#♡ ╎ thread: deep blue eyes ;

[kamaluhkhan]

you are so gorgeous (it makes me so mad)

pairing: young!coryo snow x fem!reader

summary: clemensia dovecote has a theory that you and snow are destined for an enemies to lovers arc. you're sure it's completely, absolutely not true...right?

warnings: 18 + smut; biting + mention of blood ; both reader and snow are not the best ppl and have some very classist/elitist opinions

a/n: finally!! i wrote one of the ideas that has been haunting me ever since i've been back in my hunger games obsession + watched tbosbas...needless to say this will likely be a series inspired by taylor swift's reputation album. also i am so sorry this is unedited bc ofc it's 3am when i had the motivation to write this but i hope y'all enjoy ♡

i've had enemies so intense it felt like love, so mutual it felt romantic (chelsea hodson)

"what in the name of all the gods is he doing here?"

you're practically seething when coriolanus snow walks into your foyer. he's wearing an ensemble made with crisp white silk and intricately embroidered with gold thread - elegant, eventhough its silhouette would have been fashionable last year. a single white rose sits in the pocket of his jacket. he surveys the crowd, like he's calculating who's most worthy of his attention, platnium blond hair perfectly curled and practically glowing under the light of the chandelier. he looks beautiful, almost angelic.

you absolutely hate it.

"oh, i invited him," clemensia dovecote informs non-chalantly.

coriolanus makes eye contact with you from across the room, and you turn your head sharply to your best friend.

"why would you think it was okay to invite him?"

clemensia smiles mischeviously, grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing silver tray. she hands one to you.

"i know the two of you have your petty squabbles — "

"they are not petty, nor are they squabbles," you grumble, taking a sip of your drink.

your contempt towards coriolanus was perfectly reasonable and absolutely mutual. he had some ridiculous notion that snow had to land on top, that it was his right to be there instead of yours. your relationship, if you could call it that, was limited to nothing more than snide remarks, sarcastic comments, and scornful stares. you both hyperaware of the importance of keeping up appearances, but the older you got - the closer to life outside of the academy and the higher the stakes - the more any sense of civility between you two faded. just earlier this week, you'd gotten into such a heated debate about the best way to increase viewership for the upcoming 10th annual hunger games, that your professor excused you both from the class early due to the disruption. it seemed that no one knew how to make you burn with anger quite like coriolanus snow.

clemensia rolls her eyes. "whatever you want to call it, i actually think the two of you would get along if you really tried."

one of the things you admired - and, frankly, loathed - about clemensia was her determination to always prove herself right. she had this theory - one you would call ludicrous - that the tension between you and coriolanus had nothing to do with academics or status and everything to do with wanting to rip each other's clothes off.

your eyes catch coriolanus' icy blue ones again and you down the rest of your drink. obviously, clemensia was wrong about this. so, very wrong.

"well," you huff, setting your empty glass down on another silver tray that passes by. you brush invisible dust off your dress - a deep red lace, short and form fitting with exaggerated long sleeves - and add: "you'll be lucky if i invite you to my next party."

clemensia might have had the sense to apologize then, but you walked away before she had a chance.

you allow yourself to weave through the crowd, greeting every guest with an equal facade of enthusiasm and grace. you smile as brightly at one person as you do the next, showing off your newly bleached teeth and making sure that everyone feels special. silver trays of food and drinks appear and reappear throughout the crowd, being carried by nameless waiters. there's a table overflowing with gifts concealed by crisply folded wrapping paper - you expect at least half of them will be worthless.

you put up a good front, but soon enough your lipstick needs reapplying and your hair readjusting, so you briefly excuse yourself lest anyone notice a crack in your perfectly constructed image. the door to your room is slightly ajar, and you open it to reveal none other than the person you'd deliberately, but not so successfully, tried to ignore all night, his white silk shirt stained a dark crimson that happened to match your dress.

coriolanus was furious when he found out you'd invited the entire graduating class, except him, to your birthday party. you'd even invited sejanus. it wasn't that he particularly wanted to celebrate you, of all people. you were the most brilliant, biting, enfuriating person he knew, but to be excluded in such a way was insulting. when clemensia extended him the invite, he jumped at the chance to prove to everyone, to you, that he belonged here. tigris curated his outfit, and it would have been perfect had arachne crane, vapid creature she was and ever the lightweight, spilled an entire glass of red wine on him. he hurried away before anyone could see him in such a humiliating state. coriolanus is in the middle of calculating his options when you walk into what he now realizes is your bedroom.

you don't say a word at first. you haven't said one to him all night. instead, you close the door behind you and your eyes graze his figure.

"you show up to my party, late no less, and now you're parading around in what looks like a bloodstained shirt that is far too outmoded to be appropriate attire for this occasion," you remark, displaying that signature fierceness. "are you trying to ruin my birthday, snow?"

"don't blame me," coriolanus scoffs. his shoulders tense and he makes a point to stand up a bit straighter. "blame arachne for not being able to hold her alcohol while she's complaining about the food."

"oh?" you raise an eyebrow. "what did she say?"

"something about people in the districts having better options."

"vapid bitch," you mutter under your breath. you walk over to your closet, disappearing for a few seconds before bringing out a fresh shirt. you extend it to him, but he doesn't take it.

"i can't very well have a good time when one of my guests looks like he just got killed in the hunger games," you huff. "so either you put this on or your leave my party. now."

coriolanus holds your gaze, his jaw clenched, before giving in and taking the shirt from you. he goes to undo the buttons of his shirt, but stops when he notices that your eyes never leave him.

"some privacy would be nice," he says sharply.

you roll your eyes, muttering something about it being your house and your room, before sitting across the room at your vanity. as he undresses and throws his soiled shirt on the floor, coriolanus watches you closely. you meticulously apply lipstick, the shade of red almost as dark as your black nails.

you were attractive, there was no denying that, but ultimately dangerous. because you weren't carelessly cruel like arachne, nor did you wear your heart on your sleeve like sejanus. you didn't use your family's status as an excuse to avoid hard work like felix, nor were you a spineless know-it-all like clemensia. no, you were different from the rest. you had a fiery ambition and a sharp tongue, a wicked streak with just enough charisma to lure people in. sometimes when he thinks of you, coriolanus recalls stories his grandma'am once told him and tigress, about sea monsters who would tempt sailors with their bewitching voices and enchanting beauty, enticing them to risk everything - to jump into the ocean and never be relevant as anything more than a midnight snack. you were a constant, suffocating reminder of how quickly he could lose everything if he lost control, if he gave in.

coriolanus watches you set down the tube of lipstick before picking up a compact. you lightly brush the shimmery powder inside over your face to accentuate some of your gorgeous features.

the desire that burns throughout his body now has to be a side effect of the few glasses of liquor he managed to drink, allowing himself the appearance of having a good time alongside everyone else without losing control.

your eyes leave your reflection momentarily, and you finally catch coriolanus staring at you. you wink at him from across the room just as he's finished with the last button. the way you look at him makes the collar of his shirt feel tighter.

he can not give in....but what's the harm in admitting, just for one night, that he would let you drown him? devour him? beg on his knees to give you pleasure, and then thank you after the fact?

coriolanus clears his throat. "this feels wrong. i should be the one gifting you with a new shirt. it's your birthday, after all."

you let out a breathy laugh, setting down your makeup. you walk over to him, until there are only a few inches between you despite the vastness of your bedroom.

even you had to concede that coriolanus snow had such a gorgeous face for such a vicious person. you're infuriated by how elegant he looks now, in your shirt. your hands busy themselves in smoothing down his already perfect collar and you take note of the intensity of his heartbeat. you notice the way his jaw remains clenched, his posture stiff, his skin flushed. you realize that he must be trying so hard right now to retain his composure around you and you feel something that can only be described as triumph.

you smile at him, sickly sweet, and remove your hands from his body. "the best birthday present i could get is winning the plinth prize over you, snow. we both know you're not good enough, let alone better than me."

he hesitates slightly before responding.

"sorry, valerius. that's the one thing i can't give you. is there anything else you'd want from me?" he whispers, words dripping like honey.

"that depends, is there anything you want from me?"

he hums, moving his hand to cup your cheek. he begins to trace your lips with his thumb, ruining the look you had so meticulously crafted.

if only you knew.

"you're the birthday girl, sweetheart," he chides. "i'm supposed to be the one giving the gift. you do know how birthdays work, don't you?"

he's mocking you, you know that. he's trying to make you feel weak and small. you had the power a second ago, his heartbeat in the palm of your hand, and normally you wouldn't stand for him turning the tables. you'd push him away, storm out the door. but right now all you want is to tug on his perfect blond curls, to bite the smirk off his lips. maybe it's the way he's so close and can't seem to take his eyes off your lips or the calculated amount of wine you drank that's made your head a bit foggy, made you put your guard down. made you start to entertain the idea that maybe possibly clemensia's theory had some truth to it.

"why don't you surprise me?" you suggest.

coriolanus surges forward and kisses you with such ferocity, he might as well be a man starving. teeth on teeth on tongue. you instantly tangle your hands into his hair, pull on some curls just to see what he'd do. he retaliates by biting down on your bottom lip, hard enough that you taste the metallic tang of blood mixed with the remnants of honeyed wine on his lips. you whimper and pull away slightly. he holds your face firmly between his two hands, so you cannot go too far.

"sorry." but he smirks, and you know he doesn't really mean it.

eventually, you've both stumbled onto the bed half-naked. coriolanus positions himself above you, effectively caging you in with his arms and legs. you take note of his lean thighs, his bare torso with skin taut around his bones. you're almost taken aback by how frail he looks - like a malnourished teenager from one of the districts. you reach out to trace the outline of his ribs, your nails scraping against his skin, and he shudders. your hand moves lower, teasing the waistband of his underwear. he stops you before it slips underneath the material.

instead, coriolanus begins to indulge in his deepest fantasy. he kisses and sucks and bites down your body, his tongue trailing down your chest, over your breasts and around your nipples, across your stomach. he laps up your soft whines, the curses that tumble from your lips for him to do something more. you sink further into the silk sheets when he arrives between your thighs. you raise your hips, desperate to find any sort of relief, and you feel his nails dig into your hips.

"patience," he teases, his breath fanning over where you needed him most. "so needy." you could practically feel coriolanus roll his eyes.

"i swear to god snow, if you don't do something soon. i-i'll go find someone else to fuck me. felix, or maybe sejanus --"

you yelp when his teeth sink into your inner thigh. he looks up at you, eyes the darkest blue you've ever seen them.

"don't," coriolanus warns, and he gets back to work, lips actually arriving at where you needed them most.

after you've reached your high, he comes back up to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself. when he pulls away, you take note of how his lips and nose shine with remnants of you. the way he looks at you while he licks his lips shows you that he wants more. you move your hand down, and you're deeply satisfied when you feel him half hard, already sticky with his release.

"oh." you smirk. "you already finished."

his eyes widen, skin flushing pink. you could feel his heartbeat grow faster above you. you could imagine he was debating the best way to restore his dominance from before. yet, here he was, nothing but a horny teenage boy who came untouched as he was eating out his worst enemy. you find it in you to not call him pathetic, but instead decide, in your post-orgasm haze, you find it endearing.

"i-i didn't mean to, but --"

"i'm just that sexy when i cum," you suggest, running your hands through his curls to calm him down. "how about we try again, pretty boy?"

soon enough, he's sitting up with his back against your headboard and your legs wrapped around his waist, his length fully nestled into your warm cunt. coriolanus' blunt nails graze your hips, moving lower to your ass to guide you with each thrust. you love seeing him underneath you, seeming completely mesmerized by how your breasts bounce up and down in front of him. he leans forward to wrap his lips around your nipple, but you beat him to it. you bend forward and suck bruises onto his skin, everywhere and anywhere: underneath his chin, across his collarbone, where his neck meets his shoulder.

his moans are so loud, and you're sure he's not going to last much longer. you're also worried that some of the other party guests might catch you, so you pull his head away from your shoulder and crash your lips back onto to his. you swallow his moans as best you can, tongues fight for dominance, but he lets out a deep groan, and lets you win. you bite down on his bottom lip just as you reach your climax, causing him to let out a deep groan once more.

you gasp when he suddenly flips you over, pulls out of you and stokes himself a few times before painting your body with his release. coriolanus all but collapses on the bed beside you. you're both breathing heavily for a few moments, on your backs looking up at the ceiling, before he turns on his side towards you. coriolanus trails hs fingers down to your abdomen, sticky with his cum.

"i told you: snow lands on top."

"was that a joke, coryo?" you guffaw, genuinely surprised at the mischievous but playful glint in his eye. a bit surprised at yourself, too, for using his nickname that you'd so carefully avoided. you had to remind yourself that he was still the same coriolanus snow you'd grown to hate.

the boy tangled in the sheets beside you, his messy curls translucent under the light of your chandelier, his skin glowing with sweat and decorated with lipstick and rose-petal bruises. the boy who now smiles at you with dazzling blue eyes, leans closer and whispers:

"don't get used to it. it's a special occasion." coriolanus kisses you sweetly, and you shiver before he adds: "happy birthday."

this boy in bed with you now is the same manipulative, power hungry snake who would stab you in the back if need be. and, the truth of the matter is: you aren't much different, either.

you get up to grab his wine-stained shirt, use it to wipe off his release and toss it back down to the floor.

his eyes follow you the entire time, even as you come back to straddle him again. almost instantly, you feel him harden underneath you. you hold his head in your hands, kiss him deeply, tease his bottom lip between your teeth as you pull away.

"snow lands on top, huh? not for long, if i can help it."

[librababe99]

Moments Between Time: Part One

CW: angst, hurt, dystopian, Mutant!Reader, mental anguish, existential despair, suggestive emotional and physical intimacy

Word Count: 2436

A/N: Hey loves! So I' m back with the first part of this new series featuring DOFP! Logan---Definitely one of my favorite x-men films that I went to see in theaters a few years back. I really hope y'all enjoy it--As always comments and feedback are highly appreciated! - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

(Part Two)

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The world had become a graveyard of memories, littered with the remnants of a civilization that once thrived. The skies, once a brilliant blue, were now a perpetually overcast gray, the sun a distant and pale shadow of its former self. Buildings stood as crumbling sentinels, their facades scorched and broken by years of unrelenting warfare. The air was thick with ash and the scent of burning, a constant reminder of the lives that had been lost and the battles yet to be fought.

The war had waged for years, perhaps decades—time had lost its meaning in the endless cycle of violence and survival. The Sentinels, monstrous machines designed to hunt and exterminate mutants, had decimated the population. Humanity, too, had been nearly eradicated in the crossfire, caught between the relentless advance of the Sentinels and the desperate resistance of the mutants. Those who remained were either in hiding or dead. The world was a barren wasteland, devoid of hope and teetering on the edge of oblivion.

You stood on the precipice of what was once a thriving city, now reduced to ruins. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, carrying with it the echoes of a world that no longer existed. Your heart was heavy with the weight of all you had seen, all you had lost. But you were still standing, still fighting. You had no other choice.

Your powers had been both a blessing and a curse in this war. The ability to manipulate time was a formidable weapon, allowing you to slow it, speed it up, or even rewind it in brief bursts. But every use took a toll, draining your energy, leaving you weaker with each passing day. It was a power that came with a price—a price you had paid over and over again, watching friends and allies fall only to rewind their deaths, knowing that it would only delay the inevitable.

And yet, despite everything, you had survived. You were one of the last remaining members of the X-Men, a shadow of the team that had once stood as a beacon of hope in a world that feared and hated them. But hope was a luxury none of you could afford anymore. Survival was all that mattered, and even that seemed like a losing battle.

Beside you, Logan Howlett—Wolverine—surveyed the desolate landscape with a grim expression. His once fierce eyes were hardened by the years of combat, yet there was a depth of sorrow in them that matched your own. His presence was a constant, a rock in the storm that raged around you both. You had fought together through countless battles, each one more desperate than the last, and had watched the world crumble piece by piece.

Logan’s wounds healed quickly, his regenerative abilities keeping him alive when others would have perished. But even he was not immune to the emotional toll of this endless war. The loss of friends, of family, of a future worth fighting for—it all weighed heavily on him, carving deep lines into his face, turning his hair to gray.

For years, you and Logan had been comrades in arms, partners on the battlefield. But there was more between you than just the bond forged in blood and fire. There was something unspoken, a connection that ran deeper than either of you dared to acknowledge. It was a thread that had woven itself through the fabric of your shared experiences, pulling you closer even as the world around you fell apart.

The quiet moments between skirmishes had become precious, stolen time where the chaos of the world seemed to fade, if only for a brief while. It was in those moments that you would catch Logan’s gaze, his eyes searching yours as if seeking solace in the only place it could be found. There were times when your hands would brush, a fleeting touch that sent a spark through your entire being, a reminder that you were still alive, still capable of feeling something other than pain and despair.

But there was no room for love in a world like this. No room for the vulnerability that came with it. To love was to risk losing everything, and neither of you could afford that. So, you kept your feelings buried deep, hidden beneath layers of resolve and determination. There were more pressing matters at hand—survival, resistance, the slim chance of victory.

As the days passed and the future grew increasingly bleak, a plan began to take shape among the remaining X-Men. It was a desperate, last-ditch effort to change the course of history, to prevent the events that had led to this catastrophic timeline. The idea was to send someone back in time, to a point before the Sentinels were created, before the war had begun. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance you had left.

The choice of who to send was obvious. Logan was the only one who could survive the journey. His healing factor would protect him from the physical strain, and his mind was strong enough to endure the temporal displacement. But even with his abilities, the mission was fraught with danger. If it failed, if something went wrong, there would be no coming back.

Your role in the plan was just as crucial. Your powers would be used to anchor Logan’s consciousness in the past, to guide him and keep him connected to the present. It was a task that required immense concentration and would drain you of almost all your energy. You knew the risks, knew that there was a very real possibility that you wouldn’t survive the attempt. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was giving Logan a chance to succeed, to change the future, to save the world.

The night before the mission, you found yourself unable to sleep. The weight of what was to come pressed down on you, a heavy burden that you carried alone. You had always been strong, resilient, but the thought of what lay ahead filled you with a sense of dread that you couldn’t shake.

You sat alone in the darkness, the cold air seeping into your bones, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and determination. The reality of the situation was sinking in—this could be the last night you ever spent in this world. The last night you would see Logan, hear his voice, feel his presence beside you.

The sound of footsteps drew you from your thoughts, and you looked up to see Logan approaching. His face was set in a somber expression, the lines of worry etched deep into his features. He said nothing as he sat down beside you, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that was left unsaid.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. There was nothing that needed to be said, no words that could capture the magnitude of what was about to happen. But the silence wasn’t empty—it was filled with the unspoken emotions that had been building between you for years. The tension that had simmered beneath the surface, always there but never acknowledged, was now impossible to ignore.

Finally, it was Logan who broke the silence. His voice was rough, low, like gravel underfoot. “Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the first light of dawn was just beginning to break.

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “Yeah. It is.”

He turned to look at you then, his gaze intense, searching. “You ready for this?”

You met his eyes, seeing the concern there, the fear that he was trying so hard to hide. You managed a small, sad smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Logan’s hand reached out, hesitating for just a moment before he rested it on yours. The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the cold that surrounded you, a lifeline in the darkness. You looked down at your joined hands, your heart pounding in your chest.

“This could be it,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If things go wrong… I just… I don’t want you to—”

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could finish. “Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “Don’t say it. We can’t afford to think like that.”

But even as you said the words, you knew it was too late. The reality of the situation hung between you like a shadow, impossible to ignore. Logan squeezed your hand, the pressure grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of despair.

“You’re strong,” he said, his voice steady, reassuring. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You’ll get through this. You have to.”

The intensity of his gaze, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered, took your breath away. For a moment, you felt like the world had stopped, that there was nothing but the two of you in that cold, desolate night.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his face in your hand, your thumb brushing lightly over the rough stubble on his cheek. “And you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You have to come back. You have to make it right.”

Logan’s eyes softened, the hardness in them giving way to something deeper, more vulnerable. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he vowed, his voice fierce, filled with a determination that sent a shiver down your spine. “I swear, I’ll make it right.”

The moment hung between you, heavy and charged, the tension that had been building for years finally coming to a head. It was as if all the barriers you had both put up, all the walls you had built around your hearts, were crumbling in the face of what was to come.

Before you could second-guess yourself, before the fear could take hold, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was fierce, desperate, a collision of pent-up emotions that neither of you could contain any longer. Logan responded immediately, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as if he could merge your bodies, your souls, into one.

There was no room for hesitation, no time for doubt. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more intense, as if you were both trying to pour everything you felt into this one moment. It was a kiss born of desperation, of the fear that this might be your last chance to feel something real, something good, before the darkness swallowed you whole.

Logan’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you into his lap as he kissed you with a fervor that left you breathless. You could feel the raw power in him, the barely-contained rage and pain that he carried with him every day, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to take it all away, to make him feel something other than the constant ache of loss and regret.

The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other, clinging to this one moment of passion and vulnerability. It was as if time itself had stopped, holding you in a suspended reality where nothing else mattered.

But time, as always, was cruel. The kiss slowed, the intensity gradually ebbing away, leaving behind a bittersweet longing that settled deep in your chest. You pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling in the cold air.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

He opened his eyes, and the raw emotion you saw there nearly brought you to your knees. There was so much in his gaze���love, fear, desperation, hope. It was almost too much to bear.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” you said, your voice barely audible, “I need you to know… I—”

But before you could finish, Logan captured your lips again, silencing you with a kiss that was somehow even more tender, more meaningful than the last. It was a kiss that spoke of promises unmade, of words left unsaid, of a future that might never come.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still cradling your face, his expression was one of fierce determination. “You don’t have to say it,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I know. I’ve always known.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, nodding as you leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his hand on your skin. The dawn was fast approaching, the light slowly creeping over the horizon, casting long shadows over the ruined city.

The reality of what was to come settled over you both like a dark cloud, but in this moment, with Logan’s arms around you, you felt a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. You knew that this could be the last time you ever saw him, the last time you felt his touch, his kiss. But you also knew that if anyone could change the future, it was Logan.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the gloom, you pulled back, reluctantly breaking the embrace. Logan’s eyes searched yours, and you could see the same mixture of hope and fear reflected in them.

“It’s time,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart.

Logan nodded, his expression hardening as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. But before he could step away, you reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Promise me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

Logan’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the hardness in his expression melted away, replaced by something tender, something achingly vulnerable. He squeezed your hand in return, his grip strong and reassuring.

“I promise,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’ll come back. I’ll find you.”

With one last lingering look, Logan turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the shadows as he prepared to embark on the most dangerous mission of his life.

And as you watched him go, your heart heavy with a mixture of fear and hope, you whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening, begging them to bring him back to you.

Because in this world of darkness and despair, Logan was your only light, your only hope.

And you weren’t ready to let that go.

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Taglist: @hughverine @itzyahgirllkita1 @nonamevenus

(If you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series moving forward just comment below <3 )

[moonstruckme]

bonfire! spencer reid + only one bed trope pls 💕💕

Thanks for requesting!

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 535 words

You wouldn’t have pegged Spencer for a heavy sleeper. 

You suppose it makes sense. With a brain like his and a schedule like your team’s, good rest when he can get it is probably essential. You’d all worked late into the night tonight, so late that Hotch had decided you should just sleep here and get on the jet home in the morning. Rooms at the hotel had been purchased for your team for the last two nights, but none of you had used the first one, so when you and Spencer had gotten here a few hours ago it had come as a surprise that you’d been double-booked. Or single-booked, maybe. 

Two cards, one room. One singular bed, plus a pull-out couch that you’d both offered halfheartedly to take before collapsing into the plush mattress and 300 thread-count sheets. You’d both changed into your pajamas and fallen asleep almost instantly, at least two chaste feet of space between you on the bed. You’d woken hardly an hour later with an embarrassing pool of drool on your pillow and a long-fingered hand curled in the material of your shirt. 

You can’t decide whether to be grateful for the fact that Spencer doesn’t so much as stir when he hooks an ankle over yours, urging you closer to him almost entreatingly while your fatigued heart starts kicking in your chest. You stay facing away from him, looking into the pitch darkness. You can’t move any farther away without edging off the bed, but you try anyway, inching until one of your legs is dangling off the mattress, and when you slip the other from beneath Spencer’s ankle there’s a soft, plaintive sound from behind you. His fingers wind tighter into your shirt. 

You freeze. 

Spencer’s breaths are deep and even, and you marvel at it as he crosses his ankle over yours again, bare calf sliding against yours and interlocking your legs more securely. And frankly, you’re too tired to fight it. 

You scoot backwards on the bed. It’s twice as easy as it had been going the other direction, probably because of the way the mattress dips in the middle or Spencer’s slight tug or maybe even some sort of magnetic pull like in those books Penelope’s always reading. You suppose anything is possible. Whatever the case, it seems to be a relief for you both. Spencer’s other hand wraps around your middle as soon as you’re close enough, gentle and contented, and he’s warm enough to make the freezing air blasting through the A/C feel comfortable. 

His quiet sigh hits the back of your neck as you both settle, a few careful inches still between you. Even unconscious, you think politeness must be ingrained in Spencer, because his touch stays over the material of your shirt, courteous and unmoving. You let your fingers stroke over his once, and they twitch in his sleep. 

You don’t remember closing your eyes, but heavy as they are it can’t take long. When the blue light of early morning cuts through the drawn curtains and Spencer’s limbs stiffen where they’re twined around you, his breath catching in surprise and embarrassment, you’ll pretend you’re a heavy sleeper, too.

[kyunniebuns]

˗ˏˋ Entry : 051 - Wanderer x Painter! Fem! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕣 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

╰┈➤ ❝ [ A Needle and a Thread ] ¡! ❞

There was this very pretty person in the akademiya, he was known for being snobbish and... Sharp tongued. Regardless, he had quite the reputation on him since he is affiliated with the akademiya and was one of the famous students just because of his incredibly written research papers.

Have you read them? No.

Not that you are lazy, of course not.

Even if you do read it, can your brain even digest and understand anything of his works?

No.

So what's the point of doing so?

Your worlds would never cross, him being an academic genius, and you being a self-employed painter who sells their paintings to make the living— What are the odds of ever crossing paths?

But ah, your fates would intertwine with eachother.

Carrying a heavy box of paint and canvases to use.

Today is a lovely day, the breeze is gentle, the clouds are fluffy and high with the sun resting rightfully so on the blue sky.

It's a perfect day to paint, is it not.

"Woah, woah!!" You squeak, your foot getting caught on a rock.

You practically sob out your heart, bracing yourself for impact on both the floor and your lovely paint getting wasted.

Those sweet, sweet paints that you have starved yourself to buy.

At least, that was what you thought would happen until a strong and firm arm held the box and another holding your arm.

"Just what are you doing stumbling about like a toddler?" A low voice grumbles, sighing before easily hoisting the box "Pathetic, you human beings are such clutz. It's a miracle your species have lasted this long"

"...."

A large, round hat similar to a straw hat but instead heavily decorated. Long light blue strips that complement its overall appearance. You couldn't see that high since you were significantly shorter than him, but you wear you could see stars at the top of his hat.

"Well?" He sneers, sharply glancing back at you with his intense indigo orbs.

"Oh... Uhm..." You fidget before pointing at a hilltop. "I just needed uhm... To get up there"

He turns around again and without a word, he goes up— Not even glancing back at you as he ascends to the hill.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

As soon as he reached the top of the hill, he placed the crate of paint and canvas onto the grass— The stranger makes his way past you.

"Wait, mister!" You call out and he sighs before turning back to you.

"What is it?" He speaks in that condescending tone of his.

"How can I pay you? I have some pie with me—"

"No need," The stranger crosses his arms, scoffing as he doesn't meet your eyes. "I don't need sustenance, especially sweet pastries."

"Oh..." You droop, "Then, is there another way for me to repay you?"

"Don't get in my way."

Those were the last words he said before walking away, leaving you in a daze.

...

You couldn't even get his name.

That boy with a delicate and fair face, sharp round eyes that makes you shiver from the sheer dominance and leadership it holds, and a voice that makes you instantly back away— You couldn't get his name.

As rude as he is, you felt guilty for not being able to at least repay him.

Because despite his sharp words, he still helped you in delivering your art materials up this hill.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

You surely thought you wouldn't be crossing paths again, right?

But ah, you would.

Time and time again, he would end up helping you in carrying your stuff or he would just grumble as he entertains your attempts at small talks.

Of course, the blue haired boy shuts you down in every attempt. Claiming "Small talk" is unnecessary just to occupy the awkward silence between.

But does he tell you to stop talking? No, not really.

Even if he jabs at you here and there, he lets you linger around him.

An odd character, is he not?

Actively avoiding deep connections, but doesn't necessarily actively tell you to go away. Well, he does say "Do you have to tell me this?" But other than that? He listens.

Despite looking like he couldn't care less about anything, the blue haired boy paid attention to every story you told him.

Sometimes he would even scold you when you told him the actions you took

"How foolish must you be?"

"You humans are such nitwits."

"Are you here to gossip about your stupidity again?"

Insult on top of another insult.

Yet he would lay down on the grass and listen to your little rambles.

꒰ .... ꒱

"You never told me your name" You say as you watch the blue haired boy rest on the green field.

"Names are things only humans have to attach themselves to," He simply answered.

"That's not an answer" You smile at him, poking his cheek that earned you a light smack on your wrist.

"Knock it off," He scoffs, "I don't have one. Call me as you wish."

"Hat guy?" You muse.

"Hah." The blue haired boy simply shakes his head. "Everyone calls me that, so do what you want."

"Wanderer?"

"I don't care what you call me"

He turns around, but you swear— You must have seen a small smile gracing his lips.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Kunikuzushi

Kabukimono

Kuronoshi

Shouki No Kami

Scaramouche

The Sixth of the Balladeer

And finally, Wanderer.

He went by many names, all stemming from either happiness that ended in betrayal— Or a place born from pure hate and malice.

All his names are always surrounded by pain and suffering.

Abandoned by his mother.

Betrayed by his closest friends.

And left by a sweet child due to mortality.

All that he is— Is but a sorry speck of existence born from a purpose but ultimately was found unfit for the role that he was made for.

Pathetic.

There's no one here more pathetic than him.

Wanderer says he does not dwell on the past, but in the quiet night, where nothing else is really around him— His mind would wander.

No in fact, he was always thinking about the past on his lonely days. To avoid those moments, Wanderer would drown himself in creating essays. He doesn't know how people find them absolutely genius in a way and even hold it to some pedestal he never intended to.

But whatever.

It doesn't matter. As long as they don't bother him too much, then it's alright.

Then we have you.

No, there's nothing really wrong with you.

It's a bit of a.... Curiousity situation?

He was a little intrigued towards you. Wanderer has met a lot of eccentric people in sumeru who wont stop pestering him. Even people from the temple of silence have their eyes on him.

But unlike with those other people— The lonesome and melancholic Wanderer finds himself wanting to linger around you more.

He doesn't really know why.

It's just that his chest feels oddly pleasant so long as he is around your vicinity and he can hear your gentle breathing.

Why does he feel that way anyway? He only has mechanical insides powered by whatever the hell power his mother had used. There is nothing inside his chest but just some cogwheels and whatever.

And yet he finds himself fascinated by you, entranced even. He has this type of curiosity that he cant find a solution to.

So he just hangs around you in hopes of finding the answer to his mechanical predicament.

꒰ .... ꒱

"Hat guy?" You poke his arm curiously.

"Mn?" He groans a bit, stirring from his short nap.

"What's that in your pocket?" You point at the small bump on his pants and watched as he fishes the item out.

"Just a dumb piece of cloth" Wanderer scoffs, tossing it to your palm.

Dumb?

How can a doll so cute be so dumb?

The miniature thing had Wanderer's face and its clothes are a mix of white and purple. A single tear would run down from one eye too. The craftsmanship of the needlework is extremely skilled, maybe it was done by a professional?

"But it's so cute though, it looks like you!" You protest, waving the little doll on his face to which he replied by pushing your hand away slowly.

"Of course."

"Did you make it?"

"Who else would?"

"Woah, I thought the only talent you had in you was making up insults!"

His blue eyes would glance up at you all of the sudden, making you freeze in an instant.

"U-uhm... Heheh" You sheepishly chuckle, scratching your cheek as he kept looking at you.

"Five years back I would have cut your tongue for daring to do such insolence" Wanderer sits up, gently flicking your forehead with a finger as a way to have vengeance. "You're lucky I had a change of heart."

"I didn't think you would ever hide such a cute little thing on you!" You muse, holding up the little hat guy doll on the air.

"You like it?" He quirks up an eyebrow, "It's yours then"

"Eh?" You perk up at him, eyes wide with joyous glee. "Really? But wont it be lonely without you?"

"... Now where in the world did you get that logic from? It's a doll."

It was ironic coming from his lips.

After all, he's a doll himself and yet he is all too familiar with the bittersweetness of loneliness.

"But..." He watches the way you slump down as you hold the miniature version of him.

"If it's with you, then the doll will be happy." Wanderer averts his gaze from yours. "So quit sulking."

꒰ .... ꒱

He said that and yet here he is, a bunch of cloth on his lap and a set of needles on the other. He kept grumbling underneath his breath as he started to do the basic stitching.

It's just a doll.

And yet he made sure to be extra picky about the fabrics he'll use and the quality of the threads that will make this doll come to life.

He wanted it to be perfect.

As perfect as you are in his eyes.

