#even though you can barely tell he's a brown dragon under all that lol

[always-amity]

Merciless's Second-In-Command

I can't recall if it was ever explicitly canonized that Wodensfang was Merciless's second-in-command during the first war, or if he was just chosen at random to kill Hiccup I, but with all the parallels between the stories of the Hiccups', and especially Hiccup I and Merciless compared to Hiccup III and Furious, I love the idea of young Wodensfang being to Merciless what Luna was to Furious.

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 29- Fae Magic

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

BDubs and Stress take a trip to the eternal spring fields in eastern Lairyon, where they face lighthearted trouble and grim fates.

________________________________________

“Oh! That tingles.” BDubs giggles, feeling the hot, dry heat turn into a comforting warm breeze upon entering the magical barrier. Wet, damp air hanging with droplets soaking in the warm sun rays, clinging to the vibrant flowers and trees that turn the enchanted forest into a painting. Eternal spring among the Flowerfruit Fields, petals and berries of rare specimens growing in the wild space. Pink and green grow from the collapsed buildings, vines laden with fruit creeping down the roof. The vines and bushes overflow onto the thin green pathways of the roads and walking trails.

It’s the fruit and herbs that Stress and BDubs are here for. If they hope to face Dolios, and to help their friends ward off the darkness that attacks them, they need an antidote for dark magic. Stress thinks she found a potion that could reverse any ill effects- if administered in time. Unfortunate for the hermits, the ingredients are rare and unusual. No apothecary she visited had the ingredients she needed. Most they never even heard of. 

But if there’s one place she could find the ingredients, it was here in the fields. Foraging among neon green leaves and plump blue fruit. And if there’s one hermit that knows what weed is what, it would be BDubs- resident plant mage. And already, he’s like a kid in a candy store. “Amazing, I thought the starflower went extinct eons ago! Oh, is that a kipling scale vine? Absolutely incredible, stunning.” 

Stress snorts back a laugh. “How do you keep all that information in yer head?” 

“By removing non-important info, like how not to yell, or all my maths I learned in school. A-and names. If they aren’t a hermit, I don’t remember.” BDubs springs to his feet, grabbing the parchment of paper while Stress escapes the heat of her robes. It’s a little much, the fuzzy wool and thick fleece. She wraps the sleeves around her waist, revealing pale, toned arms and a bright pink undershirt. “Alright, what’s on the shopping list for today?” 

Together, the two forage across the field. Stress plucks leaves that BDubs points out, bags fruit that she remembers from the potion book, but no matter how long they searched, they could not find the rarest, most elusive ingredient of all- dragonfruit. Though BDubs has heard of the unique plant, he has no clue how it grows. Is it a vine plant, like a melon? Or perhaps arboreal, or bushgrown. After stabbing himself on the thorns of an estenberry bush, for the fifth time, he snarls defeat. 

“Aww, don’t give us that attitude, BDubs. We’ve been at this fer ages, it’s okay if we take a break.” Stress gazes at the sky, the sun already setting. They arrived here this morning, but all day among the fields has eaten up their daylight. A cold breeze nips at her nose, inviting her to set up camp. 

“No, I’m not stopping until this job is done!” He plunges his hands into a patch of star flowers, hoping that maybe he’ll find something in there. Instead, he feels the sensation of something cool but energetic running along the tips of his nails. The sound of bells rings in his ears. 

And Stress smacks her forehead, so hard that her pale skin turns as red as a Fi fruit. “The fair folk! Of course! They created the Flowerfruit fields, surely they’d know where we can find one of them dragonfruit!” 

BDubs snorts, brushing dirt from his fingers. “You actually believe in faeries? What are you, twelve?” 

“Would you-!” Stress claps her hand over his mouth, glancing from side to side, then glaring him down. “Of course they’re real, BDubs. What, you tellin’ me you’ll believe in dragons and plant monsters, but the other kind are too far outta the realm of belief?” 

The plant mage only nods his head, glancing around at the evening field. Fireflies dance in the blue night sky, and bunnies hop across the trails, from fruit to fruit in search of their next meal. He sighs, backing away. If there’s one thing he learned, it’s best not to trifle with any of the girls. Cleo and False could run him through with their blades if he crosses them- which, admittedly, takes a lot to do. But he’s also the master of annoying people. Stress however… she needs no weapon to make an impact. “Alright, we’ll look for your faerie friends, if you think it’ll help.” 

Stress’s smile is worth backing down on this argument. Seeing his friends happy is what he loves to see most. BDubs follows the ice blue trail of her robe into a thicket of trees, dancing around the rare and exquisite herbs growing at his feet. He can hear the sound of bells ringing in his ears, soft and sweet, just at the cusp of sounding like voices and laughter. Some of the dancing fireflies cast shadows that look bipedal, but he chalks it all up to his weary body. Stress and him had been traveling for days to arrive here, only to jump right into searching for ingredients. Ingredients that now swing in pouches and vials on his and Stress’s waist. 

All except for this ridiculous dragonfruit. He can’t help but grumble to himself as he follows Stress. Why would a dragon even want fruit? Are they omnivores? It sure didn’t seem like it at the championship. Do they grow them, is that why? What he wouldn’t give to see a massive dragon tending to a tiny dragonfruit plant, tilling the soil and watering it at the mouth of their caves. 

BDubs is yanked out of his own thoughts, Stress grabbing him by the arm and nearly throwing him into the mossy grass at her feet. He’s about to whine about the rough takedown, but she falls to the floor next to him. “Look!” 

The two peer through ivy and bushes. Before their eyes, mushrooms and toadstools grow and glow in the moonlight. Pink flowers of cherry blossom trees sway, petals falling to the verdant floor in a storm of rose. Fireflies dim to reveal the festivities inside the ring. Dozens of fae, dancing with bare feet across the soft moss. Their laughter sounds like tiny bells, harps and pipes filling the air as if it were a human orchestra. No matter their tiny size, the music rose well beyond the center of their festivities. 

Stress reminds herself it’s rude to eavesdrop. She crawls through the bush, about as unlady-like as she can get, but announces her arrival. “Hello, fair folk!” 

The fae rise on dragonfly wings, an aura of light following them as they dance upon glitters and gusts. They bow and welcome Stress to the Flowerfruit Fields, though the music grinds to a halt and the glimmers turn red. Stress realizes what’s wrong, and elbows BDubs in the stomach. Hard. “Ow! Alright, Hello, other kind or whatever.” 

“Don’t ruin this, be polite.” She growls under her breath, amber eyes turning icey. “Just...follow my lead.” Stress turns away, walking into the clearing. Careful to avoid stepping within the faerie circle. “I’m the Ice Mage, and that’s the Plant Mage.” 

“My name is-” BDubs howls as a heavy snowboot lands on the arch of his foot. “Yep, that’s me, the Plant Mage.” 

A young faerie, hair a dark halo of curls bouncing against deep hued skin. Pink petals stitch into clothing, a smile for jewelry and raindrops for gems. “Welcome, mortal mages! For what reason do you enter our forest? Do you wish to join in our celebrations? Perhaps you would like some food?” 

At least this time, BDubs waits for Stress to tell him no. They do not enter the faerie circle, nor do they accept the food. “Actually, we’ve been lookin’ fer something all day long, and if there was anyone who would know where to find the final ingredient to our list, it would be the very people that created these fields.” 

Just like BDubs, fae like their egos stroked. The fae accept the kind comments, a few playing with Stress’s short brown locks. BDubs steps away, unwelcome to the idea of tiny, glittery creatures touching him in any way. “Of course, we would love to show you our wonderful creation. Eternal spring, the time of birth and celebration!” 

The faerie attempts to lead Stress into the circle, but she’s too clever to be caught in their trap. She’s a woman raised in high society- she can sniff out trouble a mile away. “We searched all day, but could not find the last ingredient we need.” 

“A dragonfruit.” BDubs finishes, wringing his hands. If he gets his hands on the seeds of this rare plant, he’ll propagate it in his own jungle garden, until no one ever has to stick their hands in a fi fruit bush ever again in search. The fae around him titter, and he catches only snippets of the gossip and conversations around him. Something about the rarity of the fruit, the tender care needed, like it was a jewel or child. How much time it took for the fae to find one. He sneers, turning his back on the petite party. “Forget it, they don’t have the ingredient Stress. They just want to force us into their weird little realm they’ve got.” 

“BDu- Plant Mage!” Stress claps her hand over her mouth. He said her name. Not her full name, thankfully, but it’s one piece to the puzzle the fae could use in their tricks. She turns back, kneeling to the tiny troublemakers. She has to pick her words carefully. “Please ignore my ignorant friend, he didn’t mean what he said. Your help is greatly appreciated from me, and my appreciation spans to him.” 

“Oh, yeah. Thank you so much for all the help. I dunno about you, Ice Wizard, but I don't see a dragon-” His whining morphs into squeaking, and laughter crowds the illuminated air around Stress. Her fellow hermit is no longer at her side. A rabbit is instead. No, wait. Stress would know that tuft of hair between large, floppy ears anywhere. 

“He runs his mouth like a bunny.” The pink faerie giggles. They turn their attention to Stress, a glint in their eye matching the mischievous tone of their voice. And Stress thought the look on Grian’s face was trouble. “Unfortunately, bunnies cannot carry a dragonfruit. And I don’t think we’d want to give such a rare fruit to ungrateful humans. No no no!” 

“Fair folk, we humbly request your kindness. My friend here is an idiot-” She yelps as sharp bunny teeth nip her fingers. “And a right meanie. But we need the fruit. This potion is crucial to the safety of all Lairyon. Please, if he apologizes consider giving us the dragonfruit.” 

“An apology will not be enough.” A fairy with a red aura and lanky wings deems. “Apologies are worthless to the fae. Your belittled bunny here must prove he is sorry, and lower his crown to that of jester to be granted reprieve.” 

Stress glances at her furry friend, but he shakes his head, crossing his paws in defiance. “It’s a deal! What’s one little prank gonna do?” 

The fields flurry around the two, separating Stress from bunny BDubs. One faerie settles on Stress’s shoulder, warning her she should stay back. They don’t want the kind human to be caught up in the misgivings of the illfated. Another faerie drops a flower crown atop Stress’s head, though Stress is careful not to accept any food the fair folk offer. 

BDubs, on the other hand, is picked up by his fluffy cotton tail by three different fae, their laughter a cacophony of bells. His tiny claws dig into the dirt, but the otherworldly beings are must stronger than his thumper feet, and they succeed in pulling him to a faerie well. The pink aura fairy flits to the stone siding, casting dust into the ripples as if she were sowing seeds. The water turns a milky shade, swirling like clouds trapped in the ground. Mist pours from the sides. 

Fae pull BDubs off the ground, suspending the rabbit above the well. “Enjoy your nap, Plant Mage.” 

Stress joins in the raucous laughter from all around the forest, and a short squeak is cut off when the faeries dunk BDubs into the well. He doesn’t stay under for long, but when the faeries pull him out, his eyes are closed and mouth lolled open. Somehow, even in a rabbit’s body, BDubs manages to snore. Stress raises an eyebrow. “Is that all?” 

The fae go silent, the entire forest echoing only the sound of BDubs fast asleep, apart from a snicker here and there. A squeaky, high pitched voice breaks the silence. “Nonono, big gummy bear, I’m not cherry flavored. I swear.” 

Stress realizes the voice is coming from the rabbit, and a snort slips through her lips. The forest roars with laughter, as BDubs continues to dream aloud. His dreams jump from ridiculous statement to ridiculous statement. Stress was sure she heard the weirdest things come from BDubs before, but she can’t help but howl like a chupacabra when BDubs mumbles out his secret enjoyment of diamonds. “Guess someone ‘as rubbed off on ya. Better remember to wash my coins and jewels when they come from both of ye now.” 

Feeling fuzzy both inside and out, BDubs coughs up a hairball from his throat. He opens his eyes, rubbing them from sleep, before realizing he is fuzzy. He’s still part rabbit, in the midst of transforming back from bunny to human. Paws turning to hands, ears shortening back to be beneath his bandana. The young faerie donned in pink settles their arm against BDubs’  bunny feet. “So, how was your nap?” 

“That was the wor-” Stress cuts BDubs off, eyes blazing hot enough to melt all the ice in Lairyon. The last thing he should be doing is rebuking the fae. Again. BDubs groans, but voice pitches to a sickly sweet tone. “I had a wonderful nap.” 

The fair folk all in the fields laugh and cheer, some zipping away to tell others of the fun they missed. It’s a rare delight to have such entertainment, such a witty human that can still fall for their pranks. The young faerie in pink disappears among the bushes, and returns with a bag full of small black seeds. “We fae keep our word.” 

“Th-” BDubs remembers not to say those words, and simply bows his head in response. “Great kindness, i guess or whatever.” 

“We will miss your company.” They snicker. “We would love to have a romping rabbit to bemuse us...and of course, the kindly Ice mage. Take good care of these rare seeds, they require the care of a beast, much like their namesake.” 

BDubs takes the pouch, securing it right next to his heart. He’s going to sleep holding these seeds after what he’s been through. The two hermits rise, about to make their way from the fields when a green light collides into BDubs’s head. “Can I not get a godsdamned break here?” 

The faerie that ran into him shakes off his stupor, voice running so fast it sounds less like talking and more like chirping. Stress turns to look at the fae. “What’s the problem, loves?” 

Faeries rush around them, flitting around in every direction with no sense of purpose or precedent. The young pranking pixie starts to fly away, but stops dead in the air. “No, no that will not do. The dark presence is too close.” 

“Dark presence? What do you mean?” Stress follows the faerie, but they turn on the hermits. A hand as small as Stress’s pinky nail passes between hermit and other kind. BDubs moves to follow, but discovers he can’t pick up his feet. It’s as if they are rooted into the ground. 

“Be the light.” The faerie breathes, before disappearing in the brambles and bushes. Stress cries, watching as her robes turn to bark, bones to wood. Her feet have become roots, and it’s climbing higher. 

BDubs reaches out to help his friend, shock dawning on his face as his fingers turn to branches, bright pink cherry blossoms blooming. The transformation engulfs Stress’s face, Features turning to knots and whorls of the grain. He can only close his eyes, and accept that they’ve been tricked by the fae again. 

Except when he opens his eyes, he can still see. He cannot move, cannot even breathe, but he remains able to see the outside world. He feels a brush of leaves against his own branches, and that’s all he needs to know that Stress is alive as well. 

Why have the fae trapped them? Why turn them to trees, but let them see the world beyond? 

Screams fill the air where there was once birdsong and laughter, the peace of the Flowerfruit Fields shattered. BDubs surges forward, but is stopped by his own roots and rigidity. A howl sends shivers down his leaves, and in the moonlight, a shadow beast prawls through the grove. A varkolak husk, red foam dripping from it’s misty muzzle, sniffs the air before chasing after fleeing lights.

Stress can’t watch. She closes her eyes, hearing the husked creatures snarl and snap, and a distant chuckle begins to arise from the bloodbath. She keeps her eyes closed, until that charismatic voice warms across the massacre. “Such raw magic...so ethereal, why haven’t I thought of coming here before?” 

Three spires of black crystal orbit around Dolios’s crown, mist swirling. With each breath Dolios takes, he consumes the dark magic. Red splatters across his cheek, droplets falling from the hairs of his perfectly kept beard. Eyes glimmer with curiosity as a faerie is dangled from between his fingers. 

A crystal lowers from the angled orbit around the Magistrate’s head, and a shadow falls over the cherry blossom tree. Transparent mist swirls like midday clouds, a low rumble of a magic spell escaping under Dolios’s breath, followed by a cut off scream, scraping like a bell. 

When the shadow disappears, there is no faerie left. Only the magic, the power writhing through Dolios’s veins. The magistrate looks around, and for a moment Stress fears he knows they’re not real trees. But he steps over the corpses on the ground, faeries sapped of their power fading away into nothing. Not even a husk. 

The stolen magic disappears under Dolios’s golden hemmed sleeve, and his hands clasp behind his back. The husk monsters continue at the simple nod of his head. Leaving behind in his wake a bloodbath, and the ashes of what once were the fae of the Flowerfruit fields.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 7

Finally catching up on posting my chapters on tumblr now that I’ve got the time to do the freakin’ formatting, lol.  I’ve been lazy.  My bad.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Seven: Taken

"(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"You slept well, I hope, brother?" Aegon's eyes crinkle with his smile as he bites off a piece of salted seabass.

Jon offers a tight smile in return, leaning back in his chair at the table, shoulders bunched. Aegon does not wait for the ladies of the house to join them, tucking into his breakfast with poised and slender hands. Jon picks at a piece of brown bread, eyes lingering over his untouched plate. He glances to the door again, half expecting Sansa to walk through it this very moment. "Not particularly," he sighs, tearing off another piece mindlessly.

"Yes," Aegon muses, "I see you're clearly distracted."

Jon raises a brow at him.

Aegon continues chewing, waving a hand nonchalantly, knife in his grip as he speaks, "The first night can have that affect."

"And you've enough under your belt to advise me on it?" Jon bites out, tongue smarting instantly when the words leave his mouth. He pulls a sharp breath in, turns his gaze to the table.

Aegon stops chewing, swallows slowly – demurely. A humoring smile tugs at his lips. "A wife is different."

Jon does not argue him that one, but he decides to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, drawing his shoulders back, trying to ease some of the tension there.

Sighing almost wistfully, Aegon sets his cutlery down. "Daenerys has not changed much since that first night." A chuckle lights his lips, almost nostalgic. "Still as demanding and insatiable as ever."

Jon scrunches his nose in distaste, resisting the urge to reach for his wine, wash the lump of bread in his throat down.

"I don't imagine Lady Sansa was so, however."

Jon's gaze snaps to his brother, hand clenching into a fist atop his thigh. He draws a slow, tight breath in.

Aegon cocks his head at Jon, leaning back easily in his chair, eyes glinting sharply – a violet lance cut through the brisk, morning light streaming through the windows. He smiles again, the ends of his lips curled like the whip of a dragon's tail. And then he returns to his food, resuming his meal smoothly. Another bite. A slow, long chew.

Jon watches his brother, knuckles white. "Is this really the conversation you want to be having over breakfast?" he manages tightly.

Aegon makes a small sound of contemplation in his throat, glancing back up at Jon. "My appetite isn't so easily curbed, brother. Is yours?" Aegon swallows, a flash of teeth peeking out beneath his curved lips.

Jon grinds his jaw, his bitterness curling like smoke in his chest – sour and lung-scraping.

Aegon continues with ease. "I do hope at least you enjoyed your evening, brother. Mine was terribly lonesome." He laughs, short and disturbingly bright. "Daenerys would not have me last night."

"I can hardly suspect why," Jon snaps dryly, mouth clamping shut when he realizes what he's said.

Aegon watches him with unblinking eyes, rolling the food around his mouth leisurely, wrists resting atop the table edge, cutlery still in hand.

Jon thinks of the petal crushed under Aegon's boot in the garden, and the flick of the riding crop to the backs of his calves, and the smooth, weathered stone sitting pointedly atop their father's desk.

And then he thinks of the way Aegon had stepped back from Sansa at the wedding feast, a relinquishing sweep of his arm and a brotherly smile aimed his way – how he had not objected to Jon's intrusion, nor his brusque manner.

Jon swallows tightly.

But of course.

He should have known better. Aegon forgets little, and forgives even less.

Jon smooths his hands along his thighs, chest constricting, waiting, poised at a knife's edge.

(He should have known better.)

Aegon leans forward across the table, smirk adorning his lips, brows arched in a conspiratorial look, as though eager to share a well-kept secret. "You've never spilled in a woman before, have you?" he asks softly, almost carefully to any other ear.

Jon hears the edge to it, easily enough.

He works his jaw, eyes fixed to Aegon.

His brother leans back smoothly, smirk still curling the edges of his lips. "Too fearful of spawning a bastard, weren't you?"

Jon has no answer for him, can only turn his gaze away, fix it glaringly to his wine glass, feel his skin prick with a resentment too familiar.

"They're not such terrible things, you know – bastards," Aegon says nonchalantly, setting his knife down to reach for his own glass, bringing it to his lips before he pauses, as though in sudden remembrance, "When properly kept."

Jon blows a breath through his lips, heated and halting, unable to keep the glare from his gaze when he looks back to Aegon.

His brother only offers him a lifted brow, lips stained red with wine when he pulls the glass from his mouth.

Jon feels the words brimming in his throat, rancid and airless – a choke, a strangle – feels his mouth open even still, a recklessness blooming beneath his skin, as heady as it is unfamiliar, and –

The door swings wide, Sansa stepping through, Rhaenys following behind her with a dour expression.

Jon swallows that slice of shame back down –stinging and raw.

"Sisters," Aegon greets, and Jon does not miss the address, nor does Sansa, it seems, as she stops short, blinking doe-eyed at him for a spell, before she's nodding her greeting, cheeks a faint pink, stepping gracefully toward the seat beside Jon. She doesn't meet his eyes.

Rhaenys lets out a scoff at Aegon, shaking her head with pursed lips, settling into the empty space beside him.

Aegon cocks his head in question, eyes drifting to the closed door. "You seem to have lost my wife along the way," he says, amusement lilting his tone.

Rhaenys reaches for the sugared plums instantly. "Daenerys says she's too ill to break her fast with us this morning." Sucking a piece of fruit between her teeth, Rhaenys sends a meaningful look Aegon's way, swallowing after a pointed chew. "She sends her regards." A sugared smile follows the words.

Jon manages to bite back his scoff. It isn't the first time Daenerys has sought to spite Aegon with her absence.

Aegon picks the napkin up from beside Rhaenys' plate and raises it to her with an arched brow. She takes it with a roll of her eyes, dabbing at her sugar-smeared mouth. "I'll have to see to her later, then." His gaze flicks to Jon and he has the unexplainable urge to grab for Sansa's hand next to him. He resists the inclination – only barely. "Make sure she's not too unwell," Aegon finishes, his violet gaze settling back on Rhaenys

She's already filling her plate, well past the conversation.

Beside Jon, Sansa is quietly cutting into her own food. He takes a breath, wills the lingering rage from his face, tries to smooth his brow and his frown and his hardened gaze, dipping his head to catch her eye. "My lady?"

She flickers soft blue eyes up at him and for an instant, they stay staring at each other.

All at once he remembers the way his palm had fit around her thigh and the gasp she'd sounded at his ear and the drowning, bone-singing heat of her when he'd finally sunk inside her. His gaze flicks to her mouth, and watches it purse.

When he glances back up to her eyes, he finds her staring unblinkingly at him, fork halted halfway to her mouth. She clears her throat, settles the fork back to her plate.

Jon glances away, wiping a hand down his mouth. A gruff exhale leaves him, and he reaches for his own fork, eager for a distraction. "I'm sorry for leaving before you woke this morning," he says softly, careful not to let the conversation reach his siblings' ears. He glances up to find the two already occupied by their own discussion, and looks back to Sansa with a barely discernible sigh of relief.

She only nods, glancing down to his hands as he digs into his quickly cooling roast.

"I...had matters to attend to," he mumbles.

He feels the lie shrivel up along his tongue even as it tastes air.

Blessed air.

And that's what he had needed – after waking groggily in the early hours of the morning, body curled loosely around her sleeping form, half-hard at her backside, and he'd wanted nothing more than to trail his fingers down the smooth line of her arm, and then lower over the curve of her hip, her skin warm and supple to the touch, and he'd nearly rocked into her on instinct, lulled by sleep and hazy desire, before the night rushed back to him in a flood of memories.

The pained whimper she'd tried to smother when he'd first entered her, the stiffness of her frame, muscles bunched achingly tight, the way she'd squeezed her eyes shut, those soft, iridescent blues blanking out into shadow -

The way he'd clearly hurt her.

(Warnings mean little to nothing in this house, and Jon should know that by now.)

He swallows thickly, pausing in his determined cutting, eyes blinking furiously down at his plate.

Jon had torn himself from the bed that morning, dressed as swiftly and quietly as he could, and then left Sansa to her slumber.

He tells himself it couldn't have been helped.

He'd tried to be quick about it, tried to bring himself to completion without prolonging her pain, and truth be told, it wasn't particularly difficult when she was so warm beneath him, so soft and breathy, so tight around his cock.

It's easy to get lost in Sansa Stark, he finds.

Except, there's a smaller, more insistent part of him, that tells him he is wrong.

"I intend to do my duty," she'd said, and it had been his unraveling

Jon glances up to Rhaenys, finds her watching him with a perceptive stare. He growls his frustration beneath his breath, tearing back into his food.

Sansa does not answer him, only nods mutely, gaze flicking back to her own plate.

His eyes sting.

And what a stupid, foolish hope.

(The realization is blinding.)

He understands now, what he'd been so adamant to smother before, what he'd been unable to admit to, even in the darkest parts of him.

He wants her.

He wants her – maddeningly.

"You will never be more to her than duty."

He only wishes she wanted him back.

* * *

"Alright, I've been patient enough I think," Margaery says on a laugh, shuffling closer to Sansa in her seat. "You must tell me how the wedding night went. Was it everything you'd hoped for?"

Sansa blinks alarmingly wide eyes up at Margaery, hand stilling halfway off the table, cream puff caught between her thumb and forefinger. "The wedding night?" she manages after a gulp.

Margaery cocks her head, a mischievous smile tugging charmingly at her lips. "Yes, of course. From what I saw at the feast, your Jon simply couldn't wait to get you back to your chambers." She shivers deliciously, leaning closer to the younger woman over the armrest of her chair.

Sansa drops the pastry in her hand back down to her plate, going for the napkin in her lap, throat tightening. "Yes, well, it was...unexpected." She smooths her hands over the napkin in her lap, the breeze from the open gardens fluttering strands of copper around her face.

"I'm sure," Margaery smirks. She urges her on with a waving motion of her hand.

Sansa bites her lip, and then she turns fully in her seat to face the Tyrell, brows furrowed sharply. "Margaery, he... he tried to touch me... well, there." She bites her lip again, a flush of remembrance branching through her, cheeks heating.

"I should hope so," she says, a laugh bubbling at the edges of her lips, before she catches the expression Sansa wears, her smile wilting instantly. She clears her throat, straightening in her seat. "And that...unsettled you?" she asks now, voice calmer.

Sansa wears a worried thumb into her opposite palm, watching the motion. "I didn't want him to," she says, and she remembers, instantly, the heat that had suffused her when he did, the almost uncontrollable urge to shift her hips up toward his touch, to chase that fluttering thrum of nerves that ricocheted through her. She clamps her mouth tight around the words, chest tight with her embarrassment.

Oh, but what would Margaery think of her? What would her mother think of her?

"Sansa," Margaery says, infinitely soft, her gaze concerned, body shifted toward her. "Did he..." She stops, brows bunched tightly together, voice working over hoarse words. "Did he hurt you?"

Sansa blinks back up at her, head shaking vehemently. "Oh no, I mean, yes, well – Mother always said – I mean –" Sansa sighs, takes a deep breath, tries to control her raging heart. "I knew there would be some pain the first time, but I... I didn't..."

Margaery's hand curls over hers in her lap, stilling the nervous motion of her thumb against her palm. The touch is light, comforting. "Sansa," she begins, eyes imploring on hers, "When he kissed you, when he touched you, did he not – "

"Oh, he never kissed me."

Margaery blinks at her, suddenly alarmed. "Sansa."

"I couldn't... I couldn't let him."

Margaery's brows dip down in confusion. "You couldn't...?"

She shakes her head, hand turning beneath Margaery's to link her fingers through hers, palm to palm. "I wasn't ready for that. To be kissed – oh, but I want it to mean something, Margaery. I want it to be more than expectation, and I couldn't help remembering all those stories from the books, and the songs, and the tales, and is it wrong? To want such a thing? Even still? Is it wrong, Margaery?"

It was too intimate.

His hand on her thigh, and his stiffness pressed between her legs, and the heat of his bare stomach braced against hers and still -

None of it could compare to the intimacy of his breath fanning her lips, his dark stare through the candlelight, the pink tip of his tongue edging out to wet his lips.

He could fuck her ragged and still, she'd never be as breathless as she'd been in that moment, when he'd stared at her, leant down, moved to take her mouth with his.

To taste and touch and know each other.

To share breath.

No, Sansa had not been ready for such intimacy. And even when he'd slipped inside her, and even when he'd spilled inside her, and even when he'd fallen asleep beside her once they'd taken their turns at the wash basin – even then -

She couldn't let him kiss her.

Margaery rubs a comforting thumb along her knuckles, a sad sigh leaving her. "Oh, dear girl."

"It will come with time," Sansa says reassuringly, mostly to herself. "With care and time, I will try to love him. And maybe then..." She trails off, eyes glancing over the table. She never finishes the thought.

Margaery stays silent at her side for many moments, just holding her hand, letting the silken afternoon light dance across the table set. And then she makes a sound like a hum, thoughtful and cautious, leaning back in her chair as her hand slips from Sansa's. "Sansa, let me ask you something."

She raises a brow in question, expectant.

Margaery seems to mull over her words a moment, expression still cautious and concerned. "When he touched you – when he tried to... to ease you – did you like it?"

Sansa's mouth parts, cheeks heating.

(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind.

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes searching Margaery's. "That would be... improper."

Margaery cocks her head, voice still soft and careful. "Why?"

"I do not love him." The answer leaves her far more readily than she expects, and it carves a longing in her chest she isn't prepared for – a gentle throbbing between her ribs. She swallows back the trepidation.

Shifting in her seat, Margaery inclines her head toward Sansa, eyes focused. "And what if I told you that didn't matter?"

Sansa stares at her, brows scrunched in thought, hands bunching together in her lap once more. "What do you mean?"

Margaery blows a steady breath through her lips, a thoughtful expression gracing her face. "What if I told you, there can be pleasure regardless of love? What if I told you, you deserved it, even still?"

Sansa blinks at her, a frown marring her features instantly. "But I don't..."

"Dear girl, there is already enough grief in this world without you sabotaging your own marriage. Let the man please you. It seems he wants to, at least, which is more than can be said of most husbands."

Sansa's frown deepens, an uncomfortable warmth unfurling in her chest, something close to yearning, if she lets herself linger on it for too long. "And what makes you think he has any interest in that regard?"

At this, Margaery throws a baleful look her way, lips pursed as though in disappointment. "Anyone who saw him with you at the wedding feast couldn't say otherwise," she remarks pointedly.

"Gods, but that was embarrassing," she sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, hands tightening in their hold atop her lap.

Margaery seems to notice the shift, straightening somewhat, interest piqued. She rests her hands along her armrests languidly, a finely-arched brow aimed Sansa's way. "Was it, now?" There's a devilish curve to her lips that Sansa thinks she should be wary of, but she's too caught in her remembrance of the night to notice.

She huffs her irritation. "Of course," Sansa presses on a heavy exhale, chin turned up. "To be so... so rude and brazen, in the midst of everyone, and to the crown prince! To paw at me like some... some... possession. To touch me so in public." Sansa scoffs, her derision staining her tongue. "No, no, I did not enjoy that one bit." Her chest heaves, her hands wringing in her lap, tongue caught behind her clenched teeth.

Margaery merely peers at her.

She finds the look disconcerting, a hesitance washing over her when she looks at the Tyrell, suddenly small and unsure in her midst. "What?" she asks tentatively, barely trusting the word.

A slow, knowing smile slips across Margaery's lips, her hand reaching for Sansa's once more.

Sansa startles at the touch, but doesn't pull away. She glances down to their joined hands, finds her gaze fixed to Margaery's sun-touched hand as she swipes a comforting thumb along her knuckles once more.

"You know," she starts, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips, "It'd be okay if you did, Sansa."

Sansa only furrows her brows at the words, her confusion lighting her face.

Margaery's smirk goes full-blown. "If you enjoyed it, that is."

Sansa pulls her hand from hers, a sharp breath sucked through her lips. "Margaery!" she scolds, even as the smile touches her lips.

