feels the ire radiate off Aemond as he inches nearer. He doesn't put up a fight and hands the object to the prince, who then snatches the book from Aegon, pulling you to his side along the way.

"I will skin you if you give my bride a hard time," Aemond openly threatens with a narrowed eye. The king pulls his head back and watches as the two walk off.

You gulp as you look at Aemond's flaming expression. You mutter a soft thanks as he hands you back your book.

"You must not allow yourself to be so comfortable around the king," Aemond says as he pulls you into him to link your arms together, "he enjoys negging and making an audience of pretty women."

You sniffle and smack your lips at the fact Aemond called you pretty.

Aemond turns to you as you turn away and hold back a smile. He, himself, finds his annoyance melting away at the sight of you.

When you turn back and find Aemond staring, your breath catches and your lips part.

He allows the smile on his lips to blossom. You find yourself smiling back at him.

Aemond's light brows furrow as he rubs your hand, "I did not see you amidst my training." He looks forward as you continue to walk the halls, "are you quite bored of watching your husband train already?"

He turns to you when you rush in front of him and shake your head, "never, prince-husband. It is my most favorite time of day."

"Mmm," hums Aemond, "as you remind me oft."

He holds back a chuckle at the way your face twists in thought.

"I was..." you offer weakly, "finishing an errand, is all."

"I see."

You nibble at your lip in agitation though Aemond does not press further. The two of you look forward as you take a turn at the end of the corridor.

"How will you make it up to me then?"

You pull your head back, turning to him, "what?"

Aemond catches your eyes and raises a brow, "you missed my training. I am wounded."

The prince brinks rapidly at what you do next.

Immediately you pull away from him and grab his face, "you were wounded?!" You carelessly drop your book to the floor as you press his cheeks in your palms and inspect every inch of him. Your face hardens and you practically steam when you say, "which treasonous fuck dare injure the pri-"

Aemond's chuckle and touch upon your waist hinders your next words.

He watches as you suck in a breath as he leans into you.

"I am not injured physically," he chuckles, nose brushing into yours. He pulls away to asses your face as the line between your brow fades. Aemond clicks his tongue, "my ego, however, is sorely bruised," he shakes his head and sighs, "I think I cannot survive it."

The prince feels the corner of his lips upturn at the sound of your soft, shaky sigh.

"I see..." you mutter, "then I shall do whatever pleases my husband most in order to make up for his... bruised ego."

Aemond laughs as he pulls away and picks up the fallen book on the floor. He gives it a quick once over before handing it back to you. He watches as you take the book, not even caring that, technically, now you were officially caught in possession of a spell book, a cheap one at that. Aemond can tell you were very much tricked into buying it. You don't seem to care or notice anything else but him though.

He basks in the heat of your gaze, your unwavering attention, suddenly realizing you had been giving it to him so freely, and yet it took your absence today for him to realize it. He wasn't very good at being doting, especially not if you were the standard. It, however, was not his intention to make it seem as though he did not enjoy your company altogether.

He had to get married, yes. And true, you were not married out of your own volitions. Yet, he was glad he was married you.

He would have to work on this... doting.

There is no way in seven hells he'd make you resort with teaming up with his dimwit brother again when it was his attention is all you wanted.

"Perhaps my lady love would massage my shoulders," Aemond rolls his shoulders back for effect, "they do so hurt after a long day of practice."

Without missing a beat, you eagerly respond, "I shall do my best to tend to your soreness."

"Mmm," he nods, "yes. And if I so enjoy it, then I will make sure tis you who is sore instead."

It takes a moment, but then your lips part.

Aemond smirks, "to our chambers then, love."

#aemond fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemon targaryen x you #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond #house of the dragon fanfic #aemond fluff #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen x you

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orangeflavoryawp · 3 months

Text

Jonsa - "Nodology", Part 2

Just a reminder that I'm not stressing too much about this story making sense within the canon plot. Think of canon less like a straight line and more like one of those inkblot pictures in a Rorschach test.

Also, this is a very relationship-focused piece. Politics plays a hand, because how could it not? But I'm not trying to rewrite the whole set of books here and tackle larger issues than the immediate present. The heart of this is Jon and Sansa. Hopefully that answers some of your questions about the larger plotlines or political ramifications of the current setting. (On a side note, I fucking LOVE that you guys are so invested in this AU that you're asking such questions. It's incredibly humbling and encouraging all at once. I just don't have the energy to make it that deep right now, lol.)

Much love. Stay frosty, fam.

Nodology

Chapter Two: The Salt of It (And the Wound)

"The knot fastens ever tighter." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing and bringing her to Riverrun, the two try to navigate a love they never intended to start, especially with so many watching eyes.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2

* * *

"How's the shoulder?"

Jon turns from the practice dummy he'd been raging at all morning, his chest heaving, knuckles white where they grip his training sword. His tunic clings to his sweat-dampened skin, his hair pulled back in a knot at the base of his neck.

The Blackfish watches him from his lean against one of the courtyard's pillars, arms crossed loosely over his chest, awaiting an answer to his question.

Jon tries to steady his breathing, lowering the sword in his grip as he turns to the older man. He rolls his shoulder gingerly, a tender ache still lingering from his wound. "Not as much mobility as before, but it's getting there."

Brynden nods, pushing off from his lean and walking toward him. "I hear you wounded it on the road here. With Sansa."

Jon nods quietly, his sword now held limply in his hand, his breathing steadier. He doesn't know what the Blackfish wants to hear, so he says nothing.

Brynden glances at the roughed-up practice dummy beside him, frowning. "That supposed to be Joffrey Baratheon? Or Theon Greyjoy?"

Jon works his jaw, a heavy sigh leaving him. "Both, probably."

He hadn't a person in mind when he entered the training yard earlier that morning. Just a feeling. Just a rage.

