#( burning like a fire ;; ch. study. )
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Jason Todd had been dreading this moment for weeks. He wasn't afraid of much—death itself had only been a temporary setback, after all—but telling his family this? That was another thing entirely.
He stood on the edge of the Batcave, watching from the shadows as Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Damian gathered around the Batcomputer. His fingers twitched in anticipation. His heart—if it could still be called that—was beating like a war drum.
Taking a deep breath, Jason stepped forward. "Alright, no one freak out."
Bruce turned first, brows furrowing in suspicion. "Jason?"
"That's me," Jason muttered, rolling his shoulders. "But also... not just me."
Before any of them could question what he meant, green ectoplasm swirled around him like fire, and in an instant, Jason Todd was gone. In his place stood Red Ghost.
His human skin darkened into a shade of near-ebony. His messy black hair bled into snowy white, save for a single streak of black cutting through the left side. His leather jacket and street clothes had been replaced by a sleek, armored suit—white over black, marked by a glowing red bat across his chest. His eyes burned like rubies, eerie and unnatural.
For a moment, there was silence. Then—
"The Lazarus Pit turned you into a ghost?" Tim was the first to break the tension, his analytical mind already working through the implications.
"Half a ghost," Jason corrected. "Halfa, technically."
Damian narrowed his eyes. "You look like a wraith. Tt. That is actually impressive."
Jason smirked. "Thanks, Demon Brat. Always knew you had good taste."
Dick, ever the emotional one, took a hesitant step forward. "Jay... how long have you been like this?"
Jason sighed, letting the tension in his shoulders loosen. "Since I crawled out of that damned Pit. Took me years to even figure out what this half of me was. But I think I'm finally done pretending it doesn't exist."
Bruce had yet to say anything, his expression unreadable. His piercing blue eyes scanned Jason’s form, assessing, calculating, before finally—"You’ve been hiding this from us."
Jason bristled. "Yeah, well, can you blame me? I was already the black sheep. What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh hey, by the way, I’m part ghost now, and sometimes I phase through walls when I get mad’? Figured that’d go over realwell."
Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Jason…"
"Bruce," Jason shot back, crossing his arms.
"Does this change anything about your… condition?" Tim interjected. "Your mind? Your body?"
Jason hesitated, glancing down at his gloved hands before clenching them into fists. "I heal faster, but I also… glitchsometimes. My powers are tied to my emotions, so if I lose control—" He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. "Let’s just say it gets messy."
Dick studied him carefully before a slow grin spread across his face.
"So you're telling me you can fly?"
Jason rolled his eyes but couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I can fly. Among other things."
"Like what other things?" Damian asked, eyes gleaming with interest.
Jason arched a brow. "What, you wanna see a magic trick?" Without waiting for an answer, he lifted a hand, and a crackling ball of green ectoplasm formed in his palm. The air in the Batcave grew colder, and for the first time since Jason transformed, Bruce’s eyes widened just slightly.
Dick let out a low whistle. "Okay. That’s new."
Jason smirked, tossing the ecto-energy between his hands like a baseball. "Yeah, well, don’t expect me to be handing out ghost lessons anytime soon."
Bruce finally stepped forward, and Jason stiffened as the man stood directly in front of him. There was something heavy in his father’s gaze—something unreadable. For a moment, Jason thought he was about to be scolded, but then—
Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You should have told us sooner," he said, his voice quieter than Jason expected.
Jason blinked, caught off guard.
"...What?"
Bruce sighed. "You’re my son, Jason. No matter what form you take, that won’t change."
Jason swallowed hard. He hadn't been expecting that. He glanced at the others, half expecting to see hesitation, maybe even fear. But instead, Dick was smiling at him like he was proud, Tim was analyzing him like a science project (nerd), and Damian… well, Damian was nodding in what might have been approval.
Jason huffed, running a hand through his white-streaked hair.
"Great. So now that we’ve all had this heart-to-heart, what’s next?"
Dick grinned, draping an arm over Jason’s shoulder. "Now? We test your limits. You do realize we’re gonna have to see how fast you can fly, right?"
Jason groaned, but deep down, something warm settled in his chest.
Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
#batfamily#batman#nightwing#red hood#red robin#robin#bruce wayne#dick grayson#jason todd#tim drake#damian wayne#danny phantom#dc x dp prompt#dc x dp crossover#dpxdc#dc x dp#halfa jason todd
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— ⋅˚₊‧ 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ‧₊˚ ⋅ —
— 𝐀cademic 𝐑ival 𝐂hristopher x 𝐀cademic 𝐑ival 𝐑eader
𝐈n 𝐜onclusion… before taking a very important test, you and Chris decided to make a bet on who would get the higher score, the person with the lower score would have to do anything the person with the higher score wanted them to do, and unfortunately you got one percent lower than Chris…
𝐖arnings… [ SUGGESTIVE&ANGST ] , swearing , allergic reaction , burning stuff , steamy makeout session ,
⚠︎ 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐒 - English is not my first language so excuse and dismiss any minor mistakes in my writing, I’m fairly new to writing on tumblr but it’s always been my passion to create stories and envelop myself inside of the world of fiction.
⟡ ݁₊ “𝐘ou seriously think you can beat me?” You huff, holding in your laughter as the chill autumn breeze hits your skin as Chris tries to claim he can beat you at the upcoming test today by getting a higher grade, it almost felt pathetic to be hearing such words even dare to be spoken by him in your presence. “Scared you’ll loose the bet?” He taunts, leaning his back against the railing of the staircase located at the entrance to the campus, one of his many favorite brown leather jacket protecting him from the soft breeze. You chuckle at his immediate assumption, you loosing a silly little bet for the higher score? “Me? Scared? Who do you think I am, a dumbass like you?”
“Oh you’re so high and mighty, I can’t wait to see your face when you loose.” A mocking smirk tugs on the corner of his mouth as you just roll your eyes at his smartass remark, maybe he isn’t a total dumbass but definitely is a goddamn bastard. And why does he have to look so good in that jacket today? “You wish, I never loose. Why do you think I’m on top of the class? I earned it, get ready to do whatever I say after this test, loser.” I state, he chuckles softly before running a hand through his brown messy hair, you could see the slight shift in his demeanor, now appearing more determined and set on one obvious goal. “Yeah, I think you meant you were getting ready to do whatever I say, hm?”
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────
During the remainder of the day, you two made it each others mission to sabotage the other in anyway possible so they would fail the test, first it started harmless with distracting each other from studying but progressively got more intense and rude but to you two it felt as if it was just another day…
— allergic reaction.
You finally have sat down with your friends, chatting and laughing as jokes and stories were thrown between the group, while you were taking out your already prepared lunch, out of the corner of your eye you noticed Chris smirking ear to ear right at you while talking with his own friend group at their table. You brushed off his stare and continued with your lunch, but when you took the first bite and it went down your throat, something didn’t feel right, your throat started to close up and your breath coming in short puffs and then you realized you were having an allergic reaction, a million questions rise inside of your mind on how this could have happened, you precisely made sure there was nothing you were allergic to inside of your lunch. Then Chris’s little smirk flashes in your mind and already know who was behind this, thank god you had your epipen in your bag. You knew you couldn’t go to the nurse since she would send you home, so you had to live through the pain for the remainder of the day until the test, one day you swear you will not hesitate to kill him.
— burning pile.
Throwing in the last piece of paper you needed to be complete, you watched as the hot flames immediately roared to life, intensifying the already big fire created from Chris’s important notes he had ready for todays test and you also decided to burn some other ones he had in his book bag, from your taken spot you could hear most of the things happening in the school, especially where Chris currently was from the open window and could hear frustrated footsteps stomping throughout the school and just laugh at his immediate reaction, waiting for him to make it to where you were. A half-finished lit cigarette hanging from the corner of your mouth as you see a familiar voice call out your name and already knowing who it is, "Y/n! Give me my notes back, you know those are—" He cuts off his own words by the sight of his notes being a burning pile right in front of him, a mocking smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth, taking the last drag of my cigarette and throwing it into the flames to disintegrate, "Ups! I thought these were useless" you say with fake "I'm gonna literally gonna murder you."
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────
Chris won the stupid bet, getting a 100% overpowering your 99% on the test and him waving the test in your face, but the thing he asked you to do wasnt something you expected at the very least…
His hands rest on your waist as you two stumble into the kitchen, being all over each other as an intense make out was currently happening between you two, he softly pushes your back into the counter before they tighten its grip and lift you up to sit you down on the counter for better access as your lips which never separate from each other and don’t seem like they will any time soon, your arms wrap around his neck while his rest right above your hips but they keep wandering all over your lower body. Somehow you two ended up in this situation, but you’re certainly not complaining much, the way the feeling of his lips on yours and how your tongues danced together just made a shiver run down your spine, it almost felt like a drug that you felt you needed more of each second.
“Still bitter about loosing that bet? Princess was finally pushed off her high and mighty stool?” He teases, speaking between kisses which became slight messy as he talked but soon gone back to normal, “Maybe, but you have to make it up to me for that allergic reaction.” I answer, still feeling the bitter-sweet taste of losing now being overpowered by the taste of Chris’s mouth on mine. The only time we would pull away from each other was for short breaths before returning right back, you didn’t know for how long you two were like this but it’s not like someone was counting your time nor rushing you. “What about you first making up for burning my notes and looking absolutely delicious smoking that cigarette?” “I think I already did, by doing whatever you want” he smirks into the long kiss, it somehow remaining eager and passionate even after the long duration of it.
His hands squeezed your hips tightly, wandering downwards to rest down on your thighs, dangerously close to the waistband of your skirt as our own hands wandered to tangle into his brown messy locks, the long make out session soon came to an end, leaving you two complete panting messes before Chris attacks the sensitive soft flesh of your neck, peppering it with open-mouthed kisses while his hot breath fans over them, causing a soft whimper escape past your lips alongside quick puffs of air, still trying to regain your flow of breath. "Like how your rival is all over you, huh? How he just can't resist the little princess no more." He mumbles against your neck while leaving a significant hickey behind which is going to be not so easy to cover up tomorrow for my classes, "What will I say after someone sees all these marks on my neck?" I question in a playful tone as he raises his head to glance up at my face, appearing almost serious if it wasnt for his eyes which were driven entirely by desire in that moment. "Tell them who you fuckin' belong to, little princess."
— 🩵 𝐓aglist
• @sweetshuga @giveheavensomehell @delilahsturniolo @marrykisskilled @purpledragon222 @nickgurl4life @thenickgirl …
⋅˚₊‧ 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒... heloheloheloo!! the start of the au has now began and surprisingly this is the first thing im writing for it but its not gonna be all smut all the time so bear with me guys for now, thanks for over 200 notes on my first fic im so grateful guys it feels so insane to me!! 🩵
#⋅˚₊‧ 𝜗𝜚 𝐀cademic 𝐑ivals.ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⋅#⋅˚₊‧ 𝜗𝜚 𝐀ngel 𝐂reates.ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⋅#⋅˚₊‧ 𝜗𝜚 𝐂hristopher 𝐒turniolo.ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⋅#⋅˚₊‧ 𝜗𝜚 𝐀lternative 𝐔niverse.ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⋅#sturniolo triplets#sturniolos#sturniolo smut#chris sturniolo au#chris sturniolo x you#chris sturniolo x oc#chris sturniolo x reader#sturniolo x reader#sturniolo x you#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo angst#rivals to lovers#enemies to lovers#matt sturniolo#chris sturniolo#nick sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#christopher sturniolo#nicolas sturniolo#matthew bernard sturniolo#christopher owen sturniolo#nicolas antonio sturniolo#chris sturniolo fanfic#chris sturniolo smut#chris sturniolo angst#suggestive
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In Thy Name - Ch.3. - Suffocation Day pt. 2.
viktorxfemale!reader a teeny tiny bit of filth, but still very much sfw. She would suffocate otherwise :') gothic AU
Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.
<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->
word count: 5,3K
author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! Translation of the poem at the bottom :v Also see how I'm keeping the chapters reasonable length? Very demure.
Cross-posted on AO3
—
It is eerie in the library. The room is covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, tomes leather-bound and heavy but besides the obvious titles on all areas that are of Viktor’s interest there are some unexpected—little notebooks of poems, paperback and thin, worn with time, seemingly reached for more than once.
The collection is not the largest you’ve ever seen, nor the grandest, yet something about it holds you in place as you scan the shelves. Dim autumn light filters through tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows over rows of dark-stained bookcases. The air is scented with old paper, ink, and the ghost of candle smoke. A fire burns low in the hearth, its embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat, lending the space an intimacy that makes you feel as though you’ve intruded upon something secret.
