#wooden façade

[athenaismdb]

[yup-thats-me]

—hairpins • Jinshi

pairing: Jinshi x female servant! reader

summary: Jinshi is jealous

warning: none

“Please, accept this small token of love, Y/n,” a higher-up military officer smiled at the girl as he presented a handcrafted wooden hairpin.

Not to be rude, Y/n accepted the gift with a smiling face, not knowing the true meaning of the gift. Maybe it is a consolation prize for everyone, she thought to herself.

Walking back to Lady Gyokuyou and her ladies-in-waiting, she smiled at them. Jinshi was also there, chatting with the concubine with his ever-present smile, but his eyes seemed to be searching for someone.

“Greetings, Jinshi-sama,” Y/n called out to him.

When their eyes met, Jinshi was awestruck. Maybe he was too accustomed to seeing the girl in her usual working attire that he had never imagined her to look so breathtaking in the official clothing of a lady-in-waiting for a concubine. If he was frank, she had the beauty befitting a queen. His queen.

“Y/n…”, he whispered, stepping closer to the girl. “You look…gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.” He had said when he placed a kiss on the back of her hand.

A deep crimson flushed across Y/n’s cheek, taking her hand away from the man. “Thank you, Jinshi-sama.” Excited squeals could be heard from the coworkers. Even Lady Gyokuyuo had giggled.

“Oh! I have something to give you, Y/n,” Jinshi declared taking out a beautifully handcrafted silver hairpin.  “I got it customized for you. Do you like it?”

Y/n’s eyes had widened including the people around her. “Jinshi-sama, you are too kind. You should not do such things for a mere servant like me.”

Jinshi gently placed a hand on Y/n’s chin, lifting her to meet his gaze. “Whoever said you are a mere servant, Y/n? you know how much you mean to me,” He whispered taking the pin and gently putting it in her bun.

“Meet me at midnight, darling.”

Even if the last part was whispered too close to Y/n’s ear, the people around the two could guess, if not tell, what was told.

“I should take my leave then, Lady Gyokuyuo,” Jinshi bowed giving a smile to the ladies in the back, and walked away, his robes flowing behind him.

As soon as he left, the ladies all surrounded Y/n asking her all sorts of questions, Some appropriate, some not so. The poor girl could only blush and nod until Lady Gyokuyou dispersed the small crowd.

“You have already broken our promise, Y/n. You are not mine alone,” she smiled patting the girl’s head.

The poor girl could hardly wait till nightfall. All the things that could happen when she’d be alone with the head Eunuch of the Rear Palace filled her heart with excitement and adoration.

The two grew closer when when Y/n was appointed as the new apothecary and taster for Lady Gyokuyuo. At first, Y/n had been wary of Jinshi. Avoiding him around the Jade Pavilion, turning down his flirtatious approaches. But maybe it was all decided up in heaven that the two would fall for each other. None of the two could tell when it happened, and before the knew it, they were head over heels for the other.

The two would be seen together more frequently than Gaoshun would like but it wouldn’t be entirely inncorrect to say that he was indeed happy to his master finally smiling. He had seen many women break the young master’s heart, or even just use him. Jinshi had forgotten how to smile. He did but it was all a façade. But when he fell for Y/n, it was all changed. Jinshi would smile and giggle to himself much like a teenage girl in love, She has made him feel again.

When the time came, a soft knock was heard on the girl’s door. Y/n almost tripped and fell to open the door if it was not for Jinshi who held her in his arms. “Be careful, Y/n. I wouldn’t want my darling to fall.”

Blushing, Y/n stepped back. “Excuse me. Shall we go?” she smiled to which Jinshi held out his hand for her.

The two walked around the empty gardens of the Rear Palace. It was truly beautiful to walk under the moonlit sky with your lover. The two barely talked, not wanting to disrupt the peace, their presence next to the other was worth more than mortal speech could describe.

They decided to sit atop the wall that surrounded the Palace, Y/n sitting before Jinshi, his arms holding her close. “You’re so warm, Y/n,” Jinshi snuggled closer to her making Y/n smile.

“Oh you know, Jinshi-sama. I was given a consolation prize by a nice Officer today,” Y/n spoke, playing with her lover’s hair.

“Consolation prize?”

“Yes. This gentleman gave me a beautifully handcrafted wooden hairpin. It truly is pretty.”

Although it was too subtle, but Jinshi’s hold against Y/N’s waist grew a bit tighter. “Yeah? And does my darling like it better than mine?” His voice was a bit more stern.

Y/n was quick to notice the change and giggled. “Are you jealous, Jinshi-sama?”

Even if he was facing her back, Y/n could tell that Jinshi was blushing. “And what if I am? Do you expect me to be okay with someone else trying to take what belongs to me? I’ve actually grown tired of men always pursuing you, Y/n. You being pretty as you are is a curse and a blessing, really.”

Y/n giggled at Jinshi complaining like a kid. To her, this Jinshi was his trueself. A big child.

“Once they know that I am with Jinshi-sama, they would stop approaching me. I think you should stop worrying about them, .” She smiled, pecking his lips.

Jinshi sighed deeply. “There is nothing more I want than announcing my marriage with you, my love. If only...”

And those unsaid words would come true sooner than they would know. It would only be a month’s wait till Jinshi could call Y/n “My Wife”, and Y/n could call him “My Husband,” in front of everyone.

It was all a game of patience. A game they were bound to win.  

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[randombush3]

cool about it

alexia putellas x reader

summary: you can't find inspiration for your play

notes: this was rotting in my drafts and then i got drunk and finished it lolz

i refuse to read it back so have fun

The first time Alexia sees you, you are with your friends; sleeves rolled-up, wide smile on your face, a pool cue in your hand as you wield it like a weapon the minute one of the women beside you opens her mouth. She is drawn into observing, craving the knowledge of what you are being told; what is making you blush so furiously. She sees your mouth open, a blackhole that draws her in without mercy, and she barely survives the sound of your loud, raucous laughter

Suddenly, in the universe of football and media events and her little sister’s embarrassingly active love-life, you appear. Like a new star, burning bright, big and hot and… “You’re staring,” says Mapi with a smile. She knows not to tease, and she treads lightly. “You’ve been staring for a while.” 

“They’re speaking English.” It’s an incriminating sentence, but it would have been futile to deny Mapi’s accusation anyway. 

“I saw her at the bar. She spoke Spanish then.” 

“You’ve been stalking her.” 

Mapi nods, and holds Alexia’s drink in a silent push to get her over to the pool table. To you. “Because you’ve been staring. I was only making sure she wasn’t a psycho.” 

“Thanks,” she scoffs, but, in truth, she is grateful. 

As she saunters over (a newly regained skill, months down the line from her traumatic ACL reconstruction surgery), her confidence a believable façade, she decides that she is going to be Alexia Putellas. She is going to be cool about it, and she is going to impress you, and she is going to make you laugh so that she can hear that sound again. 

Again, again, again. 

“Yeah, sure, you can take over for Soph,” you say, nodding towards the woman who had been on the receiving end of your light prodding with the wooden stick all of friends regret allowing three-drink you to be in charge of. “So you’re spots, I’m stripes. I’ve got two left until I can pot the black, and you, er, you might be at a disadvantage here.” You rub the back of your neck as you peer at the balls on the table, almost all of them left behind by Soph’s inability to play pool. “How about we just, um–” 

“Está bien.” Alexia pretends to understand a lot more of what you said than she really does, regretting her choice to approach you in English, but she gets the jist. And, although you make her feel as though life has only just begun, she remembers her competitiveness very, very clearly. “Voy a ganar,” she scoffs. 

She holds in her celebration as you break out into a grin, immediately rising to the challenge, glad your friends have tired of the pool table so that no one can interrupt the battle you are about to commence. A battle with a very pretty woman, you must admit. 

You lose. 

You blame it on Alexia – she tells you her name as she pots three balls in a row – and try not to acknowledge the taunts from your friends at the bar, most of them having watched the entire game from afar to have something to talk about tomorrow. “You win,” comes your pitiful concession after a brutal defeat. “So, what will your prize be?” 

It’s an easy answer. 

That morning, throat hoarse from the cries that left it the night before, eyes red and tired and way too sensitive to light for you to consider drinking a drop of alcohol ever again, you wrap your arms around the warm body in the unfamiliar bed, finding the intimacy to have lived on longer than it should for a one-night-stand. Barcelona is warm and sunny, the day one to be enjoyed, and the company the best you have had in a while. 

It isn’t just that Alexia is a goddess. It isn’t the Amazonian ridges of her stomach and the firmness of her thighs, nor the softness of her hair or the deft movements of her fingers against your scarred skin. No, that is not what has, in just one evening, made you fall in love with her. (You bite your lip as you are overcome with emotion, chest filling up – with which feeling, you do not know –, heart pounding into your bones as the rhythm of your desire to be in Alexia’s life sets into the very framework of your being.) No! How could it be that? How could it be that when there is more? 

The coarseness of her determination; the slippery confidence, delicate and sharp, as though it is both the petal of a rose and the thorn that will prick you. Her humour, mistranslated at times, but always ready to make fun of idiots (most often, a specific idiot with a neck tattoo, as you come to realise). 

Personally, you believe it to be unfair that Alexia, Alexia Putellas, is simply ‘all that’. 

Getting to know each other fails to feel awkward, though you spend a lot of time waiting for the tension to appear. 

She discovers who you are, how you have moved to Barcelona for inspiration, finding that very thing lacking in dreary Leeds (the most depressing place on Earth, you could argue). She learns of your dream, although you label it as your ‘plan’: to write a play and to see it on the stage, preferably a grand theatre in the West End. Or in Stratford, where upon lies the greatest soil from which a playwright can grow. 

You show her your empty pages, devoid of black print marks. White and white, that goes on until it is clear that you have tired of pressing the ‘enter’ button as though it will ignite a story within. A story that hasn’t yet come, mind. 

“Do you think it will work?” she asks you, her accusation carrying nothing but curiosity once you see past the abrupt manner in which she interrupts your lengthy monologue about your severe case of writer’s block. 

Maybe you intend to be a little vague, for the sake of your racing heart and your delicate emotions, because you only shrug. You have already found your inspiration, not that you are going to tell her. 

Alexia is forward in the sense that she checks how temporary your presence is in her city before asking you out on a date. Your answer of ‘however long this shit takes’ is enough for her to be sure that she wants a second. A third, too. 

Then, before you know it, it has been a year. 

A year of Barcelona, a year of Spanish sun, and, excitingly, a year in which you have been cured; fingers blessed with movement and ideas and words on the tip of your tongue that run free in Alexia’s ear as you talk and talk and talk. She listens and listens and listens, and switches into the focus of your pairing when you go with her to watch her team play and play and play (why the fuck does football have so many matches?!). The final stage direction, all curling italics and sentimentality, sits at the bottom of the page. 

The end of your play. 

It is finished, it is done, and, soon after you have revised it one last time, it is sent to your producer friend with a nervous click of the ‘new email’ button and the hope that he is thankful for the times at university when you cared for him when he drank himself so silly that he barely made it to his lectures two days after the night-out. 

“It feels good,” you tell Ingrid, the girlfriend of the idiot with the neck tattoo, beaming as she inquires about your work. “I feel like I lived through it to get to this moment, you know? All that’s left to do is for him to read it and decide whether he’ll pick it up. Then, table reads and funding, of course. I’d want to direct, but, also, I’m not going to sell this one. Leasing it and taking a percentage of the royalties will make me loads more, because, Ingrid, this one is the best thing I’ve ever written.” 

There is a moment, usually, that comes after you have finished writing. A brief, sharp sort of panic, where you question your worth and your talent; you wonder if you have been lied to your whole life, and that your version of the same twenty-six letters of the alphabet, jumbled up on a white canvas as though you are (after a sleepless, usually) Picasso, is terrible. Or, worse, bad. 

Bad. Bad is so… plain. If it is just ‘bad’, you have failed as a writer. If it is not outrageous or unbelievably horrible, or, as one obviously hopes, incredible and amazing… if it is just ‘bad’, well: “Alexia, I’m terrified.” 

Alexia kisses your neck (you do not feel the finality of it, or maybe it is that you do not want to) because she knows it isn’t bad; she is more than aware that your play, your new creation, is really rather good. Brilliant, even. “Tranquila, mi amor,” she murmurs in your ear, bringing her arms to rest on your tense shoulders, a hand closing your laptop on its journey. “Le va a flipar.” 

“You think so?” 

“Sí.”

“Are you saying that because we’re together and you love me?” Your voice is small and unsure, and its teasing lilt is thrown off-kilter by the croak of your anxiety. “Or do you mean it? Please, I hope you mean it.” 

“I mean it.” She hates that she does. “Yes, of course I mean it. I love you and I am proud of you.” She hates it, she hates this, and she hates the talent your mind wields; something that is going to rip you from her grasp. It was bound to happen.

Your phone rings; soft, electronic trills dancing in the space between you and the coffee table it has been placed on. “I think that’s him,” you whisper, the volume you had intended to speak at smited by the nervous lump in your throat. Alexia nods mournfully, but you are too busy accepting the call to see.

“Let’s do this,” he says. 

…

The first frost of London comes that January. It’s unusual, the locals claim, because the city exists in its own polluted microclimate, but their statistics do not stop the layer of ice from freezing onto the windshield of your car. You are glad London feels just as cold as you do. 

Your play is beloved by the actors who speak your words, and the critics amongst your friend group, who for once, have no criticism to give. There is promise here. It is going very well. 

You drive to the theatre, ready to sit in on another rehearsal. Though your original intention had been to direct, you pawed off the role to an old school friend upon her return from Broadway. Your decision, you tell her, comes from a lack of experience in direction. You pretend to have had an epiphany: you only want to write the plays. 

In truth, this is a lie. 

Of course it is a lie. 

But how can you direct such happiness, such love and romance, if you know that the very thing that inspired each line has ceased to exist? 

Alexia feels like she has ceased to exist. 

On the outside, she seems relatively fine. She trains well, plays well, makes appearances where she should, says what you’d expect of her, hopes to make the world a better place. She walks Nala as though the Pomeranian does not whine for you to hold her leash, and she visits her mother and sister even though they continue to ask her why she did what she did. 

At night, she scrolls through social media, fingers always leading her back to you; your life; your work; your experiences that you no longer share with her. She cries, then, usually: a common occurrence nowadays. 

There is a gaping hole in her chest that has been made by her sticking her fucking foot in it. 

She has questions, naturally; each directed hatefully at herself. Why? Why, why why? Why on Earth did she tell you never to come back? Why did she blame you for leaving? 

You were always going to leave! Alexia knows that, hates that she knows that. 

You came to Barcelona because you couldn’t write, and you wrote. You wrote, you made her fall in love with you, and, when you had finished, you discarded the life you had unexpectedly built all because of some stupid, stupid play. 

A play titled–

A play. 

A… Alexia can’t even bring herself to think about it. 

No, all Alexia can think about is how insignificant she feels when you are no longer in love with her. You: sophisticated, intelligent, brilliant, adoring. Her? 

“Lex, you can’t mope if you’re the one who broke it off.” The words leave Alba’s mouth in jest but Alexia recoils as though she has been whipped by her sister’s tongue. 

“I’m trying to be cool about it,” she replies like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

It seems as though the globe has spun a full circle on its axis by the time Alba formulates her response, dumb-struck by such fucking idiocy. 

Alba hopes her sister feels like a fool – she hopes Alexia looks at herself in the mirror and… laughs, at this point. The whole thing has been ridiculous, in her opinion. 

First, her sister claims she is in love with a playwright with no plays to her name (Alba is examining the facts objectively, here, because she did quite like you); then, poof! Like a rabbit in a magician’s hat played in twisted reverse, away you go, and it somehow isn’t even your fault. 

She’d like to hate you, for her sister’s sake, but she finds herself loathing her own blood as it thins and thins until it trickles just like water. 

Okay, maybe she is being a little dramatic there, but she is still annoyed with Alexia. 

Alexia – whose existence as more-than-a-footballer is fading as she loses herself to waves of futile guilt – hates that she cannot hate you. She is plagued by emotional constipation, and though she tries to squeeze the situation for a drop of cruelty from you, she fails to discover a gram of relief.

It would have been kinder for you to have been cruel. Mercy is getting Alexia nowhere, and she would run to you if it were fast enough. Mercy is what renders her in a perpetual state of regret. Mercy is what keeps her up at night, but maybe mercy is what she likes having because it is yours and, in that way, she carries a piece of you with her. 

To confuse herself even more, to skew her mind further onto a path of unconventional self-destruction, she silently begs the mercy you have left behind to disappear so that she can learn to do without it. It’ll become a crutch and she wants it ripped from her grasp so that she can learn to walk on her own. She’s capable of that, she tells herself. 

(It probably isn’t true.)

…

Opening night. 

You’re wearing something far too nice to be comfortable, and there has been a champagne flute in your hand since the lunch held by the investors of the production company. The bubbles have served their purpose, clouding your mind with thoughts that weren’t to do with Alexia and her Alexia life and her Alexia smile and her Alexia way of making an Alexia-shaped cavity in your heart. 

It gushes quite a bit, because Alexia is strong and big and capable of damaging you to this extent. You reckon your surprise is foolish but fuck off, you’re trying your best. 

Comfortingly, not one scrap of red velvet is visible once the audience is ushered inside the theatre. 

It’s beautiful here; small, old. The perfect place to fall in love, just as you did. Or at least, experience the good part through deliciously talented actors and a stellar script (your horn has been tooted enough times for you to give it a go). 

Fear creeps up your legs as you take your seat in the front row, guarded by friends and family and proud English teachers who’d believe in you, but you take another sip and it simmers down. 

“Careful,” whispers your mum, shoulder nudging yours as you place your plastic cup (no glass in the auditorium) on the patterned carpet just as the show is about to begin. “You’ll not remember this if you don’t take a break.” 

And you’re halfway to announcing you don’t want to remember anything at all when the curtain goes up and a woman walks onto stage. 

It’s sobering. 

The audience is restlessly quiet, anticipating the brilliance they’ve been promised with an impatience that demands to be sated, but the actress takes her sweet time. 

She walks from stage left to stage right, then up and down. She’s passively searching for something. 

Someone. 

(It’s the fucking point, and you knew this would happen because you typed out these exact stage directions once upon a time. Alexia had misplaced a sock – a lucky sock, she claimed – and her passion, her desire to discover it, had weirdly morphed into a scene you could see being played out on a stage.) 

“Figure this out later,” speaks the actress with a satisfied smile, folding her arms over her chest. Finally, the audience’s breaths catch, enraptured by the vaguest cop-out of opening lines you could’ve chosen. 

They love it, though; they lean forwards in their seats as they are plucked from London and dropped into the middle of Barcelona. It’s mildly unnerving that you can’t escape the journey, clearly a member of the audience even if you don’t need to be told the story, but you land without the masses in the rows behind you. 

You land right into Alexia’s arms. 

There she is before you, in all her glory, proudly displaying the blue and red that she is so admirably dedicated to. Muscular and tanned, beautiful in the way that she always is, but shining brighter than just that. 

And you fucking hate it. 

When you imagine Alexia, you imagine her crippled and bed-ridden. Cracked knuckles come to mind, too, and she can barely speak without descending into rattling sobs that hack on and on until she somehow falls into fitful rest. 

You come prepared for absolution, expecting to see her dying just as you are, so it’s no wonder that your fists clench at her blasé declaration of “no regrets”. 

(By the way, Alexia’s not really there. You’d been stalking her Instagram and so that’s why she’s wearing her training kit, and… and you’re drunk!)

There are many things you’d like to say to her. 

Alexia had always been apprehensive of your relationship. She was closed-off to new people, and though she was certain of your importance to her, she was untrusting of much else. It happens when you’re famous; there are many wrong turns to take. And she needed to stay on the right path. 

It was impossible to pass Alexia’s test. 

For you, that is clear. Broken up with, told to leave and never come back, and begged to find someone else are not descriptors of the winner, nor she who achieved full marks. You’re a bit of a stranger to failing, but you’re trying to forget about it so that it never happens again. 

You’re breaking a sweat trying to banish her from your brain, barely registering the applause rippling through the theatre as you reach the interval. Trying to get her out of your head is like tugging at your intestines – a hand down your throat renders you dumb, and pains sears through your stomach as you are emptied and left to be a carcass.

“Is it good?” you ask your mum as you head to the bar in the foyer. 

“I wish you had let me meet her.” 

…

Alexia has never been to London outside of football before. She’s played in the north and in the south – she’s won every time – and it’s summery enough right now, but she is still a foreigner in the city. 

It’s fitting, this feeling of being lost, and it’s acceptable to feel it here because she has an excuse. Lost in Barcelona would be ridiculous. 

(But she is.) 

Why is Alexia in London when she could be in Spain? 

Well the only answer is that she has a ticket to a play in a theatre just off the West End that reminds her of someone she once loved. 

She thought it might help, seeing as she hasn’t scored a goal in four weeks with no assists to excuse the drought. Her manager gladly gave her the weekend to recharge, and she escapes matchday seven of Liga F under the guise of illness. 

While sleeping with your pillow, your t-shirt, she must have absorbed whatever the fuck you were on. By osmosis. 

That block. 

And now she has to act like she can’t read your mind. 

Her ticket, acquired last minute by a friend in high places as a massive favour, means that she has a front row seat to a damned play. She is well-prepared for the dread that wrenches her gut. 

The silence settling over her is uncomfortable and impatient, and the lights go down with a sense of impending doom. It’s a bit like being on death row, Alexia thinks. Here she gets to see the good things – a last meal of whatever she would like (you, of course that’s you) – but it is only because of her inevitable execution that this happens. 

The necklace hanging from her collarbones is a noose, the seat is a wooden box about to be kicked out from underneath her, and she needs to make her decision now: does she scream? Should she– 

She’s pulled out of her insanely dramatic spiral by a woman walking onto the stage. 

Her shoulders are hunched slightly and she has that look in her eye; that pang of hunger. 

The actress is recognisable, sure, but that is not the familiarity that strikes Alexia. 

It’s the character. 

It’s you. 

Walking from right to left, towards the back, down to the front, the actress is desperately searching for something. 

Inspiration, Alexia assumes, a smug smile briefly brushing her lips as the opening line breaks the tense silence. 

“Figure this out later,” you say. 

The actress is experienced but she has never read a script like yours before. It moved her to tears, though you claimed it was very happy. 

She lies awake at night, furiously envying those who could love like you do. 

She pities you, partly, because it’s no secret that the story of this love ended when you came here to put the show on. 

She has had to fall in love with someone – method acting, according to the director. 

It’s not quite the universe exploding and stars being born that your relationship must have been, but it’s alright and she is glad to see him in the audience. 

