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buttercupblu · 1 month

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Satoru's Psyche|Escalating

"Should I really have to suffer for my actions?"

Session 2 of 10|Previous Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Patient Gojo displayed extremely flirtatious and unruly behavior during the first half of his visit. Mentions of escape and kid-napping were noted as well as enforced close proximity with his nurse. Threatening remarks were also made at the end of his lunch in response to mentions of disciplinary action. Patient is scheduled for a bath but is pending the possibility of negative punishment to instill corrective behaviors. 📋Length of Session (w.c): 8.1k out of "i said we will cross that bridge when we get to it 😊" 💊Intake Chart (tags): mild violence but no in-action descriptors, coercion, manipulation, drug use, angst, unwatched close contact and touch, nudity, mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️Doctor's angel’s note: i hope you know what you're doing, Nurse 🎼Waiting room music: Overheated|Billie Eilish

Choose wisely.

Hunger stirs in your tummy, and Gojo's words sit with you through lunch. Your spoon clinks around the bowl, stirring the soup growing colder by the second though the growls from your stomach are too obnoxious to be ignored. But your mind wanders.

You're stuck. Earlier, you were all for serving up justice on a silver platter, but now you're seriously second-guessing your "genius" idea to punish Gojo by making him someone else's problem.

As if anyone would be crazy enough to say yes.

Everyone already avoids his wing like the plague. It's kind of an unspoken fact that you are Gojo's one and only. The only staff he allows near him. Anyone else would be playing with fire.

And if someone was brave enough to willingly throw themselves into the lion's den, they definitely couldn't be new. New to nursing—new to the ward. High expertise was needed here. Someone seasoned—experience which you lacked yourself—otherwise, they wouldn't last a second with Gojo.

It'd be way too easy for him to make them snap, like tossing a bone to a dog.

"Persephone." Yuko brings you out of your coma.

You perk up, instinctively smiling. "Hey, what's up?"

"You tell me," she snorts. "You've been playing with your food like break isn't over in 10 minutes." She touches your arm. "Everything ok?"

It's written all over your face, huh? You could deflate right now.

This is why Yuko is your favorite co-worker. Always reading you like a book without you needing to say a word. Quick to call anything off out.

Leaning back in your chair, you huff, rubbing circles into your temples to relieve the headache you didn't know you had.

"Yeah, yeah," you begin, "It's just—" You stop, her eyes hold so much concern and you've barely opened your mouth. Not sure if you should now because you know what kind of person Yuko is.

And if she knew even half of what you don't tell her during your lunch breaks spent complaining about work, she'd hang Gojo out to dry if she could. She often makes it very clear she hates you have to deal with him at all.

"—I'm just a bit tired. Gojo's scheduled for a bath later, him and two others. Gojo's easy but...I don't know. I feel slower than usual today. Definitely won't get home until late, again, because of all these sponge baths." You cringe at the last part.

Aside from trying to keep Yuko cool, you also didn't want to risk the news getting back to the Director who could take you off of Gojo completely. No one else could take your place. And who knows what would happen if you disappeared from his roster for good?

How would his threats manifest?

Yuko scoffs, waving her hand.

"Gojo and easy do not go together," and you both shake your heads and laugh. "But I get it. You did come in super early."

"Thought there'd be less of us," you sigh.

"Sonya's been on our asses lately, right? But hey, she finally got us all here."

"A little too late. The damage is done," you pout, resting your elbows on the table, realizing you've accidentally grown used to chaos and ever-changing schedule.

You routinely plan ahead to make sure you can stand up when people fall short. Constantly putting yourself on the back burner seems to be a thing that always set you back.

"Sooo, you just need rest, ya? Nothing else? Gojo—" there it goes "—been 'okay' with you lately?"

Your heart skips. "Ya. he isn't so bad today," you lie, "I'd just love to be home on time for once. Maybe even a bit early, I'm soo close. Overtime's been wringing my neck for weeks."

Yuko looks at you with puppy dog eyes. And not in a "I feel sorry for you" kind of way, but one that almost makes you feel bad for not telling her the whole truth.

"Here," she pushes your soup towards you, "How about I do Gojo's bath and you get an early start on my last two? That way you can at least binge that show you won't shut up about later." She smiles.

You immediately protest.

There's no way you can do that to her.

Yuko never even crossed your mind and was far from your first pick, not because she couldn't handle him but because she was your friend. Not just a colleague, but someone you actually cared about more than anyone else in this run-down job even if she didn't feel the same.

She's too good of a person, and you'd be the Devil Incarnate if you let her do something so risky. Especially when you can just suck it up and get it over with.

"Woah, woah, it's just a bath, calm down," she says, taking your hands in hers as you ramble on trying to convince her that you'll be fine or that you'll find someone else.

Burdening her was completely out of the question.

"Who else but me, Seph'? You don't you think I'm as good as you?" And the way she says it, giving you that look she does when you're being stubborn, dares you to challenge her.

Now you really had to think about what to say.

Goddamn it, you regret saying anything at all, but Yuko's so motherly, how could you resist? Hiding from her is impossible, she would've sniffed you out sooner or later.

Easing your pains when she could was her specialty—helping to calm and settle you down when you're quick to blow things out of proportion.

Could this be one of those moments? Or were Gojo's words more than just hot air?

The back and forth was killing you, but the combination of Yuko's reassuring touch and your gurgling stomach put the final nail in the coffin as she reminded you of the time.

Eyes wide, you look at the clock, ticking away faster than you realized, then back at your lukewarm soup.

Denying that you needed help would be silly because technically it was true. You probably should've asked the Director for a little Gojo break long ago, even if just for a few hours a few times a week. It was better than nothing because if you couldn't function, Gojo couldn't be cared for.

And when you really think about it, who better to fill in for you than Yuko?

The gutsy woman has been your rock since you started at the ward, She's had your back, sticking with you through tough times at work when staff constantly dipped in and out of the facility like a rotating door after being unable to handle the job.

A real day one.

Next to you, she's the most competent nurse in these walls, fully equipped with a "take-no-shit" attitude that routinely keeps her patiently in check.

It'd be silly, downright irresponsible to trust anyone else.

Her offer is simply too good to dismiss.

"Thank you, Yuko," you cave, grabbing your spoon and finally allowing yourself to enjoy your meal. "You're...amazing. I don't deserve you."

She looks on happily. "Just promise me you'll take some personal time after this," she insists, worry evident in her voice. "We both know how much you care, but even superheroes need rest."

She's too kind and right in more ways than one.

"Besides, I think Gojo will like me, ya? I'm cool. I'm fun. He'll like a friend of friend, you think?"

Your eyes roll—ya, totally, cool people definitely say they're cool.

You don't know whether to joke back or wave her off, softly smiling at her concern instead before nodding. You vow to make good on your promise and feel a bit lighter knowing your wish for early release will actually come true.

Maybe.

The latest threat to your miracle in the making is Mr. Hampton, who is personally making it his business to drag the already long day by its edges. Almost bringing time to a standstill with the way he's handling his bath.

Enormous and lumbering, the man Yuko usually deals with took his sweet time gathering his things and even longer trekking down the seemingly endless halls leading to the bathing area. Occupying every inch of the space like those massive trucks on the interstate, hogging the road, yet inching along at a pace that makes a snail look like it's in a sprint.

All that was missing were the yellow hazard lights.

Oh no, please, take your time, you think, watching Mr. Hampton clean each limb painstakingly s l o w in a tub that's comically too small for him. You may have been able to rush through Yuko's first patient, but this one wanted all that time back.

His pace resembles a giant's, and his cheerful nonsensical hums echo around the hollow chambers, lulling you to sleep, turning your eyes into bricks under the spell of the melody. Perfect timing for the energy drinks from early to crash you out, tag teaming with the chair beneath you that feels a bit too soft as you lean over the tub, willing the colossal man to hurry up.

Warm water flows over your skin as you scrub circles on his neck, deciding to bite the bullet and take over the bath so he can play with the foamy bubbles, when you hear a blood-curdling scream.

Your entire body goes rigid, shock reverberating through your spine and forcing you to halt as your mind goes blank. But steamy water brings you back to life, drenching your shirt and upper thighs when Mr. Hampton jumps from surprise.

The rude awakening makes you lock in.

The scream. It sounds like...no, you know it came from the west wing...where Gojo is.

And Yuko.

Hurried steps rush past your door, sounds of multidirectional distress and frantic shouts echoing through the corridor—staff members and patients alike swept into a whirlwind of panic.

You're number one, dropping the scrubber and scrambling to help Mr. Hampton out of the tub, hands shaking as he grips them.

A security guard bursts into the room, face ashen and jaw tight.

"Nurse! We need everyone in the west wing, immediately!" The command is sharp, laced with an urgency you've never seen before.

And immediately feel responsible for.

"There's been an incident."

Without another thought, you wrap Mr. Hampton in a towel, trying your best to assure him that everything is fine when your obviously trembling body said nothing was. His confused gaze follows you as you lead him back to his room, the commotion in the air moving him a lot faster than earlier before you rush back out heading straight for the west wing—where chaos reigns supreme.

The usually pristine floors, normally squeaky clean floors due to lack of traffic, are now barely visible. Staff members crowd the familiar hall for the first time since Gojo made it his own, filling the space with more bodies than you were used to and making it difficult to find the source of trouble.

Not like you needed to. The truth is painfully clear.

It's disrespectful even to even pretend you don't know exactly what went wrong, and your heart feels as if it'll burst from your chest any moment now just thinking about it. Crushing guilt wrapped you in its clutches, but it was nothing compared to the pain you might've caused.

You push through the masses, clumsily bumping shoulders, heart beating into your ears making the world seem quiet as you inch closer and closer to disaster. Dragging imaginary shackles on your feet with each step until you all but collapse once you spot it.

Gojo—barely restrained by guards, straitjacket nowhere in sight—standing absolutely furious.

And for the first time today, time seems to slow down, your mouth becoming suddenly dry mouth when you look past him.

Yuko.

Halfway out the door to his room. Sprawled out on the ground. Bruised, unconscious, and no signs of breathing.

Your hands fly to your lips, mouth agape. Murmurs from the crowd swirl around you as attendants rush to Yuko's side, knocking into your pathetic frame as you stand too frozen to move.

They gently pick her up, careful to handle her motionless body and place her on a stretcher. Her usually vibrant face is drained of color, twisting the dagger in your chest when you spot the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Fighting for breath.

Fighting.

It hits you like a hammer.

Someone as kind as her, so full of light, love, and joy, always greeting you with warmth and empathy and capacity every time she sees you, should never have to lift a finger let alone fight for her life. The sight is too much to bear.

Waves of helplessness crash over you and you can't even look at her. Regretting with every ounce of your being that you sent her in your place. Knowing this could happen. Concerned only with your silly wants and needs.

But you're so confused.

The ward should have weakened Gojo—Yuko should have been fine. The only threat Gojo has up his sleeve is mental torture but Yuko might as well be Freud. Her mind is sound, strong.

And that's where you fucked up, forgetting that Gojo's pure strength, especially when he's lost his fucking mind and triggered, is stronger.

Even with his security system in place, the devil was still powerful enough on his own. And like this was some sick and twisted experiment to figure that out, Yuko was the one to pay the price.

"I warned, I WARNED YOU!" Gojo's words pierce the overlapping voices like a sword, drawing everyone's attention to the strange interaction between the two of you. "I don't like to be touched by strangers, Nurse." Guards struggle to restrain him as he tugs and pulls away.

All eyes fall on you and you can feel the tense stares. The unspoken judgment.

Why was Yuko here in the first place?Where was Seph’?How’d he get out?How did this happen?

You don’t know if the murmurs are real or only in your head, but the effect is all the same, making you wish you could completely vanish. You stand like a deer in headlights—and they're so fucking bright.

Gojo brims with malice and amusement, chaotic energy pulsing from the hellish man and threatening to send sparks flying. As if he's daring someone to be brave and push the button.

But despite his outward display of dominance, the pure rage on his face making you feel sick to your stomach about every decision you've ever made, something...uncertain lurks behind those fiery eyes.

Something like...apprehension.

Like he knew he had done something wrong.

Words escape you, as if anything even needs to or could be said. But fear and guilt soon turn to anger and threatens to consume you. Ready to eat you alive and spit out the bones with disgust.

You are not a victim.

You have no right to stand here, spineless, shocked, or feeling even a little sorry for yourself.

Your fists clench as you hold back tears.

What was done was done. And someone needed to pay.

But you exhale, thoughts shifting to Yuko as you take a good look around at the results of what happened the last time you decided to punish Gojo. All of your actions, even now, rooted in selfishness. Like you've learned nothing.

You push down the knot growing in your stomach and turn away to follow the medics.

Your friend needed you more than you needed revenge.

And Gojo didn't deserve any more of your attention, even if it meant risking your job or even your life to turn your back on him.

And there's nothing Gojo hates more than being ignored.

Struggled and strained noises grow louder. Guards tighten their grip on the fuming man whose raw strength outnumbered thousands of them even without his cursed energy.

You look back, their determination to keep him contained makes you nervous—you don't want anyone else to get hurt and Gojo knows that.

You're painfully aware that your decisions have put you in this position, watching the guards' valiant but increasingly pointless effort to prevent Gojo from causing further harm.

But it's an obviously losing fight, and the unease on their faces is unmistakably clear.

You wonder why they don't just run like hell.

"Let's go," a guard barks, but Gojo remains fixed in place. Moving a boulder would be easier.

"No, I'm filthy," Gojo protests, smirking, "And if I don't have my bath soon, there will be hell to pay."

He sees no one else in the room, eyes locked only on you, his expression a menacing promise that would send anyone else running for the hills. A look that says, "Try that shit again, and there will be casualties instead of mercy."

Reinforcements are called but it'll never be enough. Not even the goddamn military. Gojo...is the strongest, after all.

"Stop this."

Your cry freezes the room, plunging everything into a tense silence.

You hesitate, fuck, what should you do?

What can you do? No one else can suffer—no one else should suffer. Because of you.

You take a deep, shaky breath, silently apologizing to Yuko.

"I'll do it," you say firmly, "Just stop this and...and I'll give you your bath. Please—" The sharpest pang you've ever felt cuts through you. "—just don't hurt anyone else."

Pathetic.

But necessary.

He looks into your pleading eyes in surprise, amazement even, then smiles.

The submission in your voice sounded better than he could ever imagine. Like sweet music feeding his already inflated ego.

The guards exchange uneasy glances, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Gojo's strength is undeniable, and it's evident that restraining him forever is not possible.

And you know offering to give him what he wants is risky as hell...but this was your doing. Your mess to clean up.

You squeeze your sweaty palms and give a decisive nod, signaling to the guards to let him go. They hesitate, then reluctantly agree and step back, leaving Gojo standing smugly before you.

You close your eyes and breathe, hating the idea of looking at him, but needing to stay strong. For Yuko. And everyone else in the ward.

Gojo's satisfied grin says it all.

Let's get this over with.

The squeaking of your shoes has never been this loud, each echo bouncing off the empty halls and reminding you of how alone you are.

Alone—with a psychopath.

A bit more docile, doped-up psychopath but, the man could probably still rip someone's head off if he wanted to.

Still Gojo despises anything that alters his body—mentally, physically, all of the above. Alcohol, medication, coffee, energy drinks—anything that threatens his need for absolute control.

But he also needed to compromise, and you refused to be alone with him again unless he took something stronger. Otherwise, it would be you, all the guards in the ward, and a pay-per-view premiere of his bath time.

He knew he had to agree because his ass is not for free, but only if you took it as well.

You blinked, hard.

You knew he would be skeptical—hell, it could be poison, and he wouldn’t blame you. But to suggest something so ridiculous?

"Half, then," he said, as if that made his suggestion any less idiotic, but, surprisingly, as you waited for your supervisor to dismiss the insane idea, the back and forth with Gojo actually didn't save you. And there was no need to ask why. The entire ward shot daggers at you any time someone walked by now.

She reassured you that you'd be fine, the mild tranquilizer would be out of your system by the end of the day, then patted your back as if to say, "lay in the bed you made."

It felt unreal, holding the familiar pill between your fingers, one you were used to dishing out but now had to take.

With a quick snap, you broke it in half, holding the half-pill out to the leering man. Gaze unwavering, he leaned forward and parted his lips, waiting.

You took a deep breath and placed them both on your tongues, but he couldn't pass up this opportunity to feel you and closed his lips around your fingertip with a quick lick before you snatched away.

But it wasn’t quick enough to avoid the tingles shooting up your arm as you swallowed without needing the water you had set aside, a confusing mix of emotions churning as it spread through the rest of your body.

He made good on his promise and swallowed his own, still watching you with a knowing look. And damn him, he's probably still thinking about it.

The guards carefully lead you and Gojo to his private bathroom—they're more there for show than for protection, but you'll take what you can get, and they keep a firm grip on his replacement straitjacket.

You trail behind, mind buried with thoughts of what to say once you're really alone with him.

The door shuts behind you followed by the familiar sound of a series of locks clicking shut. "We'll be right outside," one of the guards mutters, eyes shifting between you and Gojo. A stereotypical hint lacing his voice, but even he probably doesn't believe it.

"Perv," Gojo sneers. And laughs, but you don't find a damn thing funny, keys to his jacket digging into your palms as you spin around the face him, furious. Debating on whether to slap him, kick him, or knock his teeth out. Or be particularly evil and just let him sit in the shower, fully restrained and drenched in cold water. A move you know would do no good but show him exactly how done you are with his shit.

"That isn't funny. None of this is funny. You've hurt someone—you hurt my friend."

His laugh fades, smug expression slipping from his face. Even you're surprised.

...oh shit.

You're actually confronting him.

The intense words burn through his usual arrogance, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence between you.

Then, for a fleeting second, his face does something weird.

Something you haven't seen before as his eyebrows draw together. Is that...regret?

"I'm sorry."

The record scratches.

...the hell is this??

You squint at him.

The words were muttered, reluctant, but there they were, hanging in the air between you.

"It...won't happen again."

And he's serious, the same seriousness you see when his heart races when you take his vitals...but why? Because an apology? From him?? Unheard of.

Gojo has said some nasty things to you in the past that you've immediately scolded him for but he's never apologized. He'd make a note when certain jokes didn't land, but he never took them back, preferring to cut out his own tongue rather than waste his breath being sorry.

You know better than to take anything Gojo says at face value, but...what the fuck??? You almost feel offended.

He has to be joking, fucking with you to dig even deeper under your skin.

Or is he?

Now you don't know how to feel.

He's so good at that. Stealing the air back and hanging his words in them. Tempting you to pause and even consider if he truly meant them. If he could mean them. The mind games are endless.

But then, the familiar cockiness returns, along with that smile that twists your stomach into knots.

"Now," he says, strutting towards the stalls, "let's get this bath started, shall we?" And his easy, but confident steps call you to follow, a stark reminder of who you're dealing with. But he never knows when to quit. "Or should I really have to suffer for my actions?" and the bastard pouts.

Though you know he's being sarcastic and not to feed into his taunts, you can't help but wonder—what would suffering even look like for someone like Gojo?

Violence? Physical pain? A slow and agonizingly painful death?

But the guy is damn near invincible. What on earth could hurt him?

Whatever it was, it would have to be his absolute worst nightmare, but nothing comes to mind other than frustration.

Damn it, you have to keep making choices.

Return his energy or keep it professional? Tolerance or revenge?

"Apologizing won't cut it," you snap and gesture at his jacket, wondering how the hell he slipped out of the first one without leaving a trace. "And no tricks, or those guards will be back in here faster than you can tell another joke."

Smooth.

Gojo sighs sooo dramatically, like he can see straight through your little kitty claws. "Fine, fine. Loosen up," he drags, "I won't cause any trouble. Just don't go getting any ideas now, Nurse." He finishes with a wink.

He's insufferable—but despite your smoldering anger, tendrils of doubt still creep in.

Your fingers slightly tremble as you begin to unfasten his straps, but each click feels a bit like victory. A fragile illusion of your 'control'—at least for now because at the end of the day, Gojo had chosen you to listen to. And after today, he's sure you won't forget there isn't room for anyone else.

The jacket falls with a heavy thud, your eyes immediately scanning his upper body in search of any signs of injury or stress. The cascading bruises on his arms surprise you.

They feel so feeble in your hands, the jarring evidence of him not as invincible as he seems. Pale, weak, and resting between your fingers. Devoid of the power that makes him so feared.

"Never seen bruises before," and he tilts his head, "at least not on me"

You hope Yuko was at least partly responsible for the marks on the villain, but they appear self-inflicted, and he's not as mobile.

Fuck, now you'll have to bathe him too. But it's strange, seeing him like this. Even weirder knowing that he could still do damage in this state and you can't shake the feeling of this temporary 'truce'. If it isn't obvious by now, you've learned that Gojo always has something up his sleeve.

Warm water soothes you a bit, flowing over your fingers into the large white tub—pristine, imported from somewhere far away and standing on decorative claw feet. Your eyes wouldn't stop rolling the first time you saw it, completely annoyed with Gojo's over-the-top alterations and sense of style, but you'd be a liar if you said you never thought about sinking your body into it.

The best you could do was cope with the little porcelain tub in your apartment, and you get lost thinking about how you'd love to take a long, hot, and steamy bath when you get home—if you'll even have the energy. There's no way you'll be leaving early now, not like you deserve it, and feel sick even thinking about it. You doubt you'll even have a job tomorrow.

You look so defeated Gojo thinks, sauntering forward, lifting the hem of his shirt. You turn away, focusing instead on the temperature of the water but the rustling fabric as he pulls the shirt over his head and pants to the ground sends heat to your cheeks.

He certainly isn't lacking in physique, even in his current state, but still, you wonder how such a slim but toned frame could be so...powerful.

Could you be more obvious? Your flickering eyes are so telling, darting between him and the water, but he catches your gaze from the corner of his eye as if he's read your mind. So cute trying to hide away your thoughts.

You toss in his loofah, "Well...go on. Your water's ready." But Gojo can only grin, amused by your attempts to look away despite seeing his muscled frame a number of times. Still managing to fluster you.

"Your shirt," he eyes your top, "Your pants. Looks like you've already started without me."

The water stains from earlier sit beautifully across your chest, not yet fully dry, and drawing his eyes to your semi-erect nips.

His teeth tug at his bottom lip, eyes shamelessly raking over your hefty chest. "Always such a tease, aren't you, Nurse?"

You grit your teeth, cursing the swirling conflict in your easy heart, fully aware of the thin line between professionalism and this game of intimacy he just refuses to turn off. Everything was always a game no matter the circumstances. And he loves to push your buttons.

"Just get in, Gojo," you order, and after what feels like an eternity, the silence is broken by splashing water as he steps into the bath.

He slowly sinks in, sighing at the warmth of the water. Ringlets of steam engulf him, almost making his silky white hair disappear with it.

His arms string over the rim of the tub, a look of relaxation resting on his face as if he's had a long, hard day. You resist the urge to slap it off.

Sudsy bubbles form from the solution you pour under the faucet, hoping to shield your eyes from his body. You've seen enough today and expect the mini-rebellious act to piss him off, but as the bubbles grow, so do his eyes. He picks up a handful and actually starts playing with them.

"Nice touch," he adds, blowing them right into your face, and you watch with a tight lip as he decorates the bathroom with them, knowing you'll be the one to clean it all up.

He sits a crown on his head and gives himself a bubble beard, nipping your nose with some that you're quick to wipe away.

His pale eyes flutter, settling on you in a curious way.