The thought of Bran and Rickon's tiny bodies strung up in Winterfell's main courtyard, their flesh burned from them – or maybe flayed – hadn't left him all night. Nor had the thought of Sansa's scar-lined back, or her tremors as she choked out an apology. An apology! For keeping him from rescuing their brothers – keeping him too busy with her, as she said.

But he won't let her take on that kind of guilt. And he won't let himself, either. Because if he does...

If he puts that on his own soul, then there's no going back. There's no climbing out of that hole. And he's no good to anyone at that point. Not to the North, not to Robb. Not to Sansa.

And he can't afford to be useless.

So, he puts that sorrow and bitterness in a box, and sets it aside. Buries it deep. Packs the dirt around it tightly, so it can't crawl back out. He smothers it beneath the earth. And beneath duty.

And then he comes to the training yard every morning and swings and swings and swings until he's breathless. Until there is nothing left to bury. Until it is drained from him completely.

This is how he grieves his family.

Brynden Tully heaves a weighted sigh, eyes still fixed to the dummy. "With the young ones gone, Catelyn is..." He stops, a sound brewing in his throat. He turns back to Jon. "Well, she's a mess."

Jon keeps his silence, his eyes never leaving the Blackfish.

Brynden clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest once more. "But she'd be truly inconsolable if both her daughters were lost to her, too. And they're not. Arya is somewhere in the Riverlands. And Sansa – Sansa is with her now, here in her family's home, because of you."

Jon's throat tightens, any words failing him. He simply watches Brynden, simply keeps his gaze.

The other man's face hardens somewhat, his jaw squaring. "She won't thank you," he says surely.

Jon feels the lance of it in his chest, his lungs aching at the words. It's not a truth he hadn't known before, but to hear it aloud – to know it so plainly, and from another's mouth –

It hurts more than he thought it would.

Brynden grumbles at Jon's silence, taking a step toward him, his hands falling from their cross over his chest. "You're her husband's bastard, you understand. The one stain upon their marriage. The biggest threat to her children's future and security."

Jon's gaze falls to the floor, fixed on the Blackfish's boots, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth.

He knows this. Has always known this.

A moment of heavy silence passes between them, before the Blackfish plants a hand on Jon's shoulder, and he looks up to meet the warrior's gaze.

"But that is not your failing. It's Ned Stark's."

Jon blinks up at him, his teeth clenching at the words.

"And she is grateful, son. More grateful than you could ever understand. Though she may never be able to voice it, I know this in my bones. I know this better than anything."

Jon's lips part, a shallow breath stealing out between them.

"You saved her child, Jon Snow. She will never forget that. Nor will I." His hand slips from Jon's shoulder, a last, solitary look passing between them, before he's turning from him, walking back the way he came.

Jon is overcome suddenly, the words bubbling up inside him, until they make it to air. "Everything left that I care about in this world is here," he calls out to his back, stopping him.

Brynden turns to look at him over his shoulder.

Jon heaves a steadying breath, his grip tightening over his sword. He levels the Blackfish with a determined look. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures him, the words equally needful and confident.

The faint edge of a smile curls at the corner of Brynden's lip, before he offers a silent nod and turns back to leave.

Jon stands in the training yard for several long moments, just breathing.

No, he's not going anywhere.

* * *

When Sansa answers the knock on her chamber door, she doesn't expect it to be Robb. He gives her a stilted smile and a nod in greeting. "Sansa," he says.

She stands with her hand still on the door, blinking quietly at him. "Your Grace," she says finally.

Robb briefly frowns at the formality of the address, but then he sweeps his hand out toward the hallway. "Walk with me, please."

Sansa steps out of her chamber at the invitation, taking his arm obediently.

They make it all the way to the gardens before either of them speak, and Sansa's anxiety is practically thrumming beneath her skin.

Robb clears his throat.

The sound is jarring after so many minutes of silence and her attention swings sharply to him, her fingers clenching over his arm.

"We haven't... well, we haven't really spoken much since your return," he begins.

Sansa watches him quietly, content to let him find his way through the words.

(She remembers the warmth of his chest as he'd carried her back inside the keep the other day, after her grief had overtaken her on the riverbank.)

Robb stops their stroll, his eyes focused on some unnamable flower bush, his brow furrowed in thought.

Sansa sets her other hand along his arm now as well – tender and encouraging. "No, we haven't," she says softly.

He glances up at her. "It's my fault, isn't it?"

Sansa sighs, her gaze drifting away. "It's not about fault."

"Except it is." Robb turns to look at her more fully. "You won't say it, but it is."

Sansa presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, not meeting his eyes.

Robb wipes a hand down his mouth, a heavy breath leaving him. "You won't admit to the resentment my inaction has stirred in you."

Sansa meets his gaze again. "What do you want me to say, Robb?"

He frowns again, a quiver arching through his brow. "I don't know."

It's the truth, at least, it must be. This, she's sure of. Because she doesn't know what she wants to say either.

She's gone over it in her head a thousand times and yet, the words still never seem quite right.

She loves her brother. She needs her brother. She misses her brother.

But there's a bitterness now that sits sour in her gut, and she doesn't know how to calm it. She doesn't know how to not hurt when she looks at him.

"I think I... I never asked you," he begins again, the words tight in his throat, "because... I couldn't." Robb licks his lips, his eyes hesitant on hers. "I couldn't ask you what they'd done to you because then... then it meant I let it happen."

Sansa pulls a shallow breath through her teeth, the remembrance bright and sharp behind her eyes – the lash, and the gauntleted hand, and the terrible, terrible sound of her own cries.

(Her only companion, most days.)

Robb settles a hand over hers along his arm. "But I shouldn't have let that stop me. I should have – I should have come to you, and talked to you, and... and given you comfort."

Sansa feels wetness dotting her eyes.

"I didn't," he says tightly, his gaze falling to his feet. "And after leaving you to the Lannisters..." He chuckles darkly, his hand slipping from hers to press over his eyes. "I'm not surprised that you hate me, Sansa."

