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dracowars · 3 years

Note

LOVED YOUR TOM RIDDLE. Can I please request a arranged marriage au where yn is in love with him but he hates her so when she decides to let him go or someone else wants to marry her, Tom finally realises he’s in love with her. happ ending :))))

my heart belongs to you | tom riddle

pairing: tom x black!reader

word count: 3,3k

summary: where tom and y/n are in an arranged marriage

a/n: i'm so sorry for being so inactive recently, uni is taking its toll on me.. i had to do a bit of research for this one and also tom is a pureblood here!

warnings: toxic relationship, violence

universe: harry potter

“Get out of my sight, will you?”, he angrily snaps at you out of nowhere, for the third time already on this still very early day. Furiously, he stomps past you, pushing you to the side harshly, the filled glasses on your tray swaying dangerously. Knowing that you should just leave him alone, you stand there completely frozen at the door, still feeling the breeze on your skin after he stormed past you.

The glasses clink on the serving tray as you try to keep your trembling hands under control, but you terribly fail while tears shoot into your eyes. A lump forms in your throat and you gasp in desperation, losing your composure after hearing the front door slam shut.

Slowly, you slump down and therefore with a loud rattle let happen what could have been foreseen already: a thousand shattered pieces of glass scattered across the floor around you while you cower against the wall, your elegant dress pulled over your knees, your forehead leaning against it. Heavy sobs rock through your body and tears find their way down your cheeks, dripping from your chin onto the expensive fabric of your dress.

You just wanted to spend some time with him. Together, in the house of your parents, who went on a daily trip with their close friends early in the morning, all part of the most notorious popular pureblood families in the wizarding world – the Nott’s, the Macmillan’s, the Malfoy’s, the Lestrange’s. And if his parents were still alive, probably with the Riddle’s as well.

This is primarily the reason why you even are in this position right now; crying and huddled in the living room because your fiancé hates you profoundly.

After graduating from Hogwarts last year, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you, descendant of the pureblood Black family, got engaged to Tom Marvolo Riddle, the last living heir of the Riddle’s. He would offer you a good future, they said, and you would never have to worry about anything again.

But nobody knows that in reality, your own beloved fiancé really does not want to have anything to do with you. He does not even want to stay in the same room as you.

You can’t explain why he acts like this towards you. You do not know why he harbors such an abysmal hatred for you and any clear-headed, rational person would have done something about it long ago. Unfortunately for you, you feel the exact opposite for him.

Your heart belongs to him and only to him.

You have liked him since you first met him at Hogwarts, back in 1938, when the two of you were sorted into the Slytherin house. This initial friendly liking has quickly evolved into something more than that over the years and lead you to where you are now, at a point where you would have never seen yourself back then.

You have already tried everything to convince him that you are not as bad as he seems to think. Every morning you bring him his breakfast, you give him everything he needs. Even when you were still at Hogwarts, you always looked after him, finished his homework for him when he was too busy to do it by himself, and helped him pass all of his exams.

And not once did you hear a thank you. Not then and not now either.

Slowly gathering your thoughts together again, you rub the long sleeves of your velvet dress over your damp face, wiping away all of your tears before you get up on shaky legs and begin to clean up the mess that you have created. After you went back to the kitchen with the broken pieces and some injuries on your hands, your gaze longingly slides out the window.

Outside, the sun stands high over the magnificent garden of the mansion, making the clear water in the fountain shimmer in its bright light. A gentle breeze blows through the air and rustles through the perfectly cut trees that line a small path through the garden.

The loud, excited voices that suddenly roar through the house snap you out of your daydream and you quickly wipe the blood from your fingers before you step into the huge marble entrance hall. You arrive at the front door just in time to open it for your parents, who, to your surprise, did not come back alone. You are amazed to find not too familiar faces in front of you as they climb up the stairs to the door where you are still standing.

“And that has to be Y/N. Oh, how you have grown!”, an older man smiles friendly at you and you return his smile with a certain uncertainty in your face.

“Darling, we brought guests over for dinner today. You surely remember the Lestranges?”, your father announces happily and only now do the faces that you have seen at numerous balls and celebrations seem familiar again. Especially one.

“Reinhard?”, you ask in amazement when you spot him standing behind his parents, a big smile on his face when he sees you.

“Y/N, how nice to see you again”, he grins, carefully pushing his way past your parents in order to slightly bow venerably to you, taking your hand in his to place a kiss on the back of it. “It has been some time.”

“I am sure you have a lot to tell each other”, your mother mentions in a sweet voice, but before she can continue, she watches how your facial expression changes from one second to the other as you look past them, out into the yard.

Next to the carriage with which they have returned, Tom is standing now, petting one of the splendid noble white horses before he joins all of you.

“Tom! There you are, I was already wondering where you went”, your father says, visibly pleased when he too spotted his future son-in-law, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

“Reinhard?”

“Tom?”

Within a few seconds, the two former best friends lay in each other’s arms, obviously happy to finally see the other again.

“Let us go inside. We want to show you our newest masterpiece of art in our wonderful collection, come on”, your mother announces happily and leads the Lestranges inside, but not without turning around to you once more. “The children can catch up on what they have missed.”

“I can’t believe it! You are really here, Tom. Man, you look even better than at Hogwarts”, Reinhard laughs, playfully pushing Tom to the side while you watch them in silence. “What are you doing here with the Blacks?”

“They kindly took me in”, Tom lies to him and for a moment you think he threw you a glance out of the corner of his eyes after uttering these words. His statement makes Reinhard realize that you were still there with them, who had apparently completely forgotten that you were even there.

“I am so happy to see you again, Y/N!”, he grins and takes a step closer to you, probably to be able to take a closer look at you. “Still just as beautiful as I imagined. And just as smart, I guess?”

Reinhard’s sudden compliments make you blush and your cheeks glow, which is why you nervously avert your gaze from him, directly falling on Tom, who looks at the scene in front of him with incredible resentment.

Unlike Tom, Reinhard was always there for you. You spent a lot of time together in your school days and if your parents had known about your close friendship, you are sure that he would have been your fiancé by now. Which, to be honest, does not sound bad anymore right now.

And yet your heart still belongs to Tom.

When you all sit together at dinner later in the evening, where your parents are talking about irrelevant things like Ministry of Magic, you keep making eye contact with Reinhard, who seems to be staring at you.

“Is there something on my face?”, you ask uncertainly and put your glass back on the table when you can no longer bear his piercing gaze.

“No, no, not at all. I was just wondering how a beautiful witch like you could have become so much more stunning”, Reinhard winks at you, causing you to swallow hard. You are not used to getting compliments, especially not from a handsome young man like him. Before you can answer to him, however, there is a loud clink and you startle, your eyes immediately fixed on the cause of the noise.

The glass, which you have certainly placed far away from the edge, is now lying in your lap, the little liquid that was still inside now spread over your elegant evening gown. You move your chair back in shock when, in the corner of your eye, you see how Tom puts away his wand. And not only did you notice Tom just now, but the rest of them follow your gaze.

“Tom, darling, how about you tell our guests how you and our daughter got to know each other”, your mother suddenly prompts him, not even realizing that he has just deliberately spilled your drink on you. But why did he in the first place?

„I would love to“, Tom puts on a really believable smile that no one but you questions and starts telling them how you met and fell in love with each other. He tells one lie after another, explaining the web of lies that you have spun around you over time to make your relationship as credible as possible, at least in front of other people. And suddenly nobody cares about you or your still soaking wet dress anymore.

“What a wonderful story”, Mrs. Lestrange applauds and everyone else seems to be completely enthusiastic about Tom’s fairytale. To top it off, he then reaches across the table to take your hand in his, just like a real affectionate couple would do.

You lower your gaze as he gently strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, trying your best to not show how uncomfortable you are. Oh, how much you wish that this were real, that Tom would actually treat you like this when you are alone, the same way as he does in front of your parents.

But he does not and deep down you know that he will never do.

“So, you are engaged?”, Reinhard scrutinizes the statement of his former best friend, his eyes focused on you suspiciously, as if he is expecting an answer from you and not from Tom. A slight pressure on your hand makes you flinch and look up.

“Y-Yes”, you force a smile onto your lips, whereupon Tom seems satisfied with your answer, letting go of your hand again with a - what seemed to you like a – disgusted expression on his face.

An uncomfortable silence spreads between the three of you, which is drowned out by the loud conversation of the adults on the other side of the table. Finally, making up your mind, you clear your throat loudly and get up from your chair, gaining everyone’s attention in a matter of seconds.

“Excuse me, I have to go freshen up for a moment”, you explain with a slight polite bow before turning away to leave the dining room.

“Reinhard, would you be so kind and help Y/N”, Mr. Lestrange asks his son, who stands up with furrowed brows, apparently just as surprised about this sudden request as you, but then follows you out into the hallway with no further objection.

“I really do not need any help, thank you”, you try to get rid of him as you walk up the large staircase leading to the first floor together, only wanting to be alone.

“Dinner like these are totally boring anyway”, he chuckles softly and shows no intentions of leaving your side any time soon, which is why you do not even try to search for further arguments. He follows you to your room where you are able to tear yourself away from him to put on a new dress while he waits outside in front of the door.

With an equally elegant burgundy red dress you step out of your room after a few minutes, Reinhard’s eyes greeting you with a sparkle.

“Wow”, he breathes out barely audible and takes you hand without asking to swirl you around, causing your dress to fly around gorgeously. Unintentionally, warmth rises in your face again and your hearts makes a barely noticeable jump inside your chest when he looks deep into your eyes after catching you back in his arms.

The loud clearing of a throat behind you makes you turn around in shock, only to see that Tom himself is now standing at the end of the corridor, not seeming very enthusiastic.

“We did not see you there, Tom”, Reinhard disguises his obvious nervousness with a laugh, acting like Tom had just caught you in doing something he should not have seen. Tom, however, does not even react to his words, but looks past Reinhard at you, his eyebrows raised meaningfully.

But when you do not move under his piercing gaze, his facial expression changes and he quickly approaches you, Reinhard instinctively pushing you behind him so that you can only see Tom approaching further over his shoulder. Before neither you nor Reinhard can say or do anything, Tom has already pulled out his wand and aims it directly at Reinhard, who flies back through the air only a few seconds later, hitting the hard marble floor at the end of the corridor with a thud.

“What the-?!”

“Come with me”, Tom orders, now standing directly in front of you. When you stubbornly refuse, he suddenly grabs your wrist to pull you away from there. No matter how much you fight against his firm grip, you cannot tear yourself away from him as he pulls you into the closest room, which turns out to be the library.

Once there, you can finally free yourself from his tight grip, but before you can reach for the doorknob to leave immediately, he locks the door with a spell. Angrily, you turn to him, despair written all over your stunning face.

“What is this supposed to be, Tom? Let me out of here, now!”, you command him in a loud voice, not caring if anybody can hear.

“What did he want from you?”, he asks you urgently and steps closer to you. Since the door is in your back, every possible escape route is blocked, and you are caught.

“We just talked to each other, you know. Like normal people do”, you answer irritably and cross your arms in front of your chest, not in the mood to justify yourself, especially not in front of someone who does not care about you at all and not after what he has done.

“But that did not look like it.”

“Tom, stop it.”

“You belong to me and nobody else!”

These words coming out of his mouth echo loudly through the dark library, his face wrapped in an eerie candlelight. Before you can even control yourself and fully process what he said, you severely slap him.

Frightened by your own horrible deed, you immediately pull your hand away, your gaze filled with fear, but the anger that keeps building up inside of you winning the upper hand after all.

“How dare you call me your property?!”, you scream in rage and tears form in your eyes because of your uncontrollable anger. However, Tom needs a moment to collect his thoughts after your heavy smack before he can answer you.

“You are my fiancé”, he spits out coldly, a touch of shock in his voice, apparently not expecting you to react like this.

“And that does not make me nowhere near your property! You never treat me like your fiancé anyway, so why now all of a sudden?!”, you bicker at him, your voice loud and constant, even though you would like to flee from this situation right away if you were able to.

But Tom does not have an answer.

“Fine, okay. If you have nothing to say to me, like you never have, then I will go back now and ask my parents to end this damn failed engagement and engage me with someone else who truly cares for me!”

Suddenly, without letting you time to catch your breath after your outburst, he presses you with your back against the door completely, his hands tightly grabbing your wrists, a little too tight for your personal liking.

“You mustn’t do that”, he softly whispers, his head lowered as if he does not dare to look you in the eyes.

“What is stopping me?”, you hiss, still full of anger and – probably for the very first time – hatred towards him.

But when you feel his lips on yours all of a sudden, all of these emotions evaporate and all that remains is your racing heartbeat, which is being repaired at this very moment. You never would have thought that at some point in your life the moment would come when Tom Marvolo Riddle, who absolutely loathes his fiancé, kisses you.

After kissing you, he looks straight into your eyes, and the Tom you met in 1938 is standing in front of you again. The Tom you fell so deeply in love with.

“I can’t explain it to you”, he finally breaks the silence, his gaze directed to the floor as he moves away from you, giving you enough space to breathe regularly again. You, however, do not say anything but just stare at him.

“I was not aware that I am capable of feeling such feelings for someone. I am unfamiliar with this feeling and I did not know how to deal with it, Y/N. I treated you badly because I did not want it to be true, I did not want to accept it. I could not imagine having feelings for the little nuisance that has always been running after me”, Tom explains, choosing each and every single word very carefully, trying to put his emotions into words which does not really work the way he would like it to. But that is how you know him. You know that this confession must be extremely difficult for him, but you can’t help but feel a sense of relief inside of you.

“When?”, you ask and manage, with this tiny little word, to make him look up at you. “When did you know?”

“Since I have been here. You served me every day and took care of me, even though I wanted to push you away from me with all of my might. You have already helped me so many times in the past without me even asking, you have always accepted me for who I am”, he desperately tries to but his feelings into words, asking himself what he is even doing right now.

“Tom..”

“No, I have to sincerely apologize to you. I had no right to treat you the way I did. And also today.. when I saw you with him and how well you got along, it finally became clear to me. Reinhard has felt something for you since our school days, I know that even though I could never understand, but now I do. I understand why he fell in love with you”, Tom continues without breathing, pouring out all of his feelings that he has hidden for so long.

“I understand if you want to dissolve this engagement and I will not stop you if that is what you want”, he quickly adds, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. He already prepares himself for the worst when you are the one getting closer to him this time.

“Idiot”, you smile slightly and place a gentle kiss on his lips while he looks at you puzzled. “I love you, I thought you knew that.”

“I know, but-“

“But nothing”, you interrupt him and take his hand to lead it to your fast pounding heart. “It always belonged to you.”

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saurexhas · 3 years

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Love is Blind - Part 1

So I’ve been hanging out with @studionovella and the team for @nightmare-castle, and the sheer talent in their discord server is so amazing. It led me to be inspired, and while I’m typically more of a Sanscest writer, I figured that it’d be fun to try something new considering the source of my inspiration! So have some Nightmare x MC (Nightmare x Reader).

Be warned, this story handles blindness and... probably some other sensitive topics considering it’s me. So just watch the tags for any relevant triggers!

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You didn’t think that it was possible, but somehow you had fallen for Nightmare. On the surface he was cold, cruel, and calculating, using everyone he could to advance his goals. But if you could tolerate the coldness, get past his clinical treatment of those he believed were beneath him, then there was so much more to him. Nightmare was a scholar, a brilliant mind with a vision for a world all his own. He appreciated the arts, often enjoying his downtime with a good book and a calming cup of tea. And believe it or not, there was a small part of him that genuinely cared for the skeletons under his charge. You’ve seen that side of him more than most, managing to open even his eye to what was hidden beneath the centuries of anger and hatred.

Even if negativity was still a large part of who he was, you found yourself able to accept that darkness, because it only made the small lights within him shine brighter. Just like the stars the two of you were gazing at. Though as your gaze shifted to the skeleton currently dominating your thoughts, you found that piercing cyan eye of his locked onto you instead of the sky. If there was ever any doubt in your mind that your feelings were reciprocated, one look at his gaze would sweep it all away. There was a tenderness to him, reserved only for you as he would say. It was only in these moments where the two of you were alone that he would let his imposing demeanor slide.

Getting moments to yourselves was easier said than done though. Despite the sheer size of the castle, the others always seemed to be around. They knew how Nightmare favoured you, how he treated you special and wasn’t as harsh. You were pretty sure that they’d managed to piece everything together on their own, even if none of them ever said anything for fear of angering their king. That said, some of them, namely Killer, seemed to delight in getting in the way of your fleeting moments alone. And there was always no shortage of work to be done, not when your partner was as ambitious as he was. Nightmare aimed to create an empire, and you were doing what you could to further his goals. Even if all that work and Killer’s interference left you and Nightmare fleeing to other worlds in order to have some semblance of a relationship.

Outertale was a favourite destination of yours, the beauty of the cosmos always taking your breath away. It always seemed so far removed from the chaos of the multiverse, or the chaos of the castle.The peace and quiet out here made it perfect for when both you and your partner just needed a break. You could stand out here for hours, watching the subtle shifts in the sky or mapping constellations.

But for now, you were seemingly locked in a staring contest with the lord of darkness, neither willing to look away or break the silence that had fallen. Unsure of what to do, you simply reached out with your finger and booped the tip of his nose. The look of utter surprise on his face left you giggling, only for his own rich laughter to mingle with yours.

“You dare to lay a hand on the God of Negativity, hmm?” He teased, pulling you close with his tentacles before wrapping his arms around your waist. “You are either very brave or very foolish… maybe a bit of both. How shall I deal with your crime, my little moon?”

You couldn’t help but swoon a bit at the pet name he called you, grinning up at him like a fool as you took advantage of the close proximity to snuggle close. “I could swear my love to you, would that appease the great Nightmare?”

“Perhaps,” he chuckled, the distance closing between the two of you even further as he ducked his head down to be level with your own. Nightmare opened his mouth, perhaps to say something else or to move in for the kiss you were anticipating. Before either option could happen though, the dark skeleton froze for a split second. There wasn’t even time to ask what was wrong before you found yourself hefted into his arms, the two of you dodging a volley of bright blue arrows that had speared where you’d been moments ago.

Your heart hammered in your throat, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you tried to get a grip on what was happening. Nightmare still had you cradled to his chest, dodging arrows and… was that paint? Following the paint’s trajectory, you could see your partner’s enemies had managed to crash your little date.

The Star Sanses stood on the other end of the floating chunk of rock you were on, the portal they’d used to arrive closing behind them. Blue was just coming through the portal, his gaster blaster hammer in his grip. Dream had another arrow ready to fire, though he hesitated upon seeing you staring back at him. Ink on the other hand wasted no time in splattering more of his paints everywhere, a tentacle raising to block you from the oncoming attack. The paint hissed and fizzled on contact, a growl leaving Nightmare as he jumped to another nearby rock to escape the barrage.

“Night, are you okay?!” You look up to see him trying to hide his pain, showing you that those paints are far more than something to be smeared on a piece of paper. While you’d heard stories from the others about the chaotic creator, you’d never met him in person or seen him fight. Seeing that paint flying towards you was way scarier than the guys’ stories had led you to believe.

“I’ll be fine,” Nightmare insisted as he set you down, even if you knew that attack hurt. “Look, you need to remain here where you’ll be safe. I don’t care what kind of training you’ve been partaking in with the others; I refuse to let you endanger yourself by fighting them. Ink especially is dangerous, keep away from him at all costs. If you cannot dodge his attacks, make sure to shield your face. His paint can burn like acid if he wishes, and while liquid negativity protects my body, you have no such defenses. Give me your word that you will remain safe while I deal with these pests.”

As much as you wanted to argue that you could help, even you couldn’t muster the confidence to speak against him with such a stern glare directed at you. It was clear that Nightmare wouldn’t take no for an answer on this one, so you had no choice but to nod your head meekly. “I-I’ll stay here,” you promised, glancing up to see him seemingly satisfied. Without another word, he rushed off, preventing Blue from getting any closer with his large hammer.

Watching Nightmare take on all three of the Star Sanses by himself was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, much like the first times you’d joined sparring sessions with the guys. But there wasn’t the assurance in the back of your mind that nobody would be out to kill you. While it might not be the goals of all of the Stars, there was very much mortal danger in this fight for both you and the one you loved. Staying on the sidelines like this was painful, leaving you feeling useless as Nightmare struggled to hold off the onslaught.

Were they not essentially your enemies, you’d be impressed by the coordination and teamwork the Stars possessed. All three of them were capable of both melee and ranged attacks, and wordlessly organized themselves so that one of their own was never in danger of being hit by their own attacks. Dream’s precision with his arrows allowed him to stay primarily a ranged fighter, while Blue’s blasters and Ink’s attacks were a bit too widespread to risk while one of them fought in close combat. Nightmare was the only one without a specific ranged attack, which probably explained why the others rarely got close to attack. Your lover’s tentacles gave him reach though, and the ability to hit multiple targets at once, so he was somehow able to hold his own against all three.

The battle looked to be a stalemate… until one of the Stars suddenly switched tactics. While Blue rushed in with a hammer and bones at his side, Ink actually turned his back on the fight. He seemed a little lost, like he was trying to remember something, only for his eyes to light up as he locked gazes with you. Instant panic seized you as the one skeleton that Nightmare warned you about came straight for you, manic glee plastered over his face as he quickly crossed the distance between the two of you. A glance back at the battle proved that Nightmare had seen what was going on, but Blue was keeping him from coming to your aid. So it was up to you to think fast and avoid the creator, hope bubbling in you that this might actually make things easier. If you could keep Ink busy by dodging his attacks, then Nightmare might be able to take on the remaining two with better success before coming after Ink.

With this admittedly crazy plan in your head, you began a game of cat and mouse with Ink, jumping from one place to the next. If you didn’t have a splash-happy maniac chasing you, it would’ve been cool to enjoy the low gravity of Outertale. For now though, it was all that was allowing you to escape most of the attacks directed at you. You were far from unscathed though, small splashes of paint eating away at your arms and legs. It burned, but was nothing you couldn’t deal with as you continued to dodge and weave the bulk of the attacks. So long as none of it touched your face, you would be fine.

Glancing back at the main battle going on, your hopes of Nightmare doing better against two targets instead of three were steadily being crushed. He seemed distracted, constantly looking up to watch you kite Ink around the area. Instead of focusing on the two he had to deal with, he was so worried about you and Ink that he was now losing. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was facing off against Ink and Blue, because there was little the two could do beyond superficial damage. Dream on the other hand was still very much a threat, his arrows of pure positivity being about the only thing that could seriously hurt. And you could see several piercing the ground, coated in the black negativity that Nightmare relied on for protection. It was a surefire way to see when he’d been hit, and the staggering amount of these soiled arrows made it clear that your partner wasn’t holding his own anymore. Guilt welled up in you, because you were the reason he was now losing this fight. While there wasn’t much you could honestly do to shake Ink from your trail, reason did little to quell the negativity rising inside you. All you could hope for was that your own despair could give Nightmare just a bit more power, enough to keep himself safe at least.

As time dragged on, both you and Nightmare were running out of stamina. Your legs cried for rest as you continued to run away from the creator, while your lover’s movements were growing noticeably sluggish. More arrows seemed to connect than not at this point, and he had barely any time to recover from one attack before dealing with another. The two of you were badly losing, and it was quite clear now why Nightmare rarely let anyone from the castle venture out on their own.

The Stars seemed to sense this sudden weakness in their target, Dream finally stopping his barrage to call out to the one going after you. “Ink! Stop playing around, I need your help!” Help? What help could Ink possibly be? Even his corrosive paints couldn’t breach the surface of Nightmare’s negativity, the only thing that could was Dream’s… oh… oh no.

As the realization hit you, Ink finally gave up his pursuit. “Woo! Looks like my plan actually worked… at least I think this was my plan. Whatever, let’s do this!” Laughing at some untold joke, Ink hopped away from you to return to the large rock that most of the battle had been on. At the same moment though, you felt your legs moving as the horrific reality of their plan hit you. Ink purposefully went after you to distract Nightmare, allowing the others to weaken him enough so that their special attack would hit. The creator might not be able to damage the surface, but if Dream’s arrow ripped through first, then there’d be a narrow window where Nightmare’s greatest defense would be gone. In a single spot he’d be vulnerable, which is why they needed to slow him down enough to ensure their hit would work.

You weren’t going to let that happen. Promise be damned, your soul was screaming at you to protect the one you loved, and you were going to heed its call. The ache in your legs went completely ignored, adrenaline pushing you forward with more speed than you thought you could muster. You needed to be faster though; Ink was already there, and Blue had set about corralling Nightmare to keep him still.

Only a few floating chunks of rock were between you and your beloved now, but you still weren’t fast enough. Panic rose once again as you watched Dream draw back his bowstring, the arrow glimmering faintly in the surrounding darkness. Ink stood ready beside him, the paint coating his brush a dangerous shade of red. That same paint had left such horrible burns along your limbs, and you could only imagine the damage it might do to the weakened god of negativity. With Blue running interference and drawing Nightmare’s attention, it was only a matter of time now.

As your feet touched down on the large space rock, several feet from everyone else, you knew that you were out of time. Nightmare was too absorbed in his fight to hear your warning calls, and it would only alert the two and likely cause them to reset before trying again. This attack would only work once though, because once Nightmare knew of their plan, he wouldn’t let it work a second time. That meant that you had one chance to stop them, especially when you saw that Dream was aiming towards his twin’s soul.

Courage and determination welled within your soul, driving you forward despite the risk you were running straight into. Any number of things could go seriously wrong, but… you couldn’t risk them killing him. Nightmare was the bane of the multiverse to many, but he was everything to you. Gritting your teeth, you timed your steps so that you’d only enter Dream’s field of vision after he fired, preventing them from stopping you and trying again. The second he saw you, the god of positivity’s expression changed from one of grim determination to one of shock and horror, his hand reaching out as if he could stop his attack or stop you. His hesitance once again wasn’t present in Ink, the creator wasting no time in flinging the red paint directly after the arrow.

With mere seconds to spare, your outstretched hands made contact with the cool goop that covered Nightmare’s body. All of your momentum and might went into a push, knocking the deity away from the incoming attack. Your lover turned back to look at you the second you made contact, his eye conveying the same shock and horror as Dream’s had when he saw you. All you could do was smile, knowing that you’d managed to save him no matter what danger you’d put yourself in. Nightmare reached out for you just as the arrow whizzed past, its trajectory leaving it slicing past your eyes. Pain bloomed as the minor cuts scratched the outsides of your eyes, but it was nothing compared to what came next. You’d been so concerned about the arrow that you temporarily forgot about Ink. His attack followed as per the Stars’ plan, splattering over the both of you with its acidic effect. The scratches to your eyes had left you temporarily blind, so you weren’t able to see that red paint as it splashed all over your face. The last thing you saw was instead Nightmare, reaching out to you as if to save you from this pain.

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#mc #x reader #nightmare sans #dream sans #ink sans #swap sans #star sanses #bad sanses #established relationship #tw blindness #fighting #violence #saurex works #saurex drabbles

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cinnamonest · 3 years

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Kaeya Alberich - Yandere Profile

YES I love my eyepatch boy!! I really like him as a yandere, because he's definitely got several traits and behaviors that would make him a very unconventional/different yet absolutely terrifying one to have. Him or Diluc as your yandere is basically like playing a game on maximum difficulty. He's so arrogant dammit why does he have to make it hot

More importantly, someone take the ability to write n/sfw away from me I s2g... I go from trying to make serious content to nasty weird kinks and completely feral in .002 seconds the moment I add that readmore

tws: gaslighting, manipulation, yandere, mentions of mutilation

tws (below cut): noncon, a good deal of sadism, mentions of an*l

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What are they generally like? Lucid, aware? Obsessive? How do they behave?

He's actually one of the worst yanderes you could have in almost every regard, for two very simple reasons: his crippling psychological issues, and his intense selfishness. The first manifests as severe abandonment issues. It's the origin of his unhealthy feelings, most likely. Kaeya doesn't like the instability of people - based on his backstory, people always leave, or die, and even if they don't intend to, somehow it feels like abandonment, and he resents it. People leave him all alone and afraid and uncertain. That's generally all he knows, and despite the smug exterior, he's actually pushed people away quite a bit, keeps everyone at arm's length to ensure they can't become someone too important for him to accept their sudden absence. He can't care about someone, because that someone is fated to inevitably leave him, no matter who it may be.

That's why, once you manage to worm your way into his feelings and heart despite his best efforts, once he finally caves to acknowledging the feeling, he's aware. Painfully aware, because be can't stop worrying every waking moment about you, your well-being, your location. It reaches a point where he can't go about his job because he's simply too consumed with his worry.

The solution that kept him safest in the past was to avoid developing emotional attachments, but when he does, he's terrified of both your safety AND you intentionally abandoning him. Really, the latter would hurt worse, since he can't fault you for dying, but to abandon him? It would break him.

And, to some extent, he's developed a lot of prideful anger about it, deep, deep down. He feels that he doesn't deserve to be abandoned, doesn't deserve to just be left behind under the guise of some greater purpose, and he'll be damned if he just lets you toss him aside like he feels others did. Even if you reject him, he won't accept it. You don't get to reject him. He won't allow that. What has he ever done to deserve everything that's happened to him? Nothing. You're the one person who has stayed with him, and you're going to continue to be with him. Forever.

That being said, he's still somewhat confident because he's got that arrogance about him. He doesn't perceive rejection, because he's always gotten a lot of attention for his looks, even if he's never actually followed through on anyone else's attention out of those same fears. He'll write off any perceived rejection as being for some other reason, something besides an actual rejection, and he'll seek to eliminate whatever he feels is keeping you from just accepting him.