He leans, arms flexing over the edge—steam-slicked sweat dripping down his face that he doesn't bother to wipe away. "I'm ready for my sponge bath," he says, and if it was hard to take him seriously before, it's damn near impossible now—especially with this ridiculous bubble mustache.

Sickening, him managing to still be so playful, so unserious, at a time like this.

You know Gojo's unhinged, yeah, quote, "mentally unwell and a literal danger to society, tf did you think??", but to nearly take someone's life and then make jokes afterward?

God, you feel so stupid, walking around him like you were the shit but with the wrong guard up the whole time, playing right into his hands and accidentally rewarding this grown-ass man who likes to play with bubbles.

The reality of your circumstances replays in your head, the story of how you ended up here, coddling this monster. Still confused as hell as to why it had to be you.

But then again, this was your job...right? To heal. To help those who can't help themselves. To offer redemption, no matter how twisted they seem.

Loofah in hand, you resist the urge to roll your eyes for the 400th time today. "Keep talking like that and I'll stop, Gojo," you say, reluctantly drenching the tool in soap before gently washing his back.

He sinks into your touch, closing his eyes and letting his body completely rest on the cool cast iron, breathing. Feeling like he's won no matter what you say because your scrubs feel like magic.

Across his arms and over his broad shoulders, you work your way down, bubbles glistening in your trail as you're careful not to miss a single inch of skin but don't linger too long.

Every now and then, you catch glimpses of his marked skin between the foam and because you hate yourself, your brain absolutely refuses to give you a break. You have to give kudos to the dedication to his craft. The muscle definition, the scar tissue telling stories of battles won. Evidence of his past before corruption. Everything it takes to be a hero.

It's unsettling, yet fascinating, the polarity between his beauty and his monstrous deeds.

This is another first for you, this level of care. Gojo usually just hops into the shower and takes care of himself as you wait outside—easy and thorough but always taking his sweet time, all while loudly singing some annoying song that inevitably gets stuck in your head.

But after today, it'll be impossible to trust him or you again, and the hushed whispers as the guards walked you both to the restrooms made that abundantly clear.

The pitiful thoughts seep into the way you hesitantly clean him, moving down to his chest and abs and making sure to avoid more sensitive areas, but the malicious glint in his eyes is unmistakable.

"Whatsamatter, Nurse?" Gojo taunts, feeling you slow around his lower region, "Afraid of gettin' too close?" And you can't believe you're praying for a speedy recovery so he can handle this himself.

You ignore his comment, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible. You're humiliated enough as it is and he can sense it, mocking you with a laugh.

"You're so uptight. Can't you just relax and enjoy the view?"

You want to scrub his cocky brow right off his face. "Just doing my job," you mutter, twice squeezing the loofah that feels a little funny in your hand as the soapy water rinses his chest.

The water feels heavenly on his skin, but the subtle change in your movements makes his brows furrow. Slowing, more deliberate, heavy as if you're wading through molasses. You keep adjusting your grip but the material feels so strange—the texture almost too soft like it could melt into your palm.

Your breath catches when you brush his skin, not realizing how close your fingers drifted to the edge of the sponge, and though it was only a second, it sends an unexpected jolt through his chest.

The muscle relaxers. How could you have already forgotten, you both think.

But Gojo, ever observant, doesn't miss a thing.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you. "Feeling a little funny, Nurse?" his velvet voice teases.

"I'm fine," you lie, though you couldn't be less certain as the muscles in your hands start to relax more than you intended, the sponge gliding over his abs, down his sides, rhythm almost hypnotic and making the man's head fall back. You try to push through the haze, to finish quickly and be free of him, to try to regain your slipping control, but you're in a losing battle against numbness and heightened awareness.

ANd God, he has to bite his lip at your touch that feels so intense, a sensation too good to keep to himself that you obviously need to stop being such a tight-ass.

You need to loosen up in a way that medicine can't help. And Gojo knows just the trick.

He licks his lips, tongue curling over his canine before splashing a wave of water on you in one swoop.

Saying you gasp is an understatement as the steamy wash drenches your face and front once again. You've been hit not once, but twice in a day—a new personal record.

Instinctively, you reach up to shield yourself, the loofah slipping from your hand, but Gojo is quicker, wrapping his hands around your wrists and holding you in place.

A scream prepares to surge from your body when Gojo maneuvers both of your wrists into one hand and places a finger to your lips.

"Ssssh ssh ssh ssh ssh," he hushes, his voice a little too calm, "I'm not going to hurt you." He swipes a lone droplet hanging from your eyelash. "I just want you to listen."

You freeze, nerves on fire as you're forced into this close proximity for the second time today. Inches away from his face that softens.

Though you can easily call for help, you know better than to argue—he knows you know better but he never felt threatened in the first place.

Besides, he can feel your breathing slowing, the effects of the pill combined with his firm hold sending a faint buzz from your wrists to your stomach. His finger remains on your lips as he brings his closer.

"Now," his eyes flicker to your bottom lip, "You're so very good at your job, Nurse." He smoothly pulls it with his thumb. "That's why I like you. You're thorough but real. Just what I need to keep me sane."

Sane?

"Sane," he repeats like he's heard your thoughts. "Believe it or not, you keep me grounded...like a good boy. Be proud, not a single soul here or anywhere else can compare to my strength, let alone deal with me yet...here you are." He looks at you like you're a marvel.

"You can handle that...can't you?"

Words fail you. This feels rhetorical. Why does he keep torturing you like this? What is it about you?

You haven't really thought about it since your first few weeks with him but now he's forcing you to think about the little 'power' he's given you that he can easily snatch back.

What happens if he decides to go further than flirting?

You can't handle it, any of it, any of this.

You hesitate, unsure of what to say but know it could never be the truth.

Gojo must sense it because he leans closer, his breath warm on your cheek.

"If you leave, I just might crack completely, beauty." A breath you didn't realize you were holding slips. "How do you think everyone else will fare against me then, hmm?"

Gojo knows he's a prodigy, yet he still manages to surprise himself sometimes, eyes lingering over the spots on your uniform soaked through just enough to make the fabric cling—perfect aim.

Ice shoots up your spine from the heat of his unadulterated gaze, but you refuse to let him see you falter. He almost feels a prick from the daggers you throw with your eyes.

"Oh, don't be like that, Nurse," and he purrs, thumbs grazing your wrists in a mockingly gentle touch. "We all have our boundaries, right? I thought communication was key in a relationship."

"Let go of me," you find your voice, "We're done here."

Gojo slightly tilts his head.

Look at you calling the shots, he thinks. So strong, so very serious.

"God I can't help it," he breathes, "You're so fun to mess with."

He could laugh in your face, have his way with you, and show you that your resistance means nothing.

Instead, he slowly releases your wrists and lies back against the tub. "I know you think about it—there's nothing wrong with a little fun...right?" and though the connection is severed, you don't know if it's the drugs or just him that makes his amplified touch linger as you sheepishly rub your wrists.

Gojo watches you blush red—thoughts you didn't know lived within you rushing to the forefront as if he's pushed a button.

Grimy, raw, salacious, unwanted thoughts of forbidden fruit, wandering hands, and stolen touches in the dark. Wondering what his idea of "fun" was like under the sheets. With a psycho named Gojo.

You feel like you should throw up in disgust but the nausea never comes, instead you burn between your legs.

Fuck, you've got to get out of here.

You draw a breath, forcing away the torturous daydreams and quickly finish his bath.

"You should rest," you firmly say and pull the plug to let the tub drain. "And don't expect any more favors from me."

He sits up slow, his expression stone-cold as he slicks back his wet hair. Then he smiles. "I promise. Now dry me off?" he quips.

You ignore his request, swiftly handing him a towel before he can flash you. Gruffing, you lower to your knees and begin drying the floor of his messes, hoping to distract you from your questionable sanity.

Rustling fabric fills the chamber as he dries off, and when you figure it's safe, you look up to a nude Gojo. Still dripping with bubbles, hair plastered to his derpy face, and toned muscles, all the muscles, presenting themselves in all their glory.

The only things dry are his damn hands.

He throws the towel over over his shoulder, sauntering towards you with a wicked grin.

"Well, aren't you gonna help me put this thing back on?" He nods at the jacket he knows is more bullshit than security. "Don't want you getting all worked up again."

The first time your brain registered that Gojo was flirting with you was on your third day as his nurse.

"Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air?" Gojo was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. It was the second time he'd noticed how sluggish you looked while tending to him, suggesting with a grin that you must be quite the party animal.

Ha. If only.

You tsked, tossing his bedsheets into the hamper, and assured him that your sleepy eyes and dragging feet were the result of long hours and running on fumes. Having time for fun was just a dream.

"I don't get out much myself," he says, alluding to the situation he's in, wearing sarcasm like a necklace. "I love a good night in as much as anyone else but, I don't know. The stuffiness hasn't grown on me yet."

You tugged the collar of your scrubs—the air did feel a bit thick, like the room hadn't been aired out in ages and you couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been sitting in it—how he could. That alone would be enough to drive you up a wall.

Sunlight flickered in your eyes, and you raised your hand to block it, noticing the small window perched above his chair.

"Ah, let's open this then," you said, walking over and wrestling with the ancient wood for a moment before finally pulling the creaky flap up to the ceiling.

Standing on your tiptoes to reach it, a sliver of your midriff peeked out, but what captured his attention most was the way the sun rays washed your face. You scrunched your nose, the breeze sending wisps of your hair to tickle it, and he imagined the feel of them between his fingers.

The view was beautiful, you thought, hands gripping the warm bars. Trees surrounded the vast area, stretching out as far as you could see, the pathway to civilization completely covered in dense forest from this angle.

You never realized how high up his ward was—or how long the drop was from here.

"Too bad I'm not small enough to slip through those bars." He rubbed his stomach. "But you know me, 'Mr. BigBack.'"

He joked around as he usually did, looking to trigger your defenses, but your sentiment was...odd.

This was the first time anyone had cared to do something so simple for Gojo. And the closest anyone had gotten to him without their knees buckling.

The first two days of your trial, the Director had guards posted right outside of Gojo's door, their presence a constant reminder to stay alert and maintain a safe distance from the convict and Gojo was positive the mental barrier would keep a wall between you forever.

But then you laughed. A real laugh. Snickery and cute. Finding his joke funny instead of threatening.

It surprised him, that sound. And he wanted to hear it again and again and again.

"Who knew you could bring so much light into this place?"

Later at lunch, you sat with Yuko, having your usual midday catch-up. You never start with yours but she, like most people in the ward now, was absolutely dying to hear about how you were dealing with the villain of the century.

"He's actually not so bad...yet. Corny, but," you took a pondering breath, "He kind of thanked me today?"

She immediately scoffed and waved you off and who could blame her?

You were the anomaly he chose to show mercy to and now he was thanking you??

Being polite was too far of a stretch to believe, you must have been mistaken. But when you gave her the deets on why he'd do such a thing, she nearly choked on her apple. "He said that??"

"Ya?" You patted her back with a concerned look.

"Watch out, Casanova." She cleared her throat and did a nervous laugh.

Her comment threw you off for the rest of lunch, but when you thought about it later that night while surfing for new shows, a light bulb went off.

He flirted with you.

Thinking it was just another one of those literal dry-humor jokes or simply gratitude for making his stay a little less crappy, it flew right over your head. You always feel warm inside when you help people so you didn't think too much about it.

To you, it was just a kudos. Nothing more.

But the way the stands in front of you now is everything.

As bold and brash as it gets.

Fuck. Me.

And your body betrays you, sending all of the vulnerable sensations you've been fighting to suppress from your soaking chest, tingling wrists, aching thighs, and heavy breath, straight to your throbbing clit.

Air escapes you and you scramble to grab your supplies and leave.

Enough is enough. The guards outside can restrain him and escort him back to his room for all you care. You just have to get out of there.

Away from him.

Away from temptation.

Hot, overwhelming, guilty, mentally and physically unstable temptation.

In the quiet of the hallway a level below Gojo's ward, you lean against a wall taking deep breaths, completely disgusted with yourself.

How are you supposed to keep dealing with this, with him?

He keeps pushing and pushing and pushing you to the edge until there's nowhere else to go. You can only imagine the hell the nurses he didn't like went through.

Taking care of him isn't getting any easier, and now you were fucking up and making mistakes.

But you're the only one who can do this. Who must.

So suck it up. Play along, Stop thinking only of yourself. Pretend.

Pretend.

Pretend?

...

What terrifies you the most is the thought that you may not have to.

You keep your scrambled thoughts to yourself when you're called into your Director's office at the end of the day.

You tell him the same story you told Yuko and take full responsibility for what happened, blaming it on exhaustion and needing a break. Swearing to never let it happen again.

By some miracle, you get to keep your job, though your one wish to leave early ended up costing you an hour and a half of unpaid overtime, and almost a friendship.

When you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed—images of the day, the ward, Yuko, flooding your thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside. You tell yourself that it's all just the guilt talking, just anxiety gnawing at your edges.

But then there's Gojo.

The most prominent one of all.

Staring you in the face with lifeless eyes and a ghostly smile. Tugging on your moral strings like a puppet.

When you close your eyes, you can't shake the feeling that he's waiting for you, a lurer in the shadows awaiting your every move.

Leave it. Leave it. Le—

You find yourself scrolling through your phone, deep-diving the web for information on your tormentor.

His past, his affiliations, anything to tell you who Gojo was, and who he is now.

The man is an anomaly.

Not much is known about him outside of mainstream news and internet rumors.

He's just this guy that kind of popped out of nowhere in the worst way possible. Conveniently on the tail of what could have been the most devastating incident in the history of Tokyo.

The media says he's a hero gone rogue but not much else. They damned him to hell and that was that. Even the Director disclosed very little about him during your briefing and you weren't allowed access to his files or records because it's all 'confidential'.

Nothing.

The more you search, you less that comes up. Not even silly conspiracy theories that you definitely thought would be riddling Reddit. The longer you scroll, the more you find yourself beginning to question your own sanity. Your interest. Sweet little buds of obsession.

Even though you hated taking it earlier, you actually need the pill now more than ever to relax, sleeping eluding you and mind wandering to imaginary scenarios as you stare at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, you'll have to face Gojo again. And the day after that and the day after that and every day after.

In between your nearly non-existent off days, you'll have to seem him and decide what face you want to put on.

Because you simply cannot walk away.

After all, he's right—no one else can handle him like you can.

extended angel's note:

when i originally decided to make this into short story, i had no plans on using a y/n perspective. it was just going to feature an OC name i’ve used in stories before, named Persephone, buuuut i decided to wanted to keep it immersive and include no physical descriptors/personality specifics bc i knew i wanted to upload it to tumblr.

to keep it reader-friendly, yk?

alas, Persephone has had her claws in me the entire time i’ve been editing and said with her whole chest that i couldn't just dismiss her like that chile. so i decided changed the perspective but keep her name in place of y/n.

you won’t see it too often in the story bc it’s not super significant or said a lot in general, bUT it is relevant for a certain moment later in the story. you’ll know when you know 🤭.

anyway, hope it doesn't bother you guys too much. and def feel free to mentally plug your name when you see it to keep yourself grounded into the story.

tag list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @kiwismoother @rune1920 @blkkizzat @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @ressyshi @startatdawn

@khenanadeche @heijihatsutori @inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk

@rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping @sims-4lifers @bratidol @rh-tg1

@hyunsuks-beanie @n1vi @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111 @supsiii

@natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko @strawberrymilkshakes-posts

@nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow @sxnkuna

@misoyuh @lupitalove @sebastianlover @gojosatorubrainrot @sleepiebunniee

@mmmidkman @theonecrackhead @thathorsegotpoobrain @iveivory @samistar

@yuuan-66 @gojoslefttoenail @soyalovestoyap @winkwonks-world @thebiggestsimpforyou

#bluuharem #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk imagines #jjk x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #jjk smut #gojo smut #jjk gojo #satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #Satoru Psyche

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theealbatross · 27 days

Text

never not been mine (s.s)

Plot | Everyone wonders if you and Sebastian are together. Sebastian wonders when will everyone mind their own business.

Tags | fluff, cheesy pining, we're not together or are we, cranky!seb, slytherin!reader, curses, threats, prejudice, seeker!seb for the plot, established relationship (kinda), when you love her so much it drives you insane, seb and reader are shit seniors is my headcannon

[Disclaimer | I borrowed a scene from "no hard feelings" because it was trending on tiktok lol. Also a portion of this is heavily inspired by 'The Alchemy' by Taylor Swift'. Photos not mine.]

“Just one drink – butterbeers on me!”

You couldn’t help but smile at the eager nameless hopeful in front of you.

The wince from his two friends at the other edge of the common room was apparent at your periphery. You had to give it to him, he’s lasted longer than the others. Usually, most would be walking away with their egos bruised when greeted with your disinterest.

“Not like you have any … pending appointments, don’t you?” He tried to maintain his bravado, even taking a step closer to the loveseat you were sitting on by the fire.

Call it an instinct, a bond only kindred spirits that have tethered in-between life and death together would have, but you could almost feel him – not needing to see him to recognize the heavy steps on the stone stairs, the deep sigh as he impatiently scours the common room in search of you, and the inevitable crinkle that forms in-between his eyebrows when he sees someone else in your vicinity.

You smile.

“I have one,” you muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

His smirk faltered, eyebrows meeting, “A boyfriend?”

You shook your head.

“Pending appointments,” you grin.

His body comically cloaked the significantly shorter boy from behind.

“There you are.”

Sebastian barely glanced at the 6th year in front of you even when their shoulders bumped, making the student stumble. On instinct, you moved your legs to the side so Sebastian could curl up on the floor, his head finding comfort on the meat of your covered thigh, callused hands curling on your calf as he slumped into your lap.

His hair was still dripping sweat, the quidditch uniform he had on covered with muck and dirt and a spattering of blood, and yet here he was, shamelessly sharing his mess with your clothes. You can almost hear Ominis’ disapproving voice, ‘He's a spoiled dog!’.

Ah, but how could you not when he seemed to be cursed at being so good at everything and yet so miserable doing anything else but spending his time with you. Even you can’t be that heartless.

You ran your hands on his damp hair, making sure to press your fingers on his scalp, unable to stop the soft coos from coming out of your mouth. Sebastian had always needed extra attention after his drills with Imelda, the latter determined to tun him into her very own secret weapon of destruction for this upcoming Quidditch season.

This, in turn, had cut his time with you to his utter despair.

“Can we help you?” You were too busy tending to him that you hadn’t realized you still had an audience. Your pet wasn’t the friendliest, especially with strangers of the opposite sex that stares at you.

“N-No, I was just – we were having a conversa –”

Sebastian frowned, the boy took a step back, you place a halting hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll,” you’re sure even this silly one knows of your Sebastian’s temperament. He wasn’t necessarily the type to be awarded as The Friendliest Senior of the Year.

(“You were nice to me the first time we met.” “Maybe I’m only nice to pretty witches.”)

“I’ll just talk to you later when you’re free.”

“Or not,” Sebastian deadpanned, his grip on your calf tightening, eyebrows meeting.

“Surely it couldn’t hurt–”

“Could hurt.”

“Sebastian.”

It was a pitiful sight but you’ve spared the boy a fate worse than a bruised pride as he muttered a clanky goodbye before turning his back the two of you. Sebastian still glowering at his fleeing back.

“Do you have to be so mean?” you half-heartedly admonished him, patting his freckled cheeks. He really is so handsome, easily the most eligible bachelor in your batch, biased opinion aside.

“Maybe I haven’t been mean enough if they still approach you,” he muttered, clearly still annoyed. His eyes shift from one boy to another accusatorially like if he stared long enough, he’ll catch them in the act of being interested after you and deliver the right sentence as an example.

After the events with Ranrok, high society quickly set its eyes on you. He thought he had nipped it in the bud, sending scathing letters back to prideful pureblood boys for their gall to direct formal letters of engagement to you, audaciously sticking by your side at all times, and severely punishing anyone who dared to even think of courting you. (One even tried to challenge him to a duel. It was barely entertaining, almost downright cruel. Sebastian hopes that the boy is enjoying Ilvermorny.)

Truly, he has his work cut out for him.

Your giggle pulled him out of his unpleasant thoughts, “You should go shower, it’s about to be dinner time.”

He hummed, “Can I use The Room? Hate the boy’s lavatory, ‘s a mess.”

You ignore the quick turning of heads of the students nearest you, trying not to laugh at their scandalized faces, aware of how bad it sounded. Instead, you let him stand and take your hand as he bitterly shared his hypothesis that Imelda was a dark wizard planted to torment him while he led you to the familiar steps toward the Room of Requirement.

On the other side of the room, the rejected boy glared at his sniggering friends.

“You told me they weren’t courting!” he accused.

“In my defense,” his friend shrugged, giggling at the spectacular explosion in front of her very eyes. Who would’ve thought Sebastian Sallow would catch the idiot in the act. “They aren’t but everyone knows they’re ... exclusive.”

“Exclusive?”

“We warned you! I warned you!” Their other friend, the more level-headed one was exasperated. “I’m so bloody terrified of Sallow I don’t even dare to look in her direction! Do you know there are rumors of him mastering forbidden spells? It’s why he had practically spent the entire half of 6th year serving a mysterious detention service for Professor Hecate.”

His other two friend looked at him in doubt. “I thought that was because he bombarda-ed the pants out of that Ravenclaw after he was challenged to a duel –”

“Regardless! He’s dangerous!”

“But are they dating or not?”

“No one knows, okay? That’s like in the Hogwarts top 3 mysteries.” The girl snipped.

“I may know someone who might know.”

Two heads swiveled to the boy who was already staring at a regal silhouette, sitting peacefully on the couch nearest the windows and furthest from any other person in the large common room – simultaneously seeming peaceful and brooding at the same time. As if feeling their gaze on him his unseeing eyes suddenly snapped in their direction, the boys physically flinched, the girl even covering her mouth to hide a gasp as they quickly vacated their spot before they truly tested their luck with the 7th-year Head Boy.

Ominis Gaunt.

The three sighed, resigned to leave that stone unturned.

“Guess we’ll never know.”

Sebastian flustered at the pretty boxes wrapped in silk, laces, and ribbons being shoved to his face, hand rubbing the back of his neck in a mix of embarrassment and honor.

He’s mostly gotten used to the numerous attention he receives but the abrupt surge of volume between his 6th and 7th year sometimes still gives him whiplash. It’s amazing what a growth spurt can do in your social standing.

“Thank you, ladies. I really appreciate it.” He flashed them a polite smile, genuinely flattered and touched at the thoughtful presents even if they are a bit overeager.

Swoons and giggles erupted from the small crowd, so dramatic yet so entertaining.

“Excuse me, Sebastian?”

From the middle of the crowd, Blaine Marune a fellow 7th year pushed herself to the front. She was a popular girl, sought after by many of his teammates. He cocked a brow at her Slytherin shirt when she was a Gryffindor, the team Sebastian was playing against. Was she dating someone on his team?

“Can you sign my shirt?”

Gasps scattered on the ground at her bold request, especially since she stretched out her shirt so the space by her chest was extended. He had to give it to these Gryffindors, they sure do live up to their name.

“Your girlfriend wouldn’t mind, would she?”

He frowned at the implication, suddenly hating the inquisitive eyes snapping between them, clearly curious as to his status. “That’s –”

“She’s here! Look!” A voice from behind the crowd gasped.

Sebastian swiftly turned his head, barely catching your eyes just as you slipped inside the tower that held the stairs to the bleachers up above. Mindlessly, he forgot all about the little scene that was unfolding between him and the Gryffindor and turned away from his gaggle of admirers to walk to the edge of the field, jumping on his broom to fly in front of you when you seemed to take a wrong turn to the other side of the bleachers.