"I don't hate you," she says immediately, the words not even a question.

Robb glances back up at her, his hand falling from his face.

There's no doubt in her at the statement. There's bitterness, yes. There's the sting of abandonment. There's disappointment. The kind that leaves you gazing up at the ceiling most nights, sleepless and aching.

But not hate.

Never hate.

Not for him.

The tears are hot on her lids now, and she reaches up to brush at them. "Come," she urges him, leading them to a bench in the garden. "Sit with me, and I'll... I'll tell you. I'll tell you all that you couldn't ask."

And she does. She tells him of the beatings and the humiliation she suffered before the court. She tells him of her ripped dresses and her bruised body, and her silent, unanswered tears. She tells him of dinners spent at the receiving end of Cersei's constant insults and taunts. She tells him of the endless threats against his and their mother's lives if she didn't keep her place. She tells him of Joffrey's sinister laughter at every slap she received. She tells him of Tyrion's wandering eye and the way he'd touched her on their wedding night. She tells him of her captor husband's overtures dressed up in the guise of kindness. She tells him of the jeers and the scars and the ever-present threat of death hanging over her head. And she tells him of the loneliness.

The nauseating, bone-deep, lung-scraping loneliness.

(She tells him of how she thought once to fling herself from the terrace. To end it then and there.)

"And the one thought – the only thing that kept me breathing, was knowing my family would come for me," she gets out raggedly, the breath raking from her, the sob clenching behind her teeth. She blinks up at him through tears.

He's staring at their joined hands resting over her knee, his jaw clenched, his mouth a tight line.

She takes a shaky breath in, her voice breaking as she tells him, "But you didn't."

Robb looks up at her, pain etching across his face. "Sansa..." His voice catches, his throat flexing tightly.

"You didn't come for me, Robb," she cries out, the sob breaking free. She reaches a hand to her mouth, tries to stifle the wave of anguish clawing up her throat. She blinks back the hot tears, her lungs clenching in her chest. "And I needed you to. I needed you to come for me – just once." She squeezes her eyes closed, her hand pressed over her mouth, muffling the cries as she breathes deep. In and out. In and out.

"Every time – a thousand times – I'd come for you."

In the end, she hadn't been left to that hell. But it wasn't the brother she'd prayed for that rescued her.

She wanted Robb. But she had needed Jon. She understands this now.

Even when it hurts no less.

Robb releases her hands to reach up and cup her face. "I'm so sorry, Sansa. I'm so sorry you ever had to endure that."

She tries to rein in her breathing, her hand slipping from her mouth, her sniffles growing quieter as she watches him, the warmth of his palms cradling her cheeks.

"I'm sorry I left you there. That wasn't... that wasn't kingly of me." And then he stops, his brow furrowing, a look of regret passing over his features at the word choice. He hangs his head, his hands slipping from her face as he sighs heavily. "That wasn't... good of me," he corrects.

Sansa blinks at him, at the way his shoulders slump – at the terrible, unfathomable weight he carries across them.

It's unbearable to see him like this. To see her big brother so small, so crushed beneath duty, so at odds with love.

And it's unbearable to be the thing that weighs on him so.

Sansa pulls a trembling breath through her lungs, a hand going to wipe at her cheeks. She blinks back the salt-sting of tears. "Robb," she murmurs, reaching for his hands again.

"I've already begun the process of annulling your marriage," he tells her.

Sansa stills, her mouth tipping open, her hands trembling as they grip his.

Robb finally meets her gaze, his thumb arching over the taut skin of her knuckles. "Jon is right. You're not a Lannister bride. You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And after my unborn child, you're the heir to the North."

Her lip quakes, the breath tight in her chest. She thinks of Bran and Rickon. She thinks of their poor, mangled bodies. She thinks of never again smelling their hair or hearing their laughs or singing them to sleep.

And she knows he's thinking of them, too. She knows it's the loss of them that brings him to her door.

(No more scars, she'd promised herself once, and perhaps, it's the kind of promise Robb needs as well.)

He clutches her hands in his, his jaw tightening. "I won't forget it again," he tells her.

She wants to believe him.

She wants it dearly.

So, she believes.

* * *

"You spoke to Robb," Jon says quietly at her side, walking her to her chambers after she begged away from dinner with a headache, and Robb had asked him to escort her back, before returning to his conversation with Edmure.

Sansa keeps her arm linked with Jon's, orange light flickering over her face as they pass the torches in their sconces along the wall.

"Yes," she answers, not expanding further.

They each stay quiet past that, their steps echoing along the stone as they walk.

Jon looks at her beside him. "He was distressed about what you told him. About your time in King's Landing."

"I'm sure he was." There's a tenderness to her voice now, where once there was resentment.

Jon frowns at her, stopping them not far from her door. "Sansa, look at me."

She does, and it makes his chest ache.

He reaches up to cup her cheek. "What is it?" he asks her gently.

She pulls her lip between her teeth, a furrow to her brow. She glances down the hall to make sure no one is witness, and then she tugs him after her into her chambers, closing the door behind them. She turns to face him fully now, taking his hands in hers. "My marriage to Tyrion is to be annulled."

Jon lets out a short breath at the man's mention, a curl to his lip. "As it should be."

"Yes, but..."

Jon blinks at her. "You don't want to remain married to him." He meant it to come out as a question, considering her hesitance on the subject, but he knows her well enough now to know it shouldn't even be a question.

"Of course, I don't," she answers him on a sigh. "That's not what worries me."

Jon unlinks his hands to grasp at her arms instead, rubbing up and down slowly, comfortingly. "Then what is it?"

"I'll be... eligible again – to cement any other alliance through marriage."

Jon's eyes narrow on her, his nostrils flaring. "I won't let it happen."

Sansa purses her lips. "It doesn't work like that, Jon. You won't have a say."