Honestly, one of the most likely to have a full blown, classic-yandere-style psychotic breakdown. He can be driven to a snapping point, if there's enough stress or obstacles, and in case of that, he'll be a lot more willing to kill, and a lot more willing to hurt you, but it's a point that would still take a lot to reach.

But what's really terrifying about Kaeya is his delusions, primarily his ability to mentally justify everything he does without hesitation. Even most delusional yanderes struggle - they feel like it's wrong, they know it is deep down, and they take time to convince themselves of their delusions, tell themselves it's ok over and over, beg for reassurance, and get defensive when called out because they know they're in the wrong. The same isn't true for Kaeya. He automatically justifies his actions by default, and has absolutely zero doubt or hesitation to do so. He doesn't even need a complex reason for justification - it's a simple one. He deserves what he wants. Anything necessary to achieve that is fair.

How likely are they to kidnap their darling? How quickly will they do so?

Highly likely and very quickly, right up there with Diluc and Razor. And he's absolutely remorseless about it. It ties back into his delusional state and ability to justify anything he does - this is what's best for you. If you don't get that, that's your problem, not his.

He's another one to not want to pull some barbaric move like knocking you out, rather, he'd rather just trick you into walking right into your new home. He gets that you'll be upset about it, but to him, that's just part of the process. Not that he'll tolerate it for too long. 12, maybe 24 hours is enough time for you to reasonably be upset, but if you're still trying to fight him on this after that, he's going to get snappy about it, thinking you should already be over that by now.

How difficult is it to escape from them? How do they keep you restrained? How do they deal with attempted escape?

You're not leaving.

It's not worth trying, really. How he manages to do it is a mystery to you, but he'll manage to keep you locked in right there at the headquarters with him. How Jean and Lisa haven't found out about you being there, how he convinced all of his guards to be on his side of things, you have no idea. Realistically, if you get out, he's likely to make you out to be some kind of criminal that needs to be found -- just not to hurt you in any way, so goes the order, and the knights know better than to question why.

He has eyes and ears everywhere, it won't take them anytime at all to find you. He's so confident in that, and combined with his pride, he doesn't feel the need to go get you himself. No, it's a lot more satisfying to sit back and watch as they drag you through the doors of the headquarters, slowly pull you to the end of the room and drop you down at his feet, where he can look down on you with that closed-eyed, artificially wide smile that tells you that you have seriously fucked up.

Escape attempts aren't going to be met with a single shred of mercy, really. The thing about Kaeya is he's ultimately a selfish, selfish bastard with a lot of deep-seeded, highly repressed emotional issues, and he has absolutely no problem with keeping you bound hand and foot, or maybe even make some permanent modifications to your body if that's what it takes to keep you. It's not a wise idea to even try unless you're absolutely certain to succeed, otherwise you may find yourself never getting the opportunity again. You don't really need those Achilles tendons intact, you know. And your ankle bones are just so fragile, they'll snap with just a little twist. Actually, that wouldn't be too bad, giving you more reasons to be grateful when he's doing everything for you.

He's not one to just let it go, either. No, escape attempts are the one unforgivable thing for him, the one thing that will make him totally and completely snap. You don't get to do that. You're the one thing that doesn't get to just disappear out of his life in a flash. Half the reason he sends the knights to get you rather than going himself is to give him some time to let the rage settle down, otherwise he knows he might not be able to control himself and might end up hurting you even worse than he intends to. He's not going to buy any excuses and won't go any lighter on you if you beg and grovel or anything. But you will apologize -- you get to choose how hard it is. You can apologize the easy way, or, if you don't want to, there are many ways to force it out. But by the end, he'll get an apology, and a promise to never try again, out of you, no matter what that takes. It's by far the worst state you'll ever see him in, and really, once is enough to dissuade you from trying again.

How easy are they to trick, deceive, or manipulate?

You'd have to try pretty hard. He doesn't have the sheer amount of years of life experience like Venti or Zhongli, but he's not the captain for no reason - he's perceptive, and highly intelligent.

Rather than simply mastering reading human voice and facial expressions for telltale signs of deceit, he's good at learning individuals in particular - memorizing the patterns of thought and action of a particular individual, and predicting how they will act. He can do it with everyone else with ease, how much more, then, with the object of an obsession? If you're trying to formulate some plan to trick him, he'll already predict what you'll do, if you lie, he already knows. It's creepier than the others, really, because it's not just that he can tell when you're lying, but rather he already knows you're going to lie or try some scheme before you do it. It feels so tailored and personalized to your thought patterns, it almost feels like an invasion of the privacy of your mind, which, really, is the one privacy you thought you had left.

He's great at gaslighting himself, too. He's a very good liar, and can make you believe anything he wants. He'll target your fears and paranoias, make you believe you're going crazy, and he'll do it all so perfectly you'll never suspect a thing. You'll end up coming to him for protection and guidance, exactly as planned.

How lenient are they? What privileges can you have, and what will you be denied?

Pretty strict. He doesn't let you have any outside contact, and you're limited on what you can do when he's gone. He'll bring you some books, maybe something to draw on -- no sharp writing utensils, though. In his mind, that should be enough to occupy you.

You won't get outside walks or visits. It's just too risky for him, and he really doesn't like seeing other people look at you. If you really, really beg, and you've been on amazing behavior, and you're well into your relationship, maybe a few months or so, there's a chance he'll take you out at nighttime, or sunrise, but at the slightest sign of intentions he doesn't like, you'll be dragged back, and you won't see the sun for a long time.

You'll have a very limited wardrobe, he doesn't see why you even need to wear anything, but if you're going to be stubborn, he can get you something simple, like an old shirt and some underwear, but that's about all you can have. Any requests for actual clothing are going to be denied. It's ridiculous for him to spend money on something you don't need, and besides, he prefers it this way, y'know?

What kind of rules do they have? What kind of punishment would they use?

Generally, it's a simple one: obey. You do what he tells you to do, and you don't do something if he tells you not to. This stems to similar rules that develop: be submissive, don't be argumentative, don't be defiant. Follow those, and you can both be happy, and that's what you want, isn't it? It had better be - he's not very lenient, and will harshly punish even small offenses. As for that punishment... most of it isn't going to be sfw. That's just how he is.

What he will do is emotionally manipulate you, and he's rather good at it. You wanted to escape? Ok. He'll let you have your way, let you be alone. All alone. All by yourself, in a little room, with no one at all, which is exactly how you would have left him, had you succeeded. He knows very well how that kind of loneliness bites. He's not totally cruel, though, and he won't withhold affection from you by the time he returns -- he doesn't need to, you'll already be crying and apologizing, which is exactly what he hoped for. Not that he won't briefly mock you for it.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're crying like that because you actually missed me. Oh, you did? Being all alone isn't particularly fun, now is it? I'm sure you understand that now."

How do they deal with rivals, or perceived rivals? Will they get rid of them? Will they kill them themselves, or find another way?

Kaeya's an insanely jealous person. It doesn't show on his face, but it eats at him internally. It doesn't matter if it's a love interest, a platonic friend, even a family member. It's all the same -- people who want to take your attention away from him, people who you smile at that aren't him, people you love that aren't him. He's not one to delude himself into thinking everyone secretly loves you romantically, rather, it doesn't matter. Romantic interests are the worst threat, sure, but friends and family aren't much better.

He sees himself as above killing, though. He has people to do that for him, and he likes knowing that he has that much power. He's not going to dirty his hands with it, and frankly, they're not even worthy of his time and effort to kill them. Knights and other connections can take care of it just as well.

How easy is it to make them mad? What does their anger look like?

As somewhat previously discussed, the primary form of making him mad is attempting an escape. That's on a whole new level of anger because it strikes at a very deep, wounding insecurity. On a normal day, though, he's more easily exasperated than angry. He gets frustrated somewhat easily, especially if you're trying exceptionally hard to be a brat. He has very clear warning signs. His signature little smirk drops, he gets quiet, he balls his hands into fists and digs his fingernails into his palms. At that stage, he's irritable and might snap at you, but won't get too angry until you ignore those signs and push it.

If you do push him, though, he gets genuinely mad, which is a very quiet anger at first -- he doesn't talk much when he's mad. He acts. You'll know he's snapped when he puts down whatever he's doing, and just silently stomps over to you, face completely empty and flat, looking down at you with a cold expression. It's enough to put fear in you, but at that point, even if you apologize, you're not getting out of whatever he's planned.

So they see you as above them, beneath them, or equal to them?

Strongly in the "below" camp, a rather unusual stance for a yandere. Like many things with him, there's an inexplicable duality going on there. You would think that if you loved someone so strongly you'd kidnap them, kill for them, and potentially suffer consequences just to have them, that you would really think highly of them. On the flip side, you would think that if you really saw someone as lowly, you wouldn't care for them, you'd see them as disposable.

But neither is true for Kaeya, no, he balances both obsessive love and complete narcissism regarding you. You're not disposable, no, he can't live without you, he needs you. But at the same time, you're not gonna be on any kind of pedestal. No, if anything, he sees himself on one, more like a throne, and you on the floor before him, how things should be.

He has a similar mindset to Zhongli or Albedo - you're fragile, you're dumb, you're incapable, and you need someone to care for you, protect you, guide you, someone who knows what's best for you, since you clearly don't. However, he's lacking in the attitude those other two have -- there's no seeing you as an angel here. There's no viewing himself as being absolutely honored to take care of you, or viewing protecting and caring for you as some kind of privilege that they're blessed to do, the way those two do.

No, as much as he loves those things, he'll never admit it, not even to himself really. Rather, his mentality is that you should be grateful. Here he is, a very highly respected, accomplished, capable person, and you...? You have what to offer, exactly? That's right, nothing, really, only cuteness and obedience, the latter of which you refuse to give him even though you really ought to. He's taking on the burden of making sure you don't get yourself killed, and how do you repay him? By getting mad about it, throwing a fit like some little kid? He puts up with your tantrums, which are really undeserved, by the way. He puts up with your disobedience and repeated rule violations, your sheer determination to defy him when he's going out of his way to do what's best for you.

One day, he thinks, you'll mature a little bit and understand why he does what he does, and when you do, you'll come groveling and sniffling about how sorry you are, how you'll never defy him again, how you'll be good and obedient from now on, and he'll love every second of it. He looks forward to that day quite a bit.

"Sigh... you know, you're pretty lucky I love you so much. You could stand to show me a little thanks, don't you think?"

How determined are they for you to love them? How hard will they try to make it happen? Or are they content just having you?

He's strongly determined, and yet... doesn't do much to try. It goes back to his mindset that really, you're the one who should be grateful for him, and eventually, you will love him. He's not gonna grovel to you or try different ways of making you love him, no, he's far too proud for that. But he's a smart man. He knows the effects that complete and total isolation other than one other person can have on someone. He's just going to sit back and wait for that effect to kick in, and slowly watch your fragile little mind deteriorate until you're desperate for affection. At which point, well, he can use it against you.

"You were so mean to me before, weren't you? You fought me every step of the way, and now you're just going to turn around and act like that didn't happen...? Well, if you're really sorry, I'll forgive you. But how am I supposed to believe you really are...? Maybe you can think of a way to prove it, hm?"

Bonus: Is there anything that makes them unique, in comparison to other yanderes?

Probably the severity of his degradation. As aforementioned, most yanderes, even the more confident or cocky individuals, either worship the ground their beloved walks on and sees themselves as beneath them, OR sees their darling as some sort of fragile, angelic being, and they are simply a protector or caretaker to that being.

It's a bit different with him, ever the narcissist. It's a strange duality born out of a rare mix of neediness, obsession, and pride. You're more like a toy, or a pet - an invaluable pet that he could never part with, but a pet nonetheless. He certainly looks down on you more than the average yandere - he mentally associates you as naive, fragile, even dumb like a lot of the aforementioned protector/caretaker types, but without the reverence to make up for it.

It's a bizarre duality that not even he fully understands - don't think for a moment that that means he'll ever tire of you, or view you as disposable. No, he's actually one of the most obsessive ones, yet very demanding of attention and praise, rather than giving it.

He frequently tests you - things like leaving the door unlocked, waiting outside just to see if you'll try it. Seeing you open that door, watching your face go from ecstatic excitement and drop to wide-eyed terror, it's priceless.

"My, my, you didn't waste any time at all, did you? Why do you look so surprised...? You should know I wouldn't slip up that badly."

Pet names, but in the most infuriatingly condescending way, and uses them more often when he's mad and trying to warn you that you're pushing his limits. Particularly fond of "sweetheart," especially with a low warning tone and clenched teeth.

General perverseness: how sexual of a person are they? What’s their drive like? How touchy do they get? Do they have any reservations about sexuality?

Horny fucker, all the way. The man has a lot of stress and frustration in his life already, that much more if you're... less than compliant with your new lifestyle. Sex, especially rough and hard, is a fantastic stress reliever.

Very little reservation. He's not crude about it, but he tends to make subtle innuendos very frequently, and laughs at your embarrassed reactions. Definitely the type to pull the whole shtick in which he says something with a blatant sexual undertone, then elaborates in a way to make it sound like having meant something else, follows with that smirk and says, "Why? What did you think I meant?" It's something he really enjoys doing, and loves to get embarrassed reactions out of people, particularly yourself.

"Touchy" doesn't begin to describe it. Pretty much from the moment you meet him, he's got his hands somewhere on your person. He grabs your shoulders when he stands behind you, he wraps an arm around you from the side when he walks up to you, he's always pressing his hands on your back and sides whenever you're navigating the streets, walking through doorways, wraps an arm around your waist when sitting next to you. It's highly uncomfortable, but really, he's just got something very subtly, but very strongly intimidating about him. You almost don't want to confront him on it. If you do, he'll laugh it off, and stop -- for maybe 48 hours or so, and then he'll be right back at it.

To the surprise of, well, everyone who's ever met him, he doesn't actually live up to the rumors of having been around the block, so to speak. His experience is actually little to none - that kinda happens when you push everyone around you away. Not that he'd ever let you know that, of course, and will probably lie if asked, but you can gleam a little bit of truth from slightly awkward movements and a bit of noticeable shakiness.

How forceful are they? Do they care about your willingness?

Kind of like Razor, the issue is that he loves you, and what better way is there of expressing love? He's not much for gift-giving or words of affirmation - no, he's a lot better with words of degradation, it comes more naturally to him. And he's certainly not one to enjoy acts of service -- well, not doing them, he'll gladly take them as a sign of your love, though. No, he expresses love through touch. It's like how, when you hug someone you really love, someone you missed, you squeeze them extra tight - the love manifests as a physical urge for some strong expression. Humans are physical about their emotions -- we punch walls when we're mad, we jump up and down when we're happy, and when you love someone, sometimes you just really, really want to pound them into a mattress as hard as physically possible. That's normal. That, and really, he's got his vices. He's actually fairly weak when it comes to resisting temptations, and prone to give in to urges for physical sensations like drunkenness and sex.

Is another one to be convinced that, with time, you'll come around. And is absolutely the top candidate to be one for using your own body against you - if you get wet, if you whimper, if you cum, that's just proof that you really do want this, that you're just being difficult because you enjoy being a brat, and he'll be sure to tell you that.

What sort of kinks or fetishes do they have, or would they fill?

This is nearly indistinguishable from punishment, sadistic bastard

D/S dynamics

Arrogant fucker wants to be served and worshipped, you could see it coming from a mile away. Anything that puts you beneath him is going to make him happy - anything where you're where you're supposed to be. There's a lot of options, but it doesn't really matter, as long as he feels like he's in control and ownership of you in some way, and as long as you act accordingly.

He wants it to be something that’s not just for sex, but rather, he’ll end up carrying it over into normal life, whether you like it or not. If you just went along with it in hopes of getting it over with once he cums, you’re going to be in for a treat when it starts to carry over. He gets a little too used to being worshipped, and decides he likes that submissive attitude on you enough to want to see it all the time.

Petplay/Collaring

It really helps that he sees you as something of a pet already, but really, the collar is the selling point. Even if you never go outside, there's something unbearably hot about the possessiveness of it all - really, it's there to remind you of your status as property. He wants to own you, and for you to be forced to acknowledge that he owns you, and there's really no better way to do that than something with his name on it. It's even better with a leash, one he can pull on when he's fucking you to pull you back onto him over, and over, and over, hearing it choke you the more he shortens it.

But really, having you crawl towards him on all fours and obey little commands so simple they're humiliating is pretty nice, too.

Impact pain/painplay

There's really nothing quite so powerful feeling as watching you cry and squirm from it, y'know? He's another one that just likes the marks his hands, belts, or anything else can leave all over the skin of your ass and the back of your legs. The thing with him, though, is it's not even always a punishment, he just does it for fun, and that makes it unpredictable. Will definitely make you count, it's a sadistic torture for your mind and body.

Throatfucking

May be used as a punishment measure, may just be because he's craving it, either way, even if you have a gag reflex, you won't for very long. He'll train it out of you gradually, grabbing the back of your head and just slamming all the way down into your throat, holding you there, making you choke - it's a beautiful sound, really, listening to you gag, all while your throat spasms around him, it's the best feeling, really, and will definitely be used as a threat if you need incentives to behave.

Choking

Ties into the dynamics, but really, there’s not much to say on this one. He likes the power trip from having his hands wrapped around your throat, seeing you struggle, watching your face go red, hearing those little choking noises. It puts power over you into his hands, and if you get pleasure from it against your own will, that’s even better.

How do they feel about pregnancy or babies? Do they want them?

Absolutely one of the ones to use it as a tool. If you have a baby, you'll be so much more bound to him. You'll need him more, you'll want him around more, you'll be much less likely to leave, and in a way it feels a little bit like a sign of ownership over you.

That being said, he's also acutely aware of his jealous tendencies, and realizes he would also be very likely to become jealous if he felt like you loved a baby more than him, or gave it more attention and affection than you do him. He doesn't like the thought.

So ultimately, the latter side prevents him from willingly trying, but if you really, really have defiance issues even after he's tried everything he can to break you help you adjust, he might consider it.

What kind of (nsfw) punishments would they use?

If it's mild enough, he can just take the route of extremely rough fucking - it gets rid of the frustration, he likes hearing you whimper and squeal, and he can leave lots of little bruises as reminders of what not to do in the future.

But, again, he already gets off to putting you in pain - it'll be that much worse when you've done something to deserve it. Harder hits, no mercy whatsoever, and he just loves all your little cries, wiping away your tears and smiling at you, right before bringing down whatever instrument of pain he's chosen again. If you really, really make him mad, and he really wants to make you cry, he's not above fucking your ass, either, watching you cry and beg, but you'll learn with time that begging doesn't ever get you out of anything.

What body parts of their darling do they like the most?

Definitely an ass man. Likes fucking you in doggy, seeing the ripple every time you bounce back off of him, pulling your hair or arms to add some force. He likes seeing all the little red marks that his hands and belts and anything else will leave on the skin, views it like marks of possession. Grabbing, beating, fucking, it's all good.

#Jesus take the wheel im too nasty for this #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere kaeya #tw: dark content #tw: noncon #tw: non/con

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the-king-andthe-lionheart · 3 years

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A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes - Arya Stark and her Cinderella Motifs

In A Song of Ice and Fire, GRRM often uses fairy tale motifs to help tell a character’s story. Sometimes this motif spans all throughout the characters arc while other times it will only be used for one or two scenes, or anywhere in between. And often one character can have several fairy tale motifs at different times in their arcs or even running concurrently. For Arya, she has quite a few fairy tale motifs in her arc, but for now I’m going to focus on her Cinderella motifs that are mainly prevalent in A Clash of Kings but do show up at other times all throughout her arc as well. I’m going to focus primarily on Arya’s A Clash of Kings arc, but we will be stopping by A Storm of Swords and A Feast for Crows a few times too. And I am going to use several versions of the retellings of Cinderella, including the Disney version, but only the 1950 original and none of its sequels. I also want to note that not all the parallels are obvious due to things being more metaphorical or symbolic, while other times being whatever subversion that tickled GRRM’s fancy at the time.

There are many common aspects across the board when it comes to Cinderella retellings. Often it entails the heroine losing one or both of her parents, being oppressed by her abusive stepmother and stepsisters and being forced into menial, backbreaking labor that leaves the heroine dirty and often covered in ashes. It usually entails a magical guardian who helps the heroine, magical transformations, ballgowns and a ball where she falls in love with either a Prince or a King. An identifying item is also involved, usually a slipper made of gold or glass, where one of the pair is lost when the heroine is running from her beloved. And the Prince/King almost always searches the realm for the woman that identifying item belongs to, and when he finds the heroine they usually marry.

Written out like that it’s hard to believe that this is a motif used for Arya. After all she’s not in the position to be going to balls and she’s just a child so it seems unlikely at the time she’s at Harrenhal she’s going to fall in love. However, this motif appears all throughout her arc in various and creative and subversive and repetitive ways, and motifs don’t have to be all or none and they don’t have to be in the order the original stories were laid out. A lot of people also don’t like the idea that Arya has an actual Disney Princess motif in her story because she’s a “tomboy”, but the fact is that Arya is a Princess at the time she’s at Harrenhal, it’s even explicitly stated in Arya X ACOK, whether people acknowledge it or not, where a lot of these motifs take place. I know some people will be dismissive of this and think I’m reaching, but I hope upon reading this I’ll have convinced you of this motif being present. :)

Step-Mother and Step-Sisters

Some of the two most common features in any variant of Cinderella is the “Persecuted Heroine” and the “Female Persecutor”. Often this manifests as the wicked stepmother and the evil step-sisters, but in some versions a stepmother does not appear, and it’s the heroine’s older sisters who confine her to the kitchens instead. In the opera, La Cenerentola, Gioachino Rossini inverted the gender roles where the heroine Cenerentola is oppressed by her stepfather. And in some retellings at least one of the step siblings is somewhat kind to the heroine even. We symbolically see these archetypes many times in Arya’s narrative with various types of inversions.

When we enter ACOK, we find a dirty and disguised Arya traveling with Yoren and the Night’s Watch recruits, having just lost her father (a subversion of the prevalent theme of Cinderella losing her mother very young). She is also being bullied by two older boys, Lommy and Hot Pie:

At Winterfell they [Sansa and Jeyne] had called her “Arya Horseface” and she’d thought nothing could be worse, but that was before the orphan boy Lommy Greenhands had named her “Lumpyhead.” - Arya I ACOK

That wasn’t the hardest part at all; Lommy Greenhands and Hot Pie were the hardest part. - Arya I ACOK

“Look at that sword Lumpyhead’s got there,” Lommy said one morning […] “Where’s a gutter rat like Lumpyhead get him a sword?”

[. . .]

“Maybe he’s a little squire,” Hot Pie put in. […] “Some lordy lord’s little squire boy, that’s it.”

“He ain’t no squire, look at him. I bet that’s not even a real sword. I bet it’s just some play sword made of tin.”

Arya hated them making fun of Needle. “It’s castle-forged steel, you stupid,” she snapped, turning in the saddle to glare at them, “and you better shut your mouth.”

The orphan boys hooted. “Where’d you get a blade like that, Lumpyface?” Hot Pie wanted to know.

“Lumpyhead,” corrected Lommy. He prob’ly stole it.”

“I did not!” she shouted. Jon Snow had given her Needle. Maybe she had to let them call her Lumpyhead, but she wasn’t going to let them call Jon a thief.

“If he stole it, we could take it off him,” said Hot Pie. “It’s not his anyhow. I could use me a sword like that.”

Lommy egged him on. “Go on, take it off him, I dare you.”

Hot Pie kicked his donkey, riding closer. “Hey, Lumpyface, you gimme that sword.” […] “You don’t know how to use it.”

[. . .]

“Look at him,” brayed Lommy Greenhands. “I bet he’s going to cry now. You want to cry, Lumpyhead?” – Arya I ACOK

In the first two quotes we have Arya likening the behavior of Hot Pie and Lommy to that of Jeyne Poole and Sansa. In AGOT, Sansa and Jeyne took on the “evil step-sister” archetype (and before anybody attacks me, I don’t think these two are actually “evil”, just children who think it’s okay to bully someone who is different from them), but now we are shown that this archetype has temporarily shifted onto Lommy and Hot Pie, with some subversions. These two are now male and they aren’t related to Arya in any way. Some variants of the Cinderella story do portray male siblings mistreating the younger “Cinderella” sibling though. One of the stories in One Thousand and One Nights depict a story called “Judar and his Brethren”, in which the main character is poisoned by his biological brothers in the end, depicting a rare tragic ending for this retelling. However, these subversions are completely fine because either way, they took on the role of the “bully” to Arya’s Cinderella archetype currently in the narrative.

Furthermore, while Septa Mordane was the obvious “wicked stepmother” archetype to Arya’s Cinderella archetype in AGOT, I think arguably this has fallen to Cersei now (and the Lannister’s as a whole). Cersei may not be present, but she is the reason why Arya is in the situation she is in right now. After all, Cersei takes on the role of “Evil Queen” for Sansa and Jon (they both share Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs motifs) so I do think she is the metaphorical “wicked stepmother” in this equation regardless of the fact that Cersei isn’t anything remotely close to a stepmother to Arya in the narrative, but she fits the general archetype of “female persecutor” the most in the current situation. For the case about Septa Mordane being a “wicked stepmother” archetype, I want to point to Cenerentola by Basile, in which the “wicked stepmother” started out as being the heroine’s governess, and Septa’s are the closest substitute to a governess in the universe of ASOIAF.

This isn’t the end to these archetypes being in play. As the early chapters of ACOK go on we see the animosity between Lommy, Hot Pie, and Arya disappear to the point where they become allies and then friends. With this shift in dynamic we see the archetypes disappearing with some of these same characters taking on entirely new Cinderella archetypes, while the “wicked stepmother” and “evil step-sibling” archetypes move onto other characters as well.

At Harrenhal we are introduced to two wicked women who next take on the “evil step-sibling” archetype, Goodwife Harra and Goodwife Amabel. These two even comment on Arya’s feet:

When Arya's turn came round, Goodwife Amabel clucked in dismay at the sight of her feet, while Goodwife Harra felt the callus on her fingers that long hours of practice with Needle had earned her. "Got those churning butter, I'll wager," she said. "Some farmer's whelp, are you? Well, never you mind, girl, you have a chance to win a higher place in this world if you work hard. If you won't work hard, you'll be beaten. And what do they call you?"

Arya dared not say her true name, but Arry was no good either, it was a boy’s name and they could see she was no boy. “Weasel,” she said, naming the first girl she could think of. “Lommy called me Weasel.”

“I can see why,” sniffed Goodwife Amabel. “That hair is a fright and a nest for lice as well. We’ll have it off, and then you’re for the kitchens.”

“I’d sooner tend the horses.” Arya liked horses, and maybe if she was in the stables she’d be able to steal one and escape.

Goodwife Harra slapped her so hard that her swollen lip broke open all over again. “And keep that tongue to yourself or you’ll get worse. No one asked your views.”

The blood in her mouth had a salty metal tang to it. Arya dropped her gaze and said nothing. If I still had Needle, she wouldn’t dare hit me, she thought sullenly.

“Lord Tywin and his knights have grooms and squires to tend their horses, they don’t need the likes of you,” Goodwife Amabel said. “The kitchens are snug and clean, and there’s always a warm fire to sleep by and plenty to eat. You might have done well there, but I can see you’re not a clever girl. Harra, I believe we should give this one to Weese.”

“If you think so, Amabel.” They gave her a shift of grey roughspun wool and a pair of ill-fitting shoes and sent her off. – Arya VI ACOK

Later Goodwife Amabel even threatens to rape Arya:

Three Frey men-at-arms were using them that morning as Arya went to the well. She tried not to look, but she could hear the men laughing. The pail was very heavy once full. She was turning to bring it back to Kingspyre when Goodwife Amabel seized her arm. The water went sloshing over the side onto Amabel's legs. "You did that on purpose," the woman screeched.

"What do you want?" Arya squirmed in her grasp. Amabel had been half-crazed since they'd cut Harra's head off.

"See there?" Amabel pointed across the yard at Pia. "When this northman falls you'll be where she is."

"Let me go." She tried to wrench free, but Amabel only tightened her fingers.

"He will fall too, Harrenhal pulls them all down in the end. Lord Tywin's won now, he'll be marching back with all his power, and then it will be his turn to punish the disloyal. And don't think he won't know what you did!" The old woman laughed. "I may have a turn at you myself. Harra had an old broom, I'll save it for you. The handle's cracked and splintery—" - Arya X ACOK

Menial, Backbreaking Labor

When Arya is enslaved and forced into the oppressive walls of Harrenhal, she is forced to scrub floors and do other menial, backbreaking work from sunrise to sunset, just like Cinderella:

Weese used Arya to run messages, draw water, and fetch food, and sometimes to serve at table in the Barracks Hall above the armory, where the men-at-arms took their meals. But most of her work was cleaning. The ground floor of the Wailing Tower was given over to storerooms and granaries, and two floors above housed part of the garrison, but the upper stories had not been occupied for eighty years. Now Lord Tywin had commanded that they be made fit for habitation again. There were floors to be scrubbed, grime to be washed off windows, broken chairs and rotted beds to be carried off. The topmost story was infested with nests of the huge black bats that House Whent had used for its sigil, and there were rats in the cellars as well . . . and ghosts, some said, the spirits of Harren the Black and his sons. – Arya VII ACOK

She spent the rest of that day scrubbing steps inside the Wailing Tower. By evenfall her hands were raw and bleeding and her arms so sore they trembled when she lugged the pail back to the cellar. Too tired even for food, Arya begged Weese's pardons and crawled into her straw to sleep. – Arya VII ACOK

Magical Transformations and Mice

In Disney’s Cinderella, the fairy godmother transforms mice into different creatures. On the road to Harrenhal, Arya not only likens herself to a sheep, but a mouse and continues her time at Harrenhal referring to herself as a “mouse”. This is also a subversion, while Cinderella in the Disney incarnation befriends mice, in our story Arya becomes the meek mouse:

On the road Arya had felt like a sheep, but Harrenhal turned her into a mouse. She was grey as a mouse in her scratchy wool shift, and like a mouse she kept to the crannies and crevices and dark holes of the castle, scurrying out of the way of the mighty. – Arya VII ACOK

He does not know me, she thought. Arry was a fierce little boy with a sword, and I’m just a grey mouse girl with a pail. – Arya VII ACOK

She was very small and Harrenhal was very large, full of places where a mouse could hide. – Arya VII ACOK

Even Jaqen calls Arya a mouse:

She crept up quiet as a shadow, but he opened his eyes all the same. “She steals in on little mice feet, but a man hears,” he said. How could he hear me? She wondered, and it seemed as if he heard that as well. “The scuff of leather on stone sings loud as warhorns to a man with open ears. Clever girls go barefoot.” – Arya VIII ACOK

However, through Jaqen, Arya begins to feel more in control of her situation, stronger and is transformed, if only for a short time.