He’s next to a woman who does not seem to be enamoured by the beauty of the plot. 

A woman who seems absolutely fucking horrified. 

Her eyes are wide, fists clenched.

You – the real you – are watching Alexia with curiosity, more interested in her reaction to the play than the play itself. You wonder if she knows the significance of tonight; the reason you are here once more. 

In one month, the set and costumes will be packed up in boxes and taken onto the main street. 

It’s a dream come true. 

You’re here to announce the good news at the end of the show. 

…

“Alexia.” 

She tries not to turn around but she does. 

The night is cool and fresher than she’d expected the London pollution to allow, and the lamp posts are scarily looming over her as she forces herself to not run into your arms. You don’t wear a coat, although your year in Barcelona has borne a certain nostalgia for a warmer climate, but Alexia is wrapped up warm. 

“How… how are you doing?” 

You cringe at how apologetic it sounds. She broke up with you. 

There is a year that will be forever lost to love and happiness, bliss in Barcelona that was always going to be too good to be true. 

There is a year that you will never get back, but there is a breakup you must deal with. 

It’s not a brick wall, it’s a hurdle to jump over. 

Breaking up won’t be the end of your worlds. 

Knowing this, despite the weakness in her knees and the aching of her heart, Alexia lies. For your sake, she lies. 

“I’m good. It’s nice to see you.” 

You’re drowning but you’ll eventually remember how to swim. 

“You too,” you say with formulated sincerity that one day will grow naturally. “Score a goal next time you play, though.” 

[justblades]

⋆｡˚ ♰・priest! sunday x afab! reader

┈─ ・(ex)plicit, mdni. contains 2.2 spoilers, blasphemous themes, impregnation, clit stimulation, oral sex, controlling sunday, not proofread.

Even a mere mortal can sense the regret lingering in the atmosphere of the vicinity, a small space dedicated for confessions and atonement of sins committed by those who believe in the Harmony. Numerous pews stand in rows before a single one, each being occupied by two people at best, to which you draw closer to the confession box— one more person to go and it is time to purify your tainted soul.

It was just muffled murmurs of two people from the latter reverberating inside the hall's six walls, along with the sound of the ceiling fans whirring. Your mind starts to drift onto something else: although you have no idea what others hold with regards to their sins, you still could not help but think that yours is shameful.

You can see the person beside you exit the birch box with teary eyes and stuffed nose as she holds a handkerchief to her face. "Next please." a resolute voice echoes, signalling for you to step forward into the confessional. With a wobbly stature, you stand up and tread forward, proceeding to close the oak door behind you.

The golden lights from the hall seep through the confession booth's partition, gleaming upon your stature - creating a silhouette as to where only the advocate from the other side can peer through the woodworks. You attempt to clear your voice before speaking, a dry throat halting the words you intend to verbalize within.

"I humbly ask for your blessings and the forgiveness of Xipe . . ." You mutter as your eyes dart to nothing that catches your interest except for the parquetry etched on the wooden floorboards. Your head held down low, staring at its intricate designing.

"Please feel free to proceed. I have sought their presence within us." The priest answers. "I have committed a grave sin of succumbing to passing emotions. Primarily, I struggled with regulating the purity of one's mind and it was late that I realized I indulged in an extreme activity to quench the thirst for sexual pleasure." 

A reassuring hum resounds. "As a devout follower of the Harmony, I believe my actions do not align with the path I stride. Therefore, I ask for forgiveness and assistance on how I will repent for the sins I have committed." After forming the confession where in sentences you never thought have ever been uttered, it feels as though a heavy weight was lifted off your chest and the shackles on your feet disintegrated.

Glancing at the frosted, colored glass window in front of you, you noticed how the warm yellow lights in the background flicker repetitively in an instant, as well as the birch surroundings creaking. "By committing a grave sin, you've engaged in an activity with a partner you are not married with." The priest reiterates as if the faulty lights are a common occurrence.

You hum in response. "And by committing an even graver sin, you took part in an activity with an objective aside from procreation. Please correct me if I'm wrong."

"Yes, esteemed advocate. Everything you said was indeed correct." Your heart starts racing, "Do you promise yourself you'll turn your back on this lascivious history to start anew?" He queries.

"Yes, Mister Sunday."

"Even if you were to encounter challenges to test your faith for the Harmony?"

Hesitation ruptures through your composure. Your resolution suddenly cracks, as if it was merely a façade with a longing for forgiveness to move on.

"Be honest." Like the advocate could read your mind as of the moment, you believe in the capabilities of Harmony, so there was no use in feigning cleanliness when you know it in yourself, you still struggle. "I wish to seek assistance from those with wisdom."

You receive another firm hum in response, "Very well. Please see me in the reconciliation room a short time after." Your mind spirals into confusion and bewilderment, the emotions painting your features like you were an open book to the audience.

Trekking off the confessional booth, you did not dare to spare a glance back at the priest and only made your way to the distinct, separate room - the reconciliation. It was small, enclosed, and only an oak table, two pairs of engraved chairs, a single ligneous partition and a kneeler reside within the space. Your vision anchors to the sculpted wooden cross sign hung on the beige walls, illuminated by a faint golden lamp on the table.

Patiently awaiting the presence of the priest, you stood still with a heavy heart, seeming like the relief you felt previously was only a glimpse of what you could've been if you didn't commit such grave sin. If only.

The door swings open, followed by the entrance of the figure you were anticipating. Faded sky blue hues of hair tumble upon the male's shoulders, along with the golden earrings he was donning. Feathered ears diluting into white ripple from his footsteps, and his distinct, golden halo stays afloat behind his head.

Being vis-à-vis with the highly esteemed figure of the Penacony like this tugs your heartstrings in unease. It felt bizarre, as you could recall from others' experiences that when you encounter priests or advocates of the Harmony, your heart rests. As for Sunday, it was the polar opposite. Chills run kilometers up and down your spine, your throat starts to become dry.

You trail your vision downwards, setting your sight upon his graceful features. His eyes were a radiant yellow tinged with an ocean blue, framed by his particularly long lower lashes. He purses his lips tightly, curving upwards, flashing a small smile. "Please take a seat." He motions for the chair in front of your figures, your eyes noticing the cross cut out gloves he's wearing.

Sitting down with guard held up high, Sunday follows suit as he opens the drawer from the oak table, retrieving something of a color white and frilly in texture, as you make of what you could from your peripheral vision. "This will certainly be of help to put your faith to test. If you would kindly turn around."

Your hands rest on your lap and as you hear the last phrase that came out of his mouth, you subconsciously gripped a handful of the fabric you're wearing in alertness. Not until your vision was impaired as Sunday blindfolds you with the latter material, it was soft and delicate to the touch - you could not see anything but faint shadows against the lighting. Everything was ivory white in stark contrast, and you could barely peer through the lace folds to see the priest.

"I will now be tuning your mind with the Harmony to which you will face repercussions if statements untrue to yourself are said." He pauses. Unsure where this will lead to, you had no choice but to nod in continuation. "Under the light of the Harmony, all wickedness is revealed. I implore them to shed their light."

What used to be a blurry white in your vision now fringes into colored edges, the prominent colors being purple, white, red, orange, and yellow.

"This will serve as a gentle reminder that I am assisting you to a path where grave sins  are not succumbed to, and only ▅▅▅ exists alongside philosophy to instill moral duties to a functioning member of a society."

His words cut through the thick atmosphere, thawing the glacial tension growing with each passing second.

He lowers his stature to face you, gloved fingers trailing from the hem of the laced blindfold down to your cheeks, cupping your face lightly with a careful grip. "Does this send a shiver down to your spine?" Sunday inquires and you shake your head in disagreement. It seems like he has a whole plan on how this will play out, and you were merely a pawn in his chessboard to see what you would react under these circumstances he will put you in.

The touch ghosts a caress on your lower parts, specifically, the frame of your chest. His thumb twirls on the middle part with an unraveled goal of making your buds perk up underneath the confinements of your clothing - making you grit your teeth as a poor attempt to stifle the sound threatening to escape.

A question arises amidst the confusing situation, a question that will surely be received in a poor taste as it will question his authority and legitimacy. You wanted to ask, is this really necessary?

However, the aura he exudes now was far different from what he displays when he's in front of the audience of the masses. He seems more strict now, judging from the tone lacing his voice from his query earlier. "Does this feel good?" He proceeds to unbutton your top, letting the fabric come undone and fall down to your lap. A singular  gloved hand of his snakes its way to your back, and with a single fidget, your bra was unclasped.

The priest takes his precious time in all these. He carefully observes the clothing that you wear, as he had come to adore the fact that you were wearing pearly white brassiere, one that was similar to the blindfold's texture and design, it was frilly in the edges and soft to the touch.

A light chuckle slips out, "Well? What's your answer?" Desire and temptation brews within your stomach, even spiking higher as he caresses your mounds with both of his hands. His touches feel light and blissful at the same time, like your body was basking in the warmth and enjoyment the priest had to offer. You struggle to keep your body still, knees trembling even though you were only sitting.

"N-No, Mr. Sunday."

A sharp throbbing ache courses through your head, granting him a wince of both surprise and pain. "It appears that you haven't put your mind and whole heart to this yet." He says as he walks away from your stature, leaving you dumbfounded. As silence encompasses the vicinity, you hear the male seat himself on the chair across from you. "Come to me." He simply orders.

"Just take steps forward and trust me."

With blind faith, you solemnly obey - approaching his figure with an extremely bleary vision. As your feet meet with an obstacle, seemingly the chair's legs, you stop in your tracks. "Now straddle my lap." Following suit, you feel a bulging sensation under your remaining clothing. Your breath becomes even more jagged than before, especially now that your clothed folds come in contact with his throbbing dick. It was clear cut enough that it was his erection continuously growing.

A brief moment passes and Sunday continues to envelop your hard buds within his lips, teeth grinding on your nipples in an attempt to inflict pain and pleasure all at the same time. "M— Mr. Sunday . . !" You yelp but he does not halt. He proceeds to twirl his warm, slick tongue all over your glazed areolas, your boob dancing in rhythm with his mouth in somewhat harmonic tunes played by your stifled mewls.

His other free hand pulls you tighter to his chest as he adjusts his position, bucking his hips upwards to create some sort of friction. The tip of his covered cock brushes against your already wet slit, granting him another lewd sound - this time, a soft moan. "I— I— I can't—" your hands clutch on the man's broad shoulders, feeling his long, muted blue and white locks tangle along your fingers. "You can. Yes you can. Only a little bit more you would be rewarded by proving your loyalty to the ▅▅▅."

Your sense of hearing downgrades as your mind drifts into pure bliss, lower limbs becoming numb as more pleasure courses through your veins. As if it's still not enough, Sunday simply lowers your remaining clothes to your feet, revealing your folds sopping wet with arousal already.

With haste and care in Sunday's every movement, he lays your back on the table in between the chairs, forcibly revealing everything down there to him — for him to revel in. The gelid wind traces shivers upon your sweat dewed skin, especially your folds now glimmering with muddy white liquids.

He raises your legs and stands up, resting your lower limbs upon his shoulders. The position is embarrassing enough as it is, but having the priest tower over you is another experience that feels even more intense than what unfolded previously. Not to mention that the throbbing pang in your head brought by your dishonesty upon the Harmony worsens minute by minute.

The male buries his face in your inner thighs first, flicking his tongue over your soft skin while his eyes are darted on your face, in high alert to which action of his you will react the most to. "Need I remind you to be honest this time around? Or is the headache that you're feeling not sufficient for you to stay true to your words?" He asks with a demanding tone, the margins of his lips drawing closer and closer to your slit.

"I have learned my lesson, Mr. Sunda—"

Gloved fingers begin to stimulate your clit, moving in motions you cannot fathom with your current state - your lower body jerking up in response to the stimulation. A sly smile creeps up on Sunday's face, his navy blue pupils fixating on each of your actions and expressions.

All you could think of was the fact that he didn't even let you finish, he went straight to pleasure you more, the sensation becoming more overwhelming as he starts to glide the tip of his tongue on your folds. "Do you feel good?" Although his voice was muffled from the proximity from his face and your pussy, you could comprehend and immediately answer, "Yes! I-I feel good . . !"

You rack your head back once Sunday buries his face further into your inner thighs, wallowing himself in your slit as he sucked on your sweet spot, sticking his tongue into your velvet walls while still toying with your clitoris. You bite back your moans, you cannot afford to lose the remaining dignity you had in you left - if there was any.

"Don't do that."

His voice sounds stern as ever, you were left with no choice yet again but to let mewls and moans come undone at this point in time. You were noisy, along with the sucking sounds accompanied by your hums of pleasure, continually bouncing off of the reconciliation room's four walls. "Very good. As for the last part, you must continue to be truthful, to stand by the ▅▅▅, and to ▅▅▅ to what I ought to be ▅▅▅ for you. Do you understand?"

Much to your relief, your vision was once again back to normal as he unties the lacey blindfold on your eyes. This time, you could see Sunday's disheveled hair, as well as the golden earrings dangling at every movement he makes. He swiftly unzips his slacks, therefore revealing his cock he had been concealing for so long before. It stands in its full glory, hues of purple and indigo veins threatening to pop - it was evident he's at his limit.

"Use your mouth. Make me feel good." He commands and peers at you with a somber expression. You muster enough strength on your body to stand up and kneel in front of him, positioning your head in a perfect angle to receive him. Slowly parting your lips open, he shoves his dick inside you, granting you a hoarse moan of satisfaction slipping past his lips.

You bob your head up and down and as if it felt natural to wrap your digits around the remaining length of his cock, you pump him in accordance to your pace, taking him inside with no hesitation, with only one goal in mind: to make him feel good. You could feel the crown of his dick kiss your throat every time you go deeper, making your eyes water as you try to keep yourself from gagging for the priest's satisfaction.

"That's enough, stand up." Your momentum was cut off as he hooks his arms on yours, making you stand from your previously kneeling position. It seems he has indulged enough in your submission and now it is time for him to try something new, something far more amusing in his perspective.

With both of your statures still standing up, he flips you around, making your back face him. He can examine every nook and cranny of your body in this way, and with a hum of approval, he bends you over slightly, wrapping his arms around your waist and reach for your tits. Your breath deepens, more beads of sweat proceed to trickle down your naked body. "M-Mr. Sunday, are we really going to do it?" you ask as he wraps his hand around himself, brushing his tip on your entrance.

He stops in his movements. "Do you have a problem with that?" A domineering tone laces that sole sentence, one that a person cannot delve deeper furthermore.

With one more stroke, he finally pushes himself inside your velvet walls, molding themselves around the shape of Sunday's dick - wallowing in the pleasure and warmth he emanates inside you. "So . . . warm . . ." He whispers, his breath ghosting a caress on the shell of your ear.

Sunday builds up his pace from a painfully slow one to picking it up, thrusting into you with additional force, pistoning your pussy as he's balls deep. Sounds of skin slapping add onto the lewd tune you two have been playing for the past hour, a whole sixty minutes of pleasure pooling your stomach and arousals seeping out of your holes.

Your legs start to quiver once more, exhaustion gnawing at your bones. But amidst this, Sunday kept you still with his force, hitting your sweet spots with the tip of his cock. If you could beg for mercy as of the moment, you certainly would take the chance. But to who, exactly? To whoever aeon is witnessing this lascivious act unfold in front of them, committed in such a religious place?

Or perhaps to Sunday, who you've knelt to before, received him inside your body in more ways than one. Perhaps. Perhaps it is he who shall show you mercy in the heat of the moment.

"M-Mr. Sunday, please forgive me!"

Interest sparks inside his mind, revelling in the way of being viewed as someone highly, someone sought out, someone in a legitimate authority. "You shall be forgiven." He states as he bites down on the blade of your shoulder, teeth leaving a bite mark and an aching sensation alongside it. You could do nothing but wince in pain, but waves of pleasure start to crush upon your conscious self.

Surely this is too much pleasure to handle for someone asking for forgiveness as they committed a grave sin for partaking in debauchery . . . but to be done this way by a priest is a little too exhilarating.

He picks up the pace, earning himself more moans of pleasure escape your lips, "I'll ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ inside you." Sunday says as a fair warning, but a sentence you could only form at the present time was a lighthearted "Do as you please, Mr. Sunday."

With one single thrust, strings of satisfaction sprawl inside your womb. It feels warm yet again, but now, comforting in stark contrast to the nervousness welling up in your heart earlier.

"Well done. As you've shown resolution that you're on a path to atone for the sins you've committed in the past, you shall be forgiven."

[m2ok]

Golden Salvation

pt.2

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Male Reader

A/N: HI GUYS!!! IM BACK!!! It’s been… a hot minute, and I apologize for my sudden disappearance (And all the unanswered asks which I will eventually get to don’t worry!) But here is a fic to make up for it! This is just part one, and while I have the rest planned out let me know if you guys even like this and want me to continue :)

             

   Batwing doors opened, a heavy squeak following their movement as the result of rusted hinges, Heavy footsteps hit against equally creaky wooden floors with slow and methodical steps. One Simon Riley came waltzing in… a smirk on his face and his hat tilted low over his eyes as the other people in the saloon looked away.

Everyone knew of him; it was damn near impossible not to with his reputation. He sat down on a worn stool, a gruff sigh leaving his lips as he took his hat off and rested it on the bar in front of him. His eyes, you would swear, glimmered when he looked up at you from his place on his seat, a rare moment when you were taller than him.

“Hi, pretty boy” he cooed “Miss me much?”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips, rolling your eyes as you set the glasses you had been polishing down. Without so much as a word yet you leaned over, plucking his hat from the wood it was settled on to place it on your head instead, a sort of teasing only you could hope to get away with.

“Hey there, Cowboy” you said, flicking the hat, his hat, up over your eyes so you could see properly. “’Course I missed ya… yer my favorite customer after all” Though you teased, you both knew he was much more than a regular customer.

Simons lips curled into an easy smirk as he gazed up at you, eyebrows quirking with intrigue.

“Well now, aint you looking pretty as a picture” he drawled, reaching up to trace his thumb along your jawline. A low chuckle rumbled deep from his chest- he always did love your teasing spirit.

“Favorite, huh? Reckon I’ll hold ya to that, darling” His eyes darkened just a touch as he leaned in, breath whispering against your skin. There was an unspoken question there, a hungry gleam that promised all sorts of trouble if you chose to indulge him.

For now, Simon simply toyed with the worn brim of his hat atop your head, satisfaction radiating off him in waves.

“Sure, do feel mighty fine seein’ my colors on ya. Been far too long” he’d comment.

You would hum as you leaned into his gentle touch, an almost laughable dichotomy when compared to the blood that had been spilled by them. You gazed up at him with adoring, devoted eyes.

“I could be in your colors every night if youd stay” you’d whisper, your words for him and only him to hear. It was almost impossible to get Simon to stay with you longer than a week anymore and he would get antsy to hit the wild again, his soul calling for him to wander from town to town.

Simon’s breath hitched at your words; eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he savored the simple intimacy you graced him with. Things were never simple with him – his was a dangerous line of work that more often than not left him with a target on his back.

And yet…the way you looked at him, like he hung the very stars in the sky…it was downright bewitching. Made a man forget all his wrongs and want to be redeemed.

“Darlin’” he sighed, rough palms gently cupping your cheek. His expression was unusually soft and vulnerable, a rare peek behind a steely façade. “Aint nothin’ I want more than to stay wrapped up in you forever…but ya know I got debts to pay, and it aint safe…”

His voice trailed off, unspoken realities lingering heavily in the air between you two. Staying was a risk he wasn’t sure he had the right to take, no matter how much you stirred his soul.

You would nod, glancing away from his eyes as you slowly leaned back up from where you were resting on your elbows, allowing his hand to leave your cheek as you created a space of distance. Both physically and mentally.

All you wanted was to be his entirely, but it wasn’t in the cards for you. “I know…” you’d acknowledge, a sad sort of smile permeating your lips. Part of you believed he liked the outlaw life, and could you rightly blame him? Going from town to town with nothing tethering you down for too long. Being able to leave with the sunrise, the only person you were answering to being yourself.

But oh how you longed every night to be the thing he wanted to come home to, to be the reason he would stay.

You would carefully take the hat off your head, placing it back down on his own, your actions a silent understanding of his words.

Simon would frown as you withdrew, immediately missing the reassuring presence of you in his space. He knew this life caused you pain – knew he was the source of it, in a way. But old habits die hard, and walking the outlaw’s path was engrained deep in his blood.

Reaching up, his fingers curled carefully around your wrist before you could pull away fully. Not to stop you, merely to offer quiet solace in his touch.

“I ain’t never meant to string you along, darlin’” he said gruffly “Fact is… part of me does like ridin’ the wind. But another part…” His gazed flicked meaningfully to where his hand held you, imploring you to believe the sincerity in his eyes.

“Another part thinks it might be time to settle. Plant my feet somewhere they can’t be dug up so easy. And there ain’t no other plot of soil that calls to me like you do”

It was as close to a declaration as Simon had ever come. His walls were crumbling away piece by piece in your presence.

You would carefully pry his hand from his wrist, picking up your rag and a fresh glass to polish, avoiding his eyes as you worked. “I believe you Simon, really I do…But that’s only part of you” Youd say, stealing a glance over at him.

“I couldn’t ask you to ignore that other part, what kinda man would I be if I asked that of you?” you’d say.

Simons fingers flexed instinctively as your hand slipped free, the loss resonating deep in his core. He sighed, long and low, tipped hat casting shadows across his weathered features.

You spoke the brutal truth – he was far too wild a creature to ever truly be named. And you, with your heart of gold…you deserved someone whole, not half a man forever torn between two worlds.

“I reckon yer right, as usual” He said gruffly, rueful smile playing at his lips. And yet his eyes remained dark, conflicted, as if desperately seeking an alternative solution you both knew did not exist.

This was your tragedy, written in the stars from the beginning. Two souls who fit together perfectly, if only the fates had not made them for different paths.

Reaching out, Simon gave your hand a final gentle squeeze before releasing in once more. “Ya never stop amazin’ me darlin’. I sure as hell don’t deserve ya. But I aim to prove myself worthy, one of these days.”

His words trailed off into weighted silence. For now, this was goodbye. Somewhere deep in his soul Simon swore it wouldn’t be the last, couldn’t be.

Simon rose from the stool with a grunt, his hat settled over his brow as he gave the saloon one last lingering sweep. Memories of your sweetness lingered in every splintered beam, in every scratch in the wooden floor where his bootheels had worn down the polish of years past.

This place had become more home to him than any house of sticks or stones ever could, all because of you.

With a sigh, Simon pushed through those familiar batwing doors out into the dusty street. Sunset painted the sky a flaming orange, shadows stretched long across the dirt. Another night was falling…and he had a debt to collect before morning came.