But the other woman only laughs, settling back along her chair. She takes a moment, smothering her chuckle behind a graceful hand. "Don't be so cruel to yourself, dear girl." Her smile grows fond, and then an abstract sort of sorrow lines her face, softening her beyond measure. "You don't have to love him," she says, hand tightening over Sansa's. "That's not what this is about."

Sansa sighs, her humor leaving her instantly, eyes drifting to their joined hands.

"We women deal with enough pain in this world without having to endure it from our husbands," she says solemnly, hand tightening over hers. "Take your pleasure where you can, Sansa. And do not be ashamed of it." Her eyes are fervent on hers, imploring, and Sansa feels her chest constricting beneath the look.

Did you like it?

Sansa thinks of the way he'd yanked her to him, the dark gaze he'd leveled Aegon with, the greedy press of his fingers along her ribs.

Did you like it?

Gods help her, but she did.

And nothing had scared her more.

* * *

Sex becomes perfunctory.

"I'll be gentler," he says on the second night, voice hesitant – the pale imitation of an apology, even in its sincerity – and Sansa fiddles with the tie of her robe, standing near the bed.

He's watching her from the threshold, his tunic already unlaced, and when she nods in response, a cool breath leaving her with the motion, he takes a breath, flexes his hands at his side, and then strides across the room toward her.

It begins anew.

They each know what is expected of them, after all.

When he eases into her this time, it's impossibly slower, a long, ragged breath leaving him, his jaw clenching at the effort. Beneath him, Sansa bites her lip, seizing up again, staring up at him in the dark, never looking away, and he has to glance down to her chest, the edge of her shift still adorning her, has to brace a hand along the bed at her head and still himself, let her adjust.

She reaches for his shoulder with a gentle squeeze, an indication to move, and Jon does.

Her legs fit around his hips easily now, her hands more sure at his shoulders. Every night, he still finds hazel oil at her folds when he sets himself to her entrance. Perhaps he is foolish in hoping to find otherwise. She doesn't jump like that first night anymore though, when he touches her between her thighs to line himself up.

He never touches more – knowing how unappreciated it is.

He never tries to kiss her either, and he thinks he hears the light breath of relief escape her lips when he drops his head to her shoulder instead, unable to bear her gaze any longer without wanting to crash his mouth to hers, to hike her thighs higher up his hips, to reach between her legs and ease some of that tension out with a wet thumb.

So, he braces his mouth to her shoulder, panting into her flesh, pumping into her with a steady, even pace that draws no whimpers but draws no winces either, and this he will have to be satisfied with.

Because if he cannot bring her pleasure than at least he can avoid bringing her pain.

He tries to make it good for her, in what little ways he can – always settles her with the pillow beneath her head, tries to massage the smooth flesh of her thighs when he's spreading her wide, manages to keep his teeth from catching along her collar bone with his ragged need, never drops atop her when he's finished, passes her the wet cloth from the bedside basin first and keeps his dark gaze turned from her when she's sopping up the seed spilling from her cunt with flushed cheeks and a still-heaving chest.

One night he swears he hears her breath hitch when he angles himself deeper, strokes inside her along a spot that has his eyes rolling back, her nails digging into his shoulder blades as her knees tighten at his waist. But when he finally looks down at her, her eyes are closed, her brow scrunched, as though she is trying to ride something out, and Jon thinks it must be pain.

He curses himself and draws back out, keeps to shallower thrusts, misses the curl of her nails along his back when her grip relinquishes him.

Another night she lets him cup her breast through her shift, his hand toying at the end of the fabric until she nods hesitantly, his rough palm closing around the mound unsurely, the sigh raking from him when he feels her heat beneath his touch, her heartbeat beating a rhythm against his palm, and he squeezes – gently. She arches imperceptibly, a sound curled in her throat, and she turns her head away. He barely contains his growl of impatience, dipping his head to her throat instead, lips latching to the skin there and palming at her through the shift, rutting until he spills, and her heartbeat never wanes, still frantic beneath his hand. He stays inside her for as long as he can get away with, pulling from her when she touches a delicate hand to his neck, the press of her fingers light enough to send him spinning, aching and desperate again.

He rolls from her with a hand raked through his curls, jaw clenching, his control like a taut string she plucks at precariously, unknowingly.

Because her every sigh he wants to drag out into a breathy moan, every rise of her chest he wants to bow into a delicious arch, every purse of her lips he wants to draw into a needy howl of his name.

To have her writhing beneath him, whining at his ear, coming apart for him with a splintered cry and her cunt clenching around his cock, to watch her break and crest and surge beneath his hands, to drive her to madness for him.

To draw it wildly from her – like a snarling wolf.

To sink his teeth in her and let her do the same.

To taste.

Sansa buries her face in his shoulder when he grunts his release atop her, a low curse panted in her hair, his fingers dug into the flesh of her hip.

She'll drive him mad soon, he knows.

She sleeps always with her back to him.

Jon takes to sparring with the eldest Stark often, a means of releasing some of the frustration he cannot release upon her, and Robb offers little but a raised brow when he comes demanding his presence in the training yard with a scowl and a nod jerked in the opposite direction. Robb always follows with a laugh, and more than once, Jon has found himself panting ragged at the end of a fight, tugging the collar of his tunic open harshly, chest heaving, sweat matting his curls to his forehead, and his body's absolutely thrumming, absolutely screaming beneath his skin, ready to rip and roar and -

And fuck.

Jon rakes a hand through his hair roughly, catching sight of Sansa at the edge of the training yard, gripping at the column she leans against, watching him with unblinking eyes.

He thinks he must be imagining the way she licks her lips, the way she bares her throat just so, the way her nails curl along the column.

(Because he can't be the only one – he just can't be.

Even when every trembling line of her body is telling him otherwise.)

Jon frowns at her presence, mouth opening, but never getting the chance to speak.

"It's been a while since we've had a turn, brother. Shall we?"

Jon's gaze whips to Aegon coming up behind Robb, swinging a blade casually, the hilt rolling through his fingers with practiced ease.

Robb frowns at the motion, eyes alighting the blade. "Live steel, my lord?" he asks cautiously.

Jon bites his tongue.

And so, the punishment continues.

Aegon's eyes dance with violet exhilaration beneath the afternoon soon and Jon nods toward Robb, motioning for him to join his sister. "Step aside, Stark." It isn't said callously, but Robb seems to recognize the edge to it regardless. He joins Sansa at the edge of the yard without further word.

Jon sighs, catching the blade Aegon tosses his way, and the spar begins.

Aegon has always been exceptionally good with a blade, but Jon's always been better. He weaves around Aegon with surety, stepping lightly, letting his blade miss just barely, letting Aegon's swings avoid him just barely.

It is a dance he learned the steps to long ago.

He is a well-kept bastard, after all.

Jon swings low – too low. And Aegon parries it easily, as he'd expected, knocking him back, and Jon stumbles a step, muscles tensing in anticipation, ready for the blow, as he turns his head just enough to miss the brunt of Aegon's responding swing, but not enough to miss the slice of the tip up his jaw, a thin arc of blood catching the air and Jon winces at the pain, a hand clamping over the wound when he stumbles back.

Aegon smiles triumphantly, blade stilled in an over-arch.

Sansa's gasp of "Jon!" has him nearly biting down on his tongue, and it takes all of him not to turn to her, a feral sort of need curling in his chest.

Aegon's blade tips into the dirt. "Well fought, brother." The words are accompanied by an appreciative nod, a narrowing of his eyes, fair skin glinting with a sheen of sweat that Aegon somehow manages to make look graceful rather than grimy.

Jon pulls his hand from his cut, collaring his glare, a tight swallow his only answer.

And then Sansa is at his elbow, one hand turning him in her grasp and the other reaching for his jaw. He pulls from her more harshly than he intends, but he doesn't think he can manage to bear her searching touch or her scrutinizing gaze this very moment.

Sansa retracts from him slowly, clearly hurt by the rejection of her touch.

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep, opens his eyes on the exhale.

Aegon is standing with his hands behind his back, sword still held in his grip, head cocked toward Sansa. "Did you enjoy the match, my lady?"

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, folds her hands demurely before her. "You are an exceptional swordsman, my lord," she says softly.

Jon's gaze snaps to her finally, watching the way she doesn't meet Aegon's eyes, her thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a motion of unease. He narrows his eyes at her.

"Well," Aegon begins, a light smack of his lips following the words, "With such a fair lady in the audience, I imagine it is any man's wish to prove their prowess." His smile branches out like a spill of rich wine, his head dipping down toward hers, voice lowering. "I admit, I am not immune to such powers, my lady," he says without faltering, eyes never leaving hers.

Jon glances to the side, fist already curling, tongue already tart with his rage.

"You're too kind," Sansa answers, and Jon feels her gaze on him, her figure a rigid line in his peripheral.

Jon presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds it there, tries to drown out the rush of blood.

To rip and roar and fuck.

His hands burn for her – maybe especially so with Aegon eyeing her so intently.

But his brother only chuckles, glancing back to Jon. "You should tend to your husband, Lady Sansa." His voice goes hollow – a dead expel of air. The ends of his mouth ease down, his smile uncurling like smoke. "He's bleeding," he says, sharp and cursory.

Sansa's hand slips along Jon's elbow, curling along the crook of it. "I shall," she says evenly, no tremble to be heard.

Jon, however, is practically quaking with his fury.

It doesn't abate until Aegon is stalking from the courtyard, until Sansa is turning him in her hands for another look at his jaw, huffing at his reluctance, until he meets Robb's eyes over her shoulder, intent and watchful.

Until Sansa is tugging him from the yard and he's trailing after her skirts, mouth full of useless words, his hand clutched in hers.

Until the spot between her shoulder blades becomes a blur beneath his heavy stare.

Until he is too far gone to ever turn back now.

* * *

"Take off your tunic," she says, wringing out the cloth in the basin beside him. When he doesn't move to do so, Sansa glances over to him, finding him leaning with his elbows over his knees, a bemused brow quirked. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "The blood will set if we don't clean it immediately," she explains, motioning to the splatter of blood along the collar.

Jon considers her a moment quietly, and then he's reaching along his back for the material, tugging it up and out of his breeches, over his broad shoulders and head. He bunches the tunic in his hands, holding it out to her expectantly, chest sweat-lined and sun-kissed.

Sansa keeps her gaze deliberately fixed to his as she grabs for the soiled garment, handing it off behind her to the waiting handmaid without breaking her stare. Her throat flexes tightly, and Jon seems to catch the motion, a slow, predatory smile tugging at his lips, half hidden in his beard.

Gods, but she can clearly see every sinewy cord of muscle she'd only ever seen before by candlelight.

The handmaid exits the rooms with the tunic swiftly, closing the door behind her, and then they are alone.

Jon leans back in his chair slowly, hands sliding over his thighs, shoulders pulled back as he watches her.

Sansa frowns at the deliberate display, reaching for his chin with perhaps a bit too much force and turning his head away from her. "We'll have to clean the cut," she gets out in a hoarse voice, dabbing the wet cloth to the wound.

Jon lets out an exasperated sigh, but does not fight her touch, letting her clean the thin cut down the length of his jaw. Sansa is focused, brow furrowed, swiping the blood clean that she can through his beard, dipping it back into the water, wringing it out, drawing it further and further down his jaw. She hardly notices the soft puff of his breaths or the way he watches her out of the corner of his eye, so intent on her task as she is. She cocks her head to see the underside of his jaw, to swipe at the blood drying there, tipping his chin in her delicate hold, and he acquiesces easily. But the light isn't good, and it's a bad angle from where she stands at the edge of his knees, so when she presses into them on instinct and he parts them for her, her skirts brushing along the inside of his thighs as she steps into the vee of his legs, she doesn't even note the shift, instead, taking advantage of the new position to better see the trail of blood drying along his throat.

She bends further, hair slipping over her shoulder, fingers perched beneath his jaw. Another swipe of the cloth. Slow and measured. Sansa watches the faint bob of his Adam's apple, the flex of sweat-soaked skin across his throat, and suddenly she remembers the way that throat had looked above her just the other night, with him braced atop her, driving into her with sure and steady thrusts. She remembers the clench of muscle along his neck when he'd spilled inside her.

Sansa's lips part, an unsteady breath leaving her. She's suddenly very aware of how close she stands to him, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest beneath her, how she need only lean a handful of breaths closer to bury her face against his neck. She presses harshly along the half-dried blood marring his jaw.

"You could have parried that last swing," she manages in a thin voice. She clears her throat, swallows back the quiver, hopes he doesn't notice it.

Jon doesn't answer her.

She frowns at the silence, wet cloth dipping along the edge of his collar bone now. She huffs. "Why didn't you?"

Jon takes a slow, deep breath, and Sansa can't help the way her eyes drift to the broad expanse of his muscled chest at the motion. She averts her eyes quickly.

And then he's reaching for the hair spilling over her shoulder, fingers snaking around the end of a softly curled tendril. Sansa stills with her hand at his throat, glancing at the gesture from the corner of her eye.

A sound brews in his throat, low and contemplative, his dark eyes fixed to the strand of copper between his fingers. "At our wedding feast," he begins, ignoring her question, "When you danced with my brother – were you not as upset with his familiarity as you were with mine?"

Sansa grips the cloth between white knuckles, drawing back enough to properly look at him. His hand at the edge of her hair keeps her from stepping back out of the space between his legs. She wonders if he intended it so. She stays resolutely silent.

A short, subtle quirk of his lip lights his face before it's gone. "Or did you welcome it?"

Sansa swallows tightly. "A lady must always be courteous."

Jon's gaze drops to her laced-in side, the fingertips of his free hand suddenly grazing the edge of her waist. His voice is low and breathy. "And your compliment on his swordsmanship? That was courtesy?"

Raising her chin, Sansa watches him with wary eyes. "A lady must also be conscious of her station."

Jon scoffs at the word 'station', his hand folding more surely around her waist, giving it the slightest tug so that she stumbles even closer, her hands going to his shoulders to steady herself. She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth at the jostle, watching as he gazes up at her, his face hovering just above her stomach. "A lady must be so many things," he mocks, his other hand curling tightly over the hair in his grip. "One has to wonder if she manages to ever be herself amidst all that decorum."

She remembers his warning to curb her tongue, suddenly. She smarts beneath the hypocrisy. Sansa's chest tightens with her frustration, the air stalling in her throat. She stares down at him with an air of incredulity.

Jon's hand branches over her waist possessively. "Or have I simply married a pretty little doll? Easily filled with other people's opinions about what she should be?"

Sansa's eyes narrow so quickly he almost misses it, her jaw clenching beneath her ire. His responding smirk incites her more, and she's reaching over to the basin then, dropping the cloth back into the water unceremoniously. "I've watched my brothers sparring often enough back home to recognize a thrown match when I see one."

Jon's hand tightens over her waist, his mouth pursing up at her.

"If even I can see it, who else do you think has noticed?" she says sharply.

Jon untangles his fingers from her hair.

Sansa raises her chin, a tight breath drawn through her lungs. "I doubt Prince Aegon would care very much for you coddling him, were he to know." She moves to step back, but he reaches for her with both hands now, gripping at her hips, steadying her against him as he glares back up at her, eyes hooded and dark.

"You have a particular interest in what my brother cares for?" he intones darkly, fingers curling tight along her hips, bunching in the fabric of her dress.

She glares back just as intensely, trying to ignore the way his steady grip lights a heat even through her heavy skirts, his fingertips marring the curve of her hips with his imprint. A long, charged moment passes between them, with neither relenting, until finally, Sansa brushes a delicate hand to the cut at his jaw, eyes still steel, mouth still cut into a sharp frown. "I'll call Maester Gregor to stitch that for you." She doesn't acknowledge the quiver underlining the words – swallows them back quickly. Her hand falls from his face. "Have you any further need of me, husband?"

Jon grinds his teeth, still glaring up at her, a shadow passing over his face, and then gone. He releases her instantly, almost forcefully. "No," he says simply, gaze falling to the wayside.

She steps from his overwhelming presence immediately, pretending to miss the clench of his fists along his thighs when she does.

"My lord," she says, nodding in farewell, before turning for the door and never looking back.

* * *

Daenerys is pregnant.

They discover it when she doesn't arrive for breakfast one morning, Aegon striding into the room to his chair, hands resting along the back of it as he blinks dazedly at the table.

Rhaenys pulls the spoon from her mouth. "No Daenerys tonight? Is she ill again?" A worried furrow of her brow mars her features.

"I've just come from the maester," he says slowly, eyes drifting to his sister's. "She's with child." He releases the words on a heavy breath.

Sansa's mouth parts, her shock overcoming her for a moment, before she regains her manners, setting her napkin to the table with a warm smile. "That's wonderful news, my lord."

His gaze flicks to Sansa, settling on her a moment, before returning the smile with a lilt of his lips, an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Lady Sansa."

"How is she?" Rhaenys asks, spoon stilled over her grapefruit.

Sansa glances to the princess at the tender exhale of her words.

Aegon steps around his chair, settling a hand at the back of Rhaenys' head. "It is no more than the common sickness, they say. She is well." He offers her a reassuring smile, fragile and barely there.

The image is striking to Sansa.

Aegon's hand falls from Rhaenys' hair when she nods in answer, lips pressed into a concerned but warm smile.

"Congratulations, brother," Jon says beside her, voice gruff as he leans back in his seat. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Aegon looks at him, then to Sansa, and then just as swiftly, back to Jon. "Yes," he says, "It is." A lick of his lips, hands returning to the back of his chair.

It's a decidedly delicate flicker of movement, nothing deliberate about it. It's almost...unnerving, in its fragility – the way Aegon's fingers curl around the back arch, the way his chest fills with his breath, lips turning up into a faint smile.

Sansa shifts in her seat, hands smoothing out over her thighs, before curling in her lap. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. He's staring at his plate now, his hand curled into a loose fist along his armrest, and he's so close, she realizes suddenly. Close enough to touch.

Her hand moves to curl around his forearm, hovering hesitantly in the air, before retracting back to her lap. He takes no notice, and Sansa breathes deep, settling the roaring pit of her stomach.

To taste and touch and know each other.

She sighs, eyes flicking back up toward Aegon. He's watching her steadily, and Sansa almost startles at the look. She flutters another encouraging smile toward the prince, throat tightening. "I'm sure you're very happy," she says.

Aegon cocks his head, a thoughtful purse to his lips. "I am, my lady."

Jon picks his fork and knife up beside her, cutting into his food with a single-minded focus. "The quail's getting cold."

Sansa turns to him, mouth open to scold his brusqueness, but she sees the tight clench of his jaw, and her mouth closes abruptly.

It isn't until later, when she's walking the gardens arm in arm with Margaery beneath a slowly waning sun, that she thinks on it again.

That stiffness in his jaw, the muscles of his arm flexing – all cold and callousness when he's bristling beneath something, and yes, she's become accustomed to his moods long enough to notice when he's bristling.

She wonders when that happened.

Maybe it's because she knows now, the gentle ease that can be found in his palms, the vulnerable quake that can be found in his breath, the decidedly not cold and callousness of his gaze when she's spread beneath him, taut beneath his fingers like the chord of a harp.

Maybe it's because of the way he looks at her these days.

Maybe it's because she's starting to look back.

"Margaery," she says, clearing her throat.

The Tyrell cocks her head to listen, a quirk to her lip in answer.

Sansa's hand tightens along Margaery's elbow. "Do you think Aegon and Daenerys love each other?"

Margaery laughs, short and bright, tapping Sansa's hand affectionately as they continue their stroll. "I think there are many things those two feel for each other, but I cannot rightly say whether any of it is love." She offers an impish grin. "Why do you ask?"

Sansa's gaze turns toward the path, lips pursed. "I don't know. I think I just..." She sighs, shaking her head. "I suppose there must be something of love between them, indiscernible as it may be to others."

Margaery plucks a nearby low-hanging flower off the vine, twirling the short stem between her fingers as they continue. "Because they're expecting?" There's something incredulous to her tone. "Sansa, any beast can breed."

She's taken aback by the words, even as softly-crafted as they are, melodically spoken, no hint of malice.

(The image of Jon, sweat-lined and panting above her, streaks through her mind. Her stomach turns without warning.)

Sansa bites her lip. She thinks, instead, of the look Aegon had let flutter across his face, perhaps even without meaning to, earlier that morning.

More exposed than she's ever seen him, except perhaps during their dance at her wedding, his eyes sweeping out over the room for his salt-haired wife upon her question.

"It is the wish of every marriage, is it not?"

Sansa blinks back the memory, another one stealing swiftly behind it. Jon's breath fanning her lips, his chest hard-pressed to hers, a dangerous glint to his eye – how the heat of him had burned her to the bone when he took her in his arms across the dancefloor, even as her sharp tongue cut into him with a branding chastisement.

He'd only held her tighter, never relinquished his hold, let her rebuke him without interruption.

That heat hadn't dissipated until well into the night, long after he'd spent inside her for the first time, long after she laid awake staring up at the canopy, listening to his soft breaths behind her, wondering if sleep eluded him as well.

She thinks she should have turned to him then, broached the silence, reached for something tentative and shadowed between them – something to hold onto in the comfort of night, where they may be free to be 'Jon and Sansa' outside of 'husband and wife'.

(She hadn't though, in the end. She'd only pulled the sheets up to her chest and turned her face into the pillow, craven and lonely – but mostly –

Mostly, afraid.

Of herself, more than anything.)

"That's not it," she tells Margaery, brows furrowing, steps never stalling. She glances out across the gardens, catches sight of the fountain coming around the bend, the faint light of dusk glinting off the waters like a mirage. She keeps her silence for many moments, watching the soft splash of water as they glide past, her throat tight.

Margaery fondly taps her cheek with the flower, a cheerful motion, even when her voice goes solemn, hesitant. "Is this about you and Jon?"

Sansa gives her an exasperated look but Margaery is undaunted. She merely raises a brow, a pointed look thrown Sansa's way.

"Jon and I – we..." A heavy sigh, a one-shouldered shrug. "We're still learning each other."

Margaery gives her a sharp look, barely managing to keep the disappointment from her face.

If she thinks Sansa a coward, she kindly doesn't say so. It wouldn't matter, though.

Sansa already thinks herself coward enough.

She sighs again, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. "Gods, I'm pathetic."

Margaery stops then, her hold on Sansa halting her as well, and she turns fully to her, eyes searching hers, lips tipped into a pretty frown.

Sansa blinks at her, brows raising in question.

Margaery takes a breath, hand sliding down Sansa's arm to clasp along her own palm. "Do you think Daenerys happy?"

She blinks at the question, glancing down to their joined hands, and then back up. Margaery is staring at her intently, and Sansa finds herself growing hesitant under the gaze. She fumbles for her words. "I don't..."

"In your eyes, does she seem happy to you?"

Sansa clamps her mouth shut, the words stalling along her tongue. She takes a breath, shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "No," she manages, a soft expel of breath.

Margaery only nods, a gentle thumb grazing over her knuckles. "And do you really think a babe is going to change that?"

Sansa bites her lip, a sudden sorrow lighting her bones. She thinks of Daenerys' self-assured words and her perfect posture and her unabashed gaze, all exceedingly graceful, and yet... somehow empty.

It saddens something great in Sansa.

"No," she answers – truthfully.

Margaery looks at her a moment longer, contemplative. "A babe is not the highest aspiration of love, Sansa, no matter what your Septa told you," she scoffs gently.

Sansa opens her mouth –

"Nor should it be," Margaery continues, hand tightening over hers.

Sansa's mouth clamps shut, her brows furrowed.

"Duty is all well and good, Sansa, but will it keep you warm at night? Will it weather the years with you? Will it grow old and grey beside you?"

Her chest aches at the words, her eyes stinging suddenly. She lets out a rueful laugh, the sound catching in her throat. "Take my pleasure where I can?" she asks, repeating Margaery's earlier words with a sardonic smile.

The other woman only offers a comforting gaze, patting her hand once more before releasing it, winding her arm through hers and continuing their trek through the gardens. "Quite," she says succinctly, chin tipped high.

The light has grown dim across the gardens, and they turn back toward the keep in unison. Sansa considers the other woman a moment longer, before leaning into her, whispering almost conspiratorially, "Do you think pleasure can become love with time?"

Margaery mulls the question over, rolling the stem of the forgotten flower between the pads of her fingertips once more. "Perhaps. For some."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then it is still pleasure," she says simply.

Sansa raises her brows at that, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

It's not an untruth, really.

And what guarantee does Sansa have that her union with Jon will nurture love? What guarantee has she at all that he even wants the same?

Sansa looks ahead, steps light and even, hand crooked into the hollow of Margaery's elbow.

Wolves have never been craven things.

So why should she start now?

Sansa draws her back straight, eyes instinctively searching for the high window that is hers and Jon's bedchamber.

Yes.

She will take her pleasure where she can.

"Sansa, would you..." Margaery trails off, fingers clenching around the flower in her grasp, a nervous sort of tremor making her shake her hand out, tossing the flower to the wayside with a long look. She breathes deep, tucks her hand more surely into Sansa's arm. "Would you find it terribly improper of me if I asked to write your brother back at Winterfell?"

Sansa turns wide eyes to Margaery, but the other woman's staring intently ahead, cheeks deceptively unflushed in the growing shadows, a nonchalant sway to her walk that is entirely too contrived in Sansa's eyes.

She smiles devilishly. "Well, I don't think he'd particularly appreciate letters from a strange woman, even one of such a noble house."

Margaery glances at her, brows raised, mouth parted with no sound coming out.

Sansa can hardly contain her giggle. "Though my brother Rickon is too sweet to tell you such himself," she teases.

Margaery stops, mouth gaping, and then a laugh breaks from her, a hand swatting at Sansa's arm good-naturedly. "Sansa, you terrible thing, I meant Robb," she near shrieks in laughter.

"Oh, Robb, is it? Just Robb? Not 'Lord Robb'? So intimate already?" Sansa cannot curb her smirk as she watches Margaery huff.

"You're teasing me."

"And rightfully so." Sansa beams.

Margaery tuts dramatically. "I find this friendship terribly one-sided, Lady Sansa. I am aghast at your insensitivity to my plight."

"Oh, how unladylike of me."

Margaery nuzzles at her cheek, laughing.

Sansa can hardly imagine why such a self-possessed woman would need her approval or opinion, but she is glad to give it, nonetheless. She clutches at Margaery's arm, keeping her close, smile never breaking from her face. It's a meaningful look she gives her, a warmth blossoming in her chest. "Take your pleasure where you can, Margaery," she says.

Margaery presses a swift, full kiss to her temple, smile etched against her skin, hand braced to the back of her head. "Then I shall," she whispers gleefully.

Sansa shakes her head at her, pulling back slightly. "Though I do imagine Robb is like to be the one to write first. Horrendous restraint, that one."

Margaery's laugh fills the night air.

Sansa is warm all the way back to her room.

* * *

Sansa sits at her vanity table, turning the vial of hazel oil over in her hand. She glances back up to her reflection in the mirror, braid undone over her shoulder, the thin silk robe parted over her white shift, the faint outline of her breasts barely visible in the flicker of candlelight atop the vanity.

And this is what Jon sees each night before they go to bed.

Sansa sighs, placing the vial back on the table top.

Do not be ashamed of it, she tells herself, repeating Margaery's words like a mantra. But she doesn't quite understand how it works without it.

She closes her eyes, thinks back to that first night he'd slid his fingers up her folds, and the jolt that shot through her at the touch. She curls her fingers around the edge of her shift at her thighs.

Maybe it all starts there.

Her knees part hesitantly, her eyes still fluttered closed, drawing the hem of her shift up her thighs, settling it at her hips. Taking a long, slow breath, feeling the tightness pricking at her chest, she trails a finger over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, dipping down between her legs.

She imagines spreading her legs for him, the warm, rough pressure of his palms urging her thighs apart, settling his weight in the cradle of her hips.

A shuddering sigh escapes her parted lips. Her hand presses against her clothed cunt, a sharp drop in her gut jerking her hips unconsciously at the motion. She snaps her eyes open.

Her image in the mirror is the most scandalous Sansa has ever seen, thighs parted eagerly, shift bunched up at the waist, chest already heaving, cheeks flushed, and then there – there – her cunt pushing toward the pressure of her palm, fingers curling down over her smallclothes. She gasps at the image, her hand retracting, and she brushes something – gods, something wonderful, a shudder racking her, a soft moan caught between her teeth, surprising herself, and before she even knows what she's doing, her hand is returning, seeking that spark, that surge, fingers more sure now, pressing over her smallclothes for something – for –

"Ah!" Sansa whimpers, hips jerking, fingers finding home. She rubs at the soft nub through her smallclothes again, feeling the dampness, head lolling back, hips bucking up into her own tentative touch, and another moan makes it past her clenched teeth, nearly loud enough to cover the sound of the door unlatching, but not quite, and Sansa rips her hand from between her legs, fumbling to replace her shift, smoothing her breath out, feeling that clench in her cunt even now, aching and eager, and she bites down on her lip to keep from trembling just when Jon stalks through the door.

Her eyes catch along his in the mirror when he stops short, the door slipping closed behind him.

For the horrifying stretch of an instant, Sansa thinks she's been caught out.

Her mortification is almost enough to drown out her arousal.

(Almost, but not quite.)

Jon's brow furrows as he steps toward her. "Are you well, my lady?"

Sansa releases a forced chuckle, a practiced scoff. "I'm still unused to this heat," she says, brushing the hair from her shoulders, hoping the light sheen of sweat at her brow is not construed otherwise, nor the faint flush of her cheeks she still catches in the reflection.

Jon stares at her a moment, considering, before nodding silently, seeming to accept her answer, and then making his way to the bed. He sits along the edge and goes to remove his boots.

Sansa feels the air rake from her chest in faint relief. Her body is still wound tight, her skin thrumming, heat lancing through her, and she watches Jon undress in the reflection of the mirror, hands curled over her knees in anticipation, lip caught between her teeth.

He's down to his sleeping tunic when he sits back along the edge of the bed again, his back to her, a heavy sigh leaving him.

Sansa stands with a surety she hasn't felt in many moons. She makes her way to the bed, settling along the opposite edge. In her peripheral, she can see the vial of hazel oil still lingering atop her vanity – untouched.

It will be the only thing untouched tonight, she promises.

With trembling fingers, she begins to slip the robe from her shoulders. It flutters to the furs just as Jon's voice hits the air.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I – I think I've had the wrong of it all this time."

Sansa stills, hands curled along the material of her robe, ready to drag it from the bed, her gaze flicking over her shoulder toward him.

His back is still to her, his hands hung between his knees as his elbows rest along his thighs.

She licks her lips, shifts to pull a knee up along the bed, angled toward him. "My lord?"

Another sigh racks him, and he's rubbing his face then.

Sansa's chest tightens inexplicably.

Jon straightens finally, turning so that he can meet her gaze across the bed. "When you said you wanted to be a proper wife."

Her mouth opens, words ready along her tongue, but the look in his eye stops her.

They stay staring at each other across the bed, half-turned with their backs to each other, half-leaning into the other's words.

And then Jon offers a rueful chuckle. "You wanted civility, not affection."

She thinks she means to say something, she must, she surely will but... but the words lay dying in her throat. She swallows them back like turned wine.

"But I'm a bastard," he says, gaze falling to the bed. "And it seems I exceed at neither." A light quirk of his lip, the curl of his fingers in the furs, fist white-knuckled and stiff.

Her gaze stays rooted to that fist, chest rising slowly and steadily. Her throat is dry, her tongue heavy. She does not meet his eyes.

"I apologize, my lady," he says now, turning from her fully, back a curved line, like a scream.

Or a howl.

Sansa blinks back the imagine, eyes stinging uncontrollably. She shifts over the bed toward him, hand outreaching. "Jon - "

"We should get some rest." He goes to put out the bedside candle, dousing their room in darkness.

Sansa can still follow his outline in the dark, still make out his form in shadow. She has grown used to the shape of him, the weight of him. She has learned to find him in the absence of light.

"Jon, please, I – "

"It's okay, Sansa," he says lowly, already turning under the covers, gaze fixing to the canopy of the bed. "Duty can take a night's respite."