"Robb won't let it happen," he tries to reassure her, his hands sliding down her arms to settle along her hips now, keeping her anchored to him. "Not after we lost Bran and Rickon." The words make his jaw ache, the names of their siblings lodging in his throat like tar. He clears his throat, shakes away the grief.

(Bury it deep. Put it away. Be useful, be present.)

"Not after... after everything you endured in King's Landing. He won't do that. I promise you."

Sansa's mouth presses into a thin line, her eyes shifting between his. "I hope you're right."

"I am," he assures her, leaning in to press a swift kiss along her lips. "You won't ever be a pawn in someone's game again, I swear." His fingers curl around her hips – steady and sure.

She blinks up at him, her eyes roving his face in quiet contemplation.

He opens his mouth to question her but then she links her arms around his neck, pressing her chest to his. "I don't think I could ever be anyone's again," she whispers at his mouth. "Anyone's but yours," she tells him.

Jon sucks a breath through his lips, his chest rising and falling steadily, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Sansa," he begins, before he clears his throat, licking his lips. "I should go."

It isn't half as firm as he means it to sound.

Her nails scrape the nape of his neck, slinking into his hair, and it drags his attention back to her gaze. Her eyes are dark in the candlelight, a sheen of wetness over them. "Could you do it? Could you let another man take me to wife?" There's a thread of desperation in her voice that scares him.

Jon braces his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scarce space between them. He slips a hand up her back, bracing against her spine as he holds her closer. "You know I can't," he murmurs at her mouth, the closeness of her making him light-headed.

She lets out a ragged breath against him, her eyes slipping shut, her arms tightening around his neck. "Could you let another man hold me like this? Touch me? Kiss me?" Her voice breaks, her chest heaving now, the threat of tears lining her words. "Could you – "

He doesn't let her finish the question, because his answer would be the same regardless.

Jon kisses her hard, almost angrily, pressing into her so forcefully that she arches back beneath his hands, bending to his need. He opens her mouth with a fervent tongue, tasting her sigh with his own answering groan, his hands bracing her to his chest, keeping her fixed to him, unrelenting.

Ever since that night in his chamber, when she'd approached him after the news of Bran and Rickon – ever since she offered that ridiculous apology, ever since he'd silenced her needless guilt with his desperate mouth –

His desire for her has grown nearly unmanageable.

She's all that occupies his thoughts. When he wakes and when he lays his head to sleep. When he meets with Robb's war council, and when he trains in the yard, and when he breaks his fast with his unwitting family.

When he takes himself in hand – urgently and nightly.

She's all he thinks about these days. Her fine-boned hands, and her perfect, pink mouth, and the sweep of her hair over her neck, and the dip of her collar bones, and the fine arch of her wrist, and her lingering stares, and the open neck of her dress, and her smiles and her touches and her breathy sighs, the shape of her waist beneath his hands, and her chest heaving against his, and the way she arches into him so sweetly, the way she curls her hands into his hair, the way she sucks on his tongue when he kisses her, and the scent of her, the taste, the taste, the taste –

He's nearly delirious in his want.

Jon breaks from her, panting, one hand still digging into her hip, the other braced between her shoulder blades, the material of her dress bunched in his fist as he holds her to him. "The thought alone," he growls out, nipping at her lips – that heady desire flooding him, sending him reeling. "The thought alone drives me mad," he finishes tightly, taking her mouth again, reveling in the low moan that carries up her throat.

Sansa sighs breathlessly against his mouth when they break apart, her hands tightening in his hair. "I'm scared," she murmurs at his lips, eyes still wet, surging forward to kiss him again.

Jon groans at her urgency, his hand sliding over her shoulder to brace at her neck, his thumb pressed to the underside of her jaw, his breath flooding her mouth as she whimpers beneath him.

"Sansa," he bites out when he gasps for air.

She grabs at his hand still fixed to her hip, drags it up to her chest, presses his palm over her breast, curling his fingers beneath hers in the collar of her dress.

Jon bucks against her instinctively, the breath raking from him, his pants hot against her mouth. He palms at her breast immediately, never even questioning the motion, his growing hardness digging into her thigh as he walks her back, until she hits the bed and falls over, taking him with her.

"Jon," she moans out, hands raking over his back, drawing him into her, before wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and dragging his mouth back to hers.

Jon braces his weight above her, his hips digging into hers, his hand gripping her breast almost painfully, his other dug into her hair, his elbow planted along the bed to steady him. He tugs at her dress, dragging the material over her breast impatiently, groaning into her mouth as he rolls his hips into hers, unable to stop himself, unable to contain the heat spreading through his gut.

Sansa drags a knee up along his side, her skirts pulling uncomfortably along her thigh.

Jon breaks from her, dragging his hand from her hair to bunch along the skirts at her thigh instead, rucking them up as he buries his face in the crook of her shoulder, his lips planting along her pale throat. "Gods, Sansa, you feel so good," he groans out, his growl lost in her hair.

Sansa grips at his head, fingers tangled in his curls. "I want it to be you," she gasps at his ear.

Jon stills, blinking away the haze of desire beneath a singular moment of clarity.

He closes his eyes at her words, his chest heaving against hers, his hand gripping at her thigh hard enough to leave bruises, but he won't go further, won't drag her skirts up higher, won't snake his hand up to her smallclothes and tear them away, won't sink his fingers into her wet, waiting cunt like he longs to, like he's aching to.

"Sansa," he warns her, his teeth at her throat, his other hand still firm at her breast, fingers still curved over the collar of her dress, dragged partially down her chest, her laces taut at the seams.

His knuckles are white beneath the force of his struggling willpower.

"I need it to be you," she whines at his ear.

Jon pulls back just enough to look at her, his face pained. "Sansa, I – I can't..." The realization of what he's only moments away from doing to her hits him like a gale of wind from atop the Wall.

And yet he doesn't pull his touch away, doesn't relinquish his hold of her.