But in his heart of hearts, he felt a seed had planted, a hope that one day he might return to stay. For good.

You would retreat to your little home for the night after closing the saloon, doing your best to put the conversation in a box in your mind as you slipped into bed for the night. Another evening with the other side cold as the steel Simon holstered. You could only bite back tears as you closed your eyes, desperate to find solace in sleep.

It wasn’t but three hours later, after you had long drifted off into the reprieve that was your dreamscape, that you were awoken to the sound of glass shattering. You would jolt up, heart nearly beating out of your chest as a figure stalked into the room, their movements slow and at ease before they stepped into the moonlight and their face came into view.

“well well well…” the man said, a dark glint in his eyes “If it aint Ghosts little plaything” The man grinned, hand on the hilt of his belt as he took out his gun, pointing it right at you.

[poisonlove]

Study Session | c.s

pairing: Cairo Sweet X fem reader

Summary: Y/n is terrible in literature and needs a hand

Words: 11.58 k

"Miss Y/S, could you come here for a moment, please?" Mr. Miller asks kindly.

I blink in surprise and walk towards the lectern, my feet almost stumbling on the wooden floorboards. I blush with embarrassment, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Cairo looking towards us with seriousness, organizing her belongings.

I swallow nervously and bite my lower lip, my eyes first glancing at Cairo and then at Professor Miller.

Now is not the time to think about your one-sided crush, y/n I mentally scold myself.

I force a smile and look at the professor with genuine curiosity. "Do you need something, sir?" I say, smiling happily, trying to hide my nervousness.

"I'm not sure how to put this..." Professor Miller sighs and takes off his glasses, looking up to meet our eyes. My smile falters seeing the concern and distress behind his eyes. Professor Miller sighs and takes the assignment I had done last week in his hands.

"It's... It's a mediocre work," he says hesitantly, almost embarrassed.

"To be honest... If you don't do something that impresses me, Miss, you'll fail my class," he says with a tone of voice almost guilty.

My palms sweat, and I try to remain calm. I knew I was really bad at literature, but I didn't expect to fail the year altogether. But what can I say? No matter how hard I try, I can't adequately transcribe what I think onto paper.

"I'm sorry," I whisper reluctantly, deeply ashamed of myself.

Professor Miller gives me a gentle smile, tilting his head slightly as he places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"You have great potential," he states with conviction, trying to instill confidence in me. "But you simply have a few more difficulties," he concludes with a compassionate tone, seeking my gaze empathetically.

I stare into his eyes, noticing the intention of conveying moral support.

"Miss Sweet," Professor Miller calls Cairo's attention, making her focus on him.

"Yes, Professor Miller?" she responds with a radiant smile, her eyes shining for... some strange reason.

"Could you help Y/N?" the professor asks, looking at me sideways.

His request makes me feel slightly offended for not having a say, but at the same time, it puts me in a state of anxiety because I would have to work with the girl I've always liked.

Cairo's eyes focus on my figure with curiosity, making me feel nervous and embarrassed by her enchanting beauty. A small smile spreads across her lips before she looks at the literature professor.

Brown eyes looking at Mr. Miller.

"Alright," Cairo responds with a shy smile, which also makes the professor smile.

I raise an eyebrow in confusion, observing this strange scene with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.

Cairo's smile is kind but enigmatic, as if hiding something behind that seemingly calm façade. I wonder what it could be, but I decide not to delve too deeply into it at that moment.

Professor Miller seems pleased with her acceptance and nods with a pleased expression. "Great! I'm sure you'll make an exceptional team," he comments enthusiastically, encouraging us to work together towards our common goal.

"Cairo," says the professor, maintaining a dazzling smile, "if you succeed in the task, you'll earn an extra credit," he announces proudly, turning his gaze towards his student with a mixture of hope and trust.

Cairo smiles weakly, visibly embarrassed by the attention she's received.

"Well then," I intervene timidly, trying to dissipate the strange tension that has arisen, "shall we?" I add, looking at the girl I've always had a secret crush on with flushed cheeks.

Despite my shyness and the nervousness that overwhelms me, I strive to maintain a calm and decisive tone, hoping to convey confidence both to myself and to Cairo as we prepare to face this new challenge together.

(...)

"So... What do you think?" I say nervously, my hands fidgeting with the threads of my jeans.

I roll a thread around my finger and pull it, tossing it into the grass.

Cairo's eyes fixate on my paper attentively, her pupils moving along my essay with seriousness. The brunette lowers the sheet and looks at me carefully.

"Well?" I say, feeling my stomach tied up with nerves. "Hmm..." She starts hesitantly, tilting her head and leaning against the tree behind her.

The day was perfect, and we had mutually agreed to spend it outdoors doing literature. The rays filtering through the branches highlight Cairo's face, making her eyes appear light brown

She was... Beautiful.

"Is it okay?" She says timidly.

Cairo hands me back the paper, and I sigh in frustration. I could sense that something was missing.

"Come on... Tell me the truth," I say, looking at Cairo curiously. The brunette bites her lower lip and adjusts her posture.

"So... It's not bad, but..." she starts and bites her lower lip, thoughtful. "It lacks emotion... I don't see the passion... I don't perceive anything," she confesses, and I pout.

Darn it... I wanted the truth, but it was entirely heavy

"I knew I shouldn't have spoken," she quickly says, quickly moving her hand, noticing my frown on her lips. "It's perfect," she smiles broadly, and my eyes soften seeing how sweet and cute she was with that expression on her face.

The dimple was adorable, and her eyes sparkled when she talked about something related to writing.

"No... I asked you to be honest, and you were," I say quickly, smiling.

Her eyes look at me with curiosity, and I try to maintain eye contact as much as possible. "Okay..." Cairo murmurs before giving in to this staring contest, taking her notebook.

"I... " I start hesitantly, "have an old piece that I'd like you to read," I say timidly.

I was aware of the risk that she would realize it was about her, but despite that, I thought it was my best work. After all, I wrote it with all the love I feel for her.

"Oh... I'd be happy to," she says sincerely, her pearly whites showing her beautiful smile. Cairo's eyes light up at the mention of reading something, and she quickly reaches her hand towards me.

Shyly, I grab my backpack and search for my work, immediately noticing that it was sandwiched between two notebooks. My cheeks were red from embarrassment for having something so special to me crumpled and carelessly thrown in my backpack.

Cairo takes it without making any comment on its sorry state and begins to read it.

"In the twilight of our intertwined destinies..." The brunette had a focused expression, her voice soft and enveloping.

I wait with trepidation, observing every nuance of her expressions

"she emerges like an elusive shadow, a siren of my lost dreams, with chestnut locks like the earth." Cairo sighs "Her eyes, deep as the abyss of the soul, reflect falling stars and unfathomable secrets, like dark water on a moonless night, where the lost traveler wanders." Cairo suddenly stops, lips still suspended on the sentence.

Her gaze drifts amidst the words as a wave of emotion envelops her voice.

I remain silent, captivated by her interpretation.

The brunette continues, her voice now softer, almost whispered. "Her smile, a fleeting glimpse of light, a glimmer of hope in the darkness, yet also an echo of sadness in the relentless passage of time, a memory of what could have been."

Cairo voice resonates with the melody of the words, conveying every nuance of emotion contained within the text.

I was completely captivated by her facial expressions.

"Yet, amid the folds of uncertain destiny, remains a lost innocence and an unspoken love, an incomplete harmony, an unexpressed desire, like a melody interrupted in the night wind."

"In her breath dance promises of another life, where perhaps our hearts will meet, in the stillness of a world without end, where time is not the master of our destinies."

Cairo tightens the grip on the paper.

"But for now we part ways, like the waves leaving the shore, destined to wander alone in the depths of time. Yet, in the deepest recesses of my being, her essence remains engraved like an ancient melody."

As she reads those words, Cairo's tone of voice becomes soft and melancholic, conveying a sense of nostalgia and sadness. Her words are filled with emotion, with a slight tremor in her voice reflecting the depth of her feelings. Cairo seems to be carried away by the intensity of the text, and her reading is infused with an aura of melancholy and reflection.

"And so I venture into the night, with her memory as my guide, suspended between the pain of loss and the hope of return. In the silence of my soul, I continue to dream, hoping that one day our destinies will intertwine again."

After finishing the reading, Cairo remains silent for a moment, her gaze lost in deeper thoughts. I can sense her mind in turmoil, her eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and admiration. Then, slowly, she lifts her gaze towards me, a spark of interest shining in her coffee-colored eyes.

"Who is the muse behind this extraordinary piece?" she asks, her voice warm and full of curiosity, while her expression reflects a sincere desire to understand the hidden meaning behind the words.

I knew perfectly well that I couldn't say it was her, so I just shrugged nonchalantly. "No one in particular," I add calmly, even though my heart was beating rapidly inside me.

"Yet it seems so specific," Cairo observes, glancing at the paper.

Her words make me uncomfortable, but I try to maintain composure. "It's just a product of my imagination," I say with a forced smile, hoping to divert attention away from myself.

"The only certainty is that she's a brown-haired girl with brown eyes," Cairo asserts with a mischievous smile, and a shiver runs down my spine. "The classic always attracts, it seems," she adds, chuckling softly.

Her observation makes me feel like butterflies are doing acrobatics in my stomach.

"Don't be stubborn now," I blurt out in embarrassment, trying to deflect attention from the imminent truth that Cairo is about to uncover with her acute intelligence.

Cairo bursts into laughter, a sound so genuine and contagious that it makes me feel special. Her laughter fills the air around us, wiping away any traces of embarrassment and fear, and I find myself laughing along with her, feeling light and free.

Cairo stops laughing and smiles, a look of sincerity painted on her face.

"It seems you were good at freelancing after all," she observes with a light and friendly tone.

Her comment makes me feel appreciated and recognized for my abilities, and I smile in response. "Thank you," I reply with gratitude, feeling encouraged by her approval.

"I think Professor Miller will like it," Cairo continues, biting her lower lip, lost in her thoughts.

A strange sparkle lights up her eyes, and at that moment, I decide to ask her a question that has tormented me for too long.

"Cairo do you have a crush on Professor Miller?" I ask timidly, curious but also intimidated by the possible answer.

Cairo blushes deeply. "What on earth are you asking?" she responds sharply, clearly embarrassed.

"From the way you react to his mention..." I say with curiosity, "and also you're completely red," I add with a timid smile.

Cairo shakes her head firmly. "No, no," she responds promptly, "I admire Professor Miller, but I don't have a crush on him. He's old, and, above all, he's married." Her tone is decisive.

"Well, gray hair isn't very attractive, right?" I ask with a smile on my lips, while I observe Cairo nodding slightly, smiling broadly and showing her dimples.

Freckles surround her face as her hair falls gracefully around her shoulders.

Cairo looks up at the sky, which is turning orange at sunset, a sign that the day is coming to an end. "I think it's time to go," she says timidly, almost regretfully.

"Is the study session over already?" I say in surprise, pouting.

Cairo nods and smiles. "So, do you like literature now?" she winks, teasing me.

"Not exactly, but the lesson goes better with you," I reply, aware of what I'm saying and noticing the slight blush on Cairo's cheeks.

I realize what I've said afterward and feel terribly embarrassed. A wave of nervousness overwhelms me as I notice a hint of pink on Cairo's cheeks.

Oh darn, I want to die, I think dramatically.

Cairo looks away. "Well, see you tomorrow.""Ah, yes, of course! See you tomorrow," I reply, trying to hide my embarrassment behind a smile. I feel the heat rising in my face as the embarrassment grows inside me. "Thank you for today, it was... interesting," I quickly add, hoping to alleviate the strange tension that had arisen.

"Thanks to you," she says softly, her gaze warm and comforting.

With a smile on my lips, I watch Cairo walk away. Despite the day starting off badly, it ended in the best possible way.

[vampsywrites]

a protector

synopsis: after your acceptance into the omaticaya clan, neteyam takes you to utraya mokri (the tree of voices)

tags: fluffyy, aged up! neteyam (18-19), neteyam pining hard, reader being a tease, neteyam playing hard to get only to end up jealous someone help him

a/n: neteyam is just his mother cloned fight me/j also, in this au the tree of voices was not destroyed

w.c: 0.7k

The luminescent flora seemed to come alive, painting the surroundings in a mystical hue. Intrigued, your fingers extend towards the nearest tree, cautiously exploring its glistening trunk. Neteyam observes your genuine curiosity with a warm smile, appreciating the reverence you show for this sacred place.

Underfoot, a bed of moss glows faintly. Peals of laughter slips from your lips as you see it react to your footsteps with expanding rings of light.

"This is a place for prayers to be heard," Neteyam's voice barely rose above a hushed murmur as he gently led you towards the center of mesmerizing bioluminescent willow trees. "And sometimes, Eywa answers."

"It's beautiful," you gasp out breathlessly, delving deeper into the heart of this sacred wilderness. Neteyam faithfully follows like a lost puppy, his gaze fixed intently upon your back. After taking a moment to immerse yourself in the enchanting surroundings, you finally turn your attention back to him.

"Is there a specific reason you brought me here?" you inquire, although a part of you already senses the significance behind this meet-up.

As your gaze lands on Neteyam, you take note of his refined attire, a welcome change from his usual rugged warrior-like style.

Tonight, he stands tall and proud, his frame accentuated by the elaborate ceremonial garb he wears. Woven green bands, expertly crafted, encircle his firm biceps as its vibrant hues shimmer in the dappled light filtering through the canopy. Further down, your gaze is drawn to the beaded garment gracing his waist, adorned by carved wooden beads and shining gems.

The warrior fakes a coughs, turning around to brush his fingers through one of the draping tendrils." You are Omaticaya now. You are one of the people. Which means you may make your own bow from the wood of Hometree."

Neteyam pauses for a moment, his gaze flickering briefly towards you before retreating back to the ground. "And… you may choose a mate."

Amusement dances in your eyes as you watch him struggle to maintain a casual façade, trying hard not to glance back at you.

"Is that so?" you playfully respond, pretending not to understand the implications. Neteyam nods with his back still turned from you.

"Ao'sun is a skilled weaver," Neteyam murmurs softly, his voice scarcely above a whisper, "He is one of our best."

The willow trees sway gently as a cool breeze sweeps through the forest. You step closer to him until you are flush against his side, feeling the warmth of his body against your own. "I don't want Ao'sun," you say, your tone teasing yet sincere.

Neteyam swallows hard, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips as he tries to process your words. "Natiro is a very skilled crafter," he stammers, attempting to divert the conversation.

"Indeed," you agree, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of your lips, "He is."

A flicker of jealousy sparks in Neteyam's eyes, momentarily betraying his composure. He tries to conceal his inner turmoil, but his clenched jaw and the sudden tension in his posture give him away. The admission of other potential suitors stirs an unexpected wave of possessiveness within him.

You sense the shift in his demeanor, your cheeky smile widening ever so slightly. Chuckling, you lean in closer, your voice a soft whisper against his ear.

"But, I don't want him. There is someone else who has captivated me," you confess, your voice filled with affection. "A certain protector of mine. And he is not just anyone; he is a mighty warrior. One who has become incredibly dear to me."

Neteyam's lips part, but no words escape. Instead, he shakily reaches out, his large hand tenderly cupping your cheek, his touch gentle yet dominating. In that moment, the jungle around you seems to hold its breath. The willow trees swaying in anticipation, their whispered rustle echoing the tender exchange.

With a knowing smile, you gently place your hand atop Neteyam's, intertwining your fingers with his. "Ma'teyam, it has always been you," you affirm, your voice filled with assurance. "Your strength, your loyalty, your, at times, overbearing protectiveness and the way you make me feel…"

Neteyam's eyes shimmer with a depth of emotion. Wasting no time, he sweeps you into his strong arms, pressing his lips against yours, igniting a flame of desire that courses through your entire being. Once your lips separate, a comfortable silence fills the air, interrupted only by the sound of your pants.

taglist: @avatarmasterlistblog

"Ma'teyam," you smile up at him, "I choose you."

[endelineinwonderland]

Let The Light In: Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Words: 4k pour la finale.

Pairing: Paige Bueckers/Media Manager! Reader

Warnings: Angst, Friends to enemies (but the reader doesn’t know why they’re enemies), reader is actually so incredibly in the wrong, mention of an injury, the girls are fighting

It's her—actually her—, standing right in front of you, and for a brief moment you almost wonder if your mind had conjured up a hallucination to retaliate against the sheer force of your yearning. 

You've spent more time than you’ll ever admit imagining this moment, playing it out in various scenarios in your mind, but the reality has a sharpness that no rehearsal could have prepared you for. Her presence is a tangible, overwhelming, a reminder of what you had, of what you had lost.

“Hey, you good?” She repeats, her voice cutting through your racing thoughts, pulling you back down to earth. 

Blinking away the tears that are, embarrassingly, still brimming in your eyes, you take a deep breath before allowing yourself to reply. "Yeah, I'm good," the words feel hollow, a betrayal of the whirlwind of the emotion inside you. 

Paige doesn't respond; instead, she slightly rocks back and forth on her heels, her hands nervously fidgeting as an all too familiar silence envelops the two of you. Wordlessly still, she reaches for the chair in front of you and pulls it out, the both of you wincing at the loud screech it makes as it drags across the wooden floor.

You don’t bother to hide the shock on your face as the blonde sits down across from you, her knees briefly brushing against yours before she swiftly tucks her legs to the side, avoiding your touch.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," her tone unusually light—almost friendly, which would be confusing if you had the ability to take note of it. The only thing you can focus on is the familiar cadence of her voice, bringing back a flood of memories, each one sharp, sweet, and painful.

“I feel like I have.”

____

“I hope we’re still doing this when we’re 80.” You say, grabbing another spoonful of her strawberry ice cream and plopping the pink desert into your bowl of cherry, mixing the two together before putting the spoon back into your mouth, letting out a satisfied hum when you confirm you’ve finally gotten the perfect mix. Paige chooses to ignore how much you’ve taken out of her bowl, knowing that when you get full in a few minutes the remainder of yours will be scraped back into hers. 

“Doing what?” 

"Ice cream Thursdays, dummy," you clarify, abandoning your spoon just in time to catch a melting drop threatening to fall from her chin onto her shirt with the pad of your thumb. Pressing your finger against your lips to lick it clean.

She watches you, gaze shifting to the table when your eyes dart up to look at her again. “When we’re 80 you’ll probably be taking pictures of your husband and grandkids playing in your garden or something all cutesy and shit, you won’t be thinking about me.”

Ignoring the confusing pang in your chest when you hear her dismissal you lightly kick her shin under the table, “Oh come on, we’ll still be best friends when we’re 80, if anything I’ll be taking pictures of the grandkids playing basketball and you’ll be trying to keep up with them in your walker.” 

This gets a chuckle out of her, “hopefully by then I’ll know better than to do anything but coach.”

You smile, pushing the now half empty dessert towards her for her to finish before leaning towards her, “okay then, I’ll be taking pictures of the grandkids with coach P.”

She digs into the remainder of your cherry strawberry mixture, bringing the spoon to her mouth before shaking her head and adding another spoonful of strawberry, “fine, but if we’re 80 and you still haven’t figured out how to get the right cherry strawberry mix, I’m canceling ice cream Thursday’s.” 

____

Her smile fades a bit, replaced by a more cautious expression as she changes the subject, the friendly façade faltering a bit as she speaks. “You know, you’re still sharing your location with me.” 

"What?” 

“I wanted to find you and I realized you still share your location with me.”

"You wanted to find me?” you echo. The part of you that's been hoping for this moment at war with the part that's been dreading it.

"Yeah, I needed to see you.” You hear her sigh, debating whether to continue, “thought we could talk."

The sincerity in her tone is disarming, and despite the hurt, a part of you wants to lean into the familiarity of her presence, to the shared history you’re still desperately clinging too. 

"Talk?" 

She nods, swallowing hard. “About the pictures you took the other day…” She begins, her voice trailing off briefly as she looks away from you, her hands fidgeting slightly, “Charlie sent me copies of them.” 

“Oh, she’s not supposed to do that, you guys only get the final edits,” the words slipping out before you can think better of it. 

"I know, but I asked her too.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“-I wanted to see the ones Leo told you to stop taking.” 

You sit there in stunned silence. And, after a moment that stretches on for longer than you would have liked, she exhales, shoulders sagging. “I don’t know why I reacted like that, with the first shots I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with Leo. I know how much his opinion means to you and I had been thinking that if you got me lectured by Geno I’d want an apology, so… yeah” she finishes

An un-familiar coldness washes over you as you digest her words. This isn't what you thought was happening, she was deviating from the script you had imagined, and essentially memorized by now with how often you replayed it in your head.

“That’s what you want to apologize for?” You’re unable to keep the shock and anger from seeping into your tone. You lean back in your chair, arms crossing, subconsciously trying to protect yourself from the hurt you know she’s about to make you feel again.  

“That’s all I have to apologize for.”

The tension between you crackles, a palpable energy that draws an invisible wall, furthering the separation between the two of you.

"You think that's it?" Disbelief coloring your tone. "After ghosting your best friend and making Azzi come tell me not to talk to you anymore, that's what you think you need to apologize for? Getting me in trouble with Leo?"

She looks taken aback, perhaps not expecting your reaction to be so intense. For a moment, she is silent, her eyes darting away before meeting yours again, this time with a mixture of frustration and pain. 

"Come on, we were never even really friends.” She speaks softly, tone bordering on patronizing.

You can’t blink back the tears as they form in your eyes now, 'this isn't going to end well'.

“Don’t lie to me Bueckers.”

Paige recoils slightly, as if your words are physical blows. For a moment, she seems to be struggling with something, then her posture stiffens, an accusing finger reaching out to point at you as she doubles down on her statement as everything seems to escalate quicker than you're able to process it.

“We both know that I was just your muse or whatever the hell you want to call it. You did not treat me like a friend, you used me to get praise from Leo and whoever the hell else you thought you needed approval from. You took me for your art when I was at my lowest, again and again, just because my face got your work attention.” 

The accusation stings, not just because of its intensity, but because part of you knows there's some truth in it. You've always known how compelling she was in front of the camera, how her expressions could turn simple photos into art, and you loved it. 

Before everything fell apart, the two of you had become something of a dynamic duo. Everywhere Paige went, often for basketball, you followed, and everywhere you went, a camera was almost always hanging around your neck. 

The passion Paige had for her sport and the passion you had for your art is what originally brought the two of you together, bonding over the drive each of you had to constantly be your at your best, for better or for worse. 