He wants to replicate your perfect hair that bounces every time you hop to him the moment your pretty eyes would land on someone as dull as him.

He made your clothes simple and adorable to match the little hat guy doll.

"Should be enough?" He mumbles, holding up the doll version of you after stitching the eyes up and stuffing it. "I guess it is"

He adds the remaining stitches before standing up.

Wanderer started to stroll around while recalling your schedule. It's awfully sunny today, the weather he absolutely despises. However, he wasn't as ticked off as he normally is today since locating you in such a cloudless day is easy.

After all, you're normally on top of a certain hill, taking shade from a certain tree and painting your gleeful little heart away.

Why does he know this information so well? He doesn't know.

He just does.

And certainly enough, you were there.

A paintbrush in hand, a palette on the other, and your eyebrows scrunched as you try to replicate the overall shape of a sumerian rose.

"..." He shakes his head before floating to your side, catching you off-guard. "It's just me, pretty face."

Wanderer lands on your side, a hand stretching out to your waist so he can keep you steady.

"I forgot you have a vision" You sputter out, putting your paintbrush down to calm yourself. "Erm... You normally don't come looking for me. How come today is different?"

"I can do what I want." He says gruffly before handing the doll to you. "You said the little hat guy doll is feeling lonely as of late. Here."

You stare down at his hand that placed the little thing on your palms.

"Is this me?"

"No, it's a slumbering sumpter beast."

Hahah.

He can't really keep himself from being sarcastic huh?

Wanderer observes your reaction with crossed arms, watching intently as you bring out the doll version of him and placing 'you two' side by side.

"Now he won't be lonely!" You beam happily, so distracted by the cuteness of the dolls that you fail to notice the slight twitch on his lips. "I'm going to have to find loads of cute doll clothes for them, maybe I can find some in port ormos? Oh, maybe I can buy them a doll house too so they can have a home? What do you think?"

You look up at him.

"Wanderer?"

The name slips out of your lips again.

His name.

A name he never really thought about.

He just chose it because it suits his lost soul and weary soul.

His soul that is full of malice and sin.

It's just a name.

But how come it sounds so sweet when you call out to him?

"Hat guy—!!!"

Your words would come interrupted as something wet and sweet comes in contact with your lips. The view is suddenly so dark with the shadow of the hat hovering on top of your head and his nose pressed right next to yours.

You can't even think straight as he flicks his tongue once, twice, thrice— No. You lost count already.

Wanderer was tender with you, so ironic of his sharp tongue to be so soft and sweet.

You can maybe taste a bit of the bitter chamomile tea he chugs down on a daily basis.

Is it really bitter?

You can't even tell, all you know is that this man is kissing you.

"Wanderer sounds prettier when it's from your lips" He said the moment he pulled back, but not enough to break the string of saliva breaking you two. "So quit calling me that dumb name"

Ah.

You don't even realize you're standing on your tippy toes as you gaze up on those mesmerizing indigo eyes of his. The eyes that held so much sadness and loneliness— Is looking at you right now as if you're the only thing he has ever wished for in his lifetime.

"Wanderer."

"Yes." He nuzzles his nose against yours. "Call out my name a few more times, make it sound like it's ths most pleasant thing you've ever said."

—Because I am tired. Tired of this loneliness that I feel; of this bitter and heavy feeling that weighs in my empty mechanical heart. Make me feel what it's like to have someone precious again.

And in exchange, I will make you my heart.

꒰ 🪼 A/N: It's always Scaramouche so I wrote for Wanderer. I love him a lot. I wasn't on the train as much when he was still Scaramouche but after meeting Wanderer I'm fully hooked and I love him a lot x3!!! He's adorable and flirty, as sharp as his tongue is I get the butterflies when he sneaks in his flirty remarks. Like I see you, Wawan! You want me to focus on your mean words but on the contrary I always end up rmbering whenever you said pretty~. I'm going to write more genshin and hsr. I want to expand my roster of love interests so heheh╰⁠(⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠´⁠꒳⁠`⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠)⁠╯꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[papiliotao]

꒰ 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 ✩࿐

pairings: alhaitham, kaveh, kazuha, lyney, scaramouche, and xiao x gn!reader (separate)

content: fluff, modern au, college au, the reader is a sleep-deprived student, correction: everyone in this fic is a sleep-deprived student, cuddling, reader is sick in scara’s, venti makes a cameo in kazuha’s part, reverse comfort in kaveh’s

summary: small scenarios with the genshin boys as your roommates! ♡

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, so i decided to finally finish it up. i hope you enjoy!

₊˚ପ ALHAITHAM

Tonight, it feels like endless night ebbs and flows into the very core of your being, chilling you with fragments of a glacial atmosphere.

It’s cold.

Even with multiple blankets wrapped around you, you can’t help but shiver, shake like a vibrant autumn leaf in a passing zephyr. Winter is approaching, and unfortunately for you, you may have relished a little too much in the gilded threads of summer warmth that had graced the world a few months prior. For now, you’re unable to stand the gradual freeze that’s beginning to spread throughout your city.

Slumber is tempting. It lures you in, wrapping you in a blanket weaved of starlight and dreams. However, it’s all an illusion. In reality, you’re far from sleep. You know that there’s no way you’ll be able to pass the gateway into the oneiric realm. Not with the sensation of frostbite threatening to consume you whole.

Eventually, you decide to get up. You’re certain that you won’t be able to fall asleep, at least, not without more blankets, so you decide to make your way to Alhaitham’s room to ask if he has any spares.

Although you’d normally feel guilty for rousing someone from slumber, it’s not that late as of right now. Either way, you’re quite certain that your roommate is still wide awake, most likely losing himself amongst the yellowed pages of a verbose book. After all, he always seems to have his nose buried in a complex tome, filled with words that make your brain hurt.

Slowly, you drag yourself out from under the plush covers of your bed. The floorboards groan slightly as you stand, exhaling under the pressure of your footsteps. You make your way down a hallway drowned in shades of midnight, making your way towards the golden light seeping out into the corridor from under the cracks of a closed door.

The door to Alhaitham’s room.

You knock, the sound seemingly echoing down the walls of the hall, repeating in a chorus of onomatopoeia.

A few seconds pass before the door opens to reveal Alhaitham. Strands of silver hair messily frame his face, and yet as the aquamarine hues of his irises meet your gaze, you find that he’s just as dazzling as ever.

“Do you need something?” he asks, his voice as flat and monotonous as always. As usual, your roommate’s front doesn’t betray a single hint of emotion. Not even irritation.

You pause for a moment, still a little intimidated by Alhaitham. Although you’ve been living together for a while now, his apathetic demeanour can be slightly off-putting at times. Nonetheless, you eventually manage to steel your nerves.

“Yeah,” you say. The word comes tumbling out of your mouth clumsily. “Do you happen to have any extra blankets?”

Alhaitham pauses for a moment, seemingly deep in thought.

You hold your breath, hoping that he’ll say yes, and you’ll be able to get this over with.

However, he shakes his head, and you feel your heart drop, shattering into a thousand shards of fragmented ruby.

“Oh,” you sigh, trying your best to hide the dejected expression overtaking your features. “That’s okay. Sorry for bothering you.” 

You turn away, ready to head back to your room, but Alhaitham’s voice stops you.

“I think it’s safe to presume you wanted a blanket because you were cold, right?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so you don’t bother to answer it. Instead, you freeze, becoming akin to a statue carved of pale blue ice.

“Then allow me to propose an alternate solution.”

You turn around, meeting Alhaitham’s eyes once more. Lakes of turquoise, typically devoid of emotion, are now filled with a particular spark. You can’t quite determine what it is, but there’s a subtle glimmer — barely visible, but it’s there.

“Why don’t you stay in my room for the night?”

Your eyes widen, and you feel your jaw drop. For a moment, you just stand there, absolutely still and dumbfounded.

Perhaps you had heard Alhaitham wrong. Or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, making mirages materialize out of nothing. The blank expression painted over your roommate’s features certainly makes you think so.

“Excuse me?” you blink languidly, staring at Alhaitham as if he’ll disappear into thin air if you take your eyes off him.

“I said why don’t you stay in my room for the night?” he repeats nonchalantly, the evening chill seemingly intertwining itself into his tone. His gaze remains fixated on you.

Your mind blanks for a second, each intricate acrylic line of a composition painted over, leaving you with nothing but an empty canvas. As you stand still, a thousand scenarios seem to flash through your head, filling up the blank space with a myriad of thoughts — some pleasant and some unpleasant. However, you soon realize that you don’t have time to weigh all the pros and cons of your decision, as Alhaitham is staring at you intently, awaiting your answer.

“Sure,” you blurt out.

You’re not sure what compels you to accept his proposal. Perhaps it’s your longing for the comfort of shared warmth. Perhaps it’s a result of your inability to say no to others due to a fear of disappointing them. Or perhaps it’s because you’ve grown a lot closer to Alhaitham than you’d care to admit.

Although you’re still slightly intimidated by him, you’re certain that he’d never do anything to harm you. And there are even times where he shows he has your best interests in mind (despite the fact that you were initially under the impression that he cared little for others).

You’re snapped out of your trance of reminiscence as Alhaitham speaks once more.

“Alright,” he says, taking your hand and leading you over to his bed. His grip is firm — not suffocating, but at the same time, not so soft that the connection between the two of you would be easily severed.

Alhaitham’s touch sends butterflies, tinted a colour reminiscent of spring blossoms, dancing within the pit of your stomach. It’s enchanting, and at this rate, you’re not sure how you’ll be able to handle sleeping in the same bed as him.

He allows you to climb into bed first, tucking you in with an unexpected amount of care. You know Alhaitham’s not exactly the cold-hearted jerk many make him out to be, but you didn’t anticipate that he’d be this gentle, his touch akin to the caress of sunlight on a spring day.

After the man ensures that you’re cozy, he lies down beside you, embracing you. As he does so, you feel a wave of heat overwhelm you. To your relief, the frigidness that had once gnawed at your very soul is now gone, but unfortunately, you’re faced with a new problem.

Alhaitham’s actions have flustered you, and to your misfortune, it feels as though crimson embers of embarrassment are bursting into flames far too quickly for your liking.

You’ve solved one issue, but in turn, you’ve accidentally created another.

This is going to be a long night.

₊˚ପ KAVEH

It’s no secret that your roommate is a perfectionist.

Whenever his eyebrows knit up in a jumble of discontent and pools of liquid ruby tinged with sunsets glint with hints of frustration, it becomes obvious what’s going on. He’s spent too long trying to perfect yet another assignment. The bags that seem to perpetually line the undersides of his eyes are dark shadows — serving as an eternal reminder of the man’s exhaustion.

There are times where you find him hunched over his desk, teetering on a thin tightrope, walking a line between the waking world and a wonderland of dreams. Of course, he refuses to succumb to the temptations of a golden slumber time and time again, forcing himself to fixate on his projects until he’s finished and happy with the final product.

Today is one of those days. The cold light that leaks through the cracks beneath the door to Kaveh’s room seeps into the hallway, serving as a warning written in a display of molten opalescence.

Stark white. Cutting through the darkness of deep midnights with ease.

It’s jarring, and when you press your ear to the door and listen carefully, you manage to make out the sound of Kaveh muttering underneath his breath.

You know you have to do something. Now. Before your roommate decides to work himself into a stupor again.

You take a deep breath, inhaling night air reminiscent of the crystalline waters. It’s refreshing, and as you breathe out, a sense of tranquility washes over you.

Steeling yourself, you knock on Kaveh’s door, the sound seemingly reverberating through the corridor in a myriad of echoes.

“[Name]? Is that you?” he asks, his voice ringing out loudly, fragmenting and shattering the quiet ambience. 

You hear the sounds of drawers opening and closing, papers rustling, and footsteps falling.

“There’s no point in hiding anything,” you tell your roommate, picturing the distress swirling like nebulae in his vibrant crimson eyes. “I know you’ve been working late again.”

The noises come to a halt, and peace returns to the late night atmosphere once more. Soon, the sound of soft footsteps fills your senses, gradually growing louder in a crescendo until you’re sure that Kaveh is right in front of the door.

Not a second later, it swings open to reveal a sleep-deprived Kaveh clad in pyjamas.

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” he sighs. “You caught me red-handed.”

Silence permeates your senses for a few seconds, but the illusion of stillness is quickly shattered as Kaveh breathes out a sigh.

“I just can’t seem to figure out this one last thing,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. “I seriously can’t take it anymore. It’s driving me insane.”

For a few seconds, his gaze remains averted, staring down at the wooden finish of his desk, tinted a subtle peach under the topaz shades of light spilling from Kaveh’s lamp. If you didn’t know any better, you would have sworn that he had fallen asleep. However, your eyes eventually meet hues of dulled rose, glittering with a faint spark concealed by exhaustion.

“You should rest,” you tell your roommate, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder. To your relief, he doesn’t flinch or pull away when you touch him. He simply slumps and begins to stand up.

“I suppose you’re right,” he speaks slowly, his voice laced with resignation. “Maybe a short break will help me clear my mind.”

Kaveh walks over to his bed, brushing locks of sunshine away from his eyes. The mattress sinks like quicksand as he lies down and tucks himself under the covers, enveloping him in layers upon layers of plush comfort.

You turn away, switching Kaveh’s lamp off before you head back to the door. However, just as you’re about to leave, Kaveh calls your name.

“[Name],” Kaveh starts, his voice seemingly amplified by the abyssal midnight overtaking your surroundings.

You spin around, only to be met with the sight of Kaveh’s silhouette outlined against backdrops of navy and black, enveloping the world in curtains of phantasmagoric silk.

“Can you stay with me?” he asks. His voice trembles slightly, and he sounds sheepish — almost shy. “It’s just that, if I don’t have you around, I might convince myself to start working again.”

You freeze.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

It takes three seconds for you to fully process Kaveh’s request, and when you do, you feel your heart skip a beat.

“I would be happy to.”

And with Kaveh’s permission, you climb under the covers of his bed with him. He wraps an arm around you. The position feels far too intimate for two roommates who harbour nothing more than platonic feelings for each other, but you decide that that’s a problem for future you to address.

For now, you decide to close your eyes and seek solace in a realm of breathtaking dreamscapes. Finding joy in each cotton candy cloud, each droplet of crystal rain, and each gilded leaf within a fantastical world found far away from reality.

And yet as you drift off to sleep, you find that there’s one thing in the waking world that has become far more tantalizing than anything your imagination could ever conjure: the warmth of Kaveh’s embrace.

₊˚ପ KAZUHA

Golden ribbons of warmth caress your face as you open your eyes to find yourself awake again. A wave of tranquility washes over you, weighing down your eyelids with a serene lullaby — an ode to quiet mornings spent in the solace of your home. You want nothing more than to stay in bed for a few more minutes, but you have classes.

Groggily, you stretch and then pick your phone up from where it’s sitting on your nightstand in order to check the time. The screen lights up with a cold radiance, a stark contrast to the gilded rays of the sun, as you turn it on.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

It’s 9:30 a.m., and you’ve already missed the start of your first class. You grimace internally, but you can’t dwell on your feelings for too long. After all, the longer you delay, the more you’ll miss.

You change in record time, pulling on a comfortable hoodie and jeans, grab a few of your belongings, and rush out the door.

The chilly autumn air brushes against your skin as you make your way to class, and the enticing fragrance of sap hits your nose, tantalizing you with a perfume that carries nostalgic memories. In the corners of your vision, you watch as leaves coloured shades of vivid crimson, marigold, and amber swirl in a waltz signaling the end of summer and the beginnings of harsher days. The scenery is beautiful, and if you weren’t in a panic, you would have stopped to admire it. However, you force yourself to ignore the scenes around you, continuing to focus on your primary objective.

When you arrive at the lecture hall, you’re panting. Simple oxygen feels like ambrosia to you, sweet and satisfying, refreshing in a way that it’s never been before. For a few moments, you stand outside the room and catch your breath. With each inhale and exhale, you get closer and closer to finding a rhythm until finally, you’re no longer gasping for air.

Quietly, you walk into class, trying your best to avoid disturbing anyone. Thankfully, nobody seems to notice as you take a seat near the back of the hall, settling down in your seat. Time passes slowly as class continues on, and it almost feels like universal laws operate differently within the small bubble of the room you’re currently sitting in. Everything seems to take an eternity, and you can’t do anything except watch the minutes tick by, each addition of one moving you closer and closer to the end of a mundane lecture.

It feels like the moment will never arrive, but eventually, you’re dismissed. Thankfully, there’s quite a while until you have to go to your next class, so you decide to wander around for a while.

For a while, you stroll aimlessly, eventually finding yourself back outdoors once more. Now, you can truly savour the beauty of your surroundings, relish in the splendor of each flaming leaf that drifts by and each rivulet of tepid light that pierces through the crystalline coolness of the autumn air.

You stand there for a while, simply enjoying a break after a hectic morning.

Until something else — or rather, someone else — catches your eye.

Under the shade of a maple tree stands your roommate, basking in the glory of a crimson waterfall composed entirely of maple leaves dancing gracefully until they hit the ground. His platinum hair is tied back in its usual ponytail, each strand of silken moonlight swaying as a gentle zephyr blows by, and his eyes are a shade of ruby that flawlessly mimics the autumnal landscape.

He’s as breathtaking as ever.

But before you can admire him for long, hues of starglitter and rose petals meet your gaze, and a small smile dances across his lips. Without a word, he walks over to you.

“Running into you here is certainly a pleasant surprise,” he says, his grin widening.

“You say that as if we don’t already live together,” you remark, laughing a little.

He chuckles, the sound as light and airy as autumn winds swirling leaves around in a finale of farewells. The lighthearted atmosphere is truly euphoric, especially after such a stressful morning.

Of course, good things never last for long.

“Good morning, Kazuha. Good morning, [name]. How’s my favourite couple?” a cheery voice asks. In the edges of your vision, you see a figure donning twin braids of sapphire and turquoise approaching. It’s Venti — one of Kazuha’s friends.

Both you and Kazuha freeze, a frigidity crystallizing the ambience into icy fractals. And yet at the same time, you can feel your face beginning to heat up.

Couple?

Before you can clear up the misunderstanding, Kazuha speaks.

“Good morning to you too, Venti,” he says. “We’re doing well, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Kazuha subtly averts his gaze, staring at the ground, but you swear you can see a blush dawning on his cheeks in shades of sunset. “[Name] and I aren’t a couple.”

“Oh really?” Venti asks teasingly, giggling in a manner that sounds almost maniacal, “then why are they wearing your hoodie?”

You look down, and sure enough, the top you chose to wear today was Kazuha’s. He had allowed you to borrow it a few days ago when you complained about the chilly autumn weather, and you had forgotten to return it. Apparently you were in such a rush this morning that you pulled it on without a second thought.

“It was an accident,” you blurt out, wanting to clear up the misconception as soon as possible. “I woke up late, and I was in a hurry.”

“Uh huh,” Venti nods, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Sure. I believe you.”

“No, seriously. We’re not a couple,” you reiterate, sighing as Venti laughs quietly.

“Whatever you say,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

Without another word, Venti skips off, jubilantly humming to himself. And now, you’re alone with Kazuha, left to deal with the awkward aftermath of Venti’s assumptions.

“That was… interesting,” you remark.

Kazuha nods.

“I hope you didn’t feel too uncomfortable,” he says, smiling at you gently, a light blush still coating his cheeks. Although you’ll never admit it out loud, you find him quite cute when he’s flustered. Venti would have a field day if he knew you found your roommate so adorable.

“I’m fine,” you reassure Kazuha, “and I’ll return your hoodie to you as soon as possible,” you add.

However, to your surprise, Kazuha shakes his head.

“You can keep it if you want,” he tells you.

“Really?”

Kazuha chuckles.

“Really,” he assures you. “As long as you don’t mind being mistaken for a couple, that is. I know I certainly don’t.”

₊˚ପ LYNEY

“Lyney, if I remember correctly, you told me you perform magic as a sort of side hustle, right?” you ask your roommate.

The question comes from out of the blue, but you want nothing more than to learn about the man you’ve recently grown to be infatuated with. Besides, he’ll probably think nothing of it; it’s only natural for someone to want to get to know their roommate.

“Yeah, I guess you’d be right,” he responds, averting his gaze from his phone and glancing at you. “Although I’d say it’s more about putting on a good show than the money.”

Lilac hues make your mind go blank as you make eye contact, enchanting you with oceans full of stardust and sunshine alike. Lilac. It’s a colour you’ve come to adore. Before meeting Lyney, it was a shade known to you as the border between night and day, mixed into compositions of dawning sunrises and fading sunsets. But now, it’s synonymous with magic and mystery, and it’s all thanks to your charming roommate.

“Oh, I see,” you mutter.

You’re surprised that your voice doesn’t end up shaking. Simply looking into Lyney’s eyes is causing your heart to beat rapidly, igniting crimson sparks of giddiness and glee with each thump.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to be in love.

“Why do you ask?” Lyney inquires, tilting his head slightly. “Are you interested in seeing a trick?”

Lyney flashes a charming smile at you — a smile embodying the enigmatic charms of various twilight hues. He reaches his hand up to brush the few strands of dusky hair that had fallen in front of his eyes away, and somehow, the subtle action makes you find him all the more attractive.

“I would love to,” you say, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

You wait with bated breath, feeling the whole world still as you await Lyney’s response. The carefree atmosphere solidifies into something denser, heavier, as tension begins to build.

“Well, I usually don’t do private shows like this, especially not out of the blue,” he remarks.

For a second, you feel your smile fall.

“But since it’s you, I can try,” Lyney says.

A grins dances upon your lips once more, and the elation from before comes back in full force. Unbridled adoration swirls through your heart, taking down each and every glacial barrier in a roaring tempest of rose and vermillion. With every day that passes, you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper into the clutches of romantic fantasies.

“Thank you.”

With that, Lyney rushes to his room. A few seconds later, he returns with some props and a top hat, midnight black adorned with velvety scarlet and magenta detailing, perched upon his head.

He performs for you, and it’s absolutely enamouring. His prowess is incredible, and it’s clear he’s enjoying putting on a show for you. The entire performance is interesting, captivating. However, it’s Lyney’s last act that stands out to you most of all.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what my grand finale will be,” Lyney announces with a fiery sort of flamboyance. It’s amusing because you’re the only audience member, but at the same time, slightly endearing.

He takes his hat off, reaching his hand into the void within. Slowly, he pulls something out.

The verdant green of a stem lined with thorns appears first. Then you catch sight of luscious leaves. And lastly, the delicate petals of a rose enter your line of vision. They’re tinted a vibrant purple, reminiscent of sparkling amethysts.

“For you,” Lyney says, handing you the flower.

Upon closer examination, you note that the rose is unblemished. It’s perfect. You wonder if Lyney put any thought into picking out this particular flower, but you brush the thought off. Embers of newly-kindled feelings of romance brush against your skin.

You’re flustered.

Flustered beyond measure.

Awkwardly, you take the rose from Lyney, your heart fluttering as your fingers accidentally bump against his. His skin is soft, and his touch is tantalizing. You wouldn’t mind feeling his hand in yours.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, averting your gaze and looking anywhere but into the very lavender irises that will never fail to enchant you. “It’s stunning.”

“A stunning flower for a stunning person,” Lyney says. The sincerity lacing his tone doesn’t go unnoticed, and you have to stop yourself from melting on the spot. “Do you know what the purple rose represents?”

You shake your head as sudden curiosity and cupid’s final arrow strike simultaneously.

He leans in, moving so close that you can feel strands of silken platinum tickle your skin. A soft breath lightly brushes against your ear as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Love at first sight.”

₊˚ପ SCARAMOUCHE

Weak beams of winter light filter through the curtains of the window beside your bed, illuminating your room with a radiance tinted pale blue. With a foggy mind, you make your way over to the window, leaving the warmth and comfort of your covers to do so. The chill pokes at your skin like a thousand miniature needles of ice, and yet you continue on.

As soon as velvety veils of fabric fall away from glass panes, glacial sunshine spills through. The panoramic scenery that welcomes you is a glazed-over landscape, thick blankets of pure white sprinkled with glimmers of stardust. Even the branches of the tall evergreen trees surrounding your home are dusted with powdered opal. Nothing is free from the frigid caress of winter, and you’re suddenly reminded of this fact as you start coughing.

Oh. You’re sick.

You blink slowly, an unbearable headache making itself known by jumbling your thoughts into nothing more than incoherence. Begrudgingly, you decide to lie back down, pulling a few blankets over you in order to stay warm. However, the layer of plush protection isn’t enough to shield you, as shivers continue to wrack your body.

For a while, you just lie there, huddled and trying to cling onto any remaining heat, any remaining comfort. You close your eyes, feeling absolutely helpless against the coolness that threatens to permeate the very essence of your being. The world around you begins to become distant as grogginess and discomfort plague you, but soon enough, you’re snapped out of your haze.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The last thing you want to do is answer the door.

“[Name]? Are you in there?” your roommate, Scaramouche, calls. As usual, irritation laces his tone, but there’s something new this time. Maybe you’re delusional, but it almost sounds like concern.

“Yeah. Come in,” you manage to respond.

Your voice is unsurprisingly hoarse, and you have to strain in order to be heard. However, in the end, it seems that you were just loud enough because seconds later, the door opens with a click. In its wake, a man with hair reminiscent of desolate midnights walks in. Soon enough, you find your gaze meeting hues of deep twilight fading into a paler shade of periwinkle akin to the colour of forget-me-nots.

“Wow, you look awful,” Scaramouche remarks bluntly, examining you.

You feel yourself shrink under his gaze.

“Can you not?” you shoot back, mustering the strength to glare at him between coughs and sniffles. “I'm kind of dying here.”

Scaramouche scoffs.

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone,” he says, turning away and walking out the door.

Once again, silence envelops the atmosphere, ebbing and flowing throughout the greys and blues of an early winter morning in soundless waves. Although you’re thankful for the serene ambience, you also feel awfully lonely now that your roommate is gone. All you can do now is stare blankly at the wall in front of you and entertain yourself with your own thoughts.

Time becomes a blur, and yet it stretches on as well. It feels like you’re trapped in a sort of limbo — suspended in a mundane reality without any sort of respite or the slightest idea of when you’ll finally find your refuge.

That is, until you hear the hinges of the door creak once more.

Scaramouche is back.

You look up. To your surprise, the glints of starlight that dance within his indigo eyes show a rare sort of softness, and he’s carrying a bowl of soup.

Without a word, he sets the bowl on your bedside table, staring at you expectantly.

“Is that for me?” you ask.

Scaramouche groans, rolling his eyes.

“Who did you think it was for?” he says, averting his gaze.

A small smile dances across your lips. Although your roommate doesn’t want to show that he cares for you, you’re beginning to realize that he’s looking out for you in his own way.

“Thank you,” you respond. However, just as you’re about to reach for the soup, you’re attacked by another fit of coughs.

Scaramouche’s eyes fixate on you once more, and he sighs.

“Do you need me to spoon feed you or something?” Although it sounds like he’s mocking you, you can tell he’s serious to some extent.

“Do you want to feed me?” you say, trying to muster a playful tone. Even though you’re sick, teasing Scaramouche is as fun as ever.

“I will if it means you’ll shut up,” he mutters, taking the bowl carefully and scooping up a spoon of the soup.

With caution and a shocking amount of attentiveness, he lifts the spoon to your lips, and you open your mouth. To your surprise, the soup is actually quite tasty. You didn't expect your roommate to be such a good cook.

“How was it?” Scaramouche asks after you swallow. Not a hint of emotion shows through the veils of apathy he’s crafted as he awaits your response.

“It was amazing,” you remark genuinely. “I’d love to try some more of your cooking, and… thanks for taking care of me.��

Scaramouche looks away, but as he does, you notice a colour reminiscent of delicate rose petals rising to his cheeks, tinting porcelain akin to the snow outside a vivid shade.

“Don’t mention it.”

₊˚ପ XIAO

Procrastination is every student’s worst enemy, and you’re no different.

You had spent the past few days putting off your latest assignments and neglecting your studies more than you’d care to admit. It’s not that you didn’t want to work and study, but every time you tried to start on something, you’d feel put off by the copious amounts of labour you’d have to put in. And unfortunately, now you’re reaping the consequences of the seeds you had previously sowed.

It’s currently 1 a.m., and all you can see outside the window is ebony fragmented by the occasional streetlight or polychromatic star. Your eyelids are beginning to droop of their own volition, but you force yourself to stay awake. You have something important due later today, and unfortunately, you’ve barely even started on it.

So you have no choice but to continue on, allowing yourself to fall into the treacherous grasp of sleep-deprivation all because of your poor decision-making skills.

The minutes seem to count down all too quickly as you toil, yet at the same time, the mundane assignment makes every second feel like an eon. It’s a paradoxical distortion of the universe’s concepts, but it’s something you’ve grown far too accustomed to in your time as a student. Panic and hopelessness set in more and more with every tick of the clock, and eventually, you lose all sense of time, burying yourself in a pile of work.

The next time you look up, you notice that it’s well past your first scheduled break time, and you’re absolutely exhausted.

You stand up, stretching and relishing the sensation of being able to move your aching limbs after hours of sitting in the same position, mulling over boring assignments. However, your momentary respite is ruined, as it isn’t long before the creaking of a door pulls you out from the temporary euphoria that had taken over your mind.

“Hey,” a calm voice utters. It’s melodic like a beautiful song you wouldn’t mind hearing on repeat. “Are you alright?”

You turn around, and as expected you’re met with the sight of your roommate. Honeyed eyes filled with a dandelion warmth shimmer when met with the dim incandescent glow of your desk lamp, and locks of seafoam frame his pale face. Even though his hair is messy, and there are visible bags under his eyes, Xiao looks as stunning as ever.

“I’m fine,” you say, miraculously stringing together a couple of words despite your exhaustion.

“You’ve been up all night,” Xiao observes, glancing at your messy desk — a testament to the few hours you had been chipping away at your work. Somehow in that time, you’ve managed to make it look as though some sort of wild tempest had ravaged your room.

“You’re saying that as if you don’t stay up all the time,” you shoot back.

You flinch. Your tone is harsh and dripping with venom, but you hadn’t meant your words in that way. They were from a place of concern, but it seems that Xiao understands.

“That’s true,” he remarks, “but I’m not as keen on working myself to death as you are.”

A second passes.

Then you realized that you may have gotten a little bit carried away due to your momentary burst of energy — a rush of exhilaration prompted by a sense of urgency.

“Oh.”

Xiao sighs.

“You need a break,” he says, hesitantly walking over to you and intertwining your fingers with his.

His actions surprise you. Most of the time, Xiao avoids touch, but now, he’s holding your hand. The tepidness of Xiao’s skin on yours causes lucidity to wash over you. Suddenly, you feel more aware of your surroundings.

Your roommate pulls you out the door, exiting your dorm swiftly before you can refuse. Truthfully, you wouldn’t have denied him his demand anyway. Although Xiao seems like a tough person on the outside, his heart is forged of silvery moonbeams — glittering lights that illuminate the world with a subtle phosphorescence, not quite as glaring as rays of sunlight, but equally as bright, nonetheless. As a result, you’ve grown to develop a soft spot for him.

When you exit the building, the first thing you notice is the crisp, fresh air. After staying cooped up in your room for so long, it’s relieving to breathe in the liquified stardrops dissolved within the night atmosphere. Your head clears up nearly instantaneously, and finally, you feel a sense of peace wash over you.

“Feeling better?” Xiao asks, noticing the change in your expression immediately.

He’s usually not the brightest when it comes to interpreting emotions, so your prior distress must have been extremely obvious. Nonetheless, you brush off your embarrassment and swallow your pride, nodding to reassure Xiao that yes, this is helping, and yes, you’d like to stay here with him for a while longer.

Xiao seems to get what you’re trying to convey, so he continues walking, leading you under the gold-lacquered light of the lamps lining the path before you. Right now, it feels as though your hearts are connected, and for once, you’re under the impression that Xiao’s let down his walls.

You know that once your midnight escapades cease, you’ll have to face a world of pain, but perhaps it’s worth it.

After all, exhaustion is temporary, but maybe, just maybe, this lavender haze will endure forevermore.

thank you for reading!! if you liked this, i’d really appreciate it if you reblogged this fic.

[acciotaitlynn]

₊˚⊹♡ super short xavier smut

(\_/) it’s giving somno

(\_/) 1,048 words

You woke to the morning song of the blue jay family that had made their home outside yours and Xavier’s bedroom window. Soft beams of light slipped through curtains covered in colorful stars and moons, casting rainbow hues around the room.

You stretched out long, sighing into the sensation like a contented cat. Feeling your toes brush something firm, you cracked an eye open, your gaze landing on Xavier’s sleeping form next to you. His face was relaxed and peaceful, his hair sticking up in an adorably chaotic mess. You reached out and poked a particularly unruly lock of hair, stifling a quiet giggle.

You let yourself lay there for a while, watching his face, his lips softly parted and moving ever so slightly with each breath. You brushed a thumb along his bottom lip, admiring the way the soft skin clung to your fingertip. Your finger traced a path to his chin, gently tilting his face toward you. “So stupidly beautiful,” you murmured, your eyes drifting over the contours of his face before traveling lower.

He’d kicked off most of the blankets in the night, leaving him in just a plain white t-shirt and boxers while he slept. A familiar warmth bloomed in your core as you let your gaze wander over his body.