You step further in, your skirts whispering against the polished wood floors. The library shows signs of frequent presence—papers stacked in uneven piles upon the desk, a forgotten quill resting atop an open ledger, ink dried mid-sentence. Books lie splayed across various surfaces, their spines cracked, their pages lined with annotations in a precise, slanted hand. Even before your gaze lands on the titles, you sense that this is no idle collection of literary indulgence; everything here has been selected with purpose.
Your fingers trail lightly over the spines, murmuring their titles under your breath. Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae by Athanasius Kircher, Le Monde Primitif by Antoine Court de Gébelin, volumes on astronomy—Ptolemy’s Almagest, Kepler’s Harmonices Mundi, and even a Latin copy of John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica. The works on mathematics are no less impressive—Euler, Descartes, and an entire section dedicated to the studies of non-Euclidean geometry.
You pull a book at random, its leather cover cool beneath your fingertips. The gilded letters on the spine read De Rerum Natura, an old treatise on natural philosophy. Viktor’s interests, it seems, stretch far and wide. It’s a scholar’s collection, but not a passive one; every book you examine bears traces of his thoughts—notations in the margins, underlined passages, pages marked with scraps of paper.
Among the tomes of science and philosophy, you notice something softer: a collection of poetry. Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge, Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, a French edition of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal. You flip through the pages of one, your thumb pausing on a passage that has been marked in ink:
Quand, les yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d'automne, Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux, Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux Qu'éblouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone.
Something in the act of his marking it makes you hesitate, feeling as though you’re glimpsing a side of him he does not often reveal. Something entirely different—curiosity perhaps—stirs your mind into wondering who is on Viktor’s mind when he reads it.
You let the book slide shut, exhaling slowly. There’s something about the house—its silence, its contradictions—that unsettles you. It’s full of missing pieces, of thoughts unfinished. Designed to keep strangers away but those who do step close enough, lure inside and trap.
Straightening, you turn towards the desk where your own work awaits. It’s time to bring your mind to the task at hand. You fix disobedient strands of hair back into your updo as you lay out the materials you gathered earlier. You examine Viktor’s translation carefully, the words from the wall written down with his precise hand.
Iměti tъ, kto vъ tьmě idetъ, ne prozъvati. Sъlovo jemu da ne dašь, i vъ noštь ne ględaj v oči jego. Vězdi on, kъto zovetъ i słyšetъ, ale ne imějęti glasa. Vъ tъmъ iměti, osъvobodi iměti.
The original Proto-Slavic text glares at you, and your eyes immediately settle on the key term: iměti. You know from your studies that iměti means “to imitate”—a verb denoting mimicry, the act of reproducing something rather than possessing it. The word feels significant, but in an unsettling way, as if it’s out of place.
Next, you focus on prozъvati—the word Viktor translated as “to call.” The more you study it, the more you find yourself caught by its peculiar form. It is a term that, in this context, goes beyond a mere vocal summoning. Prozъvati feels as if it is connected to something deeper, a way of reaching out that implies more than just speech—an invocation, perhaps, or a beckoning.
You shift your attention to ględaj. The Latin equivalent, spectare, would generally be "to look" or "to see," but this verb in Proto-Slavic carries more weight. It seems to imply a deeper form of observation, a searching gaze—not simply seeing something, but understanding it with a sense of obligation. It makes you wonder how Viktor’s translation, with its focus on avoiding meeting someone’s eyes, fits into the original context.
As your gaze drifts to sъlovo and zovetъ, you find yourself staring at the delicate balance of meaning these words might hold. Sъlovo is simple, translating directly to “word,” but there’s something about it in this particular structure that implies a weight to what is unsaid. And zovetъ—again translated as “calls” in Viktor’s version—seems to hold a different nuance. The form of the verb makes you think of summoning, but not of a voice or a language—more akin to an intangible force.
The final words, vъ tъmъ iměti, prickle your spine with pins. The phrase resists translation, slipping through your fingers as you try to grasp its meaning. The repetition of iměti is strange, its sense of imitation and mimicry now invoking something even darker. This isn’t just about one person calling another, or avoiding eyes. It’s as though the iměti is a way of bringing something into existence—or denying it.
In a fit of frustration, you lean back, rubbing your eyes. Your research has brought you closer to understanding the intent behind Viktor’s translation, but the true meaning remains elusive. The puzzle pieces don’t quite fit together.
What settles over you like cold stone is the realisation that, with what you have at hand, Viktor’s translation is, in fact, correct—and your expertise here is useless.
The usurper of he who walks in darkness must not be called. Give him no word, and in the night, do not meet his eyes. Everywhere he is, he hears when called, but he has no voice of his own. In the echo, rid the fake.
Nothing about it seems out of place—no lost sense, no hidden clue, nothing to suggest an error. You read both versions again and again, murmuring them under your breath, transposing them into Latin, Greek, and French. And yet, in every language, the meaning remains the same.
A sigh presses from the shallow part of your chest, constricted by the corset’s cruel embrace. You slump backwards in the chair, pressing your fingers to your temple. And the moment you close your eyes, something cold and dreadful unfurls within you.
You are in the library—yet you have no memory of getting here. No recollection of walking, of reaching for the door handle, of pushing open the heavy wooden wings. No moment where you crossed the threshold. You are simply... here.
The word rings between your ears like a church bell: imě. And then—nothing. Blackness, thick and suffocating, folding over you like the sea swallowing a drowning man—until, at last, it disperses into the gentle warmth of the library’s hearth.
Beyond the window, whatever feeble sun had struggled all day to pierce the clouds had long since surrendered. Now, it hovered low over the horizon, its light thin and waning, swallowed by the encroaching dusk. You glance at the clock, swallowing down the lump of disquiet that has settled in your throat. With a lip caught between your teeth, you gather your notes and march to Viktor’s study.
Your heart is a weight on your shoulder, your breath shallow as you raise a hand to knock. The sound barely has time to settle before his voice—muffled by the heavy wood—reaches you.
"Come in."
You step inside, and the warm glow of lamplight casts long shadows over the walls, stretching his silhouette behind the desk. He straightens at the sight of you, his expression soft with familiarity.
"There you are," he says, voice carrying the warmth of a fire just stoked. "It was getting late. Have you found something?"
“I—” You hesitate, pressing your notes to your chest. "Nothing. Your translation is perfect, by my standards."
"Oh," Viktor murmurs, something like a pleased hum threading through his voice. "I am flattered. Are you certain, though? Please, take a seat," he says, extending his hand to the chair facing him.
"Thank you, but I've been sitting all this time. I will gladly stretch my legs," you reply, pacing instead, your fingers tightening around the edges of your papers, your chest still tight with contraption. "I searched through whatever I could find in Greek, Latin, and French," you continue, exhaling sharply. "I have also skimmed through Slavic myths." You shake your head. "And this is so... vague. The possibilities are endless."
Viktor watches you with quiet patience, fingertips idly tapping against the desk. "Would you like to share at least one of them? I do have the time."
"Well, of course," you say, rolling your shoulders back. "Since this is undoubtedly an early form of a Slavic language, the first creature that comes to mind is Licho—or Likho, depending on the region. A one-eyed demon of misfortune, sometimes appearing as an old woman or a beggar to gain entry into homes. It offers false guidance, pretending to bring luck or wisdom, while in truth leading people to ruin. As per the usurper in your translation..."
Viktor hums, his gaze sharp with interest. "Interesting," he murmurs, though in truth, something in his chest stirs—no, it roars—his mind alight with the rare thrill of sharing thought with someone equally consumed by the subject at hand. To watch you pace, to see the way your hands carve meaning into the air, your face shifting with each thread of thought—half offered to him, half spoken into the ether—is, to him, a remarkable sight.
Were it a thought he dared to entertain, he might even say that, in this brief exchange, you had made him feel less alone.
"Also," you draw a breath through clenched teeth, shifting your weight, "Boginki. The False Mothers. Infamous for stealing babies and replacing them with changelings—sometimes pretending to be caretakers, or... well, mothers." You resume pacing, your voice gaining momentum. "There are plenty of such beings across different mythologies, but none fit exactly." You pause, glancing at him. "The do not meet his eyes fragment—why? What would happen if you did?"
Viktor folds his hands atop the parchment, contemplative. "Are you suggesting a creature that turns people to stone?"
"Something like that," you murmur. "Are you familiar with the origin of the Medusa myth?"
His brow lifts, curious. "Is there any other than the widely known?"
"It’s a mistranslation," you say, turning to face him fully. "Or rather—truth lost in layers of retelling. It’s speculated that what we now know as Medusa—who evolved from the Gorgons—was originally a male warrior with wild hair, appearing in Mesopotamian, Near Eastern, and Indo-European myth. The turning-into-stone element simply meant death, brought by the warrior or guardian, whoever he was." You halt at the edge of his desk, eyes steady on his. "It’s a long shot, isn’t it?"
You exhale, finally, and sink into the chair behind you.
Viktor leans forward, pulling the parchment closer, his eyes scanning the inked lines with renewed purpose. "It does not matter. This is exactly what I wanted from you—a fresh mind." He taps the page once. "What else are we missing?"
You lean in, reading the text upside down. Your voice drops to a murmur. "It could also be the Leshy."
Viktor glances up. "No voice of his own?"
"Precisely. Leshy is known to imitate human voices to lure people into the forest," you say, more softly now. "But in most depictions, he doesn’t speak. He only echoes."
"Fascinating," Viktor replies, leaning back. "None of this, however, gives us any clue about the breathing affliction."
"Sadly, it doesn’t," you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. The long hours seated make it feel as though your chest can no longer hold a proper breath. You drift across the room, gaze trailing over the shelves. “There is also a thing called the Mara,” you say absently. “It’s believed she sits on people’s chests at night, stealing the breath from their lungs and filling their dreams with horror.”
You stop, hand brushing the back of a nearby chair, and release a long, weary breath. “But I really don’t know how to tie all of this together,” you murmur—defeated, yet still searching.
Around you, books and trinkets are arranged with the precision of a mind that values order—yet there are signs of frequent use: papers stacked in uneven piles, ink bottles left uncorked, a cup of tea long gone cold. Viktor watches you closely.
“It is barely your first day,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “Nothing gets done in one day.”
You scoff under your breath, unsatisfied by the ease in his tone. One arm wrapped tightly around your midsection, the other gliding along the book spines, you scan the titles with mild distraction. Pressure begins to coil inside your ribs again, a subtle ache swelling with each shallow breath.
Then, amidst the neatly arranged oddities, your gaze catches on a deck of cards—its edges plain, the backs painted with modest, medieval designs.
Your fingers brush the stack as you speak. “Do you dabble in cartomancy as well, Mr. Velesny?”
“Occasionally. When I run out of options,” he replies, rising slowly. His steps are long as he comes toward you, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a murmur, warm against your shoulder. “And I thought we agreed—you should call me Viktor.”
“My apologies... Viktor,” you manage, though your voice is thin, breath trailing at the end. Your insides feel unbearably constricted, your corset biting down with every rise of your lungs. Is it the garment—or him? You can’t tell. “It’s an odd deck. I’ve never seen this type before.”
“It’s Minchiate,” he says, reaching around you to lift the deck, the closeness of him sending a fresh wave of heat to your face. “It includes additional cards. Offers deeper insight.”
He presents it to you on an open palm. “Shuffle it. Draw one.”
You hesitate, gathering the cards from his hand. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely. Perhaps it will give us a clue—of all things.”
The weight of the deck is unexpected in your hands. The cards are slightly too large for your palms to shuffle gracefully, so you do it slowly. Once you deem it ready, you ask, “Alright then... how do I do this?”
“Cut the deck where it feels right. Pull the top card.”
Your fingers tremble as you lift the cards, the pressure in your chest intensifying. You cut the deck, drawing the top card with effort. “It says only... XI.”
“Hermit,” Viktor replies at once. “Interesting.”
“Is it telling me I’m a loner?” You attempt a smile, though your lips are dry and your vision is beginning to tunnel.
“No,” he says softly. “Traditionally, the Hermit is depicted blind, carrying a lantern. Look—” He turns to the bookshelf and pulls out a small booklet, flipping quickly through the pages. At last, he taps one with his finger. “Marseille, L’Hermite.” He tilts the book toward you, revealing a hunched old man printed in black and white, clutching a lantern, his face disturbingly grotesque. “He carries knowledge where there is none. Hope, even,” Viktor says, voice low, almost reverent.
Your voice breaks on the exhale. “Am I your hope, then?”
“You might as well be,” he says with a quiet smile, though his gaze is searching—watching the colour drain from your face.