“Wrong direction, darling. I saved you your seat,” he grinned even as you ignored him, walking a leisure pace as he floated beside you.

“I’m not sitting next to your admirers,” She quipped, still refusing to look at him, marching with a purpose. “Darling.”

She’s jealous. Sebastian beamed, flying closer so he could reach out an arm to stop her steps.

“Don’t be like that,” his words were soft yet the grin in his face couldn’t be tamed even if he did try. “You know I like it when I can see you at all times.”

Giggles and whispers were murmured from the seated crowd behind you.

“She’s here!” “The Felix Felicis is here!” “There’s no way those Gryffindor bastards will beat us now.”

The burn in your face doubled in intensity as you tried your hardest to ignore such embarrassing remarks.

It started with a silly coincidence.

In one of Sebastian’s first games last year, you had been running late, roped in a last-minute hunt for a large Ancient Magic hotspot that had abruptly appeared on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. When you entered the Quidditch Pitch the game was in full swing. However, your entrance had caught Sebastian’s attention which coincidentally also happened to be the moment the Snitch flew straight towards you. It was one of the shortest games in Hogwart’s centuries-long history as he had gotten a hold of it inches away from your face. The team included you in their celebration by throwing the two of you in the air.

From then on, it was duly noted that Sebastian’s performance remarkably improved every time you were in attendance. It didn’t help that the one time you didn’t attend one of his inter-school practice matches they had lost by a couple of points to Durmstrang.

Imelda had damn near made you swear on an Unbreakable Vow that you would watch every single one of their games from then on.

Hence, being Sebastian Sallow’s Felix Felicis became your position and moniker throughout the entirety of Quidditch Season, and as embarrassing as it was, it would seem your usually level-headed friend had either gotten roped in the ridiculous suspicion or was enjoying your obvious mortification a bit too much as he had taken every opportunity to snatch the same damn seat that practically showcased you to the rest of the crowd and in turn ensured he would be able to see you at all times.

“Sallow! We’re about to gather!” Imelda screamed in the middle of the field.

“Give me a second!” He turned to you. “Please, pet?”

Damn him and those brown eyes.

Harshly, you grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him till he was forced to maneuver his broom sideways, face an inch from yours.

“You better not embarrass me,” you threatened, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek before turning on the opposite direction, straight to the seat that had been unofficially yours. Lucky charms get special privileges after all. “I want a photo with that trophy, Sallow.”

Sebastian hovered in the air frozen, hand on his burning skin, until a ball hit him square in the back. “Today, lover boy.”

He gave Imelda an apologetic look before calling over an underclassman.

“You there, 5th year!” The boy was quick to jump out of his seat, heart hammering in his chest at the Seeker’s sudden attention. “Call over Head Boy Gaunt and tell him to make sure no one unpleasant sits in my section.”

The boy nodded, understanding. Everyone knows Sallow’s unofficial section where all his friends from different houses sit – every single one of them as intimidating as him. If he had gotten a galleon for every time a professor mentioned one of them either in praise or in warning on what not to do, he’d rival Ominis Gaunt in wealth.

Most importantly, she would be there. The lucky charm and Sallow’s dearest companion – though jury is still out whether they had been courting all this time or not.

From what he’d seen he’d bet on them getting married by graduation even with the lack of formal courting. They didn’t seem to be the type to care for convention. He had even heard suggestive rumors that they basically sleep in the same room every night, though that has yet to be proven.

“Yes, of course, Sallow!”

Sebastian watched the boy scamper down the stairs, no doubt to relay his message to his dear friend who won’t be too pleased of his misuse of Ominis’ position.

Oh well, all’s well that ends well.

He blows you one last provocative kiss as he departs the stands before he flies up to where the rest of his teammates are positioned, ready for the game to start, pleased with the fact you would be fuming from the attention his grand performance would bring.

A jealous darling would be bad luck after all.

And he had a trophy to win.

“And the Triwizard Champion is Sebastian Sallow from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, House Slytherin!”

Green confetti and fireworks exploded all over the stadium overwhelming Sebastian as he tried to catch his breath and not let his knees buckle under his weight when all the adrenaline left his body. He belatedly realized that the cold, golden trophy had been shoved in his hands not until he was lifted by fellow schoolmates up above their arms in celebration and was staring at his own gobsmacked reflection in the shiny hardware.

More familiar faces and deafening cheers accosted him as he was brought into the section where all Hogwarts students were gathered. Only when he was put back in the ground to be showered with pats, congratulations, and splashing of fizzing butterbeer did his brain finally catch up with the rest of his body.

Immediately, his head started swiveling, looking for the face he needed to see the most, his instincts screaming at him that she was near. She has to be. She promised.

From the back of the crowds – there she was. Her beaming face, humbly waving from behind as if she wasn’t the reason he had fought so hard for this victory – that it really should be in her name and it shall, for he will lay this victory on her feet, first of his many devotion for the rest of their lives.

In haste, he shoved the trophy to the nearest body, uncaring of who was able to grab it as he pushed and shoved anyone on his way to you. The rest of the world blurred. He cared not for the gasps, shrieks, or protests – not when he saw the beam in your smile as you jumped into his arms – the golden ring that was hanging off a simple chain on your neck clanged with the similar one hanging off his own when you jumped into his arms.

The wedding rings he had prepared, ready for the day the two of you turned into adults in the eyes of the law and were permitted to be married. It would be for mere formality, his heart after all had been tied to yours the moment your eyes met.

“I’m so proud of you.”

He’s never felt satisfaction as fulfilling as this moment.

Finally, he has earned it – has earned the right to say it.

“I love you.”

This love was finally his.

The papers were printed in a few days. Bold letters with a bolder headline:

Triwizard Champion and Hero of Hogwarts Secretly Betrothed!?

Right below such an accusatory headline was the photo of the two of you framed almost too perfectly in a café’s window, Sebastian pressing a kiss in the unmistakable diamond ring he had bought with his winnings while you beamed at him.

It has not been a kept secret that many noble families have vied and proposed for the heavy hand of the Hero but all were rebuffed. All but one. Sebastian Sallow, a promising orphan from a fallen house seemed to have Championed the heart of the lady just as he had conquered the challenges of the Triwizard Trials. As remarkable as it is, his distinct lack of proper lineage, colorful history of delinquency, and the whispers of his preference for obscure magic would truly prove to be a challenge he might not be able to slay quite as easily, especially for a bride as coveted as –

“I am going to fucking kill that wench!”

You slammed the newspaper on the table, making Grace choke on her tea just as Ominis winced at your colorful choice of words, quickly conjuring up a silencing charm around your table lest you make it harder for his lawyers if you actually do deliver the threat.

“I know you’re upset –”

You glare at Grace. Upset barely covers it.

Finding that you have not insulted it enough you crumble the bundle of paper in your hand, even going as far as to grab two that a couple of fourth years were reading before throwing them to the fire in a huff, screaming an Incendio on the fireplace just for the satisfaction of seeing it all turn into soot in a blink.

Ominis quickly sends an owl.

She should still be in Hogsmeade, your mind runs. You’ve heard that the unpleasant reporter had made a home in one of the apartments in Hogsmeade once the Tournament started.

It should be easy, you try to suppress your maniacal grin as you turn, marching straight into the stairs that should lead you to the nearest floo, ignoring how quickly the other students parted for you as your head ran all types of scenarios on how you can absolutely gut that waste of space. She had unfairly targeted Sebastian from the start of the games, pointing out flaws on his runs even when he had won the stage, cruelly bringing up his 'upbringing' in Feldcroft, and even bringing up how he wouldn't be able to give it his all while still grieving his twin sister and should be replaced.

That fucking wench.

You’ve had enough practice breaking and entering through the many locks in Hogsmeade to be able to sneak into her abode. A simple hex would be child’s play, maybe you should curse her to lose one finger every time she writes a bad word against your beloved or maybe a limb or you should just do the wizarding world another favor and make her illiterate.

Once you were on the grounds you summoned your broom.

The punishment should fit the crime.

“Levioso.”

Before you could fly you found yourself already levitating up the air, from below Sebastian was way too pleased at your shrieks and foul mood.

“Let me down, Sebastian!” you kicked.

“I would but I would rather we not spend our lives running away from the ministry if you kill that journalist, my love.”

So, he has read it. The fact that he was able to see those vile words made your blood boil harder. Sensing your temper and the fact that you were about to break out of his spell he plays dirty.

“Accio.”

You shriek at the speed but the comfort of his arms was almost enough to quell the itch in your hands to curse that bloody witch into a pulp.

Almost.

He tightens his hug, playfully pulling you off the ground with a grunt and swaying the two of you gently. “Still upset?”

You push your blunt nails on his back and he chuckles. “It doesn’t bother me, you know.”

“It should!” you snap, a blast of your ancient magic smashing a statue to pieces that he quickly fixes with a ‘repairo’ without so much as a glance at the shrieking fifth years that had nearly gotten blasted with it. “It bothers me.”

That they think so lowly of him – him! A man worth ten – if not hundreds – of those pompous pricks from noble houses who offers nothing but their ‘pure’ blood and rotting riches like it was enough, like it could buy your heart and pride.

If they knew –

If they knew it was him who cleaned your blood and licked the jagged wounds in your spirit in the quiet of your lowest nights, that it was this boy who pulled out the rubble of a girl after the war – carefully piecing it together until you felt like a person and not a hollow husk filled only by nightmares, that it was this lowly orphan they sneer at who had become your chain to your sanity – your family.

Would they still look down at him if they knew it was only his kindness, and his love, and him who stopped you from giving up on them? That if someone as beautiful as him could exist in the wizarding world then it was a world worth saving.

Sebastian frowns at your upset. Ominis had grossly underestimated how the article had affected you, he would be touched if he wasn't so angry.

“It shouldn’t,” he gently carries you like a bride – his bride – under the largest tree by the Beasts Class classroom, away from the prying eyes of a crowd, overlooking the lake. The songs of the breeze and birds were the perfect soothing balm along with his soft coos. “They can write about me all they want at the end of the day it is me who is coming home with you.”

He’s sure you’re aware that his overly sweet words are all to calm you down but you fall for it anyway, smiling on the skin of his neck. “I should have her tongue.”

He shushes you, pressing his fingers on your waist till it tickled, he smiles on your hair when you slap his shoulder. “Don’t you think you’ve terrified the freshmen enough with that mouth of yours.”

It doesn’t escape you that the other students have transferred their fear of Sebastian’s murky past to your present wicker-short temper. You are aware that it is only because of your impeccable grades, immeasurable talent and a sprinkle of Fig’s legacy that the headmaster has not suspended or expelled you for your insolence.

His palms run a soothing patten on your spine, letting you continue to bury your head on the crook of his neck to lull you into a calm.

You suddenly pull yourself away, looking straight at him. “Are you sure you don’t care? I promise I won’t get caught.”

He chuckles at that, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head before leaning back on the trunk of the tree, pulling you closer to him.

“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “As long as you still plan on marrying me nothing will ever bother me at all.”

“I reckon she's calmed down?”

Sebastian doesn’t bother to mask his stormy expression now that you have fallen into a nap, sparing Ominis a glance as he sits on one of the empty wooden crates.

“I was sure I’d catch the two of you digging up a shallow grave by now.”

Sebastian glances down at you, shaking his head. “Haven't you heard? I’m a changed man.”

Ominis chuckles at that. “Well, their vile words shouldn’t matter anyhow,” Ominis sighs, grateful at least that this betrothal had managed to calm at least one of his dearest friends down. “She’s yours now.”

The boy’s words made Sebastian think.

Think back to the first time he met you: the curiosity, the anticipation, the instant tug on his soul the first time your voice had pulled him out of his own head and you stood in front of him while the growing foreboding feeling that meeting in that room, in front of the fire was meant to be, bloomed in his chest.

He was young enough not to recognize love for what it was but not stupid enough to not act upon it. Monopolizing you and your attention, wrapping his being around you until people could no longer separate the two of you as individuals, guarding his precious hoard ferociously from wolves and thieves until he grew into the man who could claim it.

She’s yours now.

When he really, really, thinks about it, it almost makes him laugh. He always thought he'd lead a simple life. Get a decent job, marry a modest girl, and settle down into a humble life. Grand delusions weren't for him, that was more Anne's forte and he wasn't destined for a greater purpose, that was for Ominis.

And he was satisfied with that, honestly and truly thankful for it. He thrived in the shadows, after all.

But he met you and damned himself by falling in love with the one person he shouldn't have -- the one person he could never deserve even if he lived the rest of his life as a saint.

He loved a grand adventure personified and in a lickety-split threw away all of his dreams of a quiet life -- jumping straight into a den of goblins and trolls and certain death. Hit the ground running in a race between bachelors to get to you, to earn the honor of deserving your love. And even mercilessly overwhelmed any contender to your hand until it was uncontested that it was only him who could stand beside you.

It was only he who earned it.

She’s yours now.

In quiet moments he sometimes couldn't quite believe just what happened to his life in two years.

Because he never thought he'd fall in love with a brilliant witch vied by the world or that, out of all hands stretched out to her, she would hold his, that she would love him back.

She’s yours now.

Sebastian would beg to disagree.

It was fate. (He made it so.)

It was written. (He rewrote it.)

She’s always been mine.

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow headcannons #hogwarts legacy sebastian

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bellasprettywords · 5 months

Text

So High School (Spencer Reid x Reader)

a/n: It’s me, hi, so I’m kind of back, although I’ve decided to expand my horizons and also write for Doctor Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds; either way, I hope you like this little writing🤭💕

This one shot is inspired by So High School by Taylor Swift from The Tortured Poets Department, which is my current obsession, so if you are swifties, I hope you guys catch the references 🫶🏼

This is season 2 Spencer, cause I just really dig the shy-sweet vibe

This is not proofread, as it’s 2 am, but I couldn't stop

y/n – your name

Warnings: Friends to lovers (kindish), mentions of alcohol

Word count: 2,409

My Masterlist

Working at the BAU wasn’t easy, but every now, and then you’d have days when all you had pending was paperwork, and you’d catch a break. Like right now, sure, you still had a couple of reports to get through, but overall the mood seemed relaxed, even if you’d been working nonstop for the last 24 hours.

You were typing your reports and sporadically, you’d catch a glance of Spencer Reid’s concentrated face, whose desk was in front of you. Sure, you were work friends, but deep down you knew you had a small crush on the twenty-five-year-old Doctor. Your thoughts were starting to fly away, thinking about Spencer's hair, framing his delicate features, his big eyes, which seemed to move frantically over the computer screen, the way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was invested into his work, and the way his brows were crunching, making small wrinkles in his forehead; when suddenly, your train of thought was interrupted.

“You know what we should do? We should play kiss, marry, kill” Penelope suggested way too loudly coming into the bullpen with a huge grin and walking frantically to your desk.

“What are you even saying?” exclaimed Emily, standing from her chair and approaching your desk

“We still have to finish our reports” said Spencer, who seemed to be glued ho his computer, taping frenetically

“Did I just hear kiss, marry, kill?” Morgan approached your desk and one by one, the gang was coming all together

“Okay, first round, y/n, kiss, marry, kill with Gideon, Hotch and Rossi?” Penelope asked a little too excited for the question

“Come on, I’m not answering that” you said chuckling at the thought of even giving a response

“Comeeeeeee ooooooon” this time Morgan insisted and the absurdity of the question made you laugh so hard, Spencer looked up from his computer

“Fine, kiss Rossi, marry Hotch and kill Gideon, because he has way too much dad energy to kiss or marry him” you said, and your friends burst out laughing

“We are way too sleep-deprived to be here” Emily said chuckling, “Also, I’m starving”

“I have a frozen pizza at home I just can’t wait to devour” you said and suddenly your friend's eyes seemed to sparkle

“Now that I know that, I’m totally going home with you” Penelope said clinging to your arm

“I’m tagging along as well” Emily added clinging into your other arm

“They say three is a multitude, so I’m coming, just to keep you guys in check” Morgan exclaimed, and you couldn’t wait for Spencer to add himself into your plans, but unfortunately, the young doctor was back into his working frenezzy.

“Como on Spence, we are going home” you said hoping he’d tag along to your improvised plan, even if you were almost certain he’d say no, considering he didn’t really talk to you other than work related business; and rarely info dumped on you, which made you a little sad, considering his info dumps were one of the things that you most liked about him.

“Excuse me?” Spencer said crunching his eyebrows and staring over his screen monitor into your eyes

“We… we are all coming to my house to eat pizza, I was… I was wondering if you’d like to come” you stuttered and felt your cheeks become red. Anytime, you’d try to talk to Spencer about anything other than work, words would trip out of your mouth incomprehensibly, your cheeks would flush in a bright shade of red, and you were pretty sure anyone with a brain knew about your crush, specially considering you’d act like a high schooler in love around him.

“Come on man, we can even trow some poker to sweetener the deal for you” Morgan added

“Also, y/n told me that she has the new Grand Theft Auto, so we could play for a while” Penelope tried convincing Spencer appealing to his love for video games, and if it wasn’t obvious before, well, it was obvious now that you were eager to have the boy-genius at your place

“Alright, let me just grab my bag” Spencer said calmly, almost… oblivious to the fact that your friends were playing smooth wingman and wing-woman

“Penny and I are driving together, and Derek is taking his bike, so Reid, you can drive with y/n” Emily said and for a second, you couldn't believe how shamelessly uncool your friends were being about the whole situation

“If it’s alright with you, I’d appreciate riding with you” Spencer told you a little… flustered? No way, you were the one fangirling over him, maybe he was just getting secondhand embarrassment for the whole situation and your friend’s pathetic attempts to get you together.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The ride home was quite nice, Spencer seemed to loosen up when he got the chance to share statistics on pizza consuming habits in the U.S. and somehow, he managed to incorporate the history of pizza:

“So, a precursor of pizza was probably the focaccia, a flatbread known to the Romans as panis focacius, to which toppings were then added. Modern pizza evolved from similar flatbread dishes in Naples, Italy, between the 16th and mid-18th century” Spencer kept explaining, while you took the chance to steal a couple of glances, even if it was a driving hazard “I’m sorry, I’m sure you are bored with my nonstop chatter” the young Doctor added shyly

“No way, I really enjoy your facts and stories” you said, and a shy smile formed into his lips, so you took a leap of faith, hoping with all your heart he wouldn't be uncomfortable with what you were about to say “I love the way your mind works, I find it amazing how you can just know so much, you know?”

“Thank you, it is called an eidetic memory, most people think it’s weird” Spencer said looking down to his hands, that were lying over his lap.

OH MY GO, WAS DOCTOR SPENCER REID BLUSHING? You were trying your best to hide your excitement, and luckily you were saved by the bell, as without realizing it, you were already parking in front of your apartment building

“So this is me, home sweet home” you said turning off the engine of your car and Spencer gave you a side smile that made your stomach flutter

“Thanks for the drive, and you know, for having me” he said, and you were high on his words; everything about him seemed to fascinate you, but before your mind could go wild, Morgan tapped your car window to let you know he was there, and after a couple of minutes, Penelope and Emily were outside as well

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“I’ll put the pizza in the oven, so maybe we can play a round of poker while we wait?” you suggested as your friends took a seat at the table, and you handed them a beer each.

“That’s what I’m talking about” Morgan said, already shuffling the deck of cards. The game was fun, although Spencer won each and every round. The night was everything you could ask for, Spencer seemed comfortable at your apartment, and he even got around to joking and laughing out loud.

“Truth or dare?” Morgan said spinning his empty beer bottle with mischief in his eyes, and laughs started bursting, until it landed on Emily

“Truth” she said glancing at Morgan with amusement

“Have you even come into work tipsy?” Morgan asked

“Alright, yeah, once when we were working with the Newport Police” she replied calmly “Now, have anything stronger?” Emily asked, lifting her beer bottle

“As a matter of fact, I do” you said standing from your chair and bringing different alcohol bottles, you had a wide selection of whiskey, wine, rum, tequila, and vodka

“What are you? A bartender?” Penelope asked, surprised by the alcohol selection.

“I tried, I even got a book, but between life and work I never got around to reading it” you added pouring your friends a couple of drinks.

Emily spun the bottle, and it landed on Spencer, who gulped a little too loudly, and you couldn’t keep your eyes from his Adam’s apple “Truth or dare, boy-genius?” she asked taking you off from your thought

“I… mm… truth?” he said almost too afraid of what your friends could think about asking him

“Alright, what do you think about y/n?” Emily asked bluntly, and you could see Spencer’s cheeks turning red. Sure, you loved your friends, but their mingling was getting way too obvious for your mental health

“I… I think she’s great, I mean, of course she is incredibly smart, she’s sweet, funny, and she has a special way to always makes you feel heard and taking into consideration. It is undeniably that she’s pretty, I mean, and… yeah that's what I think” Spencer said staring into your eyes, and you couldn't believe it, you literally were wonderstruck.

Did he like you? Did he just admit you were pretty? You were literally on cloud nine when you realized Spencer had spun the bottle, and this time it was facing you

“What’s… What’s your favorite movie?” Spencer asked shyly, and all eyes turned to him

“Come on man, that was your shot” Morgan said leaning into Spencer

“That changes, but right now I’d say American Pie” you said trying not to sound too embarrassed. Secrets were spilled, confessions were made, and shots were taken, until Penelope spun the bottle and once more, it landed on Spencer

“Truth or dare, lover-boy?” Penelope asked a little too excited, which once more made Spencer a little nervous, considering the situation, and of course, the fact that he pretty much just admitted having a crush on you

“Dare?” Spencer said, almost asking

“Uuuh I got a great one, read y/n’s bartender book, and then prepare us some fire ass drinks” she said almost euphoric

“Oh, okay, sure, I can do that” Spencer said released a breath he didn't realize he was holding “y/n, would you mind lending me the book? So I can read it, please?” he asked shyly, and you knew this was your chance to make a move

“Of course, although I’m not sure where it is, so… maybe you can help me find it?” you asked hoping he caught the subtext

“Yes, yes I can help you look” he said, and a little grin formed into his lips

“What about playing the Grand Theft Auto whille they go lok for the book?” Morgan asked smootly, giving you just what you needed, a chance to slip to the side with Spencer

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

You were now in your room, with the guy that made your stomach flutter, and once again, you coultn shake away the feeling of being a sixteen year old girl approaching her crush for the first time. Okay, so until now you knew there was a chance he actually liked you, so for the first time, you tried to flirt smootly

“So, the book must me somewhere on this wall” you told Spencer pointing at the wall-tall-bookshelf that adorned your room

“That is an impressive collection” Reid said admiring your books

“Thank you, I like… reading, and of course, books” you mumbled and between the nerves of having him in your room, and the fact that he was aproaching you, starring directly at your eyes, your braing wasn’t braining it. This defenetly wasn’t considered smooth, or flirty

“Truth or dare?” Spencer said coming closer to you

“Truth” you responded almost instantly

“Why is American Pie your favorite movie?” he asked, and the question genualy threw you off

“I know most people think it’s a really stupid movie, but even in those crazy scenarios, the guys get to laugh, and learn about life, sure, it’s twisted, and watching to too your can defenetly cause issues, but I think it’s a great piece of cinematography”

“That’s impressive, altough I can’t judge, as I’ve never got arroud to watch it” Spencer said, moving a little, and turning back to your book collection

“Truth or dare, Doctor Reid?” you asked playfully

“Truth” he said chuckling, and once again, you confirmed his little laughs sent a dopamine charge into your brain that was almost adictive

“What’s your favorite thing from my collection?” you asked, moving your hand motioning your bookshelf

“While you have an impressive Aristotle collection, which I’m a big fan of, right now my favorite thing in this room is not exactly a thing, but a person” he said once again leaning into you, “Truth or dare, miss y/n?” he asked coming even closer to your face

“Truth” you asked playing it safe, as he had suddenly turned into Doctor Smooth Reid, and seeing him take charge, was a side of him, one that you were totally enjoying

“What are you thinking about right now?” he said, leaning a little closer to you

“Actually, all I can think about right now is kissing you” you admited, bitting you lower lip, but not giving him time to answer, you asked “Truth or dare?”