____

It was your freshman year. You had just been offered a coveted spot on the UConn sports media team after your photojournalism professor, Leo Howard, had apparently spent the entire semester showing your work to his collogues who had unanimously agreed, you were going to be something special.  Being the only freshman to ever have been allowed to serve as the lead photographer at the school’s games was a big deal. The pressure not fully weighing down on you until the night before the UConn, Notre Dame women’s basketball game. 

They had started you out small, tennis, water polo, even a soccer match as your superiors had gained more confidence in you. But this would be the first big event you’d shoot, your first chance to really prove yourself, to prove that Leo was right about you. 

The clock had just struck midnight when you made your way across campus, having given up on trying to get any sleep earlier in the night. Opting instead to head to the athletics department gym where they had allowed you to stash away your things in a small, abandoned office room. Assuming that'd be better than staying cooped up in your dorm all night. 

When you arrived, instead of being greeted by the silent gym you’d anticipated, a woman was stood at the half court line, a basketball bouncing up to meet her outstretched palm before being pushed down, again, again, again. 

“The gym’s closed.” Her voice calls out to you, finally noticing you as you made your way across the court, heading for the office door. 

You had lifted your UConn Staff lanyard up to show to her, “I could tell you the same thing.” 

She approached you, your height difference becoming more apparent the closer she gets until she’s fully towering over you, “I don’t remember seeing you around here.” 

“I’m the new photographer, I just started last month.”

This explanation apparently does little to clarify your sudden appearance in her court, “okay, but you’re not supposed to be here, it’s late.” She points out, her tone mixing curiosity with a hint of concern.

“I know but I’m shooting my first big event tomorrow and I couldn’t sleep so I figured I’d just come here and look at some old shots and stuff, prepare you know?” you rambled, hoping to justify your presence in the gym at such an unusual hour.

You’ve gotten her attention now, “Oh, I have a game tomorrow, is that what you’re here for?” 

You had of course, assumed she was on the basketball team when you saw her dribbling the ball earlier. But as when she had moved to stand in front of you, you immediately recognized her as the infamous Paige Bueckers, the star player you’d been specifically ordered to get good shots of during this game. 

"Yes, that's exactly it. I’ll be covering the game," you confirmed, feeling a slight relief as she seemed to recognize your role and accept the reason behind your late-night visit.

“Oh, cool, I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then?” 

You nod in response, “yeah, I guess you will.” 

She gives you a small smile before beginning to walk back to her original position on the court, “I’m Paige by the way!” She calls out as you reach the door, you turn back, shouting your name out, already anticipating the next time you’d get to see her.

As it turns out, you don’t have to wait long. Barely 30 minutes have passed when you’re interrupted by a knock on your door, “hey,” she lets herself into the small office space, taking a seat on your desk. 

“Hey?” 

This girl has guts you can’t help but think. You’d just met and now she’s propping herself up on your furniture, uninvited. And you’d probably be a lot more bothered by her behavior if you weren’t so distracted by how pretty she looked, even under the glow of the notoriously unflattering florescent office lights.  

“I was thinking, you need to practice shooting basketball games, and I’m just practicing shooting so if you wanted you could take pictures of me, you know, to get the hang of it.” She offers. 

“Oh, yeah that actually sounds great!” You're unable to keep your excitement about getting to spend more time with her entirely out of your voice when you reply; grabbing your camera bag as she moves off your desk to stand back up, holding the door open before following you back out to the court. 

“Honestly I’m kinda tired so I’m only doing free throws but feel free to take whatever pictures you want.” 

You nod, taking her words to heart, the clicks of your camera mingling with the pounding of the ball on the floor as you take picture after picture after picture. 

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fall into a steady rhythm, occasionally daring to interrupt the other’s focus with questions, jokes, or quick quips about the others work. 

The next day whenever she gets a basket, her eyes turn to you first, pointing at your camera for you to get a shot, and every time she does, you take it. 

You’ve never seen Leo smile so big as he does when he gets your contact sheet.

The “You did good, kid. I hope to keep seeing more stuff like this.” echoing in your mind when you leave his office, calling Paige, “when’s the next time you can shoot?”

She had left practice the second she heard your voice over the phone, “I can be free now.” 

____

You’re abruptly pulled from your memory by the chime of the café door. A group of girls enters, their laughter and chatter filling the air. One girl stands out, wearing a stark white jersey with the number 5 displayed prominently across her chest. The sight of it jolts you back to the present, a reminder of where you are and what’s at stake.

'Fuck this is bad.'

“Paige we can’t do this here” you say keeping your voice low, sensing that this may not end well, and as Paige had just mentioned, any picture of her ends up everywhere, and if captured, this probably wouldn’t be a pretty one. 

She exhales sharply, her lips parting to argue, but then she pauses, her gaze shifting to follow yours, brows raising when she sees her lucky number 5 on the chest of a brunette who is now whispering with her friends, looking Paige's way. With a reluctant nod, she chooses silence, perhaps unable to concede that you might be right.

The two of you don’t make it far, your new location being her parked car that had been right outside. You assume the two of you will drive somewhere but the second the doors lock she’s turned back to you, brows raised in anticipation of your still pending rebuttal. 

You take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words to express the mix of anger and hurt that's been simmering inside you since you first heard her pathetic attempt at an apology 10 minutes ago. “Let’s get one thing straight, if I wasn’t your best friend, you most certainly were not my ‘muse’.”

The sharp sound of her laughter interrupts you, “okay then, you were just using my face to further your career and you didn’t give a single fuck about me.” 

Your anger pulses hotter at her laughter. 

If you had thought the silence between you two was bad, then this must be hell. Everything she says, every expression she makes sends you spiraling deeper and deeper down.  You don’t even want to look at her anymore, scared that if you catch her gaze again, the once warm and loving looks you remember her by will be permanently tainted by the pure and utter distain that seems to be consuming her now. You want to reach out, to say something that will mend the rift, but fear and doubt hold you back. In this moment, you realize just how fragile your connection has become, teetering on the edge of collapse.

"I wasn't using you," you assert firmly, struggling to keep your voice level. "Yes, you've helped my career—that's undeniable. But that was never the only thing you were for me. Our friendship, what I thought was our friendship, meant more to me than any photo ever could."

Paige's laughter fades, and she looks at you, her expression hardening as she processes your words. 

"It didn't feel that way to me," she shoots back, her voice tight. "Every time you needed something for your portfolio or an exhibit, who did you turn to, not any of your other friends, me. Don’t you think that’s a little strange.” 

The accusation stings, God she really knew nothing about you, did she? 

“I reached out to you because I thought you liked it. Every time I took something you posted it, on media days you always requested me specifically, even when we were freshman and there were people who knew much more than I did, so don’t try to delude yourself, we both benefited from this. But at least I was under the impression that we liked spending time together, that it wasn't all just so I could get more praise for my pictures.” 

She stares at you, her expression blank, as if your words are too much for her to process.

"You actually need to just leave now," her hand reaching to unlock the car doors while she motions for you to exit.

'She's scared, back down, stop this while you still can.' You think, but emotion takes over before you can stop yourself.

“No," you reply appalled, "you can't just kick me out because I made a good point.” 

She lets out a dismissive scoff, her hands moving to grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white with tension. "This is my car and I’m asking you to leave.” 

Your eyes narrow feeling a sudden surge of familiar desperation. “You’ve walked away from me once, I’m not about to let you do it again. If you really thought I was using you, why on earth would you continue agree to every single shoot for 2 years? Even if you don't think I do, I know you, you wouldn't have done that. So why are you really shutting me out Paige?” You press, watching her closely. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing your fear of losing her for good.

She just stares at you, her gaze cold and unwavering, each of you refusing to be the one to break eye contact with the other. 

She diverts her gaze, her eyes finally falling away from yours. Staying silent for a full minute before she straightens up, seemingly gathering her composure, and shifts the conversation topic away from her wrongdoings and back to yours.

“Intentions don’t matter anymore. Actions do. And your actions have shown me exactly where I stand in your life. Tell me again, what's your most famous photo, huh?"

It's a low blow, and it doesn’t take long for you to catch onto what she’s talking about. The two of you have had quite a few viral moments but one far surpassed the other. There was only one picture that had landed a coveted cover spot on the headlined article on ESPN, a place in CNN’s ‘This Week in Pictures’ and internship offers from all the way in New York to L.A. 

____

She had crumpled to the ground, clutching her knee in agony, silencing the crowd in an instant. Her teammates had quickly formed a barrier around her, protecting her. Through a narrow gap between them, her eyes, wide and brimming with pain and vulnerability, darted around frantically until they finally locked onto yours. 

It was a look of pure, raw emotion—a silent plea for comfort, for reassurance, for the familiar presence that had always been her anchor. Her hand reached out, trembling, as if by some miracle, your touch could erase the pain. And in that moment, as she reached desperately towards you, almost mechanically, you lifted your camera. 

The weight of it felt heavier than ever before. Looking through the viewfinder, you saw her in perfect focus, every detail of her suffering magnified. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of hope and despair, seemed to question your every move.

As you pressed the shutter, capturing the raw, gut-wrenching moment, a pang of guilt surged through you. The image was powerful, a testament to her strength and vulnerability, but it came at a cost.

Lowering the camera, you were left standing there, the echo of the shutter still ringing in your ears. You wanted to drop everything and run to her, but the moment had passed. The damage was done. Her eyes, now filled with a sense of betrayal, lingered on you before she turned away, her teammates closing ranks around her once more.

____

You gape at her, a million thoughts running through your mind, none of them coherent enough to form a sentence. You thought about this picture frequently; its creation was instinctive, driven by a reflex that you hadn't fully understood even as you pressed the shutter.  You’d always (foolishly) assumed that she had known that you never meant for the photo to get out. It was a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness where your professional instincts overpowered your personal loyalty.

'This is it, this is why she's not talking to you, this whole time it's been your fault.'

It was never meant to be published—but Leo had discovered it, and from there, it spiraled out of your control, gaining a life of its own in the public eye. The image, once released, spread like wildfire. It became the defining shot of your career and the defining wound of hers.

“Paige, I-“

She shakes her head no, her expression eerily similar to the one in the picture that ruined the two of you.  “Please just leave,” she repeats, her normally deep voice an octave lower with the intensity of the emotion coursing through her words. 

Realizing you have no ground left to stand on, the least you can do is abide by her request. You reach for the door handle, but her voice stops you. 

"And for the record," she begins, answering your earlier question, "I always agreed to those photos because I loved you and I thought maybe, just maybe, if I helped you get what you wanted, it might make you love me back.”

Her confession wrenches a sudden and uncontrollable sob from your throat, you want nothing more than to shut the door, wrap your arms around her, and beg for the forgiveness you know deep down you’ll never deserve until your heart gives out. 

But instead you stand, exiting the car and turning to her one last time, speaking up through tears, "I can't justify what I did with that picture, and I know that if I spent every moment of my life trying to make it up to you, I'd still fall short," you say, your voice choked with regret. 

Taking a deep breath, you looking up before meeting her gaze again. "And I know I didn’t show it well, but I loved you too."

She looks away, blinking back tears, her shoulders trembling, she whispers, her voice barely audible, repeating the words you’d uttered just a few minutes before, “ please don’t lie to me.”

[evergone]

I'm [Nott] a Bad Person

Theodore Nott x Reader

Warnings: swearing, bullying

Description: The reader and Theo are accused of causing a fight, but they swear they didn't do it.

Professor McGonagall’s office was a little too **Gryffindor-esque for your tastes. The couches, wallpaper, and even the rug on the floor underneath her desk were all some shade of dark red and you had no other way to describe it other than ‘detestably Gryffindor.’ Even so, the fireplace opposite the door warmed the room and gave it that undeniably homey feel you always got when you returned to Hogwarts after the long, hot break between years. She had a few paintings hanging from her walls, but either the subjects were busy elsewhere or she just had a thing for landscapes. One in particular caught your eye, a painting of the Forbidden Forest where you had certainly never been. After all, it was forbidden and you, ever the obedient Slytherin, would never break a rule.

“Do you know why you are here?” The professor asked and your attention slid back to the situation you were in.

“I know why they’re here,” Theo responded from your left, “But Y/n and I are victims.”

“Oh, please, you lot started this whole thing!” Granger squeaked like that little mouse the weasel kid used to have.

“Do you ever shut up, Granger?” Theo retorted.

Your lips tightened as you attempted to stifle a laugh and Theo sent you a quick smirk. McGonagall cleared her throat, again regaining your limited attention span as she tapped impatiently on her brown wooden desk; creating a dum-dum, dum-dum sound under the pads of her fingers like a heartbeat. Furrowed brows and an intense stare told you more than enough about her absolutely foul mood, and you reminded yourself not to play around with her.

“Each of you, tell me the story,” she said, “You first, Mister Potter.”

Theo muttered an ‘of course’ under his breath but you pretended not to hear it. If anyone was to get in trouble you were going to make damn sure it wasn’t you. You had a reputation to uphold; the nicest Slytherin anyone would ever meet. A façade, obviously, you were just as ruthless and cunning as your housemates, but the nice façade was what made you so. It was truly a shame Potter and co. had found you out, but you intended to cover your ass so well that no one else would ever know the truth about you, save for your friends.

“Well, uh…” Potter began to recount his version of the tale.

Apparently (and I say ‘apparently’ because despite his story being almost entirely accurate, you were going to make up a completely different one to get away with this), he had come to you in a free period to ask about how to befriend dragons quickly, knowing as well as most that your family had been breeding dragons since the dawn of dragonology. You were skeptical of him, having never quite interacted with him directly, only through the wild stories Draco or Pansy would tell you or small altercations in the halls that you always pulled Theo away from. Draco could do as he wished but you wouldn’t see yourself or your boyfriend being implicated in his shenanigans.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” you had told Potter.

“And why’s that?” He asked.

“All my friends say that you’re — and I’m quoting them here — ‘a mudblood mingling cunt,’” you said, “And though I have no care in the world for blood purity, I do like my friends quite a bit. They wouldn’t hang out with me if I got caught with you.”

You always had a wonderful way of putting things. Your monotonous voice mixed with your incredibly harsh words made for the most readable and expressive conversations. Potter’s little muggle born girlfriend (or girl friend, whichever it was) had almost jumped out of her own socks at your foul language. Personally offended, perhaps? You didn’t mean to hurt her, it just sort of slipped out. Maybe if you were actually a nicer person you’d apologise.

“Just… give me a hand? I know you helped Cedric,” Potter pleaded.

You shrugged, “I really can’t talk to you,” you said, “Though… I am weak to bribery… Maybe if you find me something I want I’ll help you out. Bye.”

And then you pushed through the group to go find your friends who you were bound to find eating in the courtyard instead of studying. Smart kids never studied and neither did dumb kids. When Crabbe and Goyle were there it was easy to tell the difference, but other times, not so much. Allegedly (again, I say this to protect the integrity of the tale you would later tell), you stopped half a step through and turned to show Potter your badge.

“Draco says you really like them,” you laughed, “Get a closer look.”

Desperate for your help and willing to do anything, Potter leaned closer to watch as the red ‘Support Cedric’ turned to the green ‘Potter stinks’ but then a forth colour emerged, a deep purple with no writing. He opened his mouth to ask what that colour meant, but was abruptly cut off when the badge squirted the most revolting smelling purple goo all over him. Again, allegedly, you had cursed it to do that when it saw his face… You would argue that someone must have cursed it prior to giving it to you without your knowing.

“Now you really do stink!” You had smiled sarcastically, “Bye now.”

You then continued on your journey to find your friends, leaving Potter drenched in the most malodorous thing he had ever smelt.

Later that very same day, he had approached you at lunch with a bribe. Oh, how you loved to be bribed. You were like a politician in that sense. He placed two objects in front of you: a book you knew was from the restricted section titled ‘Advanced Curses and How to Master Them,’ and a purse full of coins which, after peeking through the opening at the top, you realised were all gold.

“You know, you shouldn’t bribe people so out in the open, Potter,” You motioned to Theo, Pansy and Draco, all of whom were giving you looks that asked what in the name of Salazar were you doing, “It’s… counterproductive.”

“Merlin’s beard, L/n, just take it and help me,” Potter said.

“Is he bothering you, Y/n?” Theo asked.

You’d glanced between your boyfriend and Potter, wondering what to do in the situation. Potter noticed you’d become flustered at being put on the spot like that, even mentioned it to McGonagall. Truthfully, your head was telling you to say no because you knew as well as anyone how Theo could be when you were uneasy. He was awfully protective. But your heart wanted you to say yes so you could start a little fight and make your friends and Theo proud. You were never quite as provocative as they were when it came to the whole Slytherin-Gryffindor thing and it made you slightly self conscious, to be honest.

You would tell McGonagall that your head won, and Potter had started the fight. Theo was only defending you from the very scary Gryffindor who had decided to attack you just because you didn’t want to help him out earlier. But, in all honesty, your heart had won, or so the story goes.

“Yes, Teddy, he’s been bothering me all day,” you had said.

“How ‘bout you leave, Potter?” Theo asked, but it was hardly a question.

Potter rolled his eyes, “We had a deal, L/n.”

“I don’t think she would’ve agreed to anything with you,” Theo said and (allegedly) shoved Potter from across the table.

It was at that point that all hell broke loose. Potter’s explanation of the situation was riddled with what you would call lies about getting his shit rocked by Theo’s incredible fighting skills. You’d bloodied your boyfriend up afterwards using a little glamour charm you kept handy in case of emergencies. That was yet another way you were like a politician, you were incredible at deceiving people. On the off chance McGonagall noticed the charm, Theo had agreed to take the fall and stage an argument with you where you’d break up with him. The relationship wouldn’t be destroyed, you’d just act strained for a week or so while he did detention.

“Miss L/n, these are a lot of accusations being thrown,” McGonagall said, her eyes staring down at you over her nose, “What say you?”

You let your bottom lip quiver, but you wouldn’t dare cry. That would be too much and she wouldn’t believe you for a second. You may have had a good reputation, but she loved Potter and co. and had a huge bias in their favour. You had to be so convincing that she wouldn’t have a single doubt.

“I just didn’t want to get involved,” you said, “Professor, I’m a Slytherin, there’s a certain… standard that I’m held to. I told Potter that I didn’t want to help him because everyone would be upset with me and he tried to bribe me of his own accord.”

“She’s obviously lying, Professor, please—”

“Miss Granger, Miss L/n didn’t interrupt your telling of events, I suggest you don’t interrupt hers.”

You continued to lie through your teeth like a professional. You’d think McGonagall would know to use a truth serum when dealing with teenagers, but she was too trusting. Photographs of former students were framed on her desk, others who likely lied to her as you were doing. They were mostly Gryffindors, for obvious reasons, but there were Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs and the odd Slytherin as well, all of them moving slightly in celebration of their graduations. Potter and co. would likely end up on that desk one day and while you’d hope yourself and your friends would end up on Snape’s, he had never come across as the sentimental type.

“One of you aren’t telling me the truth,” McGonagall said with a sigh once you had finished your recount, “Know that I’m disappointed in you but I cannot be bothered to deal with this today. If I hear about troubles with you lot again I will not hesitate to give you all detention.”

A chorus of ‘yes, Professor’s filled the room before she shooed you all out to go your separate ways. At the door to her office which she had closed behind the four of you, or rather, the two and two of you, Theo turned to the others.

“Don’t start things you can’t finish, Potter,” he said with a snarky tone.

Potter and Granger hardly acknowledged the remark, and you found yourself missing the weasel boy who would have leapt at the opportunity to throw something back. At your core, you liked to consider yourself morally good, but Merlin’s beard, you were a bit of an instigator, perhaps even a bully, weren’t you? You glanced at Theo, who you hadn’t realised had begun a little bit of a rant about blood superiority, and laughed out loud.

“What?” He asked you, his head on the slightest tilt that it was hardly noticeable.

“I think you and the others have turned me into a bad person,” you giggled, biting your lip.

“Y/n/n, that’s so fucking mean,” he said, “You are so rude.”

“I learnt from the best,” you teased as you poked his arm.

Theo shook his head and captured your arm in his so the two of you could walk back to the Slytherin dorms together.

[bby-deerling]

lingering remnants (zoro x reader)

some fluff :) part of my artist!reader continuity (takes place after death's touch) but can as always be read standalone!

wc: 947 masterlist

ft. artist!reader, law being sooo subtle (he's not), jealous zoro, soft zoro, strawhat interactions, fluff, established relationship

Zoro thought that any prickling feelings of jealousy under his skin had been discarded and forgotten about, but Law’s infatuation with you seemed so much more brazen under the scrutiny of daylight.

He follows close behind your every footstep, making hushed, snarky remarks that occasionally earn a snort from you as your paintbrush drags across primed wooden boards.  Though he has surgical precision, his body haphazardly brushes against yours as the two of you walk towards the kitchen for lunch, making your eyes widen, cautiously bristling at the seemingly unintentional touch.  Intent on monopolizing and consuming your time, Law runs you ragged by offering you caffeine in place of your daily afternoon nap.  You see it—Zoro can tell by the flashes of worry that grace your features that the surgeon’s intentions are clear, but you grin and bear it, keeping a cheerful façade together despite cringing internally at the awkwardness of the situation.

It irritates Zoro, to his very core, that Law was so intent on having you, possessing you, when he had barely scratched the surface on knowing you.  He was simply enamored with the playful, quiet remarks you’d make, and the interest you took in his hobbies that didn’t involve removing peoples’ organs; he enjoyed the interest in him and the easy conversation, as if you were no more than an accessory or prop to him. It was all so superficial.

Law hasn’t seen the way you grit your teeth as you work through more pain than your small frame is capable of handling during a particularly grueling training session, unable to do anything but let out a scream and push harder, or the way you bite your cheeks and growl when frustrated with a painting, when none of the brushstrokes and hues appear how you had envisioned them.  The determination brimming in your eyes, not just to get stronger and protect your crew, but also to perfect your craft and reach your dream, was completely lost on the surgeon.

He wasn’t aware that you got an indescribable high from hanging between the jaws of danger; you often sit with Luffy after dinner, dangling off the head of the Sunny, book precariously held in your head as you read. You fall from your perch quite often, but are never deterred, and always caught by a pair of rubber arms before you reach the crashing waves, laughing as he reels you back up to your seat.  Truthfully, the two of you were a pair of little monkeys, Zoro lays back and watches with a small smile as you constantly fling each other around the ship, often at the expense of a few bruises and scrapes; none of them mattered as long as you felt the wind whipping through your hair and the sensation of feet off the ground.

Law didn’t know how deeply you cared, taking care of each of your crewmates often at the expense of your own well-being.  He’d never caught you comforting Nami with a warm embrace as she dealt with painful memories, rubbing Usopp’s back as he dealt with his insecurities, or drying dishes with the cook, listening to him ramble about fond memories of his mother, or missing the old man he missed so deeply and the restaurant that had for so long been his home.