She blinks the wetness back from her eyes, her fingers curling tighter along the back of his neck. "Jon, I won't go to anyone else. I can't. Not after – " She stops, swallows tightly. Her eyes shift back and forth between his. "I can't."

Jon drops his forehead to hers, a ragged sigh leaving him. He drags his hands from her breast and thigh, cradling her face instead, elbows keeping him braced above her on the bed. "I know," he murmurs in frustration, his eyes slipping closed at her pained sob.

It was easy, at the start. Easy to pretend that their secret kisses and hidden glances were a game. It was easy to pretend it could never end.

But it isn't easy anymore.

Not when he wants what he wants. Not when he knows there is no stopping it, even when he knows it's wrong.

He's not ever going to fall out of love with Sansa Stark, he knows this now.

And that's the rub. That's the salt of it.

He's just a bastard boy in love with his sister.

And such a tale never ended in anything but blood and heartache.

Jon brushes a thumb across her soft cheek, his mouth a trembling line. "Sansa, listen to me. What we're doing – "

A sharp knock sounds at the door.

Sansa's eyes go wide and Jon nearly throws himself from her, stumbling away from the bed on a sharp intake of breath.

Sansa rises to her elbows, mouth parted in surprise.

"Sansa, it's me," her mother says from the other side of the door.

The panic rises in Jon's throat, and he looks around the room quickly, bounding as quietly as he can behind her armoire, pressing his back up against the wood as Sansa pushes from the bed, smoothing down her skirts and her hair, clearing her throat.

"Just a moment, Mother," she calls out, voice wavering somewhat.

Jon curses beneath his breath, glancing around the armoire one last time to catch Sansa's identically frantic eyes, before he turns away, closing his eyes on a tight inhale, the breath halted in his chest.

He hears the door unlatch a moment later, but no footsteps carrying into the room.

"Yes, Mother?" Sansa asks, clearly keeping her from entering by staying in the threshold.

"I came to check on you. Has your headache worsened?"

Jon works his jaw, adjusting his breeches as gently and quietly as he can over his still-throbbing erection, wincing slightly at the discomfort.

"I'll be fine with rest, not to worry," Sansa placates her mother.

A moment of silence passes, before Catelyn's voice comes from the door again, a lance of worry threading through her words. "You're flushed, dear girl. Are you unwell? Should I call the maester?"

Jon bites his lip, eyes turned skyward, watching the flickering shadows from the candlelight cast about the ceiling. His heart hammers in his chest.

"No, no, don't trouble yourself, Mother." Sansa's voice is just a touch breathless, just enough to have Jon's stomach sinking.

"Sansa, you're clearly – "

"It's just a chill. Nothing a good night's rest won't fix, I promise," Sansa assures her, voice tight. "In fact, I should finish readying for bed. Goodnight, Mother."

The slight creak of the door sounds before it stops abruptly, and Jon imagines Lady Catelyn's hand on the door, halting it, that familiar frown gracing her features.

"You're certain?"

Jon's stomach twists at the concern in her tone, remembering that this is a woman who just lost her two youngest boys.

The grief is still ripe in her voice.

It makes the bile rise at the back of Jon's throat, knowing how he'd been dishonoring her sweet, highborn daughter only moments ago, and in her own childhood home, no less. How he'd been touching her like no brother had a right to touch their sister. How he craved the feel of her still, even now.

The guilt is dizzying, enough to calm any remaining desire in him.

Sansa's voice is softer this time, a gentleness to it that tells Jon she hears the grief in Lady Stark's voice just as loudly. "I'm certain. But thank you for checking on me, Mother."

"Alright, then," Catelyn answers reluctantly, a sigh at the end of her words.

Jon imagines the brush of her hand against her daughter's cheek – the same cheek he'd held in his own sinful touch.

Gods, if she only knew how he's already shamed her daughter, how near he'd been to shaming her further –

She'd kill him where he stood.

Jon bunches his hands into fists, his head braced back against the wood of the armoire, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth in his taut silence.

"Come to me anytime you need."

"I will, Mother."

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

The door shuts with a hollow clang.

Jon breathes in the silence that follows, his chest rising and falling steadily. His hands flex, fists bunching and unbunching at his sides. His lungs ache.

"Jon?" The whisper is tentative as it leaves her.

Jon scrubs his hands over his face.

What are they doing? What are they doing?

"Jon."

He steps from around the armoire, a shadow falling over his face as he meets her gaze.

She stands in the middle of the room, her fingers worrying themselves. She opens her mouth, closes it. "I..."

Jon sighs, his jaw tightening.

That bile – it stains the back of his tongue.

Sansa looks to the floor.

His own shame keeps him rooted, his feet heavy where they stand.

"You should wait a while... before you go," she says tentatively. "To be sure."

Jon closes his eyes, a heavy breath leaving him. "Aye."

When he opens his eyes, she's looking at him again, but she keeps her distance – keeps this distance between them.

He stays planted where he stands. She stays with her hands wringing themselves before her.

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

No, there is no falling out of love with Sansa Stark.

And that's the salt of it.

(He is the wound.)

* * *

"Read it again," Catelyn demands in a tight voice.

Robb sighs as he drops the missive from the Freys to the tabletop between them. "Mother..."

"Read it again," she repeats, her voice shaking.

Sansa stands rigid beside her mother, her eyes fixed to the unfurled scroll atop the table. She can feel Jon's gaze upon her.

"Seven hells," Edmure curses, a hand wiping over his mouth as he stalks from the war table, and then stalks back. "Are you actually considering this?" His gaze shifts heatedly to Robb.

Brynden puts a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Edmure."

"And how am I supposed to calm myself? They demand a marriage between myself and a Frey girl as reparations for Robb's – " Edmure bites his tongue, a sharp glance sent around the table, before he meets the Blackfish's eyes once more. "His indiscretion," he finishes tightly.