Your breath catches—high and shallow. The bookcase in front of you feels like the only thing keeping you upright. A cold sweat breaks across your brow as black seeps into the edges of your sight. Your mouth opens, but no air reaches your lungs. Every gasp is swallowed by fabric and bone.
“It’s too tight,” Viktor murmurs, moving swiftly behind you. His voice drops into urgency. “Miss, you will faint if we don’t fix this now. Do I have your consent?”
It is by absolute necessity, he tells himself, as his fingers hover at the nape of your neck, brushing a few stray strands aside. You nod—unable to spare a breath for ‘yes’—and whatever air remains in your chest hitches when his fingertips ghost the skin just beneath your hairline.
“Dear God, why would you endure this torture?” Viktor mutters, hooking the cane over his forearm. And were he not so concerned just now, perhaps he might have caught the irony in his own words—his breath always shallow, each one measured, careful not to draw too much air into lungs that have never known ease.
His hands settle at the base of your spine, hovering just above the row of buttons that fasten the back of your bodice. You feel him hesitate—the brief pause of a man bracing himself—before his fingers begin their work.
"Who in their right mind designed this number of closures?" he mutters under his breath, his tone caught between irritation and disbelief.
His knuckles brush the fabric with each movement, slow and methodical. He works his way upward, button by button, the task made no easier by how closely they sit to one another. The silence between you is thick, broken by the soft clicks of fastenings getting undone and the occasional flutter of your breath as your lungs strain for air they still cannot fully claim.
At last, the final button slips free, and the bodice loosens at the edges, exposing the laces beneath. Viktor hesitates once more.
“This will be colder,” he murmurs, more to himself than you.
Then his fingers dip beneath the stiff outer fabric, brushing over the linen underdress that lies flush against your skin. There's no bare contact, yet the warmth of your body radiates through the thin barrier, sinking into his touch like heat into snow. His fingertips still, then resume—precise and steady, despite the way his pulse has begun to thunder at his throat.
He says nothing, but you feel him falter just slightly when the curve of his hand grazes the small of your back. Through the light linen, faint freckles are visible—soft constellations scattered across your skin. He memorises them without meaning to.
The laces loosen, one at a time, pulled free in patient sequence. The tension around your ribs begins to melt, and your shoulders drop with a trembling sigh.
When he finally begins to draw the laces back, this time more loosely, the process is slower. The cords resist the rhythm, and his hands must navigate the now-shifting fabric more carefully.
“You seem well-versed in unlacing, but not in lacing back, Viktor,” you murmur, a touch dryly, attempting to cut through the electric tension.
There’s a pause. Then—“Is that your concern now?” he replies, and when you let out a breathy chuckle, he adds, “Would it unsettle you if I said yes?”
Caught entirely off guard, you say nothing. Embarrassed—ashamed, even—you feel heat bleeding into your cheeks and scold yourself for attempting to tease a man who can clearly fight back. Noting your capitulation, Viktor only smiles to himself.
Finally, the knot is tied, the corset now sitting far less cruelly against your ribs—and at last, you can breathe. He pulls the bodice, which had slipped from your waist, back into place and begins the mundane task of fastening all the buttons.
To your utter loss, now that you’re finally able to feed your lungs with air, they refuse to cooperate—your breathing remains shallow, faltering. You startle especially when his hands reach the upper part of your back, where the only thing shielding your skin is the almost non-existent undershirt. It burns, nearly, and you are uncertain whether it’s your ears clogging with pressure or if it is, in fact, Viktor swallowing hard.
Once done, he straightens the fabric gently, then lifts his hand to smooth his palm down the length of your back—a final touch, calm and grounding.
“There. Is that better?”
You do not answer right away. You simply inhale. A true breath—full and deep, stale air spilling into your lungs without pain. It fills you so completely it feels like drowning in reverse.
“Yes,” you whisper, steadying yourself. “Thank you.”
Viktor’s hand lingers a moment longer before falling away. The silence between you shifts—not eased, but altered—recalibrated into something that hovers between tension and trust. Something very much alive. It emboldens you enough to say, “It would not unsettle me. To know that you are versed.”
You notice a smile ghosting across his lips as he lowers his gaze. Only now do you realise that perhaps he is just as flustered as you—only far better at hiding it. His cheeks are tinged with the faintest pink, and though his eyes remain half-lidded, their exact shade hidden beneath lowered lashes, you are certain his pupils are as wide as when he speaks of his revelations.
He clears his throat, a subtle but telling gesture, and places his cane back in hand with a practised movement. “The sky is clouded tonight,” he says, gesturing toward the darkened window with the tip of the handle. “But if you wish to breathe some rich air—to make up for the losses of today—I could show you the garden,” he offers, voice low, almost cautious.
You tilt your head. “Algernon mentioned night is not a good time?”
“Nonsense,” Viktor replies without hesitation. A rare sharpness edges his tone, though it fades as quickly as it came. “It’s gorgeous at night. Come.”
He doesn’t wait for your agreement. With quiet assurance, he turns and begins toward the study door, his gait measured, cane making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You fall into step beside him, still gathering yourself, still remembering how to breathe.
The house is hushed at this hour. Every candle seems dimmed in deference to the dark, casting the corridors in a soft, amber gloom. The air grows cooler as you descend the staircase and take a turn down a hallway you haven’t yet seen—narrow, panelled in darker wood, with windows showing glimpses of the pale grounds beyond.
You pass an arched doorway and then another before he stops at a pair of tall, glass-paned doors, fogged by the moisture on the other side, framed by a narrow marble arch. He produces a key from his coat pocket and unlocks them with a soft click.
The scent reaches you first. Earth. Cold leaves. Damp moss. The faint sweetness of something still blooming despite the season.
He pushes the doors open with his shoulder and steps aside, one hand resting lightly on the frame as he motions for you to enter first.
A winter garden. Quiet and low-lit, enclosed beneath a vaulted glass roof that reflects the barest shimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Ferns and climbing ivy stretch toward the light, while rows of hardy white blossoms open like stars against the deep green. The temperature inside is cool but not unpleasant—tempered by the plants, the enclosed warmth of stone and soil.
A narrow path winds through raised beds, and somewhere nearby, a slow trickle of water laps gently over stone.
Viktor follows you inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I find this place... peaceful,” he says, his voice quiet, respectful of the stillness. “There are few things here that ask anything of me.”
You glance over at him, watching the way his hand brushes one of the broad leaves as you pass—a barely-there touch, reverent.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. Your voice feels more real here, less strained. “Have you... done this?”
“Yes. Once, I thought herbs and plants might bring the answer to something I was researching,” he replies, his voice gentler now, touched by memory. “They did not. But the garden remains.” He glances around the space, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everything that blooms here chooses to. Nothing is forced.”
You walk a few more steps in tandem, the air fragrant with damp leaves and faint blossoms. Your lungs slowly begin to trust the freedom they’ve been given—each breath deeper than the last, no longer catching or shallow. You pause beside a low-growing bush with narrow, silver-edged leaves, letting your fingertips brush against them.
“What was the question you were trying to answer?” you ask softly, curiosity laced with awe as you glance at him.
He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Ah... that does not matter now.” A small shrug of one shoulder. “Even though it was not found, I am grateful for this place.”
There’s something in the way he says it—no bitterness, only acceptance. You watch him a moment longer, studying how different he seems here: his shoulders looser, the lines around his mouth softened, his eyes reflective instead of watchful.
“You really are full of skills,” you murmur, half to yourself, still stunned by the strangeness and serenity of the hidden garden.
“I am full of interests. Of curiosity,” he corrects with a quiet chuckle. “Here, my skills were not much use.”
Before you can ask more, a sudden rustle from a tall fern nearby makes you flinch. Something flutters past—quick and black—and lands on a bare branch overhead with a sharp flutter of wings. It lets out a single, high-pitched squeak.
“Viktor!”
Startled, you turn to him. “A... grackle?” you ask, blinking.
He smiles with unmistakable fondness. “Yes. Meet Rio.” He gestures toward the bird, who has now begun preening one wing. “He comes and goes as he pleases, through that window there.” He motions toward a narrow, open pane set into the far wall. “Be careful what you say around him. He’s gained a reputation for using people’s words against them.”
“Viktor. Sad,” the bird croaks in a mockingly low tone, tilting its head.
“See?” Viktor murmurs, almost amused. “He will paint me pathetic before you even get the chance to know me better.”
There’s a flicker of something like vulnerability in his expression, but it passes quickly. He slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small metal ring, thumbing through a few keys until he unhooks one. Carefully, he places it into your open palm.
“You may come here as much as you wish,” he says, his voice low, nearly blending with the rustling leaves. “I find this place good for the mind.”
You glance down at the key resting in your palm. The cool weight of it feels symbolic, as though you’ve been let in on something secret—something close to his heart. A small part of him, entrusted to you.
Lifting your eyes to his, you find his gaze steady, amber dimmed by the faint glimpses of moonlight through the glass. You offer a quiet, sincere, “Thank you.”
The silence that follows is not uncomfortable—it hums with something unspoken. His expression shifts just slightly, something flickering behind his eyes.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Viktor says, stepping back with a subtle shift in tone, practical again, though a note of softness lingers. “The Černoglav family asked for three days to prepare for our arrival.”
You nod, the name pulling your thoughts briefly back to your larger task.
“In the meantime,” he continues, “I’ve been called to another case. It might be entertaining—should you wish to accompany me.” His tone is hopeful, inviting.
“Oh?” you ask, curiosity tugging at your voice. “What supernatural aid are you bringing this time?”
He lifts his cane slightly, gesturing as though introducing the absurdity of the situation. “A family nearby is being haunted by the ghost of a vengeful horse.”
You blink, trying very hard to hold back a disbelieving smirk blooming on your face. “A vengeful... horse?”
“A stallion, precisely,” he clarifies, with deadpan seriousness. “Do not mock, Miss. They are terrified,” he adds, moving closer and pointing his fingers at you in a playful scold, cheeks hollowing with a ghost of a smile.
You press a knuckle to your lips, attempting not to laugh. “Have they tried feeding it some phantom sugar cubes?”
“That is our job,” he replies smoothly, though the corner of his eyes lift up, and a smile wrinkles his face. “What do you say?”
You pause for effect, then sigh with mock gravity. “Ah, maybe a bit of distraction will serve us well in all this. Why not.”
“Brilliant,” he says, already half-turned toward the door. “We leave tomorrow after breakfast.”
“I shall await impatiently,” you reply, taking a step to join him, when Rio’s squawk snaps both of your heads toward the source of the sound.
“Imě, imě, imě!” the bird repeats, flapping his wings menacingly on the branch before launching himself through the open window, disappearing into the night.
Viktor blinks, wide-eyed, then looks at you, equally surprised. “Forgive me, Miss, he does that sometimes. Has he startled you?” he asks, quickly recollecting himself and extending a hand for you to grasp.
The memory has already eclipsed in your mind, buried under a cairn of today’s events, when you are suddenly pulled back to both your dream and the eerie door on the first floor. You take his hand but study him carefully, and instead of answering, you ask, “What’s behind the door upstairs?”
“Oh.” Viktor’s brows draw together, taken off guard. “Nothing that should concern you. It’s something from my past, insignificant,” he attempts to dismiss you, but you do not falter.
“Are you certain it’s insignificant?” you press, squeezing his palm insistently.
“Why would you ask?” Viktor pushes back, his expression shifting to one of discomfort. His hand leaves yours, and seeing no answer, only an expectant stare, he takes a step back and straightens himself.
“If there is no justification for this, I do not feel inclined to share.” The cane twists to the floor as he turns his back to you and begins walking toward the door. “Do not raise that matter again, please,” he throws over his shoulder. “And be ready to leave in the morning, should you still wish to accompany me,” he says finally and disappears into the corridor, not giving you a chance to wish him goodnight.
Left alone in the dim garden, the air seems to shift around you, growing colder with each passing second. You hug your arms tightly around yourself, a shiver rolling down your body as the silence presses in. The question lingers in the space between your thoughts, but now there’s something more—something hidden in the shadows of the house. You wonder if the answer you’ve been seeking lies buried somewhere here, wrapped in layers of forgotten memories. The chill in your bones isn’t just from the night air; it’s a creeping unease, the sense that Viktor has closed himself off, and that something crucial remains locked away. Guilt tugs at you for startling him, for prying when perhaps you should have let it go. But the key in your hand—so small, so weighty—feels like a promise, something shared with you. You clutch it to your chest, as if it could offer some comfort, and sigh deeply. At least you can breathe again.
—
Les Fleurs du mal translation:
When, with my eyes closed, on a warm autumn evening, I breathe the scent of your warm breast, I see unfold happy shores That are dazzled by the fires of a monotonous sun.