“…Some are saying it was Harren’s ghost flung him down.” He snorted to show what he thought of such notions.

It wasn’t Harren, Arya wanted to say, it was me. She has killed Chiswyck with a whisper, and she would kill two more before she was through. I’m the ghost in Harrenhal, she thought. And that night, there was one less name to hate. – Arya VII ACOK

I was a sheep, and then I was a mouse, I couldn’t do anything but hide. Arya chewed her lip and tried to think when her courage had come back. Jaqen made me brave again. He made me a ghost instead of a mouse. – Arya IX ACOK

Lucifer the Cat

In Disney’s Cinderella, Lucifer is Lady Tremaine’s cat who is described as being a sly, wicked, and manipulative mouse consumer. He spends the whole film trying to torment and catch the mice. I feel that Weese takes on aspects of this feline character, and I think this because of certain descriptors that are given to Weese to make him appear almost catlike:

“Weasel,” Weese purred, “next time I see that mouth droop open, I’ll pull out your tongue and feed it to my bitch.” – Arya VII ACOK

In his own small strutting way, Weese was nearly as scary as Ser Gregor. The Mountain swatted men like flies, but most of the time he did not even seem to know the fly was there. Weese always knew you were there, and what you were doing, and sometimes what you were thinking. He would hit at the slightest provocation, and he had a dog who was near as bad as he was, an ugly spotted bitch that smelled worse than any dog Arya had ever known. Once she saw him set the dog on a latrine boy who’d annoyed him. She tore a big chunk out of the boy’s calf while Weese laughed. – Arya VII ACOK

So here we have Weese purring, strutting, being compared to the Mountain who swats at peoples, and being watchful and observant, very much like a cat. And like in the movie, a dog attacks him. Now Weese didn’t fall from a tower window, but Chiswyck fell/was pushed. Considering these two are the two people Arya had Jaqen kill, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are meant to make up two halves of a whole in this regard. After all, they are both wicked creatures who prey upon the weak, just like Lucifer and they both got their just desserts for it.

Jaq the Mouse

In Disney’s Cinderella, Cinderella rescues mice from traps, as well as from Lucifer, and dresses and feeds them. They perform favors in return. At the beginning of the film, a mouse named Gus is trapped in a cage, and the leader of the mice finds him and retrieves Cinderella to free him. The leader of the mice is a mouse named Jaq, and he was also a mouse that was saved by Cinderella from a cage. This sounds awfully familiar…

Rushing through the barn doors was like running into a furnace. The air was swirling with smoke, the back wall a sheet of fire ground to roof. Their horses and donkeys were kicking and rearing and screaming. The poor animals, Arya thought. Then she saw the wagon, and the three men manacled to its bed. Biter was flinging himself against the chains, blood running down his arms from where the iron clasped his wrists. Rorge screamed curses, kicking at the wood. “Boy!” called Jaqen H’ghar. “Sweet boy!”

[. . .]

“Good boys, kind boys,” called Jaqen H’ghar, coughing.

“Get these fucking chains off!” Rorge screamed.

[. . .]

Going back into that barn was the hardest thing she ever did. Smoke was pouring out the open door like a writhing black snake, and she could hear the screams of the poor animals inside, donkeys and horses and men. She chewed her lip, and darted through the doors, crouched low where the smoke wasn’t quite so thick.

A donkey was caught in a ring of fire, shrieking in terror and pain. She could smell the stench of burning hair. The roof was gone up too, and things were falling down, pieces of flaming wood and bits of straw and hay. Arya put a hand over her mouth and nose. She couldn’t see the wagon for the smoke, but she could still hear Biter screaming. She crawled toward the sound.

And then a wheel was looming over her. The wagon jumped and moved a half foot when Biter threw himself against his chains again. Jaqen saw her, but it was too hard to breathe, let alone talk. She threw the axe into the wagon. Rorge caught it and lifted it over his head, rivers of sooty sweat pouring down his noseless face. Arya was running, coughing. She heard the steel crash through the old wood, and again, again. An instant later came a crack as loud as thunder, and the bottom of the wagon came ripping loose in an explosion of splinters. – Arya IV ACOK

So here we have Jaq who is leader of the mice, who also helps Cinderella by doing her favors. Then we have Jaqen H’ghar who is the leader of Rorge and Biter (this name seems even more fitting now) and who is performing favors for Arya, which leads me to Jaqen’s dual Cinderella archetype: Fairy Godmother.

Magical Helpers

Some versions of Magical Helpers come from fairy godmothers or talking animals or genies. In other versions this help comes to the heroine through her dead mother, often manifesting through animal aid. In One Thousand and One Nights, in the story of “Judar and his Brethren” Judar is our Cinderella figure, whose own brothers betray and poison him, but before that he was gifted a genie named Al-Ra’ad al-Kasif who granted Judar’s wishes. In the passage below Jaqen grants Arya three “wishes” which is typical for genies to grant in our popular consciousness:

She remembered that she hated him. “You scared me. You’re one of them now, I should have let you burn. What are you doing here? Go away or I’ll yell for Weese.”

“A man pays his debts. A man owes three.”

“Three?”

“The Red God has his due, sweet girl, and only death may pay for life. This girl took three that were his. This girl must give three in their places. Speak the names, and a man will do the rest.”

He wants to help me, Arya realized with a rush of hope that made her dizzy. “Take me to Riverrun, it’s not far, if we stole some horses we could—”

He laid a finger on her lips. “Three lives you shall have of me. No more, no less. Three and we are done. So a girl must ponder.” He kissed her hair softly. “But not too long.” – Arya VII ACOK

Later, we also see that “wishes” have consequences, which is also prevalent when genies are concerned. GRRM himself is a big fan of consequences and unintended side effects.

Jaqen is not Arya’s only form of Magical Help at Harrenhal however. Jaqen may take on the role of Fairy Godmother/Genie, but we also see Arya experiencing the help of not only an animal aid, but from a dead parent. For instance, the heroine in Aschenputtel, by the Brother’s Grimm, is given a hazel twig by her father that she plants over her mother’s grave. She waters it with tears and over the years it grows into a glowing hazel tree. The girl prays under it three times a day, chanting, and a bird emerges from it that grants her wishes. There are two instances of something similar happening in the books:

In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered inside her. The eyes of the gods. “Tell me what to do, you gods,” she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya’s skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father’s voice. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said.

“But there is no pack,” she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. “I’m not even me now, I’m Nan.”

“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you.”

“The wolf blood.” Arya remembered now. “I’ll be as strong as Robb. I said I would.” She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth. – Arya X ACOK

Here we see an inversion. Arya’s mother isn’t dead at this time, but her father, Ned is. He is who we hear through the heart tree giving Arya this empowering “Mufasa” moment that gives way to Arya’s true transformation in this arc, she reclaims her identity. And as soon as Arya asks the old gods for aid, a wolf howls in the distance as if in answer. It’s not confirmed but I do truly believe that this howl came from Nymeria, by way of the Old Gods/Greenseers, who somehow helped strengthen their bond. It is after this moment that Arya starts having full on wolf dreams in earnest and it’s through her first wolf dream that we see that Nymeria may have become Arya’s animal aid:

Her dreams were red and savage. The Mummers were in them, four at least, a pale Lyseni and a dark brutal axeman from Ib, the scarred Dothraki horse lord called Iggo and a Dornishman whose name she never knew. On and on they came, riding through the rain in rusting mail and wet leather, swords and axe clanking against their saddles. They thought they were hunting her, she knew with all the strange sharp certainty of dreams, but they were wrong. She was hunting them.

She was no little girl in the dream; she was a wolf, huge and powerful, and when she emerged from beneath the trees in front of them and bared her teeth in a low rumbling growl, she could small the rank stench of fear from horse and man alike. The Lyseni’s mount reared and screamed in terror, and the others shouted at one another in mantalk, but before they could act the other wolves came hurtling from the darkness and the rain, a great pack of them, gaunt and wet and silent.

The fight was short but bloody. The hairy man went down as he unslung his axe, the dark one died stringing an arrow, and the pale man from Lys tried to bolt. Her brothers and sisters ran him down, turning him again and again, coming at him from all sides, snapping at the legs of his horse and tearing the throat from the rider when he came crashing to the earth. – Arya I ASOS

We see here that Nymeria and her pack protected Arya, Gendry, and Hot Pie against their pursuers after their escape from Harrenhal.

Here is another instance of Arya praying under the heart tree:

Arya went to her knees. She wasn’t sure how she should begin. She clasped her hands together. Help me, you old gods, she prayed silently. Help me get those men out of the dungeon so we can kill Ser Amory, and bring me home to Winterfell. Make me a water dancer and a wolf and not afraid again, ever.

Was that enough? Maybe she should pray aloud if she wanted the old gods to hear. Maybe she should pray longer. Sometimes her father had prayed a long time, she remembered. But the old gods had never helped him. Remembering that made her angry. “You should have saved him,” she scolded the tree. “He prayed to you all the time. I don’t care if you help me or not. I don’t think you could even if you wanted to.”

“Gods are not mocked, girl.”

The voice startled her. She leapt to her feet and drew her wooden sword. Jaqen H’ghar stood so still in the darkness that he seemed one of the trees. “A man comes to hear a name. One and two and then comes three. A man would have done.”

Arya lowered the splintery point toward the ground. “How did you know I was here?”

“A man sees. A mean hears. A man knows.”

She regarded him suspiciously. Had the gods sent him? “How’d you make the dog kill Weese? Did you call Rorge and Biter up from hell? Is Jaqen H’ghar your true name?

“Some men have many names. Weasel. Arry. Arya.”

She backed away from him, until she was pressed against the heart tree. “Did Gendry tell?”

“A man knows,” he said again. “My lady of Stark.”

Maybe the gods had sent him in answer to her prayers. – Arya IX ACOK

In Cenerentola, the heroine’s (Zezolla) father is given a date seedling by a fairy and he gives it to his daughter. Zezolla cultivates the tree in which a fairy lives. This fairy gives Zezolla magical aid. When Arya prayed beneath the heart tree in the above quote it almost seems like Jaqen appeared from the trees, leaving Arya to question if the old gods sent him.

And like in Aschenputtel and Disney’s Cinderella, Arya spends time at Harrenhal singing/chanting to herself as well:

Barefoot surefoot lightfoot, she sang under her breath. I am the ghost in Harrenhal. – Arya IX ACOK

This is very strange for a couple of reasons. When we first meet Arya she claims not to like songs and doesn’t sing. She continues this up until she goes to Braavos. There she discovers that she likes the bawdy songs when she is using the name, Cat of the Canals. The only exception to this is when Arya is at Harrenhal. Another reason this is odd is because of where Arya is at physically and mentally. So either Arya was always lying about not liking songs, or Arya singing here is supposed to tell us something.

And while this might not mean anything, I found it interesting that Arya spends a lot of her time in ACOK barefoot. Now Cinderella isn’t really said to be barefoot in the stories, but she did usually lose a shoe when running away from the Prince/King, hence making her barefoot. When Arya decides to escape Harrenhal, she does don a pair of shoes again and from then on out she mostly wears them. This also leads to a fun bit of subversion. In the originals tales it’s always the Prince/King saving Cinderella from further oppression. But in Arya X ACOK, not only did she (a princess) plan the escape, but she saves Gendry, a lost (albeit bastard) prince, along with Hot Pie, from further oppression (and torture and death) by their slavers in their prison camp. (Hot Pie definitely reminds me of Gus Gus as well by the way :D)

From Rags to Riches

In many versions of Cinderella, we also see the heroine become physically transformed. The heroine is usually dirty, covered in ashes, and wearing “rags” before they are made over. In the most popular version, Disney’s Cinderella, the Fairy Godmother magically turns her from dirty household servant to highborn lady, adorning her in a silver ballgown and glass slippers. In Ye Xian, magical fish bones, help the heroine dress appropriately for a local Festival, including a light, golden shoe. And in Aschenputtel, the doves that emerge from her hazel tree, that grant the heroine wishes, drop a gold and silver gown and silk shoes down to her to wear to the ball. Also, noticeably, this is the time the Prince/King notices Cinderella and finally “sees” her.

While we didn’t get anything like that in ACOK, we don’t have to look much farther than ASOS, when Arya goes to Acorn Hall and meets Lady Smallwood, who puts her in two different dresses:

And afterward, they insisted she dress herself in girl’s things, brown woolen stockings and a light linen shift, and over that a light green gown with acorns embroidered all over the bodice in brown thread, and more acorns bordering the hem. – Arya IV ASOS

It was even worse than before; Lady Smallwood insisted that Arya take another bath, and cut and comb her hair besides; the dress she put her in this time was sort of lilac-colored, and decorated with little baby pearls. The only good thing about it was that it was so delicate that no one could expect her to ride in it. – Arya IV ASOS

And while there is no ball, Arya and Gendry spend their time in the forge together. This is the very first time Gendry has seen Arya look like a proper lady. Cinderella and Arya are no longer dirty and in rags and they are now in gowns looking their place in society, despite Arya’s dress not being nearly as grand. However, it’s enough of a change for Gendry to finally realize just who Arya truly is when it comes to her place in the world. And judging by his behavior after this event, he also begins to acknowledge that if he continues to stay by her side he could potentially love her romantically in the future as well:

Gendry reached out with the tongs as if to pinch her face, but Arya swatted them away.

[. . .]

Gendry put the hammer down and looked at her. “You look different now. Like a proper little girl.”

“I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns.”

“Nice, though. A nice oak tree.” He stepped closer, and sniffed at her. “You even smell nice for a change.” – Arya IV ASOS

Runaway Princess

Now we may not have had a ball, but while taking shelter in a stone stable with the Brotherhood Without Banners, Arya does run outside, trying to get away from everyone:

His words beat at her ears like the pounding of a drum, and suddenly it was more than Arya could stand. She wanted Riverrun, not Acorn Hall; she wanted her mother and her brother Robb, not Lady Smallwood or some uncle she never knew. Whirling, she broke for the door, and when Harwin tried to grab her arm she spun away from him quick as a snake.

Outside the stables the rain was still falling, and distant lightning flashed in the west. Arya ran as fast as she could. She did not know where she was going, only that she wanted to be alone, away from all the voices, away from their hollow words and broken promises. All I wanted was to go to Riverrun. It was her own fault, for taking Gendry and Hot Pie with her when she left Harrenhal. She would have been better alone. If she had been alone, the outlaws would never have caught her, and she’d be with Robb and her mother by now. They were never my pack. If they had been, they wouldn’t leave me. She splashed through a puddle of muddy water. Someone was shouting her name, Harwin probably, or Gendry, but the thunder drowned them out as it rolled across the hills half a heartbeat behind the lightning. The lightning lord, she thought angrily. Maybe he couldn’t die, but he could lie. – Arya VIII ASOS

Now it’s not explicitly clear that it was Gendry who ran after Arya, calling her name, but due to the possible symbolism in the scene, and also his behavior in AFFC, it makes me think it was him. But whether he was or not I believe just Arya believing it might be him makes this applicable enough as a loose parallel for the Prince chasing after Cinderella, only for Cinderella to disappear like in many of the Cinderella retellings.

Searching the Realm

At the end of ASOS in the epilogue we learn that Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood Without Banners, who Gendry is a part of is actively searching for Arya:

The outlaw gave him (Merrett Frey) an encouraging smile. “Well, as it happens, we’re looking for a dog that ran away.”

“A dog?” Merrett was lost. “What kind of dog?”

“He answers to the name Sandor Clegane […] Did you see him at the wedding, perchance?”

[. . .]

“He would have had a child with him,” said the singer. “A skinny girl, about ten. Or perhaps a boy the same age.”

“I don’t think so,” said Merrett. “Not that I knew.” – Epilogue ASOS

In many retellings of the Cinderella story, the Prince/King searches the realm looking for the heroine with an identifying item, and typically that item is a shoe of some sort. Once the shoe is placed on the heroine’s foot it symbolically means the heroine is reclaiming her identity. Arya, however, didn’t lose a shoe, and I’d argue that when Ned/the Old Gods/the Greenseers spoke to Arya through the heart tree, empowering Arya, that’s when Arya reclaimed her identity, at least for that time as Arya must reclaim her identity multiple times in her arc. I’d argue that Arya’s connection to the North and her family is her overall identifying item. But I fully believe Gendry himself might be another “identifying item,” along with him still taking on the archetypal role of “prince”.

Why do I say this? Because in AFFC Gendry is stationed at one of the last known places Arya was sighted at with the Hound, the Crossroads Inn, where he is blacksmithing while also helping to look after orphans. He was likely stationed there by Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood Without Banners because he knew Arya the best out of everyone (remember LSH would probably have a hard time recognizing Arya after two plus years and a resurrection). So if she returned, he would not only have a better chance at recognizing her, but also possibly a better chance at keeping her there compared to anyone else. If people are doubting that this is Gendry’s role, just remember that the BWB is actively looking for Arya, and also note Gendry’s personality shift post-ASOS. Gendry has always been rude and moody, but in AFFC it has been taken to the extreme. He is absolutely furious and instead of being just plain rude, he’s actually become mean and more violent. He also seems to have something against the Hound now, someone who he previously had nothing against during the Hound’s trial by combat earlier in ASOS:

…The boy came and stood beside her, his hammer in his hand.

Lightning cracked to the south as the riders swung down off their horses. For half a heartbeat darkness turned to day. An axe gleamed silvery blue, light shimmered off mail and plate, and beneath the dark hood of the lead rider Brienne glimpsed an iron snout and rows of steel teeth, snarling.

Gendry saw it too. “Him.”

“Not him. His helm.” Brienne tried to keep the fear from her voice, but her mouth was dry as dust. – Brienne VII AFFC

That “him” was very pointed and because of the symbolism in the scene surrounding that “him” and the overall change in Gendry’s behavior I definitely take it to mean Gendry does have a problem with the Hound now. So what changed? The Hound kidnapped Arya. I think it’s safe to say that Gendry is just as invested as the rest of the BWB, if not more so, to finding Arya again, hence making him the “prince” searching the realm for his lost Cinderella.

A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes

In Disney’s Cinderella, songs like “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo”, “So This Is Love”, “Cinderella”, “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes”, “Oh, Sing Sweet Nightingale”, and “The Work Song” are included into the film. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen something like this in the previous retellings however. Like I mentioned earlier the Brother’s Grimm, Aschenputtel, features this as well to some extant. In Aschenputtel, the heroine would “sing a chant” to call upon the white doves that came from her glowing hazel tree. These birds would help her grant wishes and help her complete tasks, and it was most likely the inspiration for why birds were included in the Disney version, although birds have featured in more than just Aschenputtel. I mention this because GRRM wrote Arya a song in the novels:

“My featherbed is deep and soft,

and there I'll lay you down,

I'll dress you all in yellow silk,

and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love,

and I shall be your lord.

I'll always keep you warm and safe,

and guard you with my sword.

“And how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him,

no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,

and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love,

and me your forest lass.”

This is very clearly a love song also and we know it’s most likely about Arya and her foreshadowing a possible future relationship with Gendry. And it’s very clearly about them as Gendry is a bastard Baratheon “prince”, hence the mentions of “yellow silk” and a “crown”, and also because Arya quite literally is dressed as an oak tree at this time and almost a maiden and will be a maiden when they reunite later in the series. We also know the song is meant to foreshadow them because of the context. Tom O’Seven’s specifically winked at Arya as he sang this song, and after the song was sung Lady Smallwood, when taking Arya to get changed into a different dress, said to Arya, “I have no gowns of leaves,” which further tells the readers that this song is Arya’s song, her future love song.

A Mother’s Legacy

In the Magical Helpers section above I mentioned that a dead parent may be the one to help the heroine instead of the typical fairy godmother, by either sending an animal to aid the heroine and/or granting wishes, or by the heroine’s mother transforming into an animal. In some Greek versions, in “the Balkan-Slavonic tradition of the tale”, and in some Central Asian variants, the heroine’s mother comes back as a cow who is then killed by the heroine’s sisters. The heroine eventually gathers the bones and from her mother’s grave the heroine is gifted wonderful dresses. In other variants, the heroine’s dead mother comes back as a fish or a female dog. These animals represent the heroine’s mother’s legacy.

Jon chuckled. “Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms.”

“A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” It made her laugh. “That would look silly…” – Arya I AGOT

That night she went to sleep thinking of her mother, and wondering if she should kill the Hound in his sleep and rescue Lady Catelyn herself. When she closed her eyes she saw her mother’s face against the back of her eyelids. She’s so close I could almost smell her…

…and then she could smell her. The scent was faint beneath the other smells, beneath moss and mud and water, and the stench of rotting reeds and rotting men. She padded slowly through the soft ground to the river’s edge, lapped up a drink, then lifted her head to sniff. The sky was grey and thick with cloud, the river green and full of floating things. Dead men clogged the shallows, some still moving as the water pushed them, others washed up on the banks. Her brothers and sisters swarmed around them, tearing at the rich ripe flesh.

[. . .]

The scent was stronger now [. . .] Only the scent mattered. She sniffed the air again. There it was, and now she saw it too, something pale and white drifting down the river, turning where it brushed against a snag. The reeds bowed down before it.

She splashed noisily through the shallows and threw herself into the deeper water, her legs churning. The current was strong but she was stronger. She swam, following her nose. The river smells were rich and wet, but those were not the smells that pulled her. She paddled after the sharp red whisper of cold blood, the sweet cloying stench of death. She chased them as she had often chased a red deer through the trees, and in the end she ran them down, and her jaw closed around a pale white arm. She shook it to make it move, but there was only death and blood in her mouth. By now she was tiring, and it was all she could do to pull the body back to shore. As she dragged it up the muddy bank, one of her little brothers came prowling, his tongue lolling from his mouth. She had to snarl to drive him off, or else he would have fed. Only then did she stop to shake the water from her fur. The white thing lay facedown in the mud, her dead flesh wrinkled and pale, cold blood trickling from her throat. Rise, she thought. Rise and eat and run with us. – Arya XII ASOS

“So you sewed his head on Robb Stark’s neck after both o’ them were dead,” said yellow cloak.

“My [Merrett Frey] father did that [. . .] I only drank some wine…you have no witness.”

“As it happens, you’re wrong there.” The singer turned to the hooded woman. “Milady?”

The outlaws parted as she came forward, saying no word. When she lowered her hood, something tightened inside Merrett’s chest, and for a moment he could not breathe. No. No, I saw her die. She was dead for a day and night before they stripped her naked and threw her body in the river. Raymund opened her throat from ear to ear. She was dead.

Her cloak and collar hid the gash his brother’s blade had made, but her face was even worse than he remembered. The flesh had gone pudding soft in the water and turned the color of curdled milk. Half her hair was gone and the rest had turned as white and brittle as a crone’s. Beneath her ravaged scalp, her face was shredded skin and black blood where she had raked herself with her nails. But her eyes were the most terrible thing. Her eyes saw him, and they hated.

“She don’t speak,” said the big man in the yellow cloak. “You bloody bastards cut her throat too deep for that. But she remembers.” He turned to the dead woman and said, “What do you say, m’lady? Was he part of it?”

Lady Catelyn’s eyes never left him. She nodded. – Epilogue ASOS

In the Chinese retelling of Cinderella, Ye Xian, the heroine befriends a fish, which is the reincarnation of her deceased mother. In The Story of Tam and Cam, a Vietnamese version, the heroine Tam also had a fish which was killed by the stepmother and the half-sister, and its bones also give her clothes. And a typical scene in Kapmalaien tales is the mother becoming a fish, being eaten in fish form, the daughter burying her bones and a tree sprouting from her grave.

So not only is Lady Catelyn a symbolic fish, a daughter of House Tully, but she’s also been resurrected (reincarnated), and is looking specifically for our heroine, Arya, who I believe will be gifted several various things (both good and bad) by this incarnation of her mother, but we shall see if the parallel continues when TWOW and ADOS come out.

Conclusion

I really hope that after you read this monster you were as convinced as I am that Arya indeed has Cinderella motifs, and an extensive amount of them as well. Whatever it may mean I don’t rightly know, but what I do know is that at the end of the day, the many stories of Cinderella are an analogy. An analogy about someone “who unexpectedly achieves recognition or success after a period of obscurity and neglect”. Of someone whose attributes were unrecognized in their society, only for them to be recognized. And I don’t know about you, but that sounds pretty hand in hand with one of her other biggest fairy tale motifs as well that runs concurrently with the Cinderella motif, and that is the story of “The Ugly Duckling”, who after years of neglect, finds acceptance within society, as well as self-acceptance within themselves. :)

#arya stark #gendrya #asoiaf

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fortunatelyfresco · 3 years

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A Holistic Integration of Type 1 Narcolepsy into the Reading of Moist von Lipwig

Literary Interpretation, Disability, and Finding Yourself Between the Lines

As it goes, "I wrote this for me, but you can read it if you want." It might be a fun ride for anyone who is very interested in Moist von Lipwig, or narcolepsy, or both, and/or anyone who enjoys collecting small details from within a body of work and arranging them into threads that are supportable by the text, without being actually suggested by it.

Personally, I find it very interesting to read the meta behind different headcanons, and see how creators can unintentionally write a character who fits certain criteria. There are only so many traits, after all, and some of them tend to travel in groups! Humans are pattern seekers, etc etc.

The first step of reading Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic is wanting to read Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic. Being narcoleptic myself and relating heavily to Moist, this step was very easy. I invite you to take my hand and come along, at least briefly, if you were interested enough to click the readmore.

Once you have taken that step, things start falling into place. At least they do if you're intimately familiar with narcolepsy, or if you first learn about it in detail through, for instance, a Tumblr post with an agenda :)

I'll break this down symptom by symptom, citing only the ones I both have personal experience with and see textual support for.

I'll be using OverDrive's search function to catalogue "evidence" in (the American editions of) Going Postal, Making Money, and Raising Steam, so I might miss passages that don't use certain keywords.

Please take any statements along the lines of "being narcoleptic means X" with a huge grain of salt. Sometimes it's just more succinct. Narcolepsy can manifest in many different ways, and is still being actively studied. Don't base your entire understanding of it on a fandom essay I wrote to cope with the crushing pressures of capitalism. I have not even fully read the scientific studies linked here as sources.

Here we go! Spoilers abound.

I. Excessive Daytime Sleepiness (EDS) and sleep attacks.

Being narcoleptic means (salt now, please) that your brain does not get adequate rest while you sleep, no matter how much you sleep. This is because of a disturbance in the order and length of REM and NREM sleep phases. This leads to constant exhaustion. Some sources describe narcoleptic EDS as "comparable to [the sleepiness] experienced by a healthy individual who has been sleep-deprived continuously for 48–72 hours."

(Source.)

Sleep attacks can come on gradually or suddenly. In my case, I become irritable and easily overwhelmed, and nothing matters except finding a place to lie down. A more severe attack, under the right circumstances, can put me to sleep while I'm actively trying to stay awake and engaged.

Moist refers to 6:45 am as "still nighttime." He is "allergic to the concept of two seven o'clocks in one day" and is "not good at early mornings," and the narration even cites this as "one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn't have to get up until other people had got the streets aired."

In Going Postal, he repeatedly falls asleep at his desk. I can only find two instances, but the first one describes it as having happened "again," so it happens at least three times over the course of one week. Both of the times I found were after Mr. Pump cleared his apartment, giving him access to a bed, and I can't find any reference to the fire destroying it—just that his office is "missing the whole of one wall." His presumably wooden desk is still intact, even, just "charred."

There's also no build-up either time. No direct narration of the time right before he falls asleep, just retroactive accounting for it.

Which is primarily a function of stories not showing us every boring second, and secondarily one of the smaller ways we're shown Moist being overwhelmed and racing to keep up with himself, but tertiarily it's a great set dressing if you've already decided he's narcoleptic. Sometimes sleep is just a thing that happens, without any deliberate transition. Sometimes you sit down to catch your breath or get some paperwork done, and wake up several hours later.

I've found only one example in GP of Moist waking up in his actual bed at the post office: the morning after being possessed by all the undelivered letters. Presumably either they put him there, or Mr. Pump did.

There are two points in Making Money where Moist, in an effort to be a comforting and/or guiding hand, advises people to get some sleep. First Owlswick Jenkins, and then one of the clerks (Robert) who is worried about Mr. Bent.

I take the optimistic view that this is Moist genuinely caring about these people, not just trying to get them to do what he wants. He has always done some combination of those things (GP opens with him having befriended his jailers, after all), but there's definitely a thread of him learning to treat both himself and those around him more like real people. (See also.)

Looking at this thread through narcolepsy-colored lenses, you get Moist perhaps drawing from his own experiences in an effort to be helpful. In Owlswick or Robert's position, what is something he would want to hear from the man currently in charge of his fate, or at least his job? "Get some sleep."