“Dare” Spencer said, with his eyes lingering from your eyes, to your lips and viceversa

“I dare you to kiss me” you said, and as you finished yout sentence, his hand was cupping your cheeck, his other hand was placed on your waste, and his lips were softly crashing into yours. The kiss was soft, and sweet, with a couple of bites in between. One kiss, then another one, and swiftly, Spencer made you turn, placing your back towards your bookshelf and getting closer to you, just like you, he longed for this moment, for your kiss, for your touch. You were enjoyoing yourselves way too much, when you heard a knock on your door, which made the two of you burst out laughing

“We should go back to them” Spencer said, placing a las kiss into your lips

“Maybe next Saturday you can come over, I mean, you can’t go though life without the rite of passage of watching American Pie” you said chuckling, hoping with all your flustered heard he’s say yes

“That would me wonderful, I can’t keep living like this, without watching American Pie, I mean” he said lacing his fingers with yours, and opening the door for you, so the two of you could go back to your friends, who were also laughing from the living room, as they were sure their mission of getting you together had been succesful.

Part 2

I really hope you liked it, let me know if you want part 2, as I'm pondering the idea of the American Pie date.

Kay, love you, bye 🩷

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid

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thefreakandthehair · 8 months

Text

a collapsing star with tunnel vision.

@steddielovemonth prompt, day one: love is stealing an RV together (@shares-a-vest)

rating: t | wc: 650 | cw: smoking weed | tags: getting together, love confessions, idiots in love, come hell or high water I will make them stargaze, title from a fob song

Smoke curls out of the joint they share as Steve and Eddie lay in the grass just beyond Steve's pool. It's chilly, the cool breeze that takes the smoke into its wispy fingers and pulls it up towards the sky a harbinger of pending autumn. Summer has been fun, but Steve's grateful for the change of seasons.

A new season means more time between them and Vecna, between them and angry mobs, and hospital visits, and physical therapy.

Just a few months ago, he'd thought that his time was up so while summer used to be Steve's favorite season, he's thankful now to watch time pass. Especially when it crawls like this, slow and syrupy as the night blankets he and Eddie.

His friendship with Eddie had been a surprise, but all the more surprising is how it's easily its evolved from friendship to something more. Or, it has at least on Steve's end. Eddie is naturally touchy, always bouncing into Steve's personal space, poking him, calling him things like big boy or sweetheart. It's hard to tell with him if it's just how Eddie is, or if it means something.

Steve wants it to mean something. Probably has since the first time Eddie leaned in, close enough for Steve to feel his breath against his skin, and called him big boy back in the RV.

The RV that they stole. That Steve watched as Eddie deftly hot-wired, berating himself for knowing how to all the while. But for Steve, stealing that RV together told him a lot about Eddie, things that he still hasn't forgotten. Like how Eddie has hopes of being something more, how Eddie's known how to steal cars for years and only pulled it out of his arsenal when it was for good, how Eddie could've been picking locks and torturing those who've tortured him but he decides not to. Well before actual evil, Eddie had looked some of the worst the world has to offer directly in the eyes and didn't let it make a monster of him.

Stealing the RV together, oddly enough, lands Steve knee-deep in love with the man laying beside him, one hand on his stomach and the other point towards the sky, tracing imaginary constellations.

"... kinda like an evil mouse, right? You see that?"

Steve grins and stubs out the joint, saving the rest for later as he turns slightly to gaze at Eddie, not whatever weird evil mouse he thinks he sees among the stars.

"Yeah, definitely. Totally an evil mouse."

Eddie's head rolls to the side, cheek pressed against the grass, and furrows his brows. "You're not even looking."

"Eh, there's more important stuff to look at down here."

"Shut up." He watches as a pink hue colors Eddie's neck and cheeks, a blush creeping up from his collarbones. It's rare that Steve stuns Eddie these days, but when he does, it's his favorite thing in the whole world.

Maybe it's the joint, maybe it's the promise of a new season, or maybe it's just the safety he feels under the cover of night, but Steve scoots closer.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Steve asks, voice barely above a whisper. It doesn't need to be any louder, not with his mouth now so close to Eddie's.

Eddie nods, rolling over to his side to quick to be smooth.

Bravery is a term used loosely these days, but Steve feels brave in this moment. Feels untouchable.

"I think I kinda love you."

Silence rests loudly on the grass between them for one, two, three seconds before Eddie closes the distance, responding without words. Every nerve ending in Steve's broken but healing body lights up, electrical as the concept of new beginnings shivers down his spine.

The wind blows again as they kiss, reminding Steve of the seasons changing in his life, this time, in more ways than one.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington x eddie munson #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steddielovemonth #st fic #myblurbs

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robinbuckleysfringe · 6 months

Text

you are in love.

tom blyth social media au

pairings: tom blyth x reader

warnings: accused cheating

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

*yninstagram has posted*

tagged rachelzegler & tomblyth

liked by joshandresrivera, tomblyth, hunterschafer, rachelzegler and others

yninstagram as promised, here's some more bts pics for tbosas. massive thanks to suzanne collins for letting me be apart of your universe 💚

View comments

rachelzegler not that photo of me 😭

↪️ yninstagram sorry babes 🫶🏻🫶🏻. forgive me?

↪️ rachelzegler always 🫶🏻🫶🏻❤️

tomblyth did me dirty with that photo when I know you took hundreds of nicer ones

↪️ yninstagram sorry not sorry, just giving the fans what they want 😘

hunterschafer it was so lovely to finally be in a project together ❤️

↪️ yninstagram here's to hoping there's more 🥂❤️

user is that y/n with tom in the 2nd pic?? they look awfully close

↪️ user back off and leave the cheating rumours alone. y/n confirmed that they were only friends during filming

↪️ user exactly!! leave them alone!! plus, they were probably just going over the script or something. it's not your business dude.

user these photos are everything

user everyone say thank you to y/n for listening to the fans and giving us more bts pics

user y/n stoppp, I can't fall in love with snow again

user can't decide if tom's hotter with blonde hair or brown

↪️ yninstagram I've been asking myself the same thing

↪️ user 😂 she's one of us!!!!

☆☆☆

*yninstagram has posted*

tagged robertdowneyjr, sebastianstan, chrisevans, gwynethpaltrow, anthonymackie & marvelstudios

liked by zendaya, tomholland2013, jacobelordi, tomblyth and others

yninstagram happy 10 year anniversary to my marvel debut (and also CATWS). huge thanks to @/robertdowneyjr for being the best onscreen dad, let's be in another project together soon pls ❤️

View comments

rachelzegler omg forgot that you were in the mcu!! iconic behaviour

↪️ yninstagram little me was really living the dream!!

tomblyth can't wait to see what the future of the mcu holds in store for you ❤️

↪️ yninstagram love you tom ❤️

↪️ user omg confirmed y/n return to the mcu??

↪️ user I hope so!! missed her character so much!!

zendaya happy 10 years to my favourite marvel character

↪️ tomholland2013 hey, what about me? :((

↪️ zendaya I said what I said 🤷🏻‍♀️

↪️ tomholland2013 no, but for real @/yninstagram, congrats on making it a whole decade in the mcu. it's awesome to be able to share a screen with you xx

↪️ yninstagram aww, thanks guys 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻. let's meet up next time I'm in town 💕💕

jacobelordi you used to be so cute. what happened? 😂

↪️ yninstagram shut up (said with love 🫶🏻)

user are you coming back to the mcu??

↪️ yninstagram you'll have to ask the marvel execs, sorry lovely. I wish I knew x

☆☆☆

*yninstagram has posted to her story*

☆☆☆

*yninstagram has posted*

tagged tomblyth

liked by zendaya, florencepugh, tomblyth, joshandresrivera and others

yninstagram award show season was a blast 🥂💜

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tomblyth stunning 😍😘

↪️ yninstagram no, you 😘x

rachelzegler obsessed with you 😍😍😍

↪️ yninstagram I expect nothing less 🫶🏻🫶🏻❤️❤️

joshandresrivera I wanna know what was said to make you pull that face in the 3rd photo

↪️ yninstagram probably someone bringing up that once again I wasn't nominated smh 😤

user mother is mothering 😍😍😍

user you were snubbed. you should've been nominated 😤

↪️ user for real!!!

↪️ user she defo deserves an award, but I don't think any of her projects last year (other than tbosas) was really award worthy. don't get me wrong, they were brilliant. but they weren't on the same level as the stuff that was nominated

↪️ user 100%

user you just know she's so fun to hang out with

↪️ user for real!! she emits such friendly energy

user what's the new project??

↪️ user wdym??

↪️ user she posted a story the other day with the caption "new project pending"

↪️ user it's probably stranger things season 5 tbh

☆☆☆

*yninstagram has posted*

tagged greysabc

liked by tomblyth, rachelzegler, camillaluddington, jessicacapshaw, caterinascorsone, taylorswift and others

yninstagram shoutout to the stars (and my schedule) for aligning and allowing me to make my greys anatomy debut. thank you @/shondarhimes for letting me step through the doors of Grey Sloane Memorial hospital 💙

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tomblyth super proud of you ❤️❤️

↪️ yninstagram ❤️❤️

camillaluddington welcome to the family ❤️

↪️ yninstagram thanks for letting me join ❤️

rachelzegler watching you get your dream roles is the best thing in the world 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻. endlessly proud of you bby 💕💕💕

↪️ yninstagram stoppp, you're making me cry 😭💕💕

hunterschafer we better be having a watch party at your house

↪️ yninstagram of course!! ❤️

joshandresrivera iconic

taylorswift big fan of this news!! congrats lovely ❤️

↪️ yninstagram love you!!! ❤️❤️

jacobelordi how the hell did you manage to keep this a secret??

↪️ yninstagram it was a real struggle

zendaya insanely proud of you!! 💕

↪️ yninstagram 😘

user I hope you're in it for at least more than one episode

↪️ user same, tho I doubt she'll become a series regular

user omg!!!

user congrats!!!

user yes yes yes!!!

user ooh, who are you playing??

user this is so cool!!! love greys anatomy!!!

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

parts 5 and 6 will probably be the last parts to this social media au, unless there's anything you guys want me to write for this series

#tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #the hunger games #tbosbas #rachel zegler #marvel #tom holland #zendaya #greys anatomy #social media au

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alanxietatem · 4 months

Text

I was tagged by @woozysioux 🖤

last song:

favourite colour: red, black, silver, gold

currently watching: Berserk (2nd season)

sweet/savoury/spicy: All 3

relationship status: Fervently in love with music and art (I miss so much the innocence of loving someone without the constant fear of being replaced)

current obsession: Lately I've been making preparations with my music colleagues to record another studio album, I have several projects pending but this is the one I love the most 'cause I play the best that can exist; death metal and black metal (noise gives me more life).

last thing googled: The Killing of a Sacred Deer full movie

last book I read: Wuthering Heights

looking forward to: To fill my savings to buy and plant trees everywhere, I like to take care of my mother nature (in Mexico hot temperatures are killing us lol).

Sorry for the delay :(, i'm going to taggg in this quiz: @gothicmatter, @cowardlycowboys & @szpd-demon

#Spotify #thanks for tagging me!#tag game #me

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tartarusknight · 6 months

Note

any recommendations for angsty steve centric fics?

We love some Steve angst!

Boys Keep Swinging by Carbocat is an extremely devastating story. It's not a romance story there isn't any steddie, it's main focus is on Steve and how he struggles with PTSD from everything.

Chokechain by GhostHost is another great fic. The Summary of that one is: Rumors of Steve's pending engagement threaten to splinter the post-Vecna bliss with a harsh dose of reality.

cyclical by cuips_not_cute is a time loop fic. Which is pretty self explanatory. Steve is struggling to save his friends and end the loops.

Gave me something to lose by sierra_writes_things is a shorter story but it's so good. It's not resolved at the end so if that isn't your cup of tea...

how long is forever by boredorphan. Summary is "it felt like they could breathe air again, without the constant fear of having to answer a code red in the middle of the night because of a newly discovered creature. Because what returns to them is not something about the upside down, no. Simply it's a consequence. The result of poorly made decisions, neglected care. It's the loss. Stolen memories."

I know I've kissed you before (Can I try again) by ChristinMKay is so good for an AU. It's a no "supernatural" fic and it's has Steve adopting Dustin in it, which was perfect. This is a steddie fic and it switches back and forth from the past and the present to show you the whole story.

I'd Ask You To Be True by chandy... This fic was the hardest thing I've ever read. It's not a romance story instead it focuses on Steve's relationship with the party. It's based after season two I believe, and its heartbreaking. Through this story we see Steve battling cancer and the party's support during it. However, I will say that it's a heartbreaking ending but it's a beautiful ending at the same time. Read the tags and be warned this one legitimately made me sob to the point I stopped reading it for a little while so I could breathe.

It Takes Two to Survive by Orange_Sunsets is more of a stobin angst fic. It's where Steve and Robin not saved from the Russians instead they end up in the hands of Martin Brenner.

Long Live The Kings by me_4eva is very angsty. It is based in the middle of season 3 and after. It is a Harringrove fic which isn't my cup of tea but it was done so well that I still enjoyed it, maybe just because romance isn't the point of the fic. It's a survival fic through and through. I really recommend this one, it's angsty all around.

Passing of the Torch by mummifiedgoose is a short one that has a sad ending but it touches on the similarities of Lucas and Steve.

Remind Me That I Am A Fool by The_Bees_Want_Arson is a fic about self harm and suicide but it doesn't have a sad ending so that's a plus.

Remember What You're Looking At Is Me by Kwills91 is another good one. It's a steddie fic but it really touches on how Steve is struggling.

Okay so like I have more but I'll let you look at these first. If you want I write a lot of Steve-centric angst. Which is linked on my page :)

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve needs a hug #fic rec #some #steddie

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nerdieforpedro · 3 months

Text

WIP Thursday

The smut is still ever present. And has leaked into many a fic. The word leak may have been used in some of them, or not. Nerdie is unsure and quite unwell. Like I’m physically fine but you, the mind is swirling.

Anyway… 👀 The docket for this week: One Tim, One Marcus, Two Dieters and a trickle of Din.

I was tagged by @syd-djarin 😎 Thanks for the reminder and all your fics look awesome! 😘

First up, Tim (he’s got plot to get through thank you!):

Doc and Rockford are seated outside of the diner. The cool air feels excellent on her skin. She feels like she’s burning up. Tim likely understood what his brother meant by her satisfaction or lack thereof and that’s before even mentioning him putting your lab coat on her, complimenting her or touching her stomach. Doc still has to process that. So much has happened. “You wanna talk about why you were out with my brother, the outfit, or me getting you in the car Esme? Which elephant do you want to tackle first?” Rockford would have phrased it differently, but he’s tired from the late night paperwork, being worried about her and now trying to think about how he’s going to react to whatever she has to say.

Second, Marcus Pike (because he's adorable):

“Hey beautiful! You ready for to go? I’m just going to put away some files and we’ll be ready to go.” Marcus doesn’t miss a beat in giving a swift kiss to Imani’s forehead then heading over to his desk and fiddling with drawers. He’s shuffling papers while stealing glances at the woman seated in his office. “Between the shade of orange, your smiling face and those luscious legs tempting me from across the room, we might be late for our reservation.” The good agent Pike wiggled his eyebrows which had his lady friend holding her stomach in laughter.

Lastly, I wrote some Din (because we don't appreciate Din's early armor enough):

Still holding the knife, she lowered it and nodded, “Yes thanks to you. May I know your name to thank you? I can’t see you very well there, could you step forward?” Taking two steps toward him, she stopped three feet before the shadows from the building obscured him. Heavy boots and what sounded to be metal clinked with his steps. His armor was the answer, he wouldn’t need to really tell her. Silver that reflected the moonlight with a t-visor helmet and a modulated voice. None of his skin was exposed, covered in a mix of brown metal and durable cloth and a black cape at his back. Hints of silver dotted his armor from different pieces and from his weapons. Those are a major tenant of their culture - their beliefs.

The graphic above is for the pending Din fic. 😀

And I have one for a pending Dieter fic ( @angelofsmalldeath-codeine this is 30% your fault - thank you. 😊)

Technically, she’d met one of her best friends at a table read for ‘Graceland’ but it didn’t register who he was until there was an entire season making him more central to the plot on the second show. Aisha appreciated that he was serious about getting the character right, adding in changes to better express what the writer’s room was trying to convey. He didn’t do it so much for the slick escapist show on the USA show but she really saw him shine on the screen as Agent Marcus Pike in ‘The Mentalist.’ One thing that the writer’s room voted to write out for his character was all the eating. “No agent is gonna be eating like that,” they always said. Once Dieter Bravo ate the takeout in the scene while dolling out his lines, the director loved it so they quickly pivoted on that creative choice.

And I can’t leave Dieter and Maya out you know! I haven’t been chipping away at them slowly, there’s a lot to figure out. I’m don’t have much on them unfortunately. 😭

No pressure tags: @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @connectioneverywhere @boliv-jenta @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@pedroshotwifey @perotovar @julesonrecord @chaithetics @avastrasposts

@slippinninque @rosecentaur1916 @westside-rot @inept-the-magnificent @tinytinymenace

@jessthebaker @sin-djarin @morallyinept @604to647 @djarins-cyare

@djarinmuse @pedroshotwifey

#wip thursday #pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #din djarin #frankie morales #the mandalorian #Tim Rockford #marcus pike

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queerblue · 2 years

Text

Ok so clearly we gotta protect the sapphics so here's some sapphic shows that are still on that we all need to watch:

Sex Lives Of College Girls (Renewed for Season 3).

A League Of Their Own (Renewal pending).

Heartstopper (renewed for Season 2, yes I'm including this because Tara and Darcy are main characters and I love them so much fight me).

Yellowjackets (Renewed for Season 2).

The L Word: Generation Q (Season 3 airing).

Twenties (Season 2 airing).

Hightown (Renewed for Season 3).

9-1-1 (Season 6 airing, while not a sapphic show there's a lesbian main character, her and her wife have a child together).

Fire Country (Season 1 airing, again not a sapphic show but there's a lesbian main character!).

(I did so much searching god they really canceled everything, write in the comments or tags any I forgot!).

🧡💖🧡💖

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pluppsauthor · 2 months

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Tag Game: OC/WIP Q&A

Thanks for the tags from: @tildeathiwillwrite, @diabolical-blue, @honeybewrites, @somethingclevermahogony, @willtheweaver

and @leahnardo-da-veggie. ❤ Much love to all of you.

Rules: open the floor for questions about your WIPs/OCs/creative process/inspiration/etc

I wanted to post this yesterday, but I had a medical problem that has thankfully cleared now. Anyway, my ask box has always been open (no anon tho). BUT, I want to hear anyone and everyone's questions.

I'm going to tag all of my writing mutuals that I didn't already above, both to pass the game along, but also to get some questions. No pressure to either :)

I'll lay out a list of my WIP's and stuff in them. I'll answer any question, but I will preface if it's a spoiler in case you want to avoid it at all (i'll also tag it as such)

Frequency:

Wounded Reflection:

Characters: Lukas Tiro (MC), Axel Reath, Oak, Vesa, Bene Grey, Cary Loaras, Kai & Skyla Starill, Karve Treath. (I only included the main trio and the other Hunters). Things in it of note: Fortissimo Organisation (special division), Hunters, ghasts/ghouls, Frequencies.

Kindred Spirits:

Characters: Rain (MC), Kasi, Yun Tiro. Things in it of note: Fortissimo Organisation (regular division), Frequencies, Romance :).

Hellfire:

Characters: Akita Day (MC), David Pol, Kai Everden, Vis, Hazzin. Things in it of note: Demons, Arch Demons, Ghasts, Un'thil'ar (Home of Demons), Frequencies.

Shattered Gods:

Characters: Luna (MC), the other characters are REDACTED, but, feel free to ask about them :) Thing in it of note: Gods, Daemons, LORE, Yismor (Home of Gods), Frequencies.

Forsaken:

Characters: Dusk/Ralillith Trio (MC), Zenith Freydra, Kyr, Dawn, Ino, Reven. Things in it of note: Frequencies, Runes, Everden Family, Families, New Season, Old world/New world, Daemon Tears, Trials, Daemons, Romance :).

Other Stories:

Wild & Grief:

Characters: Tinder (MC), Hope (MC), Mr. Fox. Things in it of note: Tree magic, fantasy world (no name yet), spirits.

534 ft.:

Characters: Jesse Graves (MC), Nolan Hunt, Shapeshifter Girl (Name pending). Things in it of note: magic, fantasy world (no name yet, not affiliated with Wild & Grief), fantasy creatures such as witches, fae, demons/devils, undead, etc.

Ad Infinitum (Placeholder name):

Characters: Captain Zanlith (MC), Officer Ani, Officer Clayde, more to come I'm sure. Things in it of note: sci-fi technology such as starships and the like, dreamlink technology, alien species, exploration of math and science theories.

That's it for WIP's (for now :)).

Anyway, down here in the depths of this post I will put the list of my writing mutuals I am tagging :3

@the-golden-comet, @ms-macintosh, @sm-writes-chaos, @illarian-rambling, @paeliae-occasionally

@aalinaaaaaa, @thewingedbaron, @sunset-a-story, @sunglasses-in-the-bentley, @ryns-ramblings

@nixwithapen, @whatwewrotepodcast, @minamaybe, @rivenantiqnerd, @phoenixradiant

@finickyfelix, @theeccentricraven, @bloodmoonloveletter, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @mk-writes-stuff

@kaylinalexanderbooks, @leave-a-message19, @themboty, @agirlandherquill, @xenascribbles

@emilynotfound, @shepardsherd, @kbwritesstuff, @decadentpandawasteland

and, open tag/anyone I missed. I didn't think there was that many lol. Much love to all of you again ❤

#writeblr #writing #writblr #my wips #tag games #open tag #frequency #frequency: forsaken #frequency: shattered gods #frequency: hellfire #frequency: kindred spirits #frequency: wounded reflection #wild & grief #534 ft.

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 3 months

Text

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part XI: Cat

ao3

masterlist

first | previous | next

Author's note: All right, here you go: The first part of Season Unending, in which Leara is not as together as she'd like to be following the disaster in Solitude.

Tag list: @ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles @cosmermaid @thelurkershideout

Content Warning: This time, it's not Bishop. Look out for Thalmor wearing dark robes.

#######

The claw traced an electrifying trail down the side of her face, nipping at her lip before cutting down her neck.

“Oh, my pet, but you’ve been a terribly bad girl, haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Ah!” The claw tapped her collarbone, sharp and piercing. Sparks sprang up in its wake, hissing as they kissed her skin. “Don’t speak. I’ll not have another lie off your pretty tongue tonight.”

Iron and ozone clogged her nose. “Please—”

The claw dug deeper, joined by others, and bit into the bare swell of her chest with the shocking teeth of the mythic swamp dragons in the south. Pain seared through her veins, eroding her heart and boiling her blood. Leara screamed.

Hard stone met her, and she jerked up. Something heavy drug her arms down, and with a cry, she pushed and thrashed. Then it was at her feet, and she saw it for what it was in the dim light of the white mage’s candle. Her blanket.