He hasn’t seen the way you messily slurp your tea with Robin and Brook in the early afternoon, making quiet conversation while you narrow your eyes at the developing sketch on the page in front of you.  And he’s never seen you buzzing, sloppy, intoxicated, and slumped over the table in the library, giggling maniacally to the point of tears.  Law hasn’t had the privilege of seeing the light that illuminates both from your eyes and from your drunk laughter, bouncing erratically off the walls and into Robin’s ears as she gives you an amused, playful smile and ruffles your hair.

He’s been denied the sight of sunlight casting a golden glow on your hair as you shake him awake from a nap with a sleepy smile, a kiss to the forehead, and a dreamy sigh.  The heat running across your flushed cheeks and the warmth of your loving gaze was a sight reserved for Zoro alone, so precious that the mere thought was enough to feed him during years spent apart.  Light—emanating and dripping from your essence—shone from your very soul, and Zoro would give nearly anything to keep basking in it.

Law simply doesn’t know you like Zoro does, and he could never; to a man that lurks in darkness beneath the waves, the tickling of the sun’s rays on his forearms is foreign and strange.  And though Zoro is willing to die at any time if necessary, you make him choose life.

“You okay?” you ask him, hopping up to sit precariously on the railing of the Sunny.  Your stare is curious as it picks him apart lovingly, carefully studying and cherishing each piece before putting them back together.

“Just thinking about you.” he replies, his tone laced with a softness that rendered it nearly unrecognizable.  It’s a tone reserved for special moments like these, when he’s thinking and feeling so much more than usual.

Warmth and raw emotion pouring from your expression causes blood to pool in his cheeks; your feelings are unabashed, and he’s grateful they’re always written all over your face.  Gaining comfort and reassurance from one simple glance is something Zoro never thought he would crave, let alone become accustomed to. 

“So was I.” you say, leaning in closer and pressing a soft kiss to his temple.  As you look at him with a gentle smile, aglow and framed by the sunset, you’re radiant and lovestruck, and just for him.

[tiredmamaissy]

Ralak te Sepwan ieyk’itan: Special Episode I

Ralak’s First Rut

An Illustrated Collaboration with @zestys-stuff

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's creator @zestys-stuff.

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (24)/(18) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (19)

Warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, profanity, age gap, rut cycle, knot play, praise kink, breeding kink, p in v, mating/bonding, knotting, multiple cumshots, creampie, let me know if I forgot anything?

Word Count: ??

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Cheers to the first special episode :) This is literally a mindfuck so bare with me! 🤍🤍

Synopsis: after mating with ralak, you settle into your new home. During some quality time together, you pop a rather… interesting question.

<;- Previous Next ->

It’s barely been a week since you’ve properly moved into Ralak’s marui pod. It’s big and spacious, perfect for two – or more – na’vi. Comfortable and cosy, built by your mate’s two hands, with his future mate and family in mind. It’s beautiful, truly. But it needed a bit more... love. Something Ralak likes to say that you would provide with ease.

Taught from a young age, a man must provide and protect his mate and their family. Wise elders engrained the truth within his being since it came into consciousness – the truth that a woman wields the power of creation. The ability to create something out of nothing and make anything tenfold better.

A house into a home. Fresh game into dinner. Seed into life.

It’s from this point of his life, that he craved a mate to provide for, to create the dreamlife he yearned to live. To give everything he had to that na’vi and watch it flourish.

And he’s finally found you.

—

Five nimble fingers work away at the woven trinkets you plan to garnish the bent wooden frame of your marui with. Slender digits quicken as they tuck the coruscant shells into the twine, pulling it taut as you double knot it. It’s the one thing you taught him, the Omaticaya are known for their skilled weaving and sewing techniques - passed down by the ancestors themselves.  

He watches intently, brows twitching as he tries to follow your movements with his own thickset fingers. He’s always had a hard time with this sort of task, often resorting to the lengthy wooden needle and thinly twisted twine to fasten whatever you needed him to. He heaves a heavy sigh, letting his frustration get the best of him as he grabs the wooden needle.

Breaking his façade of indifference.

It’s silly really. You’re mated before Eywa herself, sitting together as you weave and see in your shared marui, and yet he still feels the need to express as little emotion as na’vi-ly possible. You look up to see his nose scrunch and lips pull together, the same face he made when you fell off your ilu for the tenth time. The memory has you giggling before you become aware of the sounds coming from your mouth.

It earns you a pair of beady eyes, drilling into your innermost being. It’s good to know that the teasing hasn’t stopped, even after marriage. Your giggle increases in bass, quickly turning into a chuckle. It’s infectious, spreading to his own lips to make them curl in the slightest way possible, just enough to make him look down at the way his fingers fiddle to thread the eye of the needle.

Blood rushes to his face, staining it a tinge of pink. His flushed cheeks and flustered appearance have the gears in your head grinding twice as hard, fabricating images of what he’d look like in his most primal state. All hot and heavy, chest heaving harshly from how hard he’s breathing. Is it this? Is this what he looks like when he’s in –

“Ma’ Lak.” The words slide off your tongue like nectar, sweet and thick with arousal. It urges him to look away from his task, gaze slowly trailing up your petite, dark blue body.

“…What was your first rut like?” You ask innocently.

Ralak cocks a brow, quickly dropping his head once more to hide his growing smirk. He happily puts down the needle, unfazed by your out-the-blue question and shuffles to his feet whilst offering his hand. Dainty fingers wrap around his wrist, holding on tightly as he pulls you to your feet and walks you over to the bed. He reaches behind him, gripping the base of his kuru to stroke its length and bring it over his shoulder.

“Why don’t I show you?” Ralak asks, exposing his dancing tendrils before your eyes.

Of course, the man of few words would prefer to show you rather than tell you. Not that you were complaining or anything. He’s choosing to let you in, to show you one of the most intimate moments of his life. A moment where he was most vulnerable.

You nod, quickly pulling your queue forth, revealing your dancing tendrils too. Hues of glowing lilac illuminate the space between you. Amber and azure orbs twinkle as they watch the tendrils find one another, intertwining as they come together with a quick tug. Your head flies back, pupils blowing until nothing but thin amber rings remain, breath hitching whilst your bodies synchronize entirely.

Your vision blurs until all you can see is white, and the high-pitched ringing noise in your ears drowns out the sounds of the waves crashing into the shore. Soon, you’re no longer in your marui, as the white fades out into various shades of grey. The ringing dissipates into a low, husky voice, reverberating in the background.

My tanhì. Are you there?

You can see beige and grey blobs, splitting into two and drifting apart. You can hear faint indistinguishable echoes, something like a cry, or a whine. Cool water splashes at your feet, making you rub your eyes to unblur your vision. You open your eyes, witnessing the blobs merge together and unblur into large-rocks, and pointed stalagmites.  

Our cave?

You hear the faint, breathy chuckle of your mate. Yes. Our cave. I was... frightened. Came here to cool down with a bath. See?

An invisible hand gently tugs at your chin, pulling your head to the left. You see young Ralak, short haired and bare skinned, leaning against the cave wall. His ears are tucked back, lying flat against his skull as a few strands of hair dangle in front of his face, beet-red with beads of sweat dripping down his temples. The droplets crash onto his bare chest which is heaving wildly from his laboured breathing.

His less sinewy body shudders, face contorting from pain and discomfort as his shaky hands glide down his stomach to find purchase on the band of his loincloth. Hooking his thumbs underneath the twine, he shimmies it down his thighs, revealing his naked pelvis. It’s strange seeing his unscarred, uncalloused skin, bare without charcoal inking.

Huffing and puffing, he stomps his feet to unplaster the sopping cloth stuck to his thighs. A gruff grunt of frustration vibrates in his throat, hands flying to the base of his tail to extricate himself from the constraints of his taut tewng [loincloth]. He’s struggling. Floundering around as if he wanted to step out his own skin.

Your heart sinks at the sight. You want to help him. Make the pain go away. You know it all too well. To feel out of control and confused, dazed, and flustered from the actual heat brewing in your core. But all you can do is watch him from a far as he squirms against the cave wall, panic-stricken eyes growing lidded and heavy.

I had a hard time understanding what was happening. Much like you.

Young Ralak finally unfetters the knot, loincloth unpeeling from his clammy skin. He sighs a breath of relief.  Finally free from his restraints, his painfully hard cock springs up, veiny and throbbing from his intense arousal. It’s almost red, mushroomy tip bulging and swollen with a thick, lengthy string of glossy precum leaking from his slit. It hangs freely in the air, swinging side to side as his cock jumps to the pulse of his heart. The swaying rope of slick finally catches along his length and begins to drip down to his – oh?

Is that your –

My knot. I was surprised to see it, too.

It’s huge. This is the first time that you’re seeing it up front. Sure, you’ve felt it before. Fuck, you even wanted to take it during your real first time – but you’ve never seen it like this.

“Tewti [whoa; wow].” Young Ralak mumbles, lidded eyes widening once they land on the sight of his knot emerging for the first time. It’s bulbous and veiny, pulsing madly as it continues to swell. A breathy moan parts his lips as a curious hand reaches for it, eager to find out how it feels. Slickened from his precum, his fingers glide over it easily, feeling the bump of each vein. His hips buck from his own touch, cock thrusting into nothingness.

Your thighs rub together at the sight. You’d never seen him this turned on before. Not even on the night of your iknimaya. And honestly, neither has he. He’s shocked to see himself so red and swollen, throbbing from how painfully hard he is. He stares at himself in awe, watching his hips stutter and squirming by themselves.

He’d never been inclined to touch himself in this way, not even in the early mornings when he was at his biggest. He would just wait for it to go down and if it was ever too overwhelming, he would come here for a quick bath. But the bath isn’t working today. It’s just too humid and hot for only water to cool down with.

Flustered, he gives into his impulses.

Webbed hand gripping his knot, he strokes upwards, cupping his pulsing tip as it oozes slick over the back of his hand. His head dips back, jaw clenched tightly as his hips stutter, palm of his hand now rubbing on the most tender part of his cockhead. He’s so sensitive – so innocent – like a single thrust of his hips would make his inflamed tip... erupt.

Oh, fuck. You shift your weight from one foot to the other - anything for a little friction.

His cock throbs madly, thick strings of his sticky seed spurting out his slit, an orgasm so powerful he can’t bite back the lengthy, pained whimper coming from his mouth. He looks down, feeling something warm on his stomach. Surprised, he let’s go of himself, staring at the thick bead of white liquid rolling between his abs.

“Oh – Oh Eywa.” He exhales wobbly, trembling hand hovering over his tender and raw cock. He’s so afraid to touch it again. But he wants to. He needs to. He just can’t help himself. All he wants to do is hump away at something – anything.

Anything to get rid of this feeling. The feeling of pure, unrefined frustration, engrained deep in his most inner being. As more time passes, he succumbs to his most primitive self, plunging under the thick, hazy trance of his rut. He grabs a hold of his aching cock, stroking it at the pace his stammering hips set for him. His head slumps back into the wall, chin pointing towards the cave’s roof as he lets loose needy, broken whines into the air.

His eyes squeeze shut, brows knotting together to focus on that gnawing feeling deep in his core. In a split second his whimpers morph into deep, guttural groans, white milky essence spilling from his tip, over his hand and onto his tensed stomach. His eyes pop open, mouth hanging agape as he sucks in a quick, shaky breath of air.

Tears well in his eyes, glossing them over with want and desperation. The blush on his cheeks spreads over the bridge of his nose, breath so hot you could practically see it. He pulls away his hand, exposing his cock, thumping madly as beads of cum roll down his shaft. It’s even harder now, so fucking hard that it strains, pulling his skin so taut that its outright painful. 

He fully slumps back against the wall, snapping his hips back to get rid of the intense stretching feeling. He almost caves in on himself, desperate for release. For relief. He begins panting – heavily. Trembling lungs making it hard to catch a full breath, he feels his head spin. Finally, the tears roll down his cheeks. Tears of torment.

The first tears you’ve ever seen fall from his face.

This is what you’ve been going through? All alone? For six years?

Yes. Ralak didn’t seem to be embarrassed by you seeing this at all. In fact, it feels as if he’s... enjoying it. Not necessarily enjoying watching himself suffer, but watching you squirm around trying to deny your own arousal.

Young Ralak slides down the rough wall, finding support on a small ledge near the bank of the lake. He swallows the saliva pooling in his cheeks, trembling hand slowly making its way back down to his aching cock all on its own. He grits his teeth as the pads of his fingers graze his chafed skin. He’s so rubbed out and raw that he whines at the sensation.

It’s like stones in your heart, clunking around as your breath quickens. You feel so helpless, so frustrated, unable to do anything to relieve your mate’s pain, albeit a memory. “Ralak.” You blurt out, surprised to hear your own voice in this hazy reverie.

What shocks you more is when he snaps his head towards you, acknowledging your presence with his delirious, inebriated eyes. You never even knew something like this was possible. You knew you could visit memories, just like you would when plugging in to the spirit tree. But to be involved and interact with them is hard to wrap your head around.

You test the waters a little more, and approach him cautiously, hands splayed out in front of you to show that you have no ill intentions. He watches you move towards him, irises flickering between his usual azure blue to a shade of mauve. You can tell he’s uncertain, just by the way he tries to retreat further into the wall with hand practically plastered to his cock.

“W-Who are y-you?” His voice is wobbly and hoarse.

Tanhì. You ignore Ralak’s warning echoing in your mind and continue moving toward his younger self.

“I am... your mate.” You say in a calming voice.

“M-mate?” He can barely get the word out when a wave of heat ripples through him, making his face red and screw with discomfort. “What’s – ngh, w-what’s happening to m-me?” He panics, bottom lip quivering.

“You’re in rut.” You say quietly, hand extending experimentally, your fingertips brush against his clammy thigh.

I can feel you, Ralak. So maybe I can help you.

His freckles blink from your touch, ears hugging his skull as closely as they can. You can hear the faint chitter of his teeth, jaw clenching and unclenching as he tries to put a stop to it. He’s panting so heavily – so quickly that soon he’s hyperventilating, about to lose it.

“Hey. Hey. Breathe. It’s alright. You’re okay.” You try to reassure him in a soothing voice, resting your hand gently on his thigh. “I – I can help you... if you want me to… I know how you’re feeling.”

Tahni. Ralaks stern voice booms in your head, but you continue to ignore him. You couldn’t take it anymore – watching him suffer in this way, even if it’s just a memory. The thought of him going through this alone for six years of his life makes your heart turn in on itself. Besides, you know that he can always pull you out of this daydream with a simple tug at your kurus.  

“It hurts... ssst – why does it, w-why?” He mewls breathily, hand reflexively stroking his length, knot to tip.

Your hand slides up his thigh and over his hand, stopping his eager movements. “I have something better. Something that will get rid of the pain.” You say breathily, nodding your head a bit. “B-But only if you want it.”

Young Ralak nods frantically, allowing you to guide his hands to your waist. His innocent, frightened eyes snap up to yours, making their final flicker to a beautiful mauve as they silently beg for reassurance.

“Don’t be scared. I’m right here. You’re going to be alright.” You croon at him, making your way between his legs as you untie the knot of your soddened loincloth.

You’re going to hurt yourself, y/n. Another warning.

Always so worried about me, and never yourself.

Once your loincloth drops to your knees the scent of your arousal fills the air, driving young Ralak into the thick of his rut. His pupils thin to slits and his fingertips sink into your waist, pulling you into him. Your hands slump into his chest, before sliding up to wrap around his neck for support as you mount your younger mate.

You’re squatting over him, knees pressing against either side of your breasts as you position his cock between your slickened folds. Greedy hands explore your body, gliding up and down your back before gripping your hips to move them up and down his length. He groans, closing his eyes to savour the feeling of something so soft and wet rubbing against him.

Putting pressure on your heels, you slide your slit up to his tip, shifting your hips downwards to position him at your entrance. His cock, desperate to sink itself into anything, goes into a thrusting frenzy once it feels your soft opening. He digs his nails into your skin as he forces you down onto him in one hard thrust. You hide your face in the crook of his neck in hopes to muffle the loud, pained groan falling from your lips.

You can feel every inch of him, just as you would if this were all real. Every vein. Every bump. Every throb. Once you look back at him, you’re met with frightened, innocent eyes, worried that he just hurt you. You smile wobbly, moving your hands to cup his jawbone. “I’m okay. Shh – it’s okay.”

“’m sorry.” He huffs, furrowed brows pinching even tighter as he thrusts into you, jamming his swollen cockhead into your cervix repeatedly. “s-so sorry.”

You rest your forehead against his, looking each other deep in the eyes as he ruts into you like an animal. His thrusts have no rhythm, hips stuttering at an unpredictable, broken pace. His noises are bestial and primal, whimpering and whining as he struggles to move properly.

“Oh, ma ‘Lak. Don’t b-be. jus’ want y-you to feel be-better.” Your voice bounces, hand reaching behind you to press down on his thigh to stop his movements all together. His hips come to a halt, with the occasional unintentional buck, hand caressing his thigh for a bit until he calms down fully.

“Easy, take it easy. Like this” Your hand slides up his thigh, slender fingers gripping the side of his hip to slowly pull him forward. His hips jerk forward on impulse, ramming his head back into your sore cervix. “Agh! A little – a little more gently.” You let out a sweet little cry, pushing his hips away from you.

His breath deepens so much that you can hear it – chest heaving so harshly his shoulders are visibly rising and falling. “S-sorry. Sorry.” He buries his hot face into your chest as he apologizes continually, trying to control the jerk of his hips. His arms wrap tightly around your waist to pull you in for a closer embrace.

Finally, he sinks into you slowly, completely bottoming out in your cunt until his knot kisses the softness of your slit. It’s so sensitive and neglected that he grimaces into your soft breasts, pulling away as he sucks in a quick breath of air with a ‘sss’. You look down to see his brows pinched, lips slightly parted and eyes screwed tightly shut.

He’s having such a hard time – struggling to breathe, struggling to control himself, struggling to be gentle. You can see the glister of the tears seeping from the corners of his eyes and oh – how that makes your heart throb. “Good boy. Doing such a good job, you know that?” You coo with trembling lungs, pulling his head back into you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

You hold him close, cradling him like a baby, cooing in his ear about how well he’s doing. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just listen to your body.” Your voice quavers as you repeat his own signature words back to him. “Do what you need. Okay?”

He lets out a weak grunt, tightening his hold around you while he snaps his hips back. You can feel every vein and ridge against your gummy walls as he pulls out, and when he sinks himself back in you swear you can feel his swollen knot poking at your entrance. Again. And again. And again. And soon he quickens his broken pace, pounding into you so hard it feels like it may pop in at any second.

Heart slamming violently between your ribs, you tighten your grip around him as you prepare to be knotted for the first time. His lewd noises increase in volume and bass and soon he’s groaning gutturally as his frenzied thrusts become short and deep. So fucking deep that you can’t help but let out a pathetic little whimper when he pushes past the resistance in attempts to shove his fat knot inside you.

And that’s when you feel it.

“It’s happening. Haa – ah! Ha-ppening.” He groans suddenly, grinding even harder into you.

“Let it - haah- happen. Go on, there you go.” You pant, feeling his thick cock pulsate inside you, spurting ropes of his hot, sticky cum in your womb, filling you up until you feel heavy and oh-so-fucking full. It’s so much, it’s overflowing, excess seeping out to dribble down his knot. He’s allows a soft ‘ngh’ to fall from his lips with every pulse of his cock.

He continues to roll his hips into you, a little scared by his body’s impulsive, greedy movements. But he can’t help it, the way his body is screaming to shove this growing bulge inside your tight, little hole. He’s whimpering, at war with himself as he tries his best not to knot you.

Tanhì!

“Don’t fight it. Do it!” You cry out a high-pitched moan, grinding into immense pressure between your legs. You can feel it work its way inside you, stretching you out so much that it burns. But you know this will make him feel better – make the pain go away. “Harder. Push h-harder.” You quiet down to an encouraging, shaky whisper. He’s pushing up into you and shoving you down by your hips at the same time, clenching his jaw from the way you’re pinching him.

Pop.

“Ngh!” It slips in with an audible squelch, burning sensation between your legs growing even hotter. And hotter. And hotter. And oh – fuck. It’s so hot it feels like a ring of fire surrounding his pulsating knot. It hurts – but it hurts so good. So good that your pussy walls flutter around him uncontrollably. “F-fuck!” You cry out, quickly coming to the realization that you’re cumming from the way his knot is burying itself inside you.

He holds onto you tightly as he continues to move inside you, tugging at you as you try to come down from your unexpected high. “W-wait – Ralak!” You whimper loudly, trying to follow his erratic movements. He’s whining from the overstimulation and the way you’re pinching around him; eyes flying wide open to reveal pure panic and guilt when he quickly understands that he’s hurting you.

Suddenly, your vision goes white as the ear-splitting ring pierces your eardrums and in a matter of seconds, you’re back in your shared marui. You open your eyes with an audible gasp to see Ralak peering up at you through furrowed brows. His gaze is almost predatory – piercing, and unflinching. His slumped shoulders rise and fall from how heavily he’s breathing, darkened, almost purple-y mauve irises flicking down to his taut loincloth – soaked with his thick cum.

“Oh, shit.” You breathe, unaware that he was feeling everything, too.

“Only I knot you.” Ralak growls.

A giggle bubbles up your throat, “Really Lak?Jealous? Of yourself?”

He grunts, displeased with your behaviour. “Do not taunt me, Tanhì.”

——

[sashi-ya]

東京 NIGHTS mini event

𝑨 𝑫𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑲, 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑹𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑵 𝑻𝑶𝑶 ㅤㅤ 𓂃 ࣪˖ trafalgar law x f! reader

⤹˚ synopsis. would you invite your work colleague Law for ramen after some drinks at the bar?

requested by: @leftladyluminary ➡ May I request Law + A drink after work in a little bar of Shinjuku Golden Gai with a fem reader maybe a little nsfw (or completely lol) tw: MNDI. alcohol usage. nami x vivi heavily implied. abusive coworkers. law saving the night. smut with a "lot" of "plot". mutual pinning that both realized about it just now. oral. nipple play. vag sex. unprotected sex. creampie implied. did they eat the ramen? who knows. The bar does exist! it's the Bar Coo at Shinjuku Golden Gai! same as the train station (Yamanote Line, from Shibuya to Ueno) wc: 4.7k (sowwy) masterlist

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI need sleep. I need sleep. I need sleep “(Name), come with us to the izakaya! Let’s have some beers!” ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI just want to go home… “Law is coming too, it’s a miracle!” ㅤLaw? Law? I think I can afford yet another night of barely three hours sleep…

ㅤ“I’ll be there in a minute, let me turn off my computer and grab my coat!”