You allowed your finger to glide lower, teasing his nipple with a soft graze of your fingernail through the thin fabric. The bud hardened at your touch, and you leaned in, unable to stop yourself from taking it into your mouth. A contented hum rose from your throat as you sucked deeply, flicking the hardened bud with the tip of your tongue.

You shifted to his other nipple, capturing it in your mouth as well. By the time you were finished, his shirt was soaked, rosy peaks visible beneath the damp white fabric.

Content with your work, your attention drifted lower, finding Xavier hard with a dark spot of precum spreading across his gray boxers. You giggled softly, “always so weak from just a little nipple play. Adorable,” you whispered, fingers molded over his length, squeezing gently as you felt him twitch. “You might be more than ready,” you murmured, “but I’m in the mood to play with you a little more.” You popped open the buttons of his boxers, cupping his cock in your hands as a loud whine slipped out of you. Your gaze darted to Xavier, but he remained fast asleep.

Kissing your way up his shaft, you stopped briefly to savor the precum seeping from the tip. You took his cock into your mouth slowly, your tongue and spit swirling over the head as you got him nice and wet for you. Flattening your tongue, you took him deeper, feeling your throat widen to accommodate his bulky size.

A happy hum escapes you as you nestle all the way into him, pulling the covers up around you. When he’s buried deep you lay still for a moment with your cheek against his stomach, appreciating the sensation of him filling you up.

You lingered there for longer than you should have, swirling your flattened tongue along his length, breathing softly around him. Your eyes were closed, a quiet hum in your throat when Xavier’s hips began to move with slow thrusts into your mouth. “Is this your way of keeping me warm?” he asked you in a drowsy murmur. You nodded, a grin tugging at your lips despite having your mouth wrapped around his cock. Xavier gave a soft, sleepy sound, fingers threading through your hair as he moved deep and slow.

You were reaching under your shorts when his voice stopped you. “Let me,” he said, gently replacing your hand with his. His long fingers traveled lazily through your folds, sending a delicious shiver coursing through your spine. His middle finger traced circles around your entrance before dipping into the slick warmth. The softness of his movements gave way to a harder, deeper rhythm. His hand fisted in your hair, angling your head as he fucked himself into your mouth.

The pace of his fingers turned forceful and persistent. A wave of pleasure surged, your plush walls tightening around his fingers. You were so close. You clenched your throat around him, needing him to cum with you, together.

Xavier let out a deep groan, his head falling deeper into the pillow, you could tell he was nearly there. “So sweet to wake me up like this,” he murmured, his was voice low and needy. “Such.A.Good.Girl,” each word punctuated by a sharp thrust of his hips. You purred happily, cupping his balls in your hand and kneading gently. His movements turned rough and frantic, teetering on the edge of pain.

Everything became overwhelming—all of it: the way his cock filled you up, the taste of him on your tongue, the soft, desperate sounds escaping his lips… He whispered out your name on a sigh and you tumbled over the edge, giving in completely. You came in waves, pussy spasming around his fingers as your throat convulsed around his cock. You felt his dick pulsate as he slowed, releasing into your mouth with three hard, sharp thrusts. You swallowed his cum up greedily, laying there patiently til he finally stilled, cock softening in your mouth.

You pulled away gently, rising to straddle his chest.

Xaviers groggy eyes held yours as you raised his hand to your lips, running your tongue over his fingers, licking them clean. “Good morning,” you said, a playful grin tugging at your lips. “Morning beautiful,” he said with a sleepy yawn. “Had enough fun for now?” You pressed your lips to his, grinning as you whispered, “Literally never.” His soft laughter filled the air as he pulled you down, nestling you against his chest. You gave him a soft shove. “Xavier, we need to get up! It’s already three o’clock in the afternoon!” A giggle escaped you as he held you tighter, “Well, I didn’t exactly get much sleep, and someone woke me up way too early.” His tone was already thick with sleep again, his breathing slowing into a steady rhythm.

You let out a soft sigh, sinking into him. You allowed your eyes to close, his heart a quiet lullaby, singing you gently back to sleep.

[nonerrata-myarchives]

HEYYYYYY

can i req a lyrason fanfic?

pretty pleaseeeeeeee

Grayson and Lyra. ♡ One Shot.

Bedfic. Ummm. 1173 words.. shit.

The room was bathed softly in the early morning light, streaks of pale gold and sovereign blue spilling through the half-drawn lavish curtains. Outside, the world stirred awake, a faint hum of life whispering through the silence, but inside, it was warm and still. The sheets were tangled, the duvet half-kicked away, evidence of a restless night. Lyra Catalina Kane blinked herself awake, the weight of exhaustion settling into her already tired bones.

Grayson lay beside her, his face pale except for the feverish flush high on his cheeks. Even in sickness, he carried an air of unshakable perfection though the deep blooming plum beneath his eyes told a different story. She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing his damp forehead. Still hot. Way too fucking hot. He still hadn’t shaken the fever that had gripped him yesterday, and now it was spilling into today like a deep brooding thunder refusing to go.

She sighed, quietly, carefully, and shifted to slide out of bed. There was too much to do.

The world didn’t stop for anything, not even for Grayson Davenport Hawthorne. But the moment she moved, his arm tightened around her waist like a vice. Unwilling and utterly unyielding.

“Grayson,” she murmured softly, her voice still rough with sleep. She twisted to glance back at him, but his eyes were shut, his brow furrowed as if even in his fevered haze, he was waging some internal war. His lips moved, words too faint to catch, but even so he buried his face in her neck, his breath warm and uneven against her skin.

“Don’t sweetheart,” he rasped, the word dragging out of him like it cost more than it should. His voice was hoarse, cracked, stripped of its usual authority, and hearing it made something sharp twist in Lyra’s chest.

“Grayson,” she tried again, gently, this time reaching for his hand where it clung to her hip. But he didn’t let go. If anything, he held her tighter, his rough fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt like a drowning man clutching at the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled into her neck. His voice was low, desperate, and foreign in its vulnerability. Grayson Hawthorne never asked. He commanded, he directed, he ensured things happened exactly as they were meant to. But this wasn’t that man.

Her heart cracked open, a slow ache spreading through her chest. “Gray,” she whispered, turning fully to face him now, her body shifting under his unrelenting hold. His eyes flickered open, heavy-lidded and glassy, the stormy gray of them dulled but still searching, still fixed entirely on her.

“Stay,” he said, barely audible. His voice cracked at the end, and the sound of it nearly broke her. “Just please just stay.”

Lyra exhaled, her resistance crumbling in an instant. “I’m not going far,” she promised, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. His skin was still so damn warm. but he leaned into her touch as though it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You’ll leave,” he murmured, his breath catching on the last word. His arm tightened again, pulling her somewhat impossibly closer, until she was pressed against him completely, her legs tangled with his. “You’ll leave, and I—” He broke off, his face pressing into the crook of her neck like he couldn't nor wanted to finish that sentence. As if it would break him.

She had never seen him like this. In the thee years she had known the asshole she had never seen him so fucking desperate.

Lyra let out a slow breath, her hand slipping into his damp hair, fingers threading through the thick mess. “I’m here,” she said softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere, Gray.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her. He had held her so tight she couldn't move. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne, the arrogant asshole was undone. Though right now he was just Gray, her Gray, and he needed her. And she wouldn't leave

“Lyra,” he breathed, her name a soft exhale against her neck. His voice was weaker now, but there was a reverence in the way he said it, a quiet plea wrapped in too much emotion. “I can’t—” He stopped again, the words choking off.

“You don’t have to,” she said, her hand sliding down to his back, holding him as close as he held her. “You don’t have to say anything.” She kissed the top of his head, her lips brushing against the damp strands of his hair. It smelled like foreign berries “I’m here.”

He shuddered, a shaky exhale escaping him as he buried himself deeper against her. For all his strength, all his unrelenting willpower, he melted into her like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else. His fingers splayed against her side, anchoring him to her, and she felt the faintest tremor in his grip.

“Fuck being busy,” he muttered, the words muffled but laced with a quiet, fevered determination. His hand slid up to her back, his fingertips pressing into her as though to make sure she was real, that she wasn’t going to slip away the moment he loosened his hold. “Just stay, sweetheart. Please.”

“I’ll stay,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of her own emotions. “I’m not going anywhere, Gray. I promise.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, she thought he might cry, but he just held her tighter, his face pressed against her neck. “Good,” he murmured, his voice cracking again. A different type of crack though.. one that meant something.

Minutes stretched into eternity as they lay there, tangled together in the warmth of their bed. The world outside could wait. The demands, the responsibilities, the endless push and pull of their lives—it could all wait. He needed her.

She stroked his hair more her fingers moving in slow, delicate patterns, and felt the tension in his body gradually ease. His breathing evened out, though it was still slightly labored, and she pressed another kiss to his head, murmuring soft reassurances into the quiet.

“I love you,” she said, the words soft but steady. She didn’t expect him to answer—he was too far gone, too fever-drunk and exhausted—but his arm tightened around her once more, and she felt his lips brush faintly against her collarbone.

“Love you,” he mumbled, the words slurred but heartfelt, and Lyra’s heart thumbed, the ache in her chest giving way to something warmer, something brighter. Something so exquisite she couldn't put words on it.

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

Not proof read. I'll edit just now.. I'm sorry it's shit y'all.

[its-actually-minicika]

The Harshest Winters (18+)

I - II - III - IV - V;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon!Aemond;

Warnings: We all know what to expect by now - sexual themes, obsessive and possessive behaviour, bookcanon Aemond, angst (there is no light at the end of the tunnel ♡), semi-spoilers (but not really) for Fire&Blood;

Word Count: 23k+ (yes. yes indeed.)

Author's Note: AND I HATH RETURNED!!

Only 3 more instalments to go - this feels surreal. As always, I would like to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for still following Lady Tully's adventures, and for being so patient with my updating schedule (or lack thereof). Without further ado, please enjoy ♡

♡♡♡ Drop me a comment if you would like to be added to the taglist! And don't forget to reblog your favourite fic writers ♡♡♡

Paths that used to interwoven thread themselves with great uncertainty. When you're free to roam again, which road will you choose to take?

When Aemond beckoned his return, Harrenhal was basked in smoke. Vhagar shuddered low beneath him, letting out enraged, rogue roars. His guts hung low inside his midriff, his heart ached hard inside his chest… his one lone thought was of his Lady – of what became of her, of them.

"Ah – My apologies, Your Grace!" The muted hues of her blue dress obscured across his measured view. Thus Aemond hummed, dissatisfied, and merely moved his gawp ahead. His eye transfixed her for a moment, yet bore through her slighter frame. Nought of what he noticed then deterred him to even bow. To even offer her the courtesy that a highborn lady would receive. He had left their clash at that – with not a singular lax word exchanged, and not a singular exultant glance. He spared no reaction. No compact feeling. And the deep courtesy she offered him was met with deplorable impassiveness. Whether or not she had felt slighted, or passed across as less compelling, was of nought of his concerns. He heard her steps, although unwilling, move fast across the vacant halls – the mousy girl with straight long locks ergo dissolved through the thin air; and as if made of feeble matter, as if diffused whole by the soil, she shed herself briskly afore. Perhaps, he thought but for a moment, the paling shade suited her well. And as she skipped her trail all proper, through the obtrusive and abstaining lanes, her gown outcast a pleasant echo – the rattled bite of a spirited woman, a proof of presence, of fair existence. He made his strides long and decided, reaching towards the damp courtyard. And as he trained, breaking his stupor, the man had thought of her quick struts. Perplexed and quite unparalleled, he deemed the dress had worn her nicely. The girl was far from an alluring beauty, standing small and slight in stature. Still the brief sweep of her garment reached for the goal it had then bared – for the Prince thought of it, admired it, and thoroughly remained somewhat impressed.

He’d been a foolish boy back then, though he remained so as a man. A roguish Prince of one and twenty, far too absorbed by pain and ire to even care about the keep. Alys’ heed had been ignored, his lungs had been filled up with ash. His headlong steps urged through the hallways, desperate to reach for the one door that served so long as their shared chamber. He screamed her name from the base of his throat, so wildly torn and fraught forlorn, that his shrieks of anguish reached for the ears of the few maids and wenches left rooted in place, all hoarded outside and taken aback by his despondent outraged display.

But that wouldn't be the last he'd see her – and the chain of humdrum meetings would thereon constantly happen. They were both quite early risers, insatiable to the seductive waves of glaring rays of humid sunsets, and devotees of the peace and quiet brought across by the luminescence. Still the synopsis would repeat – he, far too preoccupied with the handling of putrid sticks; she, far too absorbed by her dashing knight of golden armour; the Waters brute, as they so styled him, who seemed to be rooted abreast her, eternally waiting for some command which rested readily atop her lips. Though she wasn’t one of his sister’s ladies – the smirking vixens with a lacking sense of pride –, she served as a ward under Lyman Beesbury, the old Master of Coin of his father’s late Small Council. Not the particularly quiet or specifically reserved young maiden, she failed to strike up the attention of any callow man at Court. She wasn’t one for idle chatter, or flamboyant dances at Soirees. Yet he would hear her voice each morning, as she bowed low to him and slithered away.

‘Good morrow, Your Grace.’

‘Greetings, Your Grace.’

‘Good day, Your Grace.’

His hands balled up to aching fists, as the grave callouses inside his palm slid across the piece of silk. Several slices of burnt meat adorned the ground he stood atop. The mess that was made of the bed they had once slept on and the tapestries behind the grate all but pointed towards one thing – that she had made her brash escape, and effectively deceived them all. The Crown Prince sucked in a breath, and turned his head towards a rattled and alerted Alys. What was expected was for him to scream. Trash about, around the room, until his blood would cease to boil. She was ready for that. On all accounts, she had prepared for that. What was most unexpected was the lacing calmness of his evened tone.

“I don’t suppose she morphed outside, waiting submissively by the guards.” Within the first half of a drawn-out breath, the older woman shook her head. “No, my Prince.” He nodded slowly, and expelled a weighty laugh, “She started a fire and ran away.”

“Yes, my Prince.”

“Did she take a horse, as well?”

“... I don’t kn–”

“Every man, woman and child in this stronghold knows by now. Did she take a horse, as well?”

“No, my Prince. I swear she didn’t.”

“How much of this was of your doing?”

Two years she stayed inside the Keep. Two years of residence, of life, of growth. Two years of incandescent worth, during which he could have acted.

Notice her.

Court her.

Marry her.

Cruel Fate had all but laughed at him – for two years she had lived below him, right within his steady grasp. In those two years he could’ve bedded her, he could have won her horrid heart. He could have fathered her her freckled children, he could have owned her House’s flags. He could have dressed her in the finest dresses, and ripped them off her every night. He could have seen her cross stark naked – then it would have been his right. He could have kissed her, touched her, fucked her… he could have made her love him back.

A fantasy. A bitter laugh. A pang of pain, and guilt, and wrath.

The Gods spoke of their directed favour – when the Whore of Dragonstone came forth home with her misbegotten son. When his bastard nephew set his eyes on her, on the nameday of his eldest brother. When he sullied her with his abhorrent probe, and when he danced with her throughout the night. The night of which he finally saw her, twirling in her auburn dress.

“My Prince, I’ve helped you find her before – I shall help you find her again…!” Her delicate fingers entwined together in a tightened and reluctant hold, which morphed the pose of a covetous and tattered statue; a ready vision of the Maiden, praying to absolve all sin. Her slit eyes widened to two round specs of emerald sheen, and Alys opened her mouth again, only to be stopped by Aemond. “‘Tis not your barren promises I want – rather, I demand something more palpable.” She quirked her head low to the side, and almost caught herself relax her shoulders; Endless thoughts surged through her head, each more humiliating than the next. If it was her body he desired, she would promptly let him take her – disputes of the flesh she’d handle, and face proudly with a stiffened lip. His wife was gone, and though lamentable, she could still surge him back in. Shake and wake the stifled feelings that he’d once relished her into, win his favour and his grace, save her and her unborn son.

But two blind steps he took towards her, and Alys finally understood.

“You watched your home burn to its core." Aemond's tone was light and leveled, "You must have gazed into the fires.”

It had been a truth universally assumed, that he wouldn’t even look upon her. Though a first daughter, she presented as a mere third child. Loved among her Lords, ‘twas true, but with a trivial, worthless last name, who’d be of little to no use to him, and honour him no less or more than a lease daughter of Pike or Ambrose. He’d scoffed back then, under his breath, as the two conversed so freely. The graceless children of low descent, so shamelessly engrossed in the raptures of the other’s company.

If only he had loved her then. For Jace wouldn't have walked away from Aegon's nameday scrape unharmed. How many things would have played differently, if only he asked her first to dance? ... But a lowbred with a bastard was a common sight to see. Aemond thus stood at his table, playing harsh tunes with his slim fingers, whilst knocking on the table’s wood.

His hand enwrapped at the base of her throat, moving languidly over the nape of her neck, and thwarting her forward with an exponential pull. The dying logs inside the fireplace still cracked with their dispersive strokes, impelling the air with charred ashes, and softened groans of sizzled smoke. Her cheek had touched a snapping flame – the arch of her enticing lip almost pressed firmly against it. The low sputtering of her ragged breath, the agonizing scream she’d let out, the fear that seeped within her bones; they deterred her to choke out worried, terror-stricken by his dwelling words. “My Prince, please, I’m begging you –” His silk-smooth baritone came out sullen by perpetually placid waves. A clementful element to the fear and trepidation swarming about the narrow place.

“I’m merely helping you reach a conclusion.”

Her body contorted in a desperate attempt to flee him, and her hands pushed instinctively into the fires, as if to cast aside their perpetual danger, and better protect her face from the raptures of the growing heat. Fellen sobs escaped her lips, rolling down and off her cheeks, hearthing right in the blaze. “Please, please, please–”

“Well?” He sighed, calm and taciturn inside her ear, sparing her no lessened hold. And she failed once more to answer him, opting instead to let out another shrill of strangled moans. Her vision blurred throughout with horror – her gaze cast forth the lingering effect of fear, and her body stiffened in anticipation.

“Perhaps you need more help, then.” His disquieted mutter churned her guts over with dread.

Her wails of anguish pierced through his heart – yet his grip didn't uncurl.

He’d be a liar to say he thought much back then of their light and foolish prancing. The shades of orange in her dress laced his eye with milky spots of irritation, and Jace’s laughter filled him with surfeited hatred. Thus he didn’t linger past the notion of a second, and when Daeron’s warm eyes met with his, he only hummed in discontent. “You ought to dance with someone tonight,” He reminded his elder brother through the musings of a quirked-up brow, “There’s plenty of handsome ladies here tonight.”

Strenuously he looked around, though at last settled his orb on the heaving and coveted form of the latter of Helaena’s ladies. Her very own shone bright with wonder as she listened to her nearby friend, which dispersed her hands about with adorning youthful bliss. She was laughing in good spirit, whispering her minor gossip; Still, when his gape was met with hers, her slight smile instantly falthered.

Five seconds it took for her to turn and flee into the crowd – and five more it took the Prince to work through the nearest cup, by fully draining it of wine, and allowing its sharpened sting to warm and breach his stiffened limbs. His deflation would be short-lived, and the ripe pierce of rejection heal itself in a moment’s heed.

“‘Tis not their looks I’m worried of.” He pensively added to his brother.

“She had a rather awkward smile.” The youngest tried to comfort him.

“Yet she still preferred to flee.” Though his tune carried no bitter candour, Aemond sharply turned around, “You’re wasting your time with me, brother. You fail to look where you’re supposed to.”

“Your Grace, I know – I know of another way!”

Confused by his elusive words, Daeron turned his head around. “Elanour Frey has all but thrown herself at you.” He clarified slightly amused, and when Daeron’s ears piqued through with red, the corners of his mouth quriked up. “Go take the fair cunt for a whirl. Enjoy her smiles and dulling company.”

“She’s a Lady, brother! It’s wrong of you to slight her so.” Despite the youth’s endless chastising, the boy still rose to kvetch an approach.

“The spell is not without its consequences.” She drew in through a shaky breath, “B-But I can make you see her by yourself. I know the Riverlands like the back of my hand. I’ll tell you where she’s headed.” It was a risky plan. Yet it had the potential to appease Aemond, and in the process, save her life. When his iron fist had loosened, she hastily convulsed away. Her words spoke of an old ritual, one she could avid perform – one that would show him his Lady, one that would reveal her whole. “I’ll need your blood – blood from the both of you. The fresher it is, the better for the enchantment.”

Aemond solely parted with the piece of cloth used for their wedding. When the notion of shared blood was uttered, he hastily dug for the sleeve, revealing the blotches which took the front of a maroon-brown colour. “It’s two days old.”

“It’ll work for her part. But I greatly urge you to spare fresher droplets from your own share.” Her heart beat frantically inside her chest. She prayed to her God to send her lease, to grant her mercy and forgiveness for that of which she would soon do. She nicked Aemond with the sharp end of a perusing tool. Drops of thick, red-bludgeon clot surged over her waiting hands, dripping in rapid slithers from his damaged shoulder. She forged a phoney incantation, muttering it slowly for the man to hear. She then waited, and waited, for the sphagnum moss to reach its peak. “Tonight is a half-crescent moon,” She explained brashly in a lulling tune, “I’ll throw the damp cloth into a fire and we’ll see where she is headed.” Why exactly she had lied to him, and continued to do just so, eluded Alys in her steep attempts to cast her spell. Perhaps it was due to her poignant state – as her condition would begin to show erelong, and Aemond had to be reminded of the care he held for her. Perhaps it was because she’d die if his wife of chestnut hair uttered to him that she’d helped with her escape. Perhaps it was because she’d learned to like the forlong and dismissive Lady, and saw within her the potential to prevail. Perhaps his loyalists had begun to matter – as she well knew the wrath and ruin that Aemond would bring upon the boys, were he to notice that they all survived the clashing flames, and not emerged with his sweet Lady. “... But we need to leave, Your Grace, and soon.” She ergo pleaded as she sewed him shut, “Daemon Targaryen reached the gables of Maidenpool. He’s to come for us, for all of us.”

“Yet another reason not to leave without my wife.”

Perhaps she’d seen enough of death, and felt the need to reach for safety – for the reclusion brought by Oldtown, and for the one she'd felt with Aemond. The lot of troubled knights be damned down to the Seven Hells and back. Criston Cole could meet the troops, take them to increase his numbers, and march on towards the Fields of Fire, to join forces with the Lannisters.

"There is a chance he's still unaware of your union. If that be the case, she’ll be safer without you taking her back right now.”

“Are you suggesting I leave her here? To be used by the Blacks as leverage?"

"– Twirled with two Princes in a night! Gods, and the most comely of the bunch, as well…"

"How lucky she must feel right now. Having two push for her hand."

"She's not that much of an exquisite beauty. And her sewing is quite crooked." With a loud huff to calm her nerves, the Lady dared to carry onward, " I wouldn't go as far as to proclaim something like that."

His wide step fathered on the course of the narrow and secluded hallway. The maidens’ voices washed over his form like whiplash, and Aemond stood hammered in place, whilst listening to their low chirping.

The latter lady of the two shrugged her shoulders in indifference, as she jabbed her slight companion right into her bottom ribs. Her painted lips sketched to a smirk, and her thin brows rose up in wonder. “Poor Dyenne,” She snickered briefly as she paused her idle gossip, “Imagine having the One-Eyed Prince glance at you with such a stare – reckon she’ll send out a raven and beg her father to return to Pyke?” The taller redhead looked around in grave and unmistaken panic, before setting her washed eyes on her giggling accomplice. Her hands wrapped around the shawl that she wore over her gown, and she sighed in discontent, as she weighed her words inside her. “Hush now, Talia!” She ended up conducting sharply, “You shouldn't dare to speak such words. Especially in the Red Keep!”

His hands formed into light fists, as the rousing sting of shame prickled across his pale-white skin. With his jaw now tightly set and a frown upon his face, the Prince cast his long gaze downwards – vexing himself for the impropriety of eavesdropping in the first place. He’d come to terms with his mien, well before he turned a man. With how he scared the finer ladies, with how they all deemed him a cripple. But to be such crass acknowledged as a ghastly and revolting monster, so coolly and without chargin, with such ease and nonchalance.... A bitter taste caught in his mouth, as aggravation dauntly surged him – for how dare those two low women speak so freely of his face?

The shorter girl huffed out expectantly, whilst her companion rained her chastation. Her face was hidden, protected onward by her loosened golden locks. But even so, by name alone, Aemond had apputed her; She was yet another one of Helaena’s hexing ladies. “Even if someone would hear me, certainly they'd feel the same!” With her nose held high and her back all straightened, the lassie added with a perfect diction, “I, for one, would never dance with such a brute. He could be the heir to the Iron Throne itself – I would still flinch at his touch. He is such a morbid freak.”

He could feel his cheeks catch on to a shade of putrid red. His probing and now heated leathers fell tightly on his heaving chest, leaving him appalled, constricted, and resigned in his dark space.

Black spots surged and filled his vision before he could extend his arm. Heinous pain stabbed through his heart, rushing through his mustered veins. The last he felt was of his shoulder, which throbbed in place with blazing heat.

***

“Aemond? Gods, Aemond, are you alright?”

The mere softness of her distant voice sent a pleasurable thrill within him. His lilac orb opened with stupor, gazing above him at the remnants of the littered candles, which flickered both across her face and at the sobriety of the dark room. His tenebrous brow rose in surprise, as her brilliant eyes met him with love, and her reddened lips broke to a smile.

“Thank the Gods you’re awake.” She whispered with a timbre of exhilaration, as her small hand came up to brush over the arch of his unfurrowed brows and against his tired face. Her touch was light and barely proded – and, for the first time since he’d truly seen her, a refulgent smile formed on her lips; caused by and bared out for him – in all its kind and gracious nature. His chest heaved once with every turn of his lungs’ deep and churning exhales, as her vivid and concisive image allowed for a heatwave of ardour to surge through his very being. The deep purple of his eye glimmered with abstained affection – the corners of his downward mouth all but quirked into a grin.

As if burnt by dragon fire, his body rose to a quick halt – propped upwards by his left forearm, and supported through the same. The wound that caused him ached discomfort all forgotten with the notion of her brightened and reclusive face. “But –” He began feverishly, whilst turning her head from side to side, “How,” He choked out with a desperate hiss, caressing her cheeks with his rough digits, “You left. You left me.”

A soft gasp lodged from her throat, as Aemond’s hands enwrapped her whole. Her own slim limbs entwined with his, running through his silver hair and over his unyielding jaw, resting on his raucous back and grazing over his resounding heart. The tension in his rigid shoulders eased with every gaudy touch. She wordlessly reached for his eyepatch, and yanked it off in a swift move. Her lips descended on his shoulder, moving upwards to peck lightly at his jugged and immersive scar, reaching for his poignant cheekbones, and pressing softly at his mouth’s high arch.

“How,” He whispered lowly once again, as her eyes met his with glee. "Foolish boy,” She kissed him slowly, whilst aligning her hips to his, “I came back for you. We’re man and wife now, you and I.” She added with a prompt elation, “I could never truly leave you.”

“Harrenhal, the Riverlands –” He grunted meekly as he insatiably chased her mouth. His wife bit over his lower lip, and swallowed down his grouchy growl. “Shh,” She subdued him back to calmness, “We are both in Oldtown now. All is well.” She nodded once to ease his nerves, “Your brother, Daeron, took care of everything.” Before the Prince could inquire anything less or more wanting, her leg prodded in between his thighs, widdling to pry them open. She moved her attentive focus to his red and swollen lips, and gently led his heated body back into a lying pose. The woman smirked at his perplexed submission, and flummeted a listless array of sensual and loving kisses down the curve of his adonis belt. Her knees plunged into the mattress that enwrapped him in a state of lust, straddling and guiding him as she considered at that time.

“Relax, my love,” She urged him gently, “I plan to take good care of you.” For but a moment, her movement stilled. And his wife rose up her head to kiss him in pleded benevolence. “I almost lost you. Never again.” She promised him with an elusive stare. The hardness in his hazy iris softened with her every word. His digits came to touch her own, and he entwined their hands together, taking her own to his mouth. Tenderly he kissed each finger, trailing the softness of her palms with the unquaint and possessed devotion of his flectuous and awaiting lips. She relaxed into his hold, and used her thumbs to graze his cheeks, rubbing faintly at the jarring redness that was forming on his skin. “I would burn the world to ashes if it meant possessing you,” He muttered lowly as he kissed her hands, “The Gods may curse me if they will it – but I would sooner kill a thousand men, and ravock against hundreds of armies, before I should see you leave again.”

Her giggle pierced his very soul, and that alone had been enough for him to free his damning urges. He pawed at her compressing bodice, and sucked with fevervour at the apex of her thighs and neck. “I am sick with the desire to have you. I am not a man to be tamed, my Lady; ‘tis with you and only you that I will submit willingly.” Poignant yet without a hurry, her fingers threaded through his silver hair, earning a salacious moan from the lips of the perturbed. Aemond’s eye was blown with lust, and a shallow but incessive pant ached within his naked chest. Desperate to hear her voice, and maddened by her ceaseless silence, the man drove on with upstrained force. “Tis only you who makes me whole,” He whispered as he shut his eye, “Your beauty is a curse that bound me since the first day that we met. No matter where I turn to look, I cannot escape your presence.”

“Say something – say anything. Tell me that I may – may I?” The desperate edge within his tone transpired over his extended hand. Tremulous and undecided, it touched the lacings of her back, itching to reveal her skin. “Please let me touch you. Please… I need you.” A reserved smile upturned her lips, and the woman trailed her hands over the appended width of his shuddering and throbbing chest. His every muscle tensed at the feeling of her cold and sanity hands – a downy sigh beleft his throat, followed by a swallowed whine. She leaned over to his ear, and trailed a long lick to his jaw. “I love you…” She subdued to his lax face, whilst letting out a brisk exhale. Her forehead came to touch his own, as she muttered once again, “I love you, Aemond.” The sluggish roll of her scant hips deterred the Prince to drone a curse. "Don't say that, my love," His breathing came to ragged pants, "I'm going to… spend… if you say that once more…" His hand came forth to grip her thigh, pausing slightly for a moment to ensure her disposition, before leading her into him with nuanced and languid movements. His brows furrowed in concentration, as his hazy and fogged over eye trailed across her freckled face. “To hell with keeping the bloodline pure,” He gulped as he relaxed into her, “Fuck principle.” His loins ached him with elation at the promise of release. The way she looked at him was too much. “Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” His speech halted with the abstinence of another guttural growl, “Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.”

Very little he could say on the wild infatuation that he felt for the slight girl. He knew that he had well surrendered his will, his mind, and his whole being to the jolting peaks of madness – of love and lust and quaint desire.

He’d been a man bound by his duty. Prepared to marry his own sister and ensure their pure volition, should his brother prove himself more or less inapt to do it. Marry the Baratheon girl, concur with her father’s banners and one day sit at Storm’s End. But then he went against his mother – against the wishes of his grandsire, against the better of the Realm; he’d married her in disheartened haste, with no quaint or real regard over what would come of them. His extended family, the premise of his purpose as a simple second son, the scarce but mandatory expectations that were laid upon him since the first conditioned moments of his cursed and unwanted birth… they’d all have grown to account to nothing in the face of her lithe form. She was, by all righteous accounts, the one woman that the poets spoke of. The inviting and mistrusting siren that would lure tired men in, the innocent and stainless maiden that drove them all insane with need. His wife, His Lady – the only woman who could drive Aemond Targaryen wild with pure fervour. With every kiss on her pale skin, the falthered licks of true devotion cascaded from his parted lips – with every promise that he uttered in his olden mother tongue, too scared and afraid to claim them in a way she’d understand. For he was nought but a damn coward. A foolish man. One that was frightened. Frightened of the situation which he himself had put her under. Frightened of being rejected by his one true love again. Frightened of loving her wholly, as if but a single touch placed upon her skin would burn him.

Scared, that he would do anything it took to have her. Scared, that he would desolate his House, renounce his titles, give up his birthright – just to be allowed to stay quaintly over by her side. The tightness of his burdened sex deterred him to writhe and moan. His hands had worked throughout without him, undressing her with a light tremour – one that would have better matched a young and senseless stable boy, than a true and balanced Prince. His mouth latched on her heaving bosom, sucking its possessive mark along the low side of her collarbones. His right hand touched upon her thigh, and she immediately spread out her legs. “Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.”

His trail of open-mouthed kisses faltered in their pushed longevity, as she offered her reply in kind. Her eyes washed over with confusion, and a quivering but dainty hand came up to rest over his scar. Her mouth opened as his closed, daring to utter but one question, after what felt like an eternity of eluding and punishing silence. “Is everything alright, my King?”

As if struck by a red arrow, Aemond countered her position – though he kept her tightly on him, his own chest touching with hers. “What did you say?” Following his own accord, the Prince wrapped a hand around her, “You do not speak High Valyrian.”

Not with this level of content.

“My love…” She strained herself to finally stay, whilst the Targaryen seized up her hand, “Aemond, my heart, what are you doing?”

“This isn’t real,” His voice cracked with dissolution, “This isn’t real.” His thumb trailed where her cut should be, across the soft mound of her flesh – though the only feel against it was her soft and healed-up muscle. In vain she tried to grip his face, and make him face her eyes again. In vain her face had gotten closer, urging him to probe her skin. “Aemond…” She tried her best to reel him back.

“You couldn’t have healed in two days' time.”

“I’m here, Aemond – I’m real. I am real just as you are.”