If we accept this as a pattern, it culminates in Raising Steam, when Moist starts to worry about "Dick Simnel and his band of overworked engineers," fixating particularly on their lack of sleep.

What sleep they got was in sleeping bags, curled up on carriage seats, eating but not eating well, just driven by their watches and their desire to keep the train going.

[...]

"People are going to die if we push them any further," he said to Dick. "You lot would rather work than sleep!"

[...]

The young man swayed in front of him and Moist's tone became gentle. "And I see now that part of my job is to tell you that you need some rest. You've run out of steam, Dick. Look, we're well on the way to Uberwald now, and while it's daylight and we're out of the mountains it's going to be the least risky time to run with minimum crew. We're all going to need our wits about us when we get near the pass. Surely you can take some rest?"

Simnel blinked as if he'd not seen Moist the first time, and said, "Yes, you're right."

And Moist could hear the slurring in the young man's speech, caught him before he fell and dragged him into a sleeping compartment, put him to bed, and noted that the engineer didn't so much fall asleep as somehow flow into it.

Moist then recruits Vimes to help him talk the rest of the engineers into getting some rest. The two of them briefly commiserate about people not realizing how important it is.

"I have to teach that to young coppers. Treasure a night's rest, I always say. Take a nap whenever you can."

"Very good."

II. Insomnia.

This is a lesser-known but very common symptom of narcolepsy. Or a comorbidity, depending on how you look at it. It seems counterintuitive if narcolepsy has been presented to you as "sleeping all the time," but it makes sense once you know it's really a matter of disruption in the brain's ability to regulate sleep cycles.

The case for this symptom is flimsier, and I fully admit I'm just reading my own experience into it. But here are two excerpts from Going Postal that I find quite suitable for my sleepy agenda:

1. "A man of affairs such as he had to learn to sleep in all kinds of situations, often while mobs were looking for him a wall's thickness away."

I latched hard onto this detail the first time I read GP.

At my worst, I could not get more than a couple hours of sleep in my bed. I kept taking naps in the bath because it was one of the few places I could sleep. It seemed to fulfill some of the criteria (isolation, temperature control, etc) that my brain demanded in exchange for playing nice.

We're told over and over again, throughout Moist's books, that he functions best under pressure.

(Brief aside: This is often cited as a reason to interpret Moist as having ADHD, which I'm also fully on board with. Not coincidentally, narcolepsy and ADHD share a few symptoms, have a notable comorbidity rate, and are treated with some of the same medications. Source.)

So again, if you're already inclined to read Moist as narcoleptic, the following is an easy jump:

"Moist thinks he's good at sleeping in strange places under strange circumstances. This is because A) his basis for comparison is a disordered attempt to sleep in normal places under normal circumstances, B) something about danger satisfies his brain into running more smoothly, and C) he's a resourceful person who is 'not given to introspection,' and so is less likely to wonder why his body demands sleep at strange times and more likely to focus on finding a place for that sleep to happen, and chalk this up later as a skill."

And returning briefly to EDS: Why would someone like Moist waste time finding a safe place to sleep while people are actively trying to kill him? At the beginning of GP, he leaves Vetinari's office and immediately goes on the run. In multiple books, when he feels threatened, his brain instinctively launches into complex escape plans. We see him successfully blend into an Ankh-Morpork crowd at least once after becoming a public figure.

So why bother? After all, a safe place to sleep is also a safe place to change clothes, or at least remove whatever distinguishing features he's given himself. Why wouldn't he just become someone else and leave town immediately?

The obvious answer is that sometimes things just happen, and an author doesn't need to know or explain every single detail of a character's past.

I would suggest, though, that one of those things might be Moist reaching a point where sleep is just not optional. A point where he not only doesn't, but can't, care about anything else. Where he is too tired to think straight, too tired to talk his way out of trouble, too tired to even contemplate the long journey from one town to the next.

2. "Moist knew he ought to get some sleep, but he had to be there, too, alive and sparkling."

Sometimes (especially in combination with underlying mental health issues) narcoleptic sleep deprivation can bypass everything I've described so far, and lead straight into a manic state. You won't necessarily find that on Google, but it's been my experience.

That's obviously not what the text is implying. "Alive and sparkling" is just a very relatable description. And we do often see Moist getting away from himself, speaking without thinking, making absurd promises that he justifies immediately afterwards as Just Part Of Being Him, always raising the stakes.

And here are a couple of excerpts from Raising Steam that could be interpreted as Moist being a light sleeper, AKA struggling to get deep sleep:

1. "And slowly Moist shut down, although a part of him was always listening to the rhythm of the rails, listening in his sleep, like a sailor listening to the sounds of the sea."

2. "All Moist's life he'd managed to find a way of sleeping in just about every circumstance and, besides, the guard's van was somehow the hub of the train; and although he didn't know how he did it, he always managed to sleep with half of one ear open."

Moist is exactly the kind of opportunist to see that as a useful tool, isn't he?

III. Hypnagogic and Hypnopompic Hallucinations.

These are hallucinations that come on as you're falling asleep or waking up. They can also happen during REM intrusions while you're awake. My most memorable ones include piano notes, someone calling my name, being trapped in the waves of a large body of water, and a huge truck going over a guard rail and tumbling down a hill. These are often, but not always, accompanied by sleep paralysis (and sleep paralysis is often, but not always, accompanied by hallucinations).

In GP, Moist casually cites his own hallucinations as proof that what is happening at the post office is not one.

"They're all alive! And angry! They talk! It was not a hallucination! I've had hallucinations and they don't hurt!"

Obviously that's not true for everyone, but it's true for Moist, and he has enough experience that he immediately recognizes the difference.

At one point while awake, Moist "[snaps] out of a dream of chandeliers" to realize someone has approached him to talk, while he was busy having visions of what the post office used to look like/could look like again.

Now, that's cheating, because we're probably supposed to assume it's a side effect of being possessed, but... I'm putting it here anyway.

There is also perhaps a case to be made for the tendency of Moist's internal monologue to lapse into extremely specific and prolonged hypotheticals. The lines between hallucinations, waking dreams, and "regular" daydreams have always been very blurry to me. I'm especially curious about the example at the end of Going Postal, which goes like this:

"Look, I know what I'm like," he said. "I'm not the person everyone thinks I am. I just wanted to prove to myself I'm not like Gilt. More than a hammer, you understand? But I'm still a fraud by trade. I thought you knew that. I can fake sincerity so well that even I can't tell. I mess with people's heads—"

"You're fooling no one but yourself," said Miss Dearheart, and reached for his hand.

Moist shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city, and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn't seem to work anymore, the flair wasn't there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn't seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—

And an angel appeared.

"What just happened?" said Miss Dearheart.

Perhaps you do get two...

"Only a passing thought," said Moist.

In-universe... what is Adora reacting to? What did just happen? The fact that these incidents are not isolated to Going Postal is a point against it being some sort of literal timeline divergence caused by The Spirit Of The Post.

So maybe Moist visibly zoned out. Maybe he had some kind of minor but noticeable cataplexy attack (more on those later) as part of a REM intrusion, brought on by the intense emotions he's currently struggling with.

IV. Vivid Dreams.

Again, at least some of this is probably supposed to be part of the possession, but I've been professionally projecting myself onto the surreal dreams of magically afflicted characters for years. Do try this at home.

1. "Moist dreamed of bottled wizards, all shouting his name. In the best tradition of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him."

2. Moist is uneasy about the Smoking Gnu's plan, and then he has an extremely detailed dream about the Grand Trunk burning down.

This culminates in "Moist awoke, the Grand Trunk burning in his head," followed by a paragraph of him thinking things through and starting to form his own alternative plan, followed immediately by "Moist awoke. He was at his desk, and someone had put a pillow under his head."

So he fell asleep at his desk, woke up from a vivid nightmare, was awake just long enough for a coherent train of thought, and then passed back out. Which once again is not "proof" of anything, but fits the predetermined interpretation like a glove.

V. Cataplexy.

Cataplexy is a sudden loss of muscle control, usually triggered by strong emotions. This is thought to be a facet of REM intrusion—waking instances of the atonia that is meant to stop us from acting out our dreams.

The most well-known manifestation is laughter making your knees buckle, but it's not always that severe. My own attacks range from facial twitching, usually when I'm angry or otherwise extremely upset, to all-over weakness/immobilization and near-collapse when I laugh. My knees have fully buckled once or twice.

This is the biggest stretch. This is the one that is absolutely only there if you've already decided to read entire novels between the lines. It's also not even necessary for the broader headcanon; plenty of people have narcolepsy without cataplexy (or such mild cataplexy that it's never noticeable, or very delayed onset, etc).

However. I am doing this for fun. So I want him to have it. It's also become a major part of how I imagine Moist engaging with emotion, and I'd like to make a case for that.

There are a few scattered references to Moist's legs shaking, or being unsteady, or outright giving way, but there's usually an external physical reason, and/or enough psychological shock to justify it without a medical condition.

The most compelling example I've found so far comes from Moist and Adora's conversation about people expecting Moist to deliver letters to the gods.

"I never promised to—"

"You promised to when you sold them the stamps!"

Moist almost fell off his chair. She'd wielded the sentence like a fist.

"And it'll give them hope," she added, rather more quietly.

"False hope," said Moist, struggling upright.

"Almost fell off his chair" at first sounds like casual hyperbole, but then "struggling upright" implies it was a bit more literal. It's also an accurate description of me recovering from my more severe attacks, supporting myself on a wall or my spouse, or pushing myself up if I've fallen over in bed.

That happens to me multiple times per day, by the way. It doesn't bother me, and I didn't realize there was anything unusual about it for a long time. I barely think about it, except to fondly note that my spouse is good at making me laugh.

Which is to say, even severe cataplexy is not always noticeable or debilitating. Sometimes it absolutely is! It can be downright dangerous, depending on where you are, what you're doing, and whether you have any other conditions it might exacerbate. I don't want to undermine that.

I am just hell-bent on justifying the idea that this fictional character could have repeated attacks throughout the canonical narrative that are so routine they don't merit an explanation, or even a description. Especially for someone who is used to hiding his few distinguishing features behind false ones that are much more memorable. (See also.)

(That link goes to my own fanfic. Sorry.)

On the milder side, between Going Postal and Making Money, there are three instances of Moist's mouth "dropping open" when he's shocked, upset, confused, or some combination of the three. This is the kind of thing that shows up a lot in fiction, but rarely happens so literally in real life.

(There's technically a fourth instance, but I'm not counting it because it seems to be a deliberate choice on his part to convey surprise.)

And then there's laughter. Or rather, there isn't. I could be missing something, but I've searched all three books for instances of laughter and various synonyms (not counting spoken "Ha!"s), and what I've come up with is:

Moist laughs once in Going Postal, when he receives the assignment for the race to Genua.

Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing.

There's also an instance earlier in the book where Moist nearly "burst[s] out laughing."

I find the specifics here interesting, and, for our purposes, fortuitous. Cataplexy is complicated and presents differently for everyone. In my case, when laughter triggers an attack, one of the effects (which is sometimes also a cause) is that I laugh very hard, with little or no control. "Burst out laughing" is quite apt.

Let's move on to Making Money, and start with a quick tangent:

Mr. Bent explains that he has no sense of humor due to a medical condition, and that he isn't upset about this and doesn't understand why people feel sorry for him.

Moist immediately starts in with "Have you tried—" before getting cut off by the frustrated Bent.

Out-of-universe, "Have you tried" is such a well-known refrain to anyone with an incurable condition, I'm not at all surprised to find it in a book written by someone who had at least begun the process that would lead to a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer's. And Pratchett has certainly never shied away from portraying ignorance in his protagonists.

In-universe, it feels a little odd. Moist's tongue runs away from him all the time, but usually in the form of making ridiculous claims or impossible promises. Moist's entire stock-in-trade is People Skills, and it feels strange for him to make this kind of mistake immediately after being told Mr. Bent is not looking for solutions.

But if one were reading with, for instance, the idea in mind that Moist himself has an incurable condition related to laughter and is enthusiastic about, but still relatively new to, the practice of drawing on his own experiences to help people... it is easy to imagine the gears in his head turning the wrong way, superimposing those experiences over the tail end of Mr. Bent's explanation. Disabled people are not immune to these well-meaning pitfalls.

There is another Mr. Bent moment that I want to discuss, but we'll circle back around to it later.

I found two instances of Moist himself laughing in MM.

1. "He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little."

This is deliberate laughter, employed as a social tactic. A polite chuckle, probably. Not the sort of thing that generally triggers cataplexy.

2. "Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression."

The first and only involuntary laugh in MM. It doesn't always trigger attacks...

Which brings us to Raising Steam. Compared to the first two books, Moist laughs a lot here. I count nine instances. Two of them are "burst out laughing"s, a couple include him as part of a group, some of it comes off as deliberate, and some of it doesn't.

I've always seen a lot of... rage in Raising Steam. Combing through it for laughter, I realized Moist's emotions in general are much closer to the surface here, and he's much less concerned about letting people see them. He laughs with friends and acquaintances, he cries in front of strangers, he shouts at Harry King, he has that entire conversation with Dick that boils down to "I'm very worried about you," etc.

Opinions vary wildly and sharply on Raising Steam. I have my own hangups with it, as I do with most books in the series. (Every time I make a new Discworld post, Tumblr passive-aggressively suggests the tag "my kingdom for a discworld character who is normal about women and other species.")

But I like this particular change in Moist, and I choose to see it as character development. He's trading in the professional detachment of a conman for the ability to grow into himself as a person and make meaningful connections.

So, what does that have to do with cataplexy? A lot.

I don't want to get too maudlin, so I'll just say I have plenty of personal experience with emotional repression masking cataplexy symptoms. And so, I believe, does the version of Moist we've put together over the course of this post.

Which brings us back to Making Money, and Mr. Bent. He says something about Moist that I find very interesting: "I do not trust those who laugh too easily."

Unless I've missed something, at that point in the book, Moist has never actually laughed in front of him. And Mr. Bent is a man who pays very close attention to details.

So, what is the in-universe explanation for this? I'd like to propose that Moist is very skilled at seeming to laugh, without actually laughing. He smiles, he's friendly, and he makes other people laugh, which is another thing Bent dislikes about him. He gives the impression of being someone who laughs a lot. (He certainly left that impression on me; I was very surprised by the lack of examples in the first two books.)

Even staying strictly within the bounds of canon, it's easy to imagine why this might have become part of Moist's camouflage in his previous life. He wasn't looking to get attached to anyone, and he didn't want anyone getting inside his head. Engaging with people genuinely enough to laugh at their jokes would run counter to both of those things, but some of his personas still needed to come off as friendly and sociable.

Still working within the canon, it makes sense to assume he's similarly distanced himself from emotion in general. He sits in a cell for several weeks without truly believing he's going to die. He's bewildered when Mr. Pump points out that his schemes have hurt innocent people. He has no idea what to do with his feelings for Adora. Etc.

Interpreting Moist as having cataplexy adds an extra element of danger. Moist thrives on danger, but there's a difference between the thrill of a con and the threat of sudden, uncontrollable displays of vulnerability. And so it becomes even easier to see him stifling his own emotional capacity.*

We meet Moist at a moment of great upheaval. He is forcibly removed from his cocoon of false identities, and pushed out into the world as himself. And we are shown and told throughout Going Postal that he does not know how to be himself. (See also.)

He is repeatedly stymied by his own emotions. He gets tongue-tied and confused around Adora, he snaps at Mr. Pump, he lashes out at Mr. Groat, he gets lost in school flashbacks when he meets Miss Maccalariat. This thread continues in Making Money, where the sudden reappearance of Cribbins immediately rattles him into making an uncharacteristic mistake.

I called him Cribbins! Just then! I called him Cribbins! Did he tell me his name? Did he notice? He must have noticed!

Later in the same book, Moist misses a crucial opportunity to run damage control on the bank's public image... because he's excited to see Adora.

The Moist of GP and MM is not used to feeling things so deeply. It throws him off his game. I'm not at all suggesting cataplexy is the only (or even primary) reason for that, but I do think there's room for it on both sides of the cause and effect equation.

With or without the cataplexy, I find Moist's relative emotional openness in Raising Steam... really nice. (It's a work in progress. He's still getting a handle on anger.)

Cataplexy just adds another dimension. A physical manifestation of emotional vulnerability, which would have been especially untenable for a teenager on the run. Just one more facet of the real, human, fallible Moist von Lipwig who spent years buried beneath Albert Spangler and all the rest.

Another piece of himself that Moist is growing to understand and accept, as he learns to more comfortably be himself.

The Moist of Going Postal runs into a burning building to save lives without fully understanding why he wants to, and justifies it on the fly as an essential part of the role he's trying to play.

The Moist of Raising Steam mindlessly throws himself under a train to save two children, and then blows up at Harry King about the lack of safety regulations. Freshly traumatized by the murder of several railway workers and his own violent, vengeful response to it, he still offers, in the face of Harry's own grief, to be the one to inform their families. On a long and dangerous journey with plenty of moving parts to think about, he worries about Dick Simnel and the other engineers, and pushes them to take better care of themselves.

He also meets a bunch of kids who nearly derailed a train as part of a childish scheme. His admonishment is startlingly vivid.

"Can you imagine a railway accident? The screaming of the rails and the people inside and the explosion that scythes the countryside around when the boiler bursts? And you, little girl, and your little friends, would have done all that. Killed a trainload of people."

[...]

"I'll square this with the engine driver, but if I was you I'd get my pencil and turn any clever ideas you have like this into a book or two. Those penny dreadfuls are all the rage in the railway bookshops."

Maybe what he is also saying, between the lines, is:

I left home at 14 and began a life of smoke and mirrors. I was empty inside, and I thought everyone else was, too. It was all fun and games, and then a man made of clay told me I was killing people. Nip it in the bud, child. Write books.

------------

*There are studies suggesting that in addition to deliberately employed "tricks," people with cataplexy may experience physiological reactions in the brain meant to inhibit laughter. (Source 1, Source 2.)

Most of the information here is way over my head, but that second link also says "one region of the brain called the zona incerta (meaning 'zone of uncertainty') was only activated during laughter in people with narcolepsy, not in controls. Research on the zona incerta in animals suggests that it also helps to control fear-associated behavior."

The linked article about that (https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-018-03581-6) is also over my head, but I would certainly describe Moist von Lipwig as having unusual fear responses.**

**Narcolepsy is a fun roller-coaster ride of constant scientific discoveries about exactly which parts of your brain are paying too much attention, not paying enough attention, or trying to eat each other.

#moist von lipwig #narcolepsy #discworld #disabled headcanons #oh my god this got so out of hand #earned itself a title AND a subtitle #mr. cybulskis i'm sorry i fell asleep in your class every day it was at the exact wrong time and temperature and lighting

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littlemisspascal · 3 years

Text

Death and an Angel part 3

Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: You and Din have an unexpected heart-to-heart about what it means to be Death and a Cupid on route to a planet where Din’s potential soulmate lives.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,500

Warnings: Pining, smidge of angst, more plot development, Razor Crest (RIP I miss you darling!), a made-up home world for the reader (yes, yes, there’s like a million I could have picked but my brain said NOPE)

Author Note: Ahhhh, the comments are so amazing from you all! Thank you everyone out there sparing time to check out my little universe, it makes me sooo happy you have no idea! As always, I hope you enjoy this new segment as I try to plot this story out and get these two idiots to acknowledge there just might be something between them.

Also special thanks to @codenamewitcher for including the first two parts on Weekly Fanfic Recs. Be sure to go check out the list for a whole bunch of fantastic stories!

Links to Part 1, Part 2 and Part 4

Photo Inspiration: (What I imagine is beneath the armor in this scene...*dreamy sigh*)

There is a distinct silence that can only be found in hyperspace when the stars outside resemble sparkling streaks of silver tinsel and your breath is trapped within your lungs as you’re awestruck by the sheer beauty of it all. You experience this silence aboard the Razor Crest, sitting in the cockpit behind Din as he pilots his beloved gunship. It isn’t the first time you’ve been a passenger, having traveled with Din on two previous ventures where your Cupid services were required on planets far away from your home on Umbriel.

Off-world assignments for you were generally rare since your bosses were more inclined to choose Cupids of higher ranking to handle those clients, but sometimes you were the only available option left. Which, come to think of it, is exactly how you became the one roped into meeting with Death every full moon. Your bosses decided someone needed to check up on him to make sure he wasn’t reaping anyone before their fated time and thus messing with the natural order of things. You privately have reached the conclusion it was a decision made during a fit of paranoia as you had yet to find any evidence suggesting Din ever broke a single one of the universe’s rules, let alone even considered the mere possibility.

When you did travel for assignments, you never stopped feeling like a goldfish being dumped out of your familiar little bowl and into a massive ocean full of strange oddities. You would often find yourself wasting time trying to successfully navigate the unknown world when you should have been focused on tracking down your client’s soulmate.

That’s why Din had offered to start traveling with you. Actually, in his own words it was because, “You think about love so much you don’t see trouble until it’s an inch in front of you. Someone’s got to be there to look after you.”

You’d tried to argue, told him you had never experienced trouble and that if you did then you could handle it with your bow. All Cupid’s were required to master archery for self-defense purposes, though Din’s responding snort of derision made you suspect he wasn’t convinced of your skills. You wondered if he thought, just as humans incorrectly did, a Cupid only used their bow to spread love and lust. Or maybe he just thought you weren’t capable of such finesse. It was an insulting assumption, fueling you with the burning desire to prove him wrong. One day, you keep telling yourself, a repetitive chant. One day you’ll show him just how capable you are with your weapon and you imagine his look of shock, whether worn openly on his face or hidden beneath the visor of his helmet, will be utterly priceless.

But in the meantime, you’re in no hurry to encounter trouble. Finding enjoyment in taking these trips with him on his ship instead.

The Razor Crest had actually been a complete surprise to you when Din first welcomed you on it; primarily because the notion of him using such a primitive form of transportation despite the powers he possessed as Death was too outrageous to wrap your head around. However, it took less than ten minutes soaring through space for you to discover just how many details of the universe you were missing by relying on your Cupid abilities to teleport yourself between locations. Never would you have imagined Death to be the one to teach you to love the slowness of travel, to let your eyes linger on all the beautiful wonders along the way. But that’s exactly what happened.

You turn your head away from the window to look at Din. From your angle, all you glimpse is the back of his helmet, reflecting the passing starlight. Soon you’ll be introducing Din to the first immortal on your list of potential soulmates.

Death, you quickly correct yourself. He’s only Din when he’s around you.

You initially thought he elected to wear his armor because you told him he could to ease his comfort, but now you think it’s because this is him meeting his potential soulmate as himself. It is easy to forget sometimes this is the image of Death—a warrior enshrouded in beskar, cunning and ruthless—that is recognized throughout the universe. And feared.

If the handsome face he concealed was known instead, you wonder if mortals would readily choose to embrace the ending of their lifetime, rather than foolishly seek to run from its inevitability.

“What is it?” Din’s baritone voice startles you as it shatters the quietness. The modulator within his helmet gives his tone a low raspiness that never fails to send a chill down your spine when you hear it.

“Huh?” You respond ineloquently.

“You’ve been staring at the back of my head for the last five minutes, angel. I figured you had something worth saying.”

“Oh, no. I was just thinking about you.”

Immediately you wish a meteor would collide with the ship, providing you with the necessary distraction to escape and find somewhere you can hide until the end of time.

“...What about me were you thinking?” Din wonders after a solid thirty seconds of pure silence, voice somehow conveying an equally blended mixture of intrigue and wariness. He flips on the ship’s autopilot and turns in his seat to pin you with his gaze, apparently unwilling to let you try and weasel yourself out of the conversation.

You roll the question around in your mind, wanting to give an answer that satisfies him without it also embarrassing yourself further.

“I was thinking how much of an enigma you are,” you murmur at last, leaning back in the chair with your arms crossing over your stomach. “You wield such incredible powers and yet you choose to wear a human face, to call this man-made ship your home and to also spend your spare time living amongst those you will eventually reap. Why are these your choices?”

He tilts his head, and you just know there is a little crease of bewilderment appearing between his eyebrows right now even if you can’t see it. For as much as he is a puzzle you can’t put together, he is also at times an open book that you will never tire of reading.

“I would think you, more than most beings, would understand the discomfort that stems from loneliness and the lengths one will go to ease it,” he says, not unkindly. He mirrors your position, maneuvering himself until he’s comfortable in his seat and totally oblivious to the dilating of your pupils as you observe every subtle shift of his armor-clad body. “Isn’t that the true purpose of Cupids? To spare individuals the ache of living a life of solitude by introducing them to someone to love so they no longer feel it.”

“That’s a poetic way of putting it,” you answer, smiling softly and shrugging your shoulders. “My superiors would just quote our mantra back at me when I used to ask. Amor vincit omnia.”

“Love conquers all.”

You shouldn’t be surprised he’s able to translate such an ancient and obscure language, but your eyes widen regardless. “That’s right.”

His voice is unusually soft when he asks, “Do you like being a Cupid?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by how easily he’s changed the topic of the conversation from himself to you. You’re used to taking orders and being thanked for your services, but no one has ever asked you if you liked doing any of it.

“I’m good at it,” you finally say, even though it’s not really an answer.

He nods his head still, as if he understands. A part of you thinks he actually does.

You lick your lips, eyeing him hesitantly. “Do you...like being Death?”

“I’m good at it,” he echoes, but your words sound somber coming from his lips.

The cockpit fills with hushed silence again, but there’s a unique tenderness unlike ever before. Minutes seem to stretch on for entire seasons as you watch one another, content to simply coexist and revel in each other’s presences.

It would be so easy to slip off his helmet and kiss him right now.

You stiffen, stunned at your own thought, but you aren’t given the chance to analyze it further as an alarm on the ship’s control panel announces with a resounding beep you’ve reached your destination.

Din spins in his seat, reclaiming control of the steering to begin the ship’s landing process. You look out the front window at the large green-blue planet drawing nearer with every anxious tick of your heartbeat.

“We’re here,” you say needlessly, forcing excitement into your voice. Fake it till you make it, isn’t that the human expression?

“Who is it we’re meeting on this backwater skug hole?” Din asks, pressing a series of buttons above his head.

You kick the back of his seat. “Be nice,” you scold when he shoots you a look. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath as he turns back around, prompting you to roll your eyes. “She’s a goddess of springtime and motherhood. The locals call her Omera.”

Tag List: @leilei-draws, @theocatkov, @becauseican2, @vintagesaph, @stardust-and-starlight, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @gallowsjoker, @rhiannon-russo, @randomness501, @eleine-t1d, @nicotinebirds, @sylphene, @softly-sad, @maytheglitter, @melobee

#the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #Din Djarin #Mandalorian #soulmate au #my fic #my writing #death and an angel #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #din x you #din x reader

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thran-duils · 3 years

Text

Nowhere to Run (P.2)

Title: Nowhere to Run (Part Two) Summary: Fem!Reader x Dark!Stony. Reader was caught unknowingly stealing from the capitol harvest and is drug to the capitol for punishment. She is offered an option to go to trial or accept work in the main government building. Upon her tour, she ends up in trouble and catches eyes of two of the Master Council that decide she needs to be broken in by their hands. Words: 6,130 Warnings (for this chapter): Non-con, servitude, forced orgasms, verbal and emotional abuse, double penetration, unprotected sex Author’s Notes: Definitely biting Mother Gothel vibes when Tony says, “No? Oh...” Also, sorry that this got so long but also not sorry.

Part One || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

The courtyard between the villas was swathed in flowers and shrubbery. Despite how scared you were to be here, you came to a stop in the pathway, looking around in awe. This kind of garden was one you dreamed of to have and lay in, soaking up the sun. Your hands came up to your sheer hood of your robe to push it back — before leaving the Capitol you had been given a robe, a symbol of your assignment. It was white and embroidered with flowers and upon seeing the garden, you spotted the flower it was based off of. You had not seen it in any other part of the Capitol yet and surmised it was specifically here and therefore, the reason for the embroidery choice. It was deep blue, weaving in vines around the pillar. You reached out, rubbing one of the petals between your fingers gently.

Tsu snapped his fingers in your face, getting your attention once more.

“We don’t have a lot of time. The Masters are in a council meeting, and they’ll be expecting you to be settled in and starting your tasks by the time they return. Now I was told you will be assigned primarily to Master Rogers and Master Stark.” He leaned in close and hissed, “And please heed my warning: obey. They are not known to be forgiving.”

He looked serious and you nodded, “Noted.”

“I hope so. They won’t be lenient about back talk. Do not repeat what you did at the capitol building.”

Tsu turned on his heel and continued on, taking a path towards one of the villas. “This is Mr. Roger’s.”

It infuriated you that they all had such large houses just to themselves. Many around the country shared the houses with multiple families and they were nowhere near the size of these.

And being inside, you were even more upset seeing how lacking homeliness there was to the place. It was all marble flooring, minimalist, and cold, really. He gave you direction about the rooms, nodding in acknowledgment when you passed a couple of other servants. They nodded quickly back before moving on to continue their tasks. Your eyes lingered on the large, canopied bed in the master bedroom. Why someone needed that big of a bed just for themselves was beyond you. But the Capitol was greedy, and it was so because of the council members living above their actual needs.

Your mouth watered as you were led to the kitchen; dinner was being prepared and it smelled delicious. The cook himself was skinny and you wondered if he was ever rewarded with the fruits of his labor. You were to attend to the morning tasks specifically and the cook showed you where the coffee was — a delicacy that apparently Master Rogers enjoyed every morning — and where he would leave the prepped food for you to cook for breakfast. On top of preparing his outfit for the day to lay out and getting his toiletries ready for after his shower.