At the end of the bed, Karnwyr whined.

“I’m sorry,” Leara gasped, voice hoarse. Dry, as if she’d really been electrocuted.

She shivered.

Lifting the blanket from the floor, she wrapped the heavy wool around her shoulders. She felt Karnwyr’s eyes follow her as she slipped her stockinged feet into the shafts of her silver and leather boots. “Go back to sleep, I’m okay,” she whispered and, for good measure, gave the wolf a reassuring scratch under the chin. Karnwyr’s brow creased, clearly skeptical. Still, he huffed and lowered his head back on his front paws. “Shh,” Leara soothed, giving him all the comfort she couldn’t feel. “Sleep.”

As if against his will, Karnwyr was lulled back to sleep by the gentle affection. He was snoring as Leara slipped out of the room.

It wasn’t yet dawn. No light teased the eastern horizon to proclaim Magnus’s rise. She hoped it would be a bright, sunny day. She wished to feel the touch of magic on her skin before she plunged into the pending maelstrom that would be the peace conference. Yet with every breath, she could almost taste the approaching storm, hard and cold and as real as the chaos that would soon house itself in High Hrothgar. Even in the silent hallway, lit by nothing save faint starlight and her own trailing candlelight spell, she could feel the bitter wind bite at her cheeks and stir her unbound hair. Was it a bad omen, or was she still shaken from her nightmare?

What did she dream, anyway?

A cooing voice and an electric touch. Leara swallowed, her throat tight. Some variation of the same nightmare that haunted her sleep since the night of that thrice-cursed ball. Sometimes, there were other voices, and sometimes, there were knives or harp strings. Burns and smoke. But always, always there was the voice and the lightning. White hot and cloying in her veins. The stuff of nightmares that never ceased to dog her steps in the waking world.

Bishop’s solution to her nightly awakenings was to sleep through them. In the near fortnight since leaving Solitude, Leara began to wonder if anything short of a rampaging mammoth or a legion of Daedra could be counted on to wake the ranger from his deep sleep. It worked in her favor, though. He didn’t ask about the thrashing or the crying – he didn’t know about them. Rudimentary Illusions, the kind every girl in High Rock learned to use, covered up the signs on her face. Illusion itself was never her strongest school, save her practiced Muffle and Clairvoyance, but hiding the bags under her eyes and the pallor of her skin was becoming second nature. It wasn’t the first time she’d used magic to disguise her appearance. In a twisted way, it was almost a comfort.

The door to the courtyard opened noiselessly under her hand. The frigid air didn’t bite her as hard as she might have expected, but her system was still flooded with adrenaline from the nightmare. Overhead, the thin forms of Masser and Secunda cast distorted shadows over the snow and stone, twisting the world into a vision of another world. She remembered the dancing auroras overhead when she’d left Paarthurnax that first time, back when he’d directed her to find the Elder Scroll. Now, the skies were shrouded in clouds through which only the brightest stars could pierce. All around her, the world was haunted, holding its breath on the edge of doom. The last sigh before the final plunge.

Creeping across the barren snowscape, Leara eyed the archway and the path to the top of the Throat of the World. High winds howled against the mountainside, barring the way to Paarthurnax. Yet Leara wanted desperately to make the climb to meet him. Do dragons sleep? Would he be curled against the ruined Word Wall, lost to dreams, or awake in silent contemplation of the heavens? Would he welcome her company or turn her away at such an unholy hour?

Her legs trembled beneath her. Leara collapsed to the flagstones, her back against the unlit brazier stand. The blanket fluttered around her. Her chest ached. Burned. Froze. Then her head rolled back against the stand, her eyes sliding closed.

She was so tired. So tired. She couldn’t make the climb.

Tears froze on the ends of her lashes.

“Paarthurnax, please . . .”

·•★•·

A gentle hand shook her awake.

Predawn was sweeping in across the sky, depthless midnights touched here and there with the golden pinks of pending morning, mixing in a dappled grey and bruising violet off toward the west. It wasn’t yet half after four in the morning.

Blinking in a slow haze, Leara peered up to find Master Arngeir standing over her, a frown set on his weathered face.

“Are you well, child?” he asked, worry set around his mouth. Leara supposed she’d worry too if the prophesied hero she’d had to nurse back to health went and froze to death on the back porch before fulfilling her destiny. If her face wasn’t numb with cold, Leara imagined she’d have blushed with shame.

“I’m all right,” she whispered. She wasn’t, but it was fine.

Master Arngeir’s frown deepened, probably because he wasn’t foolish enough to take her words at face value. He offered her a hand, and after a moment, Leara took it. Some other time, she may have been alarmed by how easily the elderly Greybeard pulled her up, but she already knew she hadn’t been eating well since long before Solitude. Maybe since before Mirmulnir. She wasn’t sure anymore. “Good morning.”

“Let us hope it will be,” said Arngeir, grim. “There are many hours still before our guests arrive, but there is much to prepare.” His hand on her shoulder, her teacher guided her back toward the monastery.

An early breeze swirled the edges of her blanket, brushing her bare legs. Leara cast a longing look to the mountain peak, hidden as it was by clouds and the vanishing night. Her gaze fell, and she found Master Arngeir watching her, knowing.

“It isn’t forbidden for you to make the climb whenever you wish,” he told her.

“I was worried he was sleeping,” she blurted, not willing or able to admit the exhaustion gnawing her limbs, rooting her to the earth when she sought the sky. “Have you ever seen a sleeping dragon?”

To her surprise, Master Arngeir laughed. Full of the same light, wry amusement she could almost recall in her grandfather’s voice from her earliest childhood memories. “I imagine that even dragons must rest sometimes.”

Good, maybe when this was over (if she was even there when it ended), she could rest, too.

·•★•·

Master Borri spied the Imperial and Stormcloak delegations coming around the curve of the mountain near noon. They were maybe around half a mile apart from each other, neither party daring to get too close to the other. Each was mounted with additional guards and pack horses. Amid the snow and ever-present ice on stone, it was a slow climb to the monastery.

Even from the table where Leara sat with a light lunch of dried berries and herbal tea, she could feel the tension growing like a tightening bowstring. Or perhaps a noose, growing tight around her throat as she fell through the gallows—

No, she would not think like that! This was an opportunity, a hope to forge peace – if not a lasting peace, then perhaps a peace that could pave the way for a stronger, more steady solution down the road. Skyrim was in turmoil, and if she could in any way soothe the gash made by the Civil War while tending the burns from dragon’s fire, then she would do her best. As Dragonborn, she could only succeed or die trying.

Of course, it was as impending death crept back into her mind that Bishop finally made his appearance. Yawning and stretching, he gave his side an absent scratch as he sauntered over to Leara’s little table. Snagging a fistful of berries off her plate, he threw them back, chomping down with a short cough.

Leara winced behind her teacup. “Lovely for you to grace us with your presence.”

Beside the table where he was gnawing on a cow bone, Karnwyr grunted.

Bishop burped. “Took me forever to get comfortable on that damn cot,” he grunted. He plopped into the chair across from Leara and reached for her plate.

She smacked his knuckles. “Oi! Let off! You snooze, you lose!”

“Please, woman, I catch most of the food you eat!” Bishop snorted.

Leara withdrew her plate from the table, holding the remaining fruit out of Bishop’s reach. “I’m afraid you don’t have time to filch off my plate. You need to get ready!”

“Ready for what?” he asked, wiping crust from his eye.

A grimace twisted Leara’s mouth. Bishop was a frightful sight: His hair stuck out in nearly every direction, and his night clothes were in equal disarray. She was glad none of the Greybeards were there at the moment to see him. As dignified as they were, Bishop was just as frightfully embarrassing to look at.

“The delegations will be here within a half hour or so. We need to be ready to open the doors and get the peace talks underway.”

Bishop flapped his hand in mimicry of her talking. Leara pursed her lips in a tight line. “This little tea party of yours has nothing to do with me, sweetness. It's all you and the old windbags, thinking you can get everyone in Skyrim to kiss and make nice.”

Leara ate a berry, grinding the semisweet fruit into shreds.

“What are you going to do?” he went on. He pushed the chair back on its rear legs and leaned against the wall, his arms behind his head. “Are General Troll Face and the Stormdrain going to sit around the campfire and braid your hair? Will you do each other’s nails and makeup, too?” He leered at her, “Can I watch?”

Silently, Leara drained her teacup. Then she set it down. “You will not make a fool of me in front of them,” she said, voice cold.

“Me? Make a fool of you? No, darling, you do that all on your own!” Bishop laughed. “What are you even trying to accomplish here, anyway? Because you sure as Hell aren’t going to establish a lasting peace between those two warmongers.”

Scooping the rest of the berries into her hands, Leara restrained the urge the throw them at Bishop’s head. Instead, she dropped them one by one into her mouth, methodical. She was too tired for this. So little sleep and such a long time before she could try to get more. The day stretched miles onward in front of her, but her patience with Bishop was growing desperately short. She was done tiptoeing around him.

“I’m trapping a dragon in Dragonsreach.”

Then she walked away, the clatter of a falling chair and broken pottery behind her.

·•★•·

Leara was careful to avoid Bishop in the intervening time before the Imperials and Stormcloaks arrived. After leaving him in a spluttering mess of chairs and pottery shards, she’d disappeared into her cell. Her blue gown hung on the wardrobe where she left it the night before, freshened and primed for the council. Wearing armor to conduct peace talks didn’t sit right with her, so the blue dress it was. Running her fingers, still tinged pink from frostbite, over the lace, something in her chest loosened. She made it this far. She could do this.

She had to.

Once dressed, she went to stand in the foyer of High Hrothgar, her hair carefully pinned and her hands folded before her. Nerves ran electric up her arms and around her ribs, but she pushed it away. She had to. This was for Skyrim. Her discomfort wasn’t even worth considering.

The heavy doors opened, and she heard Master Arngeir greet Ulfric Stormcloak and his party. Leara’s hand tightened over her rings, the enchanted bands biting into her skin. Master Arngeir said something. Ulfric replied, his voice humming against the stones. They exchanged words that she couldn’t understand, but she remained in place.

The thump of heavy footsteps came down the corridor, and then Ulfric Stormcloak entered the hall beside Master Arngeir. His gaze wandered over everything but her, for which she was almost grateful. Let her be a backdrop. He was taking in the ancient stones and carvings that formed High Hrothgar. Oh, yes, he lived here once, didn’t he? He was supposed to be a Greybeard a long time ago. Before the war. Odd that that slipped her mind. She needed to remain focused. It wouldn’t do for her memory or attention to slip during the peace talks. Things were tense enough as it was without her issues getting in the way. Leara swallowed, her eyes trailing from the Jarl to his party. There weren’t many of them in reality, just Ulfric, one of his generals – Galmar, wasn’t it? – and some guards. A few carried bundles of supplies on their backs; these followed Master Borri into the west wing, where the parties would be housed in empty cells for the night. The couple that remained stood near to their Jarl’s back.

A blond head caught her eye, and Leara blinked. Then, a genuine smile blossomed over her face.

“Ralof!”

All heads turned toward her, and Leara’s ears grew warm as she realized that, yes, she did call out her friend’s name. Her smile curved bashfully as one of the other guards elbowed Ralof, snickering. Ralof gave her a jaunty wave, and she relaxed.

“Ah, Dragonborn,” Ulfric Stormcloak began. He stepped forward, his attention on her. “It seems your efforts have paid off.”

“That remains to be seen, Jarl Ulfric,” she said. She squeezed her rings, the black band hot. Meeting his eyes was incredibly difficult, especially after the incident with Bishop in the Windhelm Jail. Mara’s mercies, she managed it, if only because of the iron stiffening her neck and spine. “Thank you for making the trip.”

“You made a convincing argument. I’m hoping your position at the negotiation table will be as credible.” He didn’t appear quite as hard as before, but Leara remained on guard.

“I hope not to disappoint.”

The General, Galmar, grunted. Leara recalled how he initially scoffed at the idea of the peace council, though he gave Ulfric his support when the Jarl asked for it. She found herself glad that Ulfric brought him and not the other general, Yrsarald. Both were opinionated, yet Galmar gave the impression of being a little deeper in thought than Yrsarald. “Make it worth our time, then. The road from Windhelm was too long for us to come here to be made fools of.”

Leara’s smile was thin. “I wouldn’t dream of it, General.”

Beside them, Master Arngeir held out his hand. “Dragonborn, if you would, perhaps it is time to show Ulfric and his party to the meeting hall.”

“Of course, Master,” Leara bowed her head. “Please follow me.”

Up the steps and down the wide stone hallway, she led them, Ulfric and Galmar at her shoulder and the guards behind. This close to Ulfric, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Did any escape her bun? She’d need to duck out and get another pin before they opened up the peace talks. Maybe two, just to be sure.

“Well, Dragonborn, I trust there will be a point to all this,” commented Ulfric.

Leara cleared her throat. “We haven’t discussed the terms yet, Jarl Ulfric. You may not like them. Besides, General Tullius isn’t even here yet.”

“He can take his time getting here,” Galmar scoffed. “Damn faithless Imperials. Can’t even get to a meeting on time.”

One of the guards chuckled. Ulfric’s wry face caught in her peripheral. Leara stared resolutely ahead. “They should be here fairly soon. Only, their party is larger than yours,” she said. “It’s slower going on the steps with so many.”

“Aye, too many. They can’t go anywhere without their Thalmor handlers holding the leash, and Talos knows those elves are dragging their feet every step up this mountain.”

The Thalmor . . .?

If Ulfric and Galmar hadn’t been at her back, Leara would’ve frozen in place. As it was, her knees wobbled, threatening to buckle under her. The Thalmor? She shoved her right foot forward, continuing her walk down the corridor. The Thalmor were coming? Electricity stung the too-raw nerves of her hands, biting and itching under the skin as it crawled up her arms. The Thalmor were coming. Anxiety and lightning gathered in her chest, burning and binding.

Elenwen.

There was the door to the meeting hall. It was a wide, low-ceilinged room with a large round table dominating the center. Its shape rather resembled a horseshoe, with a low hearth burning between the table’s arms. It was empty: Master Einarth had gone to help Master Wulfgar with the delegations’ animals. “If you’ll please be seated on this side,” she said, indicating the left. To her ears, her voice was high away and cool, lost in the clouds her head was threatening to dive through. “Would you care for some mead?”

“Yes, if you please,” Ulfric said. He was watching her. He knew. He knew. He knew—

“For me as well.”

“Right,” Leara nodded. “I’ll be back.” She turned and left.

But barely had she stepped into the hallway when a large hand slipped around her arm, encircling her small wrist. Panic seized Leara’s heart, squeezing harder and tighter than before. She whirled around, free hand freezing over with frost magic.

. . . and then it dispersed just as quickly.

“By Shor, you’re still as flighty as a pine thrush!”

“Ralof!” Leara scoffed and swatted his arm. But the relief that eased her heart and muscles was visible in the small smile she shot her friend.

“I figured you might want some help,” Ralof shrugged.

“Sure!”

Her arm linked with Ralof’s, Leara guided him down the monastery corridors to the kitchen. High Hrothgar was ancient: From what Leara understood, the monastery once housed dozens of disciples and students to Jurgen Windcaller’s Way of the Voice, as well as masters of the Voice and clever arts (or whatever it was the Old Nords called their magic). It was an old building, very cold, but made of a sturdy dark stone that blurred the building’s silhouette from afar during snowfall. It was tranquil and distant, far apart from the world below and full of peace. Despite the turmoil twisting in her soul over her destiny, High Hrothgar held in its walls a centered grounding that reminded Leara of her youth at Cloud Ruler Temple. Reminiscent, but calmer and heavier, too. Heavier with the weight of the world. Leara couldn’t help but hope that the Imperial and Stormcloak delegations would feel some of that peace mingled with purpose when they met at the negotiator’s table.

“How have you been?” she asked Ralof.

“I can’t complain. No more near executions, so I’ve had that going for me,” he laughed. His golden hair and sunshine smile were a bright spot in the dim halls. “Can’t believe I’m actually here at High Hrothgar. But you’re used to it now, right?”

“Hardly,” Leara echoed his laughter.

Ralof grinned, “It’s hard to believe that scrawny elfling from Helgen turned out to be the Dragonborn.”

There’s a good-natured disbelief in his voice that reassured her. Ralof’s was a genuine and kind character. Without him, she’d have never made it out of Helgen. His company on the road to Riverwood and the invaluable aid his family gave her once they got into town were vital components to her journey into Skyrim, without which she would have been in dire straits. Leara smiled softly. She’d missed Ralof. “Yeah, it really is.”

Earlier, Master Einarth had set a pot of spiced mead on the hearth to warm. It was meant to be served when both parties were present, but Leara needed space from the anxiety of Ulfric and the Thalmor pressing into her lungs. A platter of goblets sat on the heavy wooden table that served as both a counter and dinner table. Passing these, Leara took up the ladle to gauge the mead’s temperature.

“I don’t mean to pry—”

“You do a little bit.”

Ralof chuckled. “All right, perhaps I do. But what is this meeting about? How is peace going to stop the World-Eater?”

Her hands stalled their stirring. “Did Jarl Ulfric tell you it was Alduin at Helgen?”

“Aye, he did.”

“Ah.”

“Leara,” Ralof hesitated, “what are you planning?”

She pressed her lips together, hard. Was it only over an hour ago that she fired the answer off in Bishop’s face? Her throat tightened. She’d need to get a hold of herself before the meeting began.

“I need to go to Sovngarde,” she whispered to the hearth.

“What?”

“I—” Am going to die. “Need to trap—” A dragon, a live dragon. “I need to use Dragonsreach. Peace is Jarl Balgruuf’s price.”

Large hands gently pried the ladle from her brittle fingers. Ralof hooked it on the pot’s handle. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said, not unkindly. “I’d just like to know you’re taking care of yourself. You look tired.”

“Thanks,” she laughed, but it wasn’t as full as before. “I’m fine, really.” She wasn’t, but she would be. She had to.

Carrying the platter of goblets, Leara led Ralof back to the meeting hall. Entering, she found Ulfric already seated at the table, a frown creasing his face. It smoothed out when he looked up at her, a cloud passing from in front of the sun, but Leara could only offer a small smile in return. Galmar stood beside him, talking lowly, though, on Leara and Ralof’s entrance, he went silent. Akatosh, please let me make it to Sovngarde. If she was to die, it’d be far more beneficial for everyone if she did so while defeating Alduin rather than if Ulfric exacted revenge for her Thalmor past and her role in the war.

“We’ve prepared spiced mead,” Leara explained, gesturing for Ralof to set the pot on the stone sideboard rather than the hearth. Best to keep it out from the middle of the potential battleground. Lips pursed, she cast a subtle warming rune on the bottom of the pot to keep the mead hot. She took a goblet from the platter and ladled it full of mead, then she faced the table. The guards were watching her, and Galmar, his arms crossed, was eyeing her, too. Was Skyrim much like High Rock? It was better to be safe than sorry. She brought the goblet to her mouth and swallowed a mouthful. Master Einarth’s spice blend was warm and comforting and left her chest warm for a blissful moment.

Then she handed the goblet to Galmar, and the feeling was gone.

“What are you doing?” he asked, gruff.

“It’s not poisoned,” she replied.

“Why would it be poisoned?”

“Galmar, don’t torture the woman,” Ulfric said, sitting sideways in his chair so as to face his general.

The grin that curved across Galmar’s face ruffled his mustache and crinkled his eyes. “I’m only putting her through her paces.”

Leara tried to muster a light smile, but she was sure it looked like a grimace. “Perhaps that’s best left for the peace talk.”

“Perhaps,” Ulfric said, accepting the goblet from Galmar.

Perhaps. Leara nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be ready to greet the other delegation.”

“Of course,” Ulfric lifted his goblet.

Skirts brushing around her ankles, Leara forced herself to walk sedately from the room. Ralof shot her a quick, reassuring look, and some of the renewed tension in her chest eased. Once in the corridor, her shoulders dropped, and she heaved a sigh.

“Having fun playing hostess?”

“As much as I can, I suppose.”

Bishop pushed off from the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his face dark. “We need to talk about this circus of yours.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Aside from the litany of issues she needed to address this afternoon alone.

He followed her down the hall. “You want to trap a dragon in a damn castle, and for what? So, you can fly off into the sunset and die?”

“That’s not why, and you know it.”

Bishop caught her wrist in his. His hands were harder than Ralof’s. “You know why I worry about you, woman. You know why—urgh!”

Resigned, Leara came to a halt. “Bishop, please. Whatever concerns you have, can we please discuss them after the meeting? I’m pressed for time now.”

“You sure as Hell weren’t pressed for time when you were avoiding me all morning,” Bishop grumbled. “All right, fine. Have it your way. But when they hang you out to dry because even your demands are too much for those egomaniacs, don’t come crying to me!”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Pulling her wrist from Bishop’s grip, Leara continued down the hall. She wasn’t surprised when, a moment later, his footsteps echoed after her.

“Where’s Karnwyr?” she asked.

“In your room, out of the way.”

Oh. That was probably meant to be considerate. Still, she missed the wolf’s comforting presence by her side.

“I saw you getting friendly with that guard. What was that about? You taking in any man who bounds after you like a lost puppy, or do you just prefer blonds?”

“What, Ralof?” Her head twinged. Lovely, on top of the discomfort from sleeping outside, she was gearing up for a headache. “He was helping me with the mead. Which, by the way, I didn’t see you offer to do.”

Bishop barked a laugh. “Me? Serve mead to the Stormdrain himself? Listen, sweetness, you and the old windbags can play political nursemaids all you want, but I’m not getting involved.”

Not getting involved, her right hip! Bishop had done nothing but insert himself in her business since she met him! And, all right, she did allow him to after the entire Blackreach incident, but still. His definition of non-involvement was clearly from a different dictionary than hers. And it was wrong.

She moved to tell him so, then paused. A familiar voice caught on her ear, and Leara spun, her eyes blown wide. “By Akatosh.”

“Now what is it?”

Ignoring Bishop’s question, Leara lifted her skirts and hurried down the corridor. She rounded the corner, only to freeze at the top of the stairs, a confused Bishop at her heels. There, in the foyer, were precisely who she didn’t want to see standing in the middle of the Greybeards’ home.

Delphine and Esbern.

The Thalmor were coming. The Blades were here. Ulfric Stormcloak was down the hall.

Nausea rolled in her stomach. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her attempts to keep the Blades and the Greybeards apart in the course of her destiny were in vain. Delphine would figure out how much she sympathized with the Greybeards’ philosophies over those of the Dragonguard that Delphine sought to restore, and Arngeir, Arngeir would learn of her red past as a Blade, and the Greybeards would banish her from High Hrothgar. The sanctuary at the top of the mountain would be lost. Paarthurnax’s guidance would be lost. She was going to be ill. She couldn’t afford to be. Akatosh.

Master Arngeir towered over Delphine, though he stood eye to eye with Esbern. For a peace-loving monk, he looked ready to toss the two Blades out on their rear ends—violently. “You were not invited here. You are not welcome here."

Delphine was dressed in Akaviri armor; prim and put together, she looked every inch the Knight-Sister. Conversely, Esbern was in warm wool, making no distinction toward his affiliation to the Blades. But his Thalmor dossier aside, his association with Delphine was enough.

“We have every right to be here for this council,” Delphine said, glaring down her nose. Watching a small Breton glare down a venerable Nord was jarring enough to be funny if Leara weren’t agonizing over why they were here. “Actually,” she went on, “more so, since the Dragonborn is a member of the—”

Esbern, who was busy studying the architecture of the monastery, caught sight of Leara at the top of the stairs. “Ah, Elanor! There you are!”