It’s not new information that your jobs are overexploiting you, working for such big company as the Don Quijote chain requires a lot. It is also not new information that once in a while -almost every time- you need to go have some drinks with your colleagues and bosses… because if you don’t, you aren’t engaging enough in that “work family” nobody likes, but everyone pretends to love.

There was a certain colleague, however, who always finds ways to sneak and never get to the bar with you… and that man, precisely, is the man of your dreams. He doesn’t know, and you are sure you shouldn’t tell him, as him is no other than the boss’ nephew.

Trafalgar Law, a tall man with an unfriendly façade but definitely handsome features. Or more than that, you could say. His eyes sometimes shine golden like the earrings he wear, and sometimes silver like the winter lights in Roppongi. He is covered in tattoos, a pretty unique characteristic for being an employee but a lot more logical if you think a little further about his Uncle. Nobody can say it out loud, but all of you know… they are most probably part of the Yakuza.

Despite that, you couldn’t care a less… Law has been your crush since the day you watch him walk into the office so carefree.

It’s a cold night, winter is coming faster than expected. It always does. November ends up quickly, and the first snows begin to tint everything in pristine white. Your long coat covers your body up to your ankles, as well as Law’s black one. You watch him walk, in silence. Most of your coworkers always try to rip words from his mouth, but he is not really interested in engaging in any conversations.

You watch his tattooed fingers scrolling through his phone, as all of you walk the streets of Shinjuku. The Golden Gai awaits for you in their little old Izakayas, all packed within a narrow passage of warm lights, and flickering signs.

“You are staring way too much, (Name)” Nami, one of your coworkers whispers.

You widen your eyes… “Is it that noticeable?”

“It is, but don’t worry… we all think the same, he is hot but also out of reach. I mean, maybe not for you, that is. You are more than beautiful but remember where he is coming from… be careful” she says, being pure honesty with you. She is only trying to protect you. And Nami is completely right, you should be careful with Law.

You smile at her, and both cuddle in each other’s arm grabbing until one of your colleagues chimes and ask the rest if it would be ok to try for nothing a certain bar that looks a little… secret -suspicious, too-.

“Coo bar? It looks weird… but the painting on the door makes it look pretty interesting” you think, waiting for them to knock on that painted wooden door that reminds you somehow to Van Gogh’s style.

A little window slides open, and a pair of black slanted eyes scan you all. They close the little gate and immediately after the door opens welcoming all of you inside.

Law allows everyone to walk pass first, while his eyes scan the surroundings. You, of course, are not the exception.

“Please, girls” he says, paying special attention to your burning cheeks. Nami, who is not really interested in men, simply smile, and walks inside the bar. You, remain a little bit more lost in his golden eyes, but ultimately walk inside too.

You were mostly sure he wouldn’t even put a foot inside, and rather walk away once all of you were unaware. But tonight, it was different, he stayed.

The inside of the tiny bar looks more like an old Japanese living room transformed into a restaurant. The walls are made of wood, and there are many random things hanging from them. Old maps, old posters, photographs, even a big hamster plush that looks as old as you.

The scent of yakiniku fills the ambience, and your stomachs growl with the simple thought of tasting that salty and sweet meat grilled right in front of you.

All of you get into the biggest table you could find, but the tight will be fit nonetheless. You, who always chose to sit last, this time had to move a little to the side. The man of long legs, and tattooed hands decided to sit right next to you.

“Are you comfortable, Law-san?” you ask, trying to make enough room for him to be sitting comfortably.

“Yes, thank you (Name)-ya” he says, kindly than you have ever listened him spoke.

You smile, softly, looking down at your fidgeting fingers.

Soon enough a friendly waitress comes ready to take your order. Of course not before putting the so awaited portable grill in the middle of the table.

The more meat, the better. All of you ask for it, and a beer each… that you are sure it will turn in more than three.

The conversation bases in gossiping about the office, nothing really deep and most of the topics all end up in laughter. Law, however, doesn’t really laugh and you are sure he is not even listening… he is just pretending to.

You take swift looks at him, glancing with the side of your eye at the tattoos of his hands; at how his phone screen shines constantly with more and more notifications. He must be a very required man, and most probably has a lover already if not more than one.

Of course, you are not an unpopular woman either. And most of your male coworkers always try their -non efficient, and pretty cringey- seductive tricks with you the moment a drop of alcohol reaches the tip of their tongues.

“(Name)! here, I grilled this one for you!” one of them say, using the clamps to pass you a piece of meat.

“Oh, thank you…” you murmur, receiving the food in your plate. A thing you shouldn’t have done as that -simple smelly monkey- man, thinks you want everything from him for just accepting a piece of tiny meat. -as tiny as his dick, probably-

Most of them also offer you to serve you more alcohol, as ordering for a glass turned into “bring us the bottle, it’s faster and cheaper”. They were right, it was cheaper. But annoying.

Nami, whose blood began turning into bubbly alcohol, throws to Vivi’s arms. Yet another sweet coworker, who is married, but her eyes-only shine for the redhaired coworker that’s always by your side. The moment they indulge in alcohol, their inhibitions are set free, and what’s meant to be… it’s meant to be.

And that means a sudden trip to the women bathroom, where you were not clearly invited -unless you were into it, in which case they were more than pleased to welcome you in-. But that also means you are sitting all by yourself now. Surrounded by idiots who, as well as the ladies, wanted to end up their night on a love hotel or maybe just the bathroom of the bar with you.

Law seems unfazed, and keeps eating, drinking, and reading something on his phone. Why is he there, after all, you have no idea.

As soon as Nami and Vivi’s spot are free, the guy who offered meat slides right next to you. Thinking he is sleek, only to hit the table and make most of the drinks to spill on top of it. Yet, he is not even worried about it; he is just interested in one thing, you.

“More?” he asks, coming closer and closer, forcing you to consequently graze Law’s arm with yours.

“Uh.. I’m full thanks” you lie. You aren’t even half full, but you don’t want shit from him.

“I meant in your glass, let me serve you…” he whispers, grimacing. The bottle lets its liquids pour into your tiny glass, with the strong intention of getting you as wasted as possible.

You swallow, you won’t drink that up. Not all of it. But he keeps coming closer, and by now, your leg also touches Law’s. And then your back, until it is too noticeable for the tattooed pal to stand up in a violent, quick motion.

“How much are you going to insist on her? She is practically sitting on my lap from how much you are bending over her” Law says, looking at him with eyes on fire and disgust on his voice.

“Traf- Trafalgar-san, I-“ he stutters, he is not worried about you but about his job continuation after this.

“Get the fuck away from here, I don’t want to see you anymore” Law spits, he is not interested in fighting. He has had enough. You are not sure if it was because your body touched him, or because he was trying to defend you… but in any case, you are grateful he did.

You look to the ground, knowing your position wasn’t safe either. This will have consequences, and misogyny always finds the way to win.

Law sits back down, as the rest move away from the long wooden seat to let the bastard go away. But right before he stood up, he whispered at you disgusting words you were already waiting to hear…

“You are a little whore, and you know that. You are probably sucking his dick, aren’t you… slut. Be very careful when you walk home alone tonight”

You chose to keep quiet, as everybody else did. Because nobody would stood up for a woman, not in a men’s world.

You watch him go, drinking almost all the glass in one chug. You needed something to drown the fear and disgust you were feeling right now.

“Are you ok, (Name)-ya? Don’t worry, he has his days counted” Law suddenly says, grabbing his phone again.

“I am… thank you so much, Law-san” you shily and respectfully appreciate his help. “I am sorry for ruining the night…” you whisper, finally.

“It wasn’t your fault, at all. Men like that don’t belong in our organiz- company”

You swallow… and soon you realize what he meant when he mentioned the man had his “days counted”. You try to think of any words to spare the life of the abuser, but soon you chose to stay silent. You didn’t force him to do anything, after all.

Nami and Vivi leave the bar, without saying much. You didn’t want to tell them about the “situation”; you didn’t want to ruin their -lustful- end of the night.

As for the rest of your coworkers, most stood up to smoke outside, while others already took their leaves. Law, remained on his seat until one of the guys invited him to go smoke with them.

There is no point in staying; that drunk bastard won’t probably fulfil his threats against you as he is most probably passed out somewhere else due to the alcohol. Therefore, you pay your share, take your coat, and get outside the bar.

You try to leave without alerting anyone, but it is impossible to do so as one of your coworkers wave goodbye at you.

“Oi, (Name)? are you leaving already?! See you on Monday!” he screams; a scream that catches everyone’s attention, including Law’s.

You wave at them and begin to walk away with your keys in your hands and praying to reach for Shibuya as fast as possible to take the JR towards home… hopefully safe and sound by the end of the night.

A sudden pull in your wrist scares you and wasn’t for his fast reaction one of the keys would have ended carved somewhere on Law’s body.

“Oi, calm down. It’s me. I heard what he said on the bar, let me accompany you”  Law says, putting down your hand slowly so he doesn’t get hurt by your keys.

You sigh, relived. Law is still a stranger, but if you had to die you would prefer doing it by the hand of a hot killer…

“Thank you, Law-san. But do you think is it ok? What are they gonna think? Plus, I live in Ueno” you ask, worried for future -unfortunately fake- rumours.

Law lifts his shoulders. “I personally don’t give a single fuck about that. I do, however, care for your safety”

You scoff sweetly, he doesn’t seem like one… but he is, indeed, a gentleman. A real man.

“If you don’t mind, then let’s go. I will repay the favour with some delicious ramen if you allow me. Right in front of my apartment we have the best convenience store of all Tokyo”  you chime, happily. Perhaps you mistaken this by a date, but at least for some seconds you indulge on the happy thought of it.

Law nods. “The best one? What makes it so special?”

“It’s special because I spent many nights studying there late at night having the best instant ramen” you inform, proud of it.

He scoffs, and a little smirk appears on his lips. “Good, I wanna try the ramen there. As long as it doesn’t contain bread, I’m good”

You notice he can be a lot more interesting than what you thought; despite keeping the mysterious aura, he is a very talkative guy when he feels comfortable. And, apparently, he does with you.

Most of the conversation turns into a nerdy talk about his favourite comic series, that it is surprisingly the same as yours. And you couldn’t be happier, at least a dreadful night ended up better than expected.

Getting to Shibuya was easy; but the last train was about to part. Therefore, both of you, a little dizzy from the drinks -specially you- found the running a lot more challenging than expected. Yet ultimately, grabbed by Law’s hand, you were able to reach the train just in time before doors closed.

“I am so relieved we made it in time!” you sigh, sitting on one of the empty seats. “Same… I mean you could have taken a taxi but…” Law murmured, stopping his words midway. He realized that sending you home in a taxi would be the end of the time together… and he didn’t want that.

Law then proceeds to sit right next to you, crossing his long legs in such way it makes you bite your lower lip. He is a tease by total nature, he doesn’t even try. And he probably knows that too well. As the girls right in front of him gossip and giggle while looking at him.

The train ride is a little long, and the exhaustion suddenly hits you. You remember the fact that sleeping had been rather scarce the last few days of the week, plus the alcohol in your system…

The next station is Ueno. Doors will open on the right

“(Name)-ya… I think this is our station… wake up”  Law’s soft voice whisper in your dreams, and your comfortable pillow suddenly takes the form of what it really was; his shoulder.

“Oh my, sorry! I didn’t mean…” you apologize, quickly brushing off the sleepiness. You notice he is not mad at you, but his façade has relaxed a lot more since the beginning of the night.

“It’s ok, you’ve been working a lot more than the rest lately. You are always the last one to leave the office” he says, helping you stand up and walking to the doors of the train.

You rub your eyes… he knows? That means he’s been watching you… but for how long, and why?

Ueno is as pretty as Shinjuku. The trees that will turn pink in the spring, now hold flowers made of silver flickering lights. There is a considerably less amount of people compared to the big city, though.

The cold air that hits your cheeks wake you up almost instantly, and you are back at having enough energy to eat that instant ramen that you promise Law.

“So, are you still up for the ramen?” you ask, shy and still ashamed for falling asleep on his shoulder. You wonder if snore or even worse… drool on him.

Law nods with a smile on his face and his eyes closed. He is also tired, but he doesn’t want to leave, and you can tell.

You guide him, and after walking a few blocks, the convenience store appears in the corner of a calm neighbourhood’s street.

“Come on, follow me” you chime, pulling from his hand inside the store.

Law follows, and for the first time both grab each other’s hands tightly. Despite gasping, you keep squeezing it… it feels like a dream…

perhaps it is, and I’m still sleeping on the train?

The cashier greets you both, and immediately after recognizing you she informs that the water boiler won’t be working until Monday in case you were there for ramen.

“We can have it in your place if you are ok with it” Law suggests, and your stomach gets full of butterflies… is this like the korean “would you like to come home for ramen?”, is this your “Netflix and chill”?

You nod. After all he did for you, there is no point in letting him go back to Tokyo with at least nothing warm to eat.

Soon he buys two packets of ramen, two sticks of cheese and two cans of sakura edition Monster. And without much conversation you two cross the street to finally reach for your apartment.

The ride on the elevator was as silent as the very beginning, apparently none of you had something further to say… both were absorbed into your own thoughts; what type were the ones inside his head, you begin to wonder.

“Here we are, my room might be in shambles. But the rest I think looks fine” you joke, opening the door and turning on the light.

You were to lie if you said you weren’t lucky; your department is tiny but still has beautiful looks towards the city. Nothing fancy, but decent and exquisitely decorated.

Law smiles, pleased. He enjoys spaces like yours.

“I like you…r place…” he whispers, right behind your back while you walk towards the open kitchen.

“Thanks…” you whisper back, biting your lower lip; sensing the high tension in the air like little zaps of energy, like counter shocks.

You receive the bag with the food from his hands and put a pot of water on the stove. It is necessary for a good instant ramen to boil the water before putting the noodles in. Or so that’s what you always thought. In any case, you needed your mind to be anywhere else but the idea of pleading him to fuck you against the counter.

“(Name)-ya, are you single?” he suddenly asks, after the last crumble of noodles fall from your hands into the bubbly water.

You turn around, slowly. Your ponder whether you should lie to him, or not. Perhaps a taken woman would be a lot more interesting to chase than looking like a lonely girl.

“Because I haven’t seen any man around you…” he continues, sitting on one of the stools and letting his elbows on the counter.

Busted. You can’t lie.

“I am single, yes. What about you, Law-san?” you ask, it is proper -and necessary for you to know-.

Law bends forward, his chin rests on his hand and his golden eyes fix in yours. You realize there has to be a hint of eyeliner on his waterline, and the dark circles intensify under the low light of your kitchen.

“Would you prefer to listen I am?” he asks, straightforwardly and so sexily.

You swallow; what…. the fuck?

“It depends, honestly. I wouldn’t like to be the other woman if you weren’t single” your words sound bigger than yourself, your eyes widen because you don’t even know who is talking right now… but it is definitely not your normal you; this is most likely, your horny you… the “you” that can’t keep hiding how much you are into your boss’ nephew.

Law stands up, walks around the breakfast bar and dominantly -yet, very, very slow- takes his fingers to your chin. You move slightly to the side, allowing your butt to hit the counter behind.

Your fingers clutch to the cold stone surface, your hips feels like magnets being pulled, attracted against the other’s.

“Is that so, (Name)-ya? Well… I am single, indeed” Law whispers, coming closer, so dangerously closer to your lips. His thumb, inked with the letter D, grazes your lower lip ever so softly. And you pout, just enough for him to be able to play with it.

Your sloppy eyelids, your separated lips, your head barely tilted to the side… like feverish, in need of medicine... Law’s lips medicine.

“I’m glad you are…” you moan, opening your mouth just enough to trap with your front teeth his thumb right after. The tip of your tongue follows, wetting his finger. And then, so that there are no more doubts, you suck on it so deliciously lustful.

Law takes a big breath, and sighs right after. He is smirking, so dark. Like you never seen him before. Like you always wish you did.

He lifts you up, helping you sit on top of the counter. Your legs, spread, allow him to come closer.

“You are glad I am gonna fuck you tonight, too?” he asks, leaving you breathless… continuing with the lack of oxygen, as his lips crash on yours.

His tongue, disrespectfully sexual, violates your mouth in pure impetuous need. With gasping and moaning in between, with heavy breathing, with desire for your flesh that seems to be unleashed after being trapped like a beast for so long.

The more he kisses you, the more he wants more. And you do, too.

His playful hands, lift the blouse that seemed to be so enticing to his eyes all through out the night. His delicate fingers crawl from your belly to your chest, squeezing your breasts with no modesty, with no decency.

When he lets your lips free, you feel them swollen, aching for more. You open your eyes, meeting his and a shiver runs through your back. The most handsome man in the earth is right in front of you, wanting to devour you… so desperately.

“So, are you glad… (Name)-ya?” he asks, again. This time with his hand on your neck, squeezing on the right spot to make you dizzy and horny.

“Mhj… yes… please, fuck me” you beg, so weak for his touch.

“Heh” he smirks, ripping your blouse, making the buttons pop and fly away. He doesn’t mind, he doesn’t care… “This damn blouse… you always wear it on Fridays, don’t you? it was making me so hard to see the way your nipples barely peeking through them with the air conditioner… heh…” he moans, with his lips pressed on the commissure of your lips.

For how long have you been watching me in silence, Law? …

Law kisses you one more time before going down to your neck and breasts. The nipples he mentioned were once and for all right before his eyes, hard because of him and not because of the a/c.

Desperately, he cups your right breast, trapping your hard sensitive button with his front teeth. Sucking, twisting, licking. Your body quivering, spasming. Your nails pulling from his messy onyx hair in response to pleasure.

A few more minutes, where you barely reached for the stove to turn it off, are enough for him to want more and more of your body.

“And then, this damn black tight skirt… were you doing it on purpose? Letting your paperwork to fall to the floor, for me to see right when you bent to pick them up, your panties through your pantyhose…? Mh? (Name)-ya?” he asks, kneeling in between your legs, sliding your skirt up, grazing the nylon tights with his teeth.

Why lie? If he was completely right? You did. You did so many times. And yet, never once you thought he could see, he could notice… you remain silent, because silence speaks louder than words…

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” he scoffs, carving with his middle finger a hole on your thighs, ripping violently down to expose your core. The view is pure art to him… to see your dripping wet panties, and the flesh of your thighs protruding from the indentations and ripped places of your panty hose...

He kisses those patches of free skin, and then bites them too. He enjoys the way the nylon material gets wet around with his own saliva; you quiver to the sensation, the cutting sharp edges, the kisses, his teeth grazing, the wetness increasing.

And those kisses, that keep going up and up, reach your core for the first time. “How much I wanted to taste your sex… you got me wanting to do it so bad” he grunts with his lips on your wet panty. The warmth of his breath against your sex, makes you flinch… a sting on your clit that felt like a bullet.

A kiss, a lick. Fine fabric getting drenched. Eyes turning white, his nose buried, inhaling your scent. Curious fingertips, moving lace away. The moment his tongue reached for your folds; your heels carved in between his shoulder blades.

Eating you out, you throw back your head, moaning loud, loudly. But you want even more… And almost like if he could read your mind, he stands up. Law uses his inked, veiny hand to clean -or rather spread- the mess you’ve made on his mouth and chin.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you… you are insatiable, I’ve always knew it” he growls, perhaps ignorant to the fact you are insatiable but only for him.

“I want you” you simply babble, ripping his yellow shirt off to discover his inked chest. The heart on his pecs that goes down until his belly button, pointing to his hardness fighting against his jeans… “I want you so bad…” you whine again.

“Then let me fuck you the way you deserve, (Name)-ya” he moans, biting your lower lip. You help him to get free from his clothes, desperately. You want it now; he wants it more than you.

Soon, his hardness blesses you with his imponent presence in between his fingers. Drippy, slightly veiny, pinkish tip that turns redder the second it passes. He pumps just enough to spread the precum all over, perhaps in an attempt to lubricate… as if it was really needed… you are sure your juices have dripped to your kitchen floor.

With not much, but only pure passion, he lifts one of your legs up until your whole sole is touching the counter. Well spread, enough for him to fit perfectly in, he pulls you closer to the edge.

“I am dying to try your walls clenching around my dick, (Name)-ya” he huffs, with his forehead pressed against yours.

“I want you inside of me, please…” you beg, taking your hips closer to his drippy gland.

Law kisses you brutally, to impale you equally after. He drinks your moans; you breathe off his grunts. His hands land on the small of your back, moving in an out of you with strong pace. While your nails carve on his shoulders, leaving marks of love.

The sound of skin slapping skin flood the kitchen, mixed with the pleasure song of your throats.

Law carries you to the table, and your body lies there until he can bend completely over you to keep fucking you while kissing and biting everything he has in front. You do the same, pulling from his lip, biting his neck, his shoulders… trapping him against you, with no way out, with your legs snaked tightly around his waist.

Nothing matters the most, than him never leaving your insides. Nothing matters the most that being bound to the other, mixed in one and only.

Filled with his release, he keeps on going. Reaching for one, two, three times the maximum climax… more, more and more…

“We can eat the ramen tomorrow… right?” “Y-yes…”

[sunfl0werlevi]

HOME

ʚ✩ɞ ratings: sfw, angst to fluff, comfort

ʚ✩ɞ cw/tw: jjk manga chapter 221 spoilers! slight angst and depressive tones. slight sexual tones hehe.

ʚ✩ɞ wc: 10.5k

ʚ✩ɞ tags: gojo satoru x fem!reader, husband gojo and wife reader are teachers

ʚ✩ɞ an: hi! yes, this is the first time ill be sharing one of the many works i have in my drafts (that im confidently not sharing ever). idek how it got this long. gojo being unsealed triggered something in me so i hope u enjoy. ( ˘ ³˘)♥

italicized texts are past dialogues! FEEDBACKS are highly appreciated.

you stared at the golden band around your ring finger, toying it around. your bed seemed to stretch twice its size and grow colder every morning that you wake up.

every morning, you trace the outline of the dips on his side of the bed. you left it dismantled the way he did, since 19 days ago. you could still see a few strands of silver hair on his pillow glowing under the daylight.

"satoru, please."

"you know there's a lot of souvenir shops in shibuya! maybe i'll take you to some if you're a good little wifey."

"you told me we're working together on this. just let me fight alongside with you-" you pouted and so he gives you a wet smack on the cheek and booped your nose.

"babe, my honey, sweetiepie, you're on children duties!"

"no fair!"

"don't worry, ijichi will take you there. toodles!" and then he warped out.

fools. you didn't even know half of the shit that was about to set loose.

the wooden sliding door of your shared room slammed open, startling you out of your thoughts. there stood an out of breath yuuji with both his hands clinging on to either side of the door frame.