“Am I to do the same at Master Stark’s as well?” you asked Tsu, who nodded. “How can I be expected to be in two places at once? Who is first?”

“They will work that out amongst themselves and inform you. Come now, over to Master Stark’s. Apparently one of his maids has fallen… under the weather.” You furrowed your brow at the hesitance and Tsu leaned in, “We shan’t expect to see her for probably nine months.”

You felt bile swirling.

“It happens from time to time with the Master’s maids. Why, Master Wilson had one just last month.”

“Charming. I’m so glad that’s a common occurrence that no one bats an eye,” you muttered.

Tsu wagged his finger at you, “That’s that attitude I was talking about. I’m not going to be here to remind you to keep it reined in. You’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

Master Stark’s house was across the courtyard. His house was just as unwelcoming and darker in interior design. There were many sky lights, a huge one over his sunken living room. You stepped down, looking at the plush couch and the large flat screen mounted on the wall. Again, so much space for just one person. His bedroom was facing the forest with a bed as large as Master Roger’s and you walked along the windows, staring out as Tsu led you to show you the master bath. You stared at the shower, taking in the floating shower head above and the wooden bench along the wall. That must be relaxing.

“Servants quarters are downstairs. There’s some in every villa. I’m not sure which one you’ll be in but again, they’ll let you know.”

He was leading you back through the hall, pointing out an office and a library. You stuck your head inside the library curiously, your mouth falling open at the walls of books. Back home, you had the pleasure of a collection, but it was not even a quarter of this.

“Come on, Y/N. We don’t have a lot of—” he stopped hearing noise downstairs, the front door slamming it sounded like.

“Matilda!” A man bellowed.

“Shit. He’s back already,” Tsu hissed before grabbing your arm and pulling you out of the library.

Coming along the exposed hallway, you looked past the glass railing over the living room. A woman was in front of who you assumed was Master Stark. He was sneering at her already, “You forget yourself, Matilda. I told you to have my bath ran by the time I returned. Perhaps missing dinner will be in order for you.”

“I’m sorry, master,” she said looking nervous, her head bowed.

Master Stark was dark haired and handsome. He was dressed smartly in a fitted suit, you still able to make out the tautness of his body. The movement at the stairs caught his attention. He took his sunglasses off seeing the pair of you coming down the stairs.

“Master Stark,” Tsu greeted as you approached. He gave a curt bow, and you followed his lead.

Chestnut eyes followed your movement, and you did your best to avert your own gaze. You instead looked at the other woman, seeing the red in her cheeks at being berated.

“I was just showing Y/N around yours and Master Roger’s homes to get her acquainted.”

“Right. The new wench,” Master Stark remarked. You bristled at the term ‘wench’ and shot him an annoyed look. His lips twitched seeing your expression before you averted your gaze again, knowing you had let your temper get the better of you. “Leave us. I can take it from here.”

Tsu nodded and gave another bow. “Good day, Master Stark.”

He left without looking back and you suddenly felt vulnerable without him.

“Girl, come to me,” Master Stark said, snapping his fingers at you like you were a pet. To Matilda he ordered, “What are you still doing standing there, you idiot? Get upstairs and start my bath! Do you wish to miss breakfast as well?”

“No, sir,” she said shaking her head and turning to go up the stairs you had just come down hastily.

You closed the space between the two of you, standing a foot from him, your arms clasped in front of you.

“You were told you are to prepare my clothes and breakfast later in the morning than Steve’s?”

Steve must be Master Rogers.

“Yes, sort of,” you responded in a timid voice.

“Speak up. Muttering annoys the absolute fuck out of me.”

“Yes,” you rose your voice. “But I was unsure which house to be at first. Thank you for answering that for me. What time do you want me here, Master Stark?”

He sighed, “Steve is always up at the asscrack of dawn. Usually about five.” You held back at a grimace knowing you would need to be awake well before then yourself then. “I don’t usually get up until eight. That gives you a couple hours at least at his place beforehand. And you know, before this goes any further, let me see you. Strip.”

“Excuse me?” you asked mortified.

“Did I stutter?” Tony asked dryly. “Untie your dress.”

“No.”

Tony’s eyebrows rose, “‘No’?” He looked sinister, “Oh…”

“No, I mean you didn’t stutter,” you said quickly, trying to correct your misstep.

Amusement was still evident; he did not believe your lie. “Well, get to it then. As I’m sure you heard, I have a bath running and I would like it to be hot.”

Heat creeped up your neck as you reached up and untied the fabric at the back of your neck. He circled slowly, his fingers brushing at your side. You flinched away instinctively, and his hand latched tightly.

“Did I give you permission to move?”

“No,” you whispered.

“What did I tell you about speaking up? Are you daft?”

“No,” you said louder.

“Good girl,” he said, his hand loosening.

It was one thing to have him examining you like cattle at auction but touching you on top of that was humiliating on a whole new level.

His lecherous examination continued, his fingers following his circle he walked on your skin. He traced down from the nape of your neck to the curve of your ass. His fingers fluttered down and gave a squeeze. You sucked in your cheeks, tensing, but you did not say anything like you had at the Capitol. He held, as if he was waiting. When you stayed still, he made a hum of approval before he moved on.

Fingers ghosted along your shoulder. He was so close; you could feel his breath on you. He was frightening, his presence ominous. You fought to keep your eyes forward and not meet him. You had a feeling that would result in punishment.

He stepped away from you, his hand thankfully gone.

“You’ll do,” he said dismissively.

‘You’ll do’? That was more hurtful than outright telling you that you were not up to his standards. Or was he playing mind games?

“Dress yourself. Before you head over to Steve’s, go and straighten up my library. I had young Master Parker over earlier and he has a terrible fucking habit of not putting things back. I like authors by their last name. Don’t fuck it up, do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

<><><>

You awoke at 4:30am and dragged yourself from your small cot. You took on the friendly advice given to you by the other servants to use the small glow stick like device to light your way without turning on the actual lights. There was no need to rouse Master Rogers from sleep before he awoke himself; that would piss him off.

Picking up your list that had been left by one of the head servants, you saw you were to pick out his outfit, sort his toiletries, mop the kitchen floor – where were those supplies? – prepare his coffee and breakfast, and lay out his newspaper for him. And wait for further instruction if there were to be any. The only order for his outfit was ‘casual’.

Master Rogers – Steve – was sleeping soundly still. You stared at his form for a few seconds, his muscular arms and chest that were exposed from his silk sheets. He was a large man, handsome too just like Master Stark, with a strong jaw. His blonde hair was splayed across his forehead from his tussling in the night. You were given little to no instruction for his clothing, and you went into his closet blind, holding up the small light you were holding. His room was shrouded in darkness from the curtains being pulled and you were grateful you had brought the light.

In his closet, you fetched a relaxed top and a soft cardigan with slacks. That was as casual as it was getting in his selection of clothes. You kept the hangers and brought them soundlessly out to his bathroom door, hanging them up. You went inside and began gathering the toiletries listed and separated them between the counter near the sink and his shower.

Down in the kitchen, you made first to find the mop and thankfully, it was in the pantry. It was fairly easy to mop the floor, that you were used to. But after that, you stared at the oven before clicking a button you thought was the correct one. It came to life. This was far more technological than you had dealt with, but you had to figure it out. You wished you had had more time with Tsu or the cook yesterday. It took you a moment to figure out where the skillets were, but you were able to get his bacon started and his eggs. His coffee was more difficult than you thought originally. He wanted a latte. You followed the instructions to make an espresso and then whisked the milk, pouring the espresso over it.

As if on cue, you placed the latte next to his plate on the counter as instructed next to his newspaper, and he walked in.

His eyes ran over you, and you gave him a curt bow as Tsu had done for Master Stark. “Good morning, Master Rogers.”

“We haven’t met,” he responded, coming over to his plate and grabbing his newspaper.

“Y/N, sir.”

“Hmm, right. I remember you.”

He remembered you from what?

“I’m to help you in the morning. I hope my outfit choice was appropriate.”

Steve looked down and shrugged half assedly. “It’s comfortable enough.”

Holding back your attitude, you asked, “Is there something I can do different in the future that will please you more?” His eyes flashed lasciviously, and you quickly added, “In regard to your outfit, I mean, sir. Just so I know what to choose.”

“I’m not sure I can teach a mountain girl anything about fashion on a whim. So, just watch the rest of the masters and the council members outfits. I don’t have the energy to try to explain it to you. I’m sure this long, halter gown is the fanciest thing you’ve worn and it’s merely a villa servant’s dress.”

How you wanted to knock him a good one for being so crass. It must have been evident in your expression because his eyes crinkled as he picked up a bite of his eggs, taking a bite.

“Did I strike a nerve?”

“No,” you blatantly lied. “How are your eggs, sir?”

“Fine, surprisingly. You made them quite fluffy.”

Steve’s hand moved in what seemed like a very deliberate movement, knocking his cup, and it fell to the floor. Ceramic shattered and his latte flooded around it.

You bit your cheeks to keep from screaming, staring at it. You had just cleaned the floor.

“Oops,” he said flatly, not sounding sorry at all. “Why did you place it so close to the edge?”

He was saying it like it was your fault. This pompous asshole. But you inhaled deeply.

“I’ll make you another one,” you told him calmly although you were screaming internally. He was not going to get a rise out of you that quickly and that easily. Tsu had warned you to obey and you were not going to risk being beaten or worse – time added to your sentence – over spilled coffee.

“Another one…?” He asked expectantly.

“Master Rogers,” you said stiffly.

You bent over and began picking up the shattered pieces first. Scooping them up you brought them over to the trash can and tossed them in.

Turning back around, you caught sight of him staring, his eyes focused on your hips before he met your gaze. He looked aroused and you knew he had been staring at your ass as you were bent over. Nonchalantly, he cleared his throat and looked back down at his newspaper.

You felt relief surprisingly when he said, “I’m sure Tony will be coming back from the land of the dead soon enough. You should hurry over there.”

<><><>

You cracked Tony’s door open and quietly slipped in. You saw two figures in the bed as you crept by towards his closet. You used the natural light coming in from the windows to guide yourself through the closet. He had said dark grey for his color scheme, so you did your best, matching the jacket, vest, and slacks but a white dress shirt. The socks and tie you chose were burgundy, a contrast. He had not asked for that, but you would see how that worked.

Quietly, you came back out of the closet and stilled when you saw someone slipping out of the bed. You recognized her in the light… Matilda. She stopped only for a moment, locking eyes with you before snatching her dress off the ground and bringing it up and tying it around her neck. She sneaked out of the room, more than likely going to start her chores. So, he forced someone he verbally abused to his bed.

Gently you walked over to the bathroom and hung up the clothes on the outside of the door. You moved inside and got together the materials the same you had for Steve and put the appropriate ones in the shower and by the sink.

When you emerged, Tony was stirring, and you moved quicker to get out of the room before he was fully awake.

But to no luck.

“Morning, little vixen.”

You stopped in your movement and turned back to face him, clasping your hands. “Good morning, Master Stark. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

His lips up ticked into a closed smile, “I’m sure it is time for me to be awake if I find my bed cold. Night is over and consequently the fun.” He threw the covers back and got back out of bed unabashedly of his naked form. Your eyes widened at his brazen behavior, all of him on display. You turned your head, avoiding looking at him and he chuckled. “You’ll get used to seeing this.”

Tony moved towards the door and eyed the suit choice. He shot you a look and said, “Look at that slight boldness of color. It’s subtle against the neutral but it’s nice. Good choice.”

He winked at you before going into the bathroom. You took that as permission to leave to start his breakfast.

<><><>

The whole first day you had put up with both of their antics. They were trying your patience and it was getting to you. You had never crossed two more pretentious men and they were so insulting to their staff. Steve had called you “pigheaded” for placing his newspaper on the right instead of the left of his plate this morning and you wanted to just tear it up in front of him.

You were currently in Tony’s office waiting instruction. There had been a task after breakfast to clean his office and before you started, you wanted more direction, so you did not make a mistake.

He walked in finding you still standing still, and he asked, “You know, to clean, you need to actually be moving?”

“My instructions said to dust but I was not sure what I should touch and not touch, Master Stark. I was waiting for you to give me direction so—”

He cut you off, “When it says dust, just dust. But, you know, I’m actually glad you waited so you’ll be in here longer.” He stalked over to his desk and opened one of his drawers, pulling out a box. He unwrapped it and you watched him pull out a pair of lace, barely there panties. Your heart clenched – he surely did not mean to give those to you? He placed a small device into the crotch of them and held them out to you.

“What’s that?” you asked slowly, not moving.

“I like some entertainment while I work,” Tony commented. “Put them on. They’ll be a snug fit, right up against what I’m sure is a beautiful pussy.” You stared back at him, and Tony returned a challenging look. “Are we going to have a problem?”

At loss for words, you stammered, “I… for what?”

“A problem ‘for what’? Yeah, that’s exactly what my question is. There should not be a problem when I tell you to do something directly. Come over here and fetch them and put them on,” Tony ordered you impatiently. “Before I lose my temper.”

As if you were moving against your own will, your legs moved forward, and you came to the desk. You reached up underneath your gown, his eyes raking over your exposed bare legs. Yanking down your underwear, you tossed them to the side by the desk and took the underwear from him. Hunger was swimming in his eyes, and you swallowed sharply. He was right; they were snug, the protruding part right up against your bud.

He clicked a button on the small remote and the underwear turned on. You grimaced your teeth as you felt the vibration, if only for a few moments.

Tony looked elated at the expression on your face. “Sweetheart, if you can dust everything here without coming, I’ll be so proud.” He leaned forward and winked, “But I’m going to make you work for it. Our work meetings are so boring, and I enjoy watching you women fighting against an orgasm.”

You hated this. You were to clean his office and he was going to be brushing your cunt with his toy.

He picked up the glass by his desk and opened the mini fridge, pulling out the ice cubes. He clunked some into his glass and poured some water over the top of it. Settling back into his chair he eyed you, waiting.

Swallowing your pride, you turned from him and began at the far end at the stacked bookcases. You shuddered as the panties worked at your clit, longer this time. He did not hit the button at regular intervals, so it caught you off guard every time. You would be holding a porcelain figurine and clench it, hoping to God you would not drop it. You were bound to break something the closer you got to coming undone. He was continuing on with his virtual meeting as if nothing untoward was happening to you. You bent to grab a book that had fallen off the shelf and he hit it again. You snapped back up and exhaled sharply, clenched as it vibrated relentlessly against you. You gave the book a quick brush over before placing it back on the shelf. You took a step and he hit it again.

Having had enough, you turned around and hissed, “You’re distracting me. How am I to work, Master Stark?”

He muted his microphone on his computer and blocked his camera before turning in his chair towards you. You saw the bulge in his pants and that only served to make you more upset with the situation. How much he was getting off on this was unbearable.

“That’s kind of the point of this. But, really, you’re distracting me, little vixen. With your hips and those soft sighs leaving your mouth every time I press the toy. It’s very beguiling,” Tony argued, relaxing back in his chair. You heard the ice clinking in his drink as he brought it to his lips. “And I’ll distract you however much I want to. Don’t you forget that. Get back to work. Now.”

He clicked his microphone and camera back on, resuming his meeting. His fingers were tapping the remote that was lying on the desk, teasingly. Pissed, you turned back.

It buzzed again only moments later, and you clenched, squeezing your thighs together as you brushed the bookcase.

“Ah ah. Naughty girl. Let me in,” Tony intoned, and you loosened. He took the opportunity and hit you again with stimulation.

You let out a frustrated noise and threw the duster onto the ground.

“Fuck this!” you exclaimed.

Tony hit the hide and mute on his computer quickly at your outburst, caught off guard. You got a small satisfaction out of that in the heat of the moment that you had thrown him off his game.

He turned towards you again, looking furious. That did nothing to throw water on your temper. You hastily tore the underwear off and threw them in his general direction. Tony’s eyes followed the descent of them to land at his black oxfords. “Send me back! I’ll take on an extra month — six even if I can just be back in the capitol building! This is torture!”

Tony drug his gaze from the panties back to you. His elbow was still resting on the arm of the chair.

Chest heaving, you watched him and slowly felt the dread creeping in. His eyes were hard, and you remembered who exactly you were dealing with. He had all the power in this relationship, and you had just lost your temper with him, outright disobeying something you had been ordered to do. And you may have embarrassed him in front of other Capitol council members in your outburst.

Tony stood from the chair and stalked over to you, peering down his nose at you. His voice was dangerously low when he said, “Go up to my bedroom and wait there for Steve and I. On the bed. Naked.”

Naked? You gulped.

Even you knew better than to argue with him with that scathing glare. You slunk away and you felt his glare burning into the back of your head as you closed the office door behind you.

<><><>

Curled in on yourself, you waited. It seemed to drag on forever, the waiting. You just wanted them to come up and belt you and get it over with.

When the door opened, you dared to raise your gaze, finding the both of them coming in. Their jackets, vests, and ties were gone. The top buttons of their dress shirts were undone, apparently have relaxed before this. Tony must have called Steve to his office and relayed to him what had transpired between the two of you.

You were doing your best to try to keep your breasts hidden, your legs crossed to hide yourself as well.

Tony came to a stop in front of you and he held out two fingers, pulling your chin up to force you to look at him directly. His stare was cold.

“You really pissed me off earlier,” he informed you point blank.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’m sure you are now. At the time, I know you meant every little ounce of venom you spat at me. And that I won’t abide. And neither will Steve. What goes on in one villa, goes on in the other. You will be well behaved in both.” When you did not say anything, his hand came to clench your jaw and you winced as he forced your mouth open as he mocked in a higher pitched voice, “’Yes, master. I understand’.”

“Yes, master, I understand,” you repeated, wincing against his tight grip.

“And we’ll make sure that sticks. We are in charge here,” Tony told you, letting go of your face and going to work on the rest of his buttons.

You had hardly noticed Steve had undressed himself to his briefs. You had been so focused on Tony’s imperious presence before you.

Steve was holding the panties you had thrown at Tony earlier. You felt sick as he told you, “Let me put these on you and don’t make it difficult.”

No. They were not going to beat you like you feared. They were going to do worse. Matilda came to mind being in Tony’s bed when you knew that was the last place she would have wanted to be and your eyes shot to the door before landing back on Steve who was coming close now.

Freeing himself from his boxers, Steve’s hand ran up and down his length. You cowered back, crawling back on the bed, tucking your feet to come onto your knees. You did not want to be in here. He smirked seeing your fight or flight kick in.

“Sweetpea, you know that’s not an option. Come back.” You tensed, shooting another quick look at the door. Steve’s expression melted from amusement to annoyance. “Now.”

You unfolded slowly, coming back to the end of the bed, your heart hammering. You had had sex before, but it had only been with the boy next door, the one you had thought once that you would marry before you had been brought here. Not like this. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you sat still as you could to let him slide them up and you allowed him to pull them all the way up. You spotted Tony still had the remote, a wicked grin on his face.

Steve was jutting out towards you, and you stared down at his length.

“Your hand,” Steve told you. “Wet it with your mouth.” You shakily did as he asked and he ordered, “More spit.” You did that as well. “Touch me.”

You felt humiliated but you did what he asked. He was thick and your hand slid up and down his length, wetting him with your spit. He moaned softly, his hips moving ever so slightly as you continued to stroke him off. The underwear vibrated and unlike before, they were not turning off. Tony was not giving you any reprieve. You tried to adjust so the movement was not directly on your bud but no matter what you tried, it was right there, and some angles made it worse, causing you to shiver at the direct contact. You caught Tony’s eyes and he was watching with heightened arousal, his erection evident in his slacks.

Steve was leaking precum in no time and you were short of breath with the stimulation on your cunt. You had shot a look at Tony finding him naked now, working himself up at the scene before him. You were getting the panties so wet and you wondered if that was going to affect the toy.

It reached a moment when Steve had had enough of just your hand. He stopped your movement and tossed your hand aside. You leaned back as he towered, his hands snatching at the sides of the panties and yanking them down your legs roughly, tossing them aside. You barely had time to react before he was picking you up in a fluid motion. You yelped at the airborne movement as he dragged you onto the bed with him. Steve laid down and pulled you in top of him, your hands planted by his head. His cock slid in with ease to your wet pussy, his lips sucking at your breasts.

The bed dipped with Tony’s added weight, and you heard him adjusting in between Steve’s legs, his hard cock brushing up against your tight ring. You realized fully what he was aiming for when his thumb met your ass and it was cold, covered in lube. You felt him squeeze some into you.

Having their way with you in your pussy was one thing but this was something else entirely, especially since Steve was already inside you. You had never had anal sex, let alone two men in you at once. This was their punishment.

Desperately, you begged, “Please don’t!”

Steve’s laugh was cruel. “‘Please don’t?’ Me? I’m not doing anything, darling. I’m just sitting here. Fully...seated... inside your tight cunt just enjoying it.”

You tried to look over your shoulder at Tony, “Master—"

But Steve grabbed your face and forced you to look back at him. “Relax…. Relax….” he breathed encouragingly. “You don’t want it to really hurt do you?”

There was no time for you to answer him as Tony started pressing in. It burned and you cried out. Steve was whispering in your ear to encourage you to relax, telling you to be a good girl. You choked on a cry, tears stinging as Tony continued to sink into your ass. You were so full.

“Aw, she’s crying, Tony.”

Tony sloppily kissed your temple, his hand tight on your throat. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. You’re doing so well! Taking it like the little whore we knew you are. Take your punishment… you’ll be loving it in no time.”

He pulled out slowly before pushing back in, keeping a slow steady pace. You breathed, trying to focus on the way it was subsiding to pleasure. You sniffled, hanging your head as he continued using you, Steve still waiting inside. You were sure their cocks were brushing each other in that thin membrane.

“Well-behaved now too. Just gotta fill her with cock to train her. Make her needy,” Steve rasped. “Tell us how much you like it, you little slut.”

It was an order. And you were just a rag doll between them right now; what other choice did you have but to comply?

You could not lie to yourself either, you were being stimulated to a whole new level.

“I love it,” you breathed shakily, a sharp whine escaping as you felt them both rocking in and out. They had a rhythm going, like they had done this before.

Steve continued with his dirty talk, “You want it? You wanna be fucked?”

“Yes, I want it. I wanna be fucked.”

Tony groaned at your declaration, slapping across your ass as you rocked between them. The reverberation sent a tremor through you, further stimulating you.

Steve bit roughly at your nipple and you yelped. His breath was hot as he growled, “You wanna be used like a perfect doll. Right? You wanna behave? Because if you don’t we won’t finish.”

Every nerve was on fire, and you were losing yourself to the feeling. No, they had to finish.

You nodded fervently, “I wanna behave. I wanna behave.”

“You know how lucky you are to be filled? What women would beg to be in your spot? You should be thanking us!”

“Thank you for filling me up,” you cried as Steve buried himself roughly. The shame of your pleading and groveling was overshadowed by every brush of their cocks inside you, pushing you towards the edge to come tumbling down.

They were working you like the doll Steve promised you were going to be. Your breath was short, and you were beginning to shake on your arms.

You heard Tony groan, “There you go, there you go. Fuck!”

“I got her Tony,” Steve grunted, holding you tight as broken cries left you. “I’ll hold you, sweetheart.” You trusted him in your delirious state and collapsed against him as your body gave way. You shouted, stuffing a fist into your mouth. Steve yanked your hand away and you cried out. “Let us hear what we’ve done to you, you naughty girl.”

Steve held you in place as Tony sped up, thrusting quick. You continued moaning with the heat tearing through you.

“You’re gonna take every fucking drop,” Tony husked. “Perfect little cumslut!”

He groaned animalistically, his cum emptying into your ass. You sighed relieved and buried your face into Steve’s collarbone. Tony slid out and you whined pathetically feeling him spill out onto your thighs.

“Almost done, doll. You’re taking your punishment perfectly, shaping up so well,” Steve kissed along the side of your face. “Tony, you did nothing to help me stalling myself with those hard thrusts of yours. Felt every rib of your dick, you bastard.” You heard Tony chuckling as Steve resumed his own thrusts. You whined, so sensitive but he whispered sweet nothings into your ear, and he was finishing soon, spilling his seed into your aching pussy. He gave a few more lazy thrusts before he picked you up and rolled over to drop you onto the bed.

You laid there exhausted, bare in the center of the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath.

Steve was pleased. “I love that gaped, cum filled look. Especially on her.”

They sounded a million miles away, you still drowning in what had just happened.

Tony came into your sights, and you turned your head towards him, exhaustion in your bones. “Gather yourself and then come join me in the shower. I’ll give you that before you come back out here and strip my bed to clean the sheets. Can’t keep you off your duties for too long, can we? I won’t be giving you special treatment no matter how well that perfect ass of yours just milked me.”