It was like watching a train of merchant wagons piling up in the marketplace, unable to prevent the accident and unable to look away from the disaster. Master Arngeir’s frown turned to her, and Leara’s heart sank.

She descended the stairs. “Good afternoon, Esbern, Delphine. How remarkable to find you here, seeing as I didn’t invite you.”

“An oversight on your part, right?” Delphine lifted an eyebrow, as pale and condescending as ever. “You look comfortable.”

Stopping short of standing by Master Arngeir, Leara was keenly aware of the room’s tension settling on her shoulders in a heavy shroud, all attention on her. “How are you here?”

“It’s no secret that you fought Alduin and lost,” Delphine sniffed. She cast a wary glance over Leara’s shoulder at Bishop, then, ignoring the darkening glare on Master Arngeir’s brow, she went on, “Just because we packed up and moved shop doesn’t mean I don’t still have my contacts. I’ve not been on the run this long making stupid decisions like completely cutting myself off.”

“Of course not,” Leara smiled, gritting her teeth.

“I still have my contacts in Whiterun. You’re not as subtle as you think. I’ve known about this little council meeting for nearly a month.” Which meant as soon as Delphine found out, she was ready to make the trek to High Hrothgar. Wow. “We have just as much right as anyone else to be here, seeing as we’re the ones who helped you get this far in the first place, Elanor.”

Leara spluttered. Arngeir’s scowl deepened. “Is that so? The hubris of the Blades truly knows no bounds.”

“If it were up to you people, she would stay sitting here on your mountain all day with her head in the clouds!”

It was Bishop’s hand on Leara’s elbow that kept her from popping Delphine in the mouth. Absence, it seemed, made the heart grow fonder. Leara felt better about Delphine and the Blades’ contempt for the Greybeards when she wasn’t in the same Hold as her.

“Delphine, please,” Esbern said, speaking for the first time. “We didn’t come here to debate the philosophies of Blade and Greybeard. Remember the issue at hand: Alduin must be reckoned with.” Then he turned to Master Arngeir, a tired look on his weathered face. “You called this council for that reason. You wouldn’t have done so otherwise. We have much information on Alduin and the crisis at hand.” There was a glimmer in his eyes. “You’ll need us here if you want the council to succeed.”

Despite this, Master Arngeir’s scowl did not relent. However, after a long moment, he bowed his head—shallow but acquiescence, nonetheless. “If this is how it must be, then so be it. You may attend the council.”

Esbern nodded his thanks, but Delphine only smirked.

Leara wanted to scream, and they hadn’t even started the damn meeting yet. “If you’d please follow me—”

“Actually, Dragonborn, I would like a word,” Master Arngeir went on. He did not look at her.

Oh. Her throat tight, Leara turned to Bishop, who, by some undeserved mercy from the Divines, had kept whatever snide comments he usually had to himself during the exchange with the Blades. “Escort Delphine and Esbern to the table.”

“Are you serious?” said Bishop. “Did we not just have the conversation about why I’m not getting involved with your little—”

“Bishop, please.”

He quieted. Then, casting her a shady look under pinched brows, jerked his head toward the stairs. “C’mon,” he told the Blades, “What her ladyship decrees.”

A harsh breath pushed through Leara’s nostrils as the Blades followed after a grumbling Bishop. As he passed, Esbern clasped her shoulder, but it did nothing to settle her nerves. Actually, Leara was feeling too much. She knew it. Too much was happening. She thought she could handle it, but . . .

No, she had to handle it. She would. It was fine.

“When you told us that it was the Blades who showed you Dragonrend, I knew to worry about what other counsel you might take from them,” Master Arngeir said. He did not look at her; instead, his gaze was fixed on the tapestry above the entrance. Leara remained silent. “Their claim that they are responsible for you traveling the course of your destiny should be laughable.” Then he faced her, his eyes tired. “I have told you before how the Blades use the Dragonborn, but it seems you already know it.”

“Yes,” Leara said. She recalled the lessons, the stories. Watch for the Dragonborn. Protect the Dragonborn. Follow the Dragonborn.

“I did not fathom that the Dragonborn was a member of the Blades, and yet, all this time, that is who you are.”

Leara lifted her eyes, her shoulders set though they wanted to sag. “What do you want me to say, Master? That I should never have joined the Blades? That I regret the years of service I gave and the lessons I learned? That I renounce them?” And hadn’t she thought of it? If Delphine’s dismissal of Leara’s standing as a Knight-Sister wasn’t enough, the fact that she abandoned her post during the war was enough. She all but did renounce the Blades, for all her delusions on the contrary.

Master Arngeir’s countenance was grim. “I would know that we can take you at your word, but now I see that we have reason to question, not only your means, then your intentions as well. We must take you for what you are, Dragonborn.”

“And what am I?”

“A charlatan.”

·•★•·

His thumb stilled on the goblet’s rim when she entered, followed by the Imperials.

He stood at her entrance, Galmar following suit. His eyes met General Tullius’s over the Dragonborn, Leara’s shoulder, and his jaw tightened at the sight of the towering forms of the Thalmor ambassadors behind him. A smirk cut across Elenwen’s face, and Ulfric’s scowl deepened. So, they expected him to sit down and treat with the Thalmor today.

They were wrong.

In with Tullius and Elenwen came a host of others, a great number that drowned the small company Ulfric selected for his entourage. Ever present at the General’s side was Rikke, as fierce and hawkish as he remembered her. There was a storm in Rikke’s eyes that seemed determined to strike him across the room. After Rikke’s gale came the slight figure of Jarl Elisif, barricaded by her ever-present housecarl. The would-be queen was wide-eyed and still, almost as if being in High Hrothgar, in this room, drew her into her shell. Mousy, he thought.

Two legionnaires trailed the group, a small blonde woman and a taller Nord with a dark mustache. They, like he and his men, were disarmed, their weapons likely in the antechamber with the Stormcloaks’. After them came two guards with the golden horse of Whiterun on their armor. Balgruuf came between them, apart from the Imperials, but clearly of their delegation. Even if he would not choose a side, Ulfric questioned whether Balgruuf could ever truly be persuaded from the safe path laid by the Empire. It was the type of safety that bore complacency from the familiar, refusing the call to action from conviction. Balgruuf knew what was right. Ulfric knew this. But Balgruuf would sooner turn to the familiar for the protection of his people rather than risk all for his convictions. This was the truth.

And yet. And yet, for the sake of their old friendship, Ulfric hoped Balgruuf would find the courage to follow his convictions, to join the cause and free Skyrim from her bondage. That alone would carry more weight than any peace treaty that the Dragonborn thought she could orchestrate.

After the delegation came Master Arngeir and the other Greybeards. Not for the first time, Ulfric wondered why they agreed to host the war leaders in their monastery. High Hrothgar, always remembered as a bastion of peace, was now the host to warriors and their opposing views. How Leara convinced the Greybeards to open their doors to this council, even to discuss the dragon threat, Ulfric didn’t know. But no, one glance at Master Arngeir’s face showed a lingering shadow in clear eyes. Arngeir, at least, was not happy about this turn of events.

At once, Leara returned to the pot of spiced mead and prepared the tray. Ulfric only caught a glimpse of her pale eyes as she passed in a swirl of blue.

“Take your seats, and we can begin,” said Master Arngeir, sitting himself at the head of the table. Off to the right, Delphine huffed. “Now that everyone is here, the Dragonborn will serve the mead. We offer this in goodwill, in the hope that everyone has come here in the spirit of—”

As he spoke, Elenwen sat down at the table. Ulfric, on the cusp of sitting back down himself, stiffened to his full height.

“No, we will not sit at the same table as that woman!” he said, forceful. “You insult us by bringing her here as if you expect us to just accept the presence of your chief Talos hunter!”

Legate Rikke scoffed. “Here we go.”

Galmar growled, eliciting an eye roll from Balgruuf. Elisif sighed.

“Now, Ulfric, I have every right to be here,” Elenwen said, poised like a serpent on the edge of her chair. “It is in the best interest of every party for a representative of the Aldmeri Dominion to ensure that the terms of the White-Gold Concordat are upheld. Particularly given the history of certain local governments in disregarding those terms as they see fit. Such a breach of treaty is a reason enough to be concerned, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Ormand?”

The air stilled, cooling. “Yes, Mistr—Madame Ambassador, perhaps.”

Then the room warmed again, but a chill ran up his spine.

Her head bowed, Leara returned to his field of vision, her tray laden. In silence, she served the mead.

“Look here, Ulfric,” Tullius said, pointing his hand. “You cannot dictate who I bring as part of my delegation. If you can’t accept that, then there’s no point in us going any further.”

Ulfric gritted his teeth. Beside Rikke, the Dragonborn stilled. Across the table, he saw her purse her lips. Elisif took a goblet, and Leara moved on.

“If we must negotiate the terms of the negotiations, then we will never get anywhere,” Arngeir said. There was a rumble in his voice. “Perhaps this is a matter best addressed by the Dragonborn.”

Standing between Balgruuf and the Thalmor, Leara’s cold eyes flicked from Tullius to Ulfric and back. “I believe—”

The nerve of those Imperial bastards, Ulfric brooded.

“As Ambassador Elenwen said, we are discussing matters that may encroach on the terms of the White-Gold Concordat. It is to the benefit of all that we respect the existing treaties so that we can work out an agreement that works for everyone.”

And here was the Dragonborn, with her half-answers and line-walking. The chill curled around his spine again, sharper. He did not expect this, not from her. But what does he really know of her? “Either she walks, or we do,” he declared. “If you think I will sit at the same table as that Thalmor bitch—"

Leara’s chin was defiant. “You misunderstand me, Jarl Ulfric. It is imperative that we observe the existing treaties, but I don’t think we need the Dominion to hold our hand to do so.” She turned to Elenwen, who was within arm’s reach of her. Behind Elenwen’s chair, another golden-haired Altmer woman stood, her statue’s face unable to conceal the heat as she stared down the Dragonborn. Leara merely smiled. “If you’ll pardon us, Madame Ambassador, your presence may do more harm than good here. Please, excuse us.”

Elenwen stood. She was taller and darker than the Dragonborn, Ulfric noticed. He had never used magic himself, but there was something in the air that left an electric film on the back of his throat. He wondered if anyone else could feel it.

“Very well, Miss Ormand, you may conduct this meeting as you see fit.” Elenwen’s eyes cut to Ulfric. “Enjoy your petty victory, Ulfric, as long as your Dragonborn is here to win the battles for you. The Dominion will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not dream of interfering in your civil war.” Turning on her heel, she beckoned her lackey. “Come, Hindalia,”

Tearing her glare from Leara, the other Altmer followed her mistress.

“Run away!” cried Galmar, slamming his fist on the table. His goblet wobbled. “We’re not as easily culled as your Imperial pets! Skyrim will never bow to the Thalmor!”

Rikke charged to her feet. “You’re lucky I respect the Greybeards’ council, Galmar, or I’d—"

“Legate!” Tullius’s hard snap cut her off. “We’re representatives of the Emperor here! Act like it!”

Her dark scowl carved a harsh line across her face, but Rikke obeyed like the good legate she was. “Sorry, sir.”

Leara placed a new goblet in front of him, removing the old one. She did the same for Galmar.

Arngeir cleared his throat. Despite the Thalmors’ exit, the tension in the room was heavy. “Now that that is settled, may we proceed?”

Ulfric cleared his throat. “I have something to say first.”

“Are you serious?” muttered Rikke.

“I agreed to attend this council to come to an agreement about this dragon menace. That is it. Beyond that, we have no interest in negotiating with the Empire over any terms.” After all, hadn’t the Empire denied them in the past? Turnabout was fair play. “I consider even talking to the Empire a generous gesture on our part. It’s only a matter of time before they’re driven out of Skyrim.”

“Are you done? Or did you want to continue dictating from your soap box?” Tullius asked, eyebrow raised.

Galmar bristled. He moved to speak, but Ulfric held up a hand. “Fine, let’s get on with it.”

On the other side of Galmar, Leara sat in the empty chair. Intention lit up her face, but there was a shadow lurking there, under the blue. She watched them.

Master Arngeir stood. “Good. General Tullius, Jarl Ulfric, this council is unprecedented in nature. Never before has High Hrothgar opened its doors to mediate a war, yet we stand here now at the Dragonborn’s request. I would ask that you respect the spirit of High Hrothgar and its history of peace and benevolence. Your being here brings the hope that we can find a lasting peace for the good of all Skyrim. Dragonborn?”

“Yes, thank you, Master Arngeir. Jarls, Generals, Legate,” she nodded to Rikke, “I have asked you here to discuss the present dragon crisis. The Greybeards have been generous enough to open their halls to us, allowing us a neutral meeting ground where we might discuss terms for a truce that would allow for a swift handling of the dragons’ threat.” Perched in her chair, Leara leaned forward as she spoke, straight-backed and still. “Jarl Balgruuf has agreed to allow me to use his palace Dragonsreach to capture a dragon, but it is imperative that we first reach an agreement that protects the people of Whiterun in such a delicate situation.”

Capturing a dragon! So, that was her plan. Ulfric wasn’t sure what to make of it. When he agreed to the council, he knew it was an opportunity to confront Tullius without a battle’s bloodshed, but even when the Dragonborn insisted this circus was necessary to defeat the World-Eater, Ulfric never expected her solution was to capture a live dragon! Did she hope to ensnare the World-Eater himself, or was this dragon a rung in the ladder as she ascended toward the top? What did she hope to gain from capturing a dragon, information, allies? Ulfric sat back in his chair, lost in thought.

Around the table, the other reactions varied. Balgruuf, knowing Leara’s plans from the start, simply stared ahead, determined. Galmar, however, and Rikke too, it seemed, were more affected: Galmar’s loud splutter over choked mead nearly drowned out the Legate’s heated swear. Her General, it seemed, didn’t quite catch the ramifications of such a declaration. This was to be expected. Ulfric didn’t imagine an Imperial like Tullius would realize the meaning behind holding a dragon in Dragonsreach, much less comprehending the threat of the World-Eater himself! But it was Elisif’s reaction that caught Ulfric’s attention. Her hands pressed to her mouth, the Jarl of Solitude was wide-eyed and speechless.

Good, Ulfric thought. Perhaps with the legend of Olaf One-Eye brought into the modern age, she might learn a new respect for Nordic history and tradition. Somehow, though, he doubted it.

Delphine’s near-silent “Damnit” against the whispering of the guardsmen pricked at the edge of his attention. When the Blade appeared in the doorway, clad in her Order’s armor and shadowed by the old man, Ulfric hadn’t known what to make of it. Hers was a face he’d never expected to see again, and yet here she was at the Dragonborn’s peace council. He half-wondered why she was here.

After the initial reaction, Leara continued, “In light of this, I would ask that the members of the council look beyond things such as territory and resources in order to help ensure the dragons are dealt with swiftly. Thank you.”

“Yes,” Arngeir nodded. “Now, let us open the floor. Who would like to start the negotiations?”

The muscle worked in Ulfric’s jaw. Until now, he fully intended to open his position by demanding Markarth be handed into Stormcloak hands. Still—

Tullius held up his hand. “Our terms are simple: Riften must be returned to Imperial control. That is our price for agreeing to a truce.”

Elisif’s eyes darted to the General, wide, then, finding Ulfric’s gaze, they hardened. Her mouth thinned.

“By Talos, he’s got stones!” gristled Galmar. “You’re in no position to dictate terms to us, Tullius! If you think we’ll turn Riften over just because you barked an order, then you overstep yourself!”

Crossing his arms, Ulfric leveled a look at the Imperials. “That is quite the opening demand. Tullius.” One he was loath to meet.

Galmar’s scowl was fierce. “Ulfric! Don’t say you’re considering accepting this demand! It’s outrageous! We can hold Riften against these milkdrinkers, and Jarl Laila—”

He could see Rikke bristling. For all that he appreciated Galmar’s gumption and tenacity, it could easily lead them into trouble. Ulfric was no fool: He knew good and well that there was little stopping Tullius from making another attempt to capture him on the road from High Hrothgar. It was only the respect held by Skyrim’s people for the Greybeards that stayed the General’s hand. But respect could only be stretched so far before it snapped with tension. Ulfric’s men were outnumbered here. Their cards needed to be handled with care.

Ulfric held out his hand. “Peace, Galmar. We’ll do whatever I find to be in the best interest of Skyrim, understood?”

Still glowering at the Imperials, Galmar nodded, “Yes, my lord.”

“Come on, Tullius, do you really expect us to simply hand over Riften? Just like that?” A wry smile tugged at Ulfric’s mouth. “Because your legion has failed to take it by force, do you think we’ll surrender our hold if you ask instead?”

“I’m sure that General Tullius does not expect something without discussing a price,” Arngeir said, voice hard and peaceable all at once.

In the corner of his eye, Ulfric saw Leara cross her hands. Her face was closed.

“Of course he doesn’t!” Galmar barreled on ahead. “What are you willing to pay for Riften, Tullius? Empty promises and more Imperial bluster?”

“That’s enough, Galmar.”

“Jarl Ulfric, in exchange for the Rift, what would you want in return?” asked Arngeir.

Now, since they were asking. “First, let me be clear: The sons of Skyrim have learned from bitter experience that talking to the Empire is a waste of time. Their promises are always punctuated with a sword and a shackle.” The memory of the betrayal at the Markarth gates still gnawed at him decades later. “However, I accepted the Dragonborn’s invitation to this council, and so, whatever the Empire does, I will negotiate in good faith.” Galmar nodded his agreement.

Turning to the Dragonborn, Ulfric found himself met with a cold blue stare. Unlike a month ago in the Windhelm jail, when she would no longer look him in the eye, she met him head-on. But there was an edge to the ice that he hadn’t seen before in their previous encounters. If he weren’t so preoccupied, he might have wondered if it had anything to do with that fleabag, Bitchup, or whatever his name was. He would have wondered if the man was still hounding Leara. He may even have spared half a thought toward the woman’s dog. But they were fleeting curiosities. This truce and its potential ramifications dominated his attention, and he couldn’t spare much more from that.

“Well, Dragonborn, this is your peace council, right? Tell us, what do you think the Rift is worth?” he asked.

Tilting her head, Leara regarded him from the end of the table. “The Rift has its own advantages that would be hard to match from another Hold,” she said. “If you were to trade Riften for, say, the Reach, that would split the holdings and scatter both sides across the map. No matter how you cut up the map, problems rise up.”

“This whole Civil War is a problem, Leara, or have you forgotten?” Tullius asked.

Leara’s lips thinned. “I am keenly aware of what’s at stake here, General, but I don’t consider tossing Holds back and forth like some kind of game to be a productive use of our time here. The Stormcloaks cannot surrender the Rift.”

“You’ve disappointed me,” Tullius grumbled, brows drawn low. “I agreed to attend this council based on your good name, but it seems you’re determined to favor Ulfric at every turn!”

“You’re mistaken, I do not—”

“Markarth is our price,” Ulfric stated, coming to a decision. He did not want to give up the Rift. That would put the Empire right on his southern flank. But if he could gain the Reach from it, the silver mines and its proximity to Solitude would soften the blow. And who’s to say they couldn’t retake Riften in the coming months? His soldiers knew Riften and its advantages better than Tullius could ever hope to! The sons of Skyrim would shatter the Imperials in a siege. Of this, Ulfric was certain.

“Are you serious?” Elisif said, speaking up for the first time. “This, both of you—you disrespect the Greybeards and the Dragonborn by using this council as a means to advance your war engines! We are here to negotiate a truce, not draw new battlelines!”

“Jarl Elisif!” barked Tullius. “Let me handle this!”

“But General!” the woman persisted. “These demands are outrageous! Did none of you hear what the Dragonborn said?”

“Jarl Elisif—”

“I can’t believe this,” Balgruuf said, half-rising from his chair. “This is how the Empire repays us for our loyalty? By trading us like playing cards?” Ulfric moved to speak, but Balgruuf jabbed a ringed finger at him. “And don’t you start on how your cause is any better! That’s a load of sheep’s dung! You came here intending to barter for Markarth, consequences be damned!”

Ulfric ground his jaw.

“General Tullius!” cried Elisif, refusing to back down. Over her shoulder, her housecarl lurked in threat. “You don’t intend to go through with this! You can’t trade Markarth for Riften! Not to that, that traitor!” Well, the girl had guts, Ulfric could give her that. If only she’d found them before.

“Enough!” Tullius snapped, rubbing his temples. “That’s enough!”

“What’ll it be, Tullius?” demanded Ulfric. “Markarth for Riften? Or is that too steep a price for your vanity?”

Galmar huffed.

“Don’t try me, Ulfric! The day is coming when I’ll have you back under the headsman’s axe, and there will be no dragons there to save you!”

With a shout, Galmar shot to his feet. “I’d like to see you try, leech!”

“That’s IT!” Rikke was out of her seat. “Keep your tongue, Galmar Stone-Fist, or I will take it from you!”

Noise sprang up around the room. Ulfric was on his feet. The cries of his men and the legionnaires joined in a maelstrom of sound, drowning Galmar’s shouts and Rikke’s threats. Balgruuf was on his feet, but Ulfric couldn’t understand what he was saying, though the red in his cheeks hinted at his explosive anger. Elisif’s housecarl had a hand on the back of her chair; his Jarl pressed backward as Tullius leaped up beside her.

“Never trust an Imperial!”

“Have you heard nothing—?”

“—will not stand by while you—"

“Damn faithless—"

“Oh, I should’ve expected this!”

“—nothing left to say to—”

“We will WALK!”

“This is a farce!”

“How dare you—”

“By Talos!” Delphine swore, “Can you hear yourselves?” She was drowned out.

“This is no negotiation at all!” yelled Tullius, voice loud above the din.

“You’re losing the war, and you know it!” Ulfric retaliated. His fingers itched for his sword.

“How many lives must be spent before you see the cost of this war?” Elisif cried out, rising to her feet. Her housecarl hovered nearby like a mother hen.

Galmar’s snarls filled Ulfric’s ear.

“You always were a fool, Ulfric!” Rikke’s voice went shrill.

“The Empire’s pretty words are worthless!”

“Says the speechmaker!”

“Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!”

“QUIET!”

A thrill of chilled air curled through the chamber, dowsing the storm of voices in cold silence. Ulfric turned, words caught in his throat, to see Leara at the foot of the table. He was alarmed to see frost creeping along the tabletop from where she’d braced her palms against the stone. A lock of hair curled from the braided bun at the base of her neck, as frozen still as the rigid set to her thin shoulders. He caught her eye, then, as she stared down everyone at the table. The guards behind him shifted in discomfort, and Ulfric couldn’t say he wasn’t unsettled himself. It was like looking into the Sea of Ghosts in the dead of winter: Desolately cold and inhospitable. The caress of frost from her glare was as bitter as the icy mists of the northern waters.

“Be quiet,” she said again, tone level. Power hummed in her voice, even at a lowered volume. “Please. You’re acting like children.”

Arngeir let out a weary sigh, his hand over his eyes. Guilt and embarrassment niggled at Ulfric at the sight. Despite his leaving the Way of the Voice and his future as a Greybeard to fight in the Great War, he still held the utmost respect for Master Arngeir. It was not lost on Ulfric that he’d spent more time with the elder Greybeard than he had with his own father during his childhood.

Clinching his fist, he held his tongue, but he stood his ground.

“Is this what passes for diplomacy in Skyrim?” Leara sniffed. “I expected better.”