Jeyne settles a hand low on her swollen stomach, her gaze flitting quietly to the floor.

"Edmure," Brynden censures in a low voice, squeezing his nephew's shoulder meaningfully.

"And their other demand?" Catelyn bites out, her chest rising with her indignation. "Are we going to simply ignore that?" she asks shrilly.

Sansa's mind goes blank, her breaths coming shallow and short. Everything is static in her mind, her eyes blinking furiously as she tries to process the contents of the letter. Her mouth parts, but no words follow. She closes her mouth tightly, her throat flexing. Her eyes water without her bidding.

Robb looks at her, leaning over to brace his hands along the table. "Sansa."

She blinks up at him.

"Tell them no," Jon says lowly from across the table, his words cutting through the fog in her mind.

Sansa sucks a sharp breath through her teeth.

In the spirit of common goals and renewing our alliance, His Grace, King Robb of House Stark, is asked to grant the marriages of Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun to a Frey daughter of our choosing, and Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell to Lord Perwyn of House Frey.

Sansa starts to shake.

"How do they even know you've written to the High Septon of Sansa's annulment?" Catelyn asks sharply, her eyes shifting around the table to meet every person present.

"Tell them no," Jon growls again, his hands bunching into fists at his sides.

Sansa's chest feels tight.

"And if His Grace rejects another marriage alliance? What then?" Brynden asks gruffly, his hand slipping from Edmure's shoulder.

"No one told him to get a whelp on the girl!" Edmure cries.

"Uncle," Robb bites out, his anger flashing briefly across his eyes, his hand going to Jeyne's elbow at his side. "You will address my queen with the proper respect she deserves."

Catelyn purses her mouth, collecting herself with her hands smoothed over her skirts. "You're not helping, brother," she says tightly.

Edmure bites his tongue, inclining his head in quiet acquiescence, his anxious energy thrumming throughout his body.

Sansa feels sick.

"Why are we even discussing this?" Jon nearly bellows, drawing everyone's attention then. "Tell them no," he demands for the last time.

Robb squares his jaw. "It's not that simple."

Sansa's eyes flutter shut, her lip beginning to tremble.

"Robb, we just got her back," Catelyn begs.

"I know!" Robb huffs, a hand held to the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to send Sansa away either but – "

"Is no one concerned about my marriage?" Edmure interrupts, frazzled at the inattention to his situation, eyes glancing about the room.

"Edmure, please," Catelyn moans, turning a pained look his way.

He silences at his sister's distress, his mouth tipping into a frown.

Brynden crosses his arms as he considers the missive laying innocently atop the table. "Walder Frey is a sorry excuse for a man, and a scheming, self-serving mongrel, but you'll need his family's support if you want to meet the Lannisters south of the Neck, especially since you've sent forces back north to retake Winterfell."

A sound catches in Catelyn's throat at the reminder of the recent loss.

"Then we do it another way," Jon grits out.

"And if there is no other way?" Robb asks sharply, his gaze turned toward Jon. They stare each other down for several moments, before Jeyne rests her hand along Robb's arm and he turns from his half-brother, running a hand through his hair roughly.

Sansa blows a slow, shallow breath through her lips, eyes shifting back open to watch the room. Her gut twists painfully when her eyes fall on Robb.

Brynden shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "We can consider other options, Your Grace, but they'll want an answer soon."

"I'll need to speak with the other lords," Robb says on a defeated sigh.

"This is a family matter," Catelyn says, her voice less firm than she'd begun the meeting with.

"It is not," Robb says surely, a dark look sent her way. His shoulders sag, his frown pinching tight. "It is a Northern matter, and thus requires careful deliberation."

A wave of nausea overtakes Sansa.

Jon steps toward his brother. "Robb, you can't – "

"You're dismissed." He glances around the room, his gaze softening on Sansa when he makes his way to her. "All of you," he says quietly, turning away from her swiftly. Jeyne reaches for his hand then, looking up into his face with reassurance.

Sansa feels the bile rising instantly. She glances to Jon and finds him staring at her, his jaw locked in his ire, his whole bearing stiff and rigid. She can see the whites of his knuckles from across the table.

"Come," Catelyn says, ushering her gently from the room.

She follows her mother's direction mindlessly, her limbs numb.

Sansa finds herself standing in the courtyard after many minutes, her mother's hand on her arm as she speaks in quiet tones to her.

She doesn't recognize the words.

"I need..." Sansa begins, her voice a croak, and she licks her lips, glances over to meet her mother's gaze. "I need some air. Please excuse me." She gathers her skirts in her hands and walks away.

She finds herself at the edge of the riverbank many minutes later, past the gate and past the bridge and past the suffocating air that had lodged in her throat ever since Robb read Walder Frey's letter aloud.

She sucks deep gulps of air into her lungs, eyes raking over the river, blinking against the sun. Her hands bunch in her skirts. Her chin rises, her shoulders pulling taut.

And then she bends over and retches. It empties from her instantly – all the rage and despair and helplessness. Her sick hits the green riverbank and her knees buckle on reflex, her hand going out to a nearby branch to catch herself, a cough raking up her throat, the blood bursting red across her cheeks from the force of it. When she's finished, she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, eyes wet as she grips the tree beside her.

She steadies herself, breathes deep, wipes her hand along her skirt.

I want it to be you, she'd told him.

Tears bead at the corners of her eyes, her breath hitched on a sob.

It doesn't really seem to matter anymore.

* * *

"How can you even consider it? You know what she went through," Jon growls out, cornering Robb when his meeting with the lords is ended.

Robb stops short as he exits the chamber, eyeing Jon. "Have you been waiting here the whole time?"

"Of course," he bites out.

Robb frowns, before pushing past him toward his own chambers. Jon follows without thought.

"Jon, believe me, I'm the last person that wants to put Sansa through another traumatizing marriage," he huffs out, never slowing.

Jon keeps his pace, stalking the corridor alongside him. "Then you should be telling that to the Freys."