#my writing#viktor arcane#viktor fanfic#viktor x reader#viktor x reader smut#viktor smut#viktor x f!reader#viktor x oc#arcane#arcane fanfic#ao3#ao3 fanfic#viktor nation#in thy name
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AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 2 | OBERYN MARTELL
Chapter Two: Let The Dance With The Devil Begin
Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.
Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge
Word Count: 7k
A/N: Omfg. I took so long to write this I know T^T Thank you for being patient with me! I just decided to have a mini break bcs I was jet lagged from travelling and had to focus on my health for a little bit.
Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift
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RED KEEP, WESTEROS - 300 AC
You spent two decades carefully avoiding forming deep bonds, all the while meticulously plotting your revenge. You studied their weaknesses, habits, and relationships, patiently biding your time until you could strike from close range.
You had noticed the lingering glances between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, their whispered conversations turning into passionate encounters. So when Cersei bore a child, rumored to be the result of her incestuous relationship, and as you witnessed Joffrey Baratheon growing into a likeness of his parents, you recorded every detail in your leather-bound notebook. It contained all the information about those responsible for the death of Elia Martell, ensuring no detail escaped your scrutiny.
Serena, a girl you befriended in the bustling stables, is a steadfast ally in your quest for vengeance. Together, you both meticulously gather intelligence, weaving through the whispers of the kitchen staff and the secrets shared in the shadowy corners of brothels. With her keen eyes and your shared determination, you stalk those who have wronged you, laying the groundwork for your calculated retribution.
In the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, the struggle for power rages on. Joffrey Baratheon, seated upon the Iron Throne, wields authority backed by the formidable House Lannister. However, his claim faces challenge from his uncle Renly, who, bolstered by the might of House Tyrell, presses his own bid for kingship. In this turmoil, Tyrion Lannister arrives in King's Landing, aiming to assert control, only to find himself at odds with his conniving sister, Cersei, now entrenched as Queen Regent.
As autumn blankets the realm and whispers of an impending winter linger, Westeros braces for the bitter cold ahead. Yet, instead of preparing for the harsh season, the land remains conflicted. Renly Baratheon's sudden demise alters the tides of allegiance, leaving the political landscape in flux. Meanwhile, Joffrey, with the backing of House Tyrell, emerges victorious in a decisive clash against his uncle Stannis, solidifying his hold on power.
The fates of many hang precariously in the balance. In the labyrinthine corridors of King's Landing, both Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark navigate treacherous waters, their survival dependent on their ability to navigate the perilous currents of court intrigue.
You had served Sansa since the day she was first betrothed to King Joffrey. Back then, she had been full of dreams—visions of knighthood, love, and a golden crown. But those dreams quickly soured, turning into nightmares as the Lannisters’ hold over her tightened. What was once a promising union became a gilded cage. They kept her in the Red Keep, a prisoner beneath layers of silk and politeness.
Sansa clung to her “lady-like” pursuits to distract from the harshness of her reality—sewing, embroidery, poetry, and music. Her stitches were always delicate, her voice soft, yet behind her graceful demeanor, you saw the cracks. You were there when Septa Mordane led her through the Red Keep’s throne room for a lesson in history. It was meant to be a glimpse into the glory of the Targaryens and the rulers of old, but instead, Sansa’s gaze lingered on the dark stain where her grandfather and uncle had been butchered by the Mad King. Her face paled, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, haunted by the ghosts of her own blood.
One evening, as she sat embroidering by the window, she confided in you. “Do you think I’ll be able to give Joffrey sons?” Her voice wavered. “What if… What if I’m only able to give him daughters, like Jeyne Poole’s mother?”
You tried to find reassuring words, though even Septa Mordane's attempts had done little to ease her fears. “You’re young, my lady. You will bear many children in time.”
Her blue eyes, wide with fear, met yours, but she said nothing more.
The Hand’s tournament arrived, and Sansa, despite everything, seemed to sparkle for a brief moment amidst the finery of the lords and knights. You stood in the shadows, watching her as she watched them. Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, was a towering presence, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he unseated Ser Hugh of the Vale, killing him in the dust of the joust. Littlefinger whispered dark stories to Sansa of the Hound’s past, tales of burned flesh and brutal lessons. You saw the way Sansa’s hands trembled as she absorbed the horrors hidden beneath the chivalry.
Yet, there were moments of fleeting happiness. Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of the Flowers, gave her a single rose before his tilt with Ser Gregor. She blushed under his attention, but you noticed how Loras’s gaze lingered not on her, but on Renly Baratheon, who stood just behind. That small act of kindness, hollow as it was, brought a rare smile to Sansa’s lips, even as the court applauded Sandor Clegane’s intervention to stop his brother’s rampage.
But that brief joy was drowned by the darkness that soon followed. When King Robert Baratheon died after a hunting “accident,” everything unraveled. Eddard Stark, honorable as always, tried to reveal the truth about Joffrey’s parentage, but it was too late. You weren’t surprised when Littlefinger betrayed him. You had seen the cunning in his eyes long before, the way he played everyone like pieces on a cyvasse board.
Chaos erupted. Eddard’s men, loyal to the last, were slaughtered by Lannister guardsmen led by Sandor Clegane. You remembered Mordane’s voice trembling as she urged Sansa to lock herself in their chambers. But there was no hiding from the Lannisters. They took her.
You watched from a distance as Sansa was humiliated before the court, her innocence crushed beneath the weight of Cersei’s cold cruelty. She stood there, trembling, and you saw the beginning of a transformation. The girl who once dreamed of knights and love was slowly breaking, her innocence being stripped away by every sneer, every command, every cold laugh in the throne room.
You wished you could offer her comfort, but in King’s Landing, comfort was as fleeting as mercy.
The great Sept was filled with the hum of whispers, the heavy weight of tension hanging in the air as Eddard Stark stood before the court. His face, weathered by years of honor and battle, now looked hollow, beaten by betrayal. You stood in the shadows, where servants always stood, your eyes flicking between the high lords and the northern Warden. As the silence fell, Eddard knelt, acknowledging his so-called “crimes” and pledging loyalty to King Joffrey.
For a moment, it seemed the court might breathe again. Sansa stood nearby, her hands trembling. Hope flickered in her eyes—briefly. But Joffrey, perched on the Iron Throne like some twisted boy-king out of a nightmare, leaned forward with a smile sharp as a blade. His words fell like a thunderclap. “Bring me his head.”
Sansa's scream cut through the hall, raw and broken. She lunged forward, hysterical, her voice lost in a storm of pleading, but the gold cloaks restrained her, forcing her back. Her cries—“Please, mercy, mercy!”—rang in your ears, making your stomach turn.
Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, cold and unfeeling as he drew Ice, the greatsword of House Stark. You could see the light catch the edge of the steel, and the last thing Sansa saw before she fainted was her father’s final, resigned glance.
You moved through the chaos as a shadow. Your duty to Sansa came first, so as the blood pooled on the Sept’s floor, you carried her from the carnage, her limp body heavy with grief. The days that followed were hollow. She barely spoke, her eyes vacant as you tended to her, making sure she ate, dressing her in the Lannisters' silks even as her soul remained buried in sorrow.
It was one of those somber evenings when she finally spoke, her voice so faint you almost missed it. “Do you… serve the Lannisters?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
You paused, setting down the tray of untouched food, meeting her tired gaze. “Yes, my lady,” you answered softly.
Sansa’s eyes flickered with something—confusion, maybe anger. “Have they always been this cruel?” she asked, her words trembling with an innocent horror.
You weighed your response carefully, then nodded. “From what I’ve heard, unfortunately, yes.”
Her lips parted as she considered your answer, but it was her next question that cut deeper. “Then why do you serve them?”
You lowered your eyes, your hands folding over the fabric of her gown, the lie of your position hanging heavy on your shoulders. “It’s something I wager on,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the unease in your chest.
Sansa, always perceptive, frowned. “Is that the only kind of wager you make?”
For a moment, you froze. Then you let a faint smile tug at the corner of your lips, the words “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken” echoing in your heart, though unspoken. “There was one time I bet my entire life on something,” you confessed quietly.
She looked at you then, truly looked, her tear-streaked face searching yours. “Did you win?”
Your smile faltered, but you met her gaze with a spark of determination. “I’m planning to,” you said, with a quiet promise hanging between the two of you.
KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — 300 AC
The stone walls of the Red Keep felt colder that night, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the ancient stones. In a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the grand halls, you worked in silence, the weight of your plan pressing down like the calm before a storm. Every movement was deliberate, each thought sharper than the edge of a Valyrian blade. The game was already in motion, and you were setting the pieces in place.
You had long been underestimated—a mere servant, a shadow in the background of the powerful Lannisters, Tyrells, and Martells. Yet, you had seen the truth: the most dangerous players were often those who remained unseen. You were one of them, a silent force, blending into the background while carefully planting the seeds of destruction. The poison, subtle and undetectable, was your weapon.
A soft knock interrupted your focus. The door creaked open, and there stood Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger himself. His thin lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only calculation.
“Ah, a quiet place for quiet minds,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, eyes darting around the chamber before settling on you.
You raised your head slowly, meeting his gaze with a calm that belied the storm brewing inside you. Littlefinger wasn’t a man easily intimidated, but neither were you. Two wolves circling, each looking for the other’s weakness.
“You seem to find yourself in many quiet places, Lord Baelish,” you replied, voice soft but pointed. “What brings you here?”
He moved closer, his steps light, like a predator stalking prey. “Just ensuring the right wheels keep turning, ensuring the chaos that follows serves the right cause.” His gaze lingered on your hands, noting the fine movements as you handled a small vial, the liquid within almost imperceptibly shifting.
You allowed a small, knowing smile. “Chaos... Chaos can be useful. But only if it’s controlled.”
His eyebrow raised, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Controlled chaos? Now, that’s an art.”
You carefully set the vial down, your voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “What if the chaos that’s already simmering were to boil over? What if, after Joffrey’s wedding, his reign came to an... unexpected end?”
Baelish didn’t blink, though you could see the subtle change in his posture, the slight narrowing of his eyes. You hadn’t suggested anything outright—it was the art of planting the idea, the delicate balance of nudging him without him realizing he’d been led.
He took a slow breath, his mind already racing. “And who, I wonder, would have the audacity to arrange such an unexpected end?”
You smiled, but didn’t answer directly, your silence speaking volumes. Instead, you moved the conversation forward, allowing the implication to sink in.
“The realm is already full of hungry wolves, my lord,” you said, your voice steady, your hands working deftly as you began to clear away your tools. “All it takes is a nudge in the right direction, and they’ll tear each other apart. No one will stop to notice who did the nudging.”
Littlefinger tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone as noncommittal as ever, “but wolves are tricky. You can never be sure which way they’ll turn.”
“That’s true,” you conceded, meeting his eyes directly. “But I’ve always been good at reading the pack.”
The silence that followed was heavy, each of you measuring the other, testing the boundaries. He wouldn’t act on your words immediately. Littlefinger was too careful, too meticulous for that. But you could see the spark in his eyes—the idea was there, planted, waiting to take root.
With a nod, he turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “You have a dangerous mind,” he remarked, half admiration, half warning. “Be careful. The pack bites back.”
You gave him a knowing look. “Only if they see the one holding the leash.”
Days passed, and as you moved through the grand halls of the Red Keep, you watched everything begin to fall into place. Like a silent puppeteer, you pulled the strings without ever needing to step into the light.
Varys had been busy, moving pieces on the board that even you hadn’t expected. Ros had whispered in his ear, and soon after, Lady Olenna Tyrell had been brought into the fold. The whispers of a marriage between Sansa Stark and Loras Tyrell spread through the castle like wildfire. You had always known Varys to be a man of schemes, but even you marveled at how quickly he moved.
In the gardens, you overheard the conversations as they unfolded—subtle, quiet, but filled with power. Lady Olenna, with her sharp wit and keen mind, was already orchestrating her plans, likely envisioning a future without Joffrey’s cruel reign.
You stood in the shadows as Littlefinger passed by, his expression unreadable. He had heard your suggestion, and though you were not directly involved, you knew the idea had taken root. He would set things in motion, ensuring the chaos that followed would serve him—and you would remain unseen, untouched by the blood that would soon spill.
RED KEEP, WESTEROS – 301 AC
The War of the Five Kings dragged on, but within the Red Keep, the battles were far subtler, fought with whispers and veiled threats. Your life as a servant under King Joffrey's reign had grown increasingly unbearable. Between the relentless demands of court life and the constant fear of his cruelty, you found little time to care for yourself.