His thumb grazed her lower lip, trailing at her cupid’s bow. “No,” He muttered with a broken tone, “No, you’re not.”

Regret washed over her fair face – though whether felt or simply mimicked, Aemond wouldn’t dare to guess. Before he could swat her away, her hands gripped urgently at his loose shirt. The sick illusion stilled her movements, and merely pressed up against his form. “What does it matter if I’m not cut?” Her gaze softened as he pulled her nether, “This can be real,” She muttered meekly, as she trailed her smaller hand down the apex of his silver hair. Shyly she encouraged him to wrap a hand around her waist, and to rest his cluching chin on the nakedness of her small chest. “You and me,” She deterred further, “We can make this whole thing work.” She nodded fervently at her own words, as she unclasped the ready dagger that remained tied to his leg. Quietly she brought it forward, presenting it in her clean palms – and smiled at him encouragingly, as she pointed it to his big hands. “We can wed each other again,” She promised with a sweet allure, “And we can make it right this time.” Roaring anguish and relenting pain was all that Aemond found he felt, as her soft digits tried to trail over the sharpness of his jaw again. She raised herself back to her knees and straddled him with a shy look. “You know the words, Aemond, come on,” She coaxed him with a shallow grind, “Father, Smith, Warrior,” Her lips descended on his neck, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” A blinding array of wet kisses was panned insistently across his face. The cruel illusion pouted slightly, as her lost set of aching motions failed to be returned by Aemond. She stirred observantly in her found seat, and simply grazed his chest again. “I am his and he is mine…”

“Stop this.”

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

His hand had wrapped around her throat, holding her gently in her place – though firmly enough for her plump lips not to scoot a figment closer. His lone orb bore into her form, sending waves of apt vexation down the curve of her hicked bosom, “Enough.” He domineered his lady faintly, while swatting her off his heaving body. “Aemond,” She tried once more, thoroughly banished, and latched onto his extended arm, “Please,” Her tune had grown desperate in edge, “We can be so, so happy… I can be so good for you–”

But by then it’d been too late – for Aemond opened his eye, and was met with thorough light.

“Aemond.” A faraway voice called out for him.

His head was throbbing, his scar itching, stinging at his tightened skin with waves of blinding and deafening pain. His lips parted with the prying of a hardened groan, and the man hissed at the contact that the mattress made with him. “Shit,” He panted with a shaky exhale. The Prince’s lips pressed hard together, and a harsh frown scorned his features. As he glanced on at the man who’d dared perturb him in his sleep, his own surprise jolted him upward. “Daeron?”

As if motioned by his hiss of pain, the young Targaryen heathered closer, enwrapping his own slender fingers around his older brother’s forearm. Gentily he hoisted him better, making sure to shield his shoulder and press his back against the tall edge of his given bed. “You have slept for too long, brother.” He uttered in a sympathetic tone, “We thought that you might not wake up.”

“What happened?” Aemond jerked his whole arm forward, loosening his sibling’s hold. He winced at the grave discomfort, and Daeron breathed out a tut – though the two remained up close, even through Aemond’s conniption. Defeated or perhaps unnerved, Daeron straightened back his shoulders, broadening his slighter frame. He hummed towards him in slight admission, before resuming his known poise. “It’s good to see you, too, dear brother.” A sadenned smile played at his lips, before his eyes bore his again. “... The Riverlands have been secured two days ago by nuncle’s presence. I came and took you back to Oldtown.” His reply had been quite simple, yet Aemond’s blood surged through with ire. He almost jumped up to his feet, demanding for a hurried answer. “You mean to tell me… Harrenhal has been abandoned. The strongest keep in terms of rally.” His voice had grown huskier yet, as he strained his vocal cords to concur a neutral tone. A bludgeon red obscured his vision, as a palpable realisation hit – his wife had been abandoned, too. “The Lady of Riverrun –” He began with grave ferocity, yet Daeron’s voice befell his ears.

“What was once your prized war captive appears to have remained scot-free.” The deep purple in his eyes registered his wrathful face, “There was nothing we could do. Your shoulder blade was soberly infected. The girl could have been anywhere further South, and Daemon emerged up North with that vexing bastard filly.” As his speech came to a halt, the man expelled a briskened heave, “You’re lucky that you’re still alive, and that Ser Cole stuck out from Maidenpool to take over your share of men.” Aemond’s features turned impassive, as his bold and younger brother carried forward with his discourse. Recoil sprung inside his guts, densening his leaden body. Fury fought with better judgement, until the former struck its claim. “How long have I been asleep.” Though a poignant and illusive question, his words spewed out as a command, “How long has it been.”

“A little over three moon turns.”

“Three days,” The man spat out in disarray, “Three days,” He thus insistently repeated, as he fixed on the lowest point of the cranky wooden floor. His mind’s eye surged with hasty questions, with possibilities and made scenarios that could have feasibly played at her fate. She could not have gotten far. Walking through those fields on foot came near close to be impossible, even for the ones who worked them. She hadn’t stolen any horse, for Alys told him –

Alys Rivers.

The harlot witch who’d sworn before him that she’d find out where she would be.

“Where is the Rivers witch residing now?” Almost clearing through his trail of thought, Daeron’s body hindered forward. “Take it easy, Aemond, please. You have not yet healed your wounds.” The sharpened edge of his advice echoed through the dim lit room. “I shan’t allow your temper to recline your better health.”

“You listen here and listen well,” His wide stance dominated their reclusion, “I remain your Prince Regent until Aegon’s recuperation. You will tell me where that bastard is, or I’ll break this hedge to find her.”

“Do not make me choose between my man’s honour and my family,” Daeron sighed as he unsheathed his sword, “Lady Alys is under my protection. And no harm shall fall upon her.” A humourless laugh broke Aemond’s scowl, as a wild expression settled in. Her ongrowing popularity with younger men with silver hair hadn’t failed to irk him onward. “Ah, she’s shown you her loose cunny yet?” With two wide steps, he reached his brother, “You get the bull-tip of your cock wet and call that an act of honour? For agreeing to protect her whilst buried to the hilt inside her?”

Her deep-set eyes shone with uncertainty. The witch had bit over her lower lip, surging forward with her pleading. “I’m begging you, my Prince, Aemond cannot know.” Taken aback by her renowned persistence, Daeron merely nodded his head. “My Lady, you are well in Oldtown now. For saving my brother’s life as you did, I remain deeply indebted.” Though his stare had but ghosted over the appendix of her womb, the man frowned with laced dubiety. She followed his fixation vaguely, before bringing out a hand to rest over her emergent stomach. “Your brother isn’t a bad man – and he’s never wronged me, my Prince, however–” Her quaint unease shortened her argument. And alas, she’d lost her courage, lowering her arid stare. “However, I do not think it wise to spur him on with my condition.” With how her eyes avoided his, her kind admission of his resting brother might not have been all true and fair. Still he didn’t dwell on it; and merely chose to nod his head.

“He is certain to be mad at me.”

“You ought not to feel afraid, my lady. Any news of your condition will not come forth from my own lips.”

“Careful now, Aemond, you forget yourself.”

“And remain unarmed.” He gingerly agreed, “Did lord Ormund tell you how to be a man of honour? Was swinging your sword about in the face of your unguarded kin a lesson he’d formerly taught you? Or did you already possess such knowledge?”

“I do not wish to fight you, brother. Though you will stay your hand whilst here.” A damning silence cut right through them, clogging up their lungs with pressure and spiking up their avid hearts. Restlessness and grief filled Aemond, who only glanced in trepidation at his shorter and unmoving brother. The crackling fire of the room danced its flames across his face, thus distorting Daeron’s image of the fervour which he felt. “I’d tread lightly if I were you, brother. The Blacks did style me a Kinslayer.” Though filled with vehemence and zeal, Aemond had been smarter yet. With his small hum and low admission, he relaxed his back again. He took a seat near the small fire, and glanced at the boy again. His eye swirled with an iron glint, that merged into the biting flames of the red inviting blaze. His right arm rose in mocked surrender, though his sharp features didn’t lessen from their venomous display.

Despite his face being flushed red by his brother’s cruel last words, Daeron faced his flare with courage, and a straighter back than most, “Is it true?” He interjected, after a trifling plummet of silence. Though neither Prince required clarity upon the nature of his question, the younger lass protracted onward, as to secure Aemond’s reply. “Is it true that I should call the Tully girl my sister now?” The remnants of the aching fire danced across their heaving bodies. The avid churning of the olden wood dominated the wide room – two Targaryens singled each other, mirroring their counterpart in both elation and in stance. Aemond’s orb never once found itself leaving his face. Lilac clashed with spilling purple, until the latter of the two men moved.

“Yes.” Was all the Regent mustered to answer.

The oak floor creaked under the pressure of Daeron’s long and urgent steps. His hands sprawled over to the pine-wood table. His head lulled forward in a broken image.

In the nearing distance of the fertile fields of Oldtown, both Tessarion and Vhagar unleashed their frightening and unruly growls.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn. Green Fork. Hag’s Mire.

Rushing Halls, Half Calf’s Inn, Green Fork, Hag’s Mire –

The North.

Words she whispered under her breath as she ran with a willingness unbent but strained. A ceaseless mantra of tied locations, that would hopefully bring forth her safety. Eventual peace within the Ream, to her family – and Gods be good, to the kindred spirits of all the souls she had selfishly left behind. She prayed and hung upon the last image that she got of Alys. Nought of what she said to her could be tested to be certain, and she might as well have sent her to an early and untimely death. She knew I wanted to march North, she'd ceaselessly remind herself, Could my own judgement be faulty?

Her legs had long been taken over by the blissful licks of numbness. And the soles of her silk shoes were long gnawed over by the pressure she had tirelessly put them under. Heaving breaths rattled her throat, and hot tears rolled off her cheeks. With a stupor which perturbed her greatly, the girl observed what had occurred.

She’d been crying. And for an awfully long time, at that.

Of exhaustion, of guilt, of desperation. Of feeling more caged than before, moving blindly like a pawn when bigger schemes were now at play – schemes that could have only been orchestrated by the Greens. Or the Blacks. Or the allies of those fractioned Houses. She could feel her heart emerge in the back-end of her throat. Her mouth dried up, although her tears quickened their flow into a heavy sheen of frightened spoil. The question in her mind remained – How long would it take until word reached the Blacks' most leal camps? Until Daemon or Rhaenyra found out about her bitter marriage, until her family – her real family – was used as bait to sway her heart?

They couldn’t know.

Would they believe it?

Would she be wrong to reach up North, in the hopes of peace and solace? Would she be caged and executed by the one Jace called his friend?

Her Jace. Her sweet and kind and perfect Jace.

His fingers threaded through her hair, as she sat across his lap. The padding of his calloused finger ran over her puffy cheek, prodding at her jaw affectionately as she read the book aloud. “Jace,” She hummed with contrary amusement laced within her tender voice, “However do you plan on learning all those words in High Valyrian if you can’t focus at all?” A boyish smirk spread on his face, which followed suit with a slight chuckle. Despite her chastising remark, the girl rose both eyebrows in wonder – she clicked her tongue in feigned dejection, but soon gave in to his strange joy. “Ah, but how can I be expected to concentrate on anything when you are so very beautiful,” Her Prince lowered his face to her, “And your lips look so inviting?” A myriad of little pecks descended on her face like rain, reaching wherever they could.

Three on her forehead, two on her brows, five on her nose and six on her lips.

A rather violent and aggressive turn stole the ground beneath her feet, and the woman found herself lying on the mudded earth.

Get up. Hurry and get up right now.

No matter how much she’d dare to try, she’d never be an avid runner. She’d never dare desert a post, but she’d never win a race.

Their giggles filled the blooming garden, as they both whispered their stale promises. “Avy jorrāelan,” He muttered right above her lips, “I swear that I’ll make you my Queen.” Her tiny gasps were soon all swallowed by the hunger of his mouth, “Avy jorrāelan–” She tentatively rolled the words in the back end of her throat, “That means ‘I love you’, doesn’t it?” The older boy let out a pur at her rightful and correct assumption, “My beautiful and smart betrothed,” He gently caressed her cheeks, “I love you,” He mustered up to say again, “I love you. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you more,” She strained herself to faintly exhale as she captured him again in an open-mouthed kiss.

She’d never seen love as a weakness, so she never felt the need to run. Although she’d never been the one to chase – always the last to eat her dinner, always the last to speak her mind. She was, in fact, a mere ground-holder. The one that always chose to stay.

“I’ll go with you,” Her weary eyes searched wide for his, “I won’t let you face the Triarchy alone.” Jace’s hands beckoned her hither, in a tight and chaste embrace. “You must stay here,” He softly uttered, “Your grandsire and brothers need you.”

“Not as much as you need me,” Her hands tightened their loose hold, “We’re a team. We’ve always been a team. I just–” Although the latter of her words were muttered, Jace still broke into a smile, “I just can’t let you go alone. I have a bad feeling about this.” He kissed the crown of her tied hair, and breathed in her daisy scent. “Stay,” He sighed in a low tone, “I did promise you, did I not?” His hawk-like orbs bore holes into her, “I swore to you that I’d return. I intend to keep my oath.”

Even when her shoes were laced, or when all her muscles tensed at the simple call of ready – she just wouldn’t move her legs. She was a stayer. Always the one to get up last.

“You shouldn’t be so taciturn,” Kermit’s voice rang through her ears. “Good things come to those who wait.” She dismissed him with a jab, and Oscar’s lips pulled to a smile. “In this world? In Westeros?” Her younger brother tightly questioned, “To a Tully? I don’t think so.”

Gods be good, her knees were bleeding from the sheer force of that fall. She blinked her eyes and panted loudly, trying to regain her vision. Dwellings on matters disclosed were the least bit of her worries. If she managed to escape her husband, then she could torment her soul.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn.

Alys had at last been right.

“Hey, boy! You, from over there!” Her breathless callings were soon answered with a frail and slight refrain.

“Greetings, traveller!” The man instilled his horse to stop, whilst turning his face towards her. “You seem to be in a big rush.” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her breathing came as short and laboured. “Aye, I am,” The girl agreed with a forced smile, whilst focusing to stop her pants. She glanced atop the horse’s rider, and merely nodded up ahead, “See, I was planning to go to High Heart – take the Gold Road back to Silverhill.” As she winced at her attempt to recall the map of Westeros, the nervous Lady of the Riverlands shrugged her shoulders in dismay. She swallowed deeply for a moment, and prayed to whatever God would listen for the man to be convinced. “But, uh,” She took in a shaky breath, as her lungs burned up her insides, “I didn’t realise the lands would be so muddy.” She chuckled as the boy relaxed, and aligned his horse to face her, “Not from these parts, are you, Lady?”

“I’m afraid I’m here in passing. My own family awaits in Appleton.”

If until then the lass had treated her with piercing and perusing distance, his facade had broken down, in the singular and stellar moment when her words mentioned the Reach – the modest castle of King’s Road where some lower lords resided. Immediately his shoulders slouched, as his eyes widened with joy. “You’re from Appleton, Lady?” Without awaiting for an answer, the boy shook his head and clarified, “My good mother comes from Appleton – she used to take me there in summers, since I was still in my cradle!” He dismounted his small horse with a feverished, good-willed felicity, and approached the waiting girl, “‘Tis good to see another lowborn of the Reach! My name is Dalron. Dalron Flowers.” As he proudly spoke his words, the Dalron bastard of the Reach leaned into a profound bow.

Another bastard of the Reach – this was starting to become a theme.

The amusing thought that reached her mind hindered the girl to suppress a laugh. Still, her eyes darted in focus to the side of the road, and she faltered a moment to plunge back into her words.

“I’m Sara Webber.” She lied without a single tick, and smiled crookedly when the man tripped over his better words, “M’lady!” He forthwith spat out his flattery, “Forgive me, m’lady, I hadn’t realised I was talking to a – well, uh, ah, a highborn lady.”

Relieved that her lie had worked and that her new identity had stuck so well – for she was painfully unaware if such a Webber even existed in the lands of Coldmoat Keep –, her hands came briskly in the air, as she waved them both good-heartedly. “It is I who should apologise, ser – I don’t reside exactly in Appleton. Though I share the enthusiasm: it is a rather beautiful place." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and her stare focused on the tiny horse; how very perfect it would suit her in the joncture of her little trip.

“I struck up a conversation to inquire about your horse. Would you ever think to sell her?"

“She's not truly a horse, my lady, but a half mule –”

Alys.

"Still, she's as good as any purebred! And she can last for a long distance."

“She must be quite valuable and dear, then!”

The lanky bastard nodded with a smile upon his lips. His eyebrows furrowed shortly after, as he patted the old yerdle on her boney and emblemished back, “Aye, m’lady, dear she is – but I must say with honesty that she can’t carry much weight.” A shy quirk befell his lips, and the boy dared to look away again. His black eyes ran over the hills she’d pointed – and he shook his head whilst thinking. “But with just you on her back, m’lady,” His yellow teeth showed for a moment, “I’d say she could take you to Appleton.”

Her dirtied hand dug through her breeches for the remaining coins from Alys. After but a hissed-out curse and a sheepish smile thrown at him, her unclenched palm revealed both silvers, and a carefully polished ring. “It’s not much, I must confess,” Her breath staggered with an inept swallow, “But it should be of enough value to at least make up for her.”

The way his face switched brash emotions made her squirm within her place. She filled her lungs with putrid air, and merely drove on ahead, “Of course, I’d deal you with these clothes, as well.” She humorously jabbed at Dalron, “If you could tell I was a lady, then my job wasn’t done right.”

The rags the bastard wore in daylight contrasted her shirt and braise. And Dalron looked at the two silvers, and at the stone caught in her ring.

In those unparalleled moments of quiet, the Lady smiled at him with patience, but prayed upon the Seven Heavens that the man accept her offer.

***

The mule’s strides were long and hearty – filled with more determination than the girl ever expected; swift and agile on her scrawny, although weirdly elongated feet.

The girl noticed, although dumbfounded, that her shoulders had relaxed. Her lips pressed into a tight line, as her back turned stiff again.

Such a fool’s role she was playing, disassociating from her nimble body, daydreaming with her eyes wide open, when she hadn't yet found shelter. She could not afford missteps – not another hurried movement, or another close miscall. Relaxation was a dreaded feeling.

Her, overcome with confidence in her own wit and reason, on her slim chance of escaping and her margin of enclosed direction could not have brought good news with it. And that bastard boy she’d left, wearing all of Aemond’s clothes…

She’d smiled at him in a faint manner, and fooled him to dress in her garments.

When quietness set in the fields, and all the birds ceased with their loud humming, the tired Lady of the Riverlands wondered if she’d killed the lass – if somehow, although unwilling, she’d condemned him to his death. Would he be found out by Aemond? Or by one of his unchanged supporters? Would any woman from his town recognise the three-faced dragon on the back-end of his shirt, and denounce him as a traitor, style him someone who plotted against the betterment of the Black flags? … Would he know her true identity? Had he figured it all out from the moment that he saw her, and only bargained with her money to suck her dry of all she had?

She was Elmo Tully's daughter. The granddaughter of mighty Grover. Kermit's sister–

Aemond's wife.

Both her brothers were well-liked, known and welcomed with great reverie on North to Kingsroad and South to Ashford. Surely then the boy won’t talk.

… But what if he were made to talk? Tortured on and on for hours, seemingly without an end? He’d seen her take to Wayfarer’s Rest, so if he’d give them those directions, then at least they would be wrong.

The mule was panting, hard but slow. Her feet had started giving out.

“Attagirl,” The girl encouraged, patting her on her slim neck, “Hold on for me. Hold on, sweet thing – we have to walk for a while longer.” The half-breed puffed through her pink nose, and merely grunted in her slight retreat. “I promise you, we’ll stop real soon.” Had she turned fully insane? Overcome by grief, fatigue, and so desperate to talk again?

Human company couldn't be traded with the one of a small horse. But conversing with the mare was better than not cackling at all.

A lousy crack of a felled branch unsettled both the mount and owner to the heights of deep hysteria – but only the former jolted and curdled out a high-pitched shriek.

“Shh, shh, attagirl – calm down, sweet thing, calm down.” The Bliss of Riverrun commanded gently. Her hands were shaking, still holding up the yearling’s bridle. She exhaled once through her straight nose, and tried to calm her aching nerves. “I got scared, too, but it was nothing.” Though darkness ate away the forest, her avid eyes searched through the shadows – and her own hand rested quite stiffly, palming at her thigh to ground her. “See, it was just a stupid bird. The breeze. A noise.” Her own breathlessness surprised her.

In olden days, she'd laugh at that. For she always teased the children that were still scared of the dark.

Droplets of sweat coated her forehead, tickling down her dirtied cheek. The girl didn't feel like laughing. The girl felt the need to scream.

Should Aemond venture out to find her, she’d be well aware of that. And no amount of greenery would mask Vhagar’s laid out shadow. The dragon’s roars had made her ears bleed – they would be louder than a measly crack.

As she looked up from the bushes, the girl's big eyes filled up with glee; for there it was, up on the hill – the unkept and deformed Hag’s Mire.

《"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn." As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire.》

Alys told her she could stop there. And Alys had been right before; why would she be lying now?

Maybe she should stop about. Allow her mule the rest of night, eat something hot, starchy and fat.

She still possessed her golden pendant. And she could trade it for a meal, and a high stable for her tired mule. Her heart picked up with faith and hope, as her own lips parted with gratitude.

Thank the Gods for Alys Rivers, she compelled within her thoughts.

His eyes looked far into the distance, matching shadows to their forms. The grey within his tired iris faltered over with light languor – and a quaint sigh left his lips, as the man straightened his back.

“And so quietness enwrapped the Realm.” Her satin voice enveloped Cain, and whilst he turned his head around, he returned her smile with grace. His fatigued limbs chastised in protest, yet he still bowed in his reply. “Lady Arryn,” He echoed slightly, announcing the woman's presence. The night’s air flogged at his pale skin, leaving forth their angry marks at the apex of his hollow cheeks. “The hour’s grown quite late, my Lady.” Instead of an outright reply, the woman nodded in effervency, as she walked on by to sit near the stones he rested on. She turned her stare to the vast distance, and sucked a breath with a light tut. “When my ancestors built the Vale,” She began with a small hum, “They said it was impenetrable.” Her hands rested in her lap, playing with her golden rings.

“Why are you here alone?” The quaint recoil of her tone matched the weariness of his low stance. “Apologies, my lady. I hadn’t meant to abandon my post.” Though he tried his hardest to level out his prickled throat, the words he uttered maintained their shaky undertones. The subtle feel of her wool shawl surrounded Cain with love and warmth. Her hands had draped the silky felt over his unyielded back, and she rubbed long, soothing circles in the thick of the material. Twice she had patted his shoulders, before gently letting go.

A wordless colloquy was thus exchanged. “It’s really cold.” She hushed beside him.

“But I’ve always found their logic to be lacking in that sense.” Jayne transfixed Cain with her blue eyes, “No one's tried to break us in. But I'm certain that some could." She paused a while to maul her thoughts, before she carried on her speech, "Just because something looks to be untouchable, that doesn't make it rightly so.”

“It doesn’t quite inspire men to go to arms, either, my lady.”

“Yeah…” The knight chocked-out an affirm, “It is.” Her eyes pleaded silently with his, and the five and ten year old lowered her head over her knees. “You talked to him.” She merely sighed, as he quickly shook his head. “He reached out to me,” Cain muttered simply, “I was in the training yard when he showed up out of nowhere.” A wobbly hand came to wipe his tears away, and the lass scratched himself with the callous ends of his rough digits. “Said we needed to talk. I thought that… Gods, I never allowed myself to hope, my lady, but for once I–” The fever in his growing tone wantonly shredded his heart. The anguish in his gape was evident, but the girl lest found herself transfixed by his iron gaze – so close to being blue or green, so close to turning milky white. “Is he…?” She asked him with a reserved pitch. “His twin brother.” Cain huffed out, as a bitter laugh slipped past his lips. “Tyland was just there to make sure I wouldn’t yelp. His brother’s too much of a coward to address his son his questions.”

Lady Arryn forced a smirk, yet agreed with the tall knight. “Every coward seems courageous in the safety of the crowd.” She murmured through a marginal chuckle, “And bravery can be contagious when the band is playing loud.” Her tense gaze drowned him like a river – and the swirl beneath her eyes let the man know of her wide plan. “To be led by the force of example can be a very tricky thing.” Cain exhaled through his nose.

“Is that why you cannot find sleep?”

“Was he worried you would say something?” Her drawn voice laced with the cobwebs of uncertainty, “What would you have to gain from calling yourself a Lannister’s bastard?”

“A whole lot, Tyland thinks.” The corners of his mouth quirked upwards, “For one, Jason doesn’t have any sons.” Her eyebrows rose from perplexed to intrigued. “Even rumours of an illegitimate one could very well ruin their thread of succession.” As the two friends pressed on forth with their treasonous exaltion, the younger girl lowered her head. “But you don't want it. You don’t want Casterly Rock.”

“No.” His own body had become a vessel, a means to chain his most protruding thoughts. The corners of his mouth had watered, as his vision turned unclear. Gods forgive him, and Gods be good – but how he wanted it as his. He wanted to sit on that damned chair more than presidency would allow. He wanted to feel the weight of that ridiculous and pompous cape upon the broadness of his shoulders, he wanted to know what it would be like; For but a moment, he wanted to know their power. To know what it was like to be seen, quaint regarded as an equal, and not as a produce of lust. “No, I don’t want it.” His head surged clear with a response. The world was yet to make a man who lacked the much needed ambition to climb the ladder to the heights of power. The impulse he felt had made no difference – what he wanted and what he was owed were on the two sides of the same coin.

His shoulders tensed, much like that night. “I feel…” He strained himself to give an answer, “When I faced the Kinslayer in that dark, secluded cave," His diction halted for a moment, as he thought on what to say, "I felt more than prepared to die.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“No, I didn’t.” His shame slid down his throat with ease, “I survived; and in the process of that, I failed her.” His stare threaded with the winter’s sky. And when he dared to speak again, his voice hung low with deep uncertainty. “There’s nothing to say I won’t fail again.”

“Nothing makes a man so bold as a woman’s smile, and a hand to hold.”

The redness in his cheeks had deepened, and though his mouth opened in protest, quietness ensued a while – He would have avidly denied her musings, swearing on the Gods above that what he felt for his fair lady was nothing but a lasted friendship.

I owe my very life to her, he might have been endowed to say, When no one else believed in me, she was the one who gave me hope. And the right purpose to uphold.

Only when he turned her way, did the knight realise that he was tired. Tired – but tired up and far beyond the constrictions of the mind and flesh. The only sound that left his lips was a faint sigh of refrain. Everyone inside his life abandoned him or ran away. How cowardly it was of him to wish to do the very same.

His weary and incessive shoulders stiffened with the gentle breeze.

A single tear rolled off his cheek, and Cain swallowed back a curse. “I always lived under the impression that fathers grow to love their sons.” The silence that swaddled the gardens exceeded deafening amounts. Crickets nestled in the grass, opening their wings to fly to the delicate petals of flowers in the raptures of the night. A gust of wind prodded her vision, swaying forth her longer hair. The young girl’s eyes closed shut in focus, as her lips parted instead. “Jason Lannister is an idiot.” She ended up concluding then, “He doesn't deserve to call you that.”

A steadied breath escaped Cain’s throat, and her wide orbs softened in pain. Her gaze moved forth to the green bushes, and her smooth hands twitched in her lap. Suddenly and without thinking, her palm enwrapped his shaking fist. “I’m glad he’s not making you live with the shame of being his first male offspring, you know.” Although her moody tone of voice snapped right through the orchid garden in a patronising way, the Bliss of Riverrun made use of her free remaining hand; digging through her gown’s loose pockets, searching for a piece of cloth. They emerged not moments later, holding up the handkerchief – which she brought up to his face, to wipe away his trail of thought. “Fuck him.” She disclosed with a sure frown, “How something so defiled and ugly managed to mend such a good and patient boy should be studied by the Citadel.”

“You should go back to the feast, my Lady. Your grandsire will be very mad once he notices you left.” Though his gentle tone of voice tried to lead the girl away, his calloused thumb stroked tenderly at her palm’s inner soft flesh. She gave his hand a caring squeeze, and aligned her grasp with his. “I’m not going to leave you.” Her eyes spoke the honest truth, “Not when you’re hurting like that. What kind of friend would I be then?”

A small smile formed on his lips, pulling them upward in a comical but quite strained fashion. All his blood surged in his ears, and the tall and blonde young knight wished to tell her how he feels. He wanted to at least say ‘Thank you’, but the words escaped his clasp. His weary eyes were set upon her – upon the small curve of her nose and the wide curls of her soft hair. His tongue felt tied inside his mouth, and he was glad she’d smiled instead. “Besides,” The young girl spoke to fill the silence, “I don’t think I’ve ever attended a more dull and stale soiree.” Though his tears had long dried up, her hand stayed rested on his cheek. “The smallfolk starves so the Lannisters can stuff their faces, and congratulate each other for being so stupidly wealthy.” She threw her hands up in the air, peeking at her sole companion for one of his amused reactions. Sure enough, the boy was grinning – and that lone and simple notion made her all the more excited to upkeep cheering him up. “They must think we’re stupid,” She hummed in a degreeing voice, “I swear to you – they’re taught one dance, and one dance only. They just slightly change the music in the hopes that we won’t notice.”

By then his laughter echoed like pure crystal through the otherwise deserted grounds. Her own smile broadened with elation, as her curious and searching eyes reached up to his jolting shoulders. The youngest child of great House Tully crooked her head to the left side. “Hey,” She called out for his attention, “I just had the best idea.” Her dire lips pressed up together, before she went on with a smile. “Do you want to do something fun?”

If not for Jayne’s inessive stare, and the lethargy he felt throughout, Cain might have bothered to deny her brazen, yet affitely laid-out assumption. Orbs of forged steel fought to maintain the stare of ones tempered in frost – yet still the man shifted about, landing both his muted eyes on the ventured meadowed cliffs. Defeat swarded up his chest – sieging his brain and better reason, making him almost lose his temper. The greenery before his eyes coveted a single truth; more than six moons had passed between them. From the last time he’d seen his friend.

Alone at night he often questioned whether she’d at least survived. He prayed flaringly without a fault that she’d end up safe and about – protected and abstained from harm, and from the swandering of the Kinslayer.

“But all alone his blood runs thin.” He swallowed back his lost refrain, finally answering the waiting lady. “Then doubt comes – doubt comes in.”

He’d seen her Septas teach her Prayer. He listened to their wilted teachings, to the encouragements she’d be swarmed by. It was shameful and disruptive – his need to bite his tongue so hard, that he’d draw blood inside his mouth. Laughing would be crass and vile, he’d repeat inside his head, when her weekly call to “Grace” led them to the striking Sept. Faith can be encouraging, he’d reason, Not all of us are dealt bad hands.

There was no mercy to be had once fate fell into Their harsh hands. Bastard boys knew it too well, and so did every man and child who’d go to bed without their supper. Survival had to come by first – and faith would take the back-end stroll, until the former be assured. No, Cain had never prayed before. For there was no amount of prayer to be whispered by his lips that would possibly bring forth reclusion and relief to all he’d lost. It was the Gods who took his mother. It was the Gods who made him so. It was the Gods who made him feel like the sombrest in the world. But in a twisted and deformed way, it was the Gods that gave him comfort – for it was easiest to blame them so, for all the slights which he had faced.

Cain had never prayed before, but how he prayed for his friend now.

“Place your hand upon my waist, like so.” Her tender voice led with an instruction.

“I don’t think this is…”

“Whatever are you scared of, Cain? I’ve not seen you so tense before – not even in jousts or tourneys.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, as her brows fixed in concentration, “And you faced knights there that were twice your age.” Defeated by her lack of presidence, the boy let out a shaky sigh, and focused on his burning stare on the forming trees ahead. His gape bore long and cutting daggers to the entrance of the gardens, and with each passing momentum, his back turned all the more stiff. Such an intimate position would have ruined any lady, were she caught with a high lord – and all the more vexing it’d be if she’d strayed with a sought bastard. His ears caught with a rosy tint, as his mouth parted with a forming protest. “My Lady–” The Waters boy had tried again.

Mayhaps sensing his mistrust, or simply carrying her own joke further, his lady rose her left hand up and swatted him with a slight grin, “See? You’re already a natural at it.” The music of the Great Hall carried to their small corner of the keep. And the Tully nodded once to encourage Cain to move. “Septa Harlow says it’s important to upkeep your stare,” She muttered as she twirled with him, “When dancing with a fellow lord, it is improper for a lady to look at anything below the brows.”

He could feel his hands get clammy, and his limbs turn firm and heavy. Though her words had eased him in, the boy remained brittle and set. “Boring, right?” She questioned with a tiny laugh, “As I told you – you didn’t miss much. That’s nothing else that people do there.”

As the music caught incentive, her feet stopped into their track. She mocked a deep bow at her partner, and slowly rose her gentle eyes. She turned around without a warning, and started running up ahead. “Keep up, Cain!” She yelled before her with a zeal that filled her heart, “I have a better idea than just staying here – but we’ll have to really hurry!”

The witty Lady of the Vale shifted on the cold, wet stones. She turned to fully face the bastard, and offered him a knowing nod. “The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.” Her azure eyes looked at his hand, and at the bandages that covered it. “To lose two fingers at three and twenty, to be unable to move your arm, or to fight as you’ve been used to,” The older woman spoke to him, “It’s a misfortune that’s more than daunting.” Her slighter frame approached his crouching and recoiled in body, choosing to stand next to him. “You’ve managed to hang onto life when everything else seemed to be lost.” She muttered lowly, as if taken by surprise by the man’s pure strength of spirit.