He turned before stopping and then he added, “By the way, I will not be sending you back to the Capitol building. If we have our say, you won’t be going home any time soon.”

~~~

Marvel tags: @coconutqueen21 @undecidedsworld @holl2712 @agustdowney @biiskuitx

#steve rogers x reader #tony stark x reader #dark tony stark #dark steve rogers #dark marvel #my shit

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an-android-in-a-tutu · 3 years

Text

But just like generally the lobotomy arc and Cas’ selective amnesia bothers me a bit because I feel like it never reaches some kind of resolution. I feel like in a lot of ways it just sort of exists to retcon that Cas was always a special boy and while he is the specialest boy to me I don’t like that and I think there’s juicy character stuff to be had there if you just break down into it!

Like, I feel like if you’re going to reveal that a character has a past that even they aren’t aware of you have gotta use that to kick off some kind of identity crisis. Either you give Cas back his memories bc this is magic world and lobotomies can be reversible if we say so, and have him realize that he’s an entirely different person than he always thought he was and he needs to reconcile who he’s become with the memories of who he was, or you don’t but then he still has to figure out how to come to terms with the parts of his history he’ll never know and grapple with what this means for his idea of himself going forward.

Cas is kind of, arguably he’s a character who relies a lot on other people for his self-perception, like he defines himself according to how other people see him, and he can have a tendency to be self-deluding. So when you take a character like that and you tell him. Hey, your sense of identity is actually literally constructed by an outside force. Like this is how you see yourself but it’s fake and was created for you by someone else so you could better fit a role. That’s something isn’t it? Doesn’t that feel like a starting point to get him to maybe confront a whole lot of identity issues?

Like the whole “came off the line with a crack in his chassis” thing has the potential to be compelling to me, not because it actually means that Cas was special or broken from day one, but because it runs directly counter to the other narrative we have about Castiel which is the minute he lay a hand on Dean’s soul in hell he was lost/Castiel was a good soldier until he met Dean narrative. And the tension between those two opposing ideas is never really confronted or resolved!

We know which one Cas prefers, “I loved the whole world because of you” and all, he very much sees Dean as having changed him and made him better and that makes sense, because from his perspective that is very much what happened. Even if he rebelled before he can’t remember it, it doesn’t really change this version of events or make it less meaningful to him.

But! I still feel like that would be fascinating for him to confront and work through. Because I don’t think either of those narratives are fully true or that one is more accurate than the other. I think those are just two ways that angels try to explain Castiel. Either he was broken and/or special all along and is rebellion is an expression of that or he was a normal angel once before he was corrupted into what he is now.

But like Castiel, like any angel, was kind of just a person. A person who kept having their agency stripped away until he ended up in the right place at the right time and managed to escape the system that was doing that to him long enough to get solid footing and push back, and Sam and Dean helped him do that, and it had to be in that time and place with those people in order for so much to come of it, but that doesn’t mean that was the first or only time it happened, or the only way it could have happened.

And I think it would be cool for Cas to have to figure out who he is if he’s kind of always been a person, because he does kind of view himself primarily by his utility and he does kind of have a hard time separating himself out from Dean, and that’s one reason why I think that’d make a valuable character arc for him because if he was always kind of a person, and he wasn’t an automaton that first came to life when he touched Dean’s soul- for one thing if Dean didn’t create him then maybe Dean isn’t God and doesn’t have to be obeyed like he is.

Which is why I think it’s kind of cool that when Cas first breaks out of the angel brainwashing he takes the tablet and runs from everyone Including Dean, but this is Supernatural so that kind of arc isn’t allowed to happen and Cas gets punished for that obviously.

Anyway long story short this is why Meg should have lived so she and Cas could have their hot girl summer and find themselves on like a fun road trip.

#spn #supernatural #castiel #meg masters #she doesn't have to get him pregnant but it Would be funny #no but seriously I think it's fun when she talks about missing the apocalypse with him #and I think they should get to try to figure out what kind of people they are #when they don't have a cause to follow #unrelated note I fuckin hate the word chassis #I know I KNOW #it is pronounced like Chass-ee #but I see that word and my brain says #Chass-iss

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Drop off Point | SPN Brothers

Warnings; language, anger, arguing

There was no place like home, but the thing was, that you didn’t have one. Each day, you went from motel room to motel room, sometimes you would even sleep in the back of the impala, whist your brothers sat in the front, somehow gaining rest in those uncomfortable, upright positions.

Dad was gone, and left you primarily in Dean’s custody, and with having Sam back, he managed to get your brother to cut you some slack. Dean was a wreck without John, he was desperate to discover your father’s whereabouts, and his decisions made you feel as though you were not as desperate to find where he had gone.

Being a Winchester came with plenty of perks, you got to see so many places in a short span of time, it made it feel as though the world was underneath your fingertip. However, having the attributes of being a teenager, and a girl, didn’t mix well with your suggestions or desires to hunt for the parent that had raised you.

And that left you here, cruising in the backseat of Dean’s beloved vehicle, taking the turns to reach Bobby’s. The elder of your brother had said he needed to stock up on supplies, such as dead man’s blood and so on, in case he picked up on any monsters on his journey.

But the travel was not just his, you and Sam were there too. He had even gone to nab Samuel from his escape, and drag him into the putridness of this life once more, all for the man that spawned you all.

“Hey kid.” Bobby stepped down from his porch, his shoes crinkling upon the gravel. He greeted the boys with hugs, and a set smile occupied his face as he looked at you, it almost screamed relief. “I got everything you boys need, come on.”

The lot of you trailed after the elder hunter, who adjusted his baseball cap as he escorted the three of you into the main room, the devil’s trap brandishing the floor, and scurried piles of books taking up the rest of the space.

“Cool, you got the good stuff.” Dean clapped his hands together as he dug through the small arsenal, dragging out a small blade.

“That there was smelted with dead man’s blood, it’ll murder those suckers straight away.” Bobby spoke, watching as Dean pocketed some items. Sam dropped a bag on the floor, a guilty, disobedient dog expression clouding his face.

It wasn’t any bag, it belonged to you. The satchel contained a few articles of clothing that were clean and a couple of books that you had nabbed from libraries that you had passed through. “Why’d you bring that in?” You asked suspiciously, having an inkling of a feeling as to the reason.

“Sorry.” Sam muttered, he had truly missed you whilst he had been away, and he hated the idea of being subdued into saying goodbye. But this wasn’t his complete choice, your other sibling had entirely taken control of the decision.

“You’re staying here (Y/N/N), at least until we find dad.” Dean admitted, coming to walk closer to you to strangle you in an embrace, however, you were keen to take a step back, denying his request.

“This is ridiculous.” You scoffed, face red from hurt and anger. He had no right to swerve you from the path that you were hellbent on, it was not up to him. “I want to go with you!”

Perhaps it was a peculiar ambition, but in this life, family was everything. It was the code that you had been raised to, and you’d be damned if you were to insult it by giving it nothing but disregard. If it were you that were missing, everyone would be searching, Dean would send everyone out to enquire and look, no matter their gender or age.

And just because you were his sister, he thought that he could put his foot down. It never changed, he was continuously overprotective, it felt as though you were consistently travelling in a cage, a child lock on in the back seats of Baby, rather than being giving a sense of free will. Instead there was no freedom, only constricting bars that kept you in the line of sight and knowledge of your brothers.

“Well too bad sweetheart, you’re staying put here under Bobby’s supervision.” He retorted sufficiently pressing the sole of his shoe upon the wooden flooring on this matter. Dean wised not to argue, but it was where his conspiring opinion ended up taking the pair of you, Bobby scratched his head agitatedly, understanding the reasons for Dean’s red anger, however it was inevitable that one day, you’d be old enough to make your own decisions, and no doubt you would go head first into these dangerous situations. It was how he could tell how related you were to your brothers, even if you had a different mother from the infamous sons of John Winchester.

“Screw you Dean! You’re supposed to be the one looking after me, and here you are, loading me off to someone else. I hate you so much right now.” The words couldn’t be restrained, they tumbled out, and currently you couldn’t care less. Anger was taking the driver’s seat, and it was veering into a crash, one that Sam could see without his ‘psychic’ abilities.

“Don’t say that (Y/N).” Another order, how Dean like. It was such a typical trait that he reverberated from his chest, as though he was constantly the one in charge. The way he bossed people about was far too familiar, and it repulsed you. He was acting as another man in your life, the one that dragged the lot of you around like dogs, pulling on the leashes to keep you all in line.

“You’re not dad, so stop trying to be him!” Dean could only freeze upon receiving your words, as you heavily breathed, wound up from the spitting of conflicting interests. Another instant spewing of hurtful comments were attempting to be catapulted from the void of your mouth, but Sam hissed as he came to stand in front of you, clearly disappointed in your behaviour.

“You know (Y/N), I told Dean that he should give you a chance, although you deserve a life better than we got. Not because it could raise our chances and hopes of finding dad, but because it was what you wanted. But I’ve changed my mind, and I think you should stay here a while, until you are grown up enough to be on the road with us.”

His scolding made you bow your head down, almost ashamed of yourself, before you glanced at the trio of men in the room one last time, grabbing your man and escalating upstairs to a spare room. Sam gulped, knowing that he had silenced the poison in the blood you all shared, however he could only hope that you would understand why he was so inclined to get involved.

It caused him pain, knowing that you, his baby sister wanted to be neck deep in this chaotic life, when he had wanted out. The logic of it didn’t feel right, it only showed as evidence that you too had been brought up loved, yet in a toxic childhood. The inclination, the loyalty you had for fighting was a flaw, it was not something that hunters wanted to do, but instead rather something that they had to.

Sam sighed as he put the phone down in his lap, Dean was in the driver’s seat, his jaw clenched. “No answer?” He asked expectedly, to which the eldest received an affirmative nod. It was frustrating to know that this all uprose from them wanting to keep her safe.

“Bobby said that she’s okay.” Sam spoke in the music of the air con. “She’s actually getting pretty good at combat, hell it’s been six months. Her head is on straight, she knows that she’s good at what she’s doing. But-“

“She still refuses to speak to us.” Dean completed his sentence, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. His knuckles grew white from the pressure he held onto the remote with, his tongue clicking as he pushed away the guilt. That was only permitted recognition when he was alone, he’d never admit to anyone that he may have made a bad decision, all because his sister was alive and breathing, (Y/N) was okay, even if she refused contact with them.

“We should see her Dean.” Sam stated. He had wanted to for so long, he hated how absent the backseat was, and how there seemed to be a lack of the scent of female deodorant.

“Next stop, Bobby’s.”

#spn imagine #spn x reader #spn x Y/N #spn x you #spn fanfiction #spn one shot #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x you #supernatural x reader #supernatural imagine #supernatural x winchester reader #dean winchester imagines #dean x reader #winchester x reader #supernatural #imagines #spn reader insert #spn requests

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moiraineswife · 3 years

Text

Mine - A Navani/Raboniel Fic

IT’S TIME FOR THE GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.

Title: Mine

Rating: M Content warnings: Violence. Sexy violence. But still violence.

Summary: Set during Rhythm of War. THEORETICALLY it’s canon-compliant. Just gayer. After several failed attempts, The Pursuer sends men to bring him Navani, believing Kaladin will come to the Queen’s aid if she’s in danger. Raboniel takes issue with this, and refuses to allow them to take Navani.

Teaser: ‘“You will tell him that Navani is mine. If he may claim that Windrunner, then I claim her. He will not touch her. He will not send men to take her from me. He will not so much as think of her or utter her name without my knowledge and consent. She is mine, and I will send every one of his worthless soldiers back to Braize screaming if that is what it takes to make that known throughout this tower.”’

Link: AO3

It had been a long time since Navani had studied by candlelight.

Glowing gemstones had ruled her life for so long now. Woven into her hair as a symbol of status in Gavilar’s court.

Counting spheres as the cost of conquest had piled on her shoulders as her husband had drunk, and killed, and warred his way to glory, with no idea what she did in the background to prevent his fledgling kingdom suffering economic and social collapse in the wake of his passing.

Powering the fabrials that had brought her such joy and fulfilment, a constant support in her life.

Now the Stormlight that fueled the Radiants as most of her family was pulled into this war.

Raboniel preferred to work by candlelight. She said it soothed her, and reminded her of days when she’d been younger. Stormlight had not been plentiful for Fused in eras gone by. Odium had disapproved of it surrounding them, and Voidlight was a poor source of illumination.

Navani had to admit they brought a certain warmth to the small room she was ensconced in with Raboniel. They were alone together now, as Raboniel had just dismissed the guards, who had been visibly wilting, and told them to send a replacement team down to them instead.

There was no sound save the soft scratching of their pens on the notebook between them. Raboniel was studying her latest addition, making small, careful notations in the women’s script.

One could tell a lot about another’s script, Navani felt. Jasnah’s for example, was pristine, a perfect example of the women’s script, honed over much time. Dalinar’s was less practiced, with large, bold lines, each word somehow making its own statement upon the page.

Raboniel’s was sharper than Navani’s, more cramped. This was to be expected, given her unfamiliarity with it, but she wrote curiously, each spike and line written with a differing pressure or firmness, to a rhythm, she realised. Right now that rhythm was frantic, her eyes focused, entirely consumed by the work.

Navani understood that feeling. Like Raboniel, she had been many things to many people over her years. Mother, mentor, wife, queen. For herself, she was a scholar. Yes. A scholar. It was still sometimes difficult to ignore the words whispered in Gavilar’s voice at the back of her mind that told her she was nothing herself. Always defined by what she was to, and what she could get from, others.

Raboniel had helped her see things differently. This was who she was. Navani. Not Queen Navani. Not Brightness Kholin. Just Navani. Navani was a creator, an inventor, a scholar, a pursuer of secrets, and she thrived in this environment.

She felt the same way about Raboniel.

She was many things to many people as well. A mother, certainly, even now that Essu was dead, by her own hand, she would never stop being a mother. A soldier, and a war leader. A servant of Odium. An immortal Fused reborn. A Voidbringer, in the minds of many humans.

Raboniel, however, not the Lady of Pains, the Lady of Wishes, Ancient One, or General, just Raboniel was as Navani was: a scholar. She too thrived on this. She had ulterior motives, certainly, Navani had already seen several of them.

Yet even without them, she felt sure she would be driven, as Navani was herself, by the question, the seeking, the taste of new knowledge, the thrill of uncovering things that had been buried for millenia, of cracking puzzles buried in the very fabric of their world that no-one had ever cracked before.

In her heart, in the deepest, most fundamental fabric of her soul, Raboniel was a scholar. And in that way, mortal and immortal, Fused and human, their essence was the same. And it sang in harmony with one another in these moments, cloistered alone together, picking out the mysteries of ages gone by.

It was a strangely intimate process. Navani had always worked in groups before. She had flitted between ardents and engineers and storm wardens like an insect pollinating flowers, bringing little bits of insight or inspiration, but never lingering with any.

With this project, she had worked exclusively with Raboniel, for hours and hours at a time. They had only had one another to feed off of and consume with their theories, and thoughts, and ideas, and experiments.

She felt as though she knew this woman, felt as though she connected with her, in a way she had rarely done with another human so swiftly.

She adored the bones of Dalinar, she truly did. But it had taken a while to understand him. Part of the reason she had taken such time between Gavilar and Dalinar in their youth was that it took her a while to feel she knew a person, and was close enough to commit to them.

How wrong she had been, in mistaking Gavilar’s mask for the truth of him. While she had missed the good heart buried beneath the layers of scar tissue Dalinar had hidden it behind all those years ago.

Raboniel, though, she felt she knew her, knew her, beneath the blood and bones, straight to the soul, the moment they had first worked on Rhythm of War together, and she had looked into her eyes, and found that same bright, consuming, almost manic light gleaming in them that lived within her, too.

With a small nod, her rhythm shifting to one of satisfaction, Raboniel pushed the notebook back towards Navani, gesturing her to the new notes that had been made in the Fused’s hand.

As she bent to examine it, however, Raboniel sat up beside her, straight and intent, head turning towards the door. The way she sat when they were not alone, when she was a regal Fused, not a scholar.

Navani turned, too, and found six of the Pursuer’s Fused soldiers standing in the doorway.

Raboniel did not seem surprised. If anything she seemed...Resigned.

Navani was not overly aware of the situation in the tower, but she knew that tension between the Pursuer and Raboniel’s calmer, more reasonable rule were straining. Especially as his hunt for Kaladin continued to refuse to bear fruit.

Raboniel stood, and a power seemed to radiate from her, as if she were a perfect gemstone, containing an immortality’s worth of stormlight pulsing within.

She was rather impressed that the soldiers didn’t turn and flee at once, as Raboniel reached her height and stared them down without a flicker of fear, despite being outnumbered six to one.

“Our master has sent us,” the lead soldier said, red eyes gleaming as they flickered from Raboniel to Navani, still sat at the desk behind Raboniel, who suddenly felt like a shield against that hungry gaze.

“I thought that he might,” Raboniel replied, her rhythm becoming dark and tempestuous.

“Then you know why we are here, Lady of Wishes,” said another, taking a step forwards, “This can be resolved without any bloodshed.”

Bloodshed? Navani felt herself growing cold. On some instinct, she picked up the Rhythm of War notebook and began to try to surreptitiously move to the back of the room. Putting as much distance between herself and these men seemed the most sensible course of action now.

One of them noticed her, and began to hum in a loud, derisive rhythm, jeering, “See how it runs. The fear is obvious! She knows she is pursued.”

Pursued? They were here for her?

Raboniel glanced over her shoulder, long hair strands swishing around her like a cape as she did. She gave Navani a small nod, telling her she had done the right thing.

“Do not fear such as these, Navani,” she said, her rhythm soft but strong, pulsing against Navani, almost strengthening her, “They do not warrant any reaction from yourself.”

“It is true, then?” the lead soldier said, his rhythm scathing, his tone far bolder than any she had heard taken with Raboniel before, “You have grown fond of his human pet of yours, and it has made you weak, sucked the passion from you and put it into her instead.”

Raboniel actually growled at him, her rhythm becoming dark and dangerous, Voidlight collecting around her hand as she stared the soldier down, “Do not forget yourself, Devail,” she said, her rhythm an angry, swirling snarl of sound. “I am not some common Fused like Lezian, and if you speak to me in such a way again you will regret it for the rest of your pathetic immortal existence, I swear to you.”

Navani trembled and the words were not even directed at her. The soldier took a step backwards, humming softly in a rhythm of apology. As well he might.

Raboniel took a breath, and looked at each of the men in turn, giving them a long, piercing look, “Is this something you truly wish to do?” she asked them quietly.

“We’re under orders, Lady of Wishes,” the lead soldier said, “We’re not to use violence as a primary method of achieving those orders, but the Pursuer expects resistance. In that case, he says we are to achieve our goal at all costs.”

Raboniel hummed a sharp, destructive rhythm, “You would raise your weapons against me, truly?”

Oh Stormfather, Navani thought, trembling. This could turn ugly, well and truly. Raboniel was a competent warrior, she was sure, but she was primarily a scholar, thinker, and organiser, from what Navani had seen. The Pursuer’s men were among the most finely trained, as brutal and bloodthirsty as their master.

“We would take up arms against one who tried to defend a human, Lady of Wishes,” the soldier said again, his rhythm respectful, but firm.

Raboniel shook his head, “Lezian is a fool,” she hissed, “What does he possibly wish to accomplish with the queen that could be more than what I have accomplished with her?”

“He will use her to lure his prize,” the soldier Raboniel had named Devail said, an indecent hunger in his eyes as he once again looked past Raboniel to Navnai, cowering on the floor behind them, feeling like a hog in a pen at a slaughter market beneath that gaze.

“The Pursuer believes he can use the queen to draw forth Stormblessed,” the lead soldier said, “He would of course come to the defence of his queen were she threatened.”

“Or publicly executed,” Devail added, with a gleeful grin.

Navani quivered. She had rarely felt so helpless. She held the Rhythm of War against her chest, as though it could do anything to help her. She had no weapons, not even her customary painrial. She was tired, and weak, and fragile.

If Raboniel gave her over to these men there would be nothing she could do to stop it.

“He thinks to set an ambush for the Windrunner, using something the man will seek to defend to draw him to a place of contest, does he?” Raboniel asked, and her rhythm sounded strangely amused. Perhaps Navani could not read her correctly.

“You are wise as ever Lady of Wishes,” the lead Fused said, with a small bow of the head, “This is indeed his intention.”

“And why should it work this time when he has failed twice already, with far more fixed and defensible locations at the shield points?” Raboniel demanded scornfully.

Devial took an angry step forwards but, wisely, his commander restrained him.

“I will not relinquish an asset to him for the sake of his wounded, failing pride,” Raboniel continued derisively, “Navani is of far more use to me than Lezian could ever fathom to put her to in his wildest moment of clarity and intelligence.”

“We are under orders, Lady,” the lead soldier said, “Our master was quite...Insistent.”

“And you think I cannot be equally so?” Raboniel said, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning. “Return to your master and tell him that he has no authority to issue me with orders in this tower, or anywhere. Tell him he should count himself lucky I do not escalate this insult and return him to Braize, screaming. And tell him that if he wants to request something of me in future, then I expect him to pay me the respect I am due and come himself.”

With that, she turned her back on them, as though done with them. Navani had to clap her safehand to her mouth to stop herself uttering a warning. It seemed so foolhardy for Raboniel to put her back to these men.

The tension inside her was vibrating like a lost tone. She could barely breathe for the pressure of it welling inside her. Her eyes flicked up towards Raboniel’s face and found it wearing a soft, reassuring smile.

“This was not an option our master will allow us to pursue, lady,” the lead soldier said, quietly.

The Fused behind him drew their weapons, holding them in distinctly aggressive postures.

Raboniel sighed heavily and turned slowly back to face them.

“Perhaps I was not clear enough, captain,” she said, her voice quiet and dangerous, “I am giving you this chance to return to your master and have him confront me himself. Take it.”

“I cannot, lady,” he said, shaking his head, “We were prepared for this eventuality, our master-”

“If your master wishes so much for me to bleed him,” Raboniel growled, “Then perhaps he can cease being so cowardly and face me himself.”

Devial made a noise of outrage at that, and several of the others hummed to an angry rhythm. “He already has his prey!” one of them called, “It would break centuries of tradition were he to pursue another before he has claimed the life of the Windrunner.”

“What a convenient excuse,” Raboniel said scathingly.

“We have no quarrel with you, lady,” the lead soldier interrupted, “We only want the queen.”

“Then that is your quarrel with me, captain,” Raboniel snapped, “Navani is mine. As I have made clear to your master, and indeed to all who reside in this tower. If you wish to harm her, or indeed remove her from this room without my authority, then there will be a quarrel.”

Navani felt almost breathless, as Raboniel glowered down at these men, heavily armoured, ancient, powerful, returned over and over to kill. And she stood her ground and stared them down to protect her.

A part of her wanted to protest, wanted to stop this hopeless fight before it began. Raboniel being killed might have once been a desirable outcome, but her honour in this moment would not allow the woman to get herself killed protecting Navani, when the outcome would be the same.

Yet these men terrified her. She did not want to leave this safe, quiet, candlelit room, her books, her scholarship, her safety that she enjoyed with Raboniel.

She stayed quiet. Cowardly. And watched with wide eyes.

“Then a quarrel it shall be,” the captain said, sounding resigned, but not altogether surprised.

They had expected this? They had expected Raboniel to stubbornly face her death rather than simply handing Navani over?

“Then come, quarrel with me,” Raboniel said in a dangerous hiss, drawing twin blades from her hips as she spoke, “And do make it quick, captain, I have work I must yet attend to tonight.

There was a moment. A single, eternal moment that hung in silence for a cluster of frantic heartbeats. Like the breath of calm and quiet before the full force of the stormwall was brought to bear upon the world.

Raboniel and the Pursuer’s men faced one another, Raboniel crouched low in an offensive stance, the men standing in a furious formation, weapons drawn, carapace gleaming, the flickering candlelight casting deadly shadows across their inhuman faces.

Navani cowered in her corner and whispered a soft prayer to the Almighty, hands clutched over her chest, wishing, absurdly, that she had a glyphward to burn.

Then the stormwall hit, and Navani pressed herself back against the wall, as if she could push herself into it and escape the cacophony of death and violence that erupted around her like a highstorm. She felt vulnerable, exposed, tied out to bear it alone, with no shield against what was coming.

Except that she was not alone. Raboniel stood in front of her, protective, a shield against the horrors that had come for her.

The Pursuer’s men moved forwards in a tight formation and they seemed, absurdly, wary. Though they were six warriors against one scholar, they seemed to actually fear Raboniel.

A heartbeat later, Navani understood why.

The men came for her, but she did not wait for them. In a single bound, she crossed the distance between them, and landed in their midst, blades flashing, teeth bared, hair flying like a banner behind her.

Navani gasped as both of her blades - thinner, and shorter, than a common lighteyes side sword, pierced both eyes of a Fused in the centre of the group. He went down with her landing on his chest, like a mink atop a thrashing rat, his flailing limbs knocking into his companions and sowing chaos in their tight formation.

Raboniel grinned a feral, dangerous smile at the others around her, then leapt, yanking her blades from the corpse of the Fused beneath her, and scraping along the carapace of the men before her.

The noise it made was awful, and Navani clapped her hands to her ears. The scraping, shrieking sounded like a dirge of death, and the men around her flinched at the sound of it.

This was clearly the reaction Raboniel had anticipated, for she sprang backwards out of the chaotic fray, putting her back once more to Navani, keeping herself carefully between her and the Pursuer’s men.

She jerked her chin towards them, inviting them to come and take her if they could, and Navani felt a chill of understanding.

In essence, this woman was like her. They were both scholars, driven by their passion for learning, for teasing the secrets from Roshar that it tried so hard to hide from them. But she was more. Far more. And one aspect of herself was this.

The Lady of Pains. A Herald in her own right. A Herald of Death. Bearer of devastation and violence. A woman who held a sword as easily as she held a pen, and unravelled men with as much skill and precision as she unravelled secrets.

She spun, both blades whirling through the air, flashing in the candlelight, casting terrible, dancing shadows against the walls. She caught another Fused in the throat and he stumbled, but Voidlight glowed from the wound, healing it.

Before that could complete, she stepped in to him and rammed her blade, designed, Navani saw now, to pierce armour - or carapace - into his chest, and Navani heard the telltale crack as his gemheart shattered.

A sword clattered against her back and she turned, snarling, blood flying from her blades, and parried the next swing that should have taken her head from her shoulders. She caught the blade between both of her own, crossed like a chasmfiend’s mandibles, and twisted, shattering the wrist of its bearer.

He dropped the sword, screaming, and Raboniel moved in as though she might have kissed him, but breathed out, engulfing him in a cloud of blackness that began to devour his flesh while he howled in pain, clawing at it and writhing on the floor.

Navani had thought herself a connoisseur of death. She had watched countless duels in her life, attended many wars. Her first husband had begun a war of conquest which had often spilled blood upon those closest to him. Her current husband waged a war for the world itself. Navani had seen the aftermath of battles, had even seen a few battles themselves.

She had never seen anything like this.

Raboniel moved faster than she would have believed, blades a silver blur, Voidlight rising from her skin as she swayed.

Dalinar and Gavilar had been skilled. They had talent, practice, and shards to cause devastation. But this? This was an immortal who had been singing to a rhythm of war and death at Odium’s bidding from the moment she had drawn breath.

She was like a shard all her own. Created to kill. She was like a highstorm, these men a foolish cry for it to quiet its winds, utterly lost to its fury and tempest.

One of the men cracked the head of a spear against her shoulder and she turned, grasping at the staff. It crumbled to dust at her touch, but the blade remained intact. It fell, as if in slow motion, and she snatched and hurled it across the room, lodging it in the forehead of another who dropped instantly.

The now weaponless man stared at her with eyes wide, full of fear, then full of nothing but death as Raboniel took both blades and rammed them, one on either side, into his chest, piercing directly to his gemheart.

Pain flashed unexpectedly into Navani’s awareness.

She looked down to find a knife slashing against her arm. A second later, it was at her neck, and she screamed, unable to stop herself, as Devial grabbed her and pulled her against him, blade held tight against her throat, sharp blade scraping the skin.

Raboniel turned at once, locking on to the sound. She stumbled, as the captain struck her from behind. Without looking, her entire aspect focused on Navni, she whipped a knife from her belt and flung it behind her, narrowly missing the captain, who had to dance aside to avoid it.

“Enough, Raboniel,” Devial panted, his breath hot in Navani’s ear, “I have her. Set down your blades. I promise I won’t torture her too much before I cut her pretty head off if you do.”

Raboniel stalked towards him, her eyes blazing like the fires of Damnation, burning with hatred and disgust, each step that of a calculating predator.

“Release her, Devial,” she breathed softly, a trickle of blood streaming from the corner of her mouth as she bared her fangs at him, “Or I will send you back to Odium begging never to be Returned again lest you be forced to face me and the torments I will unleash upon your worthless form again.”

Devial laughed, and pressed the blade harder against Navani’s throat in answer.

“So be it,” Raboniel whispered.

She moved blindingly, far more quickly than Navnai had yet seen from her. In an instant, she had the blade at her neck in her hands, and it vanished to dust in a heartbeat, Navani dropping to the floor and scrambling away from the battling Fused, clutching at her throat in terror.

Devial swung for Raboniel’s neck as his captain prowled around them, forcing Raboniel to keep one blade guarding her exposed back.

Navani wanted to help but storms. She was just a scholar, and she would only get in the way. All she could do was whisper another frantic prayer to the Almighty. Something she never believed she’d utter for Raboniel’s sake.

“You committed a gross slight against me just now, Devial,” Raboniel called to him, her eyes narrowed, “I will have you correct it before I send you back to Braize.”

“Oh?” he said, “And what was that?”

“You forgot my title when you addressed me in your scorn,” she said quietly, “I would remind you of it.”

With that she lunged for him, throwing another dagger as she did, catching the captain in the hand so he could not intervene as she and Devial slammed to the floor.

She rammed him through the stomach with both of her strange, pointed blades, pinning him in place as he writhed. Then she pressed her hand to him, forcing Voidlight into him, and caused his carapace to ignite, first like smouldering coals, then a roaring bonfire.

Raboniel did not seem bothered by the heat as it engulfed him, writhing and screaming beneath her.

She leaned in close to him, ripping her blades free of his abdomen, sending blood gushing from the wound it left, “I am the Lady of Pains, Devial,” she whispered to him, close and soft as she might to a lover. Then she rammed her blade into his chest and twisted, “My will in this tower is law. My word is final and absolute. And you will pay me the respect I am due by that title. Lest I remind you once more of its origin.”

Navani had thought she would use her second blade to end Devial, puncturing either his gemheart or his spinal cord to finish him.

Instead she rose from him, stepping away, leaving him writhing, consumed by flames and agony. His Voidlight supply healed him. Not fast enough to escape the death that was coming, but enough to prolong it, to ensure his last breaths would be spent in pain.

Navani found she could not feel too sorry, but she did look away from him, watching to where Raboniel stalked towards the last of the men. Their leader, the captain, who cowered on his knees before her.

He tossed aside his blade as she approached him, “I yield, Lady of Pains,” he said, voice cracking with fear.

“Oh?” she said, sounding faintly amused, “And you would have allowed me to yield to you, or to Devial, had I been so pitiful as to demand that mercy, would you?” she demanded, rhythm pulsing with derision.

“I, I-” the man panted, floundering, red eyes wide and terrified as he stared up at her.

“Do not answer,” she snapped, “I do not need to hear you lie to me as a final insult for this day’s nonsense. I do not wish to hear you speak another word to me while you hold this body, lest I be reminded of this encounter, and your worthless part in it. Do I make myself clear?”

The captain nodded frantically, humming to a remorseful, subservient rhythm.