Your headache throbbed—a reminder that you hadn’t eaten since dawn, and the long days had begun to blur into endless nights. It wasn’t uncommon for you to push through these spells, but this time felt different. The world around you grew heavier, your limbs sluggish, and the gardens seemed far away.
Basket in hand, filled with fruit from the kitchens, you trudged through the Red Keep's gardens. The bright afternoon light stabbed at your eyes, worsening the pounding in your head. You tried to focus on your task, but each step felt more labored, and a cold sweat broke out on your skin.
As you rounded a corner near the overgrown hedges, your vision blurred. The world tilted. The cobbled path beneath your feet shifted into an unforgiving blur of stone and soil, and with a muffled thud, everything went black.
In that hazy in-between of consciousness, a voice pulls you back—familiar, though distant. “He would have liked you,” Princess Elia’s voice echoes in your mind.
“Whom do you speak of, my lady?” you had once asked her, back when the Red Keep still buzzed with life and not dread.
“My brother. Oberyn. He’s trouble, but even so, I love him dearly.”
For a brief moment, you can almost feel her presence, and the weight of the past rushes over you like a cold wave. You blink, pulling yourself out of the memory just as a different voice fills your ears. A deeper one, full of curiosity and something unreadable.
You woke slowly, your senses coming back in fragments: the scent of crushed grass, the cool air against your skin, and the distant murmur of voices. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the filtered sunlight through the leaves overhead.
"Careful. Don’t rush."
The voice was deep, tinged with amusement. A hand—warm and strong—rested on your shoulder, gently holding you down. You blinked, focusing on the face above you, unfamiliar yet striking. Dark, sharp eyes, framed by lustrous and black with only a few silver streaks recede from his brow into a widow's peak. The emblem of a red sun pierced by a golden spear embroidered on his tunic caught your eye.
Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne.
“Are you injured?” His voice held a soft curiosity as if you were some puzzle he intended to unravel.
You shook your head, still disoriented. "No, I... I must have fainted."
He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the basket of spilled fruit beside you. “It seems you’ve been overworking yourself. King Joffrey’s court, I assume? They’re not known for their kindness.”
A rush of embarrassment warmed your cheeks. You scrambled to sit up, but Oberyn’s hand remained firm.
“Take your time,” he said, his tone softening. “Even a servant deserves a moment to breathe.”
You weren’t used to kindness, especially not from someone of his stature. His reputation as a fierce and dangerous man preceded him, yet there was something else—an air of compassion, albeit hidden beneath his sharp edges.
“I’m... grateful,” you murmured, unsure of how to respond. “But I should get back to my duties. They won’t—”
Oberyn interrupted with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let them wait. The Lannisters have their claws in many, but even a viper can strike when the time is right.”
There was a pause, a subtle shift in the air between you and Oberyn Martell. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, and though his words were casual, they held an undercurrent you couldn’t quite place. It was as though he saw something deeper in you, something more than just a servant tending to her duties. Fate, or perhaps something far more dangerous, had drawn his attention to you.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stood upright, his dark eyes gleaming with a playful intensity. "You Dornish are known for our... passions," he said, his voice a low, deliberate purr. "But it seems fate has a way of placing beauty in my path, whether I ask for it or not."
You blink, unsure of how to respond, heat rising uncomfortably to your face. He stepped closer, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, lingering there a moment longer than propriety would allow. "Tell me," Oberyn continued, his tone playful yet edged with something deeper, "does a woman like you often find herself fainting at the feet of princes? Or is this a rare occasion?"
Your breath hitched, panic flaring inside you, though you did your best to suppress it. Affection—let alone attention—was something you were unaccustomed to. His flirtation was like a wildfire, threatening to burn through the careful walls you'd built around yourself.
"I... I don’t..." you stammered, trying to pull your thoughts together, your mind racing. You weren’t used to being noticed, not like this, not by someone like him.
Oberyn tilted his head, his smirk widening as if he could sense the flurry of emotions raging within you. "Don't be shy," he murmured, voice lowering as his eyes roamed over you with quiet curiosity. "I can see there's much more to you than meets the eye."
The words felt like a tease, a challenge wrapped in silk, and your heart pounded in your chest, caught between the instinct to flee or stand frozen in place. Oberyn Martell's gaze seemed to strip away every defense you had carefully built over the years, as though he could see straight through the mask of servitude you wore.
You forced yourself to take a deep breath, steadying your trembling nerves. This was not the time to panic, not in front of the Red Viper of Dorne. He was too sharp, too dangerous, and your heart fluttered at the way his presence seemed to unsettle the very air around you.
Without answering the prince’s flirtatious remark, you bent down to hurriedly gather the fallen fruit, your fingers clumsy as you fumbled with the basket. But even as you moved, you felt his eyes on you, watching every motion with an almost predatory amusement.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours as he handed you one of the scattered apples. "You're in quite the hurry," he murmured, the smirk never leaving his face. His touch lingered, deliberately slow as he placed the fruit in your basket.
You rose quickly, trying to distance yourself, but Oberyn stood just as swiftly. Before you could retreat, he grasped your wrist, pulling it gently toward him. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if this were a dance he had long perfected. He raised your hand to his lips, his dark eyes locked on yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—his lips soft, warm against your skin.
Your breath caught, panic fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird. Heat crept up your neck, your heart racing as you tried to pull yourself together, but his touch seemed to set your mind spinning.
Just then, Oberyn’s eyes shifted, narrowing as he caught sight of something—your scars, peeking out from beneath your long sleeves. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, curiosity flashing across his features. He tilted his head, about to speak.
But you jerked your hand away, the sudden movement sharp, almost frantic. "I should go," you blurted, the words tumbling out hastily. You gathered your things, your pulse still thrumming wildly as you turned on your heel, desperate to escape his piercing gaze.
As you hurried away, you could feel Oberyn's eyes lingering on your retreating form, his expression unreadable. Even in your rush, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the prince wasn’t done with you yet.
KING'S LANDING, WESTEROS – 301 AC
The sun hung high over King’s Landing, its golden light casting a deceptive warmth over the cool sea breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. You stood with Marei at the edge of the courtyard, the bustle of the palace below and the hum of the city distant beneath the tranquil air. The garden was alive with color, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that clung to those gathered at the banquet table.
Shae moved with a quiet urgency, filling a plate with food from the banquet spread. She placed it in front of Sansa, who sat still, pale and lifeless, her face void of any spark. Her slender hands rested on her lap, unmoving. It was as if she had already become a shadow, despite still breathing.
“You need to eat something,” Shae urged softly, her voice carrying both concern and exasperation.
Sansa did not stir.
“Pigeon pie,” Shae offered, her tone gentler now, but Sansa’s pale lips barely moved as she whispered, “No, thank you.”
A sigh escaped Shae, but she quickly turned back to the table, scanning for something else. With a quick motion, she removed Sansa's untouched plate and placed a new offering in front of her. “Lemon cakes?” Shae asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice. Everyone knew Sansa's love for lemon cakes.
Sansa’s voice, barely a whisper, responded again. “No, thank you.”
Shae’s expression faltered. “You love lemon cakes.”
But Sansa remained unmoved, as if the world around her had lost all meaning. Shae’s shoulders slumped in frustration, her eyes flicking toward you and Marei before glancing at the entrance of the courtyard.
Tyrion Lannister entered the garden with deliberate steps, his short legs struggling to match the long strides of the men he was often compared to. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the scene with quick efficiency. Despite his stature, you had learned well enough that Lord Tyrion Lannister was not a man to be underestimated. His mind was his sharpest weapon.
“Tyrion,” Shae called out to him with a sigh of relief. “Tell her she needs to eat.”
Tyrion approached the table, offering a small, polite smile. “My lady, you do need to eat.”
Sansa’s gaze remained fixed somewhere in the distance, her hands limp in her lap. “I don’t need to eat,” she said softly, without even looking at him.
Tyrion hesitated for a moment, glancing between Shae, you, and Marei. His expression was measured, patient. “Could I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked gently, though his tone held the firmness of a command.
You exchanged a quick look with Marei before bowing your head and stepping away. Shae, however, lingered, her eyes flashing with concern and defiance. She crossed her arms, unwilling to yield.
“She needs to eat,” Shae said stubbornly, her eyes narrowing as she looked between Tyrion and Sansa.
Tyrion met her gaze, his expression imploring, but Shae’s frustration was palpable. With one last glance at Sansa, Shae reluctantly turned and left the garden.
Tyrion took a seat across from Sansa, his eyes softening as he reached out to take her hand. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to draw her from her daze. “I can’t let you starve, Sansa,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet compassion.
Sansa didn’t react. She stared past him, her blue eyes hollow, as if the world had dulled to nothing but gray. Shae, now at the far end of the garden, cast a furious glance back toward Tyrion, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.
A FEW DAYS LATER
KITCHEN KEEP, KING'S LANDING — DAY
The kitchen was a chaotic blend of sounds and smells, with servants rushing around, preparing the feast for the garden party. You focused on your tasks, slicing fruits and arranging them neatly, hoping the repetitive motions would calm the unease bubbling in your chest. The Lannisters' garden parties always came with tension—too many eyes, too many secrets.
Serena, ever observant, moved beside you with a conspiratorial smile. Her presence had always been a quiet comfort, an unspoken pact between two women wronged by the same family. She nudged your side playfully, her voice just loud enough for you to hear over the clattering pans and murmurs of other servants.
“Guess what I overheard in the gardens earlier,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of fresh gossip.
You glanced up, your curiosity piqued. “What is it now?”
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower. “Tyrion and Lord Varys were having one of their secret little chats. Something about Shae.” She gave a sly smile before recounting the conversation she’d overheard, her voice adopting a mocking impression of Tyrion's measured tone.
“Lord Varys. Breakfasting with the king?”
Your hands paused over the fruit, recognizing the weight of that simple greeting. Serena continued, now mimicking Varys’ smooth, ever-cautious reply.
“I’m afraid foreigners aren’t welcome at such exclusive affairs,” she quoted, barely concealing a smirk.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. Tyrion and Varys—always circling each other, testing the limits of loyalty and power. Serena’s impression was spot on, and the dry chuckle she added to Varys’ line brought the exchange to life.
“Oh, to be foreign,” she muttered in Tyrion’s voice before glancing around the bustling kitchen with exaggerated suspicion, mimicking Varys’ quiet amusement.
“Ahem,” she finished with a soft laugh.
The kitchen clamor drowned out any chance of someone overhearing, but you kept your gaze fixed on your hands, focusing on the fruit before you. "What did they say after that?" you asked in a low voice, not wanting to appear too interested but knowing that information like this was often a lifeline in King's Landing.
Serena's smile dimmed slightly as she continued, her tone more serious now. “They were talking about Shae. Varys warned Tyrion that she’s been noticed. That Sansa’s maid saw them together, and it’s only a matter of time before Cersei—and worse, Tywin—find out.”
Your breath hitched slightly. That was dangerous—too dangerous for a place like this.
You glanced up at Serena, who nodded grimly. “Varys told Tyrion his father has promised to hang the next whore he’s found with.”
Your stomach twisted, though you managed to keep your expression neutral. Information like this could be a weapon if used correctly. But it also carried its own risks, especially for someone like you, who lived in the shadows of these powerful people. You simply nodded and whispered, "Thank you."
KING’S LANDING GARDEN, DAY — 301 AC
The gardens of the Red Keep, beautiful though they were, could not ease the tension that clung to the air. The lush greenery and sea breeze seemed wasted on the gathering before you, where cruelty simmered beneath the surface. You moved silently among the servants, pouring wine, offering trays of food, your head low as your sharp eyes observed everything. No one here was truly safe—not even those who smiled and pretended otherwise.
You had learned long ago to watch, to listen, to see things others missed. And here, among the so-called lords and ladies, your simmering hatred boiled just beneath the surface. Revenge had a way of lurking in quiet moments like these, waiting for the perfect opportunity.
At the head of the table sat King Joffrey, his golden crown glinting in the sun like a mockery of all that was just. Around him, the key players of the realm gathered: Queen Cersei, her eyes sharp and watchful; Lord Tywin, stoic and commanding as always; Prince Tommen, innocent and ignorant of the malice around him; and Grand Maester Pycelle, old and leering.
But your attention flickered to Sansa Stark. Pale, withdrawn, her once-vibrant spirit all but crushed under the weight of her suffering. She sat beside her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who, despite his small stature, radiated an awareness far sharper than anyone gave him credit for. The tension between them was palpable, an unspoken grief they both carried.
Your heart tightened as you watched, knowing Sansa's pain was not unlike your own. Like her, you had learned to survive in silence, though your silence was of a different kind. The Lannisters had taken too much from you. They were going to pay for it one day, one way or another.