Sansa curls her lip back in a trembling grimace, hand bunching in the furs, that sting at her eyes a sudden, wet sheen. She blinks back the tears in the cover of darkness, grabbing for her ends of the furs. She shuffles into her side of the bed, curling on her side, watching him.

He takes a breath in, heaves it back out.

Sansa curls her fist beneath her chin, huddled in the furs. "I don't think you exceed at neither," she says softly, watching him in the night.

He makes no move to turn to her, but she can see his eyes searching the dark – skyward, unfixed.

She almost reaches for him.

But instead, her hand stays bunched in the furs beneath her chin until sleep takes her, Jon's outline painted in shadow against the backs of her lids.

* * *

Jon wakes groggily to a noise at his ear, the film of night still dowsing him, sleep still fogging his mind. He blinks in the darkness, a grumble lighting in his chest. He's laying on his back, a warmth at his side, a steady rocking. Another sound at his ear – low and breathy.

Jon stills.

He blinks again, quickly, a hand rubbing at his eyes, straining to see through the shadows as he turns his gaze to Sansa beside him, half-draped over him. She's on her stomach, one of her legs thrown over his, fist bunched in the sheets at her cheek, her warm center pressing into his thigh and she's – she's –

Jon's throat goes dry.

Sansa rocks into him in her sleep, slow and even, rubbing herself against his thigh. Even through his breeches and her rucked up shift, he can feel the throbbing heat of her, her cunt damp against him. Another sigh leaves her, and Jon's gaze snaps up to her face, watching her lashes flutter in her sleep, her mouth pursing tight. He takes a moment, blinking wildly at her, jarred by the sight of her. And then he shifts just slightly beneath her, pressing his thigh more firmly against her.

The soft moan that leaves her has the blood rushing to his cock instantly. His mouth drops open as he watches her. Another rock of her hips against him, a keening sound in the back of her throat, and Jon's breath comes quicker, his thigh pushing against her cunt on each intoxicating grind.

He can feel his growing hardness pressing into the thigh she has between his legs and he shifts slightly on his side to better fit into her rocking. His eyes never leave the enthralling expression on her face, watching the scrunch of her brows, the purse of her lips, the pale column of her throat flexing as she strains in her sleep, drawing closer to him, back arching as she grinds against him, and she's wet, Jon finds, so unbelievably wet, and his mouth goes slack, his breath hitching, a maddening haze overtaking him, and he grabs at her thigh before he can stop himself, fingers inching up past her bunched shift, fixing to her hip. His fingers dig into her flesh, dragging her into him, grinding her against the hard muscle of his thigh, eyes fixed to the look of rapture on her sleep-touched features. His hand reaches further, encouraged by her breathy moans, grabbing at her ass and dragging her harshly against him, pressing his cock into her hip as his thigh wedges further between her legs, pressed up against her slick cunt, that sodden, intoxicating heat of her, grinding her against him, and the chest-rattling groan rakes from him before he manages to bite it back.

Sansa stills.

Jon's breath stalls in his throat and he stills as well, blinking deliriously at her in the dark, hard and aching at her hip, fingers digging into her flesh.

Her lashes flutter, her fist uncurling in the sheet beneath her, eyes lifting in a sleepy daze to catch brilliantly along his. Her breathing is short and shallow, her body stretched taut, a line of precarious rigidity. She blinks at him, her eyes focusing in the dark.

Jon barely breathes. They lay staring at each other, chests heaving, legs entangled. He watches the light of recognition in her eyes, even amongst the shadows, the flicker of a tremble at her lips, her tight swallow as she fixes him with a wide-eyed stare.

And just when he's about to release her, to draw back, to turn from her in heated shame and attempt to will his straining erection down, curled as far away from her on the bed as he can be – he catches the tentative shift of her thigh against him.

Her mouth parts, her breath hitching, and he doesn't dare move. She's still staring at him when she shifts again, this time just as hesitant, but it's a shallow rock of her hips rather than the simple press of her thigh.

Jon sucks a breath between his teeth, fingers tightening over her hip.

She seems to catch the reaction, because then she's biting her lip, brows drawn down in concentration, eyes never leaving his when she rolls her hips very purposely, very surely against his thigh now, a thready moan building in her throat.

Jon's control snaps. He grips at her thigh, pulling it from between his legs, ignoring her delicate whimper at the loss and shifting her so that her leg is swung over his hip instead, angling them so he's on his side fully, pressed into her, his other thigh braced at her center now. She sighs at the return of the pressure, an instinctual roll of her hips meeting him when he presses more forcefully into her. Her eyes go hooded, fixing to his mouth, the hand that was bunched in the sheets reaching tentatively toward his hip, anchoring there to steady herself against his thrusts. Even in the dark, he thinks he can see the pinks of her cheeks at the motion, at the steady rock of their hips, her cunt rubbing incessantly at his thigh through their clothes, and the thought has him impossibly harder, groaning in the space between their panting mouths.

"That's it," he tells her, voice gravelly from sleep and desire, hand guiding her hip against him. Watching her chase her pleasure like this, her cunt soaking him through his breeches, her chest heaving, her lip swollen and plump beneath her teeth, eyes hooded and fixed to his – it has him near on delirious. "That's it, Sansa, just like that," he grinds out.

She moans so prettily at his guidance that the sound staggers the breath in his chest. He ruts into her mindlessly, watching her face screw tight. His hand leaves her hip and fumbles for her shift, tugging the sleeveless thing past her shoulder, almost baring a breast entirely when he stops his frantic tugging, glancing back up at her, eyes boring into hers. She nods fervently, never stopping her grind against his thigh or her enticing mewls. Jon doesn't wait for a second confirmation, yanking the material down, breath catching when a perfect, pale breast spills out, nipple a dusky pink and pebbled to hardness. He cups her eagerly, groaning at the responding sigh that leaves her. He palms at her breast as she rubs herself more fiercely at his thigh, her hand curling tight at his hip.

Jon licks his lips, hungry, aching for a taste of her, growling impatiently as he dips his head down and takes her nipple between his lips, lapping at her, sucking eagerly. Sansa cries out, arching into him, panting above him.

"Fuck," he groans into her skin, teeth catching at her nipple, relishing the tremble that racks through her. His hand returns to her ass, hauling her against him, rutting shamelessly against her still-clothed cunt like a green boy. Jon imagines the slick heat of her, that tight cunt sheathed around his cock, so absolutely drenched for him, as he fucks her senseless, burying himself deep inside her again and again. He clamps down on her nipple, tongue swirling over the pebbled flesh, moaning with her in his mouth, sucking her harder.

"Jon," she gasps sharply, and the sound of his name in her breathless voice has him quaking, so painfully hard against her, wedging his thigh up, grinding her against the lean muscle of his leg, mouth releasing her breast on a needy growl.

"Come on, Sansa, just like that," he grunts. "Harder. Yes – fuck, just like that." His teeth catch at her collar bone, his tongue lashing at her sweat-slicked skin. "I want to feel that hot, wet cunt rutting against me. Want to hear you moan with me between your legs."

And she does moan – loudly – at his urging, grinding wantonly against him now, nails digging into his hip. Her eyes screw shut and Jon pulls back just enough to watch her, just enough to catch the disarming scrunch of her features as she chases her high, whining low in the back of her throat, pressed nearly flush up against him. "I want to see you cum for me, Sansa," he groans out, gaze fixed to her, breathless, and she cries out sharply, shuddering against him, wet and throbbing at his thigh, fingers like talons at his hip, face screwed tight, and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen, the pleasure crashing through her. He's spilling instantly, vision going white, grunting into her shoulder as his hips jerk painfully, the force of the hardest orgasm he's ever had washing through him in waves and waves and waves.

It seems an age before he's able to regain his breathing, his thoughts.

"I've got you," he mutters, voice coarse, rocking into her languidly, steadily, drawing her close. Her hand edges up from his hip, gripping at his tunic, an anchor. She's trembling, her chest heaving, her mouth at his ear. "I've got you," he says again, swallowing thickly, ignoring the sticky mess his seed has made in his breeches, against her shift.

Like a fucking green boy.

Jon sighs, biting back a curse.

(Too far gone to ever turn back now.)

Sansa's fist doesn't unfurl from his chest until sleep well and truly claims her.

"I've got you," he breathes into her hair, ragged – taken by the sight of her.

Taken – wholly and recklessly.

"I've got you."

[hopeswriting]

FANDOM: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

EVENT: Flufftober 2020

PROMPT: Sharing Clothes

AUTHOR: @hopeswriting​

RATING: G

PAIRING: Adult!Reborn/Adult!Fon

TAG WARNING: Swearing, OOC!Reborn I guess?

SUMMARY:

Reborn keeps stealing Fon's clothes for himself. Fon thinks buying his clothes twice is the only logical, caring thing to do. (Fon is mistaken.)

WORDS: 948

*

Reborn whistles, low and drawn out and unmistakably turned on. Fon smiles and stands in front of the mirror.

His shopping trip was about filling his wardrobe with some of these boring and plain occidental clothes, but the news he could retrieve his latest handmade changshan made up for that.

The silk fabric is all in nuances of navy blue, embellished with rich but simple embroidered patterns and seasonal motifs. A storm rages at the hem of his sleeves and rises up his legs, and two dragons poise on his shoulders while two others curl around his hips.

But what Fon loves the most is the black lizard sleeping just on top of his heart.

“I’m going to enjoy taking that off of you so much.”

“Gently, I hope.”

“Or what?”

Fon grazes at the soft fabric. “I’ll break your hands,” he whispers lovingly.

Reborn laughs. “Well, don’t be shy. Let me see you.”

Fon turns around, and takes a few steps towards the bed in what may or may not be a fashion walk. Reborn lies on the bed, propped on his elbows, and is all but undressing him with his eyes.

“Is that all? Give me a little twirl, show me how you rip a man’s heart out of his chest with your bare hands.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t see any other man here but you.”

Reborn rolls on his back, arches his back and bends his legs in quite the sensual position. “Do it.”

Fon bites his lip. “Maybe another time.”

“I like this one bit,” Reborn says in a casual voice, underlined with something that tells Fon he’s not going to let him live it down anytime soon. Not that he minds.

“I knew you would.” He shifts sideways to admire himself in the mirror some more, stroking the black lizard adoringly.

“But you know what would make this outfit even better? Black. Or yellow.” Fon scrunches up his nose. “Fuck off.”

“Oh please, I never once saw you with any ounce of yellow on you.”

“It’s called being smart, darling. People who advertise their flames like that only deserve my bullets in their head.”

Fon glances at him through the mirror. Reborn rolled back on his stomach, and is smirking at him daringly. Fon rolls his eyes and chooses not to comment on the jab.

He looks into the rest of the shopping bags instead.

“Another outfit?”

“Not quite.”

He holds the warm brown shirt in front of him, with little golden ornaments on the sleeves. It’s the exact copy of the one he already wore earlier.

He goes on like that until there’s no more clothes to show off, and every one of them was one he already tried.

“So?” He waves the button-up tantalizingly.

“So you bought all your clothes twice. So what?” Reborn’s face loses all humor, for some reason.

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.” Reborn smirks, but his eyes stay cold, and Fon would rather he stays laid down, really. “Do spell it out to me, Fon.”

Oh no. Did Fon misunderstood this?

“You know,” he says again slowly, lowering the button-up. “Now you can match clothes with me while not depriving me of my own clothes.” He tries a smile. “Happy?”

Fon ducks under a pillow, that straight up breaks the mirror and cracks and shakes the wardrobe upon impact.

“You ungrateful son of a bitch. You don’t deserve me.”

“Reborn—”

“Leave.”

“This is my apartment.”

“Did I fucking stutter? Just lock your precious wardrobe and leave.”

“Reborn, love, I swear I had only the purest intentions.” Reborn scoffs. Fon holds back a sigh. “You always steal my clothes.”

“How tyrannic of me.”

“You never give them back in one piece.”

“Life happens. Buy new ones. What, aren’t you rich?”

“I do that. And then you ruin those too.”

Reborn purses his lips. He stands, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s wearing one of Fon’s shirt.

“What is it?”

Reborn crosses his arms on his chest. “You’re not seriously going to make me say it.”

“No, you have to. Love, talk to me.”

The silent stretches between them, but he holds his ground. Reborn clenches his jaw.

“I don’t want to match clothes with you, don’t be stupid. I want to wear your clothes while being certain you can’t wear this particular piece of cloth as long as I have it. What’s the point otherwise?”

The silence falls again and Fon would feel embarrassed, but he just feels overwhelmingly fond. How sweet. How… uncharacteristically adorable.

Fon chuckles. Reborn shoots him.

He dodges, bends his arm behind his back and pins him on the bed. He settles on top of him, presses his face against the mattress with a hand on his neck.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“I know. Drop the gun.”

Reborn needs a little encouragement to comply. Fon throws the gun away, and release the pressure. Reborn shifts on his back.

“You better plan to stay like that forever. You won’t like the turn your life will take once you get off of me.”

“Then I’ll just have to take you up on your offer and stay here forever.” Fon laughs, shakes his head. He cups his face and bumps their forehead together. “You’re one unbelievable man Reborn, but rest assured I heard you loud and clear.”

Reborn curls his fingers in his hair. “Good for you.”

“You know in what clothes I love best to see you in?” A slow smirk spreads on his face, and Fon grins back.

“No clue,” Reborn whispers against his lips. He flips them around. “Let’s find out.”

*

BONUS:

Reborn and Fon are the definition of a Power Couple and I love that for them. Can you imagine fighting the two together? And they’re actually a well oiled machine type of teammates??? Oof.

They’re not together for a long time here. Well, it depends on what you consider a long relationship, but they’re together for about a year or so?

I headcanon about two years pass between the moment they’re chosen as the I Prescelti Sette and the moment they’re cursed, so you may or may not found that quick but what can I say.

It was sexual tension at first sight, and then it went from there lol.

They’re actually already living together, ish. Fon half moved out to Reborn’s apartment, and Reborn half moved out to Fon’s apartment, but they both think their apartment is the better one so they’re kind of stuck at this point.

They’ll probably fight that argument out, but in the meantime when they can’t compromise they just crash at the mansion.

------

They fight out most of their arguments really. And not in a they-can’t-communicate-with-each-other way, they just... like fighting each other lol. And they’re both stubborn so the cold hard fact of who won the fight and who didn’t works quite well for them.

Besides these fights are almost always followed by a heated make-out session, so, you know ;). And sometimes they go straight to the make out session part.

(And sometimes they “fight” just so a make out session can happen lol.)

------

Reborn is a territorial type kind of boyfriend. Clingy you might say, as long as you don’t say it in front of him lmao. He has to do it the round about way though because he has a Reputation.

His latest stunt is wearing Fon’s clothes. He’d like it better the other way around usually, so people would know Fon is with the World’s-to-be Greatest Hitman, but let’s be honest Fon doesn’t need this kind of protection.

(Or any protection at all for that matter.)

And if we’re really being honest it was never about that to begin with. Reborn just really likes wearing his boyfriend’s clothes and seeing the realization in people’s eyes when it clicks in their head.

And Fon honestly thought he was just playing another prank on him, because Reborn does keep giving them back damaged. And maybe he is a little less careful with them than, let’s say, with his own clothes, but he does actually have only good intentions.

(Fon loves nothing more than seeing him in his red changshan.)

------

On the other hand Fon is a lot more open with his affection. Wears black lizard on his clothes, stuff like that.

He always manages to drop Reborn’s name in conversations, calls him sweet names in front of others, sends him sweet messages on a daily basis.

(Reborn loves the hell out of them. He always responds casually to them but you better believe he notices when he doesn’t get them, and makes sure Fon notices he noticed.)

------

They’re kinda rough with each other, really handsy, but never violent. And it’s always all fun and games, with consent and everything.

They talk to each other exclusively in banter (in public anyway), either loaded with sexual tension, or really heated and it feels less like banter and more like they’ll break into a fight any second.

(And I know I’m talking a lot about their sexual tension lol, but they also really just love each other.)

And they never hesitate to actually break into a fight, so it’s even more confusing for people who don’t know them (and thus don’t realize it’s just how they bond together).

------

But sometimes they actually are about to break into a fight, and it happens just often enough the other Arcobaleno kind of worry about their relationship in the long-term.

Reborn and Fon don’t. It works fine for them so far, and they’re not even that serious in their relationship yet. (Or I guess the word is committed? They are serious with each other.)

They’ll figure that out once they’ll get there. And they’re pretty confident they will get there. (They want to anyway.)

(And then the Curse happens.)

*

Thank you for reading! Any and review are appreciated ^^.

[buttered-ghost-toast]

Listen, if you don't fill out all of those numbers and tell me everything about your MC I'm going to feel robbed

Oh geez, fam! ...aight. That took me a minute. But below you will find out more about my girl, Niri! 

1.      What is their favourite food?—

Cheeseburgers and carrots. 

2.       Do they have a fear of an animal? If so, what animal? –

Not a fan of snakes, lizards, frogs, sharks.

3.       What do they wear to bed? –

Shorts and a t-shirt. Sometimes nothing at all!! That had to stop when she moved into the HoL though. Brothers poppin’ in at all hours gettin’ an eyeful. Lucifer was upset. 

4.       Do they like cuddling?—

1000000000%. Niri’s a big ol’ cuddle bug. Asmo’s all about it. So is Beel. 

5.       Do they have a secret handshake with anyone? -- With Astaroth. It’s quite elaborate and they only ever do it when they decide to get up to trouble.

 6.       What do they look like? – 

She cute if I may say so myselffff (don’t judge me, she’s a self insert hah!) Mid to slightly above average height for a human female, fairly toned. Brown eyes, mid-back length hair that’s brown at the root, fades to a teal and purple under layers. Sometimes her hair will fade to a light yellowy-green. She has the hookup for dye from Barbatos who likes to procure things for her from the human realm. She also has quite a few tattoos.

 7.       Do they like chocolate? –

Only dark. She’s allergic to additives in certain milk chocolates so she doesn’t eat it much. 

 8.      What are their good and bad traits?

Good: Helpful, kind, encouraging, quite a hard worker in any task given her.

Bad: Easily swept up into trouble by others, will prioritize naps over other stuff sometimes, awfully flirtatious which gets her in hot water with Lucifer because apparently lesser demons keep poppin’ by the house with gifts also HUMAN, DID YOU REALLY JUST SAY THAT TO LORD DIAVOLO?! Oopsssssss~ Also, you know how Luci’s always doing the “MAAAAMMMOOOONNNNN…”…yeah, that’s almost always followed by “NIIIIIRIIIIIIIIII….”

 9.      Do they have any artistic talent?

Yes. She’s a musician so there’s that…and she likes to paint.

10.  What is their favourite room to be in, in the house they live in?

She likes the music room since the boys tend to spend quite a bit of time in there together, but she’s usually found in the kitchen making loads of food and baked goods…also, that’s where you’re more likely to find Beel, and she reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally likes Beel.

11.  Do they believe in luck?

To an extent. She believes that luck exists, but she thinks relying on it is a bit naïve.

12.  Can they do magic?

Like pull a rabbit out of a hat type thing? Yes. She picked up a few little tricks here and there from a friend who loves show magic. Def not the real stuff though.

13.  Do they believe in dragons?

She didn’t until she went to the Devildom. Not that they just have dragons hangin’ out all willy-nilly, but she’s heard stories from the brothers and others about dragons.

 14.  What is a pet peeve of theirs?

Rudeness and liars who don’t give up even after they’ve been caught in the lie. Also people who demand things of others as if they’re property and not living beings with feelings …this isn’t about Belphegor at all. Nope. She doesn’t have issues with him still.

15.  What was the last thing they cried about?

She was able to talk to all her bandmates at once for her weekly call home. They all just really miss each other, ok? It sucks that she has to lie to them about where she is because she knows they’re worried about her, but it was just nice to hear their voices.

16.  What is their sexuality?

Pan.

17.  Do they have a best friend? If so, who, and what makes them their best friend?

We’ll narrow this down to the Devildom. Niri gets along with everyone and literally loves all the beings she’s met and knows she could count on them for most anything, but there’s definitely a more solid feeling to her connection with Beelzebub. They sort of just get to be vulnerable and entirely open with one another and there is never judgement or ill will, even when Beel eats her secret snack stash…again.

 She’s kind of getting to that point with Astaroth as well, but she can sense he’s still a little guarded in certain aspects, and she’s not going to push.

18.  Have they ever been in a romantic relationship?

Yes, quite a few. It’s not her favorite thing to talk about since she’s been quite unlucky in that aspect, but hey, the past is the past.

19.  What does their relationship with their family look like? Are they close? Distant? Ect.

Her actual family family (with the exception of her brother) are not close in the least. They’re sort of barely on speaking terms. Her chosen family (comprised of her band and some of the closest staff) is extremely close.

20.  Do they have a pet?

No. She loves animals and had a dog up until recently, but they passed. It’s okay though, they had a good long life and it wasn’t painful for them when it happened.

21.  Do they have a familiar?

Nope. Non-magical.

22.  Are they a supernatural being?

Nope! “Boring” human, but she does seem to always find herself in weird situations that are sorta paranormal.

23.  How do they usually wear their hair?

It really just depends on the day. If she had time to work on it, it’s down and straight. If it’s a rush in the morning (read: fight for the bathroom because Beel won’t MOVE) she’ll toss it in a bun or ponytail depending on how hot it is outside. There are the odd days when she’ll just let it vibe in its natural wavy/curly state, but she kind of got fed up with the brothers calling her a sheep because it’s so fluffy.

24.  Can they play an instrument? If so, what instrument and what can they play?

Yes! She learned guitar and bass at a young age and was tinkering with drums before she was whisked away to the Devildom.

25.  What type a high schooler are/were they?

She was the quiet weird kid that didn’t quite fit in with the weird weird crowd, but also wasn’t popular. Plenty of people knew her or of her, but she mainly stuck with her group of friends and was nice to everyone.

26.  Have they ever been in a physical fight before? If so, with who? Who won?

Yes. Just small bits of violence. No one of import, tbh. But there was that one time they all went out to party at the fall and Mammon and Levi started teasing her and in her drunken state, Niri went to punch Mammon who managed to duck so she hit Levi square in the nose. He was fiiiiiiine.

27.  What is their favourite holiday?

Halloween because it’s fun, Christmas because of the togetherness, and EASTER BECAUSE MARSHMALLOW PEEPS!

 28.  If they could have one wish, what would they wish for?

A pass to go from the Devildom to the Human realm and back whenever she wants forever.

 29.  Do they wants kids? If they already have kids, do they want more?

No. Never.

 30.  Do they have a job?

Yes? Being a singer in a band is a job, right? It doesn’t always feel like a job because it’s awesome, but it’s a job.

 31.  Do they know how to drive?

Yes. She has convinced Mammon to let her drive his car on a few occasions and every time they get back he swears NEVER AGAIN. She a little speed demon.

 32.  Do they get stressed out easily?

Funny story, actually…YES. But she is pretty good at not letting it show. So on the outside she’s like la-la-la~ but inside it’s all AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA~~~

 33.  Did they ever dye their hair before? If so, to what colour? Did they like it?

Absolutely lol. Niri has gone through a few colors in her life, but her favorite is and always will be the teal. (Fun fact: the purple came from a happy accident a few years back when she dyed over a pink shade and a layer turned out purple. She liked it so now she does it that way on purpose.)

 34.  Have they ever broken the law?

Never anything egregious, but she’s gotten tickets for stuff in the human world. Disturbing the peace, speeding, she was fined once (along with her bandmates) for a surprise free show they did in front of a train station which got a lot more attention than they were expecting and wound up shutting down a couple city blocks. Oooooooooopsss~

 35.  Do they own a plant?

She’s really bad with plants. REALLY bad. She was gifted a plant by Simeon a couple weeks into the exchange program and it took an embarrassingly long time for her to notice it was a fake plant…since he knows she sucks at keeping things alive.

 36.  Have they ever rode a horse before?

Once, and it was a terrifying experience so she just keeps her distance now.

 37.  What is their favorite gif?

anything featuring Titus Andromedon.

 38.  Do they get along with others easily?

 She tries to. It’s not always possible, but she tries, dammit!

 39.  Do they have any tattoos?

Several, yes. One arm sleeve done, starting the other arm, both thighs have massive pieces on them and both ribs done as well. There are also a few small things on her fingers and back.

 40.  If I wanted to draw them, what would be distinct physical features that I would have to know to draw them correctly?

Lotta hair. Looooooottttta hair. And heavily winged eyeliner. Big lashes.

 41.  What is their favourite breed of dog?

Huskies. They’re just so cute and sassy! And perfectly sized!! Great cuddle buddies and fun to run with!

 42.  Do they live with anyone? If so, who?

Not in the human world, but she’s got 7 kinda irritating roomies in the Devildom!

 43.  Where is their dream vacation?

She’s traveled extensively, so there isn’t anywhere she dreams of going that she hasn’t already seen. Her favorite place is anywhere mountainous and lush.

 44.  Do they know more than one language?

Yep. Niri’s a language nerd. Because she likes to speak to fans and stuff, she has set it on herself to learn as many languages as she can. She’s not perfectly fluent in all of them, but it’s a good handful that she can hold a full conversation in. She and Satan like to practice with one another around the house, despite complaints from the others.

 45.  Are they a quick learner?

Depends. Most things, yes…..math and processes requiring math, NO.

 46.  Have they ever won a contest before? If so, what for? What did they win?

No, she’s not really the luck having type.

 47.  If the world were to end in 24 hours, where would they be and who would they be with?

Probably hugging Beel. They hug often. They’re kinda always together. It’s gross according to Leviathan and Belphegor.

 48.  What does their room look like?

She didn’t change much in the room she was given at the HoL. Just added her fake plant from Simeon and a few human things…she actually got the “Hang in There” kitty poster just for kicks. Lucifer hates it.

 49.  If they could have an extinct animal for a pet, what would they have?

A dodo bird. Because they’re weird and cool.

 50.  If they got called out by someone, what would they do?

Laugh and argue probably. Depends what they’re calling her out on.

51.  Have they ever shot a gun before?

Yep. Actually enjoys shooting, it’s a fun stress reliever. She makes a point to drop by shooting ranges every once in a while back home.

 52.  Have they ever been axe throwing?

Once at a renaissance festival on an odd week of downtime. She didn’t do so well. The throwing was fine, but she never hit the target. Just be glad she didn’t hit a person either!

 53.  What is something that they want but can’t have?

At the moment, all the people she loves in one place.

 54.  Do they know how to fish?

Nope! She’s a mess with that kind of thing. Also, she doesn’t like the idea of fishing for anything herself. It makes her cry to think of the fish on the hook :<.

 55.  What is something they always wanted to do but too scared?

Hmm…Niri tries to live her life in a way that she won’t have regrets, so even if something is scary, she’ll pluck up the courage to do it. But…she still hasn’t jumped out of a plane.

 56.  Do they own their own baby pictures?

Absolutely not. She cringes thinking of the outfits her parents used to put her in, so she did her best to keep those kinds of things buried and acts like they never existed. Nope. Was never a baby. Nope.

 57.  What makes them standout among others?

Niri is a pro at pretending she’s confident, so she tends to draw attention when she walks in a room like she owns the place. Also her hair is kinda bright.

 58.  Do they like to show off?

Not really. She’s flamboyant in a sense, but she doesn’t go out of her way to call attention or to be center stage…heh.

 59.  What is their favourite song?

She can never pick, honestly. There are so many songs that are so amazing!

 60.  What would be their dream vehicle?

That’s a very good question. Probably something sitting in her garage back home. Probably being driven by one of her bandmates. Because hey, what are friends for?

 61.  What is their favourite book?

Not that she isn’t a big reader, but she doesn’t really get the time to enjoy books. There’s always something that needs attention or someplace to be and she’s required to engage, so focusing on a book or story is hard, but she’s a fan of classic novels, poetry, and Greek tragedies are always good!

 62.  Who, in their opinion, makes the best food?

She likes everything Barbatos makes and thinks Luke’s desserts are fantastic, but there’s something about a human recipe that just warms her heart, so…..herself. Lol.

 63.  Are they approachable?

Absolutely! If you can get past her intimidating resting face.

 64.  Did they ever change their appearance?

Not drastically, but she has gone through a few different phases until settling on a good one.

65.  What makes them smile?

The silliness of those around her. Thinking of good memories with family/friends. Puppies.

 66.  Do they like glowsticks?

Yes. She has a stockpile of glowsticks that the brothers keep adding to.

 67.  What is something that is simple, but always makes them smile?

Watching the brothers bicker, even if it’s getting out of hand. It reminds her of her friends and how they always pick on one another.

 68.  Are they a day or night person?

Night, usually. Not that she dislikes the daytime, but day usually has so much stuff to be done whereas night is the fun stuff that doesn’t need a schedule.

 69.  Are they allergic to anything?

Some milk chocolate, bell peppers, and certain devildom plants.

 70.  What do you, the creator of this OC, like most about them?

She’s a spunky little thing who loves to have fun and make others smile above all else.

 71.  Who is their ride or die?

In the Devildom, Beelzebub and Astaroth.

Beel for most things, and Asta for the stuff Beel won’t do.

 72.  Do they currently have a significant other? If not, are they going to get one later one?

Erm…eh…look, it’s never been officially labeled or anything, ok? Like yeah they’re kind always together and have pet names for each other and like always touch and cuddle and like snuggle up in bed together and stuffffffffffff but like, idk? Is Beel her dude? Like….do we wanna even get into that?????? I mean, maybe someday? Like…what? What was the question??

 73.  What attracts them to another person?

A genuine heart, a killer smile, and a rockin’ bod. Yeah okay look everyone can be a little shallow sometimes okay get off her case >__<.  

 74.  Who is one person that can always make them laugh?

She’s a damn fool and will laugh at ANYTHING, so it’s not hard. Everyone makes her laugh. The girl will 9 times out of 10 laugh at herself for the dumbest moments.

 75.  Have they ever partied too hard and their friends had to take them home?

Oh yes many times. Many many times.  One of the first few times she hung out (went on a date) one-on-one with Beel they had a drinking contest and as it turns out, he can really hold his devil liquor.

 76.  Who would be their cuddle buddy?

She’ll cuddle up to Beel 99.9% of the time because he’s big and warm and always happy to hold, but she also really enjoys cuddling with Asmodeus. He’s such a sweetie and he smells so nice and they just snuggle and talk and laugh and it’s a nice escape. (Loads of times there are Asmo x Niri x Asta sandwiches in Asmo’s room.)

 77.  Who would cheer them up after a long day?

She tends to go to one of the brothers depending on what kind of day it’s been. Most of the time it’s gonna be Beel because again, big/warm/happy to hold her, but there are occasions where she’ll drag Beel to one of the others’ rooms and they’ll just hang out.

 78.  If they had a nightmare, who would they run to?

I mean…Beel. Lol. He’s right there.

 79.  What object to the care for the most?

She has a picture of her friends from back home that sits on her desk. She treasures that above all while she’s down in the Devildom.

 80.  Do they like other people’s children?

Sure. Kids are fine as long as they go back to their parents after a bit.

 81.  How would they react if someone broke into their home?

Seeing as there’s always someone coming into her room regardless if she’s there or not, she probably would just shrug it off. If someone decided to have a bad lapse in judgement and break into the HoL? She wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

 82.  Does anyone make them have butterflies in their stomach?

I mean….Beel. Lol. He so big and cute! Also Diavolo because he also big and cute.

 83.  What is something that they are good at?

Crying to get out of trouble. She’s a little shit. Lol.

 84.  What is their neutral expression?

Niri kinda always looks pissed off or uninterested?  Until she smiles and you realize oh, she’s just a big ol’ faker.

 85.  Do they like to cook?

Yes. It’s one of her very favorite things to do!

 86.  What is something they can’t leave home without?

Her phone! (and Beel) but like, there’s just so much a phone can do!