“Good,” she said, coldly. “You will return to Lezian, and you will tell him that my patience with him is growing thin, and if he thinks to test it again, he will be sorry. As sorry as Devial, there,” she said.

As she spoke, she jerked her head towards the Fused behind them, now spasming and whimpering his last.

The echoing silence left in the wake of his death was somehow worse than his screams.

“You will tell him that Navani is mine. If he may claim that Windrunner, then I claim her. He will not touch her. He will not send men to take her from me. He will not so much as think of her or utter her name without my knowledge and consent. She is mine, and I will send every one of his worthless soldiers back to Braize screaming if that is what it takes to make that known throughout this tower.”

She gave the captain a shove, sending him stumbling away from her. He scrambled to his feet, hovering, waiting to see if there was more she wished of him.

“Get out of my sight,” she spat, waving a dismissive hand.

He bolted at once.

Navani sat, stunned, in the corner of the room, staring with wide eyes at the aftermath of what had happened. She put her fingers to her neck, feeling the faint cut there. It was not bad. Barely a scratch, in truth. But the memory of that blade against her skin, the feeling of the Fused’s clammy hands holding her, pressing her against him, as he spoke so lovingly of torturing her, made her want to claw herself out of her own body just to escape the memories.

She was jolted back to her surroundings as Raboniel walked to her and crouched down beside her.

She looked tired. Not physically tired, though. Voidlight, like Stormlight, would support her and stave off fatigue. She looked soul tired. The kind of tiredness that Navani saw when she looked into her eyes as she spoke of the war that had gone on so long for her.

She had been created to kill, made to bring death to this world on Odium’s orders. She did it well. So very, very well. But she was tired of it. Ready to rest, to sleep, at long last. She was rusted through to her core, done, and finished. The only death she wanted now was her own, Navani was sure.

“Are you alright?” Raboniel asked quietly, and Navani’s eyes snapped back to her eyes, focusing herself on them.

“I-” Navani said, her voice shaking.

She wanted to say that she was fine, and she was, in comparison to everyone else in this room, Navani had absolutely nothing to complain about. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she kept repeating that single sound, in a progressively higher voice, shaking violently.

“It will pass,” Raboniel said, gently, “Come here,” she coaxed Navani to her feet and led her into the small side room that connected to their study, away from the death.

She settled her on the couch, poured her some strong sapphire wine and pushed the cup into her hands. Then she glanced to the next room, where Fused were calling in their own language, crying out.

“Stay there,” Raboniel said quietly, “I will return for you in a moment.”

Navani almost laughed at that command. It was the most unnecessary she had ever been given in her life. She couldn’t have moved if a highstorm had torn off the roof and come ripping through the room.

Flashes of the battle continued to play out, against her will. Above it all, the look in Raboniel’s eyes as she had defended Navani.

That had been more than a woman protecting an important asset from a political rival. More even than a necessary academic ally. That had been...Real. True, fierce protectiveness. And her declaration that Navani was hers? That she would murder her way through all of the Pursuer’s men if that was what it took to keep her safe? Storms. Storms. It was too much.

She sat on the couch, staring into the violet depths of her wine, unable to bring it to her lips. It was taking all of her concentration and will to keep herself in check enough to stop it slopping over the sides with how her hands were shaking.

Raboniel re-entered the room a moment later, crouching down in front of Navani with a bowl of some kind of clear, strong-smelling liquid and some other supplies she could not take in.

“The guards I sent for arrived,” she said, quietly, “The Pursuer’s men drugged our earlier group, so that they would become more tired, more quickly, hoping I would send for replacements. I have asked them to put our rooms in order for us. They will take care of the-”

“You saved my life,” Navani interrupted, hoarsely.

She had been listening to what Raboniel had said, and a part of her mind recognised that it was important. But that part of her was composed, and in command, and poised. And Navani had never felt less like that in her life. So that part of her mind was most certainly not in charge at the moment.

Raboniel paused, watching Navani with a strange expression.

Then she set down her things and said, simply, “Yes. I did. You think I would simply have handed you over to them?” she asked.

“I would have, if I had been in your position,” Navani replied.

The words were coming out clipped and jerky. She was still staring straight ahead, not thinking clearly. What was she saying? She shouldn’t be telling her that. Next time she might not stand between Navani and those monsters.

Curiously, Raboniel smiled, “I appreciate your honesty, Navani,” she said to a quiet rhythm, “But I do not think it is true. You would not have allowed someone to take a friend in your care.”

“That’s what I am to you?” Navani asked, managing to tear her eyes from the spot on the wall she’d been fixating on, “A friend?”

Raboniel hummed a soft rhythm she could not interpret.

She did not answer, but gestured to Navani’s arm and said, “You were wounded, I would clean and stitch that for you, to prevent infection. I shall have the surgeons attend you tomorrow, but I do not want anyone else coming in or out of here tonight. It will be secured by my guards, and I will remain with you, in case Lezian attempts to strike again, thinking me weakened.”

Navani nodded numbly, barely taking in what Raboniel was saying. Then. Wounded?

She looked down and saw that, indeed, her havah was torn, and there was a long gash in her shoulder where Devial had first grabbed her. Made by a dagger, she thought? Or had it been his claws? She wasn’t sure. It was all a blur. It was all- Oh storms.

Raboniel was achingly gentle as she began to unbutton her havah, saying quietly, “I need to move this out of my way, to work on you.”

Navani nodded vaguely again. She would have let Raboniel do almost anything to her in this state. Some part of her, deeper than conscious sense or reason, trusted this woman. It had identified her as safe, the only safe thing left in her world.

On a base, instinctual level, that part had seen this woman stand before her, fight to the death to defend her, then come to her afterwards to care for her. In her frantic, terrified state, an anxiety beyond panic or hysteria, she clung to whatever instinct guided her to, and right now, instinct guided her to Raboniel.

Raboniel prodded gently at the wound in Navani’s shoulder, “Not bad,” she assessed, the quiet scholar returned once more, the feral, violent intensity of the battle gone now they were alone together again. “It will hurt, I am sure, but should cause no lasting damage.”

“It doesn’t,” Navani replied mechanically, as Raboniel began to clean it, “Hurt,” she added, rather foolishly.

Raboniel nodded, “Be grateful for that reprieve,” she said, wryly, “It will, once your mind catches up with what your body has just experienced.”

“It was so much,” Navani whispered.

The part of her brain that still had a wit left, chided her for the foolish comments, pointing out that Raboniel would not want to hear such babbling from her.

Raboniel only nodded however, “Your first time is always a lot. The next will be easier.”

Navani trembled and violently shook her head, “I do not want there to be a next time,” she said, swallowing hard.

“None of us ever do, Navani,” Raboniel said quietly, “Each time I am forced to pick up my blades and kill again, I hope it will be the last. It never is. I told myself I should stop hoping it will be, as that is foolish, and repeated evidence has been put in front of me that there will always be more. Yet some time will be the last. So I hope for it. Still. I hope for it.”

“I’m sorry,” Navani said, stupidly, as though she had anything to apologise for, as though any of this had been by her design, “That you had to kill again today on my behalf.”

“Do not apologise, Navani,” Raboniel said softly, removing a curved needle and surgeon’s thread from the small pile beside her, “For all the times I have had to kill most recently, you have been the most worthy reason I have done so.”

Their eyes met, and a flicker of warmth flared in Navani, pushing through the cold fog that had descended upon her after the battle.

Clumsily, she reached out and cupped Raboniel’s cheek in her hand, stopping her from looking away, and taking that warmth with her, keeping her in place, looking at her, for just a little longer.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse again, but sounding more like her.

Raboniel placed a gentle hand over Navani’s, then smiled and, sounding faintly amused as she hummed, said, “I appreciate the sentiment Navani, truly, but I need two hands to finish my stitching.”

Navani blushed as she realised she had clutched onto Raboniel’s hand without realising, seeking to anchor herself in this moment of chaos and terror. She released her, and focused instead, watching Raboniel’s movements as she stitched.

The pattern was not the one favoured by modern human surgeons, but the stitches were neat, precise, and well-judged. She was obviously practiced.

“I wouldn’t have thought this was a skill you would need to have,” Navani said, finding that she needed to say something, unwilling to let the moment lapse into silence, “Given that you can use Voidlight to heal yourself.”

Raboniel hummed quietly, nodding, “This is true. But it was a skill I had acquired before I became Fused.” She looked up to see Navani’s curious look, and explained, “My mother was a seamstress, many years ago, and she taught me.”

“You remember it?” Navani asked, amazed, “From so long ago?”

“I maintained the skill, over many years, and many returns,” she explained quietly, “It was not something that I wished to lose. I taught Essu, also, when she-” she faltered for a moment, and Navani squeezed her hand. Raboniel took a breath and continued, “I wanted her to have skills beyond what Odium wished her to know in order to kill. I thought, perhaps, it may help, to have an anchor, something familiar, not drenched in blood, to return to. It was not enough.”

She trailed off, and though it made her feel as though she were being repeatedly stabbed, Navani allowed the silence to swallow them, not wishing to interrupt Raboniel’s moment of grief.

A guard glanced into the room as Raboniel finished up, and Navani jumped so badly that Raboniel almost tore out the row of stitches she’d just finished.

Resting a hand gently on Navani’s knee, Raboniel turned and said, “Speak.”

“The area is secure, Ancient One,” the guard said, giving her a salute, “We will remain in the outer chamber, with you and the Queen protected here. If we see any of the Pursuer’s men, we shall call for you at once.”

“Thank you, Vardwi,” Raboniel said, nodding in thanks to the guard, who withdrew with a respectful nod.

“Will they come for me again?” Navani found herself asking.

The usual filter that existed between her brain and her mouth seemed to have broken, and she could not stop her tongue giving voice to her fears.

Raboniel looked at her, eyes steady, intense, “I will not lie, they may,” she said quietly, “But if they do the result shall be the same. They shall not have you. Though we Fused are of Odium, you will find that I can keep my oath as well as your Bondsmith, Navani.”

“You would do that?” she breathed, “You would cut down your own, possibly anger Odium...For me?”

“You have proven yourself, Voice of Lights,” Raboniel said simply, placing hands on her knees and starting to rise, “And you are mine. Under my protection and in my care. It would shame me, were I to allow Lezian to harm you. It-”

She broke off suddenly, swaying slightly in place, putting a hand to her head. Navani reached out to steady her, alarmed, guiding her back down onto the couch she was on.

“What is it?” she asked, sharply, alarmed.

Raboniel groaned, “It appears that I have a dagger in my back,” she said, conversationally. Her eyes twinkled as she glanced to Navani, “I might have suspected you as the source of it, if I did not know better Navani" she murmured with a smile. “I will need to ask you to remove it, however.”

“What?” Navani said, feeling suddenly a little faint.

“It appears I have shifted the blade while moving, it has nicked my lung, which is beginning to fill with blood. It’s a rather unpleasant sensation,” Raboniel informed her matter-of-factly, as if there was a problem in one of their experiments. “Voidlight has healed me as it can around the wound, but cannot repair my lung while there is a dagger in the way. I will need you to take it out.”

Navani swallowed as Raboniel turned in place, and she spotted the hilt of the dagger protruding from her back, just beneath her ribcage.

“Stormfather,” she whispered hoarsely. She reached out to grip the hilt and pull it free, but her hands were shaking so badly. “I, I can’t Raboniel,” she said, staring at the blade, at the blood leaking from the wound, remembering the terror that had only just passed. “My hands- My hands won’t stop shaking, I can’t, I-”

Raboniel turned, wincing as that shifted the blade again, and held Navani’s hands in her own, “You can,” she said, her rhythm comforting. “It is only shock, Navani, it shall pass. But I need you to do this for me now, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Navani whispered, taking a deep breath and trying to master herself, “Yes, I. Yes.”

Raboniel turned in place again, coughing and spitting up blood as she did so. Navani trembled, then wrapped her freehand around the hilt of the dagger, bracing the other against Raboniel’s back.

“Are you ready?” she asked, shakily.

“Make it quick,” Raboniel answered, “One, swift motion. And do resist the temptation to try to ram it into my gemheart, won’t you?” she added, glancing over her shoulder and smirking, “That would be rather poor repayment, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t,” Navani said, and knew that it was true.

Once she might have done. Once she would have taken a knife willingly presented to her in the back of this Fused, and thrown it all to the winds in an attempt to rid herself, and this tower, of her. But she couldn’t. She knew that. And not just because Raboniel had risked her life to save her tonight.

Navani took a deep breath, then yanked, swift and sure as she could manage. The knife resisted her, the skin having healed up around her, and Raboniel buried a scream in the cushions of the couch beside her as Navani tore the wound open again.

Then her body slumped, relaxing, and Voidlight began to heal the wound, leaving Navani quivering with a knife in her hands.

Raboniel turned and took it from her, gently, then used a handkerchief to wipe the blood from it before handing it back, hilt first.

“You should have some way to protect yourself,” she said, firmly. “Even if you have no training, it is not too difficult to ram the sharp end somewhere that seems painful.”

Navani nodded and accepted the blade with trembling hands. Then, with nowhere to currently sheathe it, and no desire to be in contact with it, and the memories it carried with it, she set it aside on the arm of the chair.

“What now?” she asked, slightly tremulously.

“We shall rest,” Raboniel said, firmly, “It is late, and you look as though you’re ready to faint with exhaustion and stress.”

She got to her feet, and Navani found herself grabbing for her hand again, saying urgently, “Where are you going?”

Raboniel crouched down and covered her hand with her own, squeezing, “To speak with my guards,” she said, humming to a soothing rhythm, “And to inspect the defences they have set up against Lezian’s men for tonight.”

“You will return?” Navani asked, feeling an absolute fool the moment the words were out of her mouth, yet somehow grateful to her fool self for asking it, so she might hear the answer.

Raboniel hummed in affirmation, “I will not leave you, Navani,” she promised quietly, “I shall remain here tonight with you. And none shall harm you. I swear it.”

Navani nodded, then released Raboniel and allowed her to step from the small side chamber back into the main study to converse with her guards.

Trembling, Navani managed to will enough control into her shaking legs to get them to carry her to the small writing desk in the corner.

There, she took a scrap of parchment, brushpen, and ink, and painted a glyphward of thanks, which she burned in one of Raboniel’s candles.

***

#navoniel #raboniel #navani kholin #rhythm of war #stormlight archive #rhythm of war spoilers #stormlight archive spoilers #my fic #navoniel fic #stormlight fic #mine #text post tag #long post #i havent posted enough GAY #im a BAD LESBIAN #VERY BAD LESBIAN

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daveyjacobss · 4 years

Text

something utterly divine

racetrack higgins x reader

summary: it’s safe to say that when y/n l/n volunteered to help the nuns she certainly wasn’t expecting this outcome. (or, in which racetrack higgins and y/n l/n find something utterly divine amongst the dirty, broken down streets of new york city)

a/n: uhhhh hi i know i haven’t posted any fics in like a year but please take this 11k word long fic as my heartfelt apology, i guess? i really hope you guys like it!! and, as always, please feel free to come tell me what you thought of it :)

masterlist

__________

New York city broke Y/N’s heart. Every day she would walk by kids out on the street, unnaturally thin with sunken in eyes that made them resemble a corpse more than a child — and the kind of dirty that would take at least three baths to wash away. The wealthy strut the streets with their noses upturned and their heads held high, refusing to look at the kids they considered vermin. Y/N never wanted any of them to think she was like that, but she could hardly bear to look at them half the time without tearing up or feeling a sudden rush of sickness.

Her family wasn’t wealthy enough to just be handing out money in order to help those in need, but she was desperate to help in any way she could. That was why she had approached the nuns in the first place, she knew that they aided in providing food — and sometimes even shelter — for the kids of New York and had wanted to offer her own services. She had been received kindly by the nuns and they praised her for her initiative, making her bashful. Though she was eager to help, she was remarkably shy around the nuns when she started out (partly because more than a few of them seemed to think that her helping them meant she had intentions to become a nun herself, which was far from the truth). Over time, though, the older women managed to bring her out of her shell and she grew more and more comfortable around them. She was only a messenger when she started out, really, passing notes between churches and reminders between nuns rather than doing any real hands on work (despite her insistence that she was perfectly capable). For some reason she could not for the life of her discern, the nuns never let her join them on their outings where they actually interacted with the people of the city. She grumbled about it often, and though they indulged her complaining their responses were only ever lines about keeping her out of harm's way and looks exchanged between each other that Y/N didn’t know how to decipher.

It was an early morning in March when she was asked to take a message to one of her favorite nuns, Mary, as quickly as possible at her post on one the wagons that they took out each day to distribute food to the children of the streets. Despite the fog that was hanging over the city, draining it of all its color, and the cold breeze that danced it’s way into her skirt, her heart could not be held down as it bounced around her chest in nervousness. She’d never been given the chance to truly see the nuns at work with any of the people they helped, and even though she wouldn’t be playing much of a role in that part, she would finally be at the scene.

It didn’t take much time to find the location of the wagon, the crowd of kids that surrounded it making it easy to spot even from a few blocks away. When she was given the message to deliver she hadn’t been told who exactly Sister Mary was handing out food to that day, but as she drew nearer it was clear that the crowd was made up primarily of newsies. She felt the nerves buzzing around in her body amp up in volume as she made her way around the crowd. Yes, she wanted to help and yes, she was getting better at not flinching away from street kids because of how her heart clenched at the sight of them, but a large crowd made up of mostly boys (some around her age and some even older) would always intimidate her no matter who was in it.

Skirting around the edge of the crowd, she reached the wagon easily. Mary, luckily, was standing on the ground beside it handing some bread to a young boy whose face was smeared with dirt. Y/N smiled kindly at him as she approached and he nodded in her direction with a maturity that was far beyond his years.

“They’re finally letting you out into the world, are they?” Sister Mary asked, grinning widely as Y/N walked up. She laughed slightly, coming to stand next to the nun and look out over the crowd.

“Only to come give you a message.” Mary pouted sympathetically at her.

“One day they’ll let you actually join us out here, don’t you worry about that. You’ve got at least one of us on your side.” She winked and Y/N laughed again. Sister Mary had always been one of her favorites because she was remarkably more lighthearted than most of her sisters, always ready to crack a joke. That, and she had taken Y/N under her wing immediately after meeting her.

“You know I always appreciate you standing up for me.” She kept the light tone in her voice, but there was genuine gratefulness in her eyes and Mary reached over to squeeze her hand.

“Now, what was that message you had for me?”

Y/N relayed the message that Sister Anna had given her, taking care to make sure she got each and every detail right. Mary nodded along in concentration as she listened, going to speak quickly with one of the other nuns present after Y/N had finished. Waiting for her to come back, Y/N took the time to gaze out into the crowd, letting her eyes glide over the faces of all the boys and girls who came for a quick bite that would most likely have to last them the whole day.

Her gaze was instantly drawn to a few boys near the front, louder than those around them as they talked and joked around with each other. One of them was wearing glasses perched atop his nose, and he was poking fun at one of the others with him, a boy sporting dirtied red hair underneath his cap, about him smelling bad. He was making a show of it, using his fingers to pinch to his nose and his other hand to wave away the air in front of him. A few of the other kids with him laughed at the antics and Y/N found herself letting out a quiet chuckle under her breath. The redhead rolled his eyes and responded in kind with a quip about his friend’s snoring, and Y/N smiled at how comfortable and playful they all seemed to be with each other.

It wasn’t until another boy with them started talking that she felt the air leave her lungs. She didn’t even really register what he was saying, only moved her gaze to find the source of the voice and froze upon seeing him. He looked to be about her age with unruly blonde curls peeking out from under his hat and an unlit cigar hanging out of his mouth. He was saying something that made all of the boys around him roar with laughter, lips moving around his cigar, but she couldn’t hear him — not with her heartbeat pounding in her ears, her eyes followed his every movement. There was no other way to put it: he was breathtakingly beautiful. He was the kind of boy she imagined heroines in her mother’s romance novels she sometimes read fell in love with at first sight, the kind of beautiful that could turn a sensible girl with no prior interest in romance into a bumbling mess.

“Oh dear,” she heard Mary whisper from beside her, startling her out of the trance the beautiful blonde boy had put her in. Mary’s eyes were trained on her with an eyebrow raised and a small, knowing smile on her face.

“Were you...” Y/N started, having to pause to take a breath. “Were you saying something?”

“No darling, only thinking something,” Mary reassured her, patting her arm gently. “If I’m not mistaken, I think you’ve fallen victim to one of the main reasons my sisters never wanted to bring you to one of these outings.” Y/N felt her face warm at Sister Mary’s words, hands grabbing at her skirt simply so she would have something to do with them.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” she said, but even as her voice came out she could hear how breathless and high pitched she sounded. Mary practically snorted, moving so that she was facing the newsies instead of Y/N.

“So, which one was it?” She asked. Y/N sighed, knowing that there was no point in denying it. As subtly as she could, she pointed toward the boy that had caught her attention.

“That one there, with the blonde hair.”

Mary gave a surprised huff of laughter, her eyes turning toward the heavens. Y/N swore she could see her lips moving slightly, uttering a silent prayer.

“Oh my darling Y/N,” she said in a breathy, amused tone. “What on earth are we going to do with you?” Y/N tilted her head in confusion, furrowing her eyebrows at Sister Mary.

“What do you mean?” She asked, her grip on her skirt tightening out of anxiety. “It’s only a silly bout of infatuation, nothing that needs to be prayed over.” By then, the crowd was beginning to disperse as the newsies headed out for a day of selling. The other two nuns that had been with Mary were packing up all of their things and prepping the wagon to return to the church. Mary took a look around, glancing specifically at her sisters, before she answered.

“The boy in questions is a bit of a flirt,” she explained with a teasing smile on her face. “And he’s certainly one of the more, shall we say, rowdy newsies. I’ve no problem with you fancying him a bit, of course, but the others would have a fit. Especially if you decided to pursue the infatuation.” Y/N felt heat rush to her face as her eyes widened.

“Oh! No, I wouldn’t pursue it, of course.” Her words came out quickly, all running into one another. The look on Mary’s face made it clear just how much faith she had in Y/N’s reassurance. “Don’t look at me like that, you know I’d be much too shy to ever approach him.” She swatted Mary’s arm and the nun laughed again. She began to walk back toward the wagon, talking over her shoulder as she did.

“Of course you wouldn’t, dear. Just make sure you keep any fantasies and fascinations to yourself.” She winked one last time before her sisters helped her back into the wagon and they headed in the direction of the church. Y/N waved goodbye at them, all the while feeling the embarrassment at Sister Mary’s words curling up and knotting itself in her stomach.

On her way back home she stopped at the market to buy some food on her mother’s shopping list and, after second guessing herself, to buy a newspaper from a newsie situated near her house with a crutch under his arm and a warm smile on his face. The entire time she managed to keep her thoughts in check, and the blonde newsboy barely occurred to her for the rest of the day. It was only when she was lying in bed that night that she thought of him again, picturing the curve of his smile and wondering if she would ever get to see him up close so that she could find out the color of his eyes. She fantasized a storyline worthy of one of her mother’s books where they met in secret in the dead of night, and he came to her window like Romeo calling up to his Juliet.

But when she woke in the morning the fantasies were but distant memories, and she had much too busy a day to spend time dwelling on a boy she didn’t know. The blonde newsie was gone from her head.

It was only a week later that Sister Mary informed her with a sly smile that she had finally convinced the other nuns to let Y/N accompany her and Sister Margaret on the wagon the next morning. Y/N was alight with excitement and anxiety for the entire day after hearing the news, buzzing with energy. She was finally getting to do what she had always intended when she first volunteered herself to help the nuns.

She hadn’t thought about the blonde newsie for days, but as she struggled to sleep in the flurry of all of her jitters she wondered if she might catch a glimpse of him again.

__________

Racetrack Higgins was not particularly known for his manners. He was loud and boisterous and he preferred a good laugh to tame, pleasant conversation. It wasn’t like he ever had much of a choice in the matter, kids on the street had to toughen up and learn how to fend for themselves — and for those like Race that happened in the form of quick jokes and mindless flirting to keep things from getting too serious. He was always there to cheer up his friends, and always ready to throw out a compliment and a wink to the pretty girls that bought his papes. “Serious” was barely a word in his vocabulary, and everyone who knew him knew it.

That chilly March morning was no different from any other day. Race was weaving his way through the crowd of newsies as they all headed to the wagons, ripples of laughter following him as the boys realized why exactly he was running. Mush’s hat was clenched in his hand and Mush wasn’t too far behind him, shouting in annoyance at Race to give him his hat back. As he flew past Albert he heard his friend let out a hoot and a laugh, cheering him on. Race smiled. The feeling of the brisk morning air hitting his face as he ran, his brothers’ laughter surrounding him with every step, the promise of food and a good headline on the horizon — this was the feeling he lived for, the kind of thing that made the hungry days and the cold nights bearable. He never felt more free than when he was messing around with the other newsies, and he basked in his ability to elicit their laughter. If he had nothing else — no money, no food, no place to sleep — he would always have the newsies and their laughter. And that made it all worthwhile.

He slowed to a stop closer to the wagon, laughing around his cigar as he panted from the exhilaration. Mush caught up to him quickly once he stopped running, snatching his hat from Race’s hands and flicking him in the back of the head. The action only made Race laugh again, throwing an arm around Mush’s shoulders and leading them both toward the wagon where the nuns were already beginning to hand out food to the newsies who had made their way to the front of the crowd.

“Well, ‘m definitely more awake now than I was ten minutes ago,” Mush grumbled. A huff of laughter came from behind them, and Race turned to see Jack and Crutchie walking up to them.

“Can’t help yourself, can ya Racer?” Jack asked with a broad grin. Race smiled back, raising his arms in a mock shrug.

“What can I say? ‘S in my nature.”

“Here I was thinkin’ we called you Racetrack because of all the bettin’,” Crutchie chimed in. “And this whole time it’s ‘cause you run faster than any of the horses.” Race and Mush both laughed loudly at that while Jack shook his head at them all with a quiet chuckle. As they kept walking to the wagon Albert and Specs caught up with them, debating about what the day’s headline would be. They were mere feet away when Race finally looked up at the nuns who were handing out the food that day.

The world seemed to slow down around him. Running through the crowd of newsies had been a rush, and it had felt as if the world had been spinning around him, but all at once it seemed to stop turning altogether. Whoever she was, she wasn’t a nun. She wasn’t dressed like them, and she looked closer to Race’s age than theirs. Mush was saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear it. Her hair was pinned to keep it out of her face, and her smile was kind as she handed Buttons his food.

Someone gave him a small push from behind, and as he stumbled the world returned to its normal state. The push seemed to have shocked him out of whatever spell she had put him under, but now that everything was moving at a normal speed he was achingly aware of how he was only seconds away from being right in front of her. Quickly, he scrambled to straighten his hat on his head and brush his curls out of his face, plucking his cigar from his mouth and tucking it into his pocket. He could feel the boys looking at him strangely but he ignored them in favor of roughly wiping at his face in hopes of getting rid of any dirt. He gulped as he took the last step between them, looking up at her where she was perched on the wagon.

She wasn’t looking at him, turned around to grab some of the food they had stashed in there. When she did finally turn to face him, bread in hand, he could feel it happening again — the world moving around him in slow motion. She seemed to startle at the sight of him but he couldn’t guess at why. She had been serving newsboys all morning, what made him worth startling over? (He had an answer in mind, but it felt all too conceited to consider it fact.) He could feel himself beginning to smile at her, his lips moved by a force beyond his will. She turned her face away from him in a quick, jerky motion as he did, and he could feel his heart start to fall in his chest, disappointment setting in. She held out the bread without looking at him, and when he reached up to take it his hand brushed against hers.

Once, when Race had gone to swat Albert’s hand away from his cigar, he had felt a small shock between them. Davey had said it was called static electricity, and though he had tried to explain it further Race hadn’t understood a word he’d said. His hand brushing against the girl’s felt like that small shock of static electricity a million times over. It sent a buzzing, tingling feeling through his veins, spreading from the point his skin had met hers. A part of him wanted to grab at her hand, to hold it in his and ask if she felt the sparks mingling between their fingertips. But the touch only lasted for a second before she was pulling her hand back and he was stepping away with bread in hand. The buzzing, however, lingered. He felt like what Crutchie had said was actually true, that if he was out there on the tracks he could outrun any horse. He wasn’t sure his heart rate had ever been faster.

The world, which had not only slowed but had evidently disappeared around him, gradually came back into focus. The boys were joining him where he stood off to the side, savoring the food they’d been given. Specs looked at him with an all too knowing smile.

“So, what was that about?” He asked, his head tilting back to gesture toward the wagon where the girl still stood, continuing to distribute food to the remaining newsies. The rest of his friends asked similar questions, prodding at him teasingly, but he still felt a little too much like he’d had the wind knocked out of him to even try to answer.

“Looks like Racer’s got a lil’ crush,” Jack laughed, playfully hitting Race’s arm.

“Too bad she didn’t seem all that interested,” Mush snorted, definitely taking too much joy in the girls lack of reciprocation (though Race supposed that was fair since he had stolen his hat only 15 or so minutes before).

When Race could finally gather himself enough to speak, he said: “She’s just a pretty face, ‘s all. Nothing to get anybody’s panties in a twist about.” The boys laughed, like they always did. And they all went about their day, selling their papers and retiring to the lodge in the evening.

But the buzzing feeling persisted. All day he felt as if his fingers where he had touched her were disconnected from his body. He kept quiet about it, continuing on with his jokes like the morning interaction had been nothing but a footnote in his day. But for the first time, he wished no one was laughing.

________

Y/N had felt like she couldn’t breathe for practically two days straight. All she saw when she closed her eyes was that blonde newsboy and his brilliant blue eyes (because she’d been close enough to see his eyes that time, and they were gorgeous) as he started to smile

up at her. And every time she thought she could put it behind her she remembered the soft brush of his fingertips against hers as she handed him his food. She’d been too embarrassed to look him in the eye, but in the split seconds that they had touched, her heart in her throat, her own hand had memorized the feeling of his fingers — and now it felt like his fingerprints were burned into her skin. She could have gone blind, but she would have known him by the touch of his fingertips against hers.

She dreamt of him two nights in a row, of his half smile and his bright blue eyes alight with laughter. She’d never felt anything like it before, any other infatuations she had endured had come and gone rather quickly and rarely found their way into her dreams. Swallowing down her pride and embarrassment, she figured that was reason enough to approach Mary and ask about the blonde newsboy that seemed to have sunken his fingers into her heart without any chance for her to stop him.

It was easy to tell when she arrived at the monastery the next day that Sister Margaret, who had been with her and Sister Mary that day, had spread the word of her small encounter with the newsboy. Mary must have pitched in with the storytelling, too, with the way some of the nuns were looking at Y/N. Her face began to feel warm and she sped up her pace, ducking her head to avoid any of their gazes. Some of them were disapproving, others teasing, and she didn’t know which was worse. One look, which she received from Sister Anna when she was just steps away from Mary’s quarters, was pitying, and it puzzled her.

When she finally entered Mary’s room she looked at Y/N like she knew exactly why she was there, and it made Y/N sigh in exasperation before plopping herself down on the nun’s bed with a frown.

“Will you just tell me his name?” She finally spoke after a bout of weighted silence, her voice soft even in the quiet between them. Mary chuckled, Y/N’s frown deepened.

“They call him Racetrack,” she began to explain. “Or just Race, and one time I heard someone call him Racer.”

“Is he a runner?” Y/N asked, turning her head to look at Mary with confusion in her features.

“Not to my knowledge, no. They call him that because of how much time he spends down by the racetracks, spending his money on the horses.” Y/N absorbed the new information, allowing it to settle in.