Across the table, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, carrying a gleaming goblet, his voice filled with a pride that bordered on foolishness.
“From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honor to present you with this wedding cup.”
He placed the goblet before Joffrey, who barely looked at it, his lips curling into a mocking smile.
“A handsome goblet, my lord. Or shall I call you Father?”
You noted how Mace Tyrell’s face flushed with both pride and unease. He bowed deeply. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”
As Mace withdrew, Shae moved gracefully through the crowd, setting a tray before Sansa. You saw how her eyes flickered toward the young girl, but there was no response from Sansa, no recognition of the kindness that once might have been there.
Then, the sharp voice of Queen Cersei pierced the moment, her words venomous.
“She’s the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one.”
Your blood boiled as you saw Shae stiffen. The insult cut through the air like a blade, but Shae, ever composed, turned to leave without a word. You noticed how Tywin’s cold eyes followed her, narrowing as she walked away.
“Have her brought to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding,” Tywin ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet as sharp as a death sentence.
Tyrion’s face darkened. You could see the concern etched into his features, his helplessness as he tried to control a situation slipping further out of his grasp. Your heart raced, knowing the precarious game being played here—and how dangerous it was for all involved.
Shae’s departure was barely noticed as Podrick stepped forward, carrying a large tome. He placed it carefully before Joffrey, and Tyrion followed, a strained smile on his face as he addressed the king.
“A book,” Joffrey said, his voice dripping with disdain.
Tyrion clasped his hands together, speaking with calm civility. “The Lives of Four Kings. Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read.”
For a brief moment, Joffrey hesitated. His sharp tongue seemed to fail him as the weight of the gift hovered in the air. But Tywin’s piercing gaze prodded him, and the boy-king forced a mocking smile.
“Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom,” Joffrey said, his voice laced with scorn. “Thank you, Uncle.”
Tyrion bowed, but the tension between them crackled like a hidden storm.
Before anyone could breathe, The Mountain lumbered forward, carrying a sword swathed in black cloth. He laid it before Joffrey with all the reverence of a knight presenting a sacred relic. Tywin rose, his voice steeped in gravitas as he spoke.
“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace, freshly forged in your honor.”
Joffrey’s eyes gleamed with an almost childlike excitement as he tore the sword from its sheath, its blade gleaming ominously in the sunlight. You felt a ripple of unease roll through the gathered nobles as the blade sliced through the air.
“Careful, Your Grace,” Pycelle croaked from his seat. “Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.”
But Joffrey’s wicked grin only widened. “So they say.”
In a sudden, violent movement, Joffrey swung the sword down, cleaving the book Tyrion had gifted him clean in half. The sound of tearing parchment and splintering leather echoed through the garden. A gasp rippled through the crowd, but Joffrey was delighted with himself.
“Such a great sword should have a name,” Joffrey declared, his eyes burning with cruel glee. “What shall I call her?”
The crowd murmured suggestions, none of which seemed to please the boy-king. But then, his lips curled into a malicious grin.
“Widow’s Wail. I like that. Every time I use it, it’ll be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”
His words sent a shiver down your spine. You saw Sansa freeze beside him, her face drained of color, her entire body rigid with the memory of her father’s execution. Across the garden, Shae watched, her eyes narrowing with unspoken fury.
You kept your head down, but the seething rage inside you boiled hotter. One day, they would all pay for this. The Lannisters, their cruelty, their arrogance—it would all come crashing down. And you would make sure of it.
KING’S LANDING GARDEN, LATE AFTERNOON — 301 AC
The preparations for the royal wedding between Joffrey and Margaery were endless, consuming the days and nights of everyone within the Red Keep. But while others concerned themselves with the surface duties, your mind was preoccupied with a far more dangerous task.
The thought of the Strangler stones hidden within Sansa's necklace gnawed at you. The pieces were already in motion, each step methodically planned. Your hands moved through the flowers you were tasked with arranging, but your thoughts were elsewhere, carefully calculating the next move in your plot to bring down King Joffrey without implicating yourself.
As you worked alone in the gardens, the late afternoon sun blazed overhead. The sweat clung to your skin, and the heat forced you to roll your sleeves up just enough to reveal the faint, jagged lines of scars that adorned your forearms. The burn scars, remnants of your brutal encounter with Ser Gregor Clegane, were still a reminder of what you endured—and survived. The pain was still fresh, but it fueled your resolve. Spite, after all, was a powerful motivator.
You barely noticed the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across your path. Looking up, you were met with the sharp, knowing gaze of Oberyn Martell. His smirk was playful, as it often was, but there was something deeper there—an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through you.
"You work too hard," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. "It’s a crime to see such beauty covered in dirt."
You straightened, brushing your hands on your apron, trying to keep the panic from showing. "I have my duties, my lord," you replied, keeping your tone even. The way Oberyn looked at you—intense, almost predatory—made your heart race, though you tried to remain composed.
He crouched beside you, plucking a flower from the arrangement and twirling it between his fingers. His eyes flicked briefly to the scars on your arm, scars you quickly moved to conceal by rolling down your sleeves. But it was too late—Oberyn’s gaze lingered on them for just a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression.
The way he studied you wasn’t merely out of curiosity, but recognition. His next words carried a weight that hung in the air between you both.
"There are stories... of a servant who once attended to Princess Elia." Oberyn’s tone remained casual, but you could feel the shift, the tension creeping in as he spoke. "They say she escaped the Sack of King’s Landing with her life. Barely."
Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still. You had heard those stories too. After all, you had lived them.
Oberyn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Some say she vanished, swallowed by the chaos. Others claim she survived through sheer will, fueled by spite." His dark eyes locked onto yours, searching. "I wonder… do you know of such tales?"
The question lingered in the air, heavy with suspicion. You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, but your face remained a mask of composure. "Many stories are told in King’s Landing, my lord. Few of them hold any truth."
Oberyn’s lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes remained sharp, watching you carefully. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But then again, some tales are more dangerous than others." He stood up, still twirling the flower between his fingers, casting one last glance at your concealed scars. "Sometimes, survival speaks louder than words."
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Ellaria Sand approached, her eyes already on you. There was a possessiveness in her gaze, though softened by intrigue.
“So this is the woman who has caught my prince’s eye,” Ellaria remarked, her voice a low purr as she moved closer, her hand brushing lightly against Oberyn’s shoulder.
You bowed your head, hiding the inner storm brewing within you. "My lady," you greeted, though the tension in the air was unmistakable.
Ellaria’s gaze flicked to Oberyn, then back to you. “She is different,” she said, her tone intrigued, but there was an edge of caution in her words. “I wonder what it is you see in her, my love?”
Oberyn chuckled softly, his attention still on you. “There’s something about her,” he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with deeper meaning. “Something familiar.”
Ellaria looped her arm through his, drawing him closer to her side. “Familiar or not, I trust you know where your loyalties lie.”
Oberyn’s smile deepened, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. "Always," he replied to Ellaria, but his words were aimed at you, and the unspoken suspicion between you both lingered in the air, unsaid but undeniable.
As the two of them moved off together, your heart pounded in your chest. Oberyn's words, the way he had looked at you—he was starting to piece it together. He suspected who you truly were, but for now, he remained silent, watching. You returned to your task, but the weight of his suspicion clung to you.
Everything had only just begun, and you were already in far deeper than you had anticipated. But like the scars on your skin, the memories of your past had shaped you into what you were now. And just like that day long ago, you would survive.
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Steady as the Sand Ch. 6

Art from jin_jing93! Warnings: N/A Word Count: 2100+ Summary: Gaara tries to bridge the gap between him and Lee with no success Read Ch.5!
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Lee had recovered.
Physically, at least.
His body no longer ached when he moved; his strength had returned, and his reflexes were as sharp as ever. The medics had cleared him for duty, and so he had thrown himself into it with unwavering focus.
Every morning, he trained. Every afternoon, he fulfilled his assignments with precision. Every evening, he studied reports and mission details, ensuring that nothing slipped past him.
He did what was expected. Nothing more, nothing less.
And he did not speak to Gaara.
Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
Not unless it was his duty.
The first time he referred to him as Lord Kazekage, the air in the room shifted. He saw it—just for a second—Gaara’s fingers twitching, his posture tensing ever so slightly.
But he said nothing.
And so, neither did Lee.
Days passed like that. A routine of silent discipline, of unshakable professionalism. He answered orders with crisp precision and acknowledged Gaara’s presence only when protocol demanded it.
And he made sure never to meet his eyes for too long.
The wound Gaara had left wasn’t something the medics could heal. It festered beneath the surface, raw and aching, a weight Lee carried even as he pushed forward.
It wasn’t just what Gaara had said—it was that Gaara had meant it.
You’re just another soldier, Lee.
He had never asked for special treatment. He had never thought of himself as more important than the mission. But something about the way Gaara had said it—like Lee was nothing, like he was replaceable—had lodged itself deep in his chest, suffocating and unrelenting.
So, he let it settle. Let it harden into something cold.
Let it become fuel.
He focused on the mission at hand, offering quick, efficient reports when necessary. He worked seamlessly with the squad, executing plans without hesitation. He moved through the motions like a well-oiled machine, ensuring there was no room for error.
If Gaara noticed the change, he didn’t say anything.
If Gaara cared, he didn’t show it.
And that was fine.
That was what Lee wanted.
The real test came that night.
The squad had set up camp after hours of travel, a fire burning low in the center of their formation. The desert winds howled softly in the distance, and the conversations among the shinobi were quiet but steady.
Lee was seated apart from them, sharpening his kunai with practiced efficiency, his movements methodical. He didn’t look up when Gaara approached.
“Lee.”
His grip on the kunai tightened slightly. Not Rock Lee. Just Lee.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, Lord Kazekage?”
Silence.
Gaara didn’t move, didn’t respond immediately. Lee continued sharpening his blade, waiting.
Then—
“You are different.”
Lee’s hands stilled.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze. Gaara stood before him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Lee’s voice was steady but cold. “I am fulfilling my duties.”
“That is not what I meant.”
Lee let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then forgive me, Lord Kazekage, but I don’t know what else you would expect.”
Gaara’s eyes narrowed just slightly, though his voice remained calm. “You are speaking to me like I am a stranger.”
Lee tilted his head. “Are you not?”
For the first time, something in Gaara’s expression cracked. His posture shifted, his fingers twitching as if something inside him was unsettled.
Lee only looked at him, expression unreadable.
“If that is all, Lord Kazekage,” he said, his voice clipped and formal, “I have nothing else to report.”
Gaara’s lips parted slightly as if there was something he wanted to say—something he was trying to find the words for.
But then, after a moment, his face went blank again.
“Understood,” Gaara said and turned away.
Lee exhaled, his chest tightening as he forced himself to return to his blade, forcing himself not to watch Gaara’s retreating form.
He had said what he needed to say.
It was what Gaara wanted, wasn’t it?
Lee was just another soldier.
And soldiers did not get attached. -------------------------------------------------- Gaara had always known silence.
For years, it had been his constant companion—looming, suffocating, inescapable. Silence had been the space between himself and others, the unspoken barrier that no one dared cross.
But this silence—Lee’s silence—was different.
It was not the silence of fear nor the wary quiet of those who tread carefully around him. It was colder. Heavier.
It was distance.
And Gaara hated it.
The campfire crackled softly in the night air, the low murmur of conversation drifting from the gathered shinobi. Gaara stood at the perimeter of the camp, arms crossed, watching, assessing.
Lee sat apart from the others, methodically sharpening a kunai. His movements were precise, focused, and controlled. He did not laugh, did not engage in idle chatter.
He did not look at Gaara.
Gaara had spent the last several days watching him, searching for something—some indication that Lee was still… Lee.
But the warmth was gone. The brightness had dulled.
He had done that.
And he did not know how to undo it.
His own words echoed in his mind, sharp and unforgiving. You’re just another soldier, Lee.
He had said it in anger. In frustration.
But Lee had believed it.
Gaara exhaled, steadying himself before approaching.
“Lee.”
Lee’s hands stilled for only a fraction of a second before he continued sharpening his blade. “Yes, Lord Kazekage?”
Gaara’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. The title wasn’t unnatural—many addressed him that way.
But coming from Lee, it felt wrong.
“You are different,” Gaara said, watching him carefully.
Lee’s movements did not falter this time. “I am fulfilling my duties.”
“That is not what I meant.”
Lee let out a short, humorless laugh—something Gaara had never heard from him before.
“Then, forgive me, Lord Kazekage,” he said coolly, “but I don’t know what else you would expect.”