"And what would you have me tell the Northern lords, hmm?"

"That our sister is not a bargaining chip," he growls out.

Robb shoots a dark look his way. "Are you saying that's how I'm treating her?"

"Aren't you?"

Robb stops short, turning swiftly to Jon, his nostrils flaring. "I never said I'd agree to the Freys' terms." His voice is clipped, but there's a thunder beneath it that stops Jon in his tracks.

He stares at his brother, his king, trying to will his anger down, but his chest is heaving with it, his throat rife with it.

He is no help to Sansa like this – antagonizing their brother further.

Jon sets his jaw, his gaze flicking low in deference, not meeting Robb's eyes as he steadies his anxious breathing. "Then what are you saying, Your Grace?" he gets out roughly, swallowing back the ire, leaving only civility in his tone.

Robb sighs, taking a moment to consider, and then he rests a hand on Jon's shoulder.

It makes him look up at his brother again.

Robb offers him a shared look of frustration, his brows furrowed over his Tully blue eyes. "I understand your resistance to the idea. But you cannot ask me to refuse their terms if you won't even offer an alternative," he says dismally.

Jon nods, his throat tight. "You're right, of course," he says hoarsely.

It pains him to admit it.

His anger had been instant, thoughtless. His only concern had been Sansa – is Sansa. But this is not how she needs him – raging and demanding and reckless.

He clears his throat, lifting his head to meet Robb's gaze fully. "Have the lords any suggestions?"

Robb's face darkens, his hand dropping from Jon's shoulder. "Most of them don't see any reason not to agree."

"Robb," Jon growls.

"I know, I know," Robb answers swiftly, turning to walk back down the corridor.

Jon follows suit, quiet for many moments, before he asks him, "What do you plan to do?"

"I'll speak with Mother. She may have some ideas."

Jon remembers coming upon Lady Stark only moments before she'd attempted to free Jaime Lannister all those months ago. He remembers how his rescue of Sansa began in the first place.

No, Lady Stark would not give her daughter up for anything. She'd choose treason first.

(And almost did.)

He doesn't know whether to be relieved or not at Robb's going to her for advice. But at least, it means that Robb is searching for a way out.

It will have to be enough.

They stop at Robb's chambers. He gives him a nod of farewell, but Jon grabs for his elbow and stops him, his touch uneasy.

Robb glances down at the hand on his arm, and then back up into Jon's face. "What is it?"

"Why won't you tell Sansa that you're trying to find another way?"

Robb quiets a moment, his mouth tipping into a frown. He looks down the empty corridor, his throat flexing as he swallows. "I don't... I don't want to give her false hope." He looks back at Jon. "If there is no other way."

Jon releases Robb's elbow, a single tight breath filling his lungs. He shakes his head, his voice stricken in his throat. "Robb, we can't –"

"Sansa knows her duty," Robb says surely, his eyes betraying his apprehension. "When push comes to shove..." He clears his throat, blinks away the disquiet. "As the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, Sansa knows what may be asked of her."

Jon bites his cheek, that simmering rage curling in his gut again. "And a bastard wouldn't understand that, is that it?"

Robb huffs. "I never said that."

"Well, I'll tell you what I do know," Jon grinds out, the words a struggle as he steps toward him, his own distress bubbling up his throat. "I know the sound of her cries, brother, and I know the shape of her scars, and I know what nightmares she suffers from in the night because I was there, Robb. I was fucking there – when she asked if you were the one who sent me, if you were the one who came to her rescue. I was there when she finally broke down, when the weight of King's Landing finally fell from her shoulders and she was free, she was free, Robb, and still – still – more wounded than I'd ever seen her. Because she needed us. She needed her family. And we weren't there. So, I can't –" He stops, his chest heaving with it, his voice breaking as he corrects himself, tries to steady the throbbing between his ribs. "We can't abandon her again."

Robb stares at him, his brow furrowed sharply down, his mouth a thin, tight line. "Jon."

"She – she needs us to put her first this time." He pulls a heavy breath through his lungs.

Robb reaches out and plants both hands along Jon's shoulders. "You know, that as king, I could never simply put her first, Jon," he says painfully.

Jon drops his head, blinking away the wetness at the corners of his eyes. His skull aches from clenching his teeth.

"You know that," Robb murmurs, a squeeze to his shoulders.

"Aye," Jon croaks out, looking back up again.

(The salt of it.)

Helplessness tears at his gut.

"But I will do my best," Robb assures him, though it rings hollow now. "That's all I can promise."

Jon nods wordlessly, working his jaw.

Robb gives him one last squeeze along his shoulder, before turning from him and entering his chambers.

Jon is left to watch the closed door, the following silence blaring in the empty hall.

* * *

Many days pass, and Sansa prays. She eats, and she sleeps, and she takes turns in the garden. She sits and embroiders with her mother. She takes tea with Jeyne.

And she prays.

Robb hasn't spoken to her since the reading of Walder Frey's letter. She knows he is struggling to find an answer that may suit them all. But she's afraid there isn't one.

It's what brings her to the Sept this night, long after everyone is asleep, a robe hastily thrown over her shift in her restlessness. She lights a candle and watches the wax slip down the pillar, her hands folded before her.

And she prays.

But gods, she doesn't even know what for anymore.

"Sansa?"

His voice should be soothing but it's only a wretched reminder now.

Sansa plasters a faint smile along her lips when she turns to meet Jon's gaze over her shoulder.

He closes the door behind him, his face pained as he watches her where she kneels. He makes his way to her slowly.

"I couldn't sleep," she says in answer to his unvoiced question, rising and brushing the dirt from her knees.

"Neither could I," he tells her.

Their stolen kisses have ceased since the letter, and she doesn't precisely know why. Or maybe she does.

She can't seem to bring herself to be anything other than cordial to him these days.

(Anything more and she thinks she might break.)

But oh, how she misses him.