“So he’s a gambler.” Mary nodded in confirmation. “Is he a good one?” Mary laughed again.

“Now that one I don’t know the answer to, but...” She trailed off and from the way her tone switched Y/N could tell before she even began to speak again that she wasn’t going to like what came out of her mouth. “My sisters want to make sure that you know that this boy of yours,” — Y/N wanted to protest that he wasn’t hers, but she kept quiet — “he’s a bit of a wildcard, and definitely a flirt. He wouldn’t be the kind of gentleman you’re used to.”

Y/N sucked in a sharp breath. To be truthful, she’d already been expecting that. This boy would have led a very different life than her, and it wasn’t hard to tell from looking at him that he was very different from the boys she had encountered throughout her life. The gambling aspect was certainly new, but the more she considered it the less it seemed like that big of a deal. All she knew was that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, and that, just maybe, him coming from such a different walk of life was part of the appeal — part of the thrill.

She ended up staying for dinner with the nuns, enduring countless comments on her supposed “relationship” with the newsboy. From the way some of them spoke about it she couldn’t tell whether they thought she was actually already seeing him or if they were aware she’d only encountered him twice and had never spoken a word to him. Sister Anna was unusually quiet until after dinner, when she pulled Y/N aside to give her an incredibly vague warning about not falling for any tricks the boy might try to pull on her. Though her heart protested, she listened carefully to Anna and made sure to repeat her words back to herself as she walked home. No matter how much her heart fluttered when she thought of him, she still didn’t know the newsboy at all and she certainly wasn’t planning to let him pull a fast one on her if she ever did see him again.

__________

One week later Mary asked Y/N to accompany her on an errand. She was delivering a message to a shop owner down near Brooklyn and wanted company on her walk, Y/N being her apparent first choice. By then it was April and it was raining often, they had even had to delay the errand for a day in order to avoid a downpour that had lasted from sunrise to sunset. Y/N couldn’t help but think of the newsies whenever she saw that it was raining, finding herself hoping they were somewhere dry and warm and that the rain didn’t steal too many of their sales. She hadn’t gone with the nuns to help hand out food since that first time, so she hadn’t seen the blonde newsboy since then, but he remained in her mind.

The sun was shining for the first time in days as Mary and Y/N began their walk, laughing about a dreadful joke Sister June had tried to tell the day before with little luck. A little voice in the back of her mind wondered why Mary had brought Y/N with her rather than one of her sisters, but she wrote it off as Mary preferring company that wasn’t as stiff as many of the nuns tended to be. It was only while Mary was speaking with the shopkeeper they’d come to see that Y/N realized exactly why she’d been brought along.

Standing just a bit away from the store, which Y/N was waiting in front of, was the blonde newsboy. He was holding up his newspapers and calling out ridiculous headlines that Y/N was sure weren’t true, but people kept approaching him to buy them anyway. The change she had brought with her felt like it was burning a hole in her pocket and she glanced warily back at the shop, looking through the window to see Mary still speaking with the man behind the counter. Taking a deep breath, she forced her feet to move in the direction of the newsie.

He was facing away from her, so even when she got closer he didn’t see her. Nervously, she cleared her throat before speaking up. “Excuse me?” She called out. He turned to find where her voice had come from and she felt the world go quiet as his eyes met hers. The downpour could have come back then and there and she was certain she wouldn’t have noticed, too enraptured by his eyes and the way his mouth hung slightly open, his cigar looking as though it might fall to the ground. He seemed to quickly regain his previous stature, his hand reaching up to straighten his hat, she presumed, until he pulled it clean off his head and held it to his chest as he bowed slightly before her.

“Afternoon, darlin’” He spoke, and her heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, her face warming at the pet name. He situated his hat back on his head before he continued to talk. “What can I do for ya?” There was a moment of silence where she tried to gather herself enough to get out a coherent sentence, entirely disarmed by the fact that the boy she’d been dreamily fantasizing about was standing right in front of her.

“What’s the headline today?” She finally asked, her voice a little bit shaky. She stayed rooted in place (unsure if she could get her feet to move even if she wanted to), but after hearing her speak again he took a small step toward her. She could hear warning alarms going off in her head as she did, but she hadn’t the faintest idea what they were warning of because not a single intelligible thought made its way to the front of her head other than the fact that he was smiling at her like an old friend of hers used to smile at girls before he flirted with them. The warning alarms got louder and oh, maybe they weren’t warning alarms, maybe that was just the sound of her blood rushing and her heart pounding in her chest faster than it ever had before.

“The headline?” He asked in confirmation, smile widening as he ducked his head slightly, sending his boyish attractiveness off the charts. “Why, that’d be: prettiest goil in new york makes newsie’s day.” He winked at her and she could have fainted. “Any interest in purchasing?” He held up a newspaper, shaking it a little in a joking way. She was sure he could see the way she was gulping down air, and when she reached into her pocket to pull out her money she fumbled with it. The pennies slipped from her fingers, hitting the dirty city sidewalk with quiet pings. Her face got impossibly warmer as she went to bend down to pick them up, only for the newsboy to beat her to it. He rushed over to grab them off the ground, and when he stood up straighter again he was far closer than he’d been before. “Here ya go, miss,” he said as he held out his hand with her change resting in his palm. She reached out but instead of taking the money, she closed his fingers around it. She watched as his eyes followed the movement of hands before slowly returning to her face, wide with some emotion she couldn’t read.

“Keep it,” she said. Her voice was so soft she wasn’t sure if he’d even heard her, so she cleared her a throat a little before speaking again. “I’ll take that newspaper, if you don’t mind.” A beat passed before he seemed to register what she had said, scrambling to hold out the paper to her. She took it gently from his hands, feeling a small smile make its way onto her face.

“The pape’s only two pennies,” she heard him say. “You gave me too much.” Her smile grew.

“Keep it,” she repeated. “On account of such an interesting headline.” Her heart was going crazy in her chest, she felt like it was bouncing around in her rib cage trying to bust its way out. He gave her an incredulous look before his own grin returned. She watched as he bent his legs until he was bowing before her again, looking up with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Meant of every word of it.” A clap of thunder sounded in the distance and she jumped slightly, her head turning to look up at the sky where storm clouds were beginning to gather. When she looked back to him he was no longer bowing, but his eyes stayed trained on her. “What’s your name?” He asked.

“Y/N,” she breathed, her voice being carried away on the soft wind that suddenly blew between them.

“Nice to meet ya, Y/N.” His smile never dropped, but he finally chanced a look up at the darkening sky. “Looks like we both should be findin’ somewhere dry soon, but if ya ever want ta find me again....” He trailed off as their eyes met again. She could have drowned herself in his eyes and been happy, she could have stood in the incoming rain for days just looking into his eyes and been happy. “The name’s Race,” he finished. “I’ll see ya around, darlin’.”

Just at that moment Sister Mary walked out of the shop behind them. Y/N looked back at the sound of the door opening, quickly taking a step back from Race and brushing her (now sweaty) hands on her skirt. She looked back at him quickly with a small smile and a nod before walking briskly over to join her friend.

“Ready to go?” Mary asked. “I reckon we better hurry if we don’t want to get caught in another storm.” Y/N nodded, linking arms with the nun as they began to walk back in the direction that had come from. She waited until they were far enough away to speak up again.

“You did that on purpose,” she hissed, glaring at Mary.

“I haven’t a clue what you mean,” Mary teased, a sly smile on her face. “And don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it. From what I saw through the window, he looked rather happy to see you.” Y/N felt the heat rush to her face again and knew if she tried to speak her voice would betray her, so she settled for lightly hitting Mary’s arm and grumbling at her to shut up, which made the nun laugh.

They only just barely made it back to the monastery before the rain began to fall. As she looked out at people rushing to shelter, she couldn’t help but think of Race, hoping he was somewhere safe and warm waiting out the storm.

__________

Race had been practically floating ever since he had seen the girl from the wagon again while he was selling. He would whisper her name to himself as he walked back from selling each day, basking in the way it felt on his tongue. Y/N — it echoed around his head like a prayer. At night he would lay in bed and look at his hand in the dark, remembering how she had reached out to close his fingers around her coins, the memory of her skin burned into his own. The boys had been pestering him about what had been making him so giddy, but he never gave them much of an answer. Their small interaction, the moments between them, felt like something private and divine, something not meant to be shared but instead to be savored and worshipped. He doubted he’d be able to get the words out to tell them anyway, not before they started teasing him with the expectation of him making his usual jokes. He loved making them laugh, and he had always been fine offering himself up to be laughed at, but just this once he wanted this one small thing to be separate from all the jokes. Y/N wasn’t something to laugh about, and he was reluctant to offer up the chance for the others to turn his already forming feelings for her into a joke.

It was ridiculous how much he liked her. He’d only seen her twice and spoken with her once, but he found his thoughts straying to her practically every minute. The way that she had looked at him, the way that she hadn’t turned away from his flirtatious comments.... everything about her made him want to know more. He found himself looking for her every time he went out selling, hoping to catch a glimpse of her smile.

Five days passed before, finally, his eyes latched onto her as she walked up to him with her eyes turned shyly downward. His grin couldn’t be stopped if he tried, his face lighting up at the sight of her.

“Well hello there, angel!” He called out when she was steps away from him. She looked up at him with a surprised face, but he watched as it melted into a fond smile and felt his heart practically burst. “Wanna know the headline today?”

“Depends, you gonna give me the real one?” Her smile morphed into something far more cheeky as she poked fun at him.

“‘Course not,” he answered. He looked at her bright eyes and her beautiful face, thinking that angel had been the right name to use because the only word he could think to describe her was angelic. He figured he was beginning to understand why she seemed to always be hanging around with the nuns, it made sense that they would want to keep a real life angel on earth close to them, safe from the rest of the world “No headline could compare to you.” The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about them, but before he could regret it her face turned bashful and he felt his breath leave him at how adorable the shyness looked on her.

“Well,” she started, after a moment of silence between them, “what have you got for me, then?” She bit her lip as she looked up at him and he went a little weak in the knees.

“Extra, extra — real life angel on earth blesses lowlife street rat with her presence.” His voice was much softer than when he would call out headlines to the public, his words uttered like a secret between them. Her nose scrunched up as he finished speaking and he was filled with an unbelievable urge to kiss her on the tip of that nose.

“You’re not a lowlife street rat.” He almost laughed out loud at her response, leaning back to let out an amused huff.

“That’s what ya got outta that, huh?” He asked teasingly. “Not the part about a literal heavenly angel on earth?” She smiled brightly.

“Well, it was the street rat I was interested in hearing about, not some dumb angel.” His heart skipped a beat. He had to reach up to grab his cigar from his mouth in fear of it falling to the ground as his jaw went slack. She was still smiling at him, and he had an overwhelming need to just....hold her. To wrap his arms around her and just feel her heartbeat against his.

“Don’t get my hopes up, angel,” he spoke after a long pause. “You goin’ ‘round sayin’ things like that you might give a street rat the idea that you like havin’ ‘im around.”

“Maybe I do,” she all but whispered. He hadn’t realized until then that they’d slowly been moving closer as they talked. They were a mere step away from each other then, her face close enough that he could see his own reflection clearly in her eyes. The sound of someone across the street yelling startled them both and they jumped apart. She cleared her throat before handing him her money. He took it without really looking and handed her a newspaper, gaze still firmly fixed on her face. It was only the fact that he felt one coin in his hand rather than two that made him look down to see the dime she had given him.

“This is too much—“ he started to protest, but she shook her head as a means of quieting him.

“I haven’t got anything else, so it’ll have to do.” He could tell she was lying, but he didn’t say it. He only nodded in thanks, tucking the coin away in his pocket. She smiled one last time at him before she walked away, disappearing into the New York crowd.

When he made it back to the lodge that night he was humming, so giddy he could hardly contain himself. Tommy Boy looked at him weirdly as he passed, but Race couldn’t be bothered by it. Even if she hadn’t meant it exactly the way he wanted her to, Y/N had clearly said that she was interested in him. Nothing could have brought him down from that cloud nine.

__________

Y/N tried to wait longer before she made the trek to see Race again, she really did, but she kept dreaming about him. Against her better judgement he seemed to have already firmly planted roots in her heart, so it was only three days after the last time she had seen him that she was looking for him around his usual selling spot. She squinted in the afternoon sun, furrowing her eyebrows as she didn’t spot him anywhere around where she had met him the two times prior.

“Lookin’ for someone?” She whipped around to see him standing behind her with a wide, shamelessly teasing smile. She let out a small sigh of relief, not realizing until then that she’d been holding her breath to keep the looming disappointment at bay. But there he was in all his glory, drumming his fingers along the strap of his bag while he grinned at her. “For a certain street rat, maybe?” She laughed at that, brushing a stray hair out her face.

“What headline have you got for me today, hm?” His grin widened, and she felt excitement unfurling in her veins at the giddiness on his face.

“This just in: real life angel on earth turns local street rat into a real boy.” He held out a newspaper to her and she giggled as she took it, dropping a nickel in his empty hand. He opened his mouth to tell her again, presumably, that she had paid him too much but she spoke before he had the chance.

“You don’t say? An angel performing miracles out in the open?”

“Oh yeah, ya should’a seen it. The angel was almost too pretty ta handle.”

“Too pretty, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“And the street rat?”

“Dirty and ugly, but blessed by her presence all the same.” She scrunched up her face at him.

“How about when he turned into a real boy? What was he like then?”

“Still dirty, lil’ less ugly.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His smile turned more unsure, almost shy.

“And what.... What would you say?”

“I’d say he’s rather beautiful.” She watched as he let out a breath and looked at her with awe. “The angel must have known what she was doing.”

“Yeah, I’m starting ta think she really does.” He held her gaze with a small grin and she returned it in kind, her fingers tightening around the newspaper to keep herself from reaching out to brush away a loose curl that had fallen against his forehead.

They talked for a little while more while he continued to sell his papers and eventually he pushed the curl out of his face himself. The sun was beginning to set by the time she was walking back home, unable to get rid of the bright smile on her face. If the nuns could have seen her they would have had words, and she knew she would probably have endure several lectures the next day when she met them at the church since it was clear she had gone to see Race again (she found that she walked lighter after seeing him, and all of the nuns noticed) but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She could practically hear Mary’s teasing and Sister Anna’s motherly warnings as she brushed her hair before retiring to bed.

She dreamt of Race again and she woke up smiling.

_________

“You know, the nuns warned me about you,” Y/N said as Race handed her paper, a teasing flint dancing in her eyes.

“Did they now?” Race smirked, twirling his cigar in his hand as he pocketed the money she’d given him. She hummed, taking a step closer to him. He’d noticed that the more they saw each other the more comfortable she got, and that meant the distance between them was always shrinking and her flirting (he could call it flirting, couldn’t he? If it was something else he didn’t know the word for it) got bolder.

“They said you were nothing but a reckless flirt and I should be wary of you.” He felt a sudden sense of pride knowing that she’d been told to stay away and had continued to come anyway — practically on a daily basis by then.

“I can assure you, angel, I ain’t in this just for the fun of it.” He watched her smile falter before it widened and turned cheeky, looking just a little bit forced.

“And how do I know you’re not in it for the money?” He raised an eyebrow before taking another small step toward her, taking her hand in his.

“Stop paying so much and maybe you’ll find out.” He placed a kiss on the back of her hand, letting his lips linger there for just a second. When he looked back up at her it looked like she was holding her breath. The May sun that he’d been sweating in all day was shining behind her, but because of where she was standing its light was like a frame around her silhouette. She looked like something truly heavenly and divine, like a real angel — halo and all.

Someone cleared their throat to his right and they seemed to snap back into reality (he hadn’t even realized that they’d done it again, entered that little pocket of the world they sometimes found where only they existed). She pulled her hand back at lightning speed and he stood up straight as quick as he could, turning to glare at whoever had interrupted them.

Jojo was standing there, looking between the two of them before his gaze landed on Race and he smiled like he’d hit the jackpot. Race paled. He tried hard to think so loud that Jojo could hear him, to scream don’t laugh. Don’t make this one of our jokes, don’t make her think this is just a laugh for me. Don’t do it.

“Hey, Race.” Jojo’s smile slid into a lazier expression, his hands slipping into his pockets. Race couldn’t tell if he’d gotten the message, but he hoped to God he had. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere.” He chanced a glance over at Y/N, seeing that she looked unsure of whether or not she should leave and stick around. He didn’t even know what option would’ve been better at that point, just desperately clinging to the hope that Jojo wouldn’t go about this the wrong way. “Ya gonna introduce me to your friend?” Race sucked in a sharp breath.

“Uh, yeah... yeah. This is Y/N. Y/N this is Jojo,” he gestured between them. Y/N smiled kindly at the other newsie, nodding in his direction.

“Hello,” she spoke, tone as warm as always.

“Nice ta meet you, Miss,” Jojo smiled, tipping his hat slightly. Race let out a sigh of relief at his friendly and specifically non-teasing manner.

“The pleasure’s all mine.” Y/N gave a little curtsy and the action was so cute that it made Race’s heart stutter. “I should be going.” She turned to look at Race only, then. “Thank you for the paper.” He could see in her eyes that that wasn’t all she wanted to say, that maybe she was thanking him for something else, too. Before he could truly decipher it, she was already turning around with a small wave to them both. Race and Jojo watched her walk away for a moment before Jojo spoke up again.

“And what exactly was that I was interrupting, hm?” He asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Race scoffed, shoving him amicably.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, putting his cigar back

in mouth.

“C’mon,” Jojo laughed, throwing an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “The boys are all at Jacobi’s, and I’m sure they’ll all want to hear this story.” Race groaned but let Jojo drag him along anyway.

He was right, the boys were eager to hear the tale of Jojo finding Race with his lips pressed to some girl’s knuckles. And once that story had been told at least three times they all pestered him to tell them more about her, which led to him revealing that it was the very same girl who had been on the wagons with the nuns that day. They dragged every single detail out of him and though there were plenty of jokes made, he found comfort in the fact that no one seemed to make Y/N the target of their laughter and content in the fact that no one was teasing him too much about the lovestruck look he knew was on his face.

__________

Y/N was running incredibly late to go visit Race. She went practically every day around the same time and if she knew she couldn’t make it she’d let him know the day before. But the day had gotten away from her and she’d been caught up helping her mother with things at home. By the time she was out the door, just short of running with her skirt hiked up in her hands, the sun was already about to set.

She rushed through the New York streets, doubtful that Race would even still be there — it was late, after all, and she couldn’t possibly expect him to be waiting around for her to show up. Her heart clutched onto that hope, though, thinking about what it would mean if she arrived and he was there, waiting. Her heartbeat sped up to match her hurried footsteps and she couldn’t tell if it was because of how fast she was going or because the thought of Race always made her heart do strange things. Her only solace was that, with the sun leaving the sky, the unbearable June heat was softening.

She skidded to a stop just twenty feet away from where they usually met. Race was standing there in the pink light of the sunset, looking around the streets and fiddling with his cigar. Her heart stopped with her feet, and for a second she swore it wasn’t going to start again before it’s rhythmic beat came back in full force. He had waited for her. He was standing there, waiting for her.

She was breathing heavily as she approached him, trying her best to straighten herself out so she didn’t look as if she had run the whole way there. She caught the moment when he finally saw her and his eyes widened, a bright grin spreading on his face.

“I was startin’ to get worried, angel,” he said, walking to meet her halfway. “Thought maybe you’d forgotten ‘bout lil’ old me.”

“Never,” she smiled. “You’d be impossible to forget. And besides, I was only caught up with some errands my mother had me running.”

“Impossible to forget, yeah?” His smile turned teasing and she rolled her eyes affectionately.

“Don’t make me regret saying it,” she laughed.

“Never,” he quoted her, breathing the word so quiet she had to lean in to hear it. He was so close to her, so close that if she just grabbed him by vest and pulled him toward her they’d be chest to chest and the distance between their lips would be almost imperceivable. She wanted to do it, every bone in her body ached for her to be as close to him as possible. She had to scrunch her hands up in skirt in order to keep herself from doing something stupid with the way he was looking at her, like she’d hung the stars in the sky. “I saved a pape for you,” he spoke up again, offering up the only newspaper he had left with him. She stared down at it.

Her head was a mess of thoughts and affections. He had waited for her. He could probably have been finished selling long before she arrived, but he had saved her his last newspaper and waited until she came for it. Was it ridiculous to think he’d done it just to have the excuse to talk to her? Was it too soon to let her heart hope and flutter as she took the newspaper from him and handed him her change? Was it too much to think that just maybe if she had let herself pull him to her, he would have kissed her back?

“Thank you,” she finally whispered. His smile wasn’t as wide then, but it was softer around the edges and it felt like she might burst with all the love she felt for him in that moment.

“It’s getting dark,” he pointed out. She looked at the sun to see the sun had sunken almost entirely behind the horizon. “Can I walk you home?” She looked at him in surprise to see him holding his arm for her to take. She thought about what her parents might say if they saw her through the window being walked home by some boy. She thought of what the nuns might say if one of them caught sight of her letting the boy they’d warned her about walk her home. She took his arm anyway.

They talked as they strode down the street together, their voices quiet in the hush of nightfall. He made her laugh more times than she could count and every single time he smiled proudly at her.

“You’re something else, angel,” he said to her as they neared her house.

“I’m starting to think you call me ‘angel’ because you forgot my actual name.” She gave him a pointed look but its weight was lightened by the corners of her mouth fighting to turn upwards, her amusement shining through. They stopped walking in front of her house.

“How could I ever forget your name, Y/N?” He asked, his voice coming out as a whisper. He reached a hand up to brush a hair out of her face before letting it rest on her cheek, caressing her face. “It’s the closest thing I know to prayer.”

She stopped breathing.

He was so, so close to her. He called her angel and said her name like a prayer and made up headlines to make her laugh and never once tried to get one over on her and waited for her even when she was ridiculously late and saved his last newspaper to have a reason to see her and he was so close. She should have kissed him, then. But she didn’t.

A light turned on in her house and Race took a step backward from her.

“Goodnight, angel,” he whispered.

“Goodnight,” she breathed. He walked away, disappearing into the darkness of the night. When she finally made her way to bed and laid down for some much needed sleep all she could think of was his face close to hers and the way her heart had wanted to fly out of her body.

__________

There was a storm coming. Crutchie had said so that morning, and Race could practically smell it in the air. Y/N was telling him about how she liked summer storms because they offered a break from the heat, but her mother hated them because of the humidity. He watched her face, admiring the way her eyes shone as she spoke. He wasn’t an artist, like Jack, but he swore he knew every detail of her face so well by then that if he got his hands on some of Jack’s charcoal he could recreate it perfectly. The clouds looming ahead that served as a constant reminder of the impending storm were blocking out the sun, but she radiated her own light that kept the day from seeming too gloomy. Eventually, their conversation came to a halt as Y/N looked up at the sky with a sigh.

“I suppose I should be heading back to the monastery so I don’t get caught out in the rain.” She looked reluctant to leave and it made him smile.

“We wouldn’t want that,” He quipped. “Can’t have my angel catching a cold.” She laughed and hit his arm lightly.

“Oh it’s your angel now, is it?” He drew in a breath.

“It could be.”

She looked at him and, for once, he couldn’t figure out what she was thinking.

“Could be,” she repeated, barely mumbling the words. Her lips turned upward at the corners before she leaned in, kissing him softly on the cheek. “Goodbye, Race.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes before pulling away and turning to leave.

“Bye!” He croaked out, voice shaky and too loud — not that it mattered, she was already too far away to hear him by the time he had managed to get the word out.

The entire walk back to the lodge it was as if his feet didn’t touch the ground once. Days spent selling in July usually left him sweaty and exhausted, ready to collapse into bed, but there was too much adrenaline running through his veins for him to know what to with. The ghosts of her lips lingered on her cheeks and he half wondered if he looked in a mirror whether he would see a mark made in the shape of her kiss, burned into his skin like her fingers had all those months ago.

The newsies noticed something was up as soon as he walked in.

“Hey Racer, ya okay over there?” Jack called out, looking like he was ready to leap into action if he had to stop Race from falling over. The boy in question nodded dumbly, stumbling over to his bed before plopping down. A few of the boys followed him over and everyone’s eyes stayed trained on him.

“This ‘bout that goil of yours?” Mush piped up. “Y/N?”

“Yeah,” Race whispered, swallowing when he realized how dry his throat felt. “Yeah, she’s really something.” A smile spread across his face and he was sure he looked like a fool, sitting on his bed and smiling at nothing. The others exchanged looks.

“She’s got ya real bad, huh?” Albert asked, sounding like he was enjoying Race’s state of disarray much more than was necessary.

“She’s just - I mean, she’s....” He tugged his hat off his head and let his upper half fall back onto the bed. “Wow.” He heard a few of the boys snicker at him, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Race is in loooove!” He heard Les yell from somewhere, drawing out the word teasingly in a way that made the kid fall into a fit of laughter. Race raised his hand and sat up to protest but stopped before he could. His face went slack as his eyes widened.

“Holy shit,” Jojo whispered. “He actually is.”

Again, Race wanted to say that he was wrong. But that was precisely the problem: he wasn’t wrong, not in the slightest. Race had definitely, fully, fallen in love with Y/N — and he hadn’t even realized it.

“I have to tell her,” he mumbled. The boys started to murmur around him.

“What?

“What did he say?”

“I have to go tell her,” he repeated, louder. “I have to tell her.” He stood up, buzzing with energy, his hat and cigar abandoned on his bed.

“Right now?” Davey asked. “Race, it’s pouring out.” As soon as he said it Race’s ears tuned in to the sound of rain falling outside. He didn’t care.

“Love doesn’t wait for rain!” Romeo called out enthusiastically. “Go get ‘er, Racetrack!” A few of the other newsies yelled with similar sentiments and Race smiled at them.

“See ya on the other side, boys.” With that, he was out the door, running through the empty streets in the rain on his way to the monastery.

Vaguely he registered Davey asking Jack if they should follow him, but he was out of earshot before he heard the answer. There was only one thing on his brain: he was in love with Y/N, and he was desperately hoping that she loved him, too.

________

Y/N was standing under one the stone awnings of the monastery, looking out as the rain fell. She liked to listen to it and she liked even more to see the streets empty of their usual bustling crowds, it made her feel peaceful — and she was in desperate need of calming down. Her face still felt warm from hearing Race call her his angel, and her stomach was still all knotted up from kissing him on the cheek. She hadn’t even known she was going to do it before she was leaning in, but when she saw his face afterward she was glad she had. The nuns had all given her looks when she returned, Sister Mary in particular smiling brightly at her. It had taken time, but over the months that she’d been visiting Race most of the nuns had come around. They were much more likely then to tease her about him rather than lecture her.

She gave a huff of laughter just thinking of the ridiculousness of the situation. Closing her eyes, she let the sound of the rain wash over her and calm her frantic heart.

Her peace was interrupted by the sound of fast footsteps, growing increasingly louder. She opened her eyes with furrowed brows, looking out into the streets to see who could be running around in the storm. The world stopped when she saw him.

He was absolutely soaked from the downpour, his hair matted to his face and his hat missing. He slowed to a stop when he saw her, standing twenty feet away from her in the rain.

“Hi!” He called out and raised his hand in greeting, and she laughed in disbelief at his casualness while in such a state.

“You’re gonna get sick!” She yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth so her voice would carry better over the rain. “What on earth are you doing?!”

“I had to come see you!” He called as she waved him in under the awning with her. He jogged to her, grabbing both of her hands in his and holding them up between their bodies. “I had to come see you,” he repeated, softer. He brought her hands up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles one by one, her breath hitching as he did. He looked at her like she really was an angel and it stole all of the air out of her lungs.

“What — what are you doing?” She managed to force the words out past the lump forming in her throat, her voice weak.

“I know I can’t offer ya much,” he said in lieu of an actual answer, and her heart stopped. “I know that if we were together it might be frowned ‘pon, and I know the nuns might not approve of me.” She was going to collapse, she was going to well and truly fall to the ground right then and there. “But I haven’t had a single second of peace since the first day I saw you. Y/N, you’re all I think about. I could spend the rest of my life with you and never grow tired of seeing your face or hearing your laugh. I could be happy with you for the rest of forever.”

“Race,” she breathed. “Are you asking me to marry you?” He laughed.

“No, not yet. Maybe someday, but for now...” He trailed off, looking at her with a tenderness in his eyes that made her want to pull him into a never-ending hug. “For now I’m saying that I am absolutely in love with you, Y/N L/N, and I’m asking you to be with me. I’m asking for you to hope with me that someday I’ll have enough saved up to buy you a ring and we can do this all over again.” He kissed her hand again before bringing it up to touch his face and holding it against his cheek. “I’m asking you to tell me you want me to stay.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Everything that she was had been reduced to her heart beating out of control and the feeling of his skin against her hands. He loved her. He talked with her and he made her laugh and he waited for her and he walked her home when it got dark and he called her his angel and he loved her. And she loved him, unquestionably so.

“Racetrack Higgins, I have dreamt of you from the minute I met you. You are something utterly divine, and I have so much love for you I barely know what to do with it.” She watched as his hopeful smile grew at her words. “Of course I want you to stay. I want you to stay and never, ever leave me.”

He pulled her against him and she couldn’t even be bothered by the fact that he was still dripping with rain water. His arms wrapped around her bodice and she clasped her hands around his neck, holding his face to hers. He kissed her and she swore she heard angels singing among the rainfall. He kissed her and he kissed her and he kissed her and she was bursting with happiness and love from it. When they finally pulled away, panting, she saw him open his mouth to say something before closing it, squinting as his gaze moved from to the streets. She turned with confusion to see what he was looking at only to find a small bunch of newsies who seemed to have taken cover from the rain under an awning across the street. It looked like they were cheering, but she couldn’t hear them over the rain as it picked up even harder than before.

“Jesus Christ,” Race mumbled as he looked at them, making her laugh. He turned back to her and brought a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “Sorry about them,” he said sheepishly. “They’re probably gonna wanna meet you.” She smiled, nothing could have brought her down from the high she was on — and being able to meet Race’s friends only sent her floating closer to the heavens.

“Fine by me,” she laughed. He smiled fondly at her in return. “We probably shouldn’t keep them waiting in the rain, though.”

“Well,” he grinned cheekily. “We can make them wait just a minute longer.” He leaned down to kiss her again, and she smiled into it.

One day, she would have to thank Sister Mary for bringing her on that errand way back in April. For the moment being, she was content to keep kissing Race as the rain fell around them.

__________

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#racetrack higgins x reader #newsies imagine #racetrack higgins #newsies x reader #jack kelly #david jacobs #jojo de la guerra #specs newsies #romeo newsies #albert dasilva #les jacobs #newsies #newsies live #anyway........come tell me what you thought og this!! validate me!!#*of #im pretty proud of this one :)#but also bruh this was 23 pages in google docs #bambi can kinda write

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