Gaara frowned. There was an edge to Lee’s words, something sharp and unyielding. It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite place.
“You are speaking to me like I am a stranger.”
Lee tilted his head, his gaze unreadable. “Are you not?”
The words struck harder than Gaara had anticipated.
For a moment, he could say nothing.
Because the truth was—he didn’t know.
He had spent so much time keeping people at a distance, ensuring that his walls remained firm and unshaken. And yet, without him realizing, Lee had gotten past them.
And now, with just a few words, Lee had built his own.
The weight in Gaara’s chest was unfamiliar, a heavy pressure that settled deep and refused to lift. He wanted to say something—wanted to fix whatever had cracked between them.
But he didn’t know how.
And so, he did what he had always done.
He shut it down.
“Understood,” he said, turning away.
He did not miss the way Lee’s shoulders tensed, the slight pause in his movements before he resumed sharpening his blade.
Gaara walked away, but the silence followed him.
And for the first time in years, he did not know how to live with it.
Gaara had always prided himself on his ability to read situations. To gauge the atmosphere, to understand what was unsaid, to feel the shifting currents beneath the surface. But this—Lee—was something completely different.
He had watched Lee recover in the days following the ambush, seen him throw himself back into his work without hesitation, without pause. He had expected some time for things to settle, for Lee’s anger to cool, but it never did.
In fact, it had only grown more pronounced.
Lee was cold now.
It wasn’t the usual stoic calm he had seen from Lee when focused on a mission. It was something more deliberate, more… distant.
And no matter what Gaara did—no matter how many times he approached him, how many times he tried to speak with him—Lee continued to keep him at arm’s length.
It was early morning when Gaara first tried again.
The camp was just beginning to stir, the first rays of sunlight casting long shadows across the desert sand. Lee was already up, as always, standing off to the side, his back straight as he examined his weapons with meticulous care.
Gaara approached him, walking with purpose.
“Lee,” Gaara called softly, trying to keep his voice steady and calm as it always had been.
Lee’s body stiffened, but he didn’t turn to face him.
“Yes, Lord Kazekage?” His tone was flat, formal. Cold.
Gaara’s fingers curled involuntarily. “I wanted to speak with you. About the mission. You’ve been avoiding me.”
Lee continued his work, unbothered. “I have been doing my duties.”
Gaara clenched his jaw. Just his duties.
“Lee—”
“Everything is fine, Lord Kazekage,” Lee interrupted, his voice cutting through the air. He still didn’t look at him. “There is no need for concern.”
Gaara’s eyes narrowed. His patience was wearing thin. “It’s not concern, Lee. I’m just trying to—”
But before he could continue, Lee interrupted once more, his back rigid as he turned his attention back to his gear. “I’m doing my job as I was assigned.”
A silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. Gaara could feel the weight of Lee’s coldness bearing down on him, and it made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t sure how to describe.
“Lord Kazekage,” Lee finally said, his voice polite but distant, “if you have nothing else, I will return to my work.”
Gaara fought to keep his composure. But Lee was already walking away, leaving Gaara standing in the growing silence.
Lee had always been so open, so eager to break down walls and connect. But now, it was like there was nothing left but an impenetrable wall between them. And no matter how many times Gaara tried to knock on it, Lee refused to let him in.
The days that followed were no better.
Gaara continued to try.
He approached Lee during meals. He stood near him when the squad was preparing for travel. He tried to make small talk, to find some common ground.
But each time, Lee’s responses were short. His posture was rigid. His eyes never met Gaara’s.
It wasn’t the way he had acted before.
And Gaara couldn’t stop himself from feeling the sting each time Lee pulled away.
It wasn’t until they were on the move again—traveling through the desert, the squad spread out in their usual formations—that Gaara tried again.
Lee was up ahead, scouting the terrain with his usual precision. His focus was on the horizon, his back to Gaara, but Gaara knew that this was his chance.
This was his moment to fix it. To make it right.
“Lee,” Gaara called as he caught up to him.
Lee didn’t respond at first.
Gaara tried again. “Lee, I need to speak with you.”
Lee’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn to face him.
“I’m busy,” Lee said simply, his tone clipped.
Gaara’s patience was wearing thin. “This is important.”
Lee didn’t even glance at him. “It’ll be fine.”
Lee wasn’t even trying to let him in anymore.
The next day, as the sun began to set and the squad settled in for another night under the stars, Gaara decided to confront him once more.
They had finished their duties for the day—setting up camp, securing the perimeter, preparing rations—and Lee was sitting by the fire, his face lit by the flickering flames.
Gaara stood in the shadows for a long moment, watching him.
Lee’s eyes were on the fire, his features unreadable. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours. No one had dared approach him.
Gaara moved forward, closer, until he was just behind him.
“Lee.”
Lee didn’t turn around. “Lord Kazekage.”
The formality of it made Gaara’s chest tighten.
He didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t know how to make Lee stop treating him like a stranger, like a distant figure he had no reason to trust.
Gaara dropped to one knee beside him, forcing himself to soften his voice. “Lee… please, look at me.”
Finally, Lee did.
But his gaze was cold.
“Why?” Lee asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Why do you want me to look at you?”
Gaara was taken aback. “I… I don’t understand.”
Lee’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get it, do you? You said things. You meant them. And now, you’re trying to pretend like you did nothing wrong.” He stood suddenly, his movements sharp and tense. “But I’m not going to let you. Not anymore.”
Gaara stood too, but Lee took a step back, distancing himself.
“I’m doing my job, Lord Kazekage,” Lee said, his voice harder now. “And I suggest you focus on yours.”
The words hit Gaara harder than he expected.
And before Gaara could respond, Lee was already walking away, his form retreating into the night, leaving Gaara standing alone in the dim light of the fire.
The pain, the confusion—it was all still there, festering beneath the surface. But Lee had made it clear.
Gaara had broken something.
And Lee was never going to let him fix it.
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Thank you for reading! Read chapter 7!
#ao3 author#ao3 fanfic#ao3 writer#gaalee#gaara#gaara of the desert#gaara of the sand#naruto#sabaku no gaara#rock lee#slow burn#gaara x rock lee#gaara fanart#kazekage gaara#naruto fanart#naruto au
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I Didn't Know How To Love You (Ch. 2)
[Chapter 1]
❗Mentions of suicide (non-graphic, and nobody gets hurt). For those sensitive, please proceed with care.
AO3 Version
Thinking about Tommy has never been Buck’s problem, quite the opposite. He’s studied recipes, worked overtime and exercised harder because he needed the distraction. Because he needed to prevent his thoughts from spiraling around questions he probably wouldn’t like the answers to. It’s still hard to switch off his thoughts as he drives home from Hen and Karen’s, their words are living rent-free in his head now.
He steers the jeep almost mechanically through the night, wondering if his brooding will start all over again. It’s a depressing thought, somehow. Buck has spent days, weeks even wondering if it all had been his fault, whether the simple offer to share a household sounded too much like an invitation to share a life. It had been easy to convince himself that that was exactly what had put Tommy off. Tommy had never held his dreams and whims against him, but this was something big, an idea too much out of the blue. It's just… maybe there wasn’t any hidden agenda in Buck’s question that night, but he had been able to imagine it. All for himself, in the back of his mind, and in bright colors even. Not the white picket fence and garden kind of dream, at least not in L.A. Just a future with somebody he liked, a lot. Somebody who wanted him and took him for what he was, with all his faults and quirks. It seemed such an innocent wish, so little to want, yet Buck knew it wasn’t.
So, life’s lesson repeated and Tommy left. Naturally, Buck assumed it was his fault. Whatever Tommy’s plans for the future were, they didn’t include him. Though it had not made much sense to him, neither the crack in his voice nor his words. “You'll break my heart,” Tommy said, and had instead broken Buck’s. It was the strangest, worst reason why anybody had ever broken up with him.
But if Hen is right – and Buck has no reason to believe she isn’t – Tommy's answer had little to do with his identity and everything with the fact that he’d been hurt. An universal experience that Buck shared and understood, but at the time, that evening, he’d done neither. Now, he was so plagued by guilt and doubt that he didn't know how to react. Buck’s the kind of person who prefers to deal with conflicts head-on rather than let them fester, not least because he can’t stand the thought of being the cause of someone’s distress. Was it anger at Buck that had kept Tommy from getting in touch? Or had his fingers hovered just as indecisively over the keys of his phone as Buck’s, consumed by a feeling that he had to make amends but couldn’t figure out how?
His thoughts aren’t getting him anywhere. Days of indecision pass, having Buck pondering about the best way to do something, anything. Work, at least, offers some kind of distraction. L.A. is still full of people jumping into empty swimming pools during nighttime break-ins or burning down fifty acres of parkland out of carelessness. Work offers stability, even without Eddie, though he’s missing the latter’s dry wit and their mutual, wordless understanding. They talk on the phone, but while Eddie reports on his tentative progress with his son, Buck remains silent about any thoughts he has about Tommy.
During work, Hen's clever, gentle eyes behind her glasses often seem to rest on him. He avoids her gaze as if it contained the question of a decision, yet Buck’s never been so indecisive in his life. It’s a strange day anyway. There’s a certain tension in the air, one of those days with high humidity and heat; the television blared warnings all morning, and everyone knows the city will go crazy. The silence in the fire engine seems palpable, forced even, as if everybody thinks that if they’d disturb it with so much as the clearing of a throat, it will jinx bad mojo. Not even Howie cracks one of his stupid jokes, instead he stares out the window, possibly pondering his future with two kids. It’s kind of humbling, the mere thought that everyone has problems is able to distract Buck from his own musings.
Bobby is wise enough not to break the silence with unnecessary instructions; they’ve all heard dispatch and will get the picture on scene. Police has been called to a mixed-use office building where an argument about water-saving devices apparently escalated, while temperature has reached 89.6 °F as early as 8:30 a.m. Typically for L.A., especially on a day like this, it wasn't just a small brawl between white-collar guys. For some reason, a fire had broken out, and now the 118 is approaching, blaring siren and all.
The brawlers turn out to be two women, one with tousled hair and a bruise on her cheek that only needs some ice – Buck notices Hen's almost disappointed look. But the other one has a torn skirt and a broken wrist, she’s standing at the side of the road howling like a puppy because they’re putting handcuffs on her.
“Good heavens, only cuff one hand and let the paramedics have a look on her,” someone snaps at a young police officer, and this someone turns out to be Athena.
“Nice to see you, Sergeant Grant,” Bobby says, raising his helmet mockingly.
Athena just gives a snort, brushing a sweat-soaked strand of hair out of her forehead.
“That’s Grant-Nash, Captain, you keep forgetting that and troubling my day even more?” She laughs, flashing her pearly teeth, but soon becomes serious again. “These two claim they’d nothing to do with the fire on the 26th floor, and on a day like this, even I'm inclined to believe in coincidences. But that’s for you to decide. All I know is that there are still people inside who called 911 as they fled to the upper floors. Luckily it’s still early in the day; apparently not all the offices were occupied yet.”
“All right,” Bobby replies with a final wink, then turns to his crew. His orders are brief and to the point, and everyone knows what to do. There’s no smoke billowing out of the upper-story windows yet, Buck observes, squinting against the sun as he stares upward.
Howie, as the most senior, is leading the vanguard today; while Bobby wants to have Hen on the ground, Howie, Buck and Ravi will secure the building. As they trudge up the stairs, chasing down a few office workers who apparently didn't take the police warning seriously, Buck wonders if Bobby now regrets turning down the Chief's offer this morning. Apparently, Eddie's departure was much more spontaneous than he's admitted, and now they’re short-handed. Many young people today seem more likely to pursue a career as an Instagram star than to serve the city in the fire department, despite Firefox's efforts.
“It won't be easy to fill the gap,” the Chief had said. Yet another overheard conversation, and again completely unintentional. As Buck walked past Bobby's office, just as he was coming out of the washroom, he heard their conversation because for some reason, Bobby had put his phone on speaker. “City has put us on a hiring freeze, as you know. You’ll have to work with stand-ins for a while. For today, I can order the 133 to lend you someone.”
However, Bobby’s declined the offer. Initially, Buck was fine with that, though his motives were probably less altruistic than Bobby's, who didn’t want to mess up everyone's roster. Buck, however, was not ready for anyone replacing Eddie, especially not a permanent one. Now, however, things look different. Bobby coordinates the operation from below, but his skeptical look tells Buck that he would rather plunge into the fray with his crew. He’s ordering reinforcements, but by now the morning rush hour is in full swing.