 87.  Who is someone that they rely on?

Have I mentioned ever that Simeon is (or was at one time) Niri’s guardian angel? He seems to always be there and ready to help in any way, so she’s pretty reliant on him and hopes he feels the same toward her. (He does. Cue uwu’s)

 88.  Do they liked to be tickled?

Absolutely not. She’s extremely ticklish and hates being tickled. She flails and cries.

 89.  Have they ever been a sword fight before?

No. No she has not lol. Unless empty wrapping paper tubes count? She’s done that.  

 90.  What is a joke that they would find funny?

All the bad ones. All of them. Ugly laugh here we go!

 91.  Do they have a place that can go and turn off their brain?

The gardens at RAD. It’s peaceful and there’s a great  view of the sky.

 92.  What was their childhood like?

Not bad, but not memorable. There was a lot of pressure put on her to be a perfect kid, and she didn’t get to have a whole ton of fun.

 93.  What are they like as an adult?

Responsible, but definitely fun-loving. Like I mentioned before, she likes to live in a way that she won’t ever regret not having done something she wanted to do, or regret any actions she took, so she’s always got an open mind and welcomes new experiences. She’s a big ol’ kid.

 94.  Do they take criticism well?

Yes. She welcomes criticism in any form as she is always looking to be the best person she can be.

 95.  Have they ever jumped out of a plane?

No. Not yet!

 96.  Who do they like to make jokes with?

Literally anyone. A total joker. Big big clown.

 97.  Have you ever drawn them before? If you are comfortable with it, would you post a picture?

Yes! I draw Niri every once in a while. I actually need to draw her again soon! I miss that girl.

[pangtasias-atelier]

Battle Tower Payback

Edit: added more during the actual WG portion

So this was made after getting pissed off lol. I just hate how it's purely up to luck as to what the game chooses for Leon's Pokemon.

Also kinda rushed so this isn't the greatest in terms of wg content and Leon characterization.

Again, actual weight gain diminished as I write this, it's at least still the main point. Also, I'll most likely write more Pokemon stuff, but don't ever expect an actual attempt at a battle.

Also, fun fact, the first story I ever uploaded online was a Pokemon fic back when I was a Highschool sophomore, specifically X&Y. It was deleted like a week after and I don't have it any longer lol. Still remember the gist of it though lol. Wasn't kink obvs

__________

"Is that all? Don't you remember our battle for the title?" Leon's words stinging, the stung only worsened as the day went on. The words true yet harsh, you couldn't help but mutter to yourself about how damn happy he looked from beating you. Twice no less.

Granted, the battle was only for the battle tower, nowhere near as grand as the title of champion, a battle where you had come out on top, you proudly remind yourself. Picking your head up, you happily rush to the counter.

The lady surprised at your burst of determination, she happily lets you on your way as you head up the battle tower once more.

But as luck seemed to have it, Leon's team felt perfectly catered to all but countering each of yours. The prospect of double battles intimidating, your well crafted team and strengths didn't matter when Leon had the perfect composition to take each one down. And with having to fight other trainers to reach Leon, the prospect of trying him a third time today feels like a burden.

At a disappointing 3:2 win:loss in your favor, you glumly head out of the tower. But Leon's voice rings out, the tower indeed easier on his finding his way.

"Champion! I expect you to show me a champion time eventually, unlike today," His eager, booming voice doesn't fill you with happiness or enjoyment as it once did. Nor does his outfit, the change of clothes rather lovely on Leon and a nice change from his outfit as champion.

Nodding and waving goodbye, you smile as you exit the building. Calling a Corviknight immediately, she takes you to the wild area. Stewing in your own anger and thoughts, your quick search turns into hours as you scour the expansive zones.

Spotting your golden goose, an Alcremie stands alone in the grass. You yourself being spotted, she slowly makes her way towards you. Head tilting, she watches you as you remain still. On your knees, you wave to her. Placing a pokeball beside yourself, Alcremie notices the motion. Nodding her head, she expectantly waits for you. Remaining still as you slowly lift the pokeball, she happily accepts, the pokeball releasing that familiar click as it captures a Pokemon.

Letting Alcremie back out, you introduce her to her new partners as you set up camp. Sending a text to Leon, you tell him to expect you tomorrow at the battle tower. And to be ready, since you plan to win.

Enjoying nature, you sleep in your cozy camp, night turning to day as you envision tomorrow's plan.

The bright sun waiting for you, you stretch at you slowly wake up. Back cracking, you sigh. Quickly packing up, a Corviknight promptly comes and takes you to the battle tower. Clutching Alcremie's pokeball in your hand, you rush to the counter again.

Admitted inside, the two poor trainers in between you and Leon that receive your Pokemon wrath go down quickly.

Leon your third opponent, he happily greets you. "Great to see you fired up again! Now, let's see if you can match how you were during the tournament!" Leon's words igniting the spark in your brain, the two of you send out your first two Pokemon.

Tyranitar and Corviknight your choice, Leon's first two leave him at a severe disadvantage off the bat. Scorbunny and Mr. Rime stand no chance against the harsh sandstorm worsening their vision. Corviknight supporting with reflect, Tyranitar launching rock slide immediately does them both in.

Leon's face grim, he hurriedly sends out his Charizard and Haxorus. Smiling, as Leon prepares to storm Corviknight, the supportive Pokemon in the way of Tyranitar, you swap in your brand new Alcremie. Both dragon moves having no effect on Alcremie, they remain susceptible against Tyranitar's rock slide. Gigantamax unable to be gotten off, Leon grips his hat as only his Haxorus remains.

"Finally! A real challenge," A change of plans, Haxorus dynamaxes before your eyes, the massive dragon filling up the area. Alcremie ignored, Tyranitar ends up Haxorus' victim. A swift focus blast launched Tyranitar's way, the raging sandstorm doesn't help him, the strong blast causing him to faint.

Sending out Froslass just for posterity, whoever you choose doesn't matter, the battle already yours. Gigantamaxing Alcremie, Froslass's frost breath wraps around Haxorus, the cold air constricting Haxorus and making him faint.

Having won the battle, you pump an arm into the air. Froslass recalled, you leave Alcremie out, the gigantic, imposing figure remaining.

Leon's smile from the battle washes away. Eyebrows furrowed, he lets out a yell as you command Alcremie to attack him. Gently you remind Alcremie, the missiles unable to damage anything besides Leon's waistline.

The first one hitting its mark, Leon's mouth, he stumbles back from the force. His fear turning to confusion, the harmless cream covers him.

"Wha-" Letting out a burp, Leon clutches his stomach. Stomach bulging, he groans as his outfit straigns against the sudden extra weight. Cream encasing him, the pile of it clings to his body. Struggling against it, he trips against the heavy cream. More of Alcremie's missiles soon follow the first one.

Alcremie's wonderfully fattening cream affecting Leon, his small belly soon grows out even further as cream reaches him. Clothes tightening, they soon tear off. Bulging belly held in one of his hands, Leon stumbles as he stands up. Glaring at you, a small blush on his face, huffs as his body gets used to its new weight. Breasts now where a chest once was, his developing moobs sag down. Leon's admittedly flat ass no longer resembles what it once used too; instead, the sugary, calorically dense cream seems to go mostly to his thighs. His ass a victim, Leon's bare cheeks weigh him down just like the rest of his body.

Groaning, Leon takes a confident step back. Scooping up the remnants of his clothes, all of it scraps to cover his obese body.

Unrelenting, you command Alcremie to fire even more. Leon standing no chance, all the missiles perfectly hit him. A swarm heading his way, the cream composed missiles splatter upon impact. A couple at first, most of the cream heads down his throat, the rest splattering over his body.

His body growing further, soon, you can't really see the effects of Alcremie's cream as it barrages him. Shooting nothing but missiles, Alcremie's time soon runs out, the power of gigantamax ending. Calling her back, not without a thank you, you stare at Leon.

The plan working far better than you imagined, far far better, Leon is completely swaddled in his own gigantic mass of fat. Mobility clearly lost, he rests on his ass, the mountainous quivering blubber rising high behind him. Hands and feet sunken in, his fingers and toes shake from Leon's struggling. Everything else unable to move, Leon wheezes under his weight.

His face a collection of cheeks, they take up most of his face, the bulges sagging down. His chins and neck merging, you can barely count all the rolls before losing your spot. His chest two different entities, they make their own shelf, both splaying out to the sides. Each bigger than his head, they rest on Leon's stomach. His stomach rests on the floor in turn, the car sized mass oozing down and forward. His thighs pushed exaggeratedly wide from his stomach, they resemble a can of squeezed out dough. Absolutely unable to move, Leon simply wheezes. Standing right in front of his billowing stomach, his face still feels too far, his expansive body spreading out far across the battle tower floor. His stomach alone wider than any Snorlax, the entire mass wobbles just from his breathing alone.

His clothes torn to shreds, all remnants of them mere tatters. Rich brown skin covered in cream, the explosive caloric food still remains. Climbing onto Leon, his body sinks under your weight. His plush breasts large enough to serve as a bed, you lie down on them, smirking as you look up at Leon.

"Damn…." Scooping up a dollop of cream off of his right moob, you shove it into his mouth. The cream flowing down, the extra couple pounds are insignificant compared to his current crushing weight.

Leon's eyes shut tight, the sight sets you off. Grabbing more cream, you mercilessly endeavor to scoop up to the very last bit. Knowing what's coming, Leon keeps his mouth shut.

Leon not cooperating, tugging his hair does the trick. Letting out a complaint, you shove more cream down his throat, Leon choking but ultimately swallowing it. Sometimes you manually force his jaw open, the fatty cheeks envelop your hand as you use the other to cram even more cream in Leon.

Your task perhaps a bit too daunting, bits of cream remain, remnants left in-between his countless rolls.

Hands deftly roaming Leon's body instead, his anger washes away soon after as you begin to rub his stomach. Picking up and dropping his rolls of fat, you pinch and massage as far as you can go. His moans and blushes a change from his initial anger and confusion, the expansive mass of his stomach carefully gets massaged under your gentle hands.

"Looks like they're going to have to shut down the facilities for a while with their leader missing," Letting out Rapidash, Rapidash's psychic abilities teleport you three.

The location now your bedroom, Leon's vast fat flattens everything in its wake. Leon's fat goes from wall to wall. Shrugging, you recall your tired Rapidash with a thank you, the task of teleporting such a large mass tiring on her.

"Time for food!" Pinching Leon's right cheek, Leon closes his left eye. Jumping off of Leon's fat, you head off to your kitchen, pantry and fridge stocked in anticipation of this. Leon's small whimper sounds divine. Turning around, you smirk. "Don't ever taunt me," Rushing off, you him as you prepare Leon's food, any notion of consequence or notion of reversing this ignored, cooking and stuffing Leon more important. The prospect of a bath after dinner, to clean all the cream sounds great, your house certainly going to be much busier having a monumental guest.

[i-write-fanfics-to-procrastinate]

34, NaLu

You bet! This was super fun to write. I originally thought, “Oh it would be really easy to just do this with Natsu being the one to ‘return from the dead.’” But it was way more interesting to do it with Lucy being the one. It also has a brotp moment with Gray and Natsu (lol). Anyways, I hope you like it!

34 Nalu: Returned-from-the-Dead Kiss

           It had been three months since Lucy Heartfilia had disappeared, and Natsu had never once stopped searching. The pitying looks from his guildmates drove him even further into a frenzy. Each glance said a thousand words and it made him furious.

           “Poor kid. The girl’s dead for sure and he just won’t let her rest in peace.”

           They had all searched, of course. Lucy was their guildmate and friend. But the search had led to nothing, and after about a month and a half, Natsu was left searching alone. He couldn’t stop. Within his heart, there was no justification to let her go. What was that stupid, old saying? You never know what you have until it’s gone. He cursed that saying because it wasn’t until after Lucy didn’t return from her “simple” job that he realized he couldn’t live without her. It wasn’t until after she had disappeared that Natsu realized he loved her, more than anything in the universe.

           That same night, staring up at the stars, he made a promise to her. “I’ll find you, Lu. Even if it means tearing apart ever city, every building, unearthing every secret. I’ll find you if it kills me.”

           And so here he was, at the edge of a forest—the stars twinkling above, like a constant reminder of that promise—staring down at his next target. “This one is it,” he mumbled aloud to himself. There was a grunt in response and Gray shifted, leaning against a tree trunk. Natsu narrowed his eyes at the ice mage. “What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

           “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed,” Gray replied. And then there was that pity again. It made Natsu sick to his stomach. He balled his hands into fists.

           “Stop looking at me like that!” He snapped.

           “Like what?”

           “Like I’m insane. Like all of this is for nothing!”

           Gray’s expression softened, something that Natsu had never seen before. “Natsu,” he said, leaning forward and resting his hand on the dragon-slayer’s shoulder. “I’m telling you this because you’re like a brother to me. You look like shit. You haven’t slept or eaten hardly at all in the last couple of months. And what about Happy?”

           “What about him?” Natsu frowned, not sure he liked where this was going.

           “You’ve basically abandoned him to go on this crazy quest of yours. Did you ever think about the rest of us? About yourself?”

           “I have to find her, Gray. I know she’s out there,” Natsu whispered. “I promised… I promised that we’d be together forever.”

           “Natsu,” Gray said, and there was that look of pity again. He wanted to punch it off Gray’s face. “Lucy’s dead.”

           “Get off me!” Natsu shoved Gray away and spun around to face their next target. He had known from the beginning that Makarov had only sent Gray along with him to keep an eye on him, but it still stung that Gray didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him. “Listen, Gray. You remember Lucy was going on a simple job. Something really easy?”

           “Yeah, I do,” Gray said, crossing his arms.

           “It didn’t have anything to do with this, but we knew there was a dark guild in the area and when Lucy went missing we assumed they had something to do with it.”

           “Natsu, we thoroughly ‘investigated’ that guild’s base of operations. There was nothing there.”

           “What if I told you…” Natsu smiled a little, “…that they have a second location?”

           “You mean…?”

           “Yeah,” Natsu gestured to the old, abandoned tower in the valley below them.

           “How… how did we not find out about this months ago?”

           “They’re very, very good. It took me weeks upon weeks of finding spies, informants, and interviewing them—along with a little bit of tracking.” He smirked, rather pleased with himself. “Hardly anyone in this guild knows about the second location. Only the higher-ups, who—as you know—were not at the first location when we paid them a visit. No one’s really sure where the higher-ups stay. Some assume it’s a third location. We’ll get to them later. Right now, I have good cause to believe… this is where they keep their prisoners.”

           “Okay, I’ll admit…” Gray sighed, “This is the most convincing thing you’ve shared with me in the last three months.”

           “I’ve been working hard,” Natsu whispered, clenching his fists, “I’m never giving up on her. Not while I’m still breathing.”

           “Well,” Gray stood, stretching. Then he offered Natsu a grin, slamming one of his fists against the palm of his hand. “What the hell are we waiting for?”

           Natsu hopped to his feet with a grin, “I always hoped I’d be able to count on you again, Gray.”

           They surged, together, down towards the tower. Their legs carried them like wings down the hillside. Natsu had never run so fast in his life. With each shuddering footstep, which each pounding heartbeat, he prayed: Let her be here. Let her be safe.

           The guards at the door—dressed in robes that signified their allegiance to the cult Gray and Natsu had met once before, months ago—were no match for Gray’s ice-make magic. Natsu, with a roar of rage, kicked the iron door clean to the other side of the tower, securing them passage into the ancient prison. A few more cultists were frozen, and Natsu and Gray were left facing a rather steep flight of spiraling stairs towards the top of the tower.

           “They were so confident in the fact that this place would remain hidden that there’s hardly anyone here left to guard it,” Gray murmured as they began their ascent. They passed several levels of empty cells. Towards the middle of the tower, they began to notice that the cells now had occupants. Gray used his ice to break the bars and set them free. These, just like Lucy, were probably all innocent victims. At the very middle of the tower, Natsu stopped, frozen. Gray paused in his work of freeing another weeping prisoner when he noticed the wide-eyed expression on his friend’s face.

           “Natsu? What is it?”

           “I can smell her.” Lucy’s perfume. He hadn’t smelled it in months, but he recognized it instantly—though the scent was faint.

           “Wh—?” Before Gray could continue Natsu took off, dashing up the stairs, following the faded trail all the way to the top of the tower. He could hear each doubting voice, see each look of pity. “Lucy’s dead, Natsu.” “I’m telling you this because you’re my friend. You’re sick. You need to get more sleep. Lucy’s gone. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

           No… she’s here. She’s here. She’s here! All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart as he skidded to a halt before the bars of the very last cell in the tower prison. There.

           Lying on the cold bricks, wrapped in rags, was a familiar figure with long, tangled blonde hair, and wide brown eyes. She looked so skinny and so frail that Natsu was almost afraid if he reached out and touched her he would break her. But he knew her. He knew her so intimately that there was no mistaking it.

           “Lucy?” He whispered, his hands grabbing hold of the bars that kept her locked away, the heat that radiated from him turned the metal a bright red, and then a white, and then it was melting away under his palms.

           Her voice was hoarse, and she could barely get a word out. Fat tears filled her chocolate brown eyes, and rolled down her cheeks as she burst into sobs, “N-Na…”

           “Lucy!” Tears filled his own eyes. He closed the distance between them, wrapping her—at last—in a crushing embrace, to make sure that she really was there. That she was real. And she didn’t break. She hugged him tighter, gripping his shirt, wrapping a thin arm around his shoulder and sobbing against him. He couldn’t stop crying, holding her tightly to him. He had been right. “I th-thought… I th-thought… everyone said you were dead,” he sobbed. This is real. Emotions surged through him, and he couldn’t untangle them or make sense of anything he was feeling. It was all too jumbled.

He pulled away from her embrace, only to look her in the eyes, and before he could even process what he was doing he found himself kissing her. And he kissed her again. And again. Hungry for her touch, her taste, her scent. Hungry to really, truly know that she was there, alive. He murmured between each kiss, promises to her, to himself, to the whole universe: “I’m…. never… I’m… never… leaving you… again.” When he thought he might have had enough, he pulled away, but only realized he hadn’t. He could hear Gray’s footsteps on the stairs behind him. He wouldn’t kiss her in front of ice-brain, but oh what he would give to kiss every inch of her—to kiss away the aches the pains, to kiss away the days that turned into weeks that turned into months. He pressed his hands to her cheeks, resting his forehead against hers. “I promise. Never again.” She was smiling, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

“I know,” she whispered.

[feelingfredly]

Tea for Two

Summary:            

The joys of loving a mad scientist.

Or as Socrates said...  I drank what?

Notes:    

I wandered into the UraIchi Discord server and stumbled over a discussion of the absolute *crime* that there was no tag for "Consensual Tea Drugging."  The rest, as they say, is...  somebody else's fault. LOL

                “What does this one do?”

Kisuke peered around the corner of the cabinet and tutted.  “Telling you would skew the results of the experiment.”

Ichigo looked into the muddy depths of his teacup and muttered, “Like you’re not already skewed.” He sighed, “So, I just trust you and drink it?”

Kisuke paused for a moment.  Put like that he could understand Ichigo’s concern. “I suppose I could…”

A second later Ichigo was behind him, his front pressed against the planes of Kisuke’s back, and handed him the empty cup. “You should’ve just said. I’m going to go settle down on the futon with a book in case I get dizzy. You want to come take notes?”

Kisuke looked at the empty cup and then watched Ichigo as he wandered back towards their bedroom.

 Notes.  Right.

***

“Wheeeeen the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amor-aaay.”

Ichigo’s singing voice was quite nice, although his choice of song was suspect. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to lie down, Ichigo-kun?” Kisuke asked. He was fairly certain that not-tea-drugged Ichigo would prefer to keep his vocal abilities to himself, even if they were terribly entertaining.

Ichigo spun on the ball of his foot—the tea clearly didn’t affect him physically as much as mentally—and shook his head. “No way!  I feel great!  I feel so great that you should send a message to Grimmjow and tell him that I want to pound his ass.”

Kisuke’s lip quirked a fraction and Ichigo paused, rethinking what he’d said.

“Not like that,” Ichigo let out an undignified snort, “although have you seen his ass?  I mean, I know you’ve seen his ass, but have you seen it?” He sighed a little dreamily and Kisuke wondered just how much of Grimmjow’s ass Ichigo had seen. “I meant that I wanted to pound his ass into the ground, not the futon.”

Ichigo paused again and Kisuke could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as a sly smirk spread across his face.

“Now your ass is another thing entirely.”

Kisuke made a note in his journal.

***

The water pelted over them, Kisuke’s wet samue clinging to him as he washed the traces of sickness away from Ichigo’s pale face.

“This wasn’t what I signed on for with the whole ‘consensual tea drugging’ experiment.” Ichigo’s voice was rough, his throat raw from hours of expelling what seemed like everything he’d ever consumed in his life.   “Although the shower part is nice.”

Kisuke ran his hand down Ichigo’s flank, long soothing strokes, and hmmm’d. “I didn’t expect this reaction, either.  The tea was supposed to make you sleepy.  Possibly knock you out.  I bought a Sharpie to draw a mustache on you and everything.”

Ichigo let out a watery laugh.  “Only you would tell me that to try to make me happier with you.”

Kisuke wrapped his arms around the smaller man and held him, the memory of his recent misery an uncomfortable lump in his stomach.

“I am sorry, for what it’s worth.” The words were soft against Ichigo’s bare shoulder.

A quiet rumble answered him.  “It’s worth a lot.”

***

“I am absolutely positive.”

Ichigo stared into the teacup doubtfully.  “Is this like ‘normal people absolutely positive’ or ‘mad scientist absolutely positive’?”

Kisuke tilted his head to one side. “You do realize that as a mad scientist I can’t actually answer that question any way but the latter, don’t you?”

The redhead rolled his eyes. “You do realize that that kind of logic only applies when you’re avoiding the subject, Kisuke.”

That was true enough.  Kisuke shrugged.

“Let’s go with mathematical rather than interpretational, then. I am 95% certain that this tea will not allow me to analyze the contents of your stomach first-hand.  The +/- 5% takes into account any previously undiscovered intolerances, allergies, or hollow/reiatsu reactions.  Fair enough?”

Ichigo had swallowed the contents of the cup before he’d finished his explanation.

“Why quibble if you were just going to drink it anyway?”

Ichigo smirked. “Keeps you on your toes. Anyway, tastes better than the last kind.  Either going down or coming back up.”

Kisuke nodded. “I added a few things for flavor.”

Brown eyes met his. “I recognized the cinnamon and I thank you.  You know I like the taste of that.”

“Yes,” Kisuke said, gently guiding Ichigo out of the kitchen and down the hall. “I used cinnamon, star anise, and cardamom…  to hide the curare.”

Ichigo stopped stock still in the middle of the doorway. “Curare!?!”

Kisuke smiled and bussed him on the cheek.  “I love how smart you are.  You know curare? It’s surprisingly bitter and taken orally you must use a lot to get any effect.  It was quite the puzzle.”

He pushed Ichigo into the bedroom and down onto the futon that he’d rolled out earlier, just for this.

Ichigo looked around a little wildly at the made-up bed. “What’s all this?”

Kisuke watched him try to raise his hands. It wasn’t working very well, which meant the tea was.

“This,” he said, pulling Ichigo’s hands up and crossing them over his navel, “is a way for me to see how long the tea’s effects last.”

The redhead gave him a look, and Kisuke was pleased to see that neither his breathing nor his pupils had been affected.  Good.

“Lying here paralyzed is going to get pretty boring.  For both of us.  I hope you brought a book.  I’ll probably just sleep.” His words were a little slurred, but he was clearly coherent. Kisuke stood and started removing his clothes, pleased to see Ichigo’s pupils reacting to that at least.

“Oh, I had a better idea than a book.  You see, something that has always puzzled me is how intention changes the effect of certain drugs.   Someone with enough motivation can push through a lot of things, and it’s important to test these things under suitable duress.”

Naked now, he stood just in Ichigo’s line of sight. He trailed a hand languidly along the centerline of his abdomen, a track that the other man loved to trace with his tongue, and finally down to his slightly stiffening cock and then further to cup his tightening balls.

In the time they’d been together there had been many discoveries, but almost none had pleased Kisuke more than the fact that Ichigo loved, absolutely loved, to watch him touch himself.  His eyes would widen, and his breath would shorten, his lips would shine bitten and red as he forced himself to wait, wait, wait…  until he couldn’t wait anymore and would launch himself like a starving man at Kisuke, his hands everywhere, mouth hot and demanding, and then, only then, would Kisuke allow himself to come, preferably buried deeply in Ichigo’s beautiful body.

This time, though, Ichigo couldn’t pounce.  The tea would keep him still longer than his willpower ever could, and Kisuke couldn’t wait to see what happened.

He pulled a cushion over beside the futon and relaxed cross-legged, his cock now at half-mast, barely an arm’s length away from Ichigo’s face.

“Fuck, Kisuke.”

Ichigo’s eyes were all pupil, blown wide with desire as he forced the words through slack lips.  That gave him so many ideas. He gripped himself a little harder and played with the fold of foreskin that protected the sensitive glans.

“That will have to wait, Ichigo-kun,” he said with a soft laugh, “the tea, you know.”

Even drugged Ichigo managed a scowl. “You’re enjoying this.”

Kisuke looked down into the wide brown eyes and let his desire show. “Oh yes.  Yes I am.”

His fingers were cool against the heat of his cock, and the friction was enough to slow his stroke.

“You know,” he said, eyes drifting shut as he teased them both, “there’s a healing kidō that the Fourth uses.  It stops muscles from reflexively tightening and I’ve always wondered if there weren’t other applications for it.”

Kisuke reached across with his unoccupied hand and stroked along the length of Ichigo’s throat.

“Can’t you just imagine? I could totally remove your gag reflex. There’d be nothing to stop me from just fucking your mouth, and you’d be unable to move, unable to do anything but feel me.”

The groan that hung in the air could have come from either of them.

“You’re a bastard, Kisuke,” Ichigo said and Kisuke laughed, his hand stopping mid-stroke.

“That is not a surprise to either of us.”

He leaned forward and reached into the drawer of the bedside table, the ubiquitous hiding place for lubricant throughout three worlds, and pulled out the little stoppered jar that lived there.  He smiled softly at the gasp he heard as Ichigo sucked in a breath, watching as his cock bobbed mere inches from his face.

Kisuke warmed the handful of oil and gripped himself again with a sigh of satisfaction.  “Is this more what you had in mind when you agreed to my drugged tea experiments?”

He knew he was poking a dragon, but he couldn’t help himself.  He loved to hear it roar.

“More, yes,” Ichigo answered, frustration and hunger clear in his voice, and then a blaze of his reiatsu flooded the room, burning away the effects of the tea. He lurched upright on the futon, his hand snapping out to imprison Kisuke’s wrist, holding his fingers where they circled the base of his throbbing cock, a manacle of flesh and bone. “But not nearly enough.”

Kisuke smirked and allowed himself to be pulled forward and rolled under Ichigo’s hot body.

 Tea effects cut by 85% under duress.

***

Kisuke ran through the house, dodging occasionally thrown items, grinning like an idiot.

“Spots, Kisuke!” Ichigo yelled. “How did you ever think tea that caused someone to be covered in spots was a good idea?”

The blond stopped and turned. “I thought it would be useful if I could create a kind of biological camouflage.  Honestly…”

Ichigo cut him off with a growl, “They’re pink!  How the fuck would that be camouflage?”

Kisuke shunpo’d off again, grin firmly back in place.  Who cared if he got caught?  The pink was totally worth it.

***

“I think half the experiment is just to see how many times you can drug me.”

Kisuke paused in pouring the tea. “You mean like a trust experiment?” he asked.

“Maybe trust,” Ichigo shrugged, taking his cup.  “Maybe stupidity. I mean, how many times can you hand me something, tell me “this is going to do something to you, but I’m not telling you what” and expect me to do it? At some point you have to figure that I’ll say no.”

Kisuke looked at him thoughtfully. “That isn’t…”

Ichigo raised his cup and drank. “Don’t worry about it, Kisuke.  I mean…  I know you’d never agree to something like this, but it’s okay.  I don’t mind.”

The blond stepped forward and rested his hand on Ichigo’s wrist.  “You’re wrong.”

Ichigo shivered and looked down at the hand touching him as if he’d never felt anything like it before.  Apparently, the tea was working faster than his calculations indicated.

“Wrong?” The question came out strangled, like Ichigo was struggling to focus on the words.

“Yes,” Kisuke pulled his hand back leaving only one finger resting against the pulse stampeding through Ichigo’s wrist. “I’d drink anything you gave me.  No questions asked.”

Ichigo was staring at the spot where their skin was touching, fascinated.

“What does this one do?” he stuttered the words out.

Kisuke leaned forward, mere inches from Ichigo’s ear, to answer. “Hypersensitization.”

The keening sound that escaped Ichigo’s mouth was breathtaking.

***

Shunsui-san had a lot to answer for, calling him in for an emergency that basically entailed him saying, “No, I don’t want a Captaincy” fourteen different ways.  That might be an emergency for him, but it was decidedly less important to Kisuke.

“Long day?” Ichigo was standing in the kitchen as he made his way up from the basement. At least the Captain Commander wasn’t putting up a fuss about his senkaimon. Not that he could really do anything about it.

“After dealing with Kyōraku all day, I almost feel sorry for the people who have to deal with me.  All that duplicitous smiling.  It’s exhausting.” He leaned in and kissed Ichigo swiftly. The small affections were something that he still hesitated over, but Ichigo appreciated them, and that made them worth the effort.

“Tea?” Ichigo raised the pot and Kisuke nodded.

“Please.  And use the good white.  I need something subtle after a day of being beaten over the head constantly.”

Ichigo hummed his agreement and they pottered quietly around the kitchen while the tea steeped.

“So, are you going to take him up on his offer?”

Kisuke slanted a look across the kitchen.  Of course, Ichigo would know what Kyōraku was up to.  They were surprisingly close for men born a thousand years apart, and he’d seen the older man’s eyes resting on the redhead more than once.  It might be concerning if he didn’t know that Ichigo was as loyal as the day was long, but until the young man woke up and realized he’d hitched his wagon to the wrong horse, Kisuke wasn’t going anywhere.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said finally, reaching out for the beaker of pale gold liquid with a smile of thanks.  “I find that I like my current arrangements too much to go messing about with something like a new Captaincy.”

He sipped his cooling brew and caught Ichigo staring.

“You disapprove?” He took another sip, and yes…  there was something there. Something under the soft notes of the white tea.  Why that little sneaky…

“No,” Ichigo said, with a shake of spiky orange hair.  “I find that I, too, like your current arrangements.”

Kisuke raised an eyebrow and tilted his cup, and Ichigo’s lip quirked a fraction in its own question.  A challenge then.  So be it.  He raised the cup, and never dropping his gaze from Ichigo’s, drained it dry.

“How long do I have?” he asked, and Ichigo laughed.

“Long enough, although you might want to take your good robe off.  Wouldn’t do for it to get messy.”

Kisuke’s mind traveled through all the ways that messy could happen like a bullet ricocheting inside his skull.

“Messy, hmm?”

Ichigo chivvied him down the hall as he shrugged out of his sleeves.  “Yes, massage oil tends to get that way.”

Mmmmm, massage.  That sounded nice.

“You knew what Shunsui was going to ask.” It wasn’t a question, but Ichigo murmured an assent.

“He asked me what you’d say.  I told him to ask you.”

Kisuke thought about that for a minute.  “Thank you.  For not answering for me.”

Ichigo pushed him face down on the futon—all made up already, look at that—and reached for the bottle of massage oil. “Not my place.”

Something warm curled in Kisuke’s belly.  It must be the tea.

“Still,” he said into the pillow that had somehow found its way under his head, “it’s nice to not be managed.”

Warm hands slid up his back and he could feel a chuckle through them.

“You’re much happier being the manager, aren’t you?”

Usually that was true.  Right now, though, he was fine with letting Ichigo be in charge.

“That’s good to know.” The chuckle got louder.  He must’ve said that out loud.

“You said that out loud, too.” Ichigo dug one of his thumbs into a tightly corded muscle.  He really should tune up this gigai.  With Ichigo around he was putting a lot more strain on it than in the past hundred years or so.