Ulfric rounded on her because, Ysmir’s beard, she wasn’t helping, despite Tullius’s assertions, but then the old man beside Delphine stood. There was a shift in Leara’s posture then, almost imperceptible as she drew back from the table. Her hands fell to her sides, drawing the frost away with them. Ulfric turned away.

The man tugged at his wool scarf, sorrow written in the lines of his face. “You are all so consumed by your hubris that you are blinded to the real and present danger! What do wars and territories matter when the doom of creation hangs by a thread? Nothing!”

“Is he with you, Delphine?” Ulfric asked, crossing his arms. “If so, I’d advise you to tell him to watch his tongue.”

Short though she was, Delphine forced forward an imposing figure in her armor. “He is with me, and I would advise all of you to shut up and listen to what he has to say before this gets any more out of hand.”

Across the table, Tullius rolled his eyes.

Squaring his shoulders, Delphine’s friend stepped closer to the table. He was tall. Ulfric imagined he’d been taller before age set into his bones, but there was a spark of wit about him that pushed back the years. Long ago, Ulfric recalled learning that the Blades Order consisted of more than just knights and warriors. Throughout their vast network were spies, scholars, and scouts, among other things. Although the Empire dismantled the Blades after the war, leaving them to be picked off by the Dominion’s hunters, the infamous Order’s operatives were no strangers to hiding. Or so the stories told. But looking at Delphine and her companion, Ulfric wondered how many Blades really evaded the Thalmor. He hoped more were as successful as Delphine and the old man seemed to be.

“Don’t you understand why the Dragonborn must capture a dragon? Don’t you understand the reason why the dragons are such a threat to us?” the old Blade said. “Alduin the World-Eater has returned! He is here, now, at this hour, and he devours the souls of the dead, of your fallen comrades! Every life lost in this pointless conflict only adds to Alduin’s power. If it goes on, his strength may become unmatched.” The Blade’s focus centered beyond Ulfric, and he knew the man was watching the Dragonborn. The woman who had offered hope. “Can you not, just for a moment, set aside your anger and hatred in the face of this mortal danger?”

Isn’t that what the Dragonborn asked when she met with him in his war room? And he agreed to come, didn’t he? He knew what the dragon threat meant—Leara told him then, and since Ulfric found himself dwelling on it when his mind should be on the movements of his troops and the planned attack on Fort Snowhawk. Yet field reports and casualty lists struggled to hold his attention when contending with the World-Eater’s shadow. Every soul in Sovngarde fed the World-Eater’s strength; whether it came from an Imperial or a Stormcloak, every child of Skyrim whose spirit sought the solace of Shor’s Halls was lost to the black dragon’s maw.

It was sickening.

“I don’t know about the end of the world,” Tullius began slowly. He rubbed his chin in thought. “But these dragons are getting to be more than the Legion can handle. If this truce can help the Dragonborn eradicate this menace, then we all benefit.” Lifting his gaze, Tullius sent Ulfric a hard glare. “It would do you well to remember that, Ulfric.”

“If he’s right about Alduin,” and Ulfric was sure the old Blade was, “we each have just as much to lose as the other. Remember that, Tullius. Now,” his hand on the back of his chair, Ulfric sat back down. “Back to the matter at hand—”

“I would like to call a recess.”

Almost as one, Ulfric and Tullius turned toward the Dragonborn. Leara was sitting back in her seat, prim yet for her drawn face and the still-frozen curl. Her gaze glossed by his to meet Master Arngeir’s.

“I think a break might benefit us all,” she continued, straightening.

Master Arngeir nodded, slow and tired. Ulfric could see the exhaustion creeping across the elder’s face. This council was wearing on him. Part of Ulfric regretted that. Another part wished to have things over with so that he could return to the Palace of the Kings and plot his next course of action during the intermittent peace. “We will adjourn,” Master Arngeir said. “The council will reconvene in an hour’s time. When we do, may cooler heads prevail.”

This time, the scraping of chairs was loud against the silence. Properly chastised, the council members stood. No doubt, each would go off into their corner to discuss new terms and unravel the reasoning of the Blades and the Greybeards.

And the Dragonborn, Ulfric thought, watching her disappear through the doors in a swirl of blue skirts.

Ulfric didn’t understand her at all.

·•★•·

The echoes of the fight rang through her head as she darted down the hall, away from the meeting hall and the crowd gathered there. She needed a minute. She needed water. She needed sleep. She needed, she needed to breathe.

Bursting out one of the side doors, she entered the courtyard. The sun glittered off the surrounding snowbanks, lighting the area a brilliant white. It was perhaps a little warmer than it had been during the night, but Leara didn’t pay any attention. She fled toward the overlook near the edge of High Hrothgar’s mountain shelf to a half-moon of stone benches facing out toward the Whiterun Plains below. She collapsed on the middle bench, half laying, half reclining on the cold stone. With a shaking breath, she pressed her forehead into her arms.

Elenwen, Elenwen was here. And so were Delphine and Esbern.

And the peace talks!

Arngeir thought she was a liar.

Leara’s chest constricted. She forced icy air into her lungs. Her hip ached where it dug into the bench.

What in Akatosh’s holy name were they doing? What just happened? As soon as she gave either man the floor, Tullius and Ulfric made grabs for the other’s land. What they could not take by force in battle seemed like fair game at the negotiating table. But didn’t she tell them this wasn’t that kind of negotiation? They were here for the good of all Skyrim—all Tamriel, and yet they used their compliance as a shield to guard their true purpose: They both sought power over the other.

That’s the way of war, Leara reminded herself. Just or unjust, to show weakness to the other side was a risk most didn’t recover from. Was leaving Whiterun alone a weakness? She didn’t think so. She knew Balgruuf agreed with her. Whiterun’s safety when Leara captured the dragon was his utmost concern. But how far would Balgruuf go to ensure Whiterun’s safety and neutrality? Further than she would, Leara mused darkly. She wasn’t willing to appease egos just for her own benefit. Balgruuf, loath as he might be to surrender to either side, would make concessions if it was for the wellbeing of his people. But Leara couldn’t choose the people of Whiterun over the rest of Skyrim. She didn’t have that luxury. She needed an agreement that took care of everyone, or if not that, at least one that didn’t put them into a worse position than they were already in. Trading Markarth for the Rift was not the answer.

Hard nails bit into her palms as she squeezed her fingers into fists. No, she and Balgruuf might have a similar goal, but even he wasn’t on her side. He didn’t owe it to her to be. Neither did Tullius. Certainly Ulfric didn’t.

We must take you for what you are.

A charlatan.

A dry sob seized her ribs in a vice. After today, she wouldn’t have the Greybeards either. Despite everything she’d done to follow their teachings, her past as a Blade won out. Arngeir no longer trusted her. Oh, he put on a good show for the negotiations, but there was a weary shadow over his shoulders. She knew what he wasn’t saying. She was a monster—

Not even Delphine and Esbern could be counted to side with her. Delphine never made her distrust of Leara a secret, and Esbern’s proximity to the other Knight-Sister cast his friendship in doubt. She missed Cloud Ruler Temple. She couldn’t trust the Blades.

There was no one’s side for her to be on, because no one was on her side.

“Akatosh, don’t let me be alone,” the sob broke from her throat, rocking her body in its wake. “Don’t let me be alone!”

“Oh, but my pet, you are alone.”

Leara stilled, her muscles tensing. She didn’t dare raise her head from the nest of her arms.

The whisper of boots on stone was her only warning before a familiar hand trailed long fingers through her hair to the coiled bun. The nails dug into the back of Leara’s skull, drawing out a gentle pain. Leara inhaled, breath catching in her throat. The hand left her skull for her neck, trailing lightning to her shoulder. Her nerves burned.

“What do you want, Elenwen?” whispered Leara, holding herself still. She could not defend herself. She couldn’t even move from the fear freezing her blood.

But she could still hear the smirk in Elenwen’s voice. “Is it too much to believe I might wish to speak to a very old friend?”

Her fists tightened. “We are not friends.”

“Oh, but weren’t we?” Then Leara was wrenched into a sitting position, Elenwen’s thin arms disguising the strength in her hold. Leara was pulled up to face her and found herself powerless to stop it. But that’s how it always was.

When Elenwen and her newest protégé had swept into the foyer behind General Tullius and Jarl Balgruuf, effectively ending Leara and Arngeir’s conversation, an iron corset had laced itself over Leara’s lungs, pulling her inward and stealing her breath. The haunted memory of the Aldmere’Loren weaving its darkling shroud over the ballroom at the Blue Palace asserted itself, drawing with it the sight of hundreds of devastated faces, each wrecked with emotion too deep for mortal hearts to comprehend. The image shadowed Leara’s gaze as she greeted the Imperial delegation, spine stiff, face frozen. Night terrors full of cooing whispers and crackling electricity threatened to take her in the light of day as she led the group to the meeting hall. The entire time, Leara could feel the pinprick of lightning on her skin, a shadow and a threat, ever real, never sleeping. Elenwen knew, and what was more, the Ambassador had told her companion. One needed only to meet the younger Altmer’s burning glare to know this.

Yes, Mistress.

Where Leara found the strength to deny Elenwen’s attendance to the council, she wasn’t sure. But if she took nothing else from him, she could thank Ulfric’s adamance that the Thalmor be denied presence. And he had every right to do so. How could any of them fathom what Elenwen had done to him during the war?

What Leara did to him.

She shuddered.

The golden iron of Elenwen’s grip held Leara’s wrist in a snare. “Considering all the years we spent together, I had hoped you would think differently.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but don’t you, Vilya?”

Leara twisted back, tugging at her wrist, but Elenwen’s grip remained firm. The other hand came to catch her chin. Again, Leara threw herself back, but Elenwen was firm. Then her thumb and forefinger cradled Leara’s chin as the other fingers, long and biting, splayed across the side of Leara’s neck. She could feel her pulse drum against the steal hold.

“Don’t be a brat, Vilya. You know how I hate your childishness.”

The fingers tightened, pressing into her windpipe. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl.” The hand did not relent. No, instead, Elenwen leaned closer still, lips so close to Leara’s ear that she could feel the cool breath brush her skin. A shiver ran down her neck and into her chest. The corset tightened. “This is how it is going to be. Your little charade is over. This defiant streak you’ve fostered will be pruned. Perhaps you believe you’ve been clever in your evasion of the Aldmeri Dominion, but no one can run forever, not the Blades, and certainly not you, my pet. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Elenwen regarded her with green-gold eyes, as bright and acidic as any ripening citrus fruit. Unbidden, a memory of someone in her class comparing Elenwen’s eyes to Lady Finduilas’s citrus orchard rose up. Their glower was just as sour. “The only reason you will walk out of here alive,” Elenwen said softly, poisonous, “is because intelligence reports you are the only one capable of ending this little dragon crisis. Certainly, those fools you’ve invited to this mockery of diplomacy seem to think so. Once it is resolved, expect to be visited by a Justiciar force. Resistance is futile.”

Leara tried to swallow, only to gag against the collar of flesh around her neck.

“I don’t know how a half-breed such as you managed to infiltrate the ranks of the Thalmor and ascend to such a high position,” Elenwen continued, low in Leara’s ear, “but believe me, we will find out. When we take you, you will beg for death before the end. We will unmake you, and when at last you die, you will not know your own name, Vilya, or any other.”

The mechanical “Yes, Mistress” clawed its way up Leara’s throat, but she fought it down. She fought Alduin—and lost—but she survived the first encounter. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t let Elenwen leave here believing she had the upper hand. Again. Leara tricked the Ambassador for years, back when she was not nearly as important as she was now, and hadn’t Leara done it again just months ago at the Embassy party? She was a Blade first, and hiding was in her nature.

You are the one who revealed yourself to the Dominion, you bloody bimbo.

Wasn’t she? The pieces didn’t all fit within her mind, but then, Elenwen’s intelligence network was more than Leara could keep up with amid the dragon crisis. The Thalmor had agents hunting her for months. Every move she made was chronicled by their eagle-eyed spies. And she’d made some bad moves, her encounter with the wizard Ancano, for one, and the performance in Solitude, for another. And then she answered to Vilya. Yes, Leara passed the point of deniability long ago. It seemed Elenwen anticipated that, or else she wouldn’t have touched her. She knew Leara for what she was.

Hopefully, hopefully, Leara could pull the wool back over her eyes when she came for her. Or, if not, daze the Thalmor enough so that Leara could once again escape their grasp.

The defiance strangled the old compliance. “Surely you realize I will go to someone and tell them what you’ve said. You��ve promised me death. I don’t think the Nords will take kindly to their Dragonborn being threatened by the Thalmor.”

But Elenwen only smiled, flashing pearly teeth in a predatory gleam. “Who would you run to? After all, you said it yourself: You’re alone. Tullius is mine, and Ulfric won’t help you once he realizes what you are. Sooner or later, the Jarl of Whiterun will ow to one of them, and you’ll have nowhere to turn. Not even the old men want you here.” Her thumb stroked along Leara’s jaw. “I do hope you’re not counting on that little ranger of yours. He will soon flee than fight for you.”

Tears bit at the corners of Leara’s eyes, icy as they wound down the side of her face. Cooing, Elenwen released her wrist and brushed them away. “Now, now, my pet, don’t cry. You knew this was inevitable the moment you crossed the Dominion. Perhaps if you hadn’t left, I’d have kept your secret. After all, you always were my most promising instrument.”

Then Elenwen drew Leara forward and placed a kiss on her forehead. It was dry and hard, just as it always was. Her thumb brushed the lingering tears on Leara’s still face, and then she stood. The sudden cold was a relief from the intensity of Elenwen’s proximity, but still, Leara couldn’t breathe. She would relearn to breathe soon, but for now, she was still choking on the doom in her chest. The bands of iron did not release her lungs.

“Compose yourself quickly, my pet,” Elenwen sang, saccharine. “Didn’t I teach you not to fall apart outside closed doors?” Her laughter was light and high. “Don’t fret. I will see you again before we leave High Hrothgar. And after that,” her eyes softened, but not truly. It was a false gentleness. Infantilizing and demeaning. “It won’t be long until I have you again.”

Like that, Elenwen was gone, leaving Leara in a huddle of gooseflesh covered by too-thin clothes. Her hair was a mess, but she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. The iron corset encasing her lungs was freezing over, binding hard around her. Was this what others felt when she cast the Frozen Façade over them? Her fingers jerked, painful as they unwound from the tight fists, but nothing happened. Not even her magic could banish the feeling. Feim. Zii.

Pressing both palms over her heart, Leara pushed against them, panting. Air trickled into her lungs, painful against the force Elenwen exerted on her throat. Just enough not to leave a bruise but enough that Leara wouldn’t forget the touch too quickly. She kept panting, and soon, her lungs were working against the fear strangling her. Feim. Zii.

Once she felt she could breathe, Leara wavered to her feet. Her mind reeled at what Elenwen had said. The Thalmor weren’t just coming for her. They were going to kill her, and now there was no doubt. And there was no one to help her. No one.

She was alone.

But hadn’t she always been? It was foolish for her to ever think otherwise.

Yet that never stopped her from surviving, did it? She had until she faced Alduin to decide how best to evade Elenwen’s agents. But such a decision hinged on Leara’s surviving the battle in Sovngarde in the first place. More and more, she was starting to think that it may be best for her to die facing Alduin, so long as she took him down with her. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of surviving indefinitely but surviving until she faced Alduin for the final time.

Because that was her destiny, wasn’t it? She was Dragonborn. By the grace of Akatosh, she was born to face the World-Eater in this twilight hour. Everything before that a stepping stone needed to reach that point.

Dashing the remnants of half-frozen tears from her face, Leara turned back toward High Hrothgar. And then, the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled as if there were eyes still on her. Eyes that never left her. Lifting her skirts, she hurried back toward one of the side doors, the closest to her bedroom.

But even in the shadow of the monastery, the eyes never left her.

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sarcasticsciencefictionwriter · 20 days

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Welcome to Things That Go Bump In the Night 2024!

This is an unofficial Halloween event for the Sanctuary fandom.

You do not need to use the prompts to participate.

Anything Halloween/spooky season related is more than welcome in the AO3 collection, but it must fall under that theme and it must be for Sanctuary.

Have fun everyone!

(Text versions of prompt and event is below the cut)

Prompts

Regular

Candy

Candles/Lanterns

Trick and treat

Ghost/Scary stories

Horror

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Thud

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Dialogue

"That's just a shadow...right?"

"Boo!"

"You call that a costume?"

"What was that?"

"Happy Halloween!"

"I swear, this happens every year."

"Just say it's a mask."

"That blood had better be fake."

"Of course it's in the cemetery."

Info

What's allowed/not allowed: Anything goes, as long as it's properly tagged and falls under the theme and fandom.

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Happy Halloween!

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redhairedwolfwitch · 2 years

Text

Alongside Her Goalie - Clàudia Pina x Reader

A/n: The next part from the Score A Goalie universe, since I burnt out from this series during the February international break, but if anyone has any ideas for anything, I am all ears/eyes. This is also very long and if you want linking to the previous parts, send an ask, hyperlinks still break the tags for fics.

///

None of the players at Atleti had been able to get a response from you since your message about a loan to Barcelona, and social media confirming your message as you confused fans to no end. With Cata Coll returning to training in December too, Barcelona was juggling five potential goalkeepers, and your contract dictated you get minutes or Atleti would recall you.

Atleti were scrambling to keep a hold on you, since Lola had re-signed with Atleti until 2026. As much as you loved Lola, you had drifted from your team mother, and were now stuck trying to get out of her shadow, your desire for minutes and not getting them was affecting your mental health.

Your mental health ended up being a reason that you had not been present at Atleti’s training leading up to Three Kings Day on September 6th, not that your loan was pending and you would be training at a more intense level at Barcelona, coming back from the break, and the fact that Barcelona were pushing you in a way that made your heart ache.

Whilst Clàudia was getting ready for the match against Sevilla, you were on the phone with Barcelona, organising how things would go in January. You needed to pick up some things from Madrid, and you didn’t want to impose on the shared home of Patri and Clàudia for too long, even as they both complained that you’d be lost in Barcelona without them.

So, currently, you were packing up what you needed from your place in Madrid to take to Barcelona, in the form of two large suitcases and a backpack. You froze as you glanced around your place for anything else, your eyes landing on the two photo frames. Wrapping each of the frames in a hoodie, you strategically packed them so they would not shatter on the journey back to Barcelona.

It would be weird, not wearing the Atleti logo or colours for a while, especially after wearing them for three seasons now. Running over the plaster on your left ring finger that Clàudia had put there after you gave her your gift from New York, you sat down on your couch, taking out your phone to finally do something you had been avoiding doing with your Atleti teammates.

They hadn’t made it easy to talk to last year, and you were in a time crunch before your flight back to Barcelona, but you still began to reply to their messages after checking that they were in fact heading to Tenerife for the away game and couldn’t reply immediately. Yes, you were still slightly avoiding them.

It was easier to talk after you went through the messages that you had been sent, but your heart still ached as you messaged Virginia, then Carmen, then finally Lola. Each had long paragraphs that you probably could have split up for easier reading, but you were busy wiping tears from your face, turning off plugs and making sure your fridge was completely empty before heading out to get to the airport.

You’d have to rush with your suitcases, but Barcelona had a home game against Sevilla later on in the evening and you had been invited to watch it with the injured players.

Biting your lip nervously as Clàudia and Patri went to get ready for the game, you were caught off guard as a hand tapped your shoulder, but Alexia’s smile was warm as she welcomed you, checking you were okay as she noticed how nervous you looked.

“I’m fine… just… need to turn this off before the game.” You replied, trying to avoid looking at your notifications as you turned your phone off, you small talked with Alexia as she led you to where the rest of the injured Barcelona players would be watching the game against Sevilla.

“What happened to your finger?”

“Pancake flipping accident.” A blatant lie, but you weren’t going to say the real reason why your left ring finger had a plaster on it, Clàudia had promised it was only temporary.

Hearing a quiet chuckle, you met Alexia’s gaze, you knew she didn’t believe what you said, but she didn’t press as the game began to begin.

“Where are you staying? With Pina and Patri?”

“Sí. I tried sleeping on the couch but Patri sat on me.” You didn’t elaborate as your focus was stolen by the game, watching intently as Clàudia had started the game, the rest of the injured players falling silent as everyone watched carefully.

You were practically vibrating with energy when Clàudia scored at the 34th minute, amusing Alexia, Caro and Jana who were sitting near you and able to see your excitement, and how tense you were when Clàudia had to take a penalty before the half-time break.

Your eyes widened as you spotted Sampedro, your former captain at Atleti before she left last year. You nervously waved to her as she was subbed off two minutes after Clàudia, Lucy and Mariona were subbed off.

You spent your Saturday night curled up with Clàudia, realising that you had left your car in Madrid when you got up Sunday morning to head to the Barcelona facility for check-ups before you could start to join official training.

“We’ll drive you.” Patri volunteered, making you raise an eyebrow but Clàudia shrugged, asking if you needed a road trip to get your car, or if you wanted it somehow to be delivered to Barcelona.

Whilst you were at your check-up, Atleti were at their away game against Granadilla Tenerife, a game that if you had been watching, would have sent you into an anxious flurry as Lola went down twice in the first half. The first time for a boot to the head, the second for her left hip.

You also didn’t see the Barcelona Femeni had updated their social media stories with a short video of you running on a treadmill, although your lack of Barcelona training kit was obvious, it told fans that you were starting your training at your loan team.

Clàudia found you sitting in the corridor later on, staring at your phone in thought. Sitting down next to you, you rested your head on her shoulder, letting out a tired breath.

“They’re not mad at me, just disappointed, upset and a few more adjectives describing their feelings towards me going on loan and not telling any of them-” you were cut off by a notification of a message, but you didn’t expect Jenni to message from Mexico, checking in on you and asking how you were doing.

Reading over your texts, you didn’t realise you were talking aloud but Clàudia kept quiet, listening to what each of those closest to you in Madrid had said and your replies.

“‘please pick up the phone, nobody has heard from you since before Christmas’… ‘sorry Vir, I’ll call when you’re free later?’

‘You could have talked to me’ you didn’t make it easy Lola, ‘I'm sorry, can I call you later?’

‘i’m always here for you, just be safe in Barcelona, call me any time’ thanks Carmen...

oh there’s another ‘please tell Lola you did not run away and get eloped’ well… we’re not eloped, so?” You smiled slightly, looking at Clàudia, who smiled back at you, her gaze drifting to the plaster on your finger.

Typing a reply to Jenni, you chewed your lip for a moment.

“Shall we take a proof of life photo?” Your joke made Clàudia frown for a moment until she realised what you were asking, taking your phone to hold up at a better angle, the two of you smiled at the camera.

“Hopefully, this photo, plus a ‘i am alive’ update will mean we have the rest of the afternoon to ourselves.” You murmured, uploading to your close friends instagram stories with ‘estoy viva’ update that you were alive, then ignoring your notifications for the rest of the afternoon as Clàudia and yourself tracked down Patri and headed back.

You missed your balcony in Madrid, instead looking out the window in Barcelona as you listened to the dial tone, waiting for the person on the other end to pick up the phone. Letting out a shaky breath, you listened as the person picked up.

“Hola Lola.”

“Hola, mini-me.”

“You were right. I should have talked to you about what was going on. But, it was hard. You were always so busy with your captain duties, so I kept it to myself, trying not to waste your time. Then when you weren’t doing captain stuff, you were busy with Medina or… I couldn’t talk to you, or anyone at Atleti. I felt alone, I have not played at all this season and it was messing with my head. I missed playing, and I missed my girlfriend, so I asked for a loan with the hopes that I’d get some minutes somewhere. I didn’t think Barcelona would be interested and I don’t know how it works with them having five goalkeepers, but my loan states I have to get minutes. I wanted to talk to someone, but everyone was busy with their own lives, so I fell through the cracks. Lola, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell any of you about any of this, you’re my family, and I love you.”