Despite everything, Buck enjoys the adrenaline rush of it all. This is more than a mere mission, it’s a way to feel alive. To feel like a part of something. His nerves are taut in a good way, like ropes on a pulley whose use serves a purpose. Every unclear situation offers a thrill, but right now, Buck has no idea how true this will turn out to be. Because if the last few months have taught him anything, it’s that the future is always uncertain. From one moment to the next, the world changes, focus disappears and plans fall apart. It's better to live in the present, and that finally includes smoke developing on some of the 32 floors they pant up in full gear.
“SCBA, guys,” Howie reminds them curtly, pulling his own mask over his head. His voice is muffled when he adds, “According to Dispatch, there are two companies on this floor, and the fire must have started here. Ravi and I will start extinguishing, Buck, you check to see what it looks like on the upper floors. Allegedly, the employees managed to evacuate the floor in time. Come back immediately when they are reasonably safe.”
Buck saves his breath and just nods; the attitudes of his younger self have largely disappeared, and he respects his brother-in-law enough to follow his instructions. He trudges up another floor, his panting booming loudly in his ears, tightly enclosed by his protective gear. The smoke here is not quite as thick, but it is still dense enough; Buck has to shine his flashlight to see that he’s on the 27th floor.
“LAFD,” he calls, “anyone up here?”
If they were smart, the employees would have run further up, maybe even to the roof. If they were even smarter, though, they would've turned downstairs, not upstairs to where smoke rises. But people in distress rarely think rationally. The fire alarm, which now only emits a vague blare, must have been very loud a few minutes ago. Buck has seen people so frightened by the sound alone, they kept running towards a fire instead of away from it. Once, a guy even openly admitted that he’d run to the roof because he hoped for an air rescue.
“Hello?”
The call echoes from the landing over Buck. Someone has opened the door to the hallway, a well-coiffed man in a gray suit; probably he’s usually one of those calm go-getters. Now, however, he peers down nervously.
“Is there anyone left on this floor?” Buck calls up to him.
“No, we're all up here,” the man replies. “Is there still fire?”
“Yes. Stay there until we give the all-clear. How many are up there with you?”
“About twenty, I think, and… the people from this floor’s companies. I’m not sure, actually. Everyone’s a bit nervous, though. Are we getting evacuated?”
“Sooner or later, sure, but right now…” Buck raises his hand as his radio crackles, gesturing for the man to wait. It's Bobby.
“118, we have new information,” he starts, but Howie chimes in, “So do we: fire’s as good as under control. Buck, how about the employees?”
Buck is about to press the button and answer when Bobby's voice clatters out of the device again, more urgently this time, “Hang on. Another emergency call has just come in. Apparently, there’s someone on the roof at risk of jumping.”
“On this building?” Howie asks incredulously, and Buck can't blame him. Bobby doesn't seem to believe it’s a coincidence either, because he replies, “Athena's checking for a connection to the fire and the argument between the two ladies, but that’s not our concern right now. Are there any casualties we need to deal with? Dispatch is arranging for a psychologist, but in the meantime we could...”
“I'm on it,” Buck calls into his radio.
“Wait,” Bobby advises. “I'm already on the fifteenth floor.”
Buck stops in his tracks. Of course Bobby would want to take matters into his own hands, protocol aside. A call like this strikes a particular chord in him, and it’s a tune he must follow. It's not because he considers himself an expert, an authority for people considering suicide – Bobby is neither megalomaniacal nor is he shallow. No, Bobby is driven by compassion, by an understanding that only people with the same experiences can feel. And at the same time, he’s the best proof of how people can rise above themselves and their trauma. Buck knows all this. And normally, when he thinks of Bobby, the father figure larger than his real father, he does so with his heart. Now, however, he thinks rationally, or so he believes. Taking two steps at a time, he rushes upstairs, where the guy in the suit stares at him wide-eyed.
“And I'm on the 28th,” he speaks into his radio. “I'll be on the roof in a minute.”
He squeezes past suit guy, slams the door shut and tears off his mask. Up here, the smoke is just a vague memory; the hallways are equipped with fire doors, and it can’t have been a huge fire.
“Go back to the others and wait for the all-clear,” he tells him, so hastily that his stress stutter doesn't stand a chance to evolve. “Keep this door shut. Firefighters are two floors below you, we’ve everything under control.”
The man, whose ridiculous moustache reminds Buck all too much of Eddie in his self-discovery phase for a moment, opens his mouth to say something. Buck won't let him. He slips out the door again and runs up the stairs to the roof.
It doesn't take a minute, even if Buck doesn't count. There are people who run up the 102 floors of the Empire State Building in 9.5 minutes. Such trivia distracts him long enough to steel himself for the view that awaits him at the top. The last two floors consist mainly of showrooms with huge windows, and at the very top, a narrow ladder leads to the roof through a hatch. Sunlight blinds Buck, but his gaze is magnetically drawn to a woman who seems to be floating in the air.
He pushes his way onto the roof, which is mainly a huge, gray open space. A bunch of buildings are taller than this one, but standing on the edge of the balustrade, it certainly gives the illusion of touching the clouds. It's just that the woman, a young brunette in a billowing cardigan that envelops her like a cape, isn’t standing at the edge of the roof with its wind vanes.
The top two floors are connected to the roof of the 30th floor with steel struts that either represent decorative elements or actually serve a structural function, Buck couldn’t care less. Some of these elements, however, extend a bit beyond the end of the roof. Whoever thought it was a good idea to put them up there in a way they could easily be climbed was an idiot in Buck's eyes. The woman is standing at the end of a narrow beam; it looks a bit like she is standing on the plank of a ship, only there is no one to keelhaul her but herself. She turns around as she hears the hatch slam onto the roof. Despite the distance – Buck estimates it at 15 feet, just under seven steps, if he's fast – he sees that she’s been crying, narrow black streaks from her mascara adorn her cheeks.
“Hey,” he says cautiously, trying to paint his voice in a tone that she won’t find threatening. “I'm Buck. Well, it's a nickname, maybe you have one too? What's your name?”
“Don't come any closer,” she replies, but she continues to look at him.
If she jumps now, there's no guarantee that she'll be killed instantly, and Buck wished he could make her understand this without scaring her away. The metal struts are anchored in the roof of the 30th floor, which forms a kind of surrounding balcony to that floor. If she falls onto it, from a height of around 25 feet, it does not automatically mean certain death. Even if she falls onto the balustrade. The vanes are turning violently to the northeast, which means that she would probably have to take a run-up if she wanted to throw herself off the entire building from here.
Buck doesn't want that. He doesn't want to have to explain to her how many bones she might break, how many organs she’d damage, and for what? She might end up still alive and with the same problems as before, plus a lot more on top. He doesn't want her to jump, because it might not end her life, but it would most certainly ruin it. Strangely enough, as he’s standing up here with the wind ruffling his hair, his mouth feels dry. Buck is rarely at a loss for words, but now he can't think of anything to say. He’s almost relieved when the hatch opens again. Bobby is panting quite a bit when he reaches the roof; once at the top, he puts his hands on his knees and takes a few deep breaths.
“Lady, I'm a little too old for this,” he gasps, Buck recognizes gravity behind his chatty tone. “I'm Robert, but everyone calls me Bobby. You look about the same age as my boy here, and you know what? If he were standing there, I'd have something to say to him.”
The feeling of being called my boy by Bobby, as if he were actually his son, tingles like electricity. It's like being struck by lightning again, only this time it doesn't hurt, yet a warm sensation remains.
“Can I come a bit closer?” Bobby asks.
“I don't know,” the woman replies defensively.
“That’s okay. Will you at least tell me your name?”
“Violet,” she says, as if she simply cannot escape Bobby’s sonorous voice.
“Violet,” he echoes, rolling her name over his tongue as if it were heavy, good wine. “Now I know two things about you.”
“Two?” she sniffs, carelessly wiping her nose with a sleeve.
“Yes,” Bobby replies with a smile. “Your name, and that you don't really want to jump.”
Violet stares at him in amazement, then she starts laughing. It's a sound interrupted by sobs, but it is genuine laughter. Buck fears that the wind and her laughter will blow her off the roof after all, but she stands firm, looking at Bobby.
“How would you know?” she asks, although her eyes show a glimmer of hope: she already suspects the answer.
“I'll be happy to tell you, Violet. But do me a favor and come down first, okay? You can stand at the edge of the balustrade if you like. I won't persuade you. But air support is to arrive shortly, and I don't want your decision to be taken from you, if you know what I mean. Wind's strong up here.”
“You requested AirOps?” Buck mutters under his breath.
Bobby turns his head to him and whispers, “There's still smoke covering at least one floor, Chimney reports, the vents aren't working anymore.”
Of course, she could be led down the stairs wearing Bobby’s or Buck’s mask, but that’s still 32 floors, and maybe Bobby's decision has something to do with considerations similar to Buck's. If Violet were to jump and be seriously injured, a helicopter might be her best chance of making it to the hospital in time. Right now, she no longer looks like she's particularly keen on throwing herself off the building; yet it's better to be safe than sorry, and it's Bobby's decision.
He continues to gently coax her, and Buck holds his breath. Even now, so much can go wrong. The wind is strong up here, and she might just slip. Or she could freeze in the grip of sudden panic; it happens quite often that someone who was just so determined loses their courage. But if Violet has lost anything, it’s only the will to die, at least here and now. She approaches Bobby slowly and cautiously, ignoring his outstretched hand. Instead, she crouches and awkwardly slides down to the relatively safe ground of the rooftop, just as the roaring of a helicopter’s rotors announces its arrival.
“There’s actually a chopper,” Violet says, almost reverently.
Her tone suggests that she’s mostly amazed by Bobby's honesty, which is quite sad, actually. It also reminds Buck that he, too, was once fascinated by these machines, if for a different reason. There was a time when he’d longingly watch the sky whenever he’d hear the familiar sound of rotor blades, always hoping that if Tommy was up there, he’d be safe. He’s since given up this habit, for obvious reasons, but appearances can be deceptive. Because as the helicopter door swings open with the last slow rotation of the rotor, his heart skips a telltale beat.
[Chapter 3]
#writing#fanfiction#BuckTommy#BuckTommy fanfic#evan buckley#tommy kinard#bobby nash#tevan#kinley#911 fanfic#episode speculation#whump fic#my fics
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The Kneeling Queen, ch 1 - Aemond Targaryen x OC
Read on AO3
Summary: Aemond Targaryen and Maelessa Velaryon were childhood lovers. They were each other's only comfort in a world full of darkness. When they grew up, their love blossomed until they were the only thing the other cared about. Their lives get increasingly complicated due to the fact that they're supposed to be on opposite sides of the war. Will their love survive or will it burn to ash as the war ensues? Warnings: None for this chapter, but this fic will contain violence, rough and dirty sex, Dom Aemond, mutilation, degradation, war, canonical and non canonical character deaths, non canonical dragons, mentions of rape... it gets dark at times.
Chapter 1 - Childhood Lovers
Maelessa Velaryon ran to him inside the dragonpit, after the boy she cared about most.
”Aemond, don’t go with them!” she cried, knowing full well that Aegon and the other children had hid a pig inside the tunnel, that they were going to pull a mean prank on Aemond. Just because he didn’t have a dragon. “Aemond! Let’s go see the other dragons instead,” she urged. Aemond didn’t listen, instead he followed his brother. Aegon shot a glare back at Maelessa who stared daggers into him.
When they revealed the pig, the Pink Dread, they called it, Aemond didn’t say a word. He was stoic, his face didn’t betray his hurt. But Maelessa knew him better than all the other children, she felt his pain and knew how bad it broke his heart to be toyed with like this.
“You’re all mean!” she screamed at the other kids, her voice echoing through the pit. “Come on, Aemond, let’s go,” she urged, reaching for his hand. This time he followed her, taking her hand and following her out. Only when they were far enough away from everyone else did he let his tears show. Maelessa would never make fun of him, she sat with him on the cliff until his tears dried, holding his hand.
The next day she cursed her brothers. Jace and Luke were idiots, she screamed, they were nothing but mean bullies and Aemond didn’t deserve to be treated that way.
“He calls us bastards!” Her older brother defended himself.
“We are bastards, Jace, look at us! Telling the truth isn’t a crime,” she insisted, shoving him in the chest before running off again. Her mother, who had just given birth to her third son, her fourth child, didn’t like how much time Maelessa spent running around the castle with Aemond. She much preferred when Maelessa spent time with her own siblings, studying Valyrian and history.
Maelessa liked it best when Aemond taught her Valyrian though, his accent was beautiful and he was a good teacher. He also taught her how to fight in secret, the two of them slipping away to the garden to practise sword fighting. She would often sneak into his chamber at night and they would practise Valyrian together and braid each other’s hair. Aemond