Ichigo laughed out loud, his scowl completely gone for once. “That tea was much more effective than I expected.  Maybe I should use less Diazepam next time.”

Kisuke considered the light and floaty feeling he was experiencing. “This isn’t so bad.  For being drugged.  With tea.  Really.”

Ichigo flipped him over and straddled him, rubbing the massage oil into the muscles just under his collar bones. “At least you aren’t covered in spots.”

“No,” Kisuke nodded, “no spots.  Just a little fuzzy around the edges.”  It was nice. He was safe. Warm.  This was much nicer than some of the tea he’d fed Ichigo. Although the hypersensitization one looked fun, even if Ichigo swore he’d never let him touch his cock again after that.  Kisuke knew he didn’t really mean it.

“That’s what human drugs will do to you.” Ichigo leaned forward and kissed him gently.  “I wanted you to be able to relax for a while.  I know the business with Seireitei is stressful.”

Kisuke groaned when Ichigo hit another cluster of tight muscles.  It felt so good for something that hurt so much.

“You’re too good to me.”

“You say that now,” Ichigo said with a laugh, hands still busily digging into muscle, “I doubt you’re going to be saying that later.”

“Why not?” Kisuke’s floaty feeling was beginning to tingle. Hmm.

Ichigo leaned down to whisper in his ear, his hands sliding suggestively lower.  “Because Xanax wasn’t the only thing I put in your tea.”

Kisuke shivered and made a note to himself.  This is what you get when you poke a dragon.

 Isn’t it wonderful?

[wxldchxld]

@ashayara girl I cannot keep up with all ur urls lol

so this was supposed to be the final part of this, and it was supposed to all come to a clear and concise finish.... but i don’t think it will. on the bright side i’m 99 percent certain you’re the only one reading this and i know you won’t hold it against me.

but if, by any chance, anyone needs an explanation, I was just having a fucker of a time writing Asha and Euron’s fight, because as this entire piece makes it clear: I really suck at fight scenes. But, I mean, I’m proud I stuck this whole thing out. All parts put together made 25 pages in a doc and I feel like for the most part I followed through. Maybe @ashayara will write it, maybe we’ll all just imagine Asha stabbing her uncle 50 million times, or maybe I’ll  finish this one day, but for right now I needed to put it down. Sorry Elsie. Still have mad love for you girl.

The sea was bizarrely silent beneath the prow of her ship. One ill omen among hundreds it seemed. If not for her oarsmen she doubted the tide would have carried them at all. The wind was still and suffocating, sticking to her lungs and dragging along her throat and chest as she tried to breathe normally. Everything felt wrong. She could taste bile behind her lips, and for a moment she gripped the railing of her deck thinking she might lose what little food she’d managed to eat, but it stayed. She forced a breath and straightened her shoulders once more.

The Black Wind had been driven tirelessly forward since Victarion had told her of his plan earlier that morning, and it was late into the evening now. The light of the moon was cold and unforgiving above her, unimpeded by the clouds, and the only sound for miles was that of oars smacking against the surf. Beyond the moon a million stars danced in the black sky. How could such a picturesque evening feel so sinister?

“You worry for her.” Qarl said quietly. He sounded surprised, and she could detect the slightest edge of disapproval in his tone. Just what he was currently disapproving of she wasn’t sure; it felt like she’d done everything wrong lately.

A huff of silent laughter rolled past her lips and shook her shoulders. With a half grin and a sideways glance she asked, “Are you jealous?”

It was cruel. She knew that it was the second she’d said it. Her words were a barb that sliced like a blade into a still open wound. They’d scarcely spoken since her wedding, and when they had spoken it certainly hadn’t been about her wife. It hadn’t been said, but neither of them knew how to reconcile the relationship they’d had before it’d happened, or even if they should try. She’d brought that painful reality out from the shadows and into the light with one careless sentence.

“How do you think the witches will respond when they help win me a crown paid for with the blood of their own?” In truth she wasn’t sure what her wife was to the witches. She held some station, by birthright as well as something to do with their religion, but that was the extent of her own knowledge on the subject. What she did understand, quite clearly, was that their marriage had been arranged to symbolize a promise to the witches. Beck was a breathing symbol of their alliance, and if Asha neglected or failed her wife, she failed them all. The witch king had given her this warning himself… and he did not seem to her to be the forgiving type. Asha shook her head. “If we manage to defeat Euron and she dies, we’ll be lucky if the witches with us now don’t all turn on us. Their king wouldn’t forgive that.”

Qarl was quiet, sullenly watching the waves. She couldn’t tell if he was mulling over what she’d said or covering up some unsightly emotion, or not paying attention at all.

“But you worry over her.” He said finally. This time she could her anger straining his voice.

“...I do.” She said after a long, tense moment had passed. Though she didn’t let herself dwell on that thought. The more she did the sicker she got. It was preferable to focus on the threats of the witches rather than the crushing guilt and bizarre sense of sadness that overwhelmed her when she thought about what Euron might do to her wife. Beck was vibrant and joyful and warm and---soft. She’d stand no chance against ironmen. If that light was snuffed out beneath her uncle’s boot, she’d never put it out of her mind. At least she doubted she would live long enough to let that guilt consume her.

“What the hell is that?” Asha opened her eyes and turned back to Qarl, but her gaze didn’t linger on him long. Behind him, against the midnight blue sky, a luminous orange cloud of mist was resting over the waters. At first she thought it was smoke, and that deep within the heart of a smog her ships were burning, but as they drew closer she could see it wasn’t smoke at all.

“Go and get Cuyler.” She demanded, sending Qarl a cutting look. Cuyler was the only witch left on her ship. There was little need for strategy and war council now. They hadn’t the time. Their only hope was to hit Euron hard and fast with everything they had and pray to the Drowned God for favor. Or---whatever witches prayed to.

Qarl all but ran across the ship, and Asha’s gaze drifted from him to her sailors, who had all stopped to gape open-mouthed at the enormous cloud beyond them. Wordlessly they began to brace the sails and tie down anything loose for fear they were headed straight into the eye of a storm. Was it terror or excitement she saw in their eyes? Perhaps both. Should they die here in battle not a one would be turned away from the halls of the Drowned God.

Unless he forsakes us all. She thought. The Damphair had preached many a sermon about not spilling Ironborn blood. While most of the blood would likely be spilled by her allies, they did so in her name, and she’d be a fool to let herself think she’d get through the night without having to strike down any of her own.

All for a crown… She shook her head as she turned back to the problem at hand. More than just a crown now. My birthright has driven me here, perhaps, but now it has become so much more.

This war was its own beast now, with its own life. When her uncle had sounded the dragon horn that day, he’s blown life into its lungs. Tonight she would slay it and him in one fell swoop, and in doing so it would save her people from ruin. Ruin that could only come from serving under a man who cared only for his own whims.

“The ships!” Asha startled a bit, having been so deeply lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t heard anyone approach. Culyer was standing behind her, fast approaching the railing of the ship. His thick, scarred hands gripped at the sodden wood, and he smiled for the first time since she’d met him.

“Ships? I don’t see any damn ships. Only that fog.” She jerked her head in the direction of the mist, but the witch only stared ahead.

“What fog, good queen?” He asked, not bothering to turn to face her. Though he did have the decency to drop the smile from his face given her tone.

“What fog?” She replied, her words hard and mocking, then she stopped and considered him. “What do you see?”

“Not but moonlight.”

Qarl cut in with a small, humorless laugh. “No giant cloud of orange mist?”

Cuyler, who Asha was certain at this point didn’t even remotely understand the concept of a joke at all, only looked at him as if he were the greatest idiot to ever sail the seas. “I see… Stop your ships. Drop anchor.”

“Drop the anchor?” She was starting to feel like a parrot she was repeating so much. Only that time it hadn’t been on purpose. She was genuinely shocked that he thought it’d do them any good to stop when the enemy was in sight---well in his sight at least.

“If you can see a mist where I can not the other witches must have surrounded your uncle’s boats in this mist to protect themselves.”

“Do you think all of your people can see through it?”

“Aye, and likely your uncle’s wizard as well.” The witch peered back out into the distance, and she watched as the pupil of his eye grew to twice the size, and his eyes, as well as his tattoos took on a faint glow. “Most of his ships are still far from our own; all but one.”

He didn’t need to tell her which one it was.

“If the witches who spread the fog can keep up the spell, we can take but one or two ships onward and cut down this Crow’s Eye. After our retreat we can drown all that remain.”

Asha took a brief moment to think. The swirling mist seemed to be reaching out to them now, when they’d felt miles away only a few moments ago. It was barely half a league from them now.

“Send someone to Victarion’s ship to help him navigate the fog. Have the rest of the fleet drop anchor. Bring the witch leaders here to me.”

Cuyler’s grin grew to something truly enormous and sharp and altogether horrific, “To battle then!”

Her eyes lost focus of him for a moment, even though she tried her damnedest to watch him closely. There was a blur, either in her eye or in the very space where he stood, his body contorted, colors smeared across reality as if drawn by a thick brush of paint, and then flapping two mammoth wings in the air directly before her, an eagle appeared where Cuyler had stood. The dark golden brown of its feathers muddled with creamy ivory around its head, and its tail was as white as the sea foam. He was larger than her, larger than Qarl, with claws that could have pierced a suit of iron with but a twitch. The razor sharp beak rose to the sky, and he screamed out over the waters so loud that the sound overwhelmed all her senses and carried as far as the sea was long. The shrill, grating note struck inside her like lightning, then with a single flap of his wings, he shot into the sky and soared out toward the awaiting ships.

Their short journey toward the mist passed in the blink of an eye, and when the very tip of the prow reached out to touch it, the entire ship lurched. Behind her she heard a chorus of shouts as men braced themselves while the Black Wind came to a screeching halt. The vessel pitched forward, its tip bending down to nearly kiss the waves, and then like an angry stallion it reared back up and threw its weight forward obstinately.

“Lift the oars! Pull them in!” She demanded, unable to release the rope clutched in her fingers lest she be pitched over the rail. The rough fiber clawed at her skin and chased away the normal chill of the sea to replace it with a raw, uncomfortable warmth. The bones of her fingers dug in harder, and she braced her boots against the deck as the residual motion rocked her ship like a child’s toy. When it was only just under control, she called the oarsmen to get back to work.

Asha took a steadying breath and then hurled herself toward the mast. Another rope found its way into her hand as she helped two other men grapple with the rebellious sails.

Eerily, it was not that the wind howled around them, nor that the waters below were wild, that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. There was a gut piercing, blood chilling silence to the world around them. She could scarcely see ten feet in front of her, and the mist seemed to suck sound from the air around them.

“Láta!” Came the cry of Ragna, but it was small and far away. Another voice echoed the word, and again and again. Láta. Láta. Until she could see the mist in front of her part, rolling like massive waves wide enough to allow them passage. The air rushed back into her lungs, and beneath her the ship settled.

“They’ve resorted to blood magic.” The red-eyed woman said. “Death drives this spell.”

Somehow she’d appeared at the front of her ship without Asha noticing her at all, and the other witches were fast approaching too. Now their voices were whispers, but in their hands they each clasped long iron wands in white-knuckled grasps, repeating láta, láta, over and over, keeping the mist from touching the ship, pulling more away from the cloud foot by foot.

There were shadows of ships in the smog on either side of the boat. Euron’s fleet couldn’t hope to move forward as their own vessels fought them. She watched in horror and astonishment as they lurched and toiled desperately on the still sea. And then she saw it, illuminated by a long stretch of moonlight, with mist lifting off its red hull and black sails; the Silence stopped its frantic rocking as the curtain of smoke pulled away. The ship swayed side to side like a drunk, spinning laboriously until finally it settled on the sea once more. They were closer now, nearly to the ship, and the soft light from the curling mist was just enough to see by. Through the long, narrow eye of her spyglass she could see that it was empty. Completely and utterly abandoned. Not even a shadow lingered on the deck.

Beyond Euron’s prized vessel, she watched the cloud forcibly tear in two around the floating fortress that was one of her treasure ships. It existed in a large bubble, sitting quietly beneath the starry sky, unplagued by the spell that had beset her uncle’s fleet.

“Is that his?” Harper demanded from her side. Asha took the spyglass away from her eye and gave a grim nod, but the Fox was not looking at her. Her rage was thinly veiled, and the effort that it took to contain it turned her soft face to stone. She was not panting, not audibly, but her chest heaved subtly. Was it fear? Excitement? Stress from fighting through the spell?

“Aye. That’s it.” Was Asha’s only reply.

The Fox needed nothing else. Her dark, predatory eyes shifted to the sky where the monstrous eagles circled above his masts, the tips of their wings dipping in and out of the mist like the fins on a shark.

“Let. It. Burn!”

The night sky blazed to life as the wings of the eagles burst into flames as gold as the autumn sunset. Speckles of blinding white glittered throughout the metallic flames; the frayed, toiling edges tore to reveal the ebony sky behind them, only to sew themselves together once more a heartbeat later; spears of crimson bled out against the golden field, staining everything it touched in shades of blood-spattered pink and burnt orange as they shot through the fire. The fire did not burn Euron’s ship so much as it consumed it. Like a pack of wild dogs rabidly tears apart and scarfs down its prey, the flames stripped the sails, broke open the masts, splintering them in all directions, and tore the planks apart board by board until there was nothing but embers and ash laying on the black water. She had never witnessed wildfire with her own eyes, but she imagined it looked just as unnatural as this. With a final roar and a sky shaking boom, the Silence died. What little remained sank down to the depths below, and for a time even the water glowed, as the sheer savage fury of the witches kept the flames alive even against the laws of the ocean itself.

The Black Wind glided effortlessly over where her uncle’s ship had been, and she tasted blood in her mouth.

Drawn by the violent display she saw men appear on the deck of the witches' ship only just out of her reach. Euron's men drew bows and took aiming, first at her ship, and then, upon seeing the flaming beasts in the sky, up to the air. Once more the eagles were descending, their beating wings dancing with fire. They were met the hail storm of arrows as they dove and three of them dropped with pained screeches into the sea below. Another spiraled and rolled along the deck of the ship, met with a spear before it could try and get to its feet. But those that remained swooped down on Euron's men. They took grown men in their grasp, setting their talons straight into their chests effortlessly.

Her axe was wetted as soon as her feet hit the deck. Another wave of men emerged onto the lower deck and made their charge. Her arm swung, digging her blade into a short man’s shoulder. He gasped and drew back to strike her, but she slipped out of the way and brought her axe down on the back of his neck as he stumbled. A sharp pain erupted at the base of her spine, and she heard her back pop. She hit the railing of the deck and turned to face her assailant, gasping for the air that had been ripped from her. A sword shot out from his chest and the man choked and spasmed; blood sputtered out of his lips, hot and wet, and splattered along her cheek. The sword withdrew as the man fell, and Qarl smiled sadistically as the blood only smeared on her pale flesh when she went to wipe it away.

“Duck you bumbling fool!” She demanded, her hand not hesitating as she hurled a throwing axe toward Qarl. He was quick enough to step out of the way, but so was the man behind him. Her axe was blown aside by his shield, but the moment’s distraction was enough that Qarl could land a blow to his exposed leg. The man had no sooner hit the deck than her boot crashed against his face with a satisfying crack. Around her the flood of men pouring onto the ship were swiftly driving back Euron’s small force. But she knew he wasn’t fool enough to waste all of his resources here on the lower deck. This was merely a distraction while he readied himself.

“Where are the witches?” She had to holler over the chaos around her. Now Victarion’s ship was docking, and the bloodthirsty shouts of battle hungry men drowned out the sounds of everything else. Asha kicked the man again, accidentally catching him at the base of his throat. He gagged and coughed, slobbering piteously on the sea-soaked wood, and her patience dissolved before he could recover. She wrenched the axe from his shaking hand and hefted it down into the back of his skull.

“Where are my witches?!” She roared above the crowd. Those who had captives still yet breathing momentarily paused in their assault to parrot her question, but it was one of the eagles that answered.

“The wizard and the Crow’s Eye are on the main deck.” The words echoed not in the air, but in her thoughts. “But there are no witches. None alive at least.”

Asha shot a look to Qarl, but as far as she could tell by the wary expressions on the faces of every man on the boat, no one else had heard. She looked to the eagles as they circled in the sky above.

Was this some sort of grand farce? Was Euron baiting her? Now instead of blood it was bile on her tongue. Where was her wife? Why couldn’t one damn person tell her where her fucking wife was? She looked up at the ship’s sails again, thinking perhaps she’d seen wrong; perhaps this wasn’t the Fox Clan’s ship. But in the dim light of the mist and the moon, she could see the silhouette of the fox straining against the wind.

“Ragna and I take will take a force below deck!” The Seal King panted. For the first time he was devoid of his atrocious coat. He pointed with the spear in his hand to the shrouded doorway. “The lower decks are the hardest to breech. Those that could hide would have done it there.”

The Badger was practically unrecognizable under her sheen of shattered glass and blood that seemed to pulse and fog along her once-pale skin. Her black eyes gleamed malevolently as she shot a glance in her direction, and then she followed the Seal.

“Tell your eagles to hold back and stay out of range for now.” She said to the Fox. “We’ll need them to drive Euron’s men back from the entrance to the main deck.”

The witch nodded, and after a flurry of heated words, Asha reluctantly agreed to follow behind on their way to the main deck. This was her fight, she was the one who had everything at stake, and she more than anyone needed to see if her wife was among the corpses littering the ship’s floor, but even she conceded that the greatest risk fell on those who stepped over the threshold first. But she did not want for brave men ready to meet the Drowned God, either.

The halls inside the ship were so dark that if she’d have let go of the wall she’d have wandered off into the shadows and lost herself in a second. Not even the lone torch that one of her men carried could cast light enough to fill more than a small halo around him. Without her sight, she could only feel; she could only hear and smell. And she did her best not to focus on the smell, as that the stench of blood was so thick in the room that it clogged her nose with each breath. The waves were quiet this far below the surface, but the walls creaked and groaned steadily as the ocean pressed in against them. Apart from that, all she could hear were the careful footsteps and choppy breaths of her men, occasionally interrupted by the head of the line stumbling, swearing, and then calling out for the rest of them to step over the body in the way. Each corpse she crossed she stared at twice as long as she needed to, never stopping, but always needing to be absolutely sure that the lifeless face was not that of her wife. It didn’t do her any good in the dark, and as the minutes dragged on her dread and her anger only grew.  

What few men Ragna and the Seal King had not disposed of were quickly felled by her front lines. They lost one by the time they reached the narrow staircase leading to the main deck, and that was she best she could have hoped for.

“He’s waiting for us.” Victarion said over his hulking shoulder. Even he preceded her, much to her annoyance, but he did stand a better chance against the initial assault in all his armor. He took up so much space his shoulders nearly scraped the sides of the hall as he walked, and in his ironclad boots his footsteps were about as subtle as a newly shod yearling on cobblestones. He was exhausting even when he was being helpful. They’d come to an agreement, yes, but she still couldn’t help but wish he wouldn’t make it back to the mainland. It’d save her a lot of headaches in the long run---and they’d never had much love for each other.

“He’s got the advantage. He’ll wait forever if we let him.” She said; her hand came to rest on the hook of her axe.

She felt a soft, slender figure slip past her and threw a questioning look over her shoulder to see Harper squeezing into the space in front of her as best she could.

“We’re going to ram the boat.” She whispered. Bracing herself against the wall in between Asha and her uncle. The proximity to the Fox was making Asha uncomfortable. So close to the battle Asha would have thought she’d seen fear or rage reflected in her eyes or at least a thread of tension in her voice, but her gaze was still cold and calculating, and when she spoke the words were steady. Asha didn’t feel right looking at something so pragmatic and emotionless, especially not when her rage and her worry were at war within her own chest.

Harper briefly glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to the queen once more. “With any luck it’ll knock some of his men off balance. Give the eagles a chance to come down without any arrows flying. The second you see the flames, charge. With any luck we’ll catch the bastards with their breeches ‘round their knees.”

She was unaccustomed to this much---planning in an open water battle, otherwise she might have objected to everyone else doing the planning for her. That was magic, she supposed. Even when there were no options in sight, it gave you some.

No sooner had she braced against the wall then she felt the ship pitch backward with such a force that even those who had prepared themselves could be heard stumbling behind her. Whatever had hit the boat, if it’d been anything at all, surely hadn’t been another ship. It’d come from beneath the vessel. Visions from her dreams flew through her head, flashes of great leviathans and krakens the size of a longship, but she did not have time to dwell on them. Ahead she heard the commotion of Euron’s men shouting in alarm, and then the piercing scream of eagles beneath the roar of a fire as light flooded the top of the staircase.

Asha took three breaths, trying to memorize and anticipate the residual rocking of the ship beneath her feet, and then she charge forward with the rest of them, up into the blinding white light of the deck, her axe clutched firmly in hand.

At first she could see only shadows, blurry and distorted amid the intense flames of the fire. Great, hulking shadows hovering in the air, and the mad, flailing silhouettes of men waving their swords indiscriminately. The fire began to dwindle and fade, unable to catch hold of the deck of the ship. To her left three men leaped onto the back of one of the great beasts, thrusting their swords into its hide and hanging onto them for dear life as the creature flapped and screamed. Ultimately it fell and the light faded even more. One by one the eagles were either forced to flee or were slain, but by the time Euron’s men made a decent recovery, a small force of her own was already charging, with more filing out of the hall at every moment.

“Guard the entrance!” She demanded, looking to Harper, who had somehow managed to split open the throats of three charging men by simply pointing her wand at them, and Victarion who was removing his war axe from the gut of a sputtering corpse. If Euron’s men managed to gain back the entrance to the lower deck, they’d have no reinforcements and be done for in minutes. Neither of them looked at her, but they stayed near the door as the rest of them made their charge.

An axe flew in her direction, and in one deft motion she took it up in her own hand and hefted it back at the man rushing her. It caught him in the eye and sent him spiralling past her onto the blade of one of her men. Qarl. He was still right at her back. Asha spared him only a glance before pushing further into the fray. She plunged her axe into the next man’s throat, and ripped it out only to swing it into the side of another. His sword hand raised and crashed against her chin, hard. She spat blood, the taste of it filling her mouth with copper and her chest with a boiling rage. A cry of fury was strangled from her chest as she swung her axe down on the back of his neck, almost cutting it clean from his shoulders. More blood sprayed, making her grip on her blade hot and wet, and in spite of herself she smiled.

As she jerked it free she straightened herself and wildly searched the deck for the Crow’s Eye. Her eyes frantically dragged across the blood red sea of people. She saw Victarion crash two men’s head together in a way that might have been comical if the skulls hadn’t split and their brains hadn’t bubbled out the side like a bit of spilled stew. Her gaze didn’t linger. She didn’t care. Qarl was splitting open a man’s gut, and still she looked on. A serpent the size of ten men was coiled around Euron’s wizard, forcing its mouth over his shoulders and swallowing him alive. Still she tore her eyes away until she found him, looming above the battle on the upper deck like a coward. He was watching her.

She blindly cut her way through the crowd, unaware if she was killing men or simply taking them to their knees. She couldn’t avoid every swing of their axes or thrusts of their swords, but she barely felt the sting of any blade that split her skin. Every prickle of pain only served to strengthen the bitter taste of fury and bloodlust on her tongue.

And then something felt wrong. Her back felt naked---exposed---and as she ripped her eyes away from her uncle, reality came back to her. Qarl. She couldn’t see him now. He wasn’t at her back, nor her side, nor even fighting on ahead to bait her. Every face she looked on was wrong. Each pair of eyes belonged to someone she cared nothing for.

Her wild eyes landed two figures, one slumped over the other, but shaking with thunderous laughter. Like that same laughter from her dream. Mad and wild, trembling in the air and drowning out all other sound. Like a red hot sword plunged into ice water, she felt her fury immediately harden and turn to piercing fear. She slammed the blade of her axe down between the figure’s shoulders, watching the flesh split and his body jerk. Still he laughed and laughed, and the cold terror felt like mania inside her now. She struck again and again, screaming raggedly to overwhelm the sound of his laughter. Even once he was dead and silent, she hit him three more times before ripping his body away.

Qarl.

She might have wretched. She might have fainted. What miraculous force kept her from doing either she didn’t know, but she could not stop herself from falling to her knees.

He stared back at her with wide, glassy eyes. Neither alive nor dead, caught in the agonizing limbo between the two. His hands were clutching his side uselessly. From the gaping wound she could see his entrails snaking out onto the deck of the ship. He began to cough, blood bubbling up from his lips, and she caught his head in her hands as her axe clattered to the deck.

“Qarl!” Her voice was far from gentle, far from loving, and she couldn’t force any softness upon it. Even in her grief there were only sharp edges and hard demands to offer this man that she loved… but he looked at her. By some merciful twist of fate, her words brought him back to her. Those dark eyes met hers. His mouth gaped open and then closed, and she could not tell if he meant to speak or if he was only desperate for breath. She kept his gaze, feeling tears welling in her own eyes, feeling a thousand apologies and confessions gather on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t afford to cry for him now. A trembling hand pressed against the nape of her neck, and he weakly pulled her forward. She met his lips in a desperate kiss, as if she might give him some of her own life, and she held him to her until the hand in her hair went limp and fell away. Against her lips she felt him smile, and she pulled away long enough to watch the last glint of life fade from his eyes.

Dead. He was dead. She had loved no one else. She had trusted no one else. Not as a woman, at least. She had loved her mother as a ghost, she had loved her lord father as wish, and she had loved her brothers as corpses, but Qarl she had loved as the man he was. He had been real and tangible… and Euron had taken him from her.

[not-just-any-fangirl]

heyyy you lovely human :)) i have a story request id write it myself but my writing is horrible (its actually for a friend this story who recently came out) so Natsu and Lucy are talking and lucy brings up that she didnt actually run away she was disowned for being a trans-woman but explains to Natsu that him and the guild showed her there was nothing wrong with her and yeah you can take it however you want but thats the basis of it like pan!natsu and trans!lucy have a nice day :)))))))

Family

Word Count; 1441

A/N; Hey! I’m going to be doing these out of order just so I can finally dig into them! 

I love this prompt but i just want to address one thing, and idk if you even meant it like this but. Natsu doesn’t have to be pan to be attracted to Lucy if she was a trans woman. She’s a woman, and so long as women are included in Natsu’s sexuality he’s attracted to them, you know? So he could be straight and still want to be with her. I know you prob didn’t mean it this way but the wording just rubbed me the wrong way lol

Regardless I hc Natsu as demi-pansexual anyway! So it’s a moot point!

Onto the fluff!

Natsu groaned, throwing his hand of cards on the table before crossing his arms. He slunk down into his seat, fabric of his scarf settling just under his nose, leaving him free to be seen glaring at a smirking Happy. 

“You’re really bad at this,” Happy chimed, hiding a shrew grin behind a paw. He blinked at Natsu innocently when the dragon-slayer bared his fangs at the small cat. Charla and Lily might prefer being called Exceeds, but Happy had been very firm about being a cat. Nobody but cats loved fish nearly as much as Happy, after all. 

“It ain’t my fault,” Natsu grumbled, “Lucy’s like a fuckin’ bloodhound when it comes to money.”

Lucy beamed at him, proud of herself to a degree that Natsu frankly found obscene -and adorable- as she gathered all the jewels that had been tossed in a pile in the middle of the table. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop blowing up everything and wasting half of our reward having to repair it,” she said, flat tone replaced with a giddy sigh as she counted her winnings. “Now I have enough for rent!”

“Why don’t you move somewhere cheaper?” Happy asked. He spread his wings, sparkles drifting to the floor and dissolving into the air before they hit the fluffy carpet Lucy used to hide the scorch marks on her hardwood carpet. He circled above them twice before landing on Lucy’s head, nuzzling her temple. “Natsu and I don’t pay any rent! You should build a cottage beside us. Then we could come over all the time without having to climb in windows, and we could go fishing, and we could play tag in the forest, and-” Happy continued to list all that they could do if they were neighbours, and Natsu watched fondly as Lucy nodded along, entertaining Happy’s fantasies with suggestions and encouraging prompts. 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nose crinkling as her nail got caught in a small tangle. Natsu cocked his head, watching for several seconds as Lucy gently worked to free herself without disturbing Happy’s perch on her crown. 

“You should cut your hair,” Natsu said. Lucy jerked at his comment, hands coming together in her lap. Natsu frowned as he sensed the air change, Happy trailing off as well. Lucy looked at the table pointedly, shoulders tense and curled into herself in a way Natsu didn’t think he’d ever seen. 

“Why would you say that?” she asked. There was a forced nonchalance that made a sour taste form in Natsu’s mouth. 

“’Cus it always gets tangled in stuff, and, I’unno, a bob or something might suit ya, or... somethin’...” Natsu said, awkwardness creeping up his spine. He rubbed his hands on his pants, biting his tongue at how sweaty they felt all of a sudden. 

Lucy looked at him from her lashes, worrying her lower lip even as a small smile pulled up the corners. Natsu’s palms felt even sweatier and he swallowed thickly, looking at the cards still scattered on the table before flicking back to look at Lucy. 

“Ooooooh.”

Lucy blushed brightly as she swatted at the singing cat. He dove out of her reach, making kissy faces at Natsu, giggling behind his paws again. Natsu yowled as he lunged at Happy, ignoring how warm his own face felt. Happy swooped and taunted around him, Natsu’s grabs resulting in fists of air and even more teasing, Lucy calling for him to be careful of her furniture. As if that mattered when Happy was beginning to chant ‘Lucy and Natsu, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G’. 

“My side table!” Lucy wailed as Natsu caught it with the inside of his new. He cursed as he crashed to the ground, right on top of a screaming Lucy. 

Jewels floated through the air, landing around them. Lucy blinked up at Natsu, eyes wide and golden hair splayed out on the floor, loose curls caught between Natsu’s fingers where he had braced himself. They stayed there, both frozen as they looked at one another. Heat curled in Natsu’s gut, one he was feeling more often than he had ever in his life, not the powerful and angry source like his magic. This heat was kind of softer, a gentle simmer that made him trip over his feet or grin stupidly. It kind of reminded Natsu of a spring day or a hug. 

Natsu kind of wanted to punch it. 

“You two have weird looks on your face.”

Natsu grunted as there was suddenly a Lucy-sized-hand in his face, smushing his cheek as she pushed him off. Natsu glared at her pout from her he laid on the ground on his stomach, pulling a cushion from the sofa down for him to hug and prop his head with. “You’re mean.”

“And you need to learn the meaning of personal space,” Lucy huffed. Her pout grew larger, cheeks puffing like a chipmunks and arms crossing over her ribs. Natsu poked her side and sniggered at her squeak. 

Lucy groaned as she fell tot he floor beside Natsu, still pouting halfheartedly. He handed her a pillow, grinning at her eye roll and found smile as she took it. 

“Hey, Luce?” Natsu asked, watching her carefully. “How come you got all weird when I said you should cut your hair?”

Lucy’s smile dampened and her fingers tightened on the pillow. Her honey brown eyes seemed duller when she looked at Natsu, sharpening as she nodded to herself. 

“My da- Jude used to tell me to cut my hair. To keep it a proper length and to not be such a disappointment,” Lucy spoke softly, and Natsu waited quietly for her to continue, knowing now was not the time to interrupt with questions. “He said mom had spoiled me too much, encouraging my delusions. Learning magic, writing, acting like... a girl.”

“Why couldn’t you act like a girl? You are a girl?” Happy asked. He sat between Natsu and Lucy, his paw resting on her knee. 

“Jude didn’t think so,” Lucy said, a bitterness and tiredness creeping into her voice. 

“How come, Lucy?” Natsu asked softly. 

Lucy looked at him, small smiling slipping away as she took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. 

“Becuase I wasn’t born one.”

Silence fell over the room. Happy moved to curl into a ball against Lucy’s stomach, Natsu scanning Lucy’s face as he thought. 

“Yes you were.”