Her traitorous heart yearns for him even now, even when she is trying to teach herself to live without him.

(Even when she is failing.)

"I didn't mean to... to interrupt your prayers," he says finally, a hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing awkwardly.

Sansa looks up into the stone face of the Mother. "It's no matter." She sighs, glancing back down to him. "I don't think they were heard, anyway." She presses a nervous thumb into her opposite palm.

"Oh, Sansa." He steps toward her, his hands lighting upon her arms. "Why have you... why don't you talk to me about it?"

"And what is there to say?"

He swallows tightly, looking away a moment, before turning back. "I just want to – I don't know, to... to comfort you, somehow, but I just – I don't know how."

Sansa softens at his anguish, stepping into him to place her hands upon his chest. "I know."

"Tell me what you want,"

She shakes her head.

"Tell me and I'll do it."

"I know you will, but it's too late."

Jon frowns at her words, his hands tightening over her arms. "Please don't say that."

"I suppose the only thing to save me know is if the High Septon rejects my annulment." She chuckles darkly at the thought. "I can't be bartered for a marriage alliance if I'm still married, can I?"

"Don't say that," he grinds out, leaning toward her, closing the space between them with his lips pressed to her forehead.

That dark chuckle returns, though it's tinged with desperation now – a reckless sorrow. "It's true, though," she murmurs, closing her eyes on a sigh and leaning into him.

"We'll run away," he says against her temple.

She actually laughs this time, pulling back to look at him. "Run away?"

"Aye," he swears, eyes fervent on hers. He releases her arms to cup her face instead. "Just like you said we should, the morning before we made it to Riverrun. You knew it then. You told me then. That this would happen. And I – I didn't think – " He stops, swallowing thickly. He squares his jaw, his thumbs running tenderly over her cheeks. He sighs, and it seems to take all of him, as he hangs his head, words choked back. "Sansa, I didn't..."

Her lungs ache on the sob she's bottling up, her hands going around his wrists as he holds her. Tears prick the corners of her eyes.

She thinks back to their journey here – riding across green fields in his arms, the warmth of him beside her as they slept, splashing in the river as they fished. She thinks of peace and safety and joy. She thinks of things she only knows from songs. Things she used to dream of and hadn't even known how close they were.

But then she thinks of her mother's embrace, and Robb's tired shoulders, and Arya all alone in the wilderness.

She thinks of Edmure and Brynden and the home they've made for her here.

She thinks of Bran and Rickon.

She thinks of her lord father and how she doesn't even remember the last words she shared with him.

Sansa sucks a trembling breath through her lips, hands gripping his wrists needfully. "Do you regret it? Not running away then?" she manages through quaking breaths.

Jon lifts his head to look at her, the answer splashed across his face in ruin.

And oh, how it cuts.

"Aye," he croaks out, a sheen of wetness over his eyes. "I regret it." And then he bares his teeth, his brow furrowing, a wretched groan leaving him as the tears gather in his eyes, and he shakes his head, the remorse plain upon his face. "I truly, truly regret it now."

She smothers the sob along her tongue, releasing his wrists to cup his face now, pressing into him so that their chests are but a whisper apart. "Don't," she tells him, her breath painting his lips.

His eyes flick between hers, confused.

"You did the right thing, by bringing me back."

"Sansa – "

"I needed my family. And they needed me."

Jon's hands drift down to her neck, his chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths, the words lodged in his throat as he watches her.

"You should never regret bringing me back to them," she urges with a confidence that surprises her.

Yes, she would have run away with him. Yes, she would have been free to love him then. But it would be the only freedom she'd know in a life of chains. And she would grow to resent him for it. She would grow to resent herself.

There are no good choices. Only impossible ones.

"I'm sorry," he sobs at her lips.

Her eyes flutter closed, an exhaustion filling her that seems endless and endless and endless. "I'm so tired, Jon," she breathes into him, and then he's kissing her, and she wraps her arms around his neck, and thinks of the candle she lit. She thinks of the lone flame, and the slow burning. She thinks of the afterimage it leaves in the dark, when it's inevitably snuffed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles against her lips, one hand dug into her hair, the other braced along her back.

She swallows up his sobs, and floods his mouth with her own, her hands grasping and needful and aimless.

Just the feel of him. Just the feel of him is enough in this moment.

Jon presses her back until she hits the wall with a low thud, the jostle breaking their mouths apart momentarily.

"I'm sorry," he pants into her mouth again.

Sansa digs her nails into the nape of his neck. "I know," she gasps along his tongue, trying not to break.

He fumbles for the tie on her robe and she helps him, tearing the material from her shoulders so only her shift remains. His hands are everywhere – rucking up her shift and dragging her mouth back to his by the back of her neck. His teeth sink into her bottom lip and she moans, her hands fisting in the thin material of his tunic, tugging at it impatiently as he grabs for one of her exposed thighs, hefting it up as he braces his hips to hers, the length of him hard and pressed to her center.

Sansa gasps, gripping his shoulders, tearing her mouth from his to press her head back against the stone wall, her lip caught between her teeth. "Jon," she whimpers, rolling her hips to meet his.

He pants into her neck, nipping slightly, laving his tongue over her pulse, his hand dragging her thigh higher up his hip, fingers digging into her flesh as he bucks into her, his breeches and her smallclothes the only thing separating them now.

"I'm sorry," he groans into her neck, over and over.

Sansa sobs at the words, lost to him. So lost she never hears the door as it creaks open.

So lost she doesn't even recognize the gaze she meets across the room when she opens her eyes.

Like looking into a mirror. That Tully blue.

Sansa stills at the sudden realization, eyes blown wide.

The heat of Jon's mouth is still at her throat when she finds her voice.

"Robb," she chokes out, a new anguish blanketing her tongue.

This is the salt of it.

(And they are the wound.)

#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #nodology #my writing #jon x sansa #got fanfic

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