"sensei," he looked at you with determination, a sense of sparkle behind his eyes.

no. no.

you can't have this right now. not right now. you were not ready--not when what you've been preparing yourself for was the worst. but this? this wasn't in your plan.

any indication of hope from him has all been but failure. you were under the high of false hope but now...now, you don't even know how to respond with this pressing matter in front of you.

what kind of wife are you to even think that way? will he even understand if you feel this way?

but you are here now and he is here now.

his frame stood patiently behind your student, waiting for you to say anything. but only the sound of your shallow, shuddering breaths filled the room.

the pink-haired boy staggered backwards to leave, as to give room to your man.

doors were always never tall enough for satoru so he has to duck down in order to grace the room with his presence. his presence that is so invigorating, with his own hint of charisma.

and there he is. he is still so beautiful. his alabaster hair unreasonably still glimmering. your eyes were met with the color of the sky--lustrous and comforting, anticipating you.

but beneath this façade, they were chagrin and desolated, designed with heavy lids and undereye bags that loitered his skin.

the man that came to face you is not your satoru. although indulging with the fact that he looks bigger, more rugged, with his toned arms filling up the sleeves of his shirt--this satoru is only the shell of the man that you used to know.

he scratched his neck, his eyes crinkling into a smile as he gave you a small assuring grin. he opened his arms, wide and warm, welcoming you into a zone you knew all too well.

"c'mere."

though against your will, your body seemed to have a mind of its own--lunging forward to the sense of familiarity that is in front of you. amidst the unconvinced and confused face you held, your body knew how much you ached for this moment and alas your feet brought you towards him.

he gripped your waist so tightly, so much that he could break you in half like--like there were no tomorrow.

words could not even begin to detail this feeling. missing him is an understatement. no--you yearned for him--for his touch, for his smell, for his warmth. for this moment.

you sank deeper into his broad chest. the feeling and the sound of his heartbeat confirming that this is all true and not just a pigment of your imagination, or not you going insane.

he stuck his nose on top of your head, breathing in your smell. god, he could cry. he missed you so much and he was going insane because he was beginning to forget what his favorite shampoo you use smells like.

the silence was both so comforting yet so delicate. there are both no words yet too many words to tell. one pin drop could make or break the atmosphere. a paradox in the flesh. just in character for your husband.

but just in time, he spoke up, breaking the tension. you had imagined this moment, him apologizing or saying i love you, over and over. but no, he yet again breaks the record.

"thank you."

the last thing you wanted was to ever forget him. so, you listened to every voice messages, voice mails, and videos that he sent you every day like it was a routine and a lullaby before you sleep.

you would not forgive yourself if you forgot what he sounds like.

with the sound of his voice triggering the turmoil in you, your chin quivered and your throat burned in an agonizing pain. all of the weeping and mourning you've suppressed poured out onto his shirt.

he brushed your hair and cooed you into silent hushes.

"i'm sorry."

"satoru, she never cried," shoko said.

gojo sat silently on shoko's loveseat chair with both his arms resting on its armrest. he is finally relaxed which unfortunately meant that he has the time to think.

all of the guilt is finally blossoming inside of him.

for the longest time, he wished that he'd be rid of all the burdens that are pushed onto his shoulders. he wanted to run away. with you.

but he knew that his being makes everything complicated and you'd be in greater danger beside him than staying with everybody else.

so, him being in that damned box? his wish came true. was he selfish to somehow feel relieved while being isolated, knowing everything he left behind and all the chaos that ensued?

his colleague and good friend, nanami, who all but strayed away from jujutsu, was pushed towards it again by gojo. and now he's gone.

his teacher and a parent that he considered, principal yaga, lost his life fighting for everyone--especially for the children that gojo was supposed to protect.

his students--tiny but fighter nobara, with half of her head barely even of any shape and unresponsive on a pale hospital bed. yuuji who always graced a smile, now looked like he aged a dozen. and megumi--his son, who always quietly rooted and stood for everyone, lost his hope and is now a vessel to sukuna.

and you. he could not even begin to think how much of a toll it took on you.

"she kept everyone glued together, you know. when everything was falling apart after you...you were gone, she held all of their hands."

shoko blew a smoke out of her office window then tapped her cigarette onto an ashtray. "every day, she cleans nobara's body with a wet towel. when the students would come back with all unimaginable injuries, she tended to them with all of her reversal."

"satoru, i had to clinically force her, just so i could tend to her own injuries for a day. she did not want to stop working as if..."

"as if she will lose it, if she stopped," he finished the sentence, holding a firm gaze with shoko.

she and him knew what it was like to grieve for someone but still having all the responsibilities demanded at every second.

gojo, whether everybody admits or not, was their source of hope. the students gravitated towards him, and even curses do not fail to see the light that he shines--attracting them like moths to a flame.

he tended to everyone's troubles, to the bullshit of the higher-ups that even led to him killing his own bestfriend.

but you-you are the damned closest thing to him. you were his half. you are his half. and everybody knew you are a gojo too.

so they all went to you. for 19 whole days, you shared, albeit, owned his responsibilities. and you had to keep it together.

you should not fall apart. you cannot fall apart. the children relied on you for their strength and you kept them all stuck together like a little patched-up family of your own.

you became him. a true gojo. although it sounds gratifying, it was the last thing that he wanted for you to ever encounter.

he never wanted to share his pain and bare all of his weaknesses to you. but you unconditionally took them all, without any words nor complaints.

"she-she wasn't there."

"she didn't want to be disheartened and defeated if it had failed. you were gone and she is here. still here. you know where to find her, so go."

it wasn't just you. he also does not have the heart to see your face yet--he never really had a say on when he was getting released, anyway.

but he went to you.

your palms cupped his face, searching every inch of his skin like it is something foreign. his large hands held onto them, rubbing slow and soft circles on it.

"i've missed you...so much." you mumbled, risking a hiccup and another bout of tears to pour out of you. he dried your cheeks with both his thumbs.

"i know. i know, sweetheart," his voice was soft, barely a whisper, as he brought his lips towards your eyes.

he kissed your eyes tenderly, as if commanding for them to close for a minute. satoru knew how much you needed to crack--he wanted you to fall apart on him and he can pick up all of the pieces. he can make you whole again.

he can hold you together with his warm hands, thawing and melting you into a puddle of your own unresolved emotions. molding you exactly, to fit perfectly right where you belong.

right here. right next to him.

to him, you are the apple of his six eyes. the immeasurable devotion of his limitless. and the bottomless beloved of his infinity.

he could never leave you again. not like that. not ever.

he pressed his forehead against yours, his proximity tickling you with his breath and his pillowy lips brushing against yours. he rubbed his nose on yours and his eyelashes feather on your cheek.

"i love you," he rubbed his thumbs on both your cheeks while holding your gaze, accessing all of your senses with his presence.

he wants you to know, he's here.

he tentatively leans closer, only kissing you daintly. "kiss me. kiss me, satoru."

and so he planted his hand at the small of your back, leaning forward, obliging to your words. he kisses you--deeply and passionately. your mouth presses eagerly, gliding with his lips fervently without any lapses, like your life depended on it.

you put your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss even more. he gripped your hips tightly, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

satoru is trying his best to not tear your clothes off, on behalf of his student waiting outside.

"god-" he retracted, staring at your eyes.

"i-" he kisses your neck "-missed you-" your chin "-so-" your nose "-much."

there is no reason for the both of you to be separated at all. not anymore.

and so he interlocks your pinkies together like he always did. you giggled and he grins widely.

"i'm here. i'm home."

[lightweaver-chosen-if]

MOODY.INK | DASHINGDON | FORUM NEWEST UPDATE (01/04/24)

You still remember it.

Burnt into the back of your eyelids like a scar.

The orphanage.

The cold, lifeless, barren gray walls. The creaky wooden floorboards that groaned and moaned in each step.

A place you used to call home.

But you escaped.

Perhaps in your new life at Launwyce Academy you could start anew, find a way to heal the invisible scars on your soul.

For now, all you can do is walk forward.

One step at a time.

Lightweaver: Chosen is an upcoming modern fantasy IF for 18+ players and older. Use of elemental powers is inspired by Avatar: The Legend of Aang/Korra.

A world where elemental deities share a fraction of their powers to their chosen, bringing upon the age of weavers; humans with the ability to manipulate the elements of their patron.

You have been chosen by a mysterious lightning deity—blessing you with the power to weave lightning. But with a troubled childhood haunting your every step, your new abilities present a double-edged sword.

The choices you make, the support you receive, and the inner strength you harness define your journey—a journey fraught with anguish, but one that promises a life outside Mother’s grasp.

Two divergent paths lay ahead.

Will you let yourself heal and grow, or will you fall deeper into the void?

Play as a touch-averse customizable MC with a troubled past, male or female.

Learn how to use your newfound lightning powers to its fullest potential. Anything’s possible if you’re smart enough!

Use your powers for good and be admired. Or use them to become a menace in society and be feared.

Participate in Launwyce’s many academy events and competitive tournaments. Show the weaving world what you’re made of.

A potential pet has also chosen you as its human; teach it a trick or two!

Shape your MC’s personality however you want. Certain choices also help shape the rest of your past.

How the MC deals with their trauma is entirely up to you.

Push away or make new relationships. Everyone has their own inner demons you can unveil.

Character-driven narrative and slow burn character development.

Eventually face the monster from your past, Mother.

3 different endings to branch into!

Luna/Leo Bancroft | 18 | Fire Weaver | Freshman | A’s childhood friend If MC is shorter than L, they’re shorter than all ROs

They were the first to notice you falling.

A warm and gentle soul. But there’s a certain air about them, the kind that makes them seem untouchable. It’s a type of muted cheer, one that carries the tension of maintaining a persona, but perhaps not a façade.

Despite their unusual aura, they’re attentive and smart, not to mention remarkably insightful.

Alice/Alec Langley | 18 | Water Weaver | Freshman | L’s childhood friend If MC is taller than A, they unlock height choices for J

They were the one who made sure you landed safely; and with flourish.

Behind their snark lies a certain vulnerability, hidden by a layer of frost and caution. You suspect that they wear the act like a mask; even if the flecks of passion flickering beneath the surface reveal a fiery heart.

They’re quick-witted and equally sharp-tongued. They never hesitate to speak their mind.

June/Juno Patel | 19 | Earth Weaver | Sophomore If MC is taller than J, they’re taller than all ROs

Ever present on their features is a stern expression; jaw set and eyes sharp. Even with little words uttered, they carry themself with confidence that demands respect.

Their intimidating presence often gives people pause, but those who dare meet them head-on will find a stubborn and proud spirit that refuses to yield.

Surprisingly, they’re easy to read, and it makes interacting with them oddly satisfying.

[arcielee]

Ours never knew peace.

Summary: On the morning of the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark's granddam visits to give her an heirloom, a necklace with a sapphire stone... Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader Word Count: 7600 Warnings: Third POV and first POV, AFAB, mentions of infidelity, graphic violence, character deaths, and there is a hyperlink for the smut, so mind those warnings too. Author’s Note:  I definitely played with the timeline of the Dance of the Dragons a lot to fit with the narrative. Also, the idea is the bloodline stems from Cregan Stark's sister, which is why Lyanna's granddam is still kicking. Also, this was not beta read, please feel free to DM me any mistakes you may find 💜 A huge thank you to my Tumblr kindred spirits: to @aegonx for this inspiring gifset, and to my darling @itbmojojoejo for these perfect dividers 🦝💜 Also, to Hozier. I started writing this in June and had not touched it until I started listening to Unreal Unearth. The title for this and the smutty one-shot are from the song Francesca.

“I have a gift for you, my dear.”

Lyanna was leaning against the ornate balustrade and watching how the sun rose above Gods Eye. She drank in the sight of how the rays danced against the blue-green gemstone surface, shimmering with the rippling waves that met with the shoreline and towards the center where the Isle of Faces jutted upwards; she saw the weirwoods shift lazily with the breeze, its red foliage breaking away and littering the laketop, like drops of blood.

She pulled her eyes away to see her granddam standing in her room, poised with her walking cane; a handmaiden was in tow, carrying a wooden box that had once been intricately carved into, though its detailing was now worn with age. 

Her granddamn was the matriarch of House Stark and the only mother figure she had ever known as hers passed away when she was very young, leaving Lyanna with her father and three brothers: Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen. Though she originally had come from a noble house in Oldcastle, she had been proud to don the grays and whites of House Stark, dignified in such a way it seemed that she was born into and not just married. 

Her reputation was notorious and though some would consider her shrewd, Lyanna knew her granddam had a sharp mind and wit, an undeniable ability to see beyond the façades of court with her storm colored eyes; she was gallant, devoted to her husband until his last breath and remained in Winterfell after, her devotion extending to the North. 

“This is my home,” she had explained as if it was the simplest thing. “Always.” 

Time now showed itself in silver streaks, a bold contrast with her dark hair that had been meticulously combed and knotted at the base of her neck, showing the severity that lined her features. This look alone had the other handmaidens–who before had been aimlessly flitting around her room, coaxing Lyanna to ready for the day’s events–quickly excuse themselves, allowing her a moment alone with her granddaughter.  

“Set it there,” and the remaining handmaiden jumped to command, placing the wooden box on the vanity before following after the others. 

There was the click of her cane with her sure steps, one hand resting on the gilded handles and the other coming to place on the edge of the wooden box, its brass hinges groaning in response to her opening it. Placed against the velvet inlay was a necklace of a peculiar silver that did not shine, but seemed to permeate a strength despite its delicate, celtic chains interwoven with one another; its pendant, a sapphire stone no larger than a silver pence, was nestled in the same style, curled around to hold it in place. 

Only the stone gleamed, just like the water’s surface–alluring, calling, but she kept her hand at her side. “It is beautiful,” Lyanna acknowledged. 

“It is reforged Valyrian steel,” her granddam continued, and she was pleased to see how her eyes widened with a reverence for the rare medium. “This is a heirloom that has been passed down, once belonging to your thrice over granddam. It is something for you to wear today.” 

Lyanna remained rooted, only a wistful sigh in response. “This is my duty in life now, to be adorned in gems and silks and rare silvers, just to be shown off at this event.” 

“It is our lot in life, yes,” her tone cut through the self-wallow. “Lord Whent wants nothing more than to parade the money he poured into this cursed castle, to show off his simple-minded daughter to the highest bid. The queen of love and beauty,” and her laugh was sharp, “only her brothers would defend that nepotist title!” 

Lyanna felt her lips curl; she loved her granddam, dearly, especially when she was unabashed with her bold opinions. Her eyes fell back to the necklace. “Love and beauty,” Lyanna murmured. “No man has want for a clever wife.” 

It was her turn to sigh. “This can be true, but some are fortunate with their matches.” 

“Robert has no want for a clever wife,” Lyanna continued as if she had not spoken. “He wants something docile and pretty at his side while he wags his cock at every set of tits in Westeros.” She could see how the inside sagged with the weight of the necklace and a bundle of parchment that was tucked beneath, hidden in the folds of the fabric. 

Her granddam plucked the paper bundled together with string and then moved back towards one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. “My dear girl, love is always unexpected. Perhaps in time, despite the faults you each share,” she gave a knowing look as Lyanna moved back towards the bed, “you, hopefully, may have a gradual love and respect grow between.” 

“He is already convinced it is love,” she sat back on the mattress, sinking against the goose feather pillows piled at the head. “But it is with this idea of me. He does not know me, who I am truly or what it is that drives me…” her eyes were drawn again to the box, opened still, and to the glint of the sapphire. “How did this come to our possession anyway?” 

“It was a gift,” her granddam scoffed, untying the string and smoothing the letters on her lap. 

Lyanna closed her eyes a moment, her own smile playing at her lips. “Yes,” her tone forced, “but who would have gifted this to her to begin with?” 

Her granddam hummed, now her turn to smile. “How clever of you to ask, sweet girl,” but she did not answer Lyanna. “I saw how you are blossoming into a lovely young woman, especially after last night’s banquet,” and she saw that her granddaughter grinned, cheeky. “Ancestry has its weight with House Stark, and I thought now is the time to gift this necklace, just as your grandsire gifted it to me, and how it was given to your mother, who listened to me read this, years ago,” and she gestured to the letters.  

Lyanna reached for the pillows, fluffing them and sinking back into them, her arms folding behind to hold her head upright. “I would never deny my granddam of my company,” she teased.

“Yes, how kind of you,” her tongue wet her lips, her eyes flitting over the first page. “Now shut up and let my old eyes read.” 

And so she began.

It was the unmartyred act of my mother to bring me into the world. My father was a proud man, an honorable man who would never blame me, but I could see how he would wilt in my presence; perhaps it was that I reminded him of her as I grew, reminded him of the cost of her life so I may live instead. My brother, Cregan, kept his grief quiet, though it clouded his storm-gray eyes with this pain, this hurt that shadowed behind his irises. 

With the unsaid, I know my existence haunted my father, Lord Rickon Stark, the Warden of the North, to his grave. It was only then that Cregan truly recognized me with our sorrow now shared, as well as the burden as our uncle Bennard was quick to come to Winterfell, bringing his shrewd wife and his sons, our wretched cousins. 

I could only watch from the shadows with how Cregan fought to stay afloat with the smothering regency brought with them; our uncle was cunning, wishing to isolate my brother, which was why it was decided for me to be sent away to King’s Landing. It was under the promised lady-in-waiting for Princess Helaena Targaryen, though its true intention was for me to marry a Targaryen prince, for the opportunity to have a Stark within the royal inner circle and a direct line to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan hugged me farewell, the whispered promise that he would write, and I was ushered into the carriage, cramped with my trunks, and my aunt Margaret, with her wardrobe and endless idylls of how I would lure King Aegon II. 

I reminded her that King Viserys was not dead, and of the crowned Princess Rhaenyra. She bristled with her response: “No woman will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.��� She embellished this, and her inane plans to make me a princess; I had just turned ten and three with the soured taste of her words the further south we traveled. 

We arrived at the capital almost two months later, coming as the last of the daylight disappeared in the horizon, with the full moon and stars already glowing in response. I wished to sleep, but was forced to bathe, to be soaked in a gilded tub with rose petals that floated on the surface while hands flitted over combing and scrubbing and cleaning every bit of me, all while my aunt hovered with her critiques. 

The next day was our debut luncheon, allowing my formal introduction to the House of the Dragon. My aunt was peevish that the king did not join, we still met with the queen and Lord Hand, who introduced Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. 

It was said that Prince Daeron was away in Oldtown and Prince Aemond would not attend either, but did not speak more of it. 

The prince and the princess held their old blood features, the shades of purple in their gazes and the gold-silver of their hair, a contrast to their mother’s auburn and her dark eyes that were watchful and worrisome. 

Prince Aegon already had an exhaustion lining his face, with shadows that stretched beneath his lilac eyes, something heavy for someone only two years older than myself. In time I would learn that his shoulders sagged with the forced Hightower expectation placed, and its accompanying slow suffocation. The prince responded to it as well as any adolescent with unwanted responsibility: to rebel. 

The princess–who we learned, to the woe of my aunt–was his betrothed, but that day she also became my savior, in a sense. Though she carried her own burdens, something deeply rooted within the ichor of Old Valyria that surged her veins, her company was enjoyable, nonetheless. 

I enjoyed my time spent with the princess, learning of her fascination with entomology, with a favoritism that stemmed towards arachnids; though I found it unsettling, I still knew it was better company than my aunt. I was devoted to the task to fill mason jars with dirt, leaves, sticks to create little habitats for her ever growing collection, and it became our daily ritual to walk the gardens of the Red Keep, always in search of more to add or to release others who dutifully served their time in their glass confines. 

One thing I noted was her utterances, her singsong riddles on repeat. “Be mindful,” she said with a hum one afternoon.

“Of what, princess?”

“A song of ice and fire,” her eyes were glassy, sorrowful. “It is a tragedy, again and again…” 

My evenings were held captive by my aunt and her ever growing determination to force her way into the royal social circles; her daily mantra to remind me of the two remaining Targaryen princes, how I need my focus to be on snaring one of them. 

I knew that Prince Daeron was a child and away in Oldtown, which left the second son of King Viserys, Prince Aemond, who I thought peculiar and quiet. He was isolated the first six months after we arrived, and I heard the whispered incident at Diftmark that had involved the crowned princess and her bastard sons; I also learned how it ended with the loss of his eye, but that was not learned until Princess Helaena brought me to visit with her brother. 

“It would be good for him,” and her lilac eyes sparkled. 

He was sullen, but rightfully so; he was still bandaged and refused the milk of the poppy, though I knew he was hurting, his anguish was vicariously heard with the roars of his dragon, Vhagar, whose bellows rattled the entire capital, leaving the inhabitants uneasy. 

Eventually, Prince Aemond healed enough to leave his room, though the queen was still adamant he not venture outside of the Keep. I watched him, a dragon caged, stalking the corridors, a dark passing in search of confrontation, his unbridled want for vengeance and his inability to see it through; a tormented unrest, an unruly anger from the injustice of what happened that fateful night at Driftmark.  

I had been present for over a year and would inevitably have the misfortune to cross his warpath, alone, without my shield of his sister. It was a foreboding presence that drained the air, a palpable anger that hung heavy, and I flinched, perched by the window, curled up with Ten Thousand Ships. 

“What are you doing here?” He spat. 

I remember how his anger darkened his features shown, but the rest was still hidden beneath bandages wrapped around his silver head. “Reading,” was all I dared reply, refusing to look away from the pages as if the very tale of Nymeria held me captive. 

“They educate the women in the North?”

His words were mocking and this is when I pulled my eyes away to meet with his one uncovered. “The North does not only teach their women how to read, but how to fight as well, my prince,” my tongue had a life of its own I could not control, sneering his title in return.

Her granddam paused a moment, peering over the edge to see how Lyanna had shifted; she was now closer towards the foot of the bed, curled up with one of the pillows, her eyes glowing with admiration. 

“My great-great-great granddam was fearless,” Lyanna concluded.

She chuckled in response. “It is a trait in Stark women, that is for certain,” she clucked her tongue. “Stark men also search for strong women to survive the winters. Maybe another day I will tell you about your great-great-great aunt Alysanne Blackwood.” 

Her eyes shone. “I would like that very much.” 

And then, her granddam continued. 

I would learn that Prince Aemond was just lonely; allowed out of his quarters, his mar was forever isolating with how the castled treated him with kid gloves, like an open wound that never healed despite the jagged red of new flesh mended, cutting from his brow to his cheek and peeking beneath the eyepatch he took to wearing. Though he would never apologize for that day in the library, the next time I found him within the walls I saw he was lost in the pages of Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell. 

I could only assume it was all the apology that could be expected of a dragon prince. 