Lucy’s eyes flew open, staring at Natsu wide and in shock. “You’re a woman, right? Use she and her, like to smell pretty and keep yourself clean and buy cute shit, yeah?” Natsu pressed. Lucy nodded, swallowing thickly. Natsu ignored the way her lower lip trembled, and how much he wanted to still it with his thumb. “Then you’re a girl. And even if you weren’t, it wouldn’t matter. You’d be Lucy. That’s all I care about. It’s all your family cares about too.”

“Family?” Lucy asked. Her voice was hoarse, eyes watering as Happy nuzzled into her and squeezed himself between her body and her arms. 

“Yeah, Weirdo! Fairy Tail’s your family. And we wouldn’t change a thing ‘bout you.” Natsu grinned at her. Maybe if he smiled big enough she’d smile too and wouldn’t cry. Natsu never knew what to do when Lucy cried. A gurgle caught in his throat when he was suddenly crushed in a hug, a sniffling Lucy attached to his chest. “D-don’t cry! I- shit, Luce, I’m sorry I didn’t mena-”

Lucy shook her head, curling into his chest even tighter. “Thank you, Natsu.”

Natsu laid still, arms hovering over her shoulders, unsure what to do. The warm heat in his gut came back from before, but this time it spread to his whole body. Natsu was especially aware of it where Lucy was pressed into his chest and her knees knocked against his thigh. Slowly he rested his arms on her, light enough that she could break free with just a shift. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.”

“Anything, for you Luce,” Natsu said. He hugged her tighter, burying his nose in her hair. She smelled good, but Lucy always smelt good to him. He thought she’d look cute with a bob, but Natsu had a sneaking suspicion that he’d think she’d look cute with any hairstyle. Maybe even bald. Okay, probably not bald, but still. Natsu opened an eye when he felt a devious gaze on them. 

Don’t. He thought at Happy, who had peeked his head over Lucy’s shoulder. His eyes were pinched slyly, knowing grin making Natsu shiver. Happy could read a room when he wanted to though, and knew this was more important for Lucy than teasing Natsu would be for him. And that he had all night to pester Natsu when they went back to the cabin. 

Unless Natsu claimed Lucy’s bed before they she tried to kick them out, that is.

[space-unicorn-dot]

SSO HTTYD AU - Jaime Ravenshield

YEET, I was actually semi-around for the talk about this one and am actually here to show up on time with a developed character to actually participate. And this is perfect because Jay is perfect for this and I guess it’s not hard to tell I’ve been literally all over getting to develop and write him more. So, without further ado!! @sso-trainyourdragon Uhhh... I also realize this isn’t done, but if I save it just to my drafts, I’m gonna lose it, not know where it went, and never finish it. So, yeah, I’m gonna tag this, and please hold.

MEET MA BOI

Name: Jaime Ravenshield - Jay to friends

Age: Twenty-three

Occupation/Trade: Adventurer, mercenary

Magic: Illusions (disguising and masking things as something different, usually something a little more “normal”), Moon Circle/prophetic visions, water manipulation

Physical Appearance:

Yeah, I do genuinely think his hair would be longer in this AU verse, and, I mean, ignore that this doll creator was obviously kickass Viking woman (Iloveit) and, y’know, I did what I could. BUT ANYWAY.

He’s a bit of a human tower, standing at least six feet in height, and probably some change (read: I haven’t decided an exact, so just know he’s tol), with light blonde hair and heterochromia. His left eye is a warm brown and his right is a pale blue. I went with pale blue in the doll thing because you can’t choose two different ones, but you get the idea. I do really like how this turned out, lol.

Clothes & Style: Jay is on the move often and his typical style reflects that, and his preference for functionality. He’s often carrying at least a blade with him - either a sword or a dagger/some throwing knives, but also carries a bow and quiver for easier hunting. I may or may not have found myself mildly influenced by the presence of Assassin’s Creed Origins and Odyssey lately in my life. >.>

Uh, yeah, he’s also probably almost always in long sleeves, the light armor, boots, and pants. It gets a bit cold out there. The headpiece/helmet is probably mostly only when he’s actually flying, and the cloak is probably under a similar sort of use.

Build: Fit, healthily(?) muscled? You can tell he’s active and he practices his trade well enough to get more than by on the skin of his teeth, but he’s no hulking Stoick the Vast, ya feel?

Defining Characteristics: Typically wears some sort of blue paint in a few varying patterns - either something like the stripes in the picture or some runic designs. He has some claw scars on his left arm from a bit of a closer call with some ~disgruntled wildlife, and some more with scraps of the more human kind on his torso, not that anyone will be seeing that without some platonic bonding beforehand. Don’t get too excited, kids. I mean, there’s also his heterochromia. That probably gets noticed a fair bit.

Signature: Is this talking about like writing style? Signature feature? Weapon? Style? I don’t know and I’m not a cool kid that can do that fancy make your own font sort of thing because I’m lame, lazy, and don’t have any of that fancy tablet stuff, so you’re gonna have to bear with my vague description. His writing probably has a slight slant to it no matter what he’s writing - not necessarily the “I can’t write in a straight line without a line of reference” kinda slant, but like... a stylistic one? And he’s pretty neat. Probably mildly fancy. Because that shit’s pretty.

Personality: While “mercenary” might sound contradictory to all of this, “vigilante” might work a little better for a true description of what he does. Most people just end up calling him the former, anyways. He’s grown independent and self-sufficient out of necessity, considering he was an orphan, but he’s quite the compassionate individual, almost always willing to detour from the task at hand to help someone in need. He’s typically pretty soft-spoken and understanding. He’s not a particularly open book about himself, but he’ll take time to listen. Incredibly loyal and protective of those he cares for.

Talents: In free time, he’s been fond of sketching - lots of Star, but also of some of the scenery they’ve seen on their adventures. And, he’s a bit shy about it, so he won’t really admit to it unless you really press, but he likes to sing - again, mostly to Star.

Fighting Skills/Style: Jay has always been able to rely on Star to work with him in combat situations - as a distraction, with his strength, as a quick escape option, you name it, Star and Jay would trust each other to help. As for him alone, though, he prefers a shield and a trusty bow with a good range for his combat. In a sense, he likes to fight light on his feet - nimble and dodging or parrying incoming strikes so he can work quickly with his sword and daggers instead of depending on a shield for protection. If tackling a large group, he’d prefer to move with his bow first, to reduce the enemies he must take on and reduce his change of getting detected and stuck in a fight where he’s too outnumbered to take care of himself.

Relationships: Jay’s spent a lot of time mostly on his own, mainly with just Evergray, his mentor as company. Look, ‘cause I can. I love that bastard.

As for romantic, I have no idea, lol. Jay hasn’t really been on the market for a love interest, but that don’t mean he wouldn’t be open to one if something came up.

Pets: A light gray fox with a particular fondness for puddles, splashing up water, and who simply adores when Jay allows him to come with him and Star. His name is Ash.

Miscellaneous:

STORY

Origin: Somewhere high in the mountains; his memory’s a little blurry since his parents were killed when he was very young (and he’d, thus, rather not think too hard or long on it), and he was taken in after by the occasionally odd, but ultimately kind-hearted Evergray when he was young, maybe no more than six. Idk, I’m indecisive. xD Don’t make me number things.

Motivations: It’s not that his life is bad. But something feels likes its missing. The idea of seeing the world was a nice one, too, but, really, he’d also like somewhere he felt like he belonged.

DRAGON

Name; Starstone, usually just Star

Age: Mid to late-teens, probably, maybe an upwards of 20.

Species Name: Stormcutter

Description: Dark blue scales cover most of his body, with a very light blue undertone on his belly and his face that fades into the darker blue. His wings are also the light blue. His eyes are a deep gold color. Jay found him when he was still a young, barely full-grown dragon, with a bit of growing left to do, injured and a bit sickly, but they seemed to trust each other almost at first sight. Jay nursed the dragon back to health almost entirely on his own, only taking advice from more experienced elders, but letting few (if anyone at all) lay a hand to help.

Personality:  He’s very wise, old-soul kinda friend, compassionate, supportive, and, above all else, would do anything for Jaime and to keep him safe. While he moves and holds himself with experience showing, he’s also soft-spoken and doesn’t mind trying to keep up with the occasional antic from other younger or more energetic dragon friends. He’s the kind that would sit there with a straight face while you wave a Twizzler in front of him and, just when you’re ready to begrudgingly give up because it looks like he won’t play with you, tackle and roll you into a gentle scuffle. Would ten out of ten use his tail as a playing lure for kiddos and let them practice pouncing on them. Loves soaring in the night sky, and regularly lets Jay sleep on him in various ways. Sometimes just on his back, sometimes under his wing, sometimes even wrapped in them when he hangs upside down. Overall, really chill, loyal ride or die. Also a wise counsel; Jay regularly consults and takes his advice.

Markings & Scars: He has some grayish-white stripes running down his neck and back, narrowing as they reach his tail and only going down the first bit of it. He has some scarring on his chest and some lighter ones across his hindquarters from close calls with his faithful rider.

Fighter or Passive?: Typically passive, like his rider, but, also like Jay, not afraid to “throw hands” when push comes to shove.

Anything Else Notable?: He has never been ridden with any sort of saddle or harness. Jay’s relationship with him is founded on trust and respect and, therefore, the only thing he’d ever maybe consider would be additional armor for his friend if they were getting into something he worried his dear friend couldn’t take, but they’ve made it this far without, so it’s not very likely.

[verngyu-moved]

war, tome, and crown || ch. iii

pov: second person (mxr; gender neutral reader insert) ⟡ word count: 5.8k ⟡ genre: adventure, fantasy, romance ⟡ rating: pg-13 ⟡ warnings: mild cussing, death mentions, almost dying lol?, drowning, body horror, alcohol

⟡ CHAPTER 3 ⟡

“Your Majesty, get back!” Cheol shouts at you from behind. You’re old enough to look after yourself, even if the tip of this boy’s sword seemed to be winking at you with its shine. A few of the boys from the other group call out the long-haired one’s name, Jeonghan, as an urgent warning. You drink in his pastel dandelion tunic, a matching yellow belt around his waist with its ends tied behind him, which droop all the way to his dark brown boots. As your eyes made their way up to his upturned collar, the smug grin on his rosy lips grew. “Y/N.” a familiar voice calls out, and you shift your gaze to see one of your retainers, Seokmin, dawning his usual sapphire tunic, with matching pants and silver knee-high boots. His left shoulder is protected by a small piece of metal armor, a tattered white cape behind him. Azure hair is slightly disheveled as it covers one of his eyes partly. “Seokmin.” you gasp, hand coming up to cover your mouth as you spot your retainer. Tears fill your eyes, voice shaking as you see your other two retainers, the raspberry-haired Soonyoung and platinum-blonde Seungkwan on either side of him, “Soonyoung. Seungkwan.” Ignoring the rather tense moment at hand, you run past Jeonghan to wrap your arms around all three of them, “Gods, how I missed all of you.”

“That’s the real-?...” Jeonghan wonders aloud before you hear him place his sword back in its sheath, the sound of the metal clanging rings in the still, humid summer air. “We didn’t know if you were alive.” Seungkwan whispers, his arms taut as he envelops you in an embrace. He’s the most sensitive and gentle of the three, so he seems glad to be in the center of your hug. You don’t know why you’re surprised they all look the same, it’s not as if it’s been months since you’ve seen them—just a few days—but you take a few moments to take in Soonyoung’s and Seungkwan’s appearances. Soonyoung, carrying his red axe which is quite literally on fire (a feature he’d acquired after coming to the aid of many dragon-like deities), with flame-like patterns carved out of its gold head, welded into cherry wood for its handle. He’s also wearing his typical getup, a plain white shirt under honey denim overalls. A belt’s loosely wrapped around his waist, with pieces of armor strapped to each arm and both shins, and you figure they’ve been treading a far different path by looking at his muddy knee-high amber boots. Seungkwan has on a long sleeve fern green tunic with dramatic coattails extending to his calves. Underneath he wears pants of a darker pine color, with black leather boots. Often in the winter he switches out his plain boots for identical ones with added fur at the top, but seeing as you’re all sweating in the dead of night in the middle of July, there’s no use for them now. Seungkwan’s hand loosens around the gold stock of his lance, the crystal point looking like an upside-down V, its iridescence shimmering even in the dim tent.

“Your Majesty.” Soonyoung says softly before all three of them, as if in sync, slip from your embrace to kneel on the ground, their gazes settling on the grass. Face feeling hot, you look around at the ten pairs of eyes following your every move, every slight micro-expression, suggesting, “Ah...guys, you don’t need to...” “Please forgive us.” Seokmin’s face is completely parallel to the ground, and none of them are moving an inch. Your stomach does a backflip and you blink a couple times, feeling light-headed. Suddenly feel like you’re standing in a puddle of saltwater, your body feels ice cold. “We couldn’t…They…” Seungkwan sniffles, words sounding nasally. The puddle’s getting bigger. The water keeps coming; it’s up to your knees now. “We failed to protect your mother and father.” Oh Gods. It’s at your waist, you’re swimming in the ocean alone, lost at sea. No, wait. You don’t feel lost at sea, you are lost at sea. Almost as if you’re dreaming, you know you’re in a tent in the plains of Midmire, but you’re lost in your own consciousness. The whole thing feels incredibly vivid to your senses, like a hyper-realistic lucid dream. “They’re dead.” one of them says. You’re not sure who—you don’t care. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re...

“Y/N…” Cheol calls your name, but you swing your head up, to look at the blue, sunny sky where his voice is coming from. How are you supposed to get all the way up there? Especially when this water keeps getting higher? As the air remains completely still, you try to talk, but nothing comes out. Grasping your vocal chords, mute screams jump from your vocal chords and sink into the water below you, immobilizing you like an anchor. Helpless, you look up to the heavens. “S-Something’s wrong!” Seungkwan yells, a voice once again coming from the clouds, its echo vibrating the surface of the water. Your legs frantically flounder, trying to keep yourself from drowning, but you watch as the day becomes night and the ocean swallows you whole. What you can only assume is screaming ripples through the dark water, so much screaming, it’s muffled and words, too, are being exchanged but you can’t make any of them out. It’s like you’re a genie in a bottle, sucked into a miniscule space, suffocating even though there’s nothing and nobody else in there with you. A cold glow fills your blood, and you lift your hands to watch a white fiery plasma pulsate through your veins. It’s so violent you feel as though your entire body is suffering from a massive migraine. None of this is normal, but yet it feels so familiar—like it’s innate.

“Somnio!” a booming voice breaks clearly through the dark still waters.

And then you sleep.

⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡

You grumble a few times, hands shooing away the burning sensation on your forehead. You think to yourself that your head feels uncomfortable on this hard and stiff surface before groaning some more. “Are you awake?” Soft speech tiptoes into your ears while a few deep voices quietly chatter, and even though it’s relatively hushed, it all forms one big tumbleweed of conversation, making your head pound. Well I feel like shit. You remember that one time you felt extremely bold (is bold the right word?) when you were well under Matrona’s legal drinking age, going through your first four bottles of wine in one night. You felt close to the grave the next day, barely making it through the worst hangover of your life. That kinda feels like this, plus the sensation as if you’ve been left out in the snow while naked for hours. Your eyelids flutter open, irises meeting the looming figure whose lap your head is propped up on—Minghao. His charcoal hair is pushed out of his eyes, and for the first time he seems friendly. His hooded eyes seem inviting, like a cozy bed, wide as your gaze drifts to the rounded tip of his nose, then to his soft cheeks, then to his cupid bow lips. Unsure why you’re taking so much time studying his face, you snappily sit up on the patch-riddled blanket laid out under you and Minghao, your forehead just barely missing his along the way.

“Are you okay?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to you checking his physical attributes out just moments earlier. Was he nursing you back to health while you were sleeping? “W-What...What happened?” your breathing picks up as soon as you realize it’s just Cheol, Jeonghan, Minghao, and you under the stars. You know it’s summer and you can feel the heat around you, but the cold inside you causes you to shiver, making it impossible not to stutter. You look behind you to Cheol and Jeonghan as they sit next to Minghao around the crackling flames that are just a few feet away, where they had stopped mid-conversation to watch you awaken. You turn around slowly towards all three of them, poorly enunciated syllables sloppily racing from your numb lips, “Where is everyb…-body? Where are m-my retainers?” “Hey, hey, hey,” Cheol raises one hand like he’s trying to soothe a rambunctious horse, “They’re fine, everyone is eating dinner inside the tent. You need your rest…” he tells you, reaching over Minghao to press his calloused hand to your forehead, making you feel as though you’ve been shocked by a surge of electricity. Was this because his touch was embarrassing or because it was it scorching hot? Maybe it was both. “Great Mila, Minghao!” almost like he had touched a hot pan, he jerks his hand back, shooting an accusing look at his comrade before turning his attention back to you, “Y/N, you’re freezing!” “I’m trying.” Hao says through gritted teeth, glaring at Cheol. He eases the strain on his voice to coax you back to his lap as if you didn’t just hear his miffed griping, “Your Grace, please.”

No, it’s too embarrassing! you whine to yourself, instead trying to change the subject. “T-tell me what happened first.” “But Y/N-” Cheol begins to protest, but you cut him off. “That’s an order f-from the only s-surviving Matronan r-royalty. And I’m f-freezing, so it better be q-quick.” Cheol sighs and exchanges a stunned look with Jeonghan (who smirks) before raising his eyebrows at you in a look of disbelief, “You know I’m still pissed at you, right?” “Irrelevant.” You dismiss his question matter-of-factly, appreciating that Cheol cares about your well-being, but not knowing what the hell is happening—or rather what had happened—is itching at the back of your mind. He takes in a deep breath, the four of you completely silent, the only sound being the logs burning. “You had a...psychic temper tantrum, so to speak.” “What e-exactly does that m-mean?” As if in sync, both Cheol and Jeonghan slowly pivot their heads and look at Minghao, to whom you, too, are now looking to for an explanation.

“You had an overwhelming response to some traumatic news in your life, thus awakening your magic abilities. Your light magic abilities, to be specific. It’s not unheard of for some mages to realize their powers until they have a need to be summoned—like in cases of self defense. But this was...unbelievable. Some of the strongest raw magic I’ve ever felt. “I’ve never seen someone’s eyes such a bright white, and-and your veins! They were glowing through your skin, it was incredible, really.” Minghao’s never seemed this excited about anything before—no scratch that, you’ve never seen him excited, period. He speaks at such a fast pace you barely can process what he’s saying. You—with magical abilities. You—a light mage. He clears his throat before continuing, wiping off the half-smile that has formed on his lips, “Anyways. So, I put you to sleep since you-” correcting himself at once, “...your magic became a threat to everyone’s safety...Doing that took a lot of my strength. ” Oh, you think, Minghao also needed to rest, which makes you feel even worse.

Upon seeing the grave look on your face, Seungcheol quickly chimes in, voice low and delicate, “No one got hurt.” “I...I’m s-sorry. I d-didn’t mean to h-hurt anybody.” once again, the badly articulated words fall from your lips. You distort Minghao’s words in your head, torturing yourself: You’re a threat to everyone’s safety. It repeats again and again in your mind, with each instance you hear your own voice say it, it somehow hurts more—the last thing you wanted to do was cause anyone trouble. You think back to yesterday, when your total word count at the end of the day was a smaller number than the hours the group had traveled on foot. All because you didn’t want to bother anybody, just wanted to create as little change in their lives as possible before you met up with your mother and father and never saw them again. You had desperately wanted them to smoothly transition back to their own normal lives, regardless of how immoral or illegal you believed theirs was. Not like any of that matters now, you have no home and no family. All you have left are your retainers who have been your only friends for years. You will yourself not to cry as you realize that they’re your family now. But was this all just a nightmare? Yeah, I dreamt up that my kingdom was overthrown and my parents were killed. Right. What did I drink before bed to give me such a vivid and horrific nightmare?

“Hey,” Cheol twists his neck so his eyes are meeting yours, and you hadn’t even realized your focus had darkened while shifting to gaze upon the dirt ground, “Don’t beat yourself up too much.” Minghao cocks his head to the side to look you in the eyes, while you notice his tome sitting snugly in his lap. Filling in the blanks, you assume Cheol had given it back to him while you slept, and then Minghao had made it a makeshift pillow of sorts for your head, “I knew something was different about you when I tried to cast a hex to calm you down, and you somehow resisted it. But this...this definitely confirmed it.” Your jaw falls open. That’s right. How did I know that? And how did I resist it?

“Let me warm you up.” Minghao takes notice of your shaking jaw clacking from the ice in your veins, and thinking of how many ways this action could be perceived, you quickly decline. Taking a hint, Jeonghan, who’s been completely mute this entire time, stands up and pats Cheol’s shoulder, signaling him to follow suit, “I’m sure Minghao could fill you in on the rest.” “Wait-” Cheol protests, but he’s helpless against Jeonghan, who places both hands on his back and pushes him forward. They’re both awfully comfortable with each other, but it only makes sense. They’re old friends, and by the looks of it, they’re pretty close. The two of you watch as both of them head into the tent, greeted rowdily by the rest of the boys, which is probably thanks to some form of alcohol. “Come here.” Minghao beckons, encouraging you to scoot closer to him. He loosens his black velveteen cloak and drapes it over your shoulders. You feel your face reddening, but you do as he says when he gently tells you to put your hands together. You ball up one fist and cover it with the opposite hand, thumb coming to rest on top the other. He raises his hand in the direction of the fire, softly whispering, “Magisio.” And the fire livens up, the heat more intense and comforting.

Your hands still clasped together, you begin to wonder why he told you to do so until he says, “Benevolenska ignisin,” a tiny flame hovering over his palm. “This won’t hurt, I promise.” You watch in awe, until he somewhat frightens you by rather forcibly grabbing your hands to hold them in his own. “S-sorry.” he apologizes, barely audible. “That’s okay.” you mumble, face turned away from him. Your is heart beating wilder than ever, and you pray to the Gods that he can’t tell. “I thought that was pretty cool...what you did.” Minghao softly states suddenly. “W-what? Lose control?” You let out a single chuckle. “No.” he replies, annoyance in his voice—you assume it’s because he doesn’t want to be misunderstood, “Royals usually sit back and watch people die for their cause. Seeing you step up and put your own life on the line was refreshing.” “I think it was d-dumb.” you retort, admitting your shame to him, knowing he wouldn’t judge, almost certain he doesn’t care enough about you to do so anyways. You choose not to focus too much on his hands that wrap around yours, and his cloak around your shoulders, even if both are helping raise your body’s temperature a lot.

“Well, I don’t think that’s your fault...” You remain quiet, unsure if you’re being taken seriously because of the stuttering. But perhaps Minghao gives you something to consider, or rather, offered an optimistic perspective. Which is unexpected from him, quite frankly. A minute or so passes until Hao reignites the conversation. “Just so you know, Seungcheol isn’t only mad at you because you put everyone else in danger. He’s also mad that put yourself in danger.” You remain silent, confused as to why he would care so much. You’d only known each other for a few days. Then again, they were a few life-altering days. Guess it’s true that people bond over shared traumas. “I can tell he feels responsible for you. Especially now with your parents…” he hesitates finishing his sentence out of sensitivity, so you decide to finish it for him. “Gone.” The scene of Seokmin, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung kneeling before you paints itself in your mind, the memory so vivid and fresh it’s like it’s happening in front of you all over again. You aren’t mad at them—not one bit. You know without the full tale that all three of them were loyal to your kingdom and protected your parents until the end. The more you think about it, the more you feel sorry for them. A retainer’s one and only duty is to protect their assigned royalty—even if that means sacrificing their own life. Seeing as all of them came out alive, had faced the loss of their king and queen firsthand, and failed to keep their only sworn vow, they’re probably beating themselves up just as much as you are right now.

Minghao waits a moment before responding, choosing his words carefully, “Yeah. I’m...I’m sorry.” “It seems like a lot of us are cursed with losing our parents. There should be a club for that or something.” you jump after you finish speaking, wanting to take back what you’d just said, “Oh. I’m so sorry, that was insensitive.” He lets out a guttural chuckle, taking you by surprise, and soon you’re mirroring him, letting out a small giggle while his black ink stained fingers tighten around yours. It’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh, so you couldn’t let yourself miss the view, turning your head to see the accompanying grin, which is just as beautiful as you had expected. His eyes narrow and the puffiness underneath them bend to form little smiles. When it’s rare for someone to laugh or smile, the more fulfilling it is when it happens—especially if it’s because of you. Needless to say, you feel very fulfilled right now. “No, that was funny. I liked it.” he reassures, turning to face you, two pairs of eyes meeting. You note his humor matches his magic, his eyes, his hair—dark. Both of you stare at each other for a few moments, not saying anything, before Minghao swallows a lump in his throat, turns back towards the bright orange fire, and slips his hands from yours, the flame dying out in his palm, “Are you feeling better?” “Yes, thank you.” In an effort to fill the silence and ignore your heart pounding recklessly, you recall a bit of something he said earlier, “Oh, by the way…” “Yeah?” His head begins to turn towards you but stops, and your gaze doesn’t leave him, knowing he’s looking in your direction although you can’t see his eyes. Continuing on, you declare, “That stuff you said earlier...about my skin glowing and all that. That was in my dream.” “Your dream?” His eyes finally meet yours again, and even though it’s not the first or the second time, his attention on you still makes your heart skip a beat. “Yeah.” you gulp tensely, “I had this weird dream that I was in this puddle and it was daytime, and then as I realized the puddle I was standing in became an ocean, it turned into night. And there was screaming, and...” moving on as you decide it isn’t a great idea to relive the more haunting parts of it, “I couldn’t talk? And I was drowning in the ocean, and that’s when my veins started to glow and I could see them through my skin.” Minghao remains still, not even batting a lash at something you consider ridiculous, your fingers tensing up as he tells you, “That wasn’t a dream.” “Then what was it?” “It’s your Magicae Locus.” taking in your raised eyebrow and mouth slightly agape, this signals him to extrapolate, “Your Magicae Locus. It’s a place your subconscious creates to tie your physical self to the magic buried within you. Think of it as in between astral projection and lucid dreaming.”

Feeling inquisitive, you prod him on, “So what exactly does that mean?” “Each mage has visited their Magicae Locus when they were just starting to learn magic. When you visit yours it opens a portal, so to speak, to allow your physical body to produce, manipulate—et cetera—magic. It’s essentially where your mind goes when your powers awaken. Besides that, it’s not meant much for anything else.” He holds his hands up to the crackling and sizzling fire just a meter away before his fingers tangle together, hands arranging themselves in his lap. “It felt real, right? Like you actually were there even though you also knew you were really someplace else.” “Yes!” your eyes widen as you learn somebody else understands and you snap your fingers, grabbing his attention, “That’s exactly how it felt.” “See?” his voice is calm, but a large huff of air escapes his mouth, and you realize you probably startled him. “Magicae Locus.” Wanting to progress with the conversation since you feel slightly embarrassed upon seeing his alarmed state, you ask, “Can that portal be closed?” Your fingers grip his cloak to bring it back over your shoulder since it had slipped sometime during the conversation. He blinks a few times while a puzzled look moves across his features. A few small moments pass without him saying anything, and you begin to think it’s because he doesn’t know the answer, but he finally responds, “Of course. Anything that can be opened can be closed. I’ve never heard of a mage ‘closing the portal’ though. I have heard of a mage inserting themselves into somebody else’s Magicae Locus and cutting off that person’s connection. But I’d assume to do it, there has to be an insane amount of magic, and a brilliantly powered mage at the source of it.” “I’m just curious.” you blurt out, since you know he would have asked anyways.

A few more moments pass in reticence, and even though you feel like you know Hao better now, nonetheless you still feel jittery around him. “Hey, can I ask you something?” “Shoot.” you watch as Minghao goes back to his same old blank expression. “Will you teach me magic?” the words fall from your throat, and your heart feels uneasy knowing there’s a big chance you’ll be rejected. In your head, you say a word of apology to your poor heart who’s been through a lot today. His chin tilts slightly in your direction, “You want me…to teach you magic?” “Yes...please.” your shoulders perk up, as you draw in a large breath. You’ve been reading about light magic for a while now, you know its origins, its different uses...just not how to control it. Well, obviously, as shown by certain events earlier tonight. “Light and dark magic are somewhat different. I’m not sure if I’d be any help.” he replies, and you slump, kicking yourself on the inside for getting your hopes up, even for a second. “But…” You turn to look at him, wide-eyed and expectantly as the flames of the campfire move across the different highs and lows of his face, like flesh topography. “I can try.” “Really?” your lips curl to form an ear-to-ear grin, and for the first time you feel like you catch a glimpse of Minghao’s gentle side. I mean, who in their right mind would offer to teach magic to someone they just met a few days ago? “Yeah, sure…I mean, if I can find the time t-?” “Oh Minghao, thank you, thank you, thank you!” your arms wrap around his broad shoulders, and he lets out an odd noise of surprise, one that isn’t natural or familiar.

“You guys about done out here?” Cheol’s voice says from behind you, causing both Hao and you to jump. Your arms fall to your side and the two of you stand up. “Gods, Cheol! You scared the hell out of me!” Minghao shouts, and you watch as Seungcheol’s face that’s riddled with a scowl snatches the cloak curtained around you into his fist before shoving it into Minghao’s chest. “Are you hungry?” Cheol shifts his attention to you, explaining they have several rabbits worth of grilled meat lying in the tent. You haven’t eaten yet, and are feeling exponentially better, so you decide to head on in and enjoy a nice meal.

⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡

The whole tent is explosive with laughter, and for only the second time this whole journey you feel relaxed. The two groups are mingling, Wonwoo is soliciting with some of the other boys whose names you still don’t know. Jeonghan is talking to Chan as Seungcheol plops down beside him. Time seems still for a moment as your eyes take in the scene before you, not missing the dishes set out for dinner. Trays of fruit, lightly cooked tan meat (no doubt the rabbit Cheol had talked about), white rice, and carrots scatter around the length of the table. What is it with these guys and carrots? At the middle stand seven bottles of white zinfandel, three of which seem to be open and empty. Minghao has made himself comfortable next to Mingyu, you watch on in intrigue as they clink chalices, grinning as they enjoy each other’s presence. “Can I sit here?” you ask Soonyoung, voice slightly raised to reach above the babble, hand coming down to rest on the empty space of table next to Soonyoung. All three of your retainers are sitting together in a row across the table from Jun, who’s chatting up two more young men you don’t recognize. His brown eyes peek out beneath his rose pink locks to meet your gaze for a split second before swiftly looking down, “Yes, of course, Y/N.” Swinging your legs over the maple wood bench to slip your legs underneath, Seungkwan gasps out your name, and by the time you finish getting comfortable, you’re looking at him but by the time you try to meet his gaze he’s hard at work eating his food, eyes frantically roaming around the tent. Seokmin is seated next to Seungkwan, who feels the younger’s awkward sudden movements and shifts himself around to ask if he’s okay. Seungkwan whispers something to him before Seokmin looks you in the eyes, and then mimics Seungkwan’s elusive and uneasy behavior.

“Um.” you clear your throat, Soonyoung meeting your eyes. By his stiff body language, he’s obviously feeling fearful but you figure he’s too afraid to look away. Or perhaps he’s afraid you’ll do something brash, so he’s keeping his eyes on you in case you lose your temper again. “Guys.” you call out to the three of them again. The other two hesitate, but eventually give you their attention. You clear your throat a second time, “I’m uh…” you blink a few times, the words getting mixed up and blurry in your head, so you settle for a simple: “Thank you.” All three angle their heads to hastily lock eyes before looking back up at you. Seokmin is the one who replies, “You’re—you’re not mad?” “Of course not.” in some way you feel hurt that any of them would expect you to be upset. They’d been your retainers ever since you were all early teeangers, and as retainers they were trained hard and fast. Seungkwan began his training a year before Soonyoung and Seokmin, but was a year younger than when the other two had started. The day they were assigned to you and you could finally stop traveling around with those two dusty men in their fifties (who annoyed you to no end with their nagging and lecturing) was a day to be remembered. Since that day, all four of you were inseparable.