“I failed her.” He whispered back in spat disgust.

“You didn’t fail anyone.” The lady interjected swiftly, “From the very beginning, you’ve been sent on a death mission.”

His loosened locks of golden hair fell upon his ample shoulders as he marginally shook his head. “Oscar was right,” Cain murmured plainly, “In between the two of us, she should have been the one to get here.” His body twisted towards the older woman, as his brows furrowed in pain, “I failed her.”

“If she knew you were alive, leading troops to save her homeland, I think she’d be ample proud.”

Despite the empathy she felt for him, the small brunette hardened her stare, “‘Tis not about what Oscar, or Grover, or Elmo think – ‘tis not about what your Lady thinks.” Her hand took hold of his good shoulder, giving it a toughened squeeze, “‘Tis about what you do now, with the resources that you were given.” The leal fire in her eyes caused the man to straighten up from the slouch that bent his back, “I expect you to be nervous. I expect you to be scared. I’m asking you to go back there, and risk your life all over again for the sake of something that we’re losing.” As her speech came to a halt, she gnawed harshly at her bottom lip, reddening her paling mouth. “If you go back there, you might die. Forget about holding your sword the right way, or about fighting with honour – you might face dragon fire, and dragon fire doesn’t spare even the most able of men.”

Though her words were scarce and prudent, Cain waited patiently for her to finish. Slithers of shame gathered in the low pits of his stomach. How could he have lost his nerve when his Lady hung onto him? With so many lives at stake, whom all readily lent to him?

“We’re counting on you, ser Waters.” Jayne continued her trail of speech, “We’re counting on you. But can we truly do that?”

If he chose to fight again, it wouldn’t be for wealth or glory. It wouldn’t be for great renown, or to prove something to others. Even if he lived it down, no applauses would be heard like at the end of a big tourney. He’d emerge a new man, changed, lacking of some of the scarce qualities that he felt he had that day. But what would happen to him – inside of him – mattered not to the young knight. Once again her kindred eyes came across his spinning view. And he knew, once and for all, that he’d throw his life away, if only to shelter her own.

His peer had mended to determined, and he swore upon his honour that he’d see his deed go through.

Allyn Swann. Lady Jayne Arryn. Four thousand men and (Y/N) Tully.

All the people that believed in him. All the souls that trusted him.

Just like on that autumn night, when he and (Y/N) ran away to see a circus in Flea Bottom, the heavy-lidded cavalier felt his words die right on his parted lips. But he came forth with a swift answer – one which he truly believed in.

Her gentle voice seeped in his ears. ‘You’re the only one who understands me, Cain.’

“I swear it, before the Old Gods and the New – upon Faithkeeper, upon my honour. I’ll return your trust tenfold.”

A true smile formed upon her lips, at the near end of his pledge. “Do come with me, Ser Cain,” She instructed with a leveled tone, “I have a gift prepared for you.”

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers. That lying, scheming, filthy whore.

To think she almost prayed for her, and thanked her feverishly inside her head. Her trip ensued without a hitch – and so she let herself believe in her, and nearly bumped into the Redwynes. The lousy troops that gathered up and swarmed the entrance of Hag’s Mire. Had she not spotted their banner, she might have set her foot inside. And that ostentative and golden dragon, which she despised with her whole being, served as her only decent cover against their clumpy eyes and ears. Her mule had come free of her bridle before she could hide any better, and advanced without her forth into the crowd of foul usurpers. ‘You fucking traitor…’ Her soul was screaming, as a Green soldier gripped her small saddle, ‘I give you that damned red apple, and you go to feed from them?!” Her jaw was clenched, as were her muscles. She couldn’t bolt. She couldn’t run.

“Where is that useless boy we paid for?!” The high-pitched scream of an old woman reached for her tense and prodded ears, “This is the last time I let you deal with the stupid boys of bloody Ramsford!”

Her eyes darted to the source of noise, and her mind surged with an idea. It would be risky. She could well die. If Darlon Flowers had found her out, then the haughty and sullen madame would see right through her flimsy scheme. But she had no other choice. Hurriedly and with great ardour, she dug her hands in the fresh mud, and scraped its contents on her face, smearing them wildly about. “A-Apologies for being late!” Her hoarse voice echoed through the clearing. She mildly coughed inside her hand, and tried her best to engross her timbre. “I never went further than Oldstones, ma’am–”

“I care not for your excuses, lad!” Her antsy wording cut her off, “You were to be here for a good five hours,” Her hand enclasped and tugged her wrist, “So take your mind off being paid today!” Her hazy irises bore daggers in and out the Lady’s heart, and her nose scrunched in daunting wonder at both her face and dirty garments. “Gods be good, they sent an animal. Are you clean of spreading warts?”

“I-I, uh–”

“What about catching diseases? Are you simple-minded, boy? Address me when I speak to you!”

Her wrinkled hand prodded above the laced-up waistline of her linen breeches. Were she not to open her mouth, the madame would have no shame to check and see her parts herself. “No – no, ma’am. I’ve no disorders left in sight. N-no warts, no yellow cough,” Her face contorted with abstained tension, as her hands rose into the air, “Nor any other spreading disease, I can assure you well of that.” With a loud snort and a dismissive hand, the aged madame turned to the wench, “You take this Ramsford boy inside and help clean up his grisly mug.” Her glacial tone waved with intent, “Then back to work, the both of you!” The younger girl nodded her head, shaking off her loosened braids, “Y-Yes, madam, of course! I’d be glad to help him out!”

“Well?” Her cutting question sucked all the air from the blonde girl’s arid lungs, “Don’t just stay there and look stupid – now!”

***

The lost blonde girl was called Mariah. A jumpy but dexterous cook, more used to the blazing heat provided by the kitchen fires than the cool air of the airy inn. She’d awkwardly handed the Lady the much-awaited handkerchief – and merely played with her plump fingers as the girl wiped off the mud that hadn’t yet fully dried up. And although her nose scrunched up at her resistance to a watered cloth, she failed to do anything wanting besides pushing her towards a closed door. “You-you’re going to be their attendee tonight. They don’t like women overhearing their stories or their spoils of war… so it’ll just be you in there.” Her green eyes widened to two round specs, “O-oh, of course, well – it won’t be just you in there, since you’re serving a table full of men, but – I-I meant that you’ll be the only servant there.” The words that followed her expansive ramble turned from stutters to incentive murmurs. And the Lady nodded weakly, whilst trying to decipher them. When her speech near loomed its end, the girl coughed loudly with insistence, and offered Mary a small smile. “Thank you, Mariah. I’ll handle it.”

Her burning eyes interwovened with alight uncertainty, “J-just be careful,” She confided through the notion of a fragile sniff, “They tend to scream when they get angry… A-And they got angry quite a lot.”

Ghastly and impending savages – that is what the soldiers were, as they laughed and drank and scarfed right into their mead and ale. The short remnants of her hair brushed across her cupid’s bow, falling straight over her view and narrowing it to the front. Her breathing turned to short and laboured, as she turned her back to them – and her hand enclasped the wine pouch with a faint but thrilling shudder. She’d seen men get drunk before, and she knew how they could talk. How the pints of liquid courage pulled the truth from their loose tongues, how their vision and their temper simmered them to gentle hearts.

Wine and ale made men more placid, but they also riled them up.

Her fingers brushed across the table, and she crouched close to the surface, seemingly inspecting it. Although her ears and head were pounding, she’d have to play her cards just right.

The well-known shrill of a low voice sent a shiver down her spine. “The Targaryens have all extended their lines,” Arlow Redwyne spat out bitterly, and all eyes turned back on him. Her own head jerked upwards in wonder, as she sucked in a harsh breath. “And now that summer’s over, the Blacks will have a harder time keeping their men and horses fed.”

“Summer or no, they can’t even call that an army,” A haughty voice echoed amused, “What was it – six hundred men from our dear Tullys, and a couple more from close to Sherrer?”

Now her eyes had been blown wide. Six hundred men. That was all they could afford. Were six hundred starving men all they had left of their home?

“Those searing leeches, along with the Freys, understand the woes of winter better than we ever will. The cold won’t beat them. As for the Northerners…”

Her guts hung lowly in her midriff. She’d recognised the last man speaking – the infamous “Bloody Mance” Pyke: a lesser lord under House Greyjoy, one of the few who’d known her brothers in an up, ‘personal’ manner. He’d visited their home in Riverrun, and saw the little Lady grow. How much of her he would remember was a query without answer.

“The Starks have no interest at play here.” A bitter voice shook through the room, “They haven’t been involved thus far. Cregan Stark won’t risk his forces for a war that never reached him.”

“Our spies,” Lord Pyke snapped tartly, “Report growing discontent among the northern and south-western lords. The latter wants to return home and gather the harvest before the crops turn. The former has sent word out to gather an army.” His amber eyes rose to Lord Redwyne, who merely let out a hum.

He licked his lips off the sweet ale, and whistled lowly at the Lady to refill his empty cup. She briskly moved to his direction, and poured him in a hefty cup. “And I’m sure if those same spies snuck into our own encampments, they’d report growing discontent amongst the southern lords.” His own flat tune disconcerted any worry from his sons’ long freckled faces, “This is war. No one’s content. And the northerners might take years to even gather half a regiment. The conditions make it such that any message travels slowly; before the Boltons and the Banfields, and House Mormont from the West manage to defrost their troops…” His heavy hand dismissed the girl, “The battles will be long well-ended.” A cutting silence reigned the room, as Lord Mance Pyke drowned his tall cup. He shifted lowly in his wooden seat, and signed for (Y/N) to grant him a refill.

She approached with her chin down, chewing on her bottom lip.

Gods be good, let him not notice me. Gods be good, let him not see me.

“We’ve underestimated the Tully boy for far too long.” One of the soldiers dared to mutter, “He has a good mind for warfare, his men worship him.”

'The Tully boy,’ She exhaled slowly, Would that be Oscar or our elder brother?

“As long as he keeps winning battles, they’ll keep abstaining for Rhaenyra.” His voice had come to shake with fervour, “We’ve been waiting for him to fail, he is not going to fail. Not without our help.”

“Then think, Ser Wylde, exactly what would make the lass break.” Arlow Redwyne interrupted when his fist landed on cutlery. “What is the one thing a Tully cares for more than anything?” Lord Pyke surged forward with the burning but evasive question.

The blood had run from her slim face, making her seem pale and sickly. Though the mud masked her quite well, the Lady arched her shoulders forward, trying to appear unbothered. A rattle of contented laughter turned the men’s whole disposition. “Family, honour and duty.” A black-eyed boy mocked the lords’ distinctive dictum.

“You stupid fuck,” Another wheezed right next to him, “It’s ‘Family, duty, honour’ – at least say their calling right.”

“The point still stands,” Mance ushered with ascendence, “There is nothing a Tully cares for more than family.”

It was as if a punch had been directed at her carved-out chest. The air immediately left her lungs, and her fingers gripped the pouch. She’d take a knife to all their throats before she’d let them harm her brothers. In his seat, Arlow deflated. “Of course,” He puffed through his broken nose, “And how, exactly, do you plan to reach such an impressive feat?” His callous digits jerked a march over the corners of the wooden table, “You forget mayhaps, good ser, how both Grover and that Oscar rest somewhere in Baelish Keep. The girl disappeared near Hayford–”

So Kermit was still fighting out there… and they thought that she was dead.

“‘Heard our Prince made her his wife.” The searing words befell the chamber. Ser Wylde had captured their attention, and even the men drunk out their minds rose their heads to listen better.

The unhealed flesh of her soft palm stung her over the long cut.

"If he had, he never would have left without her. And more than enough rivermen thanked the Gods when they saw Vhagar heading towards nought else but Oldtown.”

He left…?

She had lived the past three days in excruciating paranoia. And her ‘husband’ simply left her? Confusion, anger and relief all surged into her pulsing heart. He’d given up on finding her. She’d finally see both her brothers. And with any ounce of luck, their paths would never cross together. She should have felt elated. She should have felt relieved. She should have tried to mask her happiness, the smile that pulled at her fair lips – yet all she felt within her soul was a plentifully bitter feeling.

May he rot in the darkest pits of the Seven Hells, she exhaled briefly, Both him and his damned witch.

A lousy snort bounced off the walls that sealed the chamber of their council. And Lord Redwyne's youngest son shook his head with a deep frown, “Don’t you find it rather strange,” he asked, “How he left in such a hurry?”

“‘Tis not for us to safely say.”

“Yet even so!” His youthful face churned with suspicion, “He kept us wholly in the dark.”

The only thing that truly mattered was that Aemond had abandoned Harrenhal.

“And what are we to do now? Daemon lurks with that strange lassie – that’s two dragons against none!”

“Aemond won’t abandon us.”

“Open up your eyes, ser Wylde!” Bowen Redwyne rose his voice, “He might just as well have done that. He left with Daeron to hide in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground.”

Her breathing hitched inside her throat. Not only were they aware of the stronghold’s current state – but they thought Aemond had burnt it with the aid of trusty Vhagar. It had been three days of running – the word surely traveled fast.

“He left us with no defence–”

“Enough!” The mighty roar let out by Mance silenced the forfeiting room. “We’ve gathered here to speak of war. Not gossip like fishermen’s wives.”

Where did Aemond’s army head to? Oldtown was a place secured. So had he left because of Daemon?

《"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silence of the chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved. We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."》

The plan was to leave for Oldtown – why was she acting so surprised? Why did she care whether or not he’d made it safe? Whether or not his wounds had healed? Why was she somehow weirdly hurt by the fact that he just left her? Her trailing thoughts and inner conflict came to a halt as Mance addressed her. “Drain that pouch of any wine, boy.” He commanded with a rumble to his stern and cutting timbre, “And bring out water. We’ll be here for quite some time.” As she turned her back whilst nodding, the lanky Lord heaved out a sigh. “Can you read, Lord Edmure Rosby?”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

“Can. You. Read.”

The Lord of Cornhill met his stare with a blacked-out and confused expression. “Y-... Yes, my Lord, I can.”

Just as Edmure answered his question, the Lord of Pyke let out a chuckle. He wiped his hands off the cooked supper, and reached his breeches for some paper. “This letter,” He clarified to the slow lordling, “detailing our infantry movements was meant for Lord Quentyn of House Marbrand.” After a slight egregious pause, his droopy eyes fell on the man, “It was sent to Lord Marlin of House Qallister.” The young Lord Rosby sucked in a breath, and allowed his orbs to trail to the stones of the hedged floor, “My apologies, my Lord, I must’ve–”

“Boy?” Mance called out to the working Lady Tully. “Fetch me The History of the Greater and the Lesser Houses.” He pointed forward with his finger, “It’s the second one on the side.”

Her feet might have given up on her, were it not for his stale order. She’d never been addressed before, and that alone made her breath hitch. Her eyes shut close in concentration, and a small curse beleft her lips. She could feel the break of sweat crown her forehead in round droplets, but she calmed her rabid breathing with a small roll of her shoulders. Her hands rose to grab the book, but wavered on for just a moment – touching up the edges of another heavy leaflet, before picking up the right one, and carrying it to her chest.

“Even this cupbearer can execute commands better than you,” Mance scolded the sitting lord, as the girl laid out the tome. “To whom does House Qallister owe allegiance?” He questioned with a honeyed tone. The frail lass rose up timidly, pointing forward to the laid-out scriptures, “My Lord, I…”

“To the Tullys of Riverrun!” His enraged scream and cutting look arose the silence of the whole commandment. “And who, pray tell, do the Tullys of Riverrun owe allegiance?” His fist came into contact with the freshly laid out table, “To the Blacks, to the Usurpers, to the Whore of Dragonstone and her bunch of bastard cunts!”

The Bliss of Riverrun remained hammered in her weary spot – somehow still holding her breath, in spite of being overlooked.

“I judged you might be good for something more than brutalizing peasants.” He exhaled slowly through his flared-up nose, “I see I overestimated you–”

A timid knock at the locked door caused the girl to jolt upfront. She caught her lip into her teeth, and chewed with tremor at its bottom, as the loud gates opened wide, to reveal a pale Mariah. “M-My lords…” She began with a light pause, “M-My mistress would like to ask you… when you’ll… p-pay… the charging fee.”

Bowen Redwyne smiled politely, bowing his head in return, “We must have overstayed our welcome.” He whispered mirthly to his brother.

Lord Redwyne glanced at the girl, mirroring his son’s refrain. “You can go announce your mistress that we will be done here shortly. Tell her to bring the written tax for the food and for the shelter.” As Mariah curtsied deeply, shutting the door in her departure, the old man turned to his sons, and to the lesser lords at present. “All of you except Lord Pyke – leave. Boy, clear this table.” Runceford’s even and dispersive voice rang right through her nimble body. She offered him a brisk ‘M’lord’, and hastily got up to work. As tiny Edmure rose as well, the lord of Old Wyk grabbed his arm. “We are not done with our talk.” He hissed in his petulant ear.

***

“We cannot allow this impunity to go on.” Mance spat out in a rough tone as the door closed in on them, “No matter what has been discussed today – the Tully boy remains a problem.”

Her dirty hands wavered a moment, ‘till they resumed their hurried task.

“His clever move near Redglass Field nearly cost us all the Capitol. We will not fall for that again – we look like fools and they look like heroes. That’s how Kings fall.” Runceford agreed with a small frown.

For a while, the only sound that thus emerged in their secret and concisive council was the clank of all their plates. “I want him dead. I want every last one of them dead.”

Her small, albeit stiffened fingers clasped over a sharpened stake knife.

“Killing them isn’t the problem. It’s finding them.”

If you kill them both right now, no one will know how to alert your brothers. The word will spread that they had butchered you – and then they’ll both come for revenge.

Her focused eyes softened at once, as her steel grip loosened the blade.

“Have you gone soft, Lord Pyke? I always thought you had a talent for violence – and an eye for weaknesses, as you so put it at this dinner table.” The iris of his tired eyes clashed with his protruding amber, “Burn the villages, burn the farms. Aemond might have left the Reach, but that doesn’t mean that the smallfolk will get a break. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side.” With one last nod and a small bow, Mance and Runceford left the room.

In less than a moment’s notice, her upstrained feet gave out before her.

***

Not a single nearby lord cared enough to look at her. Not a single drunken soldier gripped her shoulders or her arm. She had slipped by unobserved, written off as less than cattle. In her time spent in that stiff room, she found of Aemond’s long departure. She knew now the North was angry, that the Rogue Prince beckoned hither – that her brothers and her grandsire were still on the loose. Alive. No matter her conflicted feelings. No matter all the new-found worry that she had for the Kinslayer. She was still breathing and living – her shortened breaths and anxious tears felt like proof enough of that. She found herself growing with purpose – to relive her climb up North. To alert both of her brothers of the Greens’ most jarring thoughts. To find what happened to her father, since his mention had been scarce and worn.

As she turned to leave the alcove, her eyes caught her in a nearby mirror. Her silky locks, darkened by mud and chopped inaptly by that dreadful shard. The black-rimmed circles underneath her foggy globes, the lone dictator of her sleepless ventures. Darlon’s garments were made to fit loosely – but even she could may well tell that she’d lost a lot of weight. Her sodden cheeks that cracked with dirt, and the way she stood preleened… it was of no immersive wonder that she hadn’t been spotted or seen.

A gust of hope picked at her skin – at her left leg, her forming scars. She trailed her palm with a smooth digit, and felt the ridges closing in. The dragon glass had cut her smoothly, and it was feasible the war did, too. Time heals all. Time mends scars well. Perhaps she could hope again.

What if this war could still be won – by the Blacks, by her, by them? Would she cling enough to life to see such a far-out feat?

And if she managed to live…when the slight girl watched herself be so changed by it already, could she ever tell herself to go back to how she was? The laws of men made it as such that she would never dare forget – any or all that had transpired in those years of grief and anguish. Her abatement would be short and minimal. She’d never dare forget her Jace, or sweet Cain, or loyal Beesbury. The almond eyes of baby Luke, or the laughs she’d shared with friends. Friends she’d never see again. Friends who all died long ago.

Desolation and resentment were not new to the young Lady. And she swore it to herself, as she glanced into the mirror, that she’d never ache again. For the betterment of her brothers. For their mother. For either father or their grandsire – she would make it so she’s useful. Strong. Contented. And reliable. No Hightower would make her kneel. Their time was spent and since ran out.

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers.

She would leave that inn at dawn.

***

At dawn she said, and dawn it was.

“Enjoyed your pats from those Green scum?” She asked the mule with a raised brow, as she untied her from the stable’s pole. “I hope you rested well last night. The real journey has just begun.” 

Almost as if she understood her words, the half-bred mare shook her black mane, huffing through her tinted nose. “I don’t like how that sounds, either.” The girl sighed in a spent tone, “I never thought I’d get to say this, but the more distance I put in between me and my home…”

The road was quiet. All too quiet. The Redwyne company left way before her, as the hooves that trailed towards south indicated half as much. It was bold and quite peculiar – that those pompous Green supporters were so close to their Green Fork. For both The Twins and Castle Seagard were unwavering, leal to Daemon. To the one true heir and Queen.

It had been too long for her – since she felt the rays of sunlight. And if those treacherous and shifty lords felt so at home existing North, then both strongholds must have been emptied. The Trident’s lords were scattered somewhere, fighting in some vacant halls. Even so, it was too quiet. Not a single man in sight.

Perhaps allowing herself to glance behind was the girl’s biggest mistake. Or mayhaps it was stagnating, as she let her mule rest up.

“Haaaalt! Halt right there, lassie, don’t move!” A faraway, salacious scream deterred her to jolt straight up. The tenseness of her stiffened muscles ceased as her eyes prodded onward, setting on the crest above them – made of a bird, and of a seahorse, and two dragons. An even more attentive glance let her know of their bronze armour – of their brown hair and mousy faces.

Freys, she laughed inside her head with glee, An actual Frey company – marching South from the Twins’ gates.

“Good day to you, soldier. It seems we serve the same leal camp.” She greeted him with a bright smile, but as she tried to move up forward, the sharpened edge of six steel blades pointed at her nape and neck. She swallowed thickly, but kept her temper, and rose both hands up in surrender. “I yield,” She tried to jest with the tall men, before speaking up toward them, “I’m (Y/N) Tully. I believe I have a right to be here.”

“(Y/N) Tully’s dead,” One of the more suspicious knights ushered at her from the back, “She perished near Hayford’s lone bridge – every man, woman and child heard the story a thousand times.”

“Oh, you better be joking,” She hissed through an acrid breath, as she let out a small curse, “I know I may not look the part, but I am (Y/N) Tully.” Her wanton orbs searched for the soldier’s, who only weighed her with conceit. “‘Course you are,” He answered crassly, “And I’m the Lord of Bastion Keep.”

She offered him a blithted smile, although not one that reached her eyes. “I can’t catch a single break, now can I?” The Lady murmured to herself, “Very well,” She spoke out clearly, “I suppose you are commanded by your good lord, Forrest Frey?” Whilst her tone was domineering, a subtle smirk graced her pink lips, “Call him over, see for yourselves. He will tell you who I am.”

“Look, girl, it’s gettin’ cold and we’re quite busy. So, you know.” One of the men shrugged his broad shoulders, “Best fuck off. Either that or stop your lying.”

“Tell your lord his niece is home.” She betted onward once again, “You wish to know who it is I am, and I wish to wash my hair. So call for your lord. And be done with all this bother.”

“Lord Frey’s too busy to waste his breath on you. Just like us.” His short patience had been running thin, as for his hand – awfully cold, “So for the last time – fuck right off, and state your business.”

“Maybe we should just detain her.” One of the more lithe men suggested, “Tie ‘er up, resume our marching.”

“Should you value your good hands, you won’t touch a hair of mine.”

“Careful now,” The fourth boy muttered, “We’re enjoying you here, lassie, but don’t think you’ll make demands.”

“You would harm an innocent, because you’re too lazy and stupid to call for your own lord?” Her latter comment set him off, and he jumped off his starving horse to come to grip her by her loosened shirt. “Now listen here, you dirty fuck–”

“What appears to be the matter here?” A hardened voice commanded swiftly. Slowly and without much heart, the younger boys broke off the circle, as they readied their report. “My Lord, as you can see–” The one who seemed to be best-spoken tried to give out his account. 

But no more words ever escaped him. For the wide and gentle Frey spurted out with a burst of solid laughter. He made great haste to debark his stallion – to reach with fervour for the small girl’s shoulders and to ruffle her short matted hair. “Well, I’ll be damned,” He exhaled shortly, “I would recognise those shrew eyes everywhere.”

“Uncle,” She greeted him with forming tears, “It’s good to see a well-known face.

Aemond had been right, he thought. In spite of their pleasant small talk, Evelynn had latched onto him. Laughing at his every word, even if he wasn’t joking – gripping down onto his thighs when the odd pair had sat down. He had been courteous and kind to dance with her two tamer waltzes, but even the boldest one of the confined Targaryens couldn’t possibly stomach another. When his deep stare started avoiding her, boring holes throughout the hall, the man noticed his escape, and thanked the Gods before his fall. Seated not one yard away, in a dress that matched her hair, rested Elmo Tully’s only daughter – a quiet child, not five and ten, which appeared fully engrossed as she talked with her tall friend.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” Daeron’s voice shook the whole room. As he turned his head around, his incessant stare bore daggers right into his brother’s throat, “What this decision makes of our political agreements?” His body was steadied and tense, taut and rigid, at attention – the implications brought on over by Aemond’s ill and thought-out match made his pulse readily quicken, and his whole soul seethe in anger. When he glanced over at him, not a single trail of shame registered on his sharp face. “We gain nothing from an alliance with the Riverlords,” Daeron desperately tried to tell him. “She's a comely girl, I'll give you that, but we’re at war, and she’s ill-favoured!” Finally, his dire words seemed to spark up a response – for Aemond took in a sharp inhale, and readily rose from his chair. “You will speak no more of her.” He deterred out in a deep growl, “Whom I marry is my business. I will not have you rebuke me.”

“I should not have questioned you,” The lone boy had swallowed thickly, as he met his brother’s eye, “Evelynn is… nice, ‘tis true. However…” His comforting and handsome face shifted with bitter intent, “I don’t know how to discourage her.”

Aemond smirked in deep amusement, drumming his fingers on the pine wood table. “Have you lost her in the crowd?”

“Momentarily,” Daeron surged forward, “But there are only so many men with short white hair inside this room.”

“I will question your decisions if they put us all at risk.” The youth spat out in a quick warning, “And your wrong choice to marry her will ruin every deal we had with Borros.” Daeron had fought to keep his voice down to a levelled plane of field, but even he cracked underneath Aemond’s lack of mournful interest. “I heard from mother of your obsession,” He breathed in a staggered breath, “But I never thought you foolish enough to marry a lowborn riverlander–”

The circumstances were not ideal, and he’d acted like a little boy – but he managed to desert the Frey and acquaint himself with the Riverrun girl. “I’m afraid I’ve two left feet, my Prince,” She granted him a small apology, as she ducked his offered hand, “There hasn’t been any time for me to practice my dancing whilst confined to the Red Keep.”

“Truly?” The corners of his hawk-like eyes glimmered with jocund distraction, and the young man tried once more, though his hand had then been lowered. “But the Red Keep swarms with banquets. Have none of my elder brothers taken you to dance before?” The Tully girl let out a laugh, and a faint pink caught her plump cheeks – and whether that was from frustration, of being irked by Daeron’s presence, or flattered by his light attention, the boy would find out soon enough. “As I said,” She smiled at him, “I’m afraid I’m a poor dancer.” Her almond eyes swirled with deep mischief, and she bit her lower lip to stifle down a roaring laugh. “If you wanted to escape my cousin, you should have checked in on the further right.” If his face hadn't been red, then it surely caught in pigment when she uttered her last words. “I assure you, my dear Lady, I had no such ill intent.” He clarified with a bent smile, but shook his head in grave embarrassment when she quirked up her shapely brow. “I shadn’t pressure you to dance with me.” He bit over his lip, defeated, “But I beg you to give me a chance.”

Her eyes softened at his request, and she gave her knight a nod. She mouthed him something intangible, and turned to face Daeron’s advances. “I will step on your feet, you know.” A loud laugh rattled his insides, “You may not believe it, my lady, but Tessarion once placed her entire weight on them.” She tutted lightly in reply, and merely entwined their hands, “My Prince…” She let out a tiny snort, as she gingerly laughed by herself. “You don’t believe me,” He feigned offence, as he spun her twice around. “You should know then, Lady Tully, that I scarcely ever lie.”

“Oh, I would never even dream of styling your good Grace a liar.” Her voice softened to a murmur, lowering in false sobriety. Almost as if they’d been conspiring, her youthful face leaned near his shoulder. “But you can’t be cross with me when I say I don’t believe you.”

Before either one of them could register Daeron’s last words, the lithe Targaryen grabbed his green collar and pushed him up against the wall. “You and I are family.” He rumbled out in a low tone, “Speak one more word of the one I have with her, and you’ll regret not dying sooner, during that raid of the Three Towers.” Daeron’s head shook with uncertainty, pounding in his ears from pain, and the young lass pressured him onward, as the blood tickled his tongue. “Did you go through with it, then?” He asked him through a gasping wheeze, “Did you bed her?”

The quietness that washed them both forced the boy to curse again.

“I take it that your charms have failed you.” Aemond hummed inside his goblet, as he looked at the small girl. “She’s talking with her brute again.”

“If only Evelynn wasn’t her cousin.” The boy laughed in miscontempt, “The Lady may have two left feet, but even then it was exaggerated how many times she stepped on me.” Their purple eyes set back on her – and Aemond was the first to stop. “I wouldn’t be distraught, dear brother.” His upturned mouth broke to a smirk, when Jace’s laughter seeped with hers – drawing long stares from the room and pulling whispers from lax mouths, “She seems to have an affinity towards bastards.” His good eye focused in on him, “The odds were truly set against you.”

Daeron’s face mirrored his brother’s, though the former tried to hide it. “Careful, Aemond. The Blacks are listening.” He pointed forward with a simper, to where their half-sister was sitting with her pompous and elusive smile. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem,” The One-Eyed Prince addressed his sibling, “She is quite taken with our father.”

His smaller hand scratched up at Aemond’s, endeavouring to put an end to his strong, unyielding grasp. “Brother…” He tried to word out in a plea. His tightened hold loosened a moment, and Aemond let his brother breathe. “I have lain with her before.” He asserted with a levelled timber, “The marriage was consummated.”

“Gods be good.” Daeron exhaled, as his hand ran through his hair, “What did you do?” He asked once more, as he pressed his back again right onto the jagged wall. “This doesn’t just put us in danger. Your wife’s a target – now more than ever.” He concluded after a while. “Lord Borros is too involved to annul our misalliance. But if word reaches the Blacks –”

“Which is why I must go find her.” Aemond gritted through his teeth. “So take me to that damned witch, and send word to the dragon keepers to fetch some bulls to cater Vhagar.” Daeron’s brows twisted in bafflement, creasing his face and his ravishing features. “You cannot mean this. She could be anywhere. Your shoulder hasn’t even healed.”

“I will tear down every castle, and every town, and every home that she could ever hide within.” Aemond’s eye was blazed with anger. The noble lines of his fair countenance bore the marks of his pursuit – disentangled to his face, his hands, found in every forming scar and in every galling crease. A bitter longing and a hopelessness interwoven in the need to find her – to hold her to his chest again, to feel her breathing hitch against him, to feel the pulse of her warm heat. The raw intensity of her brazen and uncaring kisses, the delicious and erotic sting of the one slap she had given him.

“Whether she wants that or not, I will have her by my side.”

All of this to feel her near. To own her essence. To drink her screams. To wake up and see her body lying consciously with his, to feel her eyes follow his movements and her warm, plump lips on his.

She must have hoped for this arrangement when she was betrothed to Jace – a life of comfort and of safety; a life where she would be The Queen. And for her, Aemond would do it. He’d subside his sister’s children and he’d sit the Iron Throne. He would place his crown atop her and bend to her every whim. “And she can try to break her chains a thousand times – over and over. There is not a single corner of this world that she can run to. I will always find a way to reclaim that which is mine.”

“Well then,”

In spite of the relief she felt to be parted from the Redwynes, Lady Tully’s restless mind seemed to be somewhat estranged.

"Which one of these fat ugly cunts tried to lay their hand on you?" Forrest’s voice plummeted through the small camp they had laid out. Strenuous licks of fair amusements pulled the corners of her lips, and the woman smiled contently, as she shook her head in earnest, “Please, uncle, there should be no need for that.”

“There should and there will!” His silk smooth baritone came out definitive, “No man will hurt a niece of mine and get to live to tell the tale.” Although his words were rough and final, the gentle furrow of his brow revealed the lord’s attempt to bluff. She laughed once more, in lifted spirits, and took a stance alongside his. Her eyes glossed over with incertitude, and the girl hummed, lost in her thoughts. “It would be quite a shame, you know,” She muttered lowly to her uncle, “For this fine army to be slain before they even set off to war.” Though he laughed at her poor joke, the Lord of Green Fork sighed in exhaustion, “Sometimes I think it’d be a kindness.” A bitter pause cut his lungs’ air, until he deterred out a breath, “None of these boys are ready for war.”