Our friendship was something predetermined by the gods, or this was what Princess Helaena wholeheartedly believed; for a time, we were a trio of lonely souls akin and knitted together until the princess inevitably became pregnant with the twins. And then, there was the subtle change of our dynamic with the seasons passed, an initial wariness that settled in the edges of his features that only softened whenever I took his hand and pulled him forward. 

Perhaps he believed that I would abandon him for his sister’s company, which would be expected of her lady-in-waiting. But I did not. 

Instead I indulged the prince and his company, and we became inseparable; whether we visited with his sister, playing with the little prince and princess, while Helaena budding with a third, or going to the courtyards to train under Ser Criston’s watchful eye and my aunt’s apparent disdain. It was then that the evenings became our own and spent in the library of the Keep; it was here that Aemond dared remove his eyepatch, the sapphire stone that showed brilliant from his scarred socket. 

The first time, I stepped closer so his nervous exhale fanned my cheeks; I could see the plumes of pinks to his features, my fingers ghosting his jawline as I attempted his ancient tongue. “Gevie.” 

Beautiful. 

Prince Aemond was respectful, always, but he was also fearless with me, allowing the same sense of freedom in return, to speak my mind as I always had. But I faltered with what I truly wished to say: that the years crafted him beautiful as any Targaryen prince, with sharp edges chiseled from marble stone, his lips that curled with a perpetual smirk as he voiced his peculiar insight which always led to a good natured battlement between us, leaving me flushed. 

And then the day came that he took my hand, that his palm now enveloped my own. 

It was the familiar touch now paired with a feeling, a fluttering in the pit of my stomach that I could not place, though writing these words allows a clearer perspective with the retrospect: that I was falling in love with him. 

My aunt grew more insufferable with the passing days, though I expected as much with the letters I exchanged with Cregan. I knew his every action in Winterfell, what he was learning, of his sweetheart Lady Arra Norrey, my new nephew, but mostly of how our uncle continued to tighten his hold. My brother was a wolf, restless, and spoke that his hour was coming; and meanwhile, I continued to play my role, a simpleminded girl from the North. 

My aunt tsked. “He will never see you as more than a plaything,” as if this was a cruel fate. In truth I was still so unaware of what was growing within the confines of my heart, but I knew that I only wished to remind at his side, devoted, present, always. 

So when Aemond asked that I finally become acquainted with Vhagar, I went. I remembered how my hand fit within his as he pulled me to follow his steps, moving through the ingresses that weaved with the castle walls. We broke out to follow the coastline, a crisp salt air and the clouds covering the sun, heavy with the threat of rain, but Aemond promised we would rise above them. 

I followed his long steps until we came to where Vhagar waited for her rider, diligent, alert. 

Dragons are magnificent creatures, and I swear them sentient with the bond I saw between Aemond and the she-dragon. Fear trickled my spine, but Aemond held onto my hand and I tightened in response to the massive eyes that focused on us, her pupils constricting in query. Aemond held up his other hand, the honey spill of his soothing voice of his old tongue to coax her and allow me to climb aback. 

I then felt the gaze of Aemond and refused to allow my fear to root me, moving to take the bottom rung of the rope ladder; he was pleased, a hum, the slight curl of his lips, and followed behind me with his promise that he would not let me fall. At the top, he pushed past to settle into the saddle, then reached to pull me behind and I settled against his backside. 

“Just hold onto me,” he murmured, bringing my arms around his slender waist. 

This moment I was adamantly aware that he was no longer that sullen child that sneered within his gilded cage, but against my hold that Aemond was solid, lithe, and so warm with a woodsy musk mixed with smoke against his skin. 

Pressed against, I was able to feel his low baritone command Vhagar, followed by her jolted steps forward, the beating of her wings to take flight. To feel this power beneath you is indescribable; I could not help my scream, my laughter from the exhilaration that that spate my veins; I dared not close my eyes, tears streaming, and I peered to marvel at how small the capital seemed beneath, how large the shadow we cast overhead. 

It was a newfound euphoria, and I felt my cheeks burn from the crisp air above the gray clouds, but I also knew it was from my close proximity to Aemond. I held onto him as we soared out over Blackwater Bay, and sighed from the touch of his gloved hand, from the heat that permeated through the leather when he placed it over my own. 

And I knew then that I never wished to let him go. 

He eventually brought Vhagar back to land onto the grassy knolls outside the city; the afternoon was growing late but there was still enough light to return. Aemond warned that my legs would be shaky and again he moved first, again with the promise he would not let me fall. 

I still trembled when he set me on the ground, his large palms kept their hold on my waist and my hands rested on his broad shoulders. My eyes were wide admiring the beauty of his mussed, silver braid, his cheeks lined with his dimples with his pursed grin. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Enjoy myself?” I was incredulous, I was a mess; windswept and blooming red, a grinning fool with tear-streaked cheeks, “Aemond, you showed me the heavens.” And a boldness pressed me onto my toes, my lips against his. 

It was my first kiss; it was a heartbeat’s length, it was everything, and when I pulled back, I fell solid to the earth, my soles grounded back on that gassy knoll. I looked up into his bicolored gaze, the lavender of one eye and the gleam of sapphire for the other that stared back. 

Aemond was unreadable in that moment, and I felt my blood surge from my heart and pour into my face; the quiet that settled between us the same length of the years I had spent in King’s Landing, a choking regret that burned in my throat with the thought that I had ruined everything built between us. 

Then he kissed me back. 

And I felt alive once more with the touch of his arm that curled around my waist, how his other hand followed the curve of my spine, tangling into my hair and holding me to capture my mouth. His lips were warm and soft and his tongue clever in a way that drew the very breath from my lungs. I melted against him, my fingertips soft to follow the sharp contours of his jaw, trailing his neck and grasping his collar to bring him even closer.

We only parted for air; the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his riding leathers, the crimson on his cheeks with his quiet confession, something he held close to his heart.

“For how long?” I breathed

And he thought for a moment. “Always.” 

To take his hand now was finding a piece that I did not know was missing from me; our fingers interlaced in a way that felt akin as if I held my own hand, though I knew it was him from the warmth of his skin, from the fire in his blood. By now the tendrils of dusk began to curl over the city, its amber hues bold against the blues and purples of the coming nightfall, but we continued our leisure pace back, Aemond and I. 

We were greeted by the gold cloaks at the gates and they escorted us back, and though he did not let go, I saw that it was no longer Aemond who held my hand but the second son of King Viserys, a Targaryen prince. He was stoic, but this time I could tell the other emotions that flittered beneath, his uncertainty of what awaited, but above that was his determination. 

We finally came to the barbican of the Keep where we were greeted by his queen mother, my aunt, and several White Cloaks. 

Relief washed over the queen while my aunt raged, lifting her skirts to meet us in the courtyard, her nails biting with her grip on my arm and pulling me back; the rushed spill of her words, “I cannot believe this unseemly behavior of a lady, unchaperoned with a prince! We are leaving this moment–”

I tried to twist away but she held on still, a madwoman. Aemond moved after, quick, and his anger burning from him and his long legs moved to block her path. “She will not be leaving.”

The finality of his words, the barrier his form created halted her at once and I felt my heart between my teeth. “My prince,” she stammered in response. “We must leave this very moment! We have imposed on your hospitality far too long as it is, and when my lord husband hears of her behaviors–” 

But she was unaware that Cregan and I wrote, dutifully; he shared his life within the walls of Winterfell, as well as his growing concern with the regency our uncle imposed still. She also did not know the newest letter I had received, how my brother was now the proper Warden of the North and our uncle imprisoned; my aunt paled with my words and it was commanded for her to be taken away. She did not leave quietly, her wails echoed and I watched impassively, knowing her every action was a self-serving and a selfish ploy for power for herself, her husband, for those wretched cousin kin in the North. 

And I knew I would not miss any of them. 

Ever the diplomat, the queen stepped forward with her congratulations for my brother, her condolences for the betrayal within our family, her practiced concern for my well being and its shift to confusion that knitted between her brows when she saw how I smiled at her son. She offered my escort back to Winterfell, but I was quick to decline as I knew I could not leave Aemond. 

I saw the understanding began to roll over, and she then asked her son if he loved me. Aemond responded, “I believe I always have, mother,” and I knew I loved him in return. 

It was decided that the ceremony would be held in the Royal Sept, and chaperoned until, though Aemond stole a moment to gift me this very necklace. I could feel the power of Old Valyria thrum from the metal, adoring how it was woven around the sapphire stone; he told me it was a piece kept from the same stone fitted for his eye.  

I lifted my hair and turned my back towards him, my skin prickling from his touch to clasp the necklace around my throat. 

He hummed. “Gevie.” 

Only a week later, and the service seemed surreal. I felt his warmth that held to the robe he brought around my shoulders, the touch of my palm on top of his large hand kept me grounded while the Septon wrapped the ribbon around; shy glances shared, me to Aemond and seeing his gaze on the sapphire stone beneath my collarbone. The muted words called for a kiss and I burned when Aemond captured my mouth with his own. 

The celebration after was an intimate meal with the king, who was a man withering away beneath a gilded mark, the queen, his siblings, and the Lord Hand, who seemed pleased with the idea of solidifying a truce with the North. 

But I could not think of politics this night, not with the subtle touches from Aemond, a warmth that curled in my lower abdomen when he inevitably took my hand, his low voice that tickled against my ear. “Come with me, my sweet wife,” as we walked towards his quarters.

Her granddam stopped abruptly, flushed. “Well, you understand what is implied.”

“Understand what?” Lyanna quirked her brow. 

It was a pregnant pause that allowed her eyes steel onto her granddaughter, and Lyanna returned her gaze with a cheeky, taunting grin. 

“It would serve you well to not agitate your elders.” 

“What a bore I would be if I was just another docile woman of nobility?” Lyanna countered, gleefully. “Granddam, Robert has bastards and I am no fool, I do not believe his immaculate conception claims…” 

“Yes, you are very bright,” she huffed. “Now hush up and let me read.” 

Our marital bliss that followed left me in a haze; Aemond was not one for public displays of affection and how I craved his subtle touches, his lingering hand that would have me blushing furiously in response. He would only hum, his perpetual smirk that played on his lips with my every visceral response to him. 

I wrote to Cregan and informed him of our union; he was quick to respond with his congratulations, as well as his newfound concerns, asking if it was true that the crowned princess had sired bastards with the intention to make them her heirs without ownership of her actions. 

“Our father was honorable until his last breath,” he wrote, “I would not besmirch his memory or our house, our legacy, for an oath made for bastard-born heirs to the Iron Throne.”

This was a topic I had already discussed in length with Aemond, even before we had even kissed. I was aware of his scar and its cause, and I knew of the old blood and the features lacking when it came to his nephews, something made apparent for the claimant hearings of Dirftmark, as well as the cruel response of Prince Daemon when a lord spoke out loud what the court was thinking. 

I answered my brother truthfully, knowing full well that this would sway the North behind Prince Aegon II.

And then King Viserys met his inevitable demise; the small council moved quick to announce that his final words were that he wished his firstborn son to take the crown. Aegon panicked, but my husband and Ser Criston fetched him, washed him, fed him, but also comforted him. 

It would be Ser Criston who coaxed him to the coronation, to be the one to place the crown of steel and rubies on top of his silver head, announcing: “King Viserys is dead, long live King Aegon!”

My husband would be sent to Storm’s End to negotiate a betrothal for his brother, Daeron, to one of the Four Storms. It resulted in tragedy, or vengeance on who spoke the narrative. The room stilled with Aemond’s words, the unspoken terror in the queen’s large, brown eyes, the shock that lined the severe features of the Lord Hand, but it was his brother, King Aegon wearing the Conqueror’s Crown who spoke that Aemond had shown the true blood of a dragon. 

But in the quiet quarters we shared, Aemond lamented the loss of life, the war it started, a guilt that weighed heavily, and once more I saw the sorrowful prince when I first came to King’s Landing. 

“There will be repercussions for my actions,” he rasped, unable to meet with my eyes. “I have ruined my namesake, and I have cursed our family…” 

“War seemed inevitable,” I began slowly, my hands careful to hold his jaw, to bring his gaze to my own. “And with it comes rash decisions, with impossible choices to be made…I trust it was not intentional, but even if it was, cursed or not, I am still yours, husband.” A soft kiss to seal my words. “Always.” 

War and its bloodshed was rampant in Westeros, and my brother wrote they would travel South when winter ended to help King Aegon with his rightful claim. I feared for the delay, for what would follow Storm’s End, and how it seemingly unleashed the Rogue Prince. 

Hired men with the monikers Blood and Cheese came in the night, and I knew them to be sent for me, as one repeated, “An eye for an eye, a son for son,” but followed with his slow realization, “she is not a son,” before his sword was drawn and struck Prince Jaehaerys. 

The screams of Helaena resounded against the cobblestone; Aemond found us covered in blood, his rage and his grief conflicting on his angular features. The king cried for vengeance for his firstborn son, to search for these men and place their heads on spikes; the kingdom was repulsed by the murder of the princeling, a martyr made with his blood spilled. 

Aegon’s bloodlust made for rash decisions and the battle of Rook’s Rest; though one dragon and its rider slain, its cost was the king crippled in a way that he was not fit to rule. So Aemond stepped forward to take the title Prince Regent and the Protector of the Realm, a natural role that was suited for the second son. 

The Rogue Prince struck against the Riverlands, torching until ash remained. In response, the now Prince Regent and Ser Criston left to claim Harrenhal. 

I was told to wait, to remain at the side of our grieving queen, my sister by all accounts; I watched over sweet Helaena, coaxing her to eat, washing her, sitting alongside her in the haunting silence of the quarters that somehow still echoed her screams from that fateful night. We were often left alone, as the maesters and the dowager queen never left King Aegon’s side, and I remained with her until I received the latest letter from Aemond. 

Harrenhal had been dispelled of every Strong traitor to the crown, and he spoke of a witch he wished me to meet, that I was to leave King’s Landing and be by his side, as the gods ordained. 

A quick kiss to the silver head of Helaena and I left the castle, careful to retrace our steps that led to the coast and I continued until I was back on the grassy knolls from what felt like a lifetime ago. I waited the skies until I felt the rumbled call of Vhagar in the distance, gleeful when she finally landed and watched my prince descend to envelope me in his arms, his whispered adoration, “My love, my sweet wife.” 

We returned to Harrenhal to meet with the witch he spared, a hushed reverence when he told me of her abilities. “She sees much and more.” 

I could see she was hardened by life, but her expression was kind when she greeted us; her eyes roamed around, watchful, looking through to my bones and only then did I understand what my husband meant. 

At supper, we sat around the table, along with Ser Criston, and her eyes watched the flicker of candlelight, the flames licking her irises, before she spoke: “Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Aemond finished chewing before he asked her. “And I am which?”

Alys’ eyes were black, her painted lips curled and framed around her pearl teeth. “To be the greatness, you must end the madness,” was all that she offered, and then, “the Rogue Prince is coming.” 

Ser Criston looked uneasy, but it was a silent understanding in regards to her statement, something that pressed heavily on us both. King Aegon could only have a true chance to rule the realm if his sister lost the power she had with her husband, the Rogue Prince; it was known that he was unruly, untamed, but loyal to a fault, and willing to see it through to its brutal end. 

That night, we fell back into an intimate embrace, cherishing the feeling of skin to skin–

Her granddam was crimson. “Oh, my, I believe I should skip this as well–”

She watched her granddam a moment, the intrusive thought to take the letters for her own readthrough, but it was muted by a growing sadness that began to settle in the edges of her sharp features. Lyanna knew well the history of the Dance of the Dragons, something scrawled on scrolls and tomes, its tragedy saved in ink and tucked away.

And still, she had to know this truth.  

“Please,” and her voice was soft. “Please, continue.” 

And granddam did. 

It was the 22nd day of the 5th moon and we waited on the shores of Gods Eye, myself, Aemond, and the witch. Ser Criston rode North to meet with my brother, and we remained, waiting. 

It had been a vision for Alys, something sinister; it was no surprise when the wyrm screeched its arrival, circling above, wary of Vhagar, before finally landing. Prince Daemon had an arrogance with his dismount, with his walk towards us. 

There was a symmetry as they squared towards one another; the Rogue Prince was cloaked with the past and my Aemond embodied the future, the true hope for House Targaryen. My husband faced him, unflinching, his brow furrowed with his ever present determination, while Daemon rolled his eyes over the each of us, sucking his teeth. 

Aemond broke the silence. “You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” Daemon was amused. 

But it did not deter my dragon. “Yet you are, and here I am,” he sighed. “You have lived too long, nuncle.”

“On that much we agree.”

The prince retreated to his wyrm and Aemond looked to me, his eye pleading, the glassy lavender that bore through my skin, and the gleam of sapphire for the other. He then dipped forward to kiss me and the tears pearling in the corners of my eyes spilled onto my cheeks at the taste of him, the touch of him; I knew I could never imagine anyone else. Those words stilled on my tongue, how I wanted him to beg to stay with me, but I also knew that he must. 

“Do not say it,” my voice broke, hushed against our kiss swollen lips. “Just come back to me.” 

His two fingers pressed against the sapphire pendant I wore, before leaning forward to press his lips to my hairline, and then he climbed aback Vhagar, his lithe body quick to mount. I remained on the sand with the witch at my side, and we watched these winged beasts rise above us. 

Dragons are truly magnificent, but they are also equally deadly. I trusted Vhagar was loyal to Aemond, but also knew it matched by the bond shared between Prince Daemon and his wyrm. It was said that Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, and I believed this as I watched them on dragonback, circling above the massive lake. Their roars vibrated through to our bones, the snapping of the jaws like cracks of lighting and their flames that singed the threads of my gown from my place on the shore. 

My eyes did not leave, and I asked Alys. “Will he live?” 

She was quiet for a moment. “The memory of him will live on,” and I felt her hand reach and touch my stomach. 

And all I could do was hold onto my pendant with prayers to the old golds, to the new gods for mercy for my husband, whose child I carried. 

They did not listen.

It was a clash of scale and bone, something that reverberated to Harrenhal and rattled the castle walls that still stood. The wyrm’s screams were cut short as the massive maw of Vhagar clamped onto its neck, and its talons flailed and cut deep into the old dragon’s underside. Blood rained onto the lake and I watched, struck with mortification at the dull glint of Valyrian armor, the flash raise of Dark Sister, and I knew it was over. 

I remained on the shore as the waves created from the fall of dead dragons crashed against the sand, a blood foam that flooded and wet my skirts. I remained still as the sun tucked beneath the horizon, until I heard the call of the witch. 

“My lady, the wolves have arrived.” 

This would be the shift of power needed for King Aegon II; the Rogue Prince was dead and his men fell to the sword under the command of my brother and Ser Criston. Cregan was shocked to see me and I was stoic still, dumbstruck with my grief that did not feel real; we returned to King’s Landing with the Northern army, quick to dethrone Rhaenyra and place her in the cells with the company of all the lords who supported her. 

King Aegon was scarred cruelly with a gimp to his steps, but he made his way to the Iron Throne, his crown of rubies and steel, and greeted his mother and the queen. This joyous moment died as I was tasked to share the news of the death of Aemond, of my husband and father of my unborn child; we cried our heartbreak, but I had no tears left. 

This pivotal moment would be known as the Hour of the Wolf by our history. It will speak of the heroism of Prince Aemond and what he sacrificed to kill the Rogue Prince, of how my brother descended onto the capital with a vengeance and helped return the throne to its rightful heir. The casualties of war included the bastard princes, as well as both sons of the king. 

When King Aegon learned that Prince Daeron the Daring met his fatal end, he decided mercy on the remaining Targaryen princelings, Aegon III and Viserys II, with his solemn vow to raise them as his own, as his heirs to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan served as Lord Hand through my pregnancy, for the birth of my darling Lysara with a patch of silver that showed against her dark curls and her eyes the same as her father’s, lavender. My brother had also been widowed but met the Lady Alysanna Blackwood, a woman I admired fiercely, and Lysara was smitten with, and was thrilled when I learned I could call her sister. 

It was then Cregan asked to be relieved so he could return to the North, to his son, and I asked to go with him. My time in King’s Landing was over, with every stone haunted with presence of Aemond; I already swore I would never marry again, would not dare have another set of hands touch and taint the memory of his hands against my body, his touch forever etched onto my skin and seeded into the marrow of my bones. 

Aemond would return to me at night, a silver dream, my body thrumming with the warmth of his touch, his gentle kiss, the low murmur of his voice, but it always ended the same: my realization when my hands pressed to his chest and felt no heartbeat.

That I would never feel it again.

The pain of losing him has not dimmed nor diminished with time, but I do not mind it as it serves as my reminder that he was real, and that the love we shared was real. 

As the witch predicted, Aemond also still lived within Lysara who was solemn, brilliant, and as determined and stubborn as he had been. I made sure to do an annual trip to King’s Landing, allowing her to meet her granddam, her royal family, and so that my daughter could learn that her blood not only held that of the Andals, the first men, but also of the fire that licks within her veins. 

Which is also why I write this, along with the gift of the necklace. It holds legacy, but also the reminder of the words Queen Helaena spoke to me when we were girls, something said a lifetime ago and before I could comprehend the weight of them. 

There is something in the blood of House Stark that calls out to these dragons, perhaps an ancient power of the old gods or a kindred spirit, the disparate bond of ice and fire, a clash that is brilliant, violent, and tragic, always. 

As she once said: a song of ice and fire, it is a tragedy, again and again…

It ended with a finality that rested against her chest. This was a tragic history of the crown, something already written with facts and dates, but this was a personal storying stemming from the blood of Stark woman, and only now did Lyanna begin to understand how the stories remained so vivid, so detailed despite its years of retelling. 

But also…

“What does this mean for me?” Her voice was soft, an almost childlike naivety to her tone. “I am already engaged to Robert Baratheon.”

Her granddam watched her, a tight lipped smile in response as her mind returned to the feast of last night, to the looks shyly exchanged between her granddaughter and the crowned prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, as he played his harp for her. It left her unsettled with a hunch, an inkling about this interaction. 

Instead she agreed. “You are right,” and she sighed. “Let me help you get dressed for the tourney.” 

The new Harranhal swelled with the life for the festivities, with the kingdoms’ best sent in response of Lord Whent’s invites; the new cobblestone seemed bright against the darkened foundation that still held, its ghosts trapped still and trampled underfoot by the crowds as the seats filled, the echoing chattered excitement that vibrated. 

It dimmed with a hushed reverence to see Prince Rhaegar Targaryen entering the field on his steed; his lavender eyes scanned the masses, an intent to spot one soul in particular, and she unknowingly called to him with her sweet smile, by the glint of the sapphire that rested against her chest. 

There's not one thing that I would change.

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