“Kwannie!” Soonyoung laughs, one arm extending around Seungkwan’s shoulder as the other hand came to rest on his bicep, “Don’t cry!” “I just thought you would never forgive us.” Seungkwan mumbles, hand coming up to wipe his eyes and nose while Seokmin giggles and leans over to rest his head on his still arm for a few moments. Your heart aches seeing Seungkwan’s tears of relief, it was never easy to see him cry, even if it was out of happiness. For a moment it’s just another night in the castle you call home, all four of you sitting by the fire sticking by each others’ sides through another brutal winter as you find old literature to read in funny voices. “There’s nothing to forgive, it wasn’t any of your faults.” you assure them, shaking your head, ill at just the thought of holding a grudge against them. “And I should be the one apologizing. I put everybody in danger.” “It wasn’t your fault.” Seokmin reassures you, leaning just far enough while he sits behind Seungkwan so that you could see his wet eyes. Soonyoung nods in agreement, while Seungkwan is busy shielding his face from you. “Yeah, I mean you’ve done some pretty stupid shit. And that was one of them, b-” Soonyoung’s eyes wander around the social interactions happening in front of him while he speaks, too distracted to be able to block Seungkwan’s elbow with a blow to his upper arm. “OW! I wasn’t done! As I was saying… You’ve done some stupid shit-” “That we had a part in, too.” Seungkwan interrupts, words departing in Soonyoung’s direction under a glare. Soonyoung ignores him and his gaze shifts upon you, smiling as he’s determined to finish his thought, “But that was probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

Seungkwan, wet tears still laying on his face, stands up with his craggy cotton napkin in hand and begins to beat the devil out of Soonyoung with it, who shields himself with a small silver plate. Soon all four of you are cackling, Seokmin and you both joining Seungkwan’s force to pelt Soonyoung with napkins. After the fight dies down and you feel your abdomen begin to ache from all the laughter, Seokmin reaches across the table to retrieve a bottle of wine. Soonyoung follows his lead, and gathers up four shiny silver wine chalices, “All of us have had a long journey, let’s relax tonight.” Spending the rest of the night next to your old friends from home while in a tent, miles away from your kingdom, is a weird feeling. You’re so used to being cooped up behind brick walls that your experience being outside of them isn’t anything close to what you were expecting. Then again, neither was losing your kingdom and your parents. But for one night, just this one, when the pain of grief is at its peak, you want to ignore it. Everything is changing, or rather, it already had—your path is tangoing with each person’s in this tent. Drinking seems like a good way to numb the mixture of grief, confusion, and shock that creeps into every waking thought. Even though you’re well aware the next time you wake up you’ll be burdened with a real hangover, you tell yourself, But that’s a problem for tomorrow, already on your third chalice of zinfandel. You watch and laugh as Seokmin and Seungkwan entertain the group with a melodramatic skit, taking note of Seungkwan already knowing the names of the boys who you arrived with as shown as he playfully yells at Chan and Wonwoo for their obnoxious side commentary.

An intense and strong energy from farther down the table radiates to you, but it’s not magic of any sort. Changing the direction of your gaze, your eyes cling to one particular individual whose gaze you suspect has been on you for the last several minutes. Seungcheol, who’s planted between Jeonghan and Joshua (a boy Soonyoung had introduced you to while you had sipped on your first serving of wine), is resting his head on his palm, fingers curled against his cheek. His other arm is flat against the table, fingers playing with the base of his presumably empty chalice. Blinking a few times, he silently chuckles at your dumbfounded reaction, softly batting his lashes a couple times, gaze still very much on you. A nervous giggle leaps from your throat, but the skit going on at the front of the table disguises it. However, the evidence of it still shows on your face, a small grin playing at your lips. Cheol grins back at you while you mouth, Are you still mad at me? He shakes his head frantically like a small child who’s in trouble; it’s then you realize it’s the alcohol that’s causing him to act oddly. He mouths something back at you, but as the skit causes another eruption of wild guffaws from all the boys, it’s harder to focus on making out what he’s saying.

Let’s all you narrow. is all you catch the first time. With your eyebrows pulled together, and eyes squinted, you watch, distant, as he mouths it for you again, and you finally piece the words together: Let’s talk tomorrow. Is it bad? You mouth, amusedly watching him as he drunkenly over-does his squinting while trying to read your lips. He furiously shakes his head again, re-adjusting his arms to cross over each other, so that they rest flat on the table. Once again, he replies by mouthing something to you but it’s unintelligible and after he does it a third time his eyelids get droopy until they close completely. You suppress a giggle as you watch him slowly drift to sleep, head gradually coming down to rest on his crossed arms. Seokmin and Seungkwan’s skit finally ends, the whole tent claps and cheers loudly, while Seungcheol doesn’t move an inch.

You shift your gaze to the stars of the show, your swift movement catching Minghao’s eye, who’s seated across from you, along the way. His eyebrow is raised, and he looks at you, and then in Seungcheol’s direction. Gathering what’s happened, he takes in the sight of Cheol who’s currently slouched over the table, fast asleep, not doing much besides breathing. Hao switches his gaze back to you, lips pulling upwards to form a lazy smile, and you find it impossible to stop from yourself reciprocating. Giggling under your breath, you raise your chalice to your lips, taking another swig as you enjoy Minghao’s lingering gaze, drinking in all the excitement and celebration of the night.

⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡

EDIT (180807): i edited some of the story after going back and realizing i left in some of the effects of the original storyline i had planned of jeongcheol being old army buddies + MC thinking YJH killed CSC’s parents (when he was from a diff army who fought alongside matrona’s) and [s]he/they almost killed him to exact revenge. i rewrote a lot of dialogue from from “I thought that was pretty cool...what you did.” to “But perhaps Minghao gives you something to consider...” so if you’ve already read this & dont wanna read the whole thing again, theres ur start & stop places to see the changes and hopefully b less confused......super sorry abt any confusion, i reread this thing like 15 times and it still went over my head..maybe i should get a secondhand opinion before posting next time cuz im seriously embarrassed i just noticed this 2 months later l o l

→ CHAPTER 4

PHEW. god!!!!!! this was the hardest chapter to write. yesterday i was like “im 100% happy w this” after working on it for 3 weeks, and then i went and added 1,000 more words lmaoooo

i really enjoyed this one tho, the tension seems to be v real between y/n & hao 😈i’ll admit i swerved into his lane like 34 times since writing this.....the most fun part was writing y/n’s magicae locus. its nice to take a break from dialogue and write stuff that relies more on description ! speaking of magicae locus, all the words hao says is a mix of (obviously) latin, some italian, and some russian. im working on coming up w a name for the language !

again, i hope the love triangle isnt cheesy + playing into the usual clichés. its important to me that its not the “we hate each other bc we’re both competing for ur love” cliché isnt present. doesnt mean there cant be tension tho 😏how many times have i said tension???

thank u every1 who continues to leave likes, reblogs, nice comments + msgs. feedback means the world to me ;_; i will try my best to not let u all down 💞💓💝 this is my gift to u to start off the week 😁 & as always, heres the google drive link to the inspirations behind each members’ weapons and outfits here.

-deedee

[ifwegettherebysunset]

Synchroshipping: comfort, please :))

Finally answering a prompt! It’s a miracle lol

This one is called Velut Luna. Reincarnation, angst with a happy ending :D

Also under the cut, ALTHOUGH i would recommend clicking the Ao3 link, if only because I put some notes in the beginning that aren’t posted here!

O Fortuna, (O Fortune,)velut Luna, (like the moon,)statu variabilis. (you are changeable.)

Carmina Burana, Carl Orff

Although Memory World is based on truth, it isn’t accurate. Not just in Atem’s ability to bring modern knowledge, but the omission of vitally important people to create a narrative that focuses solely on the Pharaoh.

But now, as Atem stands in his newly-illuminated soul, he remembers the night of his coronation celebration as it really happened.

Visitors, six in all, striding into the palace. Their hoods are pulled back, revealing different ethnicities as their bared arms reveal the same shade of red. They bow. They name themselves as individuals, and then as one:

“We are the Signers, Pharaoh. We are here to help.”

Signers.

A dragon head adorns the speaker’s arm. The taut muscle is almost identical to the one Atem had seen not nearly as long ago. The tone and appearance couldn’t be more different, but those eyes. The look in those eyes are the same.

The Guardians sense old souls residing in these Signers. Old and powerful. But Isis and Mahaad also sense benevolence. Though skeptical, Atem allows them to join the celebrations. He calls the Dragon Head Signer from his fellows, that he may speak with him quietly during the proceedings.

The Signer remains quiet and polite. He allows Set’s not-so-subtle interrogation, replying that “Akakiryu” harbors their children from life to life, replacing them in the world when the time comes.

“We bear different names than those of our first lives,” he says, “and perhaps every previous name will be forgotten one day. But our purpose never changes. As your Guardians protect you, Pharaoh, so do we protect the world.”

That is the first sign of darkness brewing. The Thief King does not attack that night, but the Dragon Head Signer relates the premonition that the Crimson Dragon brings. If the Signers are here, their enemies are not far behind.

“You bring danger to our land?” Set hisses.

“No,” the Signer replies with perpetual calm, “The danger would have come regardless.”

He eyes the Sennen Items with a foreboding sorrow that Atem will remember when the truth comes. He must have sensed the gilded bloodshed the instant he arrived. Atem wonders what first impression the Signers had.

The Thief King does ambush the palace a week after the ceremony. In that time, Atem remembers watching the Signers roaming in the night, holding hands and whispering prayers. He remembers thinking time and again of what were then brown eyes, surrounded by young skin yet old at their core. Atem had always felt terribly inexperienced around the Signers.

Atem’s father is not brought to this ambush, as Bakura originally did not plan to immediately take over the kingdom, but erode the Pharaoh’s authority overtime to cause as much suffering as possible. But he is still vengeful, his anger still untamed, and his soul tries to aim directly at Atem.

The stars themselves protect him, bathing the darkened room in millions of gorgeous lights. Standing before it all is the Dragon Head Signer, holding his mark as the Guardians would a diadhank.

The other Signers gather around him. The sand splits on strangling vines. The fires in the braziers break into two streams, one roaring red, the other gentle gold. Stones break from the floor to form armor. The air whips feathers of all colors into one black whole.

Bakura is repelled with a surprised yell. The world rights itself, from replaced stones to reformed constellations.

Among the cheers, the Signers are horrified.

“Impossible,” one Claw Signer whispers.

“How?” the Tail Signer asks.

“What is it?” Mahaad says.

The Dragon Head Signer swallows. “That man…he has taken every Earthbound Immortal into his soul.”

“What kind of hatred does he harbor that can swallow all of them?” the Wing Signer cries.

Aknadin is incredibly still.

Atem remembers falling in love.

It’s a steady affection, reliable as stars at night. He’s not sure when it starts, but he knows when he figures it out.

Once again, he has called the Dragon Head Signer to his side. They walk by the pond, admiring the moonlight against the water.

The Signer says, “I think of stars as the hearts of those who watch over us. Friends, guardians, mothers, fathers. When one falls, that simply means they are ready to rest.”

“We have stories made of stars,” Atem replies.

The Signer smiles in his quiet way. “Yes. They provide inspiration. They provide our own beings.” He raises his mark. “Because of my dragon, I can sense their glow. I see it in everyone. Even the Thief King has a speck of stardust left, faint as it is.”

Atem’s eyes narrow. “Do you pity him?”

“No. But it’s strange.”

“What is?”

The Signer looks him in the eye. Atem should punish him for it. He never does.

“When I look at the stardust that makes you, Pharaoh, I see the same stardust in me. Whatever it is that makes us who we are, our souls are of the same constellation.”

Comparing himself to the Pharaoh, especially as an equal, is doubly deserving of punishment. In that moment, however, Atem breathes out and actually feels as if he breathes from human lungs. It’s the first time it’s happened since his father died.

He is not divine when the Dragon Head Signer stands with him. He is fallible. He is human. Yet he is still beloved.

Atem’s heart doesn’t so much as tell him as remind him that he’s in love. It doesn’t feel new, though the realization is. It’s recognition. As if the Signer’s talk of having the same stardust is true, and they’re finally seeing each other as they are.

“I don’t know what it means,” the Signer says, “but I am proud to stand at your side. Not just as a Signer, but as a person. I never thought that could be possible.”

“No,” Atem murmurs, “me neither.”

They have a month of evading attacks. A month of little smiles and starlit kisses, of the Guardians’ suspicious side-eyes and the Signers’ teasing glances.

Atem remembers dying.

The Signers fall one by one, using every ounce of their power to weaken Zorc. They play an integral role in Atem’s fight, paving the way for a killing blow.

The Dragon Head survives the longest. He is there when Atem makes his final oath.

He takes him in his arms, cradling Atem’s face.

“I’m terrified,” Atem whispers.

The Signer touches their foreheads. “There is always hope, Atem. Always.”

The final image Atem has of his life is the Signer pleading to the sky. “Akakiryu! Your beloved child begs one final wish.” Then of tearful brown eyes looking down on him. “Though he casts himself into darkness, let there be stars to guide his way. May he not wallow forever lost. No matter how long it takes, let us meet again in the light!”

The Crimson Dragon curls through the air. It creates a circle. Stardust Dragon dives through it, straight for the dying.

“Victim’s Sanctuary!”

The Dragon Head touches the Sennen Puzzle.

It had been his power that called Sugoroku. His starlight that glittered gold on the Puzzle’s box.

Yet when he and Atem met, they didn’t recognize each other.

Now Atem stands before the Door and wonders if that old soul will continue to wander in the Crimson Dragon’s heart. They did meet again in the light. There had certainly been a connection, but was that all they were allowed?

Something resonates through the chamber, making everyone sway. There’s no voice, no feeling, but a pressure that conveys a message. Atem’s not sure if there are any human words to capture it.

Choose.

Atem looks at his hands, not knowing why until he sees his fingers glittering.

“Atem?” Yugi’s tearful voice calls.

Atem remembers love and says, “Where he travels, I travel with him.”

The lights rise from his skin.

Names are important. They are keys. Atem knows this too well.

When he opens his eyes and sees a changed city, then, his first word is a name.

“Quyllur.”

Across the city, Fudou Yusei drops his wrench.

Crow and Jack pause over cleaning their own D-Wheels. “Yusei?” Crow calls.

As the Signers’ marks gather on his back, Yusei laughs. Laughs and laughs, until tears are streaming down his face and he’s snatching his helmet.

“I’ll be back!” he shouts jubilantly.

“Yusei, what’s going on?”

“I’ll be back!”

He speeds off, as fast as his engine can go. Stardust Dragon shimmers in his mind’s eye, cork-screwing like a happy hatchling. Confused and more than a little concerned, Jack and Crow follow.

What the other Signers see is this:

Yusei braking at a harbor overlooking Neo Domino’s highways. His throwing off his helmet with a carelessness he’s never shown, running recklessly to a stranger. A stranger that looks eerily similar to Mutou Yugi.

They watch as Yusei and this stranger collide, Yusei swinging him around until they’re both dizzy with laughter and tears.

When they kiss, the onlookers naturally utter incoherent “eh?” noises.

In their own corner, though, Yusei’s whispering, “Atem?” and Atem’s replying, “Yes, it’s me, I’m here.”

Their words jumble, then smooth into conversation. Yusei apologizes for not remembering. Atem soothes him, reminds him that he hadn’t either.

“It must have been my merging with Yugi’s soul. And my time locked away. I don’t know if that stardust is still with me.”

Yusei takes his hands and steps back. He glances over Atem’s face and shoulders, then smiles the same way he had by the pond thousands of years before.

“No. It’s still there.”

Atem kisses him again. “I don’t know how to repay you. Or the others. What the Signers did…what you did…”

“I’d do it again,” Yusei replies earnestly. Steadfast as ever. “But―how are you here?”

“When I stood at the Door to the Afterlife, your prayer gave me one last gift. Instead of pass on, I chose to come to you. In this life, at least, I will be with you.”

Yusei’s eyes widen. “You…chose me?”

Atem tilts his head. “Of course I did.”

Yusei snatches him close. “Thank you.”

“I’d do it again.”

After a moment of just holding each other, Yusei murmurs, “The chain was broken. This is the last life the Signers have.”

“The Puzzle is gone too,” Atem replies, “At least its power is.” He smiles, tugging lightly at a strand of Yusei’s hair. “It seems we’ll pass on together.”

Yusei catches his fingers and kisses them. “We’ll live together.”

The sun has set. They kiss under the stars.

(Neither Crow nor Jack has stopped yelling.)

[neoraven]

NWA TNA Episode 7-8, New Champs

NWA TNA Episode 7, continued TNA Asylum, Nashville, TN

I fast-forwarded past the Disco Inferno talk segment, and I regret nothing.

Stretcher Match Scott Hall vs Jeff Jarrett

Hall brings a navy green army style stretcher, and he rushes Double J on the entrance ramp to start things off. They brawl over toward the announce table, over, and behind it, through the ring, and back up the entrance way. They're spilling backstage with little use or mention of the stretcher. Jerry Lynn is trying to walk out in street clothes with his little shitty suitcase and Jeff Jarrett gets thrown into him, knocking him through a door. They make another long lap through and behind the crowd before Hall finally gets back to the ring and gets the stretcher. Jarrett uses it as a weapon to take control, making a bridge on the outside and ramming Hall into it a few times. After trading a few different irish whips into the stretcher in the turnbuckle, Hall hits the Razor's Edge for 2, interrupted by Truth, who is interrupted by Monty Brown, and it becomes a clown car of Jerry Lynn, AJ Styles, Don Harris, The New Church interfering and fighting each other as Jarrett and Hall trade very slow nearfalls until barely answering a 10 count. Hall knocks the ref out with a stretcher shot, which truly makes no sense because he just ignored about a dozen different run ins. Ricky The Dragon runs down and induces Jarrett into hitting himself with a chairshot. When Hall goes for the chair, Ricky tries to stop him, and just leads to a Stroke on the chair for Jeff Jarrett Wins, LOL after 12 minutes.

* Christ that was dire. There was at the very least a little bit of fun with Jerry Lynn getting hit randomly backstage, and then the clown car of interference (No joke, at least 10 different people). But the opening brawl had very little action or wrestling moves, and then they skipped to the big main event ending like it was a 30 minute epic, without any of the middle part. Whatever.

NWA TNA Episode 8

We're back at the TNA Asylum, and this one has some high hopes considering we have the NWA Title, X Division Title, and Dupp Cup up for grabs.

Spanish Announce Team vs The Flying Elvises

We got The Maximos and Amazing Red against Estrada, Siaki, and Yang on the other. We start with a big fun brawl. Siaki and his teammates eventually take control under his direction. He takes down Red one on one and eventually gets frustrated with his teammates' dancing, ignoring their tags and hitting his own stuff in the ring. It doesn't take long for Estrada and Yang to get frustrated and leave the corner to join commentary. Yang is doing god's work on commentary, calling Siaki "All Shook Up in the head". They spend a long time trading out quick tags and double teams every time Sonny starts to get the upper hand. Finally, the Maximos hit the Spanish Fly into the Infra-Red, and the other two Elvises rush back into the ring to take control with a flurry of moves. Code Red starts a series of near falls, then Estrada reverses a second Spanish Fly attempt, leaving Red alone to take a top rope combo. Siaki steals the pin from his teammates, continuing the discord after 12 minutes.

** There was some great action, but the part with Siaki alone just seemed to drag. They also still won't pull the trigger on breaking up the group, even though Siaki has singles star written all over him, with the crowd already popping big for nearly anything he does.

The announcers go over the triple main event. Also, just saying for the record, Ed Ferrara is still here on commentary for some reason. Tenay shows a video interview with Apolo.

NWA World Heavyweight Title Match Ken Shamrock [c] vs Ron "The Truth" Killings

Ricky The Dragon Steamboat comes down to commentary and/or to be a ringside official. Shamrock starts in control with some strikes and submissions, but eventually Truth gets free, and hits his trademark flip and splits dodge to get control briefly. They go back and forth, with Truth escaping his submissions quickly to the ropes. Ken botches a slow hurricanrana and comes up in the ankle lock, but Truth escapes and gets dumped to the outside. They show Monty Brown and The New Church watching on, then the security chief moving to the entrance ramp to sit in between them and the match. It's a little bit of a nice touch distracting from the slow, plodding match. Shamrock starts getting frustrated at Truth hanging around, and dumps him to the outside. Apolo rushes the ring past security, starting some chaos near the entrance ramp. Truth ducks an Apolo superkick that hits Shamrock, then pulls the champ into the ring, hits the Truth or Consequences (Stun Gun?) to win the title after 9 minutes.

*1/2 Kind of a dreadful match, but an amazing result. Shamrock was beyond boring as champion, and the clown car interference was as sloppy as usual.

After cleaning up the world title match, Ricky The Dragon comes out to call out Apolo and finally give him a chance to talk. Jarrett interrupts him before he gives Apolo the title shot he wants so bad. He claims reverse discrimination to a stunned Dragon. After a brief exchange, they're doing a number one contender's match, with Dragon as the special guest referee.

Mostly fastfowarded through the Dupp Cup Disco Inferno and Ed Ferrara heavy segment, as well as a boring Mike Tenay and Monty Brown interview.

First Blood Match Malice vs Ron or Don Harris

They start brawling on the outside and Father James Mitchell shows up for commentary. They trade chair shots as the ref hovers, checking for blood.  They go all around the arena until going up the ramp, where Slash appears with an ice pick, going after Harris. He loses the ice pick and Harris uses it to open up Slash's forehead as James Mitchell looks on, herding them back toward the ring. Harris fights off Mitchell and Slash, dumping the ceremonial blood on the leader. However, back in the ring, Malice takes control and opens up Harris with a chair, ending this in 6 minutes.

1/2* A dumb mess, and not in the fun, entertaining way.

Taylor Vaughn and Bruce get into it backstage and start an evening gown match. AJ Styles and Low Ki also brawl through the area.

Number One Contender Match Apolo vs Jeff Jarrett ; Referee - Ricky The Dragon Steamboat

They start out slow, and Ricky quickly steps in to stop a Jarrett closed fist. After another tie up, he stops Apolo from doing the same. Apolo keeps control with some power moves and agility, despite getting distracted by Steamboat's tight officiating. Jarrett regains control using the steps on the outside. He opens up his forehead, and slams him into the announce table, but Steamboat stops him before he can use a chair and pushes them back in the ring. Jarrett keeps control despite getting in trouble with the closed fist over and over, getting the bloodied Apolo in a long, boring Figure 4. He fires up, and eventually drops Jarrett with a big superkick that gets Jarrett to 2 point foot-on-the-ropes. Another big German Suplex seems like only goes for two when Jarrett gets the arm up, but Ricky counts three…. On Apolo! What a geek!

**3/4 Jarrett Wins, LOL, but it actually makes sense and tells a decent little story. Wish it wasn't burying the talented Apolo, but oh well, gotta get Jarrett over!

Ricky gets his security losers to drag an enraged Apolo to the back. Ricky gets on the mic and gives Jarrett "The Truth" as a tag team partner vs the tag champs next week.

Evening Gown Match Bruce [c] vs Taylor Vaughn

Actually, no thank you. Bruce retained and then showed off his naked body in a thong anyways. Let's move on.

X Division Title Match AJ Styles [c] vs Jerry Lynn vs Low Ki

They start out a little cautious, then double team the champion, taking AJ out before turning on each other. It's hard to keep up with each move, but they're going at each other at warp speed pretty much. They keep hitting planned and unplanned double team moves to each other back to back. There are a couple good nearfalls and triple pinning predicaments. Low Ki gets his dragon sleeper finisher on both opponents in turn before it gets broken up. After another series of nearfalls, they do a tower of doom spot with Jerry Lynn unable to put away either opponent afterward. Lynn stops a Styles Clash attempt, then breaks up Low Ki's Dragon Sleeper in the corner. They start going for each other's finishers now, as AJ kicks out of Low Ki's Styles Clash, then Low Ki out of Lynn's Ki Krusher, and finally, Lynn out of AJ's Cradle Piledriver. Right after, Low Ki goes flipping into the ref, then out of the ring. AJ and Lynn collide in the ring in a double cross body, leaving everyone down and out. The champ grabs a chair and takes out Jerry Lynn before going to the top. Low Ki slips in for a quick pin, staying on top of Jerry Lynn through AJ's move, to steal the X championship after 15 minutes or so.

****1/4 Amazing match, showing the best of the X division and all of NWA TNA in general.

Jarrett and Truth yell at each other in the back while AJ and Lynn brawl in the ring still after the title match. Truth and Jarrett brawl to the entrance way as the announcers put over the two volatile teams.

[nyangibun]

Jonsa pink please!

Anonny, you won the lottery! Well, no, but you get a super long ass one-shot because I have 0 chill. Congratulations! Lol. I hope you enjoy it though, joking aside

Ever since Sansa learned about soulmates, she’d been fantasising about the day she would meet hers and see the matching soul mark. She used to stay up, duvet pulled over her head, and draw images of herself with some unknown figure. Sometimes he’d be tall, sometimes he’d be short, but no matter who she imagined in the place of her soulmate, he would always be a knight and herself a princess in a tower. As she got older, her fantasies involved more daring feats with dragons he’d have to slay or evil witches he’d have to outsmart. It never mattered what stood in his way because he always overcame it. He was her soulmate after all. There was no doubt in her mind that he would be valiant, charming and honourable.

Like a prince, a young Sansa would muse to her mother, or anyone who would listen.

“He’ll have blonde hair,” Sansa decided when she was seven. She followed Robb out to the back garden. “All princes have blonde hair, right?” Her brother shrugged. “I bet he’ll be so handsome.”

“How do you know he’ll be handsome?” Robb finally asked after trying for some time to ignore her.

Sansa scoffed. “Of course he’s going to be handsome. He’s my soulmate.”

Her brother rolled his eyes, but it didn’t stop Sansa from believing it.

At twelve, Sansa was forced to reconsider everything she had ever thought about soulmates the moment she actually met her soulmate. She didn’t know it was him at first. There was no blinding flash of light as he stepped into the room; no singing angels in the background when he first said hello to her; and definitely no spark between them.

In fact, Jon Snow had become her least favourite friend of Robb’s within ten minutes of meeting him. He didn’t smile when he greeted her, he barely even looked at her, and then to make matters worse, he had the audacity to snort when she brought up the topic of soulmates.

“What?” Sansa snapped, begrudgingly meeting Jon’s dull, boring grey eyes. “You don’t believe in soulmates or something?”

“No, they’re stupid,” he said, meeting her speculative gaze head on. Even though he was the quietest one of Robb’s friends, he had defiance in his stance, in the way his shoulders pulled back to make him appear taller than he was. She likened it to a cat bristling its tail.

Robb and Arya laughed loudly, which only angered her more, because they’ve both mocked her for her steadfast obsession with soulmates. Sansa placed her hands on her hips. “How can you say that? Soulmates are romantic!”

“It’s forcing two people to be together,” Jon said, not matching her anger with his own. He was practically impassive as he spoke to her. God, she wanted to hit him.

“It’s not forcing, it’s destiny!”

Jon chuckled, shrugging. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

When she finally realised he was her soulmate, it was some weeks later at the Starks’ annual summer barbecue. She was feeling particularly confident in her new pink and white striped bikini, proudly showing off the intricate lines of her soul mark at the base of her neck. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, a rarity for Scottish weather, and all of her friends were here. It was a perfect day.

But her good mood abruptly came to a halt when she walked past Robb and his group of friends and overheard their conversation.

“Dude, why do you have a tattoo of a snowflake on your chest?”

“That’s not a tattoo, you pillock, that’s a soul mark.”

“Oh. Wait, your soul mark is a snowflake? That’s a bit lame, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off, Theon.”

“What?” her brother shouted. “Your soul mark is a snowflake?”

At this point, Sansa’s heart was ramming painfully in her chest. She couldn’t believe it. After everything she had imagined about her soulmate, it had to be with someone who didn’t even believe in it? Jon wasn’t even blonde. He was lanky with muddy brown hair and boring grey eyes. That was the opposite of what princes looked like.

Before she could think about what she was doing, Sansa ran over to her brother and punched him hard in the shoulder to shut him up. “Robb,” she said breathily, feeling her panic rise and rise up her throat. “Mum needs you!”

He glared at her, groaning and rubbing his shoulder, but he knew. Out out of all of her siblings, Robb could read her the best and she didn’t need to say any more. He would even cut Jon out of his circle of friends if it was what she wanted, but what kind of person would she be if she let him do that? Sansa grabbed his forearm and nodded infinitesimally. Her brother sighed and walked off, despite probably knowing their mum hadn’t called for him at all.

Now alone with Robb’s friends, Sansa turned and found Jon staring at her with wide eyes. She flushed under his gaze. That was great; now he knew too. She pulled her bun loose and let her hair cover the soul mark as subtly as she could. Thankfully, Theon, Edd and Sam had already moved onto a new topic, but Jon was still staring resolutely at her, like he was trying to figure something out. Well, she didn’t need him to figure her out.

“What?” she snapped, hoping the familiarity of being annoyed with him will ground her from the realisation that this stupid, gangly boy before her was her soulmate.

“I, uh… Nothing,” Jon mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

It surprised her to feel her neck tingle as if he was running his fingers along her soul mark there. She swallowed tightly and leveled a glare at him, one that she hoped he would be able to interpret as ‘do not tell anyone about this’, before stalking off.

On her fifteenth birthday, Sansa was completely over soulmates. She didn’t need some stupid mark to dictate who she’d end up with, not when there were boys like Joffrey Baratheon, who were blonde, charming and valiant. He made her feel special and loved; he was everything that Jon wasn’t and she had to admit that was kind of the appeal of him. Where Joffrey was talkative and outgoing, Jon only seemed to get broodier with age and more solemn. Didn’t he know that girls didn’t want to date someone like that? Least of all Sansa?

Well, at least the feeling was mutual. By the way that Jon actively avoided her, he was as determined as her to forget that they were soulmates. And maybe sometimes it stung a bit because he was such good friends with all of her family, but Sansa wasn’t going to let that get to her., She was not going to care or even spare a thought for him. Jon may share the same soul mark as her, but he was not her soulmate.

Maybe Joffrey could be.

“Have you seen my boyfriend?” Sansa asked Jeyne, still feeling a little thrill at being able to call him that.

“No, but check the kitchen. I heard him asking Margaery where the drinks were.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, squeezing her best friend’s shoulder as she passed her by on the way to the kitchen.

The Starks’ kitchen was a beautiful work of art. Granite countertops, mahogany wood, and state-of-the-art appliances occupied the room. Her mum had slaved away for months and months designing it herself, and since she helped a little, Sansa was quite proud of it too. It had been fun to imagine cooking wonderful, mouth-watering dishes in a room she was helping create. Only in all of her imaginations, Sansa had never expected to see her boyfriend and her friend snogging up against the stainless steel refrigerator she picked out.

They were unaware of her presence and she wanted so desperately to scream and shout, but Sansa stood frozen in the doorway, one hand braced against the wooden frame, while the other fisted in her pale pink dress. In that moment, she wished she could borrow Arya’s ferocity for one second and punch Joffrey in the face, but Sansa wasn’t that girl. She had never been that girl. Instead, she was the type to stand dumbly by as she continued to watch her boyfriend kiss another girl.

The backdoor to the kitchen abruptly slammed open. Jon stood there with his fingers running through his rain-soaked hair, but he froze as soon as he caught sight of Joffrey and Margaery, and then Sansa. For a long second, no one did anything. Tense silence expanded to every nook and cranny, until without warning, everything was in motion. Jon slammed his fist into Joffrey’s nose, while Margaery screamed, jumping away. Joffrey tried to push back, but the lanky blonde had nothing on Jon’s superior strength. The boy wasn’t captain of the football team for nothing.

“Sansa, do something! He’s gonna kill him!” Margaery pleaded, tugging on Sansa’s dress.