“I don’t think anyone is.” She muttered slowly by his side, “We think we are… we train for it – with jousts and tourneys and in combat yards.” Her latter thoughts had turned to Aemond, and how he’d train each daunting morning whilst she lived in the Red Keep. It was a somehow sacred ritual – a clash of swords, of wit, of power. It was a way for men to ease their stress, and wash away their stale frustrations with breakages of blood and sweat. It was a way to prove themselves, an easy way to become envied by the gossiping and gathered masses. Throughout their short acquaintanceship, she’d never once figured it out; whether or not Aemond was training for other people to admire him.

His mornings were moments of solitude – for scarcely anyone would gather hither. The nights and eves were for the lordlings – who slithered forward as he sparred Ser Criston. As proud as he ever was, she thought, everyone yearns for approval. And who else would need it more than the crippled second son.

Her cheeks reddened with slight colour, as her lips jolted a tremor – she could no longer think of him and remain listless and passive. With each and every chance she’d get, her trailing thoughts would reach for him – to the bump of his big nose, to the sharpness of his eye.

Had he reached his brother yet? Did he take Alys with him? Was his shoulder blade still healing?

Stop it.

Morbid curiosity is what killed the restless cat. What she now felt towards her captor was nought else but forced attachment.

But was he safe? And did he miss her–

She knead her hands in one another; both hidden by a pair of gloves. Realising that she’d been too quiet, she blurted out the next of her words. “... But no one is truly ready for the horrors that it brings.” Her chest felt hot. Her breathing ragged. Had she grown to care for him?

“Has your father ever told you how you sound just like your mother?” He breathed out through a soft exhale, “She hated war. Thought it was dumb.”

“‘Tis good, then, that she’s not here to witness it.” Though both of them had started walking, neither one let out their thoughts. Her clothes were clean, her hair was dried – she told him with a staggered breath what she’d gathered of the Redwynes, of the Targaryens and of the Greens. In return, Forrest confided her with her grandsire’s location – telling her Oscar was fine, that Kermit oft’ communicated by sending them concisive letters. “Thank the Gods,” She breathed out, with a hand upon her chest, "So my father is alive."

… But what of Cain? And what of Jace? What of Lord Beesbury and her dear cousins?

Suddenly she felt ashamed that she ever thought of Aemond.

“Where will you be heading now?” She asked her uncle with a shaky but consistent voice. “To meet your brother at Lakehore, of course.” Forrest responded with a growing smirk, “We won’t allow those mudded fuckers any further Crownland passage.”

“He’s near the God’s Eye?!” She stopped abruptly, whilst widening her tired eyes. A passing shadow of a smile lit the girl’s quivering lips, and she fixed the nearby stones as she tottered out a laugh. “To think that if I hadn’t ran, I might’ve met up with my brother.”

To think if Aemond hadn’t left, he would have met his in-law brother.

“But Harrenhal has been cleared out,” She turned abruptly to her uncle, “There’ll be no battle to be fought. The Pykes and Wyldes and Redwynes think that the stronghold is a waste – my fire has made sure of that.”

“Kitchen fires can’t melt stone.”

“... But the Greens would know that, too.” She gnawed at her bottom lip. Her eyes closed in concentration, trying to recall Hag’s Mire. She had been too scared to listen – truly listen to their tales. But a slight echo surged forward, as she rummaged through her brains.

《“He left with Daeron to wait in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground!”》

“They were arguing that Aemond had left them defenceless. That he took off to Oldtown and burnt Harrenhal to nothing.”

“But that was you.” Forrest Frey regarded her with an awfully twisted look.

“Not necessarily.” She mauled it slowly, “With age, dragon fire grows stronger. I’ve seen both Vermax and Vhagar burn open fields to ash and smoke.” Her orbs came into clash with his, and the man swallowed intently, gesturing her to go on, “There is a vast difference between those acres. The aftermath of Vermax was… closer to searings caused by people, than the inferno of a dragon.” As she pressed her lips together, she exhaled a deeper sigh, “But Vhagar…”

“I’ve seen that fatted lizard go to work.” Forrest agreed with a light hum, “Over at Mummer’s Ford; Gods, if I hadn’t grown up in the region, I wouldn’t have known there was a town at all.”

“So what if Aemond did burn Harrenhal?”

“He definitely had the time.”

“It doesn’t take long to yell out ‘Dracarys’.”

Their simmered dialogue had turned to whispers – and their small council reached an agreement. “Lakehore remains a strong location,” Forrest offered up his hand to her, as they passed the flowing river, “Even if Harrenhal should be no more. We’ll meet up there and ride towards East.”

“Will you meet up with the Arryns, then?” Her last refrain dumbfounded him, and the man stopped on the small path. “The plan is to take you there. Reunite you with your family.” His searching stare mended with hers, and the girl’s uncle quirked a brow. His mouth pressed to a thin line – a hereditary trait, it seemed –, and he shook his head again. “... You seem conflicted and obscured.” He muttered, whilst awaiting her reply.

“I am closer to the North than East.”

“No. I cannot let you go alone. Your father would strangle me for it.”

“So don’t,” The self-assured and poised young Lady now agreed with him wholeheartedly, “I’ll give you my mule if you give me a horse.” Her eyebrows rose in confirmation, “That way I won’t go alone.”

Although his face rattled conflicted, the older Frey gave her a nod. He paused to look at her thick gloves, and faltered on his mouthed reply. “You’ll need warmer clothes to survive their ever-winter.”

“And ink and paper before I go, so I may send out some letters.”

As he laid his preparations, Forrest Frey turned to his niece. The wide corners of his lips had twisted to an outline of a subtle grin. “I suppose you’d need an envoy for your grandsire and brothers.” He agreed before she could, as he rummaged through his vest and breeches for his House’s patterned seal.

***

“I cannot possibly accept this.”

“Given that it’s yours, ser Cain, I must urge you to reconsider.”

And so it was – sturdy Faithkeeper. His oldest and most trusted sword, and the one gift he got from Allyn as he departed all those years ago – to the grounds of the Red Keep, to the new home of his fair Lady. The blade remained as he had known it – with its intricate design of leaves and tender words carved on red iron. Though his mentor told him nothing when he handed him the gift, there was no avid denying of the nature of the shiv; A family heirloom with unmeasured value, and a kindness he could never repay.

“I cannot take it.” The boy had uttered, looking at the greying white-cloak.

“You can and you will.” The older man pointed a finger at his vest and heavy armour, “I am not having a conversation, boy, I am stating an order.” Though his eyes were rough and rigid, a coil of softness interwovened in the creases of his face. His wrinkled hand reached for his back, to give it a small squeeze of farewell. “You do good now.” The man instructed, furrowing his bushy brows, “I want no report to come through from any raven of King’s Landing telling me you’ve gotten lazy.”

“I swear to you that I’ll protect her.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, my boy.”

Upon throwing it a better look, the man remained engraved with shock. Both the handle and the hilt of it had been replaced to suit his needs. Sculpted by acquitted silver with a slight hole for his hand, and a velvety but silk-like ribbon to enwrap around his arm. “We thought the minor adjustments would prove useful when in battle.”

Almost too preoccupied to inspect its sharpened edges, Cain’s eyes snapped away from it at the inkling of Jayne’s voice. “We?” He repeated her words slowly, whilst raising his brows in stupor. His bewilderment would not live long, as the Lady of the Vale keenly offered him an answer. “The sketch for its newer hilt does come from the youngest Tully.” Upon his silence, she continued, as she spared a patent look, “I have reason to believe it’s his way of saying sorry.”

“Lord Oscar has no reason to apologise to me.” Though his words pondered definitive, a content arch pulled at his lips. His stare soon turned back to serious and his back awfully stiff. “I… wouldn’t know how to thank him.” Seemingly losing his face, the Tully’s sworn shield bowed to Jayne deeply, “Or you, my lady.”

“There is hardly any need for you to thank me, Ser Cain. It is us who should bow to you for your willingness to keep us safe.”

When her hand beckoned him onward to return to his wide stance, the woman faltered for a moment as she looked at his grey eyes. A look of startled but conclusive shock spread across her older face.

“Have you no shame, you stupid boy?” Tyland’s low hiss was followed suit by his stinging and petulant words, “You have a lot of nerve to show up here.”

“Ironborn?” She asked her question, as her features smoothed over.

“I wouldn’t be able to say, my lady. My mother died after my birth.” By all accounts, he’d been quite truthful – he knew who his father was, as it had been awfully clear when he glanced at his twin brother. He’d find lost remnants of himself as such, and questions of his build or hair had been answered with a single look. His mother was a simple woman – a merchant’s daughter, as he was told, once very beautiful and fair and honest. He didn’t know the way she looked, though he assumed that his eye colour came from her, and not the Lannisters.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sure you are, you foolish bastard.” The words that tumbled from his lips reddened the tips of Cain’s big ears.

The sheer aversion in the man’s slim face sent a shiver down his back. Confusion laced with grave recoil, as a small curse beleft his lips – Gods, let this not be how he finally got to meet his dad.

When the boy stayed lost in silence, the younger Lannister pushed him again. “Doesn’t loyalty mean anything to you?”

He did desperately hope that he looked like his good mother; and sometimes, during the night, he would pray that she would guide him – prayed, but prayed not to a faceless God, but to the memory of her lost image. He would pray that she should guide him through his avid quests for glory; through his cluttered and entangled life path, through his hardest and most straining choices. There was something rather comforting in imagining his eyes were hers – that they looked like hers so much, that she’d still somehow live through him. He hoped that the Gods left an homage to the sole fact she existed. A silent proof that she’d not gone without leaving her own mark behind. That she had made him in her image, that he somehow held her inside. That men would glance right at Cain Waters and know that he was Wynne’s son.

“Loyalty means everything to me.” He spat out in a lowly tone, despite his evident confusion.

“Yet you show up here, threatening to ruin everything we’ve set in place.”

“You?” Cain’s face contorted to a deepened scowl. He shook his head in half-regret, and merely swatted Tyland’s hands away. “I haven’t shown up here for you.” His light-grey eyes shone forth with grief, “Don’t worry. I’ve no desire to be recognised.” The colour from the old man’s cheeks drained itself from his stiff face, “Not that anyone would believe you.” He muttered fast and quietly, “You cannot threaten us with this.”

“Of course not,” Cain interjected with a rattled and bemused expression, “I am just another bastard. I’d sooner die than see myself legitimized as one of you.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that.”

He leaned his head in a swift bow, as he spared her a small grin, “It is quite possible she was from Orkmont.”

Her expression shifted upward to a placid but elusive smile. Nodding once at his picked words, the lady shifted in her place, quirking up a thin blonde brow. “If you ought to be in search of Oscar, he should be near Longbow Hall.”

***

Angry, reckless, non-deserving; with an unquenchable desire just to prove himself as worthy – Oscar had been a wild child, and remained so as an adult. Always quick to take offence, always ready for a brawl and always willing to show off; despite the fact that he’d never won a joust or tourney in his life, and most lordlings of the Riverlands failed to give him credit’s due.

Restless, loyal and headstrong. Those were words that well-described him. Even in the crack of dawn, he was spotted in the training yard, walking miles in aching circles, practising with his great sword.

Family. Duty. Honour.

For the better part of his young life, Oscar had lived pledged to oath, to upkeep his House's words.

He’d go to war with his brother, he’d avenge his sister’s honour and take every man who ever helped tarnish his homeland through the judgement of his bitter steel.

Oscar Tully loved his family. Even when it was much smaller – when it was just him, and Kermit, and their loving and ambitious Mother. He swore to himself to always enact as a pillar to them – to turn responsible, reliable and trustworthy. And when his mother died, leaving behind his only sister, he promised himself to always protect her. When they were but small, lithe children, very rarely did they not bicker and argue like a bunch of wildings – yet when push came to shove, and either one of them stole one too many jam tarts to not go unseen, it was always one or the other who jumped to the rescue of their misbegotten sibling.

Oscar Tully was certain that he’d always fulfil his promise. He was the fair image of a future lord of the Trident – honour drove him to oblige his duty, and his one duty was to take care of his family. He was a second son, and as such, he served as a spare to his brother. Taught in the same way that he was, although with less vigour and effort by the thousand swarming maesters that took rest in Riverrun. He was only four and ten when he watched his whole world crumble; and his closest blood relations scatter through the lands of Westeros. He helplessly obeyed his grandsire, when he was sent away to squire under the greying Lord Tyrell – perhaps in the hopes that the Reach would temper him, or that he’d fall madly in love with his slight and sickly daughter. He watched as his sister was taken, away from the comforts of home – sent to the Capitol as a ward to elderly Lord Beesbury. All alone in shitty King’s Landing, to learn the mannerisms of a proper Lady, and to find a husband that would be competent enough to keep her and her offspring safe.

Dreadful, he thought it then, and awfully unfair deal now. For years he’d been unable to see his siblings, his father, and his grandfather – and when the war finally started, and alliances were formed, he lost his sister to the wrath of that sick freak.

The One-Eyed Kinslayer. The One-Eyed Prince.

《The boy scoffed at the knight’s attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze. "You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably." His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze. "Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"》

He’d lost his temper. In his attempts to ground himself, he himself had failed his grandsire – who not only had to worry for his own son and House’s future, but for his two grandkids, as well. His blue eyes closed in concentration, as his lips parted in an exhale. He wondered if he had done right, to alter Faithkeeper like that.

Cain Waters was akin more to a beast than to a man. Seemingly fearless and focused, big as a mountain and wide as a bear. His pride had stung him when his grandsire chose him to rescue his sister, but even he had to agree that Cain had been their only choice. He just made sense, the lass agreed, as he watched him lead and point over Jayne’s numerous troops. Still, his mind remained unchanged – if only he had been allowed to, he would have seen his sister home. But he was the second son. The son whom nobody had wanted, the one who wasn’t even needed. Elmo and Kermit were thousands of miles away to fight; and he had begged them both to join them, but to no righteous avail. He just wasn’t skilled enough. His duty bound him to the Arryns. To taking care of his grandfather.

“Do you not feel forced to fight?”

“Forced?” Grover Tully’s husky voice echoed through the marbled walls.

“Pushed by your free will to do it.” Oscar sucked in a big breath, “I’m one and twenty. It is expected that I go out there.”

“It is expected that we do… all it should take to survive.” The older man hummed in admission. His piercing gaze cut through the boy, before his head turned to the sky, “Your lousy father and reckless brother are away to fight for a cause we don’t believe in. In the best case for your sister, she’s been taken forth as prisoner.”

“Which is why I should fight, instead of hiding like a coward behind these stupid walls.”

“Which is why it is imperative that you should stay here to remain alive.”

His face contorted to a painful scowl, as his legs carried him to the edge of his viewpoint.

“I’m afraid I do not follow.”

“I will not let those damned Targaryens put an end to my own House.”

“So you would let your own son perish? You’d let his heir go down with him?” By then their voices rose to screaming. “People die at war, my boy – good people, bad people, people who only did their part. Should I not word the possibility that your own brother might be killed?”

“You should not say it with such ease – you should not see your only family as some fucked pieces on a board!”

“I am trying to protect our family! Preserve our House, our heritage! By keeping one male heir alive – even if it brings the scorn of others!”

Oscar was the second son. The spare. The one who had to sit behind and watch how his remaining siblings struggled on their own to make it.

“My lord,” The gruff echo of Cain’s voice deterred him to turn his head. Tempered eyes were met with grey, and the young man nodded deeply in a stiff but poignant greeting.

“... Ser Cain.”

A small nod was shared between them, followed by an ushered silence.

"I believe we need to talk."

╒══════╕

Translations:

“Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” = “Seven Hells, when you stay on top of me…”;

“Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.” = “Fuck, my love, I would give you a hundred sons.”;

“Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.” = “And I would love each and every one of them.”;

╘══════╛

[tojigasm]

Heavy with Blood and Sick

Authors note: thank you so, so much for 10k!! I adore you all endlessly and cannot thankyou enough for the joyous support and adoration you've all expressed towards my work. I hope you all enjoy this celebratory piece ♡♡

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, nsfw, labor, pregnancy, pet names, unexpected pregnancy, graphic birth, blood, pain, crying, fluff, love, angst

Synopsis:

"Easy, easy, sweetheart." He's soft behind you, grounding you as another contraction rips itself through your body.

"Breathe fr'me, deep breaths," he strokes his hand down your shaky arm, "good girl," Jake presses a kiss to the back of your head when you groan again.

"I cant- I cant..." your cheeks are swollen and hot as you pant into his hold.

Jake pulls you into him, pulling your hair behind your ear, "you can," he nods with his words, reaching down to cup the underside of your heavy middle, "calm down, kid."

He doesn't understand it. Doesn't know why you don't just come out with whatever the hell it was that was so obviously bothering you. It annoys him that you're crying in his lap, sobbing and choking, sniffling against the thunder and rain that shatters in the sky, making you jump ever so often. Yet you still won't tell him what's wrong.

He eventually stops prying, settling on running a big hand up and down your back in gentle rows.

"You okay?" He only asks once your broken cries have dissolved into quiet sniffles.

You don't say anything. Nodding into your arms cupped over your knees.

Jake eyes you at your quiet response, moving to speak before he pauses. He realizes he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what you need and how to help.

"Sweetheart?"

"M'pregnant." You cut him off. It's so sudden Jake thinks the confession shakes you as well.

It does.

Jake nods, humming softly before tucking you back into his hold. "Tsuy wasn't happy I gather?" He motions languidly to your position in his lap and you nod. He sighs through his nose at that.

And he's so warm. So warm and big and rough. So stern that you nearly start crying again. The blue stripes and scars a mocking reminder of tsuy. He doesn't let you go back to your home that night.

-

Jake hates when you do this.

Hates the way you look over his children with sorrow eyes. Whether its watching the three by the river, helping Neytiri with Tuk, briading Kiri's hair. It's all the same, the same look.

He knows the last six months havent been kind to you - riddled by your surpise pregnancy ontop of your mate leaving you. He'd taken you under his wing at that, both he and Neytiri taking you in as their own which had soon bloomed into much more.

Often Jake finds himself thinking back to the day the three of you had mated. Making the bond between the two of you had brought upon something he hadnt expected; rather than a flush of excited heat he'd been met with a heavy sorrow.

He often wonders what you think of, what you need. He doesnt quite know.

"Hey hon," Jake nuzzles your cheek as you thread blades of grass together. He takes a seat next to you, pulling his own handful of green from the root to start braiding together.

You hum in acknowdlegement, crossing your legs under your swollen middle. You like days like this, days where the wind in the forest is soft and cool and the trees seem to sing.

You can tell Jake wants to say something. He's always been that way, very straight to the point and naturally paternal to those he loves.

"What is it?" you sigh, folding over the last blade of the strewn plants.

He's quiet for a moment, eyes shifting from his hands of bent grass to your figure beside him. "Are you alirght?" He asks finally, dropping the ripped blades to the ground.

"Why wouldnt i be?" you answer sharply, fingers pulling a bit tighter at the ends of your necklace. He doesnt respond but you know whats coming, know that he'll eventually unravel your soft walls you so despeartely tried to build up over the past few months.

Jake's hand cups under your chin, stroking the base of your ear soflty. "Hey," he calls gently, placing his free hand on your wrists to push them down to your lap.

"Look at me, sweetheart," Jake speaks so softly you could cry. His hand on your chin turns you gently to meet his eyes. His amber ones search your teary ones before he's pulling you into his lap with a soft hum.

He doesn't try to coo you, doesnt quiet your heartfelt sobs and your choked cries. He lets hismelf be there, lets himself soothe a hand up and down your back as you cry into his chest.

"You're gonna be okay. I'm gonna take care of you, you're gonna be fine, honey."

—

Neytiri had been out on a hunt. Away for a week at least and heavysome you became with worry, sick, and labor.

It'd only been a few hours since your contractions started to get closer together. Every ache and pull against your womb simmering in the heat of your strength.

You rocked back and forth on your hands and knees in the heat of the nearby springs. Jake helping to relax your muscles as you felt another contraction rip its way through your womb.

 Jake, beside you, kneeling and running his hand over the skin of your back, gently massaged the rough of his palms into your shaking nerves.

"Haa... haa Jake” you cried, the pressuring heat in your belly so heavy you can feel your knees buckle beneath you. You nearly collapse at the intensity of it. Grasping for Jake as air catches in your throat.

He catches your arm, finding a soft patch to meet your heavy eyes.

“I’m right here, whatta need, sweetheart?” He stroks the skin of your shoulder, moving his hand from your back to rest on your wet cheek.

You whimper, “just,” you look back at your belly through a pant. "I want 'tiri," you cry, head dropping between your shoulder blades.

Jake nods softly.

“I know, hon. I know."

—

“Jake, i can’t.” you pant, back to Jake's chest. 

"Easy, easy, sweetheart." He's soft behind you, grounding you as another contraction rips itself through your body.

"Breathe fr'me, deep breaths," he strokes his hand down your shaky arm, "good girl," Jake presses a kiss to the back of your head when you groan again.

"I cant- I cant..." your cheeks are swollen and hot as you pant into his hold.

Jake pulls you into him, pulling your hair behind your ear, "you can," he nods with his words, reaching down to cup the underside of your heavy middle, "calm down, kid."

You sob, falling into his hands.

"Hurts so bad."

“i know," he nods, rubbing your shoulders softly, "m'right here.”

—

“Jake, pease,” you said mumble through a sobbing pant “please, just make it stop.” 

You couldn't breathe - you felt like your lungs were being crushed, your legs had gone numb, pins and needles stabbing into the heels of your feet and tail, running up the muscles of your swollen caves. Child birth was sickly.

Jake sat behind you, his chest to your back and his arms beneath your own, stroking the taut skin of your belly.

“Shh...c’mon, c’mon another push for me please.” Jake whispers into the back of your head, the scent of your heat claiming his nerves slightly.

“I cant. Jake, really, I can't.” you were so exhausted. 

“Yes you can.” Jake slid both hands under your arms to hoist you up to be sitting more. The abrupt change in position startling you.

“Kay, on three you're gonna give me a big push, okay?” Jake bent his head over your shoulder to kiss your cheek, lips against your damp skin as he did so. 

You nodded and readjusted yourself as much as you could, gripping your hands on his muscled thighs which sat on either side of you. 

“You ready?” Jake asks, rubbing his hands up and down your arms comfortingly. 

“Mhm” you nod again, preparing yourself for the inevitable contraction. Right as the first tendrils of pain passed through your belly you grit your teeth and pushed, eyes screwed shut. 

Jake's soft praises soothe you as you groan. “Such a good girl for me.”

—

Your legs were beginning to twitch from supporting your weight for so long. tail heavy to the ground and ears droopy with unease.

You sat in a squat, your legs spread and your nails digging into Jake's thick skin.

Jake sat in a squat in front of you, large hands holding the tops of your spread thighs.

“Ya doin’ okay?” Jake cooed, looking between your legs as he asked, quirking his head a tad to look up at you.

You nodded through a sob “Y-yeah- ah!” another contraction ripped itself through your body making you curl in on yourself, dropping a hand from Jake's thigh to cup your belly. 

“Jake, get him out,” you sob, lids heavy and cheeks hot.

“m'doin' the best i can, hon,” he rubbed your thighs with his rough thumbs. “you're doin' so good." 

You nod tiredly.

“Kay, gimme another push, you can do this." Jake nods, tilting his head to get a better look at your face. 

With a hiss, you bore down into another push, legs widening as a white hot pain stroke itself through your opening. 

“Jake, it burns!” You throw your head back into cry out as you continued to push. 

Jake took his hand from your belly to place both in a cupping position beneath you. “That’s okay, its all okay. Just means the baby’s crowning.”

Suddenly the pain spread itself throughout the entire bottom half of your body, spreading through your legs and numbing your toes in pure aony as you pushed. 

“Ta- agh!” you hissed and pushed again. 

“Keep your push, right there sweetheart, I can see his head.” Jake's tail perks and his tongue falls out to lay across his bottom lip, eyes zoned in on the small tuft of hair that would've been nearly invisible to the naked eye. 

“It hurts, oh my god it hurts.” you hissed and bore down again, your swollen lips drawing into a straight line. 

“Stop, stop, stop.” Jake interrupts you. 

“Why? What's going on?” you heaved. 

“Nothin’ relax.” Jake looks up at you, “You just gotta let yourself breathe, you're gonna pass out.” 

You went to say something when another contraction shook your core again. 

“Oh god, help, Jake, help me!” You could feel the baby began to crown, your legs widening to accommodate. 

“I’m right here, sweetie, you're doing so good.” Jake ooked at you, putting his hand between your legs and feeling around, focusing on what he was doing as he copied breathing with you. 

“In-” He took an exaggerated inhale “And out” he exhaled dramatically and you copied, the breathing exercise going on for a couple of seconds.

“Whew!” Jake laugh, shaking his head a bit, “Getting' dizzy haha.”

You side eye him which he returns in a sheepish smile. The small moment being interrupted when you groaned again, squeezing your eyes shut and curling in again to push. 

“Can you feel him?” your eyes fall shut.

“Yeah, kid, I got him, don’t worry, just keep breathing.” He cups the baby’s head, letting you push again as he helps to maneuver the top of the head out. 

“Ah! gentle, please- it hurts.” you sniffled and opened your eyes, craning your neck to try and see over the curve of your belly before Jake pushes your head back up some.

“You’ll hurt your neck.” he scolds, taking your hand from his shoulder to bring it around your middle to his own. Your fingertips graze a small tuft of hair and you're left to gasp lightly.

“Th- that's him?” you look up at Jake in exhaust, too tired to fully register whether or not what was happening was real. 

Jakes eyes are watery, “Yeah, kid. That’s our baby." He looks back down, moving your hand back to his shoulder, grounding you as you pushed again. 

“Oh, wait, wait, wait- right there, one more big push, his nose is almost out.” Jake readjusts his weight on both feet, stepping side to side slightly. 

You pushed again, a smooth pop! Filling out your body as you felt the head slip out of your body. 

“Oh there he is,” Jake stroks the small tuft of black hair on the smooth skin of the baby’s head “Hey, lil' bud."

You still sat in your squat, eyes closed and taking deep breaths as you try to calm yourself down, brows furrowing at times when a small jerk of pain would make you jump. 

“You okay?” Jake notices asked, baby’s head still in his hands, looking up at you. 

You nodded, trying to stop yourself from crying. 

“You’re okay baby, I’m right here. If you needa' cry then cry.” he reaches up and to kiss your forehead. 

Shivering, you begin to push again, the shoulders slowly breaching your body. 

“So good, so good, he’s almost out.” jake soothes, pulling lightly at the shoulder being pushed from your body. “C’mon just one more big push, you’re so close.” 

“Fuck!” You exclaimed and bore down once more. 

Finally the shoulder slipped out, followed by the baby’s body, falling into Jake's grasp, his huge blue hands dwarfing the baby. 

You fall back onto your bum at the release of the baby, going to reach for him as Jake scrambled to swaddle the infant within thatch wraps before handing him over to you. 

You cup the baby in your hold, hands shaking as you run your finger over the plumpness of his cheek. 

“Hey baby,” you coo through tears, leaning down to kiss your baby’s head before looking for Jake who had grabbed a blanket and was wrapping you in it. 

Squatting behind you, he leaned over your shoulder to turn your head and kiss you. 

“Hold his head, honey, like this- there you go.” Jake corrects gently, bringing his hand under your own for support.

[kocherry]

❅ ~ Hellfire ~ ❅

Yandere Capitano x Nun!Reader

Hello everyone this is a songfic base on the song “Hellfire” from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. The yandere aspect is what makes this fic different version from the original Nun!Reader fics ♡

I hope you guys enjoy this cuz I really went down the drain for the Capitano Agenda mainly because of how @jessamine-rose writes Capitano and it inspired me to do a yandere fic about him as well sksksksksk

Sypnosis: Capitano sees himself above the trivial feelings of love and lust. He sings a prayer to the Tsaritsa because of his revolting desire to make you his and his alone. However, the temptation of having you in his arms is quite hard to resist.

Content: Songfic, Yandere Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, Religious Sacrilege, Kidnapping, Power Imbalance, Perverse Thoughts, Destructive Acts

< 2.2k words under the cut >

Oh, Archon of mine, you know I am not a righteous man

Of my virtue I am justly your proud soldier

Dear Tsarista, you know I'm so much dignified

But why do I have such a despicable desire for a pure soul

Please tell me Tsaritsa, why do I see her dancing there?

Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul?

In the dark night that the fake sky showed, the nation of Mondstadt sleeps quietly along with its visitors from a foreign land. The Fatui soldiers were all asleep and only Capitano remains awake in a place where he stayed in the City of Freedom. He remains to be restless as he stares at the burning hearth while gripping onto his sword’s handle tightly.

The Captain continues to sing a prayer of song to the Cryo Archon, he couldn’t close his eyes and sleep knowing he had much more to fulfill than his mission.

On the day he met you, he couldn’t forget how you stood up against him and demanded for a duel to save those wretched Knights of Favonius from his wrath. Despite being covered by the church’s garments, your body moves swiftly to dodge his attacks. Your face is bear for him to see and he could see your eyes glaring at him… he felt attracted to them and he hated himself for it.

He especially hates the pyro vision that hangs above your bosom. It kept him awake as he could recall how you glow like fire.

A fire that continues to haunt his mind, heart, and soul.

I feel her, I see her

The sun caught in her hair

Is blazing in me out of all control

Capitano whimpers this part of the song as he crosses his arms and held his shaking shoulders with the most hurtful grip. His armored sharp fingers pierced through the armor and scrapes his skin as he continues to stare at the heart which had the fire shape into your figure. And behind the dark void of his helmet, his dark blue eyes stares at you with longing to hold you and yet his gaze also craves to thrust his cock deep within your tight walls.

The way his thoughts spiral between the threads of loving and lusting for you made Capitano shiver once again. How he hate the way he feels because such perverted scenarios he played inside his mind deprecates how he sees himself. As the matter of fact, he began to think on why not let such desires come true?

And maybe it was time for him to finally rest for the night, Capitano knew it was enough prayers to the Tsaritsa as it was undignified of him to let out those words come out. He puts out the fire in the hearth by piercing his sword through the burning wood, he feels frustrated about tonight’s prayers.

After all it was your fault that he feels this way.

Like fire, Hellfire

This fire in my skin

This burning desire

Is turning me to sin

“Capitano, where do you think you’re going?”

The said man stopped in his tracks, he certainly didn’t expect to see you first thing in the morning and he quietly continues his song of prayer inside his mind. Then he turns to see you still covered as the Church of Favonius’ garments, and he wonders how you would look without them.

“Do you wish to accompany me if you are asking such questions?” He asks with a hopeful tone.

The way your eyes flicker in surprise but also has the glint of letting your guard down being deceive by how soft his deep voice had become. “Well, someone has to keep an eye over you Lord Harbinger, what if you harm Mondstadt’s citizens again?” You folded your arms shaping your breasts into the white garment you wear and the pyro vision waves slightly from the action.

By the Archon of Love’s mercy, Capitano is cursed with the bountiful visual he just saw and also blessed that his helmet covered his gaze.

“Very well you may accompany me Sister (Y/N).”

Your name rolls out of his voice as if he’s been practicing saying your name perfectly and he wonders when he could call you without the Nun title.

It's not my fault, I'm not to blame

It is the nun who wields her bow who sent this flame

It's not my fault, if in my Archon's plan

She made the devil so much stronger than a man!

Capitano hoarsely sings the prayer as he falls into his knees holding the sides of his helmet he couldn’t believe what just happened.

You two were just spending another day deep in the ice-cold mountains of Dragonspine to battle the Snowboar King. When victory came due to the tag team you two made, you suddenly hugged him out of the blue out of happiness. Your long wish to venture the mountains and fulfilled your inner child’s ambition to defeat the monster has been done because of the Captain’s help.

That was also the very first time that Capitano saw you smiling and laughing, those images will forever bury inside his mind. Unless he takes you for himself then perhaps every day, he could see you with such happy expressions that he stirs up.

When it was night and the time for you to part ways with him, you express gratitude for letting you fulfill a long wish as a child. You always had been a caged little dove by your family and you told Capitano of your prison despite being a Sister in the Church of Favoinus.

Little did you know that Capitano only wishes for you transfer from your family’s prison to his own.

And when you kissed the side of his helmet that was the last straw as it provokes Capitano’s darkest thoughts in desiring you. He slowly composes himself as he stands up from the ground, he grips the handle of his sword as he slams the door open. The heavy footsteps could be heard in the quiet night but none could ever wake up from this dangerous aura because the Fatui Harbinger only wishes harm to one person in this nation.

Capitano will have you and damn your Archon’s absence because he cannot protect you from him anymore.

Protect me, Tsaritsa

Don't let the nun cast her pyro vision’s spell

Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone

Destroy (Y/N)

And let her taste the fires of hell

Or else let her be mine and mine alone

Capitano’s prayer is full of hypocrisy once again, because it was too late, the Cryo Archon couldn’t erase his feelings. You were to blamed for whatever will happen to you from now on as he continues to take another step towards the place where you sleep. The dark void in his helmet begin to light up as his dark blue eyes glow under the dark night of the fake sky.

And when you woke up, the sun isn’t the one who greeted you.

“Let me go this instant! I don’t wish to harm you… you’re the only friend that I truly had please don’t make me hate you Capitano.”

Your voice is filled with betrayal and fear, yet despite feeling those emotions you still linger to a thread of hope that Capitano will let you go. He admires how that even in this situation you would try to see the goodness in him. A goodness that never existed in the first place anyway, for what does that trait could even contribute to his duties as a Fatui Harbinger?