Lola was silent as your talking turned into muffled sobs, processing what you had said as shuffling on the other side caught her attention, hearing Pina softly comforting you.

Lola couldn’t ignore how her stomach twisted, reminding her of how withdrawn you had been from the start of the season to the last time she had seen you in person.

That last time was before Christmas, but you had been nervous about something at the annual holiday meal, she had noticed it, Carmen had noticed it, and Virginia had pointed out your odd behaviour at training after the meal.

It was like ice water had been dumped over her, realising it had been right in front of her for a while now.

“I’m sorry mini-me, I should have been there for you. I should have realised you were withdrawing and struggling…” Lola began to apologise, reflecting on how her focus had drifted and she had failed to check in on you properly, the conversation continuing until Lola had to go.

“Uh, by the way, Carmen texted me to tell you I did not run away to get eloped, but um, we’re not engaged, but, it’s just, uh, I bought Clàudia a promise ring in New York, okay, buenas noches!” You scrambled to spit out the news, hanging up the phone before Lola could respond, and turning to your girlfriend who immediately looked at your phone with wide eyes. Lola was trying to call back.

Flicking your phone across the room, you opened your mouth to begin to apologise, but you were cut off as lips met yours, quietening you as you were led back to the bed the two of you were sharing. Arms wrapping around each other, you laid in silence together with your fingers running through her hair before eventually falling asleep together for an early night with training tomorrow.

///

Excitement overruled anxiety for the morning, it would lead up to your first official training with the Barcelona team. You still weren’t sure how things would work, but the Copa De La Reina Round of 16 was coming up, you weren’t on the squad list for it but you were ready to throw yourself into training. You didn’t have Lola here, having left her and Atleti behind in Madrid. You didn’t have Carmen or Virginia either, but Clàudia didn’t have Jenni, and Alexia was doing her own training separate to the group.

Sandra spotted you almost instantly, pacing up and down the goal area with something on your mind.

“Hola! Bienvenida a Barcelona, estás bien?” Sandra checked in with you, pulling you into a hug to stop your pacing.

“Hola, muchas gracias, I’m, I’m okay, just… Clàudia is with the physio, and I don’t know what I’m doing.” You admitted, fiddling with your goalie gloves in your hand. They had your number on from Atleti, a number you were not at Barcelona.

“Vamos, mini Lola.” Sandra replied, gesturing for you to run with her around the training field, the two of you eventually joined by Gemma Font, continuing to jog around until everyone else was gathered to warm-up for training.

You were still a bit awkward when you crashed at Clàudia and Patri’s place after New Years turned into staying with them for longer. You had suggested finding a place to rent for your loan, but without your car (that you had left in Madrid in your hurry to get back for Barcelona’s game against Sevilla) you were stuck in a city you didn’t know as well as you knew Madrid. Clàudia knew this, and asked you to stay, the two of you able to function in the same space since staying together.

You still worried about Patri being uncomfortable by living with a couple, but she didn’t seem to mind. You weren’t sure how she hadn’t figured out anything about the promise ring, or if she had heard anything from when you’d shown Clàudia the ring.

The awkwardness washed over you like a wave when Patri and Clàudia had a few more teammates over after training that night, another Barcelona goalkeeper, Cata Coll, Jana, Laia and Aitana included as you ended up hiding out in Clàudia’s room, or, your shared room now. Sat on the bed, you ended up on the phone with Carmen, and then Virginia, who pointed out that you should be bonding with your teammates at Barcelona.

“I know, I know, I just… don’t text Clàudia- wow, thanks, Vir…” You murmured, hearing the Spanish woman hang up on you.

“Bebé, ¿por qué te escondes?” Clàudia enquired, entering the room with her phone in hand, sitting down next to you and leaning into your side. She wondered why you were hiding in your shared bedroom.

“Lo siento. I felt awkward.” You apologised, running your fingers over the plaster that Clàudia had put on your finger. Clàudia took your hand, bringing it to her mouth to kiss with a smile.

“Vamos bebé, we have dinner. You need to eat.” Your lover persuaded you to leave your hideaway, feeling awkward to join the others until Patri cut in with teasing the two of you for taking so long, but you both made a beeline for the food in the kitchen instead.

“How is it you two have been dating for over a year and we barely know you?”

“Madrid to Barcelona is an over six hour drive, or a maximum three hour train journey or an hour and a bit by aeroplane. Circumstances meant I have spent time with some Barcelona players more than others-”

“No shit, Jenni said she and Alexia lost you two in the streets of Barcelona once.” Patri pointed out, making you chuckle, biting your lip as Clàudia flustered slightly, but she still had a smirk on her face at the memories.

“Lola was ready to kill me after she found out that we ditched them, and Carmen and Virginia were not far behind…” you began to recall the story, not realising how relaxed you were until Clàudia was leaning into you, the two of you curled up together until the girls called it a night.

“Te amo, Pina.” You whispered into the darkness, pausing as Clàudia rolled over to bury her face in your neck, holding you closely.

“Te amo, mi amor.”

///

You didn’t play in the Copa De La Reina round of sixteen, instead you, Patri and Pina were at the park. Those two were supposed to be resting, but they were running goalkeeper drills with you in the park. Your confidence was growing as you pushed your worries out of your mind, preventing Patri and Pina from scoring, or making it harder if you couldn’t stop the ball completely. You hadn’t seen how Patri had set her phone up, showing you the pictures she had caught after for you to upload to your socials.

Your drive was relentless as you developed yourself with the training at Barcelona. The hopelessness you felt at Atleti when it came to actually getting minutes had evolved into a hopefulness, even if the loan in general was bittersweet. Barcelona were gearing up to keep Sandra, Gemma and Cata, and with Meritxell with team B, you knew your loan would just be a loan.

It was haunting how it felt like your roots were being ripped out from under you, your family in Madrid with Lola, Carmen, Virginia and Andrea, then your girlfriend/partner/soon fiancee, Clàudia in Barcelona. You were a great goalkeeper, but what you wanted was impossible.

You had tripped over your words as you explained the ring to Clàudia, giving her the option to have it as just a regular ring, if she didn’t want it to be a promise ring, or the relationship to be what it would be with that ring. She didn’t even have to wear it, but at that point you were rambling.

You had a feeling that Barcelona would not keep you, and you would not get many minutes at Atleti now, since Lola had re-signed until 2026. It was too early to make a prediction, but you had a feeling you would be loaned out for next season, because whilst Atleti wanted to keep you, but you wanted minutes, and to be close to the people you care about. Too bad the clubs were rather scattered… you really needed to get your car from Madrid.

Every time Atleti played a match, you texted your teammates a red and white heart if it was a home game, a purple and black heart for the second kit, or an orange heart for the third kit. Especially since Carmen had been playing again since the round of sixteen, and Virginia was finally subbed on against Villareal.

The Supercopa de España Femenina semi-final against Real Madrid left you watching intensely with Jana and Cata, the two slowly coming back into training whilst you were not required on the roster for the match, Barcelona had already listed three goalkeepers, but you were fine watching.

El Clásico matches were something you didn’t want to miss, especially when Clàudia scored. Or when Irene got her second yellow, turning into a red card and ejecting her from the game. The extra time left you tense, even after Clàudia had been subbed off, but Mariona’s penalty, followed by Salma’s goal in the 120th minute left you, Jana and Cata jumping around in celebration.

Eventually everyone gathered down on the pitch, hugging and grinning. You let out a breath, glancing around as you spotted the Real Madrid players, your stomach twisting as you recalled something Lola said last year, before keeping your attention on the team you were loaned to, smiling as Sandra pulled you into the celebrations.

The final of the Supercopa de España Femenina would be Barcelona against Real Sociedad, with the players out with injuries coming to watch the match.

“I feel like a traffic cone in this orange.” You murmured to yourself, pulling the coat further around yourself as you heard Alexia chuckle.

“It is very bright, but it is like Atleti’s third kit, yes?”

“Not the goalie kits, black, pink or green.” You fiddled with the zip of your coat, frowning slightly as Alexia asked her next question.

“You are not used to being here, at Barcelona yet, are you?”

“I feel like a fan wearing my fia- wearing Clàudia’s jersey, watching, then it was the same at Atleti last year, sat watching Lola for half a season. Am I just not good enough as a goalie to play? I thought I was good enough, they even put me in against Barcelona last season, but I haven’t had any minutes since,” fiddling with the zip, you didn’t see the frown on Alexia’s face, “I requested the loan to get minutes because it messes with my head to not play at all… I, I need to stop talking, the match is starting.”

Compared to the semi finals, the finals of the Supercopa went quicker, with you making quiet observations under your breath about the defensive lines and goalkeeping, to being completely silent when one of Real Sociedad’s players was taken off the pitch in a stretcher.

Your foot bounced against the floor as you watched everything going on, Barcelona winning the Supercopa 3-0. You grinned as you watched the team flood from the bench onto the pitch, lingering on the sidelines as the team got their medals and began to celebrate with the Supercopa trophy.

It looked strange, but you weren’t on the list for Barcelona for the Supercopa, and Atleti hadn’t qualified this season. It was only when Clàudia ran to you, a Barcelona flag around her shoulders like a cape as she jumped into your arms.

“Felicidades, mi supercampeona.” You smiled, holding Pina in your arms as her nose brushed yours.

“Gracias, mi amor. Vamos!” She grinned, taking your hand and guiding you to where Patri was stood with the cup, which somehow made its way onto the top of Patri’s head in Pina’s hands, before the three of you took a photo, Clàudia holding the cup, with Patri grinning at the camera, and you grinning at Clàudia with pride in your eyes.

You heard Clàudia let out a confused noise from where she sat next to Patri on the coach on the way back, Patri was next to the window so you and Clàudia could hold hands across the aisle when nobody was looking, unless you both wanted to be teased by the others.

“Qué?” you murmured, opening your eyes to look at Clàudia, who was on your phone.

“There are only two photos with you in.” Clàudia pouted, showing you the two photos. One was of you, Clàudia and Patri, whilst the other was you and Clàudia walking around the pitch together.

“Main focus was the trophy winners. Not the fourth goalie, technically fifth once Cata is back.” You whispered, half asleep somehow even with the celebrations on the coach.

Clàudia pouted again, about to open her mouth but instead she was nudging Patri to look at the camera as you got your phone out, holding it up to take a selfie with the two.

“Three photos.” You smiled, texting the photo over to Clàudia, who beamed at you.

“Ey!” Patri jokingly complained as Clàudia stood up, sliding into the seat next to you as you shuffled back against the window.

“You are not fourth choice, or fifth.” Your lover whispered, kissing your cheek before the two of you continued to snuggle, much to Patri’s teasing.

“You know, if I had known, I could have given everyone their medals, shake hands and stuff, since nobody gave them out to you all, maybe it would piss some people off but I’ve not played on a national level so…” You admitted, playing with Clàudia’s hair as she snuggled into you, the two of you in a entanglement of limbs after less than five seconds.

///

“Hey, cariño, do you know how to use photoshop? My attempts aren’t exactly great, I think I’m messing up the layers?” Turning your laptop to Clàudia, who paused, taking a closer look before shaking your head.

“Photoshop?” Patri raised an eyebrow, walking over to see what you were working on.

“I’m not in the team picture for Atleti this season, and I’m not in the Barça one either, so I’m photoshopping myself in… badly.” You grimaced, about to ask Patri for help but she shrugged too, suggesting you try to find a tutorial on youtube.

Later that evening, you uploaded the two photoshopped images to your instagram, captioning the post with ‘fixed it’, gaining the attention of your Atleti teammates and your Barcelona ones, liking and commenting on your post. Andrea had even commented, whilst Lola deadpanned you could have picked a photo where you were wearing your goalie kit.

Your drive had increased. Everyone could see it, your skills were improving, desperate not to plateau your abilities, but also you wanted to enjoy yourself. You started football because you enjoyed it, and you loved being a goalkeeper. So when you got to hold your own in goal during training, Clàudia couldn’t help but grin at the smile on your face. Sandra spotted it too, taking time to bond, and making sure the goalkeeper union got along after the slightly tense realisation Barcelona had five goalkeepers at different stages this season.

Watching Barcelona play Levante Las Planas, your foot bounced up and down, thoughts running through your mind as the minutes went by. Atleti would start playing against Madrid CFF soon, but you pushed it back, quietly talking strategy with Sandra, much to her amusement.

“You will play in February, I know it.” Sandra patted your shoulder, nodding to you as you hummed, watching Clàudia before she was subbed off at the 67th minute, coming over to sit with you both.

Atleti played Sevilla earlier in the day than when Barcelona had an away game against Granadilla Tenerife. You’d eyed the line-ups for the game, feeling your stomach twist at Lola captaining Atleti against former Atleti captain, now captain of Sevilla, Sampedro. Alteti had drawn against Madrid CFF, the score 2-2 in a 15 minute scramble, but as much as you adored Atleti, your focus was on Barcelona.

“I think I’m going to get my car from Madrid during February’s international break…” you decided, your leg bouncing against the floor of the bus as you had to lean across to talk to Clàudia, who sat in the seats adjacent to you with Patri.

“What if you are called up?” Patri enquired but you let out a huff, shaking your head.

“They have enough goalkeepers.”

You knew Lola would be beating herself up about Sevilla’s equaliser goal at the 90th minute, Atleti drawing for the fourth time in a row in the league, but you didn’t have a chance to text her anything too long, as a jersey hit you in the face.

“You know I wear a goalkeeper kit, right? Wow, this kit is reminding me of that Barcelona away shirt from 2019, maybe? It was before I was at Atleti…” You reminisced, smiling as you gently folded the jersey that was thrown at you.

“Where were you before Atleti?”

“I was at-” you were cut off as the staff asked to talk to you, your eyes meeting your girlfriend’s confused gaze which you mirrored.

Your confused look was exchanged for a nervous one as you returned from talking to the staff, getting Patri and Pina’s attention as you wrapped up a conversation with Gemma, and Sandra was not far behind you.

“What’s-”

“Um, against Granadilla Tenerife, I’m starting… they’re resting Gemma and Sandra has some muscle discomfort? I don’t know… but, I’m starting, I’m getting minutes?” Your voice was shaky with disbelief, glancing towards Sandra with concern but the older goalkeeper was supportive, pulling you into a side hug as Pina rushed towards you to hug you too.

For over an entire season, Lola and Carmen had been a part of your pre-match preparations after they took you under their wing upon Lola’s return to Atleti for the 2021/22 season. Now you were preparing for a match miles away from them in the Canary Islands, but unlike your first season at Atleti back in 2020, you had someone by your side. Clàudia squeezed your hand as she reached over for it on the bus, smiling softly as you met her eyes with as much of a smile as you could muster.

No doubt your Atleti teammates would see your name on Barcelona line-ups, you didn’t have the same number as you did at Atleti, taking Lola’s number 13 after Lola was shuffled up to number 1 there. But at Barcelona, your jersey number was more than triple that.

The first half of the game, you had a few touches on the ball, but Barcelona had more of a handle on it at 5-0 by halftime. You were hopeful that the cameras hadn’t caught you grinning at Clàudia’s goal in the 5th minute, but the cameras and the fans had caught it, just like they had caught you jumping up to grab the crossbar, in a perfect world you would have done a pull-up, but instead you got down quickly, waiting for the game to begin.

The second half of the game, your drive was in overdrive, anticipating as much as you could as you slipped into the zone, retrieving a stray ball to send back to Mapi. With Alexia and Sandra out, and Marta on the bench, Patri was wearing the captain’s armband for the match.

Glancing to the sidelines after one of the Granadilla Tenerife players was down, you spotted the substitutions getting ready to come on soon for both teams. The captain’s armband eventually made its way to Marta as she was subbed on. Asisat, Patri, Rolfö, Mariona and Irene eventually make way for Emma, Nuria, María, Marta and Laia to come onto the pitch.

The scoreline was unchanged since halftime, but you headed onto the field, retrieving another stray ball to send back to your defenders. Nearing the 89th minute, Mapi sent the ball back to you, sending it back to her once the Granadilla Tenerife players moved around a bit to try to anticipate your move.

You let out a breath as the two minutes of stoppage time arrived, Clàudia’s goal attempt falling flat as the Granadilla Tenerife goalkeeper managed to keep the scoreline the same since before halftime, until Lucy’s head sent the ball into the net.

The final score of the match was 6-0 as you made your way around, shaking hands with the opposing players and complimenting Noelia Ramos on her goalkeeping as she let out a sigh.

You were about to mention the shots and shots on target statistics in comparison to how many goals Barcelona did score, when a warm body wrapped around your side, kissing your cheek.

“Hola, cariño, well done today.” You whispered, smiling at the first goalscorer of the game, and your love.

“Well done, bebé. You were amazing.” Pina whispered back, smirking slightly as you glanced over her kit, the fourth kit jersey having grasped your attention from the moment her jersey hit you in the face earlier.

“Vamos, we both stink…” You paused, frowning slightly at the memory of when you and Pina would run away from team mothers who had played the full 90 minutes, but you pushed it back, following your team back to the locker room, where Sandra congratulated you on your performance as you got in the door.

“Gracias!” you grinned back, cut off as a jersey hit you in the face again.

///

The next match was an away game against Valencia, with Sandra still out on precaution due to the muscle strain, it was almost a toss up between who would be selected to start. The next matches after were against Real Betis, then Alavés before the international break.

You didn’t play internationally, so you would be able to retrieve your car from Madrid when it rolled around.

But right now, you were in Barcelona’s yellow goalkeeper kit, standing in goal watching carefully. Valencia’s attempts at goal were good, but Barcelona had already scored twice. A free kick almost had you stood on, but it went your way as the whistle was blown.

Twenty two minutes in, and your captain, Marta had scored, taking the scoreline up to 3-0. You were tested twice more before the twenty fifth minute, the ball being carried away down to the other goal for Barcelona to have more attempts. You wouldn’t admit it, but you were enjoying the challenge of this match, especially with how Patri was in control of the game.

Valencia’s Chacón hurtling down towards goal had you and Nuria hurrying into action, before the ball met your gloves less than two minutes later. Valencia’s determination to take away the clean sheet as half-time approached had you on high alert as you sent the ball back into play. You were done comparing yourself to anyone else’s goalkeeping. You glanced over at the bench as the half-time whistle went, walking over to the tunnel.

The music playing coming out of the tunnel was dramatic as you headed over to the goal, hopping up to attempt to reach the crossbar, you smiled at Pina on the bench as she smiled back.

Less than two minutes into the second half, Aitana had taken the score up to 4-0. Punching a ball away near the 58th minute, you caught it again as it was sent back at you, sending the ball away before Valencia could try again.

Two substitutions were made for each time, for Barcelona, Marta and Aitana went off for Lucy and Keira, Patri getting the armband in the process.

A corner to Valencia in the 69th minute ended up hitting the post as you watched, Geyse being subbed off for Ana not long after as you went to retrieve the ball. Another attempt at the 79th minute after a really good cross from Valencia had you smiling to yourself, the ball having clipped the goal frame, going out for a goal kick.

More substitutions came for Barcelona as Vicky came on for Rolfö, whilst Pina came on for Mariona, you had to fight back the excitement as you schooled your features. There were still five minutes left and you couldn’t let yourself get distracted.

Three minutes of stoppage time went by and the whistle was blown, you held back from jogging over to your teammates, instead taking a moment to stand in goal and reflect on everything.

“Hola, mi amor…” you went to hug Pina, but she smirked, looking you up and down before teasingly pulling away.

“Go shower, you smell.”

“Wow… I mean it’s not like you can join me here so…” you teased, heading away when you were pulled back.

“We’re lucky our team mothers are not here, they’d never let us be alone in the same room.” Pina pointed out, smiling as you chuckled.

“Yeah, that sounds like Lola and Carmen, and Jenni and Alexia… time flies…” you began to reminisce, feeling your eyes water for a moment before everyone was heading back to the tunnel, Patri and Aitana coming over to get you and Pina in the process.

Atleti didn’t have another game until the 5th, the same day as Barcelona’s home game against Real Betis. But that didn’t mean you expected to find a missed call from Lola whilst on the trip back, listening to the voicemail as you watched the sun begin to set.

“Capitana Aitana!” you grinned, the Real Betis squad revealed, and although you were resting on the bench this match, you were excited to watch Aitana take the captain’s armband when the game began. Right now though, you were heading out to warm up with Gemma, who was starting this match.

“Atleti won against Huelva.”

“3-1, Huelva’s goal in stoppage time.” You didn’t take your eyes off of the pitch as you watched your team, Geyse already having scored but you were hooked on everything happening.

“Uva?”

“What? Oh, a grape! Gracias- oh, shit, yes Keira!” you exclaimed, spotting Keira score her first goal for Barcelona, whilst you held the tub of grapes in your hand.

Pulling the blanket over your legs, you wrapped your arms around yourself, watching the second half get ready to start, with Human by The Killers playing in the Estadi, giving you something to dance to, and make Bruna laugh too.

Barcelona’s third goal of the game belonged to your lover, your celebration making Bruna laugh again, followed by Patri playfully nudging you to sit down.

“What, can you really blame me? Go, warm up!” you sassed, leaning back in your seat to watch the rest of the game.

It hadn’t taken long for the Barcelona substitutes to make an impact, with Asisat and Mariona both scoring goals quickly. More substitutions and more goals came, with Asisat scoring her third hattrick in twelve days by the end of the match.

///

Your instagram stories, and Pina’s, were full of reposts of Barcelona posts, but every so often, the two of you would post something different. This time, the two of you had posted your plates, having dinner together after the match.

Sandra was back by the time the last game before the February international break, so she was starting, whilst you and Gemma sat on the bench, discussing possible gameplays and the international break. You were not called up, so you’d talked to the Barcelona staff, finding a gap where you could go to Madrid to get your car, and drive it back to Barcelona.

The game against Alavés was already going quickly, the offside flag being called before the first goal of the match. It took longer for Barcelona to score against Alavés, compared to the game back in November, being at 2-0 by half-time, (a goal from Asisat, and an own goal from Alavés) compared to the 5-0 that Barcelona were at in the November game.

“Why do you sound weird?”

“I have come to the conclusion that I am going to get ill every time Clàudia does…” you explained, wrapping your coat further around yourself as the second half commenced. Aitana took the score up to 3-0 in the 64th minute, substitutions occurring as Rolfö sat down next to you to observe the rest of the match.

Clàudia took the score up to 4-0 in the 84th minute, your reaction making Rolfö chuckle as you snapped out of whatever half-awake state you were in, the brunt of whatever bug you had caught from the girl you shared a bed with hitting you hard.

“You know you could have told them you’re sick-”

“I felt fine before, that’s what is so silly.” You admitted, sticking your tongue out playfully as Clàudia walked over to you post-match, pulling you into a hug.

“I think I caught what you had.”

///

Carmen didn’t expect to get a text message from Clàudia, or that there would be an attached photo of you bundled up in blankets, visually ill, watching the Atleti vs Athletic Club match, then a video of you celebrating Carmen’s goal before almost coughing your lungs up from over doing it.

It might have taken you a little while to go get your car from Madrid.

#claudia pina x reader #woso imagine #woso x reader #claudia pina imagine #woso imagines #barcelona femeni x reader #barcelona femeni imagine #barcelona femeni imagines #atletico madrid x reader #claudia pina imagines

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