She shrugged, finding her voice to be calm and steady when she felt so far from it. “Why should I care? He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

When her ex-friend whimpered and pleaded some more, Sansa sighed and walked over to Jon to place a hand on his shoulder. He immediately stilled. He searched her face, watching her carefully – maybe to make sure she was okay or maybe to silently ask if she didn’t want to punch the tosser herself. Eventually, Jon stepped away, but he only moved so he could circle an arm around Sansa’s waist. She tried to ignore the shot of electricity that raced up her spine from the contact. Now was not the time to think on stupid things like that.

“C’mon, Sans, let’s get out of here,” he murmured to her. “Leave him.”

Sansa nodded, but before she allowed Jon to steer her away, she bent over so she was face to face with Joffrey. “Clean this up and then get out of my house. Take your new girlfriend with you, and if you ever try to talk to me again, I’ll tell my brother what happened tonight.”

The blonde paled. Jon may have stood up in her defence tonight, but Robb was the one all of the boys at school were frightened of. It wasn’t that her brother was stronger than Jon, he was simply far more reckless and far less inhibited in how he dealt with anyone who hurt his family. For once, she was glad for that reputation.

At seventeen, Sansa still didn’t believe in soulmates. After Joffrey, she met Harry, and when that ended in disaster too, she decided to stop believing in relationships altogether. They were messy and painful and not worth her time. The knights and princes of her past had been shattered by the reality that chivalrous and honourable boys did not exist.

Besides, her actual soulmate had gone off to university, and last she heard, Jon had a girlfriend, so clearly he was over it as well. Not that she cared but she couldn’t help wondering about his new girlfriend. In all the years Sansa had known Jon, he’s never really been with anyone, at least never seriously enough to call them his girlfriend. Sansa sincerely hoped she never had to meet her. It was an awful thing to think, and Jon could have as many girlfriends as he wanted, but she didn’t want to meet any of them.

The night before Christmas, Sansa was in the den by herself reading Wuthering Heights for her English A Levels. If she wasn’t going to have a real soulmate, then she was going to have a real job with real influence. She was going to be a teacher.

At a quarter to one in the morning, she heard the creak of a door open and someone attempting to walk silently through the house to the kitchen, which was just past the den. Sansa smiled to herself. “I didn’t realise Santa was a nineteen-year-old boy.”

“Jesus, shit!” he exclaimed. There was a clatter of some kind of object falling to the ground, before he then appeared at the threshold, his dark curls all mussed up from sleep. “You scared the crap out of me, Sansa. What are you doing up?”

She raised her book towards him. “Reading.”

Jon nodded and then smirked. “Aren’t you a little old to be waiting up for Santa?”

“Aren’t you a little old to be dressed like one?” she asked, arching her brow and gesturing towards his Santa-printed pyjamas and full beard.

He flushed, pink colouring his cheeks and neck. It was sweet. “It was a gag gift from Theon, but it’s surprisingly soft.”

“And the beard?”

“Left over from Movember,” Jon said, shrugging. He walked over to sit on the opposite end of the sofa from her and grabbed her book despite her protests. “Please tell me you’re reading Wuthering Heights for school.”

She was, but she scoffed anyways. “What’s wrong with Wuthering Heights?”

“Everything’s wrong with it,” Jon said, bewildered. “It gives the complete wrong idea about soulmates; you know that, right? They were so bad for each other.”

Sansa giggled, and she nudged him with her fuzzy sock-clad foot. “I didn’t realise you were so passionate about Heathcliffe and Catherine’s relationship, Jon. What are your opinions on Elizabeth and Mr Darcy? How about Jane and Mr Rochester?”

“Oh, shut up,” he said, but he was smiling, so that was a win in her books. “I had to read it for school too, and all the girls in my class were mooning over Heathcliffe. It was scary. If that’s what people think soulmates should be like then…” He glanced at her and flushed again. “It’s just dumb.”

“Well, for once, I agree with you,” Sansa said, grabbing her book back. “But I think people like the idea of being passionately in love with someone. That’s why people want a soulmate. Being in love and being loved? That’s not a bad thing to want.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked gently, but Sansa was staring resolutely at the glass coffee table in front of her instead of at him.

She shrugged. “Maybe once, but not anymore. It’s not worth all the other stuff.”

“Hey,” Jon said, taking her hand in his. “Is it because of what Joffrey did? Because he’s a prick, you know? Not all guys cheat on their –”

“It’s not just him,” she interrupted, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s us too. We’re supposed to be soulmates, Jon, but it’s not exactly like we’re compatible…” She sighed, trying to feign nonchalance, even though this was the first time either of them had brought up their soul marks. “So I don’t know. I guess you were right. It’s all just pointless.”

He pulled his hand back, and for some reason, that hurt more than if he had just agreed with her and said she was the last person he’d ever want to date. He might as well have, she thought. It wasn’t as if she was clambering to date him or anything, but was she not even an option?

As the silence drew on, Sansa started to become more and more irritable. “If you’re not going to say anything then you should just go. I have a lot of reading left to do and –”

This time, it was Jon who interrupted her, and as his lips pressed insistently against hers, Sansa wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer and closer, until he was lying flushed on top of her. It was everything and nothing like how she imagined her first kiss with her soulmate to be. There were no exploding fireworks; no instantaneous magical connection, but there was heat and lust and desperation. It was as if the longer they kissed, the more she needed him near. Her hand roamed through his hair, feeling the softness of his curls and tugging just to hear him moan against her lips. The sound sent a pool of desire to the pit of her stomach and Sansa shifted so she could tangle her legs in between his.

“Sansa,” he breathed against her neck. “We should stop.”

She murmured her acquiescence by nipping at his lower lip, to which he groaned and swiped his tongue along the hollow of her neck in retaliation. Sansa didn’t even try to hide the mewl of pleasure that that elicited out of her.

But just as Jon was beginning to kiss a trail across her collarbone, nosing away the loose jumper, something horrible occurred to Sansa and she shove him away with a hard push.

“Ow, what the hell?”

“You have a girlfriend!” she seethed. “How could you do that to her! How could you do that to me! I can’t –”

“We broke up in October, Sansa,” Jon interrupted, as he furrowed his brows.

“Oh,” and just like that all of the indignation and anger whittled away, and soon she was pulling nim back to her, kissing him as desperately and heatedly as she was before.

Sleeping with Jon was challenging to do when he lived in Edinburgh for most of the year, but it was easy to convince her parents to let her visit on the pretence of going to see her big brother. It was also easy to convince Robb to take her out clubbing at night, only for Jon and her to sneak back to the flat before any of them could return.

In fact, aside from the distance, everything between them was easy. They fit together in a way she never thought was possible with anyone else, but they were both adamant on keeping whatever they had going a secret. It was too complicated to involve anyone else. For one, Sansa didn’t even know what they were doing. And two, she wasn’t totally convinced they would work as a couple. Even though when he wasn’t near, when she couldn’t feel him skin to skin, Sansa felt empty, hollowed out like a trough. He was like a drug she couldn’t quit, which terrified her so much she refused to talk about the nature of their whatever with him.

So of course when she turned nineteen, Jon was there, and with Jon being Jon, he had to bring it up as soon as they found themselves alone in a dark corner of the bar.

“I was going to wait to give you your present later tonight, but Robb is in a bit of a state after his breakup with Aileen, so he’s probably going to get really needy and I won’t be able to sneak away,” Jon told her with a sigh, pressing his forehead against her bare shoulder. The small gesture was so familiar to them now, but her skin still warmed under the contact.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, gently running her fingers through his hair. Sansa kissed his temple. “It’s okay, Jon. I get it. He’s my brother, remember?”

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” he replied, chuckling against her. He lifted his head back up, and now facing her, she could see his cheeks were mottled pink. “It’s… Don’t laugh, okay?” He pulled out a silver link bracelet with one single circular charm dangling off of it. Carved onto the charm were rolling hills and a towering tree, looking as if it was blowing in the wind. It was beautiful.

“It’s supposed to be a part of Yorkshire where Wuthering Heights was set. I know we both hate Heathcliffe and Catherine, but… I don’t know. It’s pretty, right?” he asked, nervous and so unsure.

Her heart clenched tightly in her chest, and suddenly, what they were doing felt all too real for her. “Jon,” she whispered, unable to tear her gaze from the charm. “This is too much. I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” he said warily when she didn’t finish the sentence. “What can’t you do, Sansa? Accept this birthday gift or accept us?”

“There is no us,” Sansa said, as she removed her arms from around him. “We’re not in a relationship. We’re just –”

“Fooling around?” Jon snapped, dark eyes narrowing at her.

She was momentarily transfixed as she stared back. When did his dull grey turn into a clear storm? When did she allow herself to be swept up in him?

“That’s what we’ve been doing for over a year? Just fooling around?”

Sansa sighed, turning away. “Yes. What do you want me to say?” She pushed him back and tried to get past, but he grabbed a hold of her wrist to keep her there. “Jon, don’t.”

“What are you so bloody afraid of, Sansa?”

“Nothing!” she lied. She was afraid of everything. She was afraid of losing herself in another person; finding that when this all turned to ash, Jon would’ve taken a big piece of who she was with him, and then what? What would she be left with? Joffrey and Harry may have broken her trust in relationships, but Jon could break her.

“I just don’t want a relationship right now. You know this. You knew this going in,” Sansa continued, feeling her heart break in her chest anyway, but being unable to stop herself from pushing him away.

“You don’t want a relationship,” he repeated slowly, dropping her hand. “Or you don’t want a relationship with me? I remember how disappointed you looked when you realised I was your soulmate. I guess I’m just not good enough, right?”

She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him he was an asshole and that he had no idea what he was talking about, but he then shoved the bracelet in her hand and that shut her right up.

“I bought it for you, so keep it, sell it, throw it away – I don’t care anymore. I’m done.”

Without waiting for a response, Jon was gone, disappearing into the throng of partygoers.

Despite having adamantly refused to go to Robb’s New Year’s Eve party for the past two years, her brother was not going to let her get away with not attending this year. He said he would blackmail her if he had to, which didn’t really intimidate her considering Sansa had more on Robb than he had on her. But when he offered to help her move all of her things from London to Edinburgh if she only attended the party, Sansa agreed instantly. She didn’t want to drive that kind of distance on her own. It would have been the longest journey of her life, and Sansa had once hitchhiked to Morocco with Jeyne for charity in her first year at university.

Still, now that she was two minutes away from Robb’s flat, she wondered whether her brother’s help on the drive up would be worth it. It wasn’t as if Sansa hated parties, but everything from Christmas to her birthday to New Year’s Eve drained her. It had been tainted a long time ago.

Sighing, Sansa thanked her Lyft driver and exited the car as gracefully as she could in the tiny burgundy minidress Jeyne had picked out for her. It would’ve been better if her best friend could’ve accompanied her, but unfortunately, she was spending the evening with her new boyfriend (and recently found soulmate) instead. What a traitor.

“Sassy pants!” someone called from down the street. Sansa turned to see her little sister running over to her in tight black jeans, a dark red vest top and six-inch heeled boots. She was still (adorably) shorter than Sansa. “I didn’t think Robb would actually get you to come.”

“Yeah, he bribed me,” Sansa smiled, hugging her little sister. They’d been like cats and dogs all throughout their childhood and teenage years, but now at twenty-one and nineteen, Arya was one of her favourite people in the world. It still caught her by surprise sometimes how close she was with her sister. If someone had told sixteen-year-old Sansa that, she would’ve scoffed and said they were liars. Back then, it was more likely for Sansa to bite Arya than confide in her about anything, but now, alongside Jeyne and Robb, Arya was one of the first people she’d go to for advice.

She turned to her sister’s boyfriend and hugged him too. “Hi Gendry, you looking forward to this as much as I am?”

The bulky boy laughed. “You know me, life of the party.”

“Oh, shut up you two,” Arya snorted. “You’re acting like we’re luring you in for the slaughter.”

Well, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but Sansa really would’ve preferred a quiet night in with a book and a bottle of wine. But she did promise Robb, so she plastered on a smile and walked up to the third floor flat with Arya and Gendry in tow, both of whom were arguing heatedly about some thing that happened the other week on some show Sansa didn’t watch.

The door was already wide open when they reached the flat and the three of them quickly separated – with Arya beelining for the loos and Gendry trailing behind her, as Sansa headed towards the drinks table. The moment she had a drink in her hand, she was immediately pulled into a conversation with a stranger.

“Shit, you’re Robb’s little sister!”

“Uh, yeah,” Sansa smiled tightly. This was why she hated these nights. “I’m Sansa.”

“David,” he greeted, shaking her hand. “Wow, you’re even fitter in person.”

She reeled in her desire to kick him and smiled. “Thanks.”

“I played rugby with your brother at uni,” he boasted, leaning in none-too-subtly. “I was a flanker. I still play on the weekend, but I work at…”

Even if Sansa had been listening to begin with, all noise stuttered to a stop when she saw him. He stood to the side of the room, a can of beer in hand, as he laughed at something someone was saying. Sansa hadn’t seen him in two years, not since that night so long ago now, and it was like seeing a ghost, a remnant of something that once was that no longer existed.

His hair was longer, pulled at the nape of his neck in a bun, and he seemed bigger somehow, stronger, steadier. There was a new scar along his left temple and Sansa itched to trace the silver line. They had ended so fast she never got to map him out. She never got the chance to memorise every inch of his body, to commit his laughter to memory, to kiss him one last time, to –

God, it shouldn’t matter. It had been two years. He left the bloody country to get away from her. Whatever they were, soulmates or otherwise, it wasn’t enough.

“And so that’s how I’m now working at the Wall Street Journal,” David finished.

“Huh?” Sansa glanced back at him, heart still racing from having just seen Jon, and tried to smile as genuinely as she could. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad for you.”

“Thank you, it’s pretty awesome,” he said. “Robb mentioned you’re about to graduate?”

“Um, yeah, I’m in my last year of…”

A girl with fiery red hair walked up to Jon and pulled his face down with her hands, smacking a kiss onto his lips. Everyone around them hooted and hollered, and Jon rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he wrapped one arm around the girl, smiling fondly at her.

And just like that, one stupid kiss that shouldn’t have even affected her anymore was enough to steal the breath right out of her lungs. Sansa could feel the tears prickling her eyes, her chest heaving with indescribable pain.

“I have to…” Sansa stammered, before she quickly pushed through the crowd to get to Robb’s bedroom. She slipped inside, thankful that no one else was there, and crawled under his duvet. Sansa pressed her face into his pillow to muffle the sobs that wracked her body.

It’d been two years. Sansa had dated other boys in that time. She expected Jon to move on too, but seeing him with her, seeing his lips on someone else’s even after all this time, made all of those old wounds resurface, splitting through her skin and letting fresh blood spill over the ripped seams.

This time, Sansa let it. She didn’t want to cover her pain away anymore. She didn’t deserve to because she’d had everything and she threw it all away.

Sansa didn’t know how long she stayed in the room, but it was long enough for her brother to ring her thirteen times before she finally forced herself back out into the fray. Her makeup was mostly gone now after having to clean up the wet smudges. At least she didn’t look like she’d been crying.

“There you are!” Robb shouted loudly, causing several eyes to turn to her. She would normally flush under the sudden scrutiny, but it was hard to care what strangers thought of her. Not right now. “I thought you went home!”

“I was just taking a little breather in your room,” Sansa admitted, smiling at her brother, as he crushed her in a tight embrace. “Having fun, Robb?”

“The best time,” he nodded, swaying slightly into her. “Oh hey Jon! Mate, come here!”

As if tonight could get any worse, Sansa thought miserably, turning around and keeping her smile in place, even if Jon’s proximity was making her heart crumble all over again.

“Sansa,” he exhaled, eyes wide. “I… You’re here.”

“Yeah, I had to bribe her,” Robb snorted. “Bloody cheeky bint she is.” He pinched her hip and Sansa yelped, swatting at her brother.

“Right,” Jon nodded, ignoring the play-fight now occurring between the two siblings. “You live in London.”

The sudden ire she heard in his tone made Sansa narrow her eyes. “Yes, I do. I didn’t realise that was brand new information.”

“So you live here but you’ve just been avoiding these parties, huh?” he replied, his jaw clenching, ignoring what she had said.

She knew what he was implying and it infuriated her that he would have the audacity to play the victim like this. “Not all of us can escape to another country to avoid Robb’s parties.”

“I –”

“Hey!” Robb interjected, too drunk to be aware of the rising tension between his sister and his best friend. “My parties are not that bad. You take it back, Sassy Pants!”

“No, of course not,” Sansa sighed, patting her brother on the back. “Your parties are amazing.”

Placated, Robb continued to berate them about meeting his soulmate, Jeyne Westerling, and after promising to come over the following weekend to meet her, Sansa was finally able to make her escape. She didn’t spare a glance for Jon, too afraid of what she might do if she spent any more time in his presence, and ran for the door. It was twenty to midnight now and soon the whole of Britain would erupt in raucous cheers and laughter. Sansa was okay with being alone. She moved to London to get away from her family and away from memories of Jon. Being alone was now simply part of her nature.

It was okay; she would be okay.

A couple of months after the New Year’s Eve party, Sansa woke up to the sound of banging against her door. She begrudgingly dragged herself out of bed and went to peer through the peephole, groaning when she realised who it was.

“Robb, what the hell are you doing here?” Sansa asked, as she let him stumble on through. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. It made her stomach turn in protest. “God, did you drink an entire bargain booze?”

Her brother snorted and kicked off his shoes, flopping down onto her sofa. “Listen, this is not a friendly house call. I’m mad at you, but the room is spinning so I’m just going to lie here for a second first.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. It wasn’t actually that uncommon for one of her siblings to appear drunk in front of her flat. She lived in a very convenient location in London with a flatmate who went home for the weekend more often than not. They most definitely took advantage of that on a near-weekly basis.

“Here, drink this,” she said, thrusting a glass of water at him. Robb graciously downed the entire thing before slamming it down onto her coffee table. “Robb, you’ll break it!”

“Like you broke my best friend’s heart?” he snapped.

She inhaled sharply, all the air stinging her lungs in one whoosh. “What?”

“Jon got hammered tonight and told me what happened,” Robb continued, oblivious to her sudden discomfort. “How could you do that to him, Sans?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m your brother. I’ll always be on your side, but this – shit, I don’t think I can.” Robb rubbed his eyes, and for the first time since he arrived, she noticed how distressed he looked.

“Robb, don’t. I don’t want to talk about this,” Sansa said angrily. This was the last thing she ever wanted to talk about with her brother, especially not after witnessing Jon with another girl only a couple months ago. Everything was still too raw.

“No, we have to!” he shouted. “You don’t get it. You didn’t see him after it all went down. I was there, Sansa. I was there when he just…” Her brother shook his head. “Why did you push him away like that? He’s your soulmate. When I found Jeyne, it was like the world had finally righted itself. I couldn’t imagine going a day without her once I had her.”

“Because what if it wasn’t enough?” Sansa shouted back. “What if I wasn’t enough?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you have any idea how it feels to have two of your boyfriends cheat on you?” she asked quietly, sitting as far away from Robb as possible. “I know they were pricks, but it’s hard not to think maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just not good enough.”

“Sans, you know that’s not true.”

“I guess,” she said, looking anywhere but at Robb. It’d always been hard for her to be vulnerable, even around her family. So much of her life had been about holding her emotions in check, making sure that naive, stupid little girl never resurfaced again. But a part of that girl still lived and she still believed her big brother was capable of fixing the world.

Sansa tucked her feet in underneath her. “I didn’t want that to happen with Jon. I was scared he was going to realise I wasn’t worth it either. I don’t think I could come back from that.”

“Sans, I love you,” Robb said, coming to perch on the arm of her chair. “But you’re delusional if you think Jon could ever think you weren’t the fucking sun.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to her hair. “I didn’t know what was happening at the time, but when you two broke up, or whatever the hell that was, Jon just fell apart. I’ve never seen him so defeated. And this is the dude that singlehandedly put himself through school and uni after his mum died.”

Instead of feeling relief or joy, Sansa felt only heartache. She remembered the day his mum died, remembered the way he had smiled at her, eyes empty and hollow, like he wasn’t even there anymore.

“He loves you, Sansa,” her brother continued. “He always has.”

She leaned her head against Robb. “It’s too late though. He has a girlfriend now.”

“What?”

“I saw him, Robb,” she explained. “The girl at your party? I saw them kiss.”

Confusion danced on Robb’s face before understanding and then amusement replaced it. “Ygritte? Shit, that was – she’s his ex-girlfriend. It was some stupid dare. They’ve been broken up for over a year.”

“Oh…”

Sansa graduated on a hot summer’s day. The robes didn’t help with the heat and her carefully curled hair was sticking to the nape of her neck. It wasn’t a good look, but she was so happy to be done with her degree that nothing mattered. Sansa had her family, all of whom were bickering and shouting over where to take photographs, and it was perfect.

“I say we take the photos in front of the cathedral. It’s the prettiest!”

“No, we should take it over there. Better landscape view!”

“Let’s just take it so we can go!”

“Shut up, Rickon. No one asked.”

“Arya!”

“Sorry, mum…”

As they continued to bicker, Sansa decided to wander back to the auditorium where her graduation had taken place to check if any of her friends were still around. They were going to meet later that night for a well-deserved celebratory hoorah, but Sansa just wanted to double-check on the time they were supposed to go out.

Inside, several families were still milling about, taking photos and chatting amongst each other, but she didn’t recognise any of them. Her friends must have already left. Unlike her family, they weren’t hanging about arguing over photographs. Sansa weaved easily through the dispersed crowd of people till she reached the far top of the auditorium. She stood there for a moment to take in the sight of this place. Its oval mouth was furnished with dark wood panelling, overhead lights casted the room in a soft amber glow, and gilded torches were fastened on either side of the room. It was a beautiful place, filled with memories of watching student-led productions and guest lecturers.

Three years had come and gone, and now Sansa was a fully qualified teacher. It was bizarre and surreal, but welcomed. She was ready to move on to a new chapter in her life.

“I didn’t expect you to invite me.”

Startled, Sansa jumped back, hand clutching the fabric above her heart. “Oh my god.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, looking unfairly handsome in a fitted white dress shirt and black trousers. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s okay,” she replied, as she willed her heart to behave itself. “I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah… why am I here?”

“I wanted all the important people in my life to be here today,” Sansa answered. “And you’re important to me.”

The look of bewilderment on his face made her nerves tremble with fear. But Sansa had to push on. She’d waited long enough for this; she wouldn’t allow her own insecurities to pull her back any longer.

“It doesn’t always seem like it, I know,” she continued on before he could speak. “I haven’t really been a good friend to you over the years, but you’ve always been important to me, Jon. That never changed.”

His face softened, and he sighed. “You know you’re important to me too.”

Sansa smiled and allowed herself to relish in his words for a long second. “I owe you an explanation. About what happened.”

“It’s in the past, Sansa. We can just let it stay there,” Jon shook his head, pain twisting his features in a way that made her chest tighten. Did she do that to him? Had she hurt him that badly?

“No, you deserve to know,” she said firmly. “What happened between us was… It was…” Sansa inhaled deeply, trying to force the words out, but she couldn’t find the right phrasing to really encapsulate what that time meant to her. “How I felt about you terrified me. I didn’t just want you; I needed you. And I was so scared, so convinced that you’d figure out sooner or later that I wasn’t worth it. I didn’t think I could’ve survived that… So I pushed you away before you could push me away. It’s dumb and stupid and horrible and mean, and I’m so sorry, Jon.”

It was hard to read him. His face betrayed no emotions and he had grown up since Sansa last spoke to him. Jon was different. He wasn’t the same boy she’d fallen in love with all those years ago, and maybe he was right. Maybe the past was meant to stay in the past, but her neck tingled, as if her soul mark was humming at finally being reunited with its mate, and Sansa had to try. She had to make him understand that no matter what, he would always be it for her.

“I’ve spent nearly three years trying to forget you,” Jon finally said. “I moved across the world to to try to put you out of my mind. I even thought I was in love once.”

“I know it’s stupid of me to tell you this now, but I had to. I just needed you to know,” she said, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat.

“No, Sansa, you don’t get it,” he sighed. “I tried. I tried so fucking hard, but it didn’t matter because I couldn’t stop comparing every girl I met to you. I couldn’t stop wanting you even with miles in between us.”

“Jon?”

“And maybe it’s our soul marks telling us we’re supposed to be together,” Jon snorted at that. “All I know is that I’ve been in love with you for five years. That’s never going to stop.” He brushed her hair back behind her ear, his thumb trailing over her cheek. “But I can’t do this with you if you’re just going to run again, Sans. I can’t.”

Sansa leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to his wrist. “I don’t want to lose you again. I love you too and I’m never running, not unless you’re running with me.”

“Thank god,” Jon laughed, muffling her own giggles with his lips.

If there ever was a sensation of coming home, it was being in his arms, surrounded by the scent of him. He wasn’t her soulmate because a silly little mark told her he was; he was her soulmate because he made her feel safe, loved, cherished and complete. He was the person she wanted to be around every second of every day, and this time, she wasn’t going to ever let go.

[mer-birdman]

@quilleth asked: For the ways to say I love you prompts, for your 7kpp angst child ;) 22 (I'm evil, I know). or 29. For the signs of affection prompts: 1, 15 or 23

This is part 2, with the OCs! :) I know they may not have been what you intended, but don’t worry. There’s still plenty of angst to go around ^^ just OC angst instead of 7K angst, lol.

1 - A Touch (Filled with Kiki & Leo — QP? — from Natural 20)

He's hearing them again.

The voices.

I can tell better and better now, even though we're back in our world and he's staying on a spare futon in mine and Terra's room. We went to bed early tonight, because everything's been a mess since we found him and school just isn't helping. Neither Leo nor I have gone to class, but Indu's been sending all of our coursework home with Alice and Terra, so I've been trying to help him keep up. Even so, it's— it's not been easy.

I'm in my bed, trying to order a proper binder from one of the companies Arden's oldest brother suggested, and I know Leo's hearing the voices again because he's got his hands clasped over his ears and there's a sort of whimpering coming from his general location. Of course, there's also the part about things in his vicinity starting to shake and float.

From what we can tell, some things... carried over, from the other world. For all of us, not just Leo — sometimes, I feel energy pulsing at my fingertips, as though it wants me to use it but I don't know how. Sophie's noticed that she never gets bruises and scratches and headaches anymore, and the other day Terra picked up the couch Alice and I were sitting on while cleaning. With one hand, while vacuuming, and didn't even break a sweat. Xander doesn't make any noise when he walks, and whenever Arden sings any light source glows brighter. Indu and Alice haven't said anything, but I bet they're feeling something too — I just hope Alice doesn't start literally breathing fire at us. Or whatever her dragon heritage was in the game — I still don't know.

The glass of water on my desk starts to shake, and I close my laptop with a sigh. This is starting to become a new tradition, it seems, or at least until he recovers from— from whatever in the world this is. Because we don't know much about the voices, and Leo can't stand talking about them when he's coherent (and that itself has been pretty rare since we got back), but we do know how to fight them off.

Touch.

"Shh." I climb off of my bed and onto his futon, pushing my feet under his crumpled blanket and pulling it up over us both. The first time I did this, it was awkward, but since it helped him fall asleep for the first time since our return... well, I've gotten used to the proximity that comes when I wrap my arms around him and tuck his head against the side of my neck. He's crying, I can tell from the dampness on my skin, but that's okay. "It's okay, Leo. They can't get to you." His hands grab onto fistfuls of my shirt, legs that are longer than mine again (it's so strange, being back in this differently-shaped body after the time spent as Orpheus) knocking against my ankles and linking with my knees.

He's skinnier than he was before, and even though it's partially from his time spent there, I know he also hasn't been eating since we got back. He usually just isn't coherent enough to get much down, and sometimes on the worst days he can't even keep it there. I can feel his ribs against my arm, and while usually it would just remind me of my own dysphoria and body image issues (and oh, they're just worse now that I know what it's like to feel like my skin fits), now just isn't the time.

Leo sobs, quiet and barely more than a shaky breath, and I run one hand through his hair. The fuchsia dye is long gone, leaving just light brown the color of dust. I want nothing more than to destroy the person who did this to him, nothing more than to punish the one who hurt my best friend like this.

"They can't hurt you here."

15 - A Goodnight Kiss (Filled with Alexa & Corellon — Familial — from CotW)

"Cor?"

The form of her brother, curled on the bed with the blanket pulled up to cover everything but his empty eyes, hadn't changed since she last visited that morning, and Alexa repressed the urge to cry in anger. She knew, knew that his recovery would take time, that he had been trapped with that woman — with her mother, and she was definitely not going to think about that now — for almost nine years. She'd only been there for a couple months, and she still couldn't set foot above ground without freezing in fear.

But her brother had been trapped in this catatonic state since they rescued him, and that had been two weeks ago.

Alexa would never admit it, but she was disappointed. Scared, too, but more disappointed than anything. After so many years, she'd finally found her brother again — the boy who'd found her, raised her, taught her that no matter what the others in her village said, she was still precious and valuable — and he couldn't even hear her voice when she spoke to him. Didn't react when she held his hand and told him about what he'd missed in the years he was gone, didn't focus on her face when she knelt down to meet his eyes. Alexa knew she could more than take care of herself, but every time she came to this room, it felt like she was once again the little girl who'd lost the last part of her family, the little girl who didn't belong anymore.

The chair by his bedside was empty, and she settled herself into it again, reaching out to clasp his hand in hers like she did every night. "Dinner's over. Miri and Bal cooked tonight — they used Hallea's sauce recipe, and I swear Taliesin was salivating before it even hit the table." She laughed, scars tugging and eyebrows quirking up at the memory. "Zan almost smacked him, I think, and Cyriss couldn't stop laughing."

Silence filled the room.

"Tomorrow, we're going back to hand-to-hand training. The rest of the initiates and I are working with Savella on endurance and accuracy, and Cyriss is going to work with Taliesin on fighting with one hand. He's, um..." Pausing to clear her throat, she sighed and made a face. "His arm is healing well — Miss Lilia and Danaë are doing a fantastic job. But just... he hasn't smiled, even once, since we brought you back. I think he feels guilty, since you were his partner. He's been really upset about it."

Corellon didn't respond, blank gaze slowly closing as he slipped into sleep. Letting herself exhale softly, Alexa stood and released his hand, bending over to press a gentle kiss to his forehead the way he would to her when she was very little and still had nightmares about lightning and large birds. The stones laid in the ceiling dimmed as she crossed the room to the door, casting only the barest sort of moonlight glow when she paused and turned to look back at the still figure under the covers.

"Goodnight, Cor. Sleep well."

23 — Any of the Above (aka Author’s Choice) — 22. A Promise (Filled with Raven & Asia & Revel — Romantic — from Wild World)

She couldn't keep promises.

Violet — no, Raven, her name was Raven, she knew that — couldn't keep promises. Promises were dangerous, they were connections that would just tie her down. They would lock her in and take away her freedom, create risks and liabilities she couldn't afford to take with what was left of her life. She knew this, and yet— and yet—

"Don't worry, Asia." He was feverish, head pillowed on her thigh (he shouldn't have felt that safe with her, she was nothing but a weapon) and shivering even though it was warm in Nowex. The spider infestation was getting worse and worse, and he was starting to become incoherent with pain on the worst days. One eye was already lost, and one lung was almost gone — she knew that, she could see the signs. There was no reason to believe he would survive. "Don't worry, I promise we'll fix you."

Next to her, Revel was mixing up more medicine while everyone else slept (they shouldn't have felt that safe around her, to sleep while she was awake), and he paused to drape a damp cloth across Asia's too-warm brow. "Listen to her, Asia. You're going to be fine."

"Y-you sure about that?"

Thick, blood-tinted tears rolled down their friend's cheeks, and Violet— Raven, Raven, she knew this— wiped them away with one thumb (a thumb that could have killed a hundred men without a care, how was she able to use it for such a small kindness, it seemed impossible). They trusted her, but she's never been anything but a killer and a liar.

"Yeah. I promise."

Thanks for asking! Sorry if this isn’t quite what you intended >_<

Signs of Affection meme