“Didn’t you wish to be free of your family? Didn’t you desire to get away from Mondstadt because you never felt its freedom? And didn’t you say that you want to be with me?”

Capitano had a tight grip on your arm which made you whimper, if this was a different situation, you would have said yes. The only time you ever feel yourself is when you’re with him but… why does it feel like you were just transferring from one prison to the next. You didn’t understand why Capitano suddenly began to change… or maybe this was always how he felt about you.

The vision that hanged below your neck began to glow, “I’ll never be yours.” You told him as your bow materializes in your hand to fight for your freedom.

And the Captain thinks about how cute you would look utterly defeated under him when you would soon realize that you never had any power to win against him.

Hellfire, Darkfire

Now (Y/N), it's your turn

Choose me or your pyre

Be mine or you will burn

Capitano’s prayer turned its direction towards you.

Blood dripped down from your forehead and cheek, they were cut by the blades of the First of the Fatui Harbingers, the Captain. The duel didn’t last longer than you had anticipated despite having a pyro vision, you could not last against Capitano’s honed skills as a fighter. Though defeated you still push yourself up from the grass field even if you were still kneeling on the ground. You look up to his helmet and found the twisted love in the dark abyss of his mask.

The tip of the Captain’s sword lifted your chin up gently.

“Do you yield?”

The situation is a déjà vu from your first duel with him but there is no honor in this fight, not when Capitano fought to utterly humiliate and incapacitate you. Like before, you never gave a verbal answer and turned the tides against him but now. How could you ever fight back when your pyro vision is out of your reach? It was on his hand threatening to destroy it.

“Please don’t.” You were helpless against him, no one would ever come to your help because he chose a place in Mondstadt where people would avoid going into. “That’s the only beautiful thing that ever happened to me in all my life… please don’t take my vision away.”

With your pride already stepped on, the only thing you could do is beg for his mercy but Capitano is confused why you would beg. The only answer he wants to come out of your mouth is that you would accept to be his and his alone.

Oh, Anemo Archon save her from me

Oh, Cryo Archon have mercy on me

But she will be mine

Or she will burn

Capitano notice how you were confused by his sudden prayer song when you didn’t give him an answer. He wants someone to save you from his monstrosity and yet if you would not love him, you will suffer. And despite having defeated you in a fight, his heart ache when you started to cry about his threats to destroy your vision. You were gripping onto his cape tightly as you continue to beg for him to give your pyro vision back.

He kneels down to your form and place his armored hand over your damp cheek, he slowly wipes your tears away. “Forgive me Sister (Y/N), I am a sinner in the eyes of my god but I would not regret the time we had spent together. I may be a monster in your eyes but in my own, I only see a man who desires your love.” Before you could even oppose he gently lifted up your chin and pressed his thumb against your lips. He wants forget how you made him feel because you would be happier without him but alas...

Capitano will never forget and now he wants to know if your lips would have a sweet taste.

Despite the hypocrisy of his actions and words, he is deceivingly comforting you because no one could get you out of this situation other than Capitano himself.

“I will forcibly take you back with me.” His tone turned dark and the ounce of fear you felt tripled.

“And I will never forgive myself because I will never give you a choice. You sought for freedom but I can never give that to you. So I will only propose to you only this once.” Capitano gently lay you to sit on the ground so it will be him to be the one kneeling now with one knee on the scorched grass field.

He then pierces his sword to the ground, he holds out his hand asking you to hold him, you took it of course out of fear. When you did hold his large armored hand, he was trembling despite the fact you could see how utterly composed he is for someone who had put you in this situation.

“Come with me, I wish not to dishonor your virtue by having only to defeat you in a duel.”

Never had you hear him so soft and gentle yet his tone full of desperation and his words were horrifying.

“Marry me (Y/N), and I promise you will not be caged like a bird. I will let you fly on the condition you will have me at your side at all times.”

Tears had fell from your eyes because you knew that your choice will be the one that will give Capitano the satisfaction of his proposal that is more-like a demand. “My answer is yes… I will marry you…” You didn’t voice out that you were just afraid to reject him.

And with your acceptance Capitano thanks the Cryo Archon for his answered prayer but most of all he dedictated his final ode to you.

Like fire, Hellfire, Darkfire… (Y/N) you are mine and mine alone.

~ End

A/N: Also if you guys haven't read the Nun!Reader series, some of the scenes there are parallel to the events that happened there :>

[tightjeansjavi]

𝕓𝕝𝕦𝕖 𝕛𝕖𝕒𝕟𝕤 𝕟’𝕋𝕖𝕩𝕒𝕤 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕤

𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟡

Morning Kisses and Shitty Beer

♡ 𓃗 ♡

Pre! Outbreak Joel x horseback riding instructor f!reader

A/N: this chapter was honestly super fun to write. I love these two and we get to see a lot more of Sarah and Tommy in this chapter as well ♡

~word count: 5.1k~

Summary: Joel Miller, single father; total soft dad has an astronomically enormous crush on you, his daughters horseback riding instructor.

Warnings: fluff, flirting, light touching, something almost happens but Sarah interrupts, sexual tension between Joel and the reader, Tommy showing up unannounced and being his cheeky self, overall just super cute/sweet/feel good vibes throughout the whole chapter. Angst sprinkled in but it’s very minimum. (+18) minors dni!

blue jeans playlist:

Austin, Texas

Early mornings are always so peaceful. So calm, serene. Mornings in spring, and early summer, have always been your favorite. Now you think you might love them even more in a whole new light that has been speckled thoughtfully with Joel Miller. You’re still in a sleepy haze. Limbs placid, tangled in his warmth as soft sunbeams trickle through the billowing beige curtains. A warm breeze kisses your sun speckled skin. Your eyes are blissfully closed as soft breaths elicit past your lips. You become acutely aware of the strong, tan bicep wrapped firmly around your waist. His grip around you is firm, yet soft enough that if you wanted to slip free of his grasp, you could with ease. Not that you want to, of course. In fact, you’d be perfectly content to spend all day in bed with Joel. Your back is practically melted against his bare chest.

You fit together like two puzzle pieces, here under his sheets. His breath lightly tickles the soft hair on the back of your neck. He’s lightly snoring, and the bridge of his nose is firmly pressed against your skin. The soft coo of a Dorning Dove just outside his window distracts your thoughts momentarily as you melt further into his warmth.

Joel stirs beside you. He subconsciously tightens his grasp around your waist, mumbling something incoherent against your soft skin. His eyes flutter as his brain slowly begins to wake and he becomes aware that you’re here with him, in his bed, in his sheets. God, he is so lucky. That is the first thought that flashes through his mind. He is so lucky that you’re here with him now. You are so beautiful. A low hum vibrates deep in his chest as his lips lightly dance across your neck, nuzzling his nose further into you. He takes a deep inhale, exhaling warmly as goosebumps rise on your skin shortly after. “G’mornin’ darlin.’” He rasps. His voice is deep, sticky with sleep, and it is absolute heaven to your giddy ears.

“Good morning cowboy.” Your voice is even sweeter in the morning. Sugary sweet, sticky like molasses and honey. Joel is already praying that he gets to see you in the morning like this everyday.

He gently squeezes your waist. His fingertips lightly pressed against your skin as his lips lightly pepper slow, calculated kisses across your face. His lips ghost across yours momentarily as your hand finds purchase through his soft bed head curls. Threading your fingers through the silky tendrils as he finally kisses you. Your lashes flutter shut as his lips slot against yours. The kiss is short yet sweet. Delicate like the soft morning breeze.

His fingers dance across your exposed hip, and brush across the hem of his t-shirt resting along your stomach. He loves the way his shirt looks on you. His lips slowly detach from yours, and you finally see his eyes. They’re soft in the early morning light. Swirled in warm cinnamon as they look down at you in adoration. He’s propped up on his elbow with a sleepy grin on his face. You can’t help but brush your fingers across his stubble, cupping his jaw gently. His lips press a soft kiss to the underside of your fingertips, lightly nibbling on them.

“Did’ya sleep well baby?” He rasps while his fingers continue to gently brush across your skin.

“Mhm. Best sleep I've gotten in a while.” You have a light smile gracing your face, eyes filled with the same warmth as his.

“Yeah? M’happy to hear that. I think I could get used to this pretty quick. You here, in my bed, lookin’ so goddamn pretty. Got my heart clenchin,’ and it ain’t even half past 7.” He chuckles warmly.

Your heart swells, and you can’t help but gently coax his face towards yours and kiss him again. He hums against your lips as he gently slides his hand around your thigh, and drapes it across his hip. He catches the way your breath hitches in your throat as you kiss him deeper. Neither of you could care less about the apparent morning breath as your tongues tangle together. His breathing grows harder as he pulls you in closer to him. Chests flushed together, he can feel your nipples pebbled through his shirt. Only 2 thin pieces of fabric separate you two from feeling each other completely. It’s all so thrilling to be this close to him and your mind is already turning to mush.

Your hearts are racing as his fingertips grip tightly onto your thigh. He’s nearly pressing against you now as he mumbles against your locked lips. “This’okay? We don’t gotta—”

You steal the breath from his lungs as you search for his free hand. Once you find it, you gently grasp your hand around his and slip it under your shirt. His fingers just barely brush against the soft swell of your breasts when his dad's ears flicker on as soon as he hears Sarah’s bedroom door open down the hall.

He begrudgingly detaches his lips from yours, a string of saliva connects you both momentarily, before the moment has come to an end. He gives you an apologetic smile, brows furrowed into which you lean up and gently press a kiss between the furrowed creases.

You can both hear the soft padding of Sarah’s footsteps approaching the door.

“Hey, Dad? Are you awake?” She lets out a soft yawn. “Who’s car is that in the driveway?”

Joel cursed under his breath, turning his body so it’s facing the door. “Hey, kiddo. Yeah, I’m awake sweet pea. Who’s car is that in the driveway? Uh—it’s uh—it’s..” He’s stumbling over his words and you find yourself rubbing soothing circles into the skin on his bicep, pressing a feather light kiss to the back of his shoulder blades.

The realization hits Sarah seconds later as she lets out a giggle. “Oh my god, did she spend the night? Oh boy! Wait until uncle Tommy hears about this!” She says gleefully.

“Sarah! Don’t you dare and go tell uncle Tommy about this! sweet pea, I swear to god if you tell him!” Joel’s tone is light, and not in the least bit threatening. You can’t help but giggle against his skin, wrapping your arms around him from behind, hugging yourself to his back.

Sarah is in a fit of giggles now from the other side of the door. “Okay. Okay! I won’t tell uncle Tommy. I promise!”

Joel let out an audible sigh of relief as he sinks back into your embrace. He couldn’t help but lightly chuckle at the situation. Was he mad? Not in the slightest. “Thank you baby girl. I really appreciate it. We’ll be down in a minute and then I’ll make ya some breakfast, okay? Can you get the eggs and bacon from the fridge?”

“Do you want me to start the coffee pot as well?”

“Yes please. Thank you sweet pea.”

“No problem dad! Love you.” Sarah’s footsteps can be heard retreating down the hall.

“Love you too baby girl.” Joel let out an exasperated sigh as he fell back against you entirely. He nearly squished you as you let out a squeal as you both fall back into the mattress.

Laughter fills the small expanse of the room and after a few moments, he sits back up with his hands around yours. “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve taught my kid to not just barge into rooms unannounced, huh?”

You’re still hugging him tightly with your cheek pressed against his back. “That would have been a hard one to explain to her definitely.”

He hums, bringing your hands up to his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the outside of your hand. “Think she’s just surprised cus’ I haven’t brought someone home with me in a really long time. Even when I did, they were always gone by the mornin.’”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

He turned his head slightly so he could look back at you. His eyes are stricken with concern as you meet his gaze. “What’re you sorry for darlin?’”

“I know what it’s like to wake up in an empty bed like that. It’s never fun. Even if you’re already aware that it was just a one time thing, y’know? Still end up feeling lonely after the fact.”

Joel nods in understanding. His neck feels a little stiff in this position so he wastes no time to turn his body completely so he’s facing you, and your arms drop around his waist. “Yeah, I agree. It's not a fun feelin.’ I’m really happy that I didn’t wake up this mornin’ to an empty bed. I was honestly..a little nervous that maybe last night was too much. Askin’ you to spend the night and everythin.’”

“Joel, if I didn’t want to spend the night, I wouldn’t have, baby.” Your thumbs are lightly stroking the skin on his lower back comfortingly.

His hands are lightly holding your thighs as he looks at you. His little grin is tugging on the corner of his lips now. He looks so handsome.

“I really wish we didn’t get interrupted like that. I got really good dad ears unfortunately. I wanted to keep goin.’” He admits.

You peck his lips once, then again, and again. “It’s okay, really, it’s okay. I’m not upset about it or anything, I promise. We’ll have plenty of time for all of that anyway.”

“Yeah? You’re absolutely right, we will. I will say, I love the way my shirt looks on you. So fuckin’ sexy. Killin’ a man over here, and you ain’t even tryin.’” He chuckles.

You wasted no time pulling him down over you, kissing him deeply simply because you couldn’t help yourself. You were already becoming addicted to him, and his kisses. His touch ignited a deep fire within you, and you wanted more. “Guess I’ll just have to wear your shirts more often, huh?” You grinned against his lips.

“Fuck, please. You can wear my shirts whenever you fuckin’ want to darlin.’” He kissed you deeper, finding it easy to slip right back into where you left off.

Now you were the one reluctantly pulling away from his kiss. Replacing your lips with your finger lightly pressed against his mouth with a sweet giggle. “C’mon, cowboy. I’m starvin’ for some eggs and bacon.’” You winked playfully.

“Ohhh I see. Hungry for some eggs and bacon, huh? You sure that ain’t all you’re hungry for?” He grins cheekily, raising a suggestive brow at you.

“Oh, I’m absolutely starved for some cowboy as well. Guess we’ll just have to finish what we started another time?” You grin.

“Fuckin’ hell. You’re somethin’ else. Y’know that? Fuck. Next time I might just have to stay at yours just so we don’t have to worry about any interruptions.” He winked back before he slipped off the bed and gently helped you off the crumpled sheets.

Joel can't help but twirl you in the warm sunlight before he’s pulling you right back into his strong arms, holding you close. “If it was just you and I here..i’d say you could go strut downstairs in nothin’ but my shirt..given the circumstances, you wanna borrow a pair of sweats, or shorts? You can keep ‘em of course.”

“Are you always this cheeky in the morning Joel?” Your tone is soft and teasing. You can’t help but smile at him. “Shorts should be fine. Thank you.”

“Mmm. I think you bring the cheekiness right outta me darlin.’” He unwraps his arms from around you before he’s padding off to his dresser. He pulls out a pair of gray fleece lined shorts and hands them to you.

Before you can even slide them over your thighs, he’s grabbing a handful of your ass. His eyes are twinkling as you playfully swat his bicep. “Yeah, I think I definitely bring that side out of you cowboy.”

Once you’re both appropriately dressed, you head downstairs. Sarah has started the pot of coffee and she’s cracking 3 eggs into a pan when you and Joel appear. “Well, it took you both long enough!” She has a bright smile on her face as she looks between you and her dad.

Joel is looking and feeling bashful as he grabs two mugs for coffee, pouring you and him a heaping cup before he’s wrapping his arm around his baby girl and kissing the side of her head. “You shush. Alright?” He chuckles against her hair as Sarah playfully pushes him away.

“You guys good with scrambled? That’s all I know how to make. Last time I tried to fry an egg, I almost burnt the whole house down and dad was capital P pissed.”

“Yeah, cus’ you ruined my favorite pan. I loved that pan. No shells this time, right?” He teased.

“What kinda weirdo has a favorite pan?” You lightly laugh as you take a sip of the warm coffee.

“This weirdo right here. It was the best pan out of all of them. Pristine condition and everythin.’” He let out a dramatic sigh.

“Well just for that, I'm going to make sure there’s extra shells in your eggs dad!” Sarah shot him an award winning smile.

“Yeah, yeah. You go on and do that sweet pea.” Joel’s hand is gently resting along your lower back now as he coaxes you to the cozy looking kitchen table.

Sarah rolled her eyes playfully as she finished up on the eggs and bacon. She grabbed three plates. The three of you are eating contently before Joel of course finds a shell in his eggs and holds it up for his daughter to see.

“Shell.”

“Calcium.” Sarah says with a grin filled with egg.

“Lovely.” Joel gruffly responds with a small grin tugging on the corner of his lips as he takes a long sip of his coffee.

“Well, ain’t this just a sight for sore eyes.” Tommy leaned against the entryway of the kitchen with a big fat grin on his face.

“TOMMY?! The hell are you doin’ here? How long have you been standin’ there?” Joel looks at his bigger brother with an incredulous look on his face.

“Well, yeah. Who the hell else would have a key to your place Joel?” He chuckles. “Figured I would stop by and see how your hangover is treatin’ ya. Then I see a familiar car in the driveway as I'm pulling up, and I think to myself ‘no way’ big brother had a sleepover?”

Joel’s whole face is red now, even the tips of his ears as he narrows his eyes at his cheeky grinning brother. “Yeah, big brother had a sleepover.” He deadpanned.

“Well, if looks could kill..” Tommy winked. He made himself right at home of course as he grabbed a plate and a mug of coffee. “Nice to see ya again sweetheart. Thanks for makin’ sure my grumpy big brother got home safely.” He leaned over the table, swiping a piece of Joel’s bacon with a wink.

“Oh, of course. It wasn’t a problem at all.” You said with a small smile over the rim of your mug.

Comfortable chatter falls between the 4 of you as if you had been in the Miller’s lives for years. It warmed your heart to see just how included you were. You helped Sarah with the dishes when you realized that the horses were probably beginning to wonder where the hell you were. “Shit. What time is it?”

Tommy slides his phone out of his pocket with ease as he checks the time. “Quarter to 9.”

“Shit. I gotta get going. The horses are probably impatiently waiting for me at the gate for their morning grain.”

“I’ll get your stuff from upstairs and walk you out?” Joel was finishing up on drying the dishes.

“Perfect, thank you.”

“No problem darlin.’” Joel dried his hands off before he headed upstairs. He grabbed your phone, purse, and your clothes from the night before.

You say your goodbyes to Tommy and Sarah telling her that you’ll see her at her next lesson. Joel walked you out to your car, opening the door for you like the true gentleman he was. “Hey, thank you again for takin’ care of me last night. I really had a great time with ya darlin.’”

You're wrapping your arms around Joel’s neck and kissing him deeply before he even has a chance to say anything else.

“You’re welcome, and I had a great time as well.”

Joel wastes no time to press you back against the side of your car, arms wrapped snugly around your waist as he kisses you back deeply. “Lemme know when you get to the barn and tell the boys I say hello, kay sugar?” He mumbled softly against your lips.

“Mhm. I will.” You let your arms drape around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair before you reluctantly pulled away. You peck his lips once before you slide into the driver's seat.

Joel leans down through the open drivers seat before he’s gently grasping your face in his warm palms and kissing you once more. “Drive safe darlin.’” He closes the door softly, stepping back as you reverse down the driveway, beeping once with a small wave.

Joel waits till he can no longer see your car at the end of the street before he heads back inside. Both Sarah and Tommy are waiting for him in the kitchen as he locked the door behind him.

“I ain’t wanna hear nothin’ from either of you. You got that? Not one little peep.” He’s trying to be stern with both his daughter and brother, but he’s got a knowing smile on his face that is so goddamn hard to hide. “Go and get dressed for school kiddo. Chop chop.”

After dropping Sarah off at school, Tommy and Joel head to the hardware store together. Joel noticed a weak spot on the pasture fence at the barn, and he was already planning on fixing it up for you, free of charge of course.

“So, you gonna give me all the juicy details of your sleepover or what?” Tommy has his arms crossed over his chest with a small grin on his face.

“Of course you want all the juicy details. Why am I not surprised?” Joel looks over at his brother with an equally small grin.

“Oh ho ho. Well, would ya looky here. Is there a twinkle in your eye that I’m seein?’”

“Maybe there is.”

“Okay, so c’mon. Did you ask her to stay the night or somethin?’’

“Yeah. I did ask her to spend the night. Now before you go and get your head all up in the gutter, lemme explain. So, after you left I was pretty drunk. Not like stumbling and unable to stand drunk but definitely drunk. So she drives me home from the bar, makes sure that I get inside safely, and she even fuckin’ goes as far to take my boots off. I..got in my head a little and said some shit that I probably shouldn’t have. I was just like, in my feelings? I basically told her that I didn’t think I deserved her, and we got into a conversation about it. I don’t know why I didn’t just believe you in the first place, Tommy. She was incredibly understanding and validated my feelings. It was really nice. Like a breath of fresh air. After all that went down, I asked her to spend the night. Nothin’ happened, but it was really nice to wake up with her in my arms honestly.”

“Wow. I told you that she was a good one! This is why you should listen to your brother way more often. I’m really glad that the convo went well, Joel. I’m proud of you for feeling comfortable enough to open up to her like that. I bet she really appreciated it too. I’ll say it till im fuckin’ blue in the face, but you deserve someone who makes you happy. Quite the surprise to see her at the kitchen table this morning. Totally threw me through a loop.

“Yeah, she is a good one. Guess I’m just gonna have to grow a real big pair of balls to ask her to be my girlfriend, huh? I really like her. Sarah does too. I don’t want to get too ahead of myself or anything, but I hope that she sticks around forever. Things of course could change, but I’m really hoping that they don’t.”

“Well, you are absolutely one lucky son of a bitch. Just wanna let you know that. So, nothin’ happened? Damn, I was really hoping for all the juicy details.”

“Nothin’ happened last night, no. This morning however? Got pretty fuckin’ close to doin’ something.” His cheeks were a little flushed down as he tossed a packet of screws into the cart. “I got those really good dad ears though unfortunately. Heard Sarah’s door openin’ down the hall, and that was the end of that.”

Tommy let out a low wolf whistle as he slapped his arm around his brother's shoulders. “Well, I’ll be damned. You got cockblocked by your own kid.” He chuckled.

Joel punched him lightly in the bicep with a little glare. “Yeah well..next time I’m just gonna have to go stay at her place or somethin.’”

“‘Atta boy.”

“Please stop.”

“Never.” Tommy said with a toothy grin.

The week had practically flown by for both you and Joel. Saturday was here in a flash. Date night #2 was on the horizon. Ryder was equally as excited to meet your Texas tall glass of water, and his handsome brother as well.

The rodeo was packed to the brim with spectators. Your best friend Ryder was the talk of the town. Barrel racing was one of the toughest sports in the equestrian world, and Ryder was one of the best in Texas. Her and her Chestnut Quarter Horse named Callus, were a true working team.

Joel had picked you up at your apartment with Tommy riding shotgun. You eagerly ran down the steps, holding your pink cowgirl hat over your hair. You were wearing a denim jumpsuit that certainly would have had any man barking up a tree for you. Joel’s jaw dropped when he got a close look at you, and Tommy had reached over and gently closed his brother's mouth with a wink.

“Hey sweet cheeks? Does that get up you’re wearin’ come in my size as well?” Tommy stuck his head out the passenger window with a grin.

You were absolutely beaming as you approached Joel’s truck. “I don’t believe it does, but I’ll certainly check for ya!” You hop into the backseat, scooting over so you’re behind Joel in the driver's seat. You lean over the seat, wrapping your arms around him as you steal a quick kiss.

“Hello to you too, darlin’” Joel kisses you back, fixing your hat for you as it tips over your forehead. “You are lookin’ absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks, cowboy. You’re not looking too shabby yourself.” You wink at him through the rear view mirror.

“Dear god, please get a room. I can’t handle all this flirtin’ you two got goin’ on.” Tommy teasingly said from the passenger seat.

“Oh you hush now, Tommy. You’ll be flirting up a storm with Ryder before you know it.”

“Oh, I know. I’m really lookin’ forward to meetin’ her.”

Once the 4 of you arrive at the rodeo, you find your seats and Joel leaves you with his brother so he can go and get a few beers.

“Hey sweet cheeks?”

You turned your head, looking over at the younger Miller brother with a small smile. “Yeah Tommy?”

“Thank you for takin’ care of my brother. Between you and me, he really likes you. I’m sure he’s told ya that he hasn’t dated anyone in a hot minute, but I’ve honestly never seen him this happy. You’re a real dime a dozen.”

“He..really likes me? Yeah, he did tell me that he hadn’t dated anyone in a long time. I really like him too, Tommy. I really really like him. Your brother is an amazing man.”

“Oh trust me sweets, I know you really really like him.” He chuckled, gently wrapping his arm around you in a side hug.

“I’m gone all of 5 minutes, and you’re already tryin’ to steal my girl?” He hands Tommy a nearly overflowing cup of cheap beer before he hands you yours.

“Hey now! I ain’t tryin’ to steal your girl, big brother. We were just bondin’ a little. Ain’t that right sweet cheeks?”

You thank Joel with a soft kiss on the cheek as he hands you your beer. “Yeah, we were just bonding, baby. I promise.”

Joel brings his arm around your waist, gently pulling you against his side as his hand rests along your hip. “I know darlin.’ I know. I just like to mess with my brother a little.’” He grinned at you over the rim of his cup.

You’re halfway through your shitty cup of beer when the main event starts. The announcer booms over the speaker. Ryder comes racing out on Callus shortly after, waving the Texas flag as they gallop around the brightly lit arena.

“Holy fuckin’ shit. That is your friend?! Oh my god. I’m in love. I’m in fuckin’ love.” Tommy whistles with two fingers.

“Hell yeah that’s her! She’s a stunner, huh?” You said with a small grin.

“I’m about to fuckin’ sweep her off her goddamn feet I swear.”

“Careful Tommy. She might be the one sweeping you off yours.”

“Even better.”

Tommy’s eyes are practically bugging out of his head when he sees your gorgeous best friend up close finally. She runs to you, letting out a little squeal as you pick her up and spin her around playfully. “I’m so happy you were able to make it, babes!”

“Me too!” You hug her tightly before setting her back down on the dusty ground. “You and Callus were amazing as usual!”

“I swear, the crowds grow bigger and bigger each time we’re out there!” Ryder said with a big grin. She looks over at the two Miller brothers, immediately figuring out which one is Tommy and which one is Joel. “Holy shit, you weren’t lying about Joel being a Texas tall glass of water!” She stuck her hand out for him to shake.

“..Texas tall glass of water? That’s what y’all refer to me as?” Joel asked with a raise of his brow in your direction as he snaked his arm around your waist. “I like it.” With his free hand he shook Ryder’s hand firmly. “Pleasure to meet ya. This pretty one here said that you’re gonna sweep my brother off his feet.”

“Nice to finally meet you! Heard sooo much about you Joel. You better keep takin’ care of my girl. Okay? Cause if you don’t..” She made a slicing motion with her finger against her throat.

“All good things I hope? Dontcha worry. I’m gonna continue to take good care of your girl. You got nothin’ to worry about, I promise.” Joel reassured her.

“Good! Now, this is your handsome brother? Tommy? Heard lots about you as well!” She stuck her hand out to him with a big beaming smile.

“Oh, the handsome brother huh?” He chuckled. “Yeah sweetheart, that would be me. Tommy Miller, the obviously hotter brother.” He chuckled, shaking her hand firmly. “Gotta say, you sure are somethin’ easy on the eyes. Gorgeous.”

Ryder lets out a light giggle, leaning in closer to the younger Miller brother. “Oh yeah, you and I are gonna hit it off just fine.”

Tommy was a real gentleman, offering her his arm as she brought him over to Callus who was lightly tied up to her trailer, enjoying a well deserved pan of grain.

“Wow. I knew they were gonna get along pretty damn well, but I’m convinced they’re totally going home with each other.” You looked over at your Texas tall glass of water with a small grin.

“Oh, they are 100% goin’ home with each other. Tommy will treat her real well though. I promise.”

“I have no doubt that he will. She’s totally gonna take him for a ride and I hope your brother is prepared for that.”

“Tommy is prepared for pretty much anythin’ that comes his way.”

Ryder ended up meeting the three of you at a local diner spot in town after dropping Callus off at her barn. Her and Tommy are practically eyefucking eachother in the booth while you and Joel share a strawberry shake and fries. The night takes a fun turn when you all head out to a karaoke bar. Joel is on you all night long. He’s not a huge fan of dancing, but for you? He’ll do anything. You're glued to each other, lips locked on the dance floor. “Somebody to Love” by Queen is blasting through the speakers. You’re singing the lyrics to each other, stupid grins on gracing your faces.

Joel leans in close and whispers in your ear. His voice is deep, warm, and it tickles your brain just right. “You wanna get out of here, cowgirl?” He rasps.

“Don’t gotta ask me twice cowboy.”

Ryder and Tommy are nowhere in sight. You’ve got a sneaking suspicion that they’re doing unspeakable things in the bar bathroom. Good for her, you think. Ryder and Tommy are perfect for eachother.

Joel’s hand is warm in your grasp, fingers entwined as he eagerly pulls you out of the bar and into the sweet summer night air. The stars are twinkling brightly above as Joel twirls you playfully. You can both hear the music blasting through the bar, sending vibrations through your systems.

“Joeeeel. Will you come home with me? We can order food, watch Friends or oooh! Any reality tv on MTV? Like the Real World?” You’re certainly a little buzzed now, but you don’t want this night to end. You’re having so much fun and your smile is contagious at this point.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute. You know that? Yeah, of course I wanna come home with ya. You feelin’ alright darlin?’ C’mon, let’s get you home safe. Get some food and water in ya.”

You let out a sweet giggle as he pulls you into his chest. Your arms wrap around him as you press your cheek against his chest. “I’m so luckyyy.” You singsonged.

I’m so lucky. Joel thinks to himself as he holds you close under the millions of twinkling stars.

I’m so fucking lucky. You both think to yourselves.

They’re so cute. The glittering stars above whisper.

Tag List:

tag list: @chaotic-mystery @peterhollandkait @soft-cryptids @dinsdjrn @lovers-liability @777-wonders @mirasantidotes @pedgeitopascal @loquaciousferret @korynnekorynne @kirsteng42 @bonglorddaryl @sarahhxx03 @myrealmofchaos @finnsbubblegum @danilakozlovsky @pedrit0-pascalit0 @ssa-raye @pedropascalfan221 @missgurrl @leeeesahhh @yazsos @casa-boiardi @last-girl @frankthesexualsadist @shatteredbaby @rye-flower @elliewilliamsno1simp @wonder-harley @userpedros @pedrospartner

[peachsayshi]

waking them up in the morning, by mistake, just because you had to caress that cheek drenched in the soft sun rays

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ gojo; geto; nanami; toji ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ minors/ageless/blank blogs dni

⥽ the brush of your finger along satoru's cheek is enough to stir him awake, and it's so cute watching him slowly blink those blue eyes open. he's really sensitive to physical contact, but yours is one he's grown particularly familiar with. one hand soon finds your lower back, digits slipping underneath the soft material of your top, and the second he recognizes that it's you, you watch with amusement as he is lures himself back to sleep. he pulls you into him with ease, and all the muscles in his face slowly relax, as your heart flutters when you acknowledge just how safe he feels by your side. you smile quietly to yourself and leave a soft peck on the corner of his lip, eyes full of love as you continue observing the strongest at his most vulnerable.

⥽ you can't resist tucking a lock of hair away from suguru's face, your knuckles gently trailing across his cheek as you admire his beauty. his eyes blink open, a hint of a purple shadow expanding from the inner corners like the tail of a dark comet. your chest tightens, your mind confused as to how somebody can look this perfect first thing in the morning. "what time is it?" he whispers softly, a tick tugging at the corner of his mouth and revealing a lazy smile. you can't help but giggle at the fact that he needs at least another hour of rest. "too early for you," you mumble, your digits threading back through his hair where you twirl a strand around your index finger. suguru huffs under his breath and inches forward to nuzzle up against you. his head slots perfectly underneath your chin, his cheek resting against your décolletage as his arms wrap around your waist to give you the perfect access to continue playing with his hair as he drifts back to sleep.

⥽ nanami's hand clasps over your own, catching you off guard as he pulls it away from his cheek and gently brings the back of your palm to his lips. "what are you doing up so early?" he teases with a kiss, and your cheeks burn for getting caught in the act. "I-uh..." you stammer, drawing in a light inhale as you are suddenly met with warm, brown eyes. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to wake you..." you mumble with your guilt lodged in your throat because you know just how exhausted he usually is. with his hand still clasping yours, he presses it close to his chest. "there's no reason to apologize, my love..." he replies as he arches forward to kiss your forehead, and you can't help but clench your thighs at the drawl of his deep morning voice. you arch your brow with curiosity when his heavy eyes flutter close again, the heaviness of sleep luring him back to his dreams.

⥽ you're propped up on your elbow, resting your chin on your palm with your gaze fixed on the handsome man before you. the pad of your index finger draws little circles over toji's cheek, and you notice the subtlest twitch of his jaw when you caress him. "behave, brat" he grumbles, and you flash him a full grin when he open just one eye to look at you with disapproval. "I knew you were awake," you reply as you prod his cheek, "you never smile in your sleep". toji shrugs his shoulders with ease, extending his right arm out as he tilts his chin toward the inch of empty space by his side. "c'mere," he instructs and you instantly lower yourself down to cuddle him. "would you like to have some breakfast?" you ask sweetly as you wrap your arm around his waist. "maybe later," he murmurs under his breath. "later will be lunch," you point out and he just sighs. "I'm still trying to recover from our night, baby," he coos, "wake me up in thirty minutes".

♡ send me some hc's {fluff, angst, smut, hurt/comfort}

[withlove-xixi]

I came running to your requests the second I finished reading the chilchuck writing!! You have such an incredible grasp of his character I was so impressed! Can I request a fem reader x marcielle where they both are pining for each other but don’t know if each other are queer and pathetically try and dip their feet in the water only to quickly take them out before even knowing if the waters hot or not?? I know you like doomed Yuri but please give this a happy ending where they end up together!! Marcy suffers enough 🙏🙏

If you don’t do female readers or this request doesn’t interest you feel free to ignore it! Thank you for your service in dungeon meshing fanfics lmao

— THE SUN AND THE MOON: marcille x f!reader

ᥫ cw: burn mention (used metaphorically) ᥫ wc: 3226 ��� OH ANON, SWEET ANON. I AM MORE THAN DELIGHTED TO DELIVER YOU YURI (LESBIANISM IN MY VEINS .. MY CALLING .. MY DUTY)!! anyway, i fear i might've gotten a bit carried away .. but i hope you enjoy it regardless! cross posted on ao3

— IT MUST’VE BEEN DIFFICULT BEING THE SUN.

[♡]: that was the only thought running through marcille’s mind as she watches you gingerly patch up a tear in one of her dresses. she watches fondly as your fingers nimbly thread the needle through deep blue fabric with such care and gentleness, she almost envied it. well, what choice did she have but to envy it? what choice does the moon have but to want the sun’s warmth?

RISING SUN.

That’s what you were. Something bright, something inviting, almost tempting. Marcille felt drawn to you, she always had. There was just always some quality about you that drew her in, a radiance that seemed to guide her steps to draw closer and closer to you. It was nearly instant, the inviting sunshine that pulled at her, caused her to come closer until she extended her arm out towards you and introduced herself. It did not help that you smiled so brightly and sweetly. You grabbed her hand, warmth spreading from your body to hers, shook it firmly. Marcille had to try really hard not to think too much about you after that.

For a while she really wouldn’t tell why, she couldn’t tell what specifically about you kept tempting her. She felt it, nearly every moment of your time together in the dungeon, a small part of her that would always keep you close. Marcille would walk next to you, she would try and make small talk with you, she would offer to help you. The more she let herself bask in your light and warmth, the more she felt drawn to stay, until she was comfortably resting by your side, a sunny friendship that made her heart feel fuzzy.

High noon.

That’s what you were, hot and looming. You were always close with Marcille, something she would never fully figure out the reason for. But you were there, at the corner of her eye, staying by her side at a comfortable distance, watching her tie braids in her hair, putting your bedroom adjacent to hers. The tug she had initially felt when you two first met only grew, flames that only consumed her inside, filling her with sunshiny warmth. It was hot, nearly dangerously so, hot, blazing noon heat. Marcille began to overheat, cheeks would flush when your fingers would brush against hers when you walked together, brain would malfunction when you would worriedly bandage her minor injuries, stomach would twist in knots when you would smile at her. A smile so bright and sweet.

Marcille was half-scared she would explode. Or melt into a puddle.

Heat, dangerously hot heat. With the warmth came hesitation, the fear of being burnt if she stood too close, if she lingered under sunlight too long. The idea felt more like a promise than a threat, a guarantee that getting closer to you would end in failure, leave her brunt bright red, leave her howling in pain into empty space.

She liked you, there was part of her that screamed that obvious fact to her face as much as she wanted to suppress and deny the idea, let it die down to a passing thought. In her heart Marcille knew she still longed for the sun, she still craved for your hot touch, your bright smile, your warm company. She willed it in such a way, it was no longer simple friendship. It was something deeper, heavier. It was something that went past her niceties, that stemmed from the pits of her heart.

It was an aching sort of craving, a hunger that left her immobilized. It was the temptation of a forbidden fruit, of a light that would burn.

She saw the way you were with other people. People like the men in your party. Marcille had nothing against them, but still there was a small part of her that boiled green at the way you were around them because it was the same way you were with her but different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it but there was a difference. Something small she could feel on the tips of her senses.

Marcille saw the way you were. She saw the way you giggled at Laios’ antics as he clumsily poked at some strange plant in the dungeon. She saw the way you praised Chilchuck’s handiwork, a compliment that proved only how observant you could be. She saw the way you teased Shuro for his awkwardness in the party during meal times. It might’ve begun to piss her off had it not been you. Marcille, as jealous as she might get around the boys, could never truly bring herself to feel so terribly when it's something about you. How could she when your laugh was like the warm summer breeze, your care like fireplace warmth, your smile like starshine.

Gods! Marcille wanted to tear her hair out. It was such a pain to be hungry, to so desperately crave for light, for warmth. It was a pain to be hungry for something you know you can never have, you could never even begin to imagine the taste of.

She kept her distance, an orbit just at arms reach. The same politeness and gentleness as the beginning, with the new caution for heat. She allowed herself to bask only in the reflection of your light.

Setting sun.

That’s what you were as you gingerly patch up a tear in one of Marcille’s dresses. Strangely it felt so domestic despite the other party members that crowded around your small campsite, despite the terribly difficult fight everyone was still recovering from, despite her keeping her usual far away distance. Her gaze lingered on you, studying the way your fingered moved with such grace and tenderness, she might’ve gotten jealous of the way you treated the needle had she not remembered you had personally offered to come and patch it up for her (a fix she definitely could’ve done — or normally would’ve gotten Chilchuck to fix for her — but could she really pass up the opportunity?).

Marcille watched quietly and carefully, musing at the way you chatted with Namari as you worked, the small smile that evolved into a snort and a chuckle at something Namari said that Marcille didn’t quite care enough to hear. She smiled fondly at your direction, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

Chilchuck nudges her as he moves to sit by her side near the campfire. She paid him little attention, not bothering to glance his way as she spoke. “What do you want?” Something a bit more curt than usual, but Chilchuck doesn’t care enough to be bothered.

“It’d be easier to just talk to her, you know,” he said plainly as he opened up his waterskin to take a sip.

Marcille snorts, finally turning to him with her brows furrowed in skepticism. “Right, because you’re so suddenly an expert at forming bonds?” She jests, causing the muscle under Chil’s eye to twitch slightly.

He sighs in satisfaction once he’s finished taking his drink. He points an accusatory finger at Marcille, it catches her off guard. “I’m just saying you should talk to her at least. I’m sick of hearing you sigh and giggle when you're just… staring… at her— it’s creepy!” Chilchuck says in a scolding manner.

Marcille’s cheeks turn red at the comment. “Wh—” She begins but your soft laugh cuts through the air and her ears pick up on the sound immediately.

No doubt Chilchuck has too, but he chooses to sigh at the elven girl. “All I’m saying is communication is important.” He stands and dusts off the back of his pants. “So get it together, Marcille. Do something about… this,” He gestures a hand vaguely at Marcille, “because I’m really, really getting sick of this nonsense.”

As he walks away, Marcille watches and grumbles something about how he should mind his own business, but she feels a presence appear next to her. She senses warmth.

Rising moon.

That’s what she was. Something alluring, something enigmatic, nearly mysterious. You had never met an elf before, not saying it was a bad thing but it definitely helped shine an interest on Marcille. Of course, it didn’t help that she was pretty. You were nervous, of course you were. You were fresh meat in a new environment, your next few days would be spent underground, enclosed by damp stone walls and all sorts of beasts. She had stepped closer to you, extended a friendly hand for you to shake. She had told you her name, a sweet sounding lullaby that gracefully left her lips.

You smiled warmly at her, feeling instantly at ease with her kindness, her softness. There was something that drew you to her, a force that tugged at you to come a bit closer to take a better look at her. She was soft, gentle. It was like the breath of autumn wind, something cool, something calming. You couldn’t quite place it, but you could tell something about her tempted you, lulled you into a drowsy state. So you smiled warmly at her, shook her hand and told her your name in return, a small hope kindling inside you that this acquaintanceship would lead to something more.

Midnight.

That’s what she was, dim and looming. You quickly grew close with Marcille, after all, she was the first friend you made among the Touden party, what reason did you have not to be close to her? Besides, she was admirable. In your eyes, she shone brightly, a soft light amidst the void of night. Marcille was a reliable member of the party, always looking for things to help out with (though sometimes she would complain first despite doing it regardless), which was admirable. She was smart too, well-versed in all sorts of spells and knowledgeable in different academic topics, which was admirable too. She also was very careful in her own way, taking time to make sure she was neat and tidy, putting the effort into adorning her silken blond locks with braids and bows, ridding her beautiful features of any spec or dirt, which was admirable… in a way… Well, in the way you were able to just admire her grace, her softness. Truly she had this air of softness to her, like she was constantly followed by a halo of light, a soft glow that was calming in its own way.

Marcille was truly admirable like, that you supposed.

But still, it felt like all you could do was admire her. Despite the closeness that developed between you two, there was always this invisible force that kept you apart, a tension that seemed to hinder you from stepping forward. That, or it was distance. She felt far away to you, something you could only be stuck admiring, like painting in a museum or light on the horizon. The allure of her would always draw you near, you'd sit next to her during meal times or secretly place your bedroll closer to hers, you'd walk side by side and chat when exploring, you'd help her brush the back of her hair, but there was this feeling from the pits of your guts, a self-instilled omen of misfortune for you if you continued to allow yourself to be drawn to her.

Well, after all, you saw how she was with Falin. You had nothing against Falin, you could never even be truly mad at either of them, but whenever they were together you felt… sad. It was quite acidic as envy, but it was cold, and dark, and quiet. Of course you knew the pair had been friends since they were young, years far before your addition to the Touden party, a story Marcille always smiled about when she'd tell you; her years at the magic academy were some of her favorite stories to tell you, you're favorites only because Marcille was the one telling them. Suppose it was some form of jealousy, but really it felt more akinned to despair.

Falin and Marcille were close, far closer than you could even imagine you and Marcille could become. When Marcille wasn't with you, she was undoubtedly with Falin — or rather, when Marcille wasn't with Falin, she was with you. It felt that way at least.

But, regardless, you were no evil witch, no lunatic magician. You wouldn't even dare explicitly drive a stake between the friends, as much as you desperately wanted to be in Falin's shoes. All you did was what you had already been doing, keeping yourself at arms reach, keeping a safe distance from you and her softness, her light, her mystery. You watched from afar, as she'd laugh alongside Falin, as she'd grab her hand, as she'd leave you in searing cold.

Setting moon.

That’s what she was as you sense her gaze linger on you as you patch up one of her dresses, an act you did with such care and love, you were practically kissing better the rips in the deep blue fabric. You feel it, practically burning gently on your skin like firefly kisses, how her emerald eyes stay fixed on you, preying on how your fingers move, studying how you brush hair out of your face. You catch her gaze from the corner of your eye, the hazy look on her porcelain skin, the way the firelight illuminated her features. You try your best not to think of it too much, knowing you’d turn bright red at just the thought of her, instead focusing your attention at carefully sewing her dress, focusing on threading the needle to create perfect invisible stitches to make it look brand new, focusing on how Marcille would smile when you handed her the finished product, focusing on the thought of how she’d go on to wear the dress with your needlework on it, a secret love letter etched into the blue fabric—

“You ‘kay?” A deeper female voice calls from beside you, fortunately and quickly breaking you free from your thoughts.

“Wh- Hm?” You hum, still trying to scramble out of the lingering remnant thoughts of Marcille.

“Yer.. turnin’ red.” Namari notes as she bends a bit closer, looking at the pink dust on your cheeks.

“It’s nothing..” You softly say, instinctively sneaking a glance at Marcille before you turn back to your work.

Narami is unimpressed. She catches the shift of your eyes towards the party’s battle mage and she sighs, taking a seat next to you. “Ya thinkin’ ‘bout her again?”

Instantly a small smile breaks on your face at the mention of Marcille, you chuckle, snorting a bit before you turn to meet Namari’s face. “Am I really that obvious?” You ask but there’s no sense of embarrassment or fear, Marcille did always make you feel at ease.

She mirrors your chuckle. “‘Course.” She says plainly. “Though, I doubt anyone else noticed.” She looks up. “Chil might’ve though.”

You follow her gaze to see the half-foot next to Marcille, she seems annoyed and a bit flustered too. You let out a small laugh and resume your work on the dress. “Of course, Chilchuck’s noticed. What doesn’t he?”

Namari snorts. “Bet he was the first to notice… whatever the both of ya got goin’ on with each other.”

Your brows furrow and your hands freeze. “What’s that meant to mean?”

Namari blinks at you, almost shocked at your confusion. “Like how Marcille and ya are… Ya know…” She makes a gesture, her fingers interlocking with each other. “Ya know?”

“What?” You ask, voice a pitch higher, the initial blush on your face quickly returning. “Wh-what is that even meant to mean, Mari?”

The dwarf shrugs. “I mean- well, if ya don’t know then there’s maybe nothin’— I don’t know!” She says defensively. “I’ve just heard Chil complain ‘bout ya two, is all.”

“Complain about what?”

“Says he’s tired’a seein’ ya two keep google’ at each other an—”

You sit up straight, causing her to pause abruptly. You look at her incredulously, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, brows furrowed. “Two of us?” You ask in a loud whisper. “Two of us?”

Marcille feels your warmth next to her, she feels her world begin to shine in radiant light. She turns to you, a little awestruck as she usually is when she looks at you, especially when you smile the way you’re smiling at her right now.

“Finished your dress,” you say sweetly, softly, like the sweet kiss of morning sunlight through the curtain.

She smiles at you like moonbeams across the ocean. “Thank you,” she replies. Your fingers touch when you pass the clothing to her, a featherlight brush against her like fate was teasing you with a small taste of what you craved.

You sit next to each other in silence, the same comfortable silence weighed on by that thick tension. Marcille smooths over the area where you stitched, fingers gingerly tracing over the invisible lines where your thread passed through her dress. You swallow thickly as you watch her, eyes following each gentle stroke of your fingers. You envy the fabric.

“Marcille,” your voice causes her to look up at you, your face catches the firelight like the honeyed rays of the sun.

“Hm?” She hums in response, head tilting to the side in curiosity. “What is it?”

You lean towards her, brows twitching and you try and muster your courage. “Do you… Do you… like me?” you ask timidly.

Oh, Marcille feels like she would die right now.

Her face instantly flushes red and she jolts upright. “What?” She nearly yells. 

You blink, trying terribly hard not to let your heart feel heavy. “Have I… gotten the wrong impression?”

“N-no! That— It’s—” She sighs. Suppose there isn’t really a way to talk out of it now. She opens her mouth to speak but you beat her to it.

“N-Namari told me to ask. She says it’s been pretty obvious.” You explain timidly, your gaze drifting away from her as wring your hands together. “She said… I was pretty obvious about it too…”

“About…?”

“I…” You take a deep breath, “I like you, Marcy.”

And it was like the world had suddenly shattered. That invisible force that held you two apart finally vanished with the air, leaving you two to allow each other to be pulled into one another like magnets.

Marcille’s eyes shine brightly, hopefully even. She leans closer, one hand gripping tightly against her dress, the same one you had so carefully taken the time to fix for her, the same one she had envied. The other hand lingers in the air, fingers twitching as she hesitates one final time, the final remnants of the tension between you two still trying desperately to cling on.

“Th… I— I like you too…”

You smile, the same smile when you first met, so brightly and sweetly. Relief washes over you, like you had just suddenly been doused in ice cold water. She reaches out to you with her free hand, very slowly making its way to cup your cheek.

“I think… I’ve liked you for a long time now,” Marcille says, punctuates it by saying your name so sweetly, like it was devised for her and only her to speak.

Her thumb smooths over your cheek, caressing your face in such a tender manner. You lean into the touch, moving your own hand to go over hers. You two stare at each other for a bit, tunnel visioning only into each other, allowing everything else around you to blur into distant colors.

You lean forwards, closer to her, and you hear a small gasp leave her lips when she realizes what would happen next. You smile fondly at the noise.

Then the sun and the moon finally meet in total eclipse.

[silverofthunder]

— with you by my side —

Papa Emeritus I (Primo) x GN Reader

summary: Maybe in these kind of moments you were the only light in the darkness of Primo’s insecurities.

content: 740 words, hurt/comfort, romance, fluff, SFW

This has been sitting on my files for almost a month. Oopsie. Well, here, have some more Peemo stuff. ♡

You checked yourself in the bathroom mirror and smoothed out your outfit. Everything looked good and with a smile on your lips, you exited the bathroom and took a turn to the right to head to the bedroom where Primo was getting ready for your date night.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar and you didn’t bother knocking so you opened it a bit more and saw Primo standing by the window, wearing a navy blue suit and holding a tie in his hand, gaze directed out the window.

”Amore,” you said softly, walking towards the man. ”I’m ready.”

Primo turned to look at you and your smile faded as you saw the sadness in his eyes. You reached out your hands, cupping his face, worry settling deep within you.

”What is it?”

Primo lowered his gaze, sighing, and you gently brushed his cheeks with your thumbs.

”Some days I can’t believe that you’re still with me,” Primo finally said, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Your heart sunk in your chest and you leaned in to kiss Primo, putting all your love into that kiss. Primo’s hands came to your sides, fists grabbing a hold of your outfit and flesh quite hard like he was afraid that you would disappear at any minute. This wasn’t a first time Primo was like this. He had made his insecurities known pretty early in your relationship and he got these moments every once in a while.

”And I will keep reminding you that I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly after breaking the kiss.

A tiniest of smiles passed Primo’s lips.

”And you have to put up with this old fool.”

Smiling, you shook your head. ”That old fool is the love of my life so…”

The sadness left from Primo’s eyes, gaze softening and proper, though only a small, smile made its way onto his lips. He pulled you closer and rested his head on your shoulder, letting out a long sigh. Your hands went to his neck, fingers threading through the thin, gray hairs. You looked out the window – the darkness had already captured the nature but there were a few yellowish lights among it, and you couldn’t help but think how well it fit to this moment.

Maybe in these kind of moments you were the only light in the darkness of Primo’s insecurities.

”We should probably go…” you said after a while, even though you would have loved to just stay in that moment a little longer. ”If you still want to go, of course.”

Primo mumbled something you couldn’t hear and you placed a kiss on his neck preventing yourself from laughing. When Primo finally pulled away from you, he was smiling and your heart felt much lighter. For a moment you just looked at each other, your fingers slowly caressing Primo’s face and then Primo lifted up his hand, the one where the tie still was.

”I could use some help,” he stated, looking slightly embarrassed but you just beamed at him.

”Of course, my dear,” you said, taking the tie from Primo. It took a bit of fumbling and several apologies but Primo was patient and encouraging and eventually you got it right – or at least close to that. Then you took a step farther so you could take a proper look at the whole outfit.

You motioned Primo to spin around and he rolled his eyes before slowly turning a full circle and you nodded approvingly, whistling a little.

”So handsome,” you spoke, reaching out your hand. Primo took it and you pulled him closer.

”You should definitely wear a suit more often,” you added and Primo shook his head but his smile showed that he really wasn’t that annoyed by your compliments.

”You look gorgeous as ever,” Primo said, eyeing you up and down, and you chuckled lightly, feeling the warmth tingling your cheeks. You couldn’t resist and you had to lean in to steal a kiss from his lips.

”You sure you want to go?” you asked, wanting to offer Primo a chance to decline. Even though you were excited about the date, you didn’t want to make Primo uncomfortable and if he didn’t want to go, you would be happy to stay home with him. However, Primo pressed himself against your side, nodding and smiling.

”I’m ready,” Primo said, straightening himself a little. ”With you by my side I’ll be alright.”

[luminetti]

𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 ༺♡༻ Chapter 3

༘⋆Notes: this chapter went a bit differently pacing wise than I originally planned! Last chapter I added a 7th prospective chapter to the navigation post because I wasn't sure if I could fit everything into just 6. I think the 7th chapter is very likely to happen, so just letting you know ch6 wont be the last. I love reading your guys' comments both here and on ao3, they're all so sweet and it's what keeps me posting so thank you to everyone who did that 💜

༘⋆ Chapters: ┆[1] ┆ [2] ┆[3]┆[4]┆[5]┆[6] ┆[7] ┆

ao3

The metal handle of the withdrawing room bore cold through your hand as you hovered in front of the door. Your mind was reeling. Gale had mentioned magic and mages that morning, and he seemed quite adamant for your presence. Bending down to peek through the rusted keyhole, you squeezed one eye shut, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was to come. Your vision was fuzzy, blurred from old bits of metal that had rusted from years of unuse.

After your eyes finally began to focus, you could just barely make out a figure on the ground, toying with what almost looked like string? Like plucking invisible thread, Gale peeled apart the translucent strands, letting bits slip through his fingers in a breath of mist. The string between his fingertips glinted in the moonlight as he redirected it into a soft wave, the line following its path and deftly falling into place. A quiet gasp escaped your lips when the final pieces settled themselves in the air like brushstrokes of greens, blues, and purples in the air. Gale had painted an aurora into the air with nothing but his hands.

The warmth of your breath hit your face as you pressed closer against the door, subconsciously leaning against it harder in hopes of somehow seeing more. Too engrossed in the display, you failed to recognize the indicative clicking of the door latch coming undone. With a creak, the door swung open into the room and spat you out onto the floor, landing behind Gale in embarrassing proximity.

Gale leaped to his feet, swiping a hand through the aurora and waving away the remnants of the sparkling colors into the moonrays. “Gods, you caught me practicing,” he mumbled, brushing the dust from his clothes and smoothing the wrinkles. “I thought I had prepared well enough but– are you alright?”

Scrambling from the floor, you nodded, far too starstruck to answer him properly. “Aurora– in the air– moving with your fingers–” your sentences spewed out like strands of word vomit, unable to finish a single thought before beginning another. Mimicking his gestures from earlier, you waved your hands around, hoping they would convey your questions better than your words. You had to know more.

Gale paled and clasped his hands around yours to steady your erratic movements. “Please don’t be alarmed,” he begged, “I wanted to tell you, There just wasn’t– Never the right time–” Gale caught himself from blithering any further and took a deep breath. “Let us start over–”

“I’m not,” you interjected, forcing Gale to fall silent. “Not alarmed, I mean.” Grabbing one of the nearby chairs, you dragged it towards the center of the room and sat. “Don’t restart. I want this.” You motioned to himself and your surroundings. “I want it to be genuine. You in your entirety.” 

His jaw softened and he nodded silently. “I suppose I’d quite like that…” He began, looking around the room for inspiration. “I had something more ostentatious planned, but that doesn’t feel right anymore.” Gale’s eyes locked onto your unfinished painting of Euphemia’s garden. “This however…”

You watched in a daze as Gale swept a hand over the canvas, the dried paint morphing at his touch. It was as if a breeze had come over the painting. What was once static scenery of flowerbeds and grass spotted through a window, now had begun to ripple. Each individual flower and blade of grass swayed as if it was caught in the wind and even the graphite outline of the window’s curtains drifted lightly.

Gale stood off to the side and faced the painting. Cupping his hands around his lips, he blew a puff of air and the garden trembled as if a gust of wind had blown through the field. As the wind grew stronger the curtains billowed and petals detached from their stems. One of the flowered bushes shook in the wind more ferociously than the others, shaking harder and harder until a single flower snapped off the branches.

The flower–small and pink–flew around the painting, carried by the wind which had now slowed to a zephyr. As the flower drifted closer, the pointed petals and golden center became more apparent. It was a sweet brier. Rosa rubiginosa, as Euphemia calls it. But more commonly known as–

“An eglantine rose,” Gale mused, catching the painted flower as it emerged from the canvas. Twirling it in his fingers, he carefully plucked off the small thorns covering the stem. Once cleared, he bent down and tucked it neatly behind your ear. “Your favorite, if I’m not mistaken?”

Dumbfounded, you raised a hand to stroke the flower sitting in your hair. Sure enough, the petals were smooth and velvet-like. It was a real eglantine rose. “I’m impressed you remembered…” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. It was hard to fight the rosiness creeping up your neck, accompanied by a familiar sense of transparency, though different than before. You weren’t quite sure if you minded it or not. It felt as though Gale could see right through you, or that you were bare before him. And yet, you made no move to cover yourself. 

“If that trick isn’t called ‘gale force winds’ then I’ll be highly disappointed.”

Gale snorted, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I’ll admit I’ve never attempted to name any of my abilities before. Though, I suppose I wouldn’t be able to come up with anything like that on my own.” 

“It’s a pity you’ll lose my naming prowess when you depart.”

“A day I have come to dread, it seems.” He chuckled nervously and slipped a hand into his pocket, retrieving a small coin purse. “I suppose I was dreading it more than I realized.” Undoing the drawstring, Gale produced a small necklace from the pouch. Hanging from the thin chain was a crystal pendant, unceremonious and unassuming. “When I eventually return to Waterdeep, I want to leave you with something… Apologies, I wasn’t sure what jewelry you preferred.”

You took the necklace in your hand, rolling the gemstone between your fingers. It looked deceptively light. The pendant bore a surprising amount of weight, indicative of high quality material. 

“This is for me? Really?”

Gale nodded, chewing on his lower lip as he watched your expression closely.

A glimmer from within the necklace caught your eye. Suspended in the clear pendant were engraved stars, shining with all the colors of a sunset sky.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed, undoing the clasp and holding it out for him to fasten around your neck.

Gale hurriedly took the chain and positioned himself behind you, draping the cold metal over your neck and lifting your hair aside.

You forced yourself to still and let his warm fingers brush against the nape of your neck as he fiddled with the fastener.

“That is most gratifying to hear,” He said, motioning for you to turn once he finished. “I would’ve asked whether you liked silver or gold, but I…” Gale trailed off, his eyes locking onto the pendant hanging just beneath your collarbone. Clearing his throat, his gaze flicked back up to meet your own. “It suits you nicely.”

You reached up to feel the necklace against your skin. “I rarely wear jewelry outside of balls. But this,” you closed your fingers around the crystal. “This I believe I’ll be wearing for a while.”

Gale raised an eyebrow, looking from the necklace, to the flower in your hair, then back to you. “You’ve been to the balls this season? How could I possibly have missed you?”

You fidgeted with the necklace. You were never particularly lucky when it came to courting. Ballroom dancing felt too monotonous to be worthwhile and in sensing your discomfort, no suitor had requested a second dance in one night. There was another time when a suitor had professed his undying devotion with a bouquet of amaranth barely a day after you mentioned your aversion to pollen.

Euphemia excitedly told you that amaranth represented longevity and in this case, longevity of love. You, however, found it to be the longevity of sneezing, which eventually solidified the poor suitor’s rejection.

Finally, you shrugged. “I don’t suppose we run in quite the same circle, Viscount.”

A warm hand brushed against your temple, slipping a couple strands of hair that threatened to cover your eyes off to the side. “I must be in the wrong circle then.” The back of Gale’s hand trailed down the side of your cheek and rested underneath your chin, gently tilting your face to look up at him.

Just as you began to feel his warm breath on your lips, the doors swung open once more and Euphemia strode in, her nose deep in a newspaper.

“Scandal of the season!” She cried, pacing back and forth in the room, not once looking up. “Newly made Dowager Duchess Mystra of Waterdeep swarmed with suitors come the following of Duke Elminster Aumar’s passing,” she recited, frantically flipping to the next page.

The warmth of Gale immediately disappeared as he rushed to read over Euphemia’s shoulder with you in quick pursuit.

“The mother of magic retreats in mourning and withdraws from the shortly upcoming ball hosted by Duke Ravengard of the Sword Coast,” she continued, letting Gale take the paper and read himself.

You rose to your tiptoes, trying to skim the paper over Gale’s tall frame. “The mother of magic? I thought she was just a normal mage?”

Gale shook his head, his fingers tangled in his hair, grasping it like it would disappear from his head. “The Duke and Duchess were some of the most powerful mages in Faerûn. Just the union between the two helped ease fears of magic across all of Waterdeep and even parts of Baldur’s Gate.”

You bit your lip. The opinions on mages were already precarious. The loss of a Duke would be difficult for any region, but a Duke of arcane magic would be difficult to replace. From what it seemed, the Dowager Duchess was still excruciatingly desirable. Despite only seeing a couple portraits of her, you’ve always noted her impossibly youthful appearance. Someone of her status would have no trouble…

“Remarrying.” Gale gripped the paper so hard it began to crease in his grip. “She’s surely remarrying.”

Euphemia took the crumpled newspaper. “You think so? Her mourning will last at least another half-year, a full year until she can remarry.”

He shook his head and pressed his lips together. “Her Grace is the face of mages all over the world. She cannot just vanish from society.”

You bit your lip, feeling helpless at the sight of Gale so disheveled. “Was the Duke unhealthy?”

Gale shook his head once more. “He was healthy as can be, and that’s what worries me. I need to attend the Ravengard’s Ball. There’s people I must talk to.” 

That wasn’t possible. Gale had specifically requested for utmost discretion surrounding his presence in your manor. If he were to attend the ball, he would need to come from Waterdeep. Which meant…

“You’re leaving? Now?” You asked, reaching out and catching his wrist before you even realized you had moved.

Euphemia eyed the two of you silently. “I’ll request a carriage,” she said before turning away and leaving you alone with him..

Gale traced the flower behind your ear with a pained expression. “I know, I’m sorry it’s sooner than either of us would’ve liked.”

“Let me come with you,” you begged.

A hand snakes up your waist to lay over the necklace. From beneath his palm, your skin thrummed with warmth emitted a soft white light. When he pulled away after what felt like ages, the small pendant purred with life, glowing and dimming repetitively like a heartbeat. “If you need me, touch the crystal to relay a message. No matter where you are I will hear it and find you.”

“And if I come to the ball? Would you save a dance for me?” You leaned into him, memorizing the feel of his touch.

Gale nodded. “I’d put myself down on your dance card ten times if I must.”

You smiled sadly as he pulled away. “I’ll have quite the lonely eleventh dance.”

He took one step closer and tapped the necklace making it sway gently. “You only need to ask.” With a final parting glance, Gale let your joined hands drop as he turned and exited the room. You watched him thank Euphemia, asking her to give regards to Sebastian for him until finally Gale stepped into the prepared carriage and disappeared off into the night.

As you stood in the doorway staring out into the empty hallway, you felt the necklace thrum against your chest. Like a passing whisper caught in the wind, you felt the faintest voice in the back of your head. Goodnight, Tav.

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@vhaldren @qiific3 @cryingoverpixelsetc

[bloodblanks]

30 frames per second [ben drowned x reader] — prologue.

You had a difficult problem. Your computer was talking to you, telling you its name was BEN, and that its soul was trapped in some video game file. You had a simple solution, though. It also mentioned that it would stop haunting you if you set it free, and all you had to do was complete said game. But your simple solution wasn’t actually so simple, because as it turns out— You were really, really bad at video games.

co-written with @blxrrii and @heartsfromvenus! ♡

author’s note: this fanfiction will not contain much, if any, dark or explicit content, but nonetheless,

please read at your own discretion.

What does defeat look like? 

The screen was, at first, a mesmerizing concoction of colours reminiscent of a bouquet of blossoming flowers. Red, greens and blues ripped at the screen, profusely tearing at the surface, shredding it into a confetti of pixels. Those seconds of colours flashing in front of your eyes both stretched out into the long threads of infinity and at the same time, passed by too fast, over in a flash, in the short time span of the blink of an eye. The screen before you gave one final, shuddering, dying glitch before it collapsed into an unrelenting darkness covering everything. 

What does defeat feel like?

Invisible strings must’ve linked your heart to the now turned-off monitor, like a puppet dangled from the tips of its master’s fingers, because at the same time the screen shut off, you felt any last glimmers of hope—even the smallest scintillas—burn out like embers, what was left of their ashes dropping down deep into the pit that was your stomach. As the desecrated dust fluttered downwards into the depths of your gut, you could feel the panic rise up, a harrowing sense of anxiety and dread breathing, sending a chain of rippling bubbles to the surface. 

What does defeat taste like?

You gathered the saliva in your mouth before swallowing, but the rancid taste of acid and bitterness still sat on your tongue, dwelling there as an unwelcome guest to the pity party you were the host of. Clenching your teeth so tightly they angrily ground up against one another, your jaw tensed and locked itself up, fists mimicking the same motion, your entire body sharing the identical sentiment of utter disbelief. 

What does defeat smell like?

You inhale, air forcing itself in, sharp and shaky at the same time, the rest of your limbs also trembling in unison as you drop the controller, its plastic shell loudly clattering against the wooden floor of your bedroom, a seemingly deafening noise. The sound snapped you out of your shell-shocked state, sending a fresh pang of fear stabbing through your mind like an icepick. Your eyes darted towards the door instinctively; all your movements stopped at once as you remained alert, trying to detect any sound. 

What does defeat sound like?

A relieved sigh escaped your lips as seconds passed, and there was no rustling, shuffling, or indication that anyone was awake except for you and the boy by your side, whose hands had clasped around yours, smaller and quivering in his hold. You finally turned your head towards him, tears forming in the corners of your eyes, splashing over your pupils and blurring your vision. You reflexively blinked to clear your sight, the newborn mixture of salt and water tumbling over the edge of your waterline, spilling down both sides of your cheeks. Removing one of his hands from yours, he raised it towards your face, his thumb brushing at the streaks of hot tears, brushing at the acknowledgement of defeat. 

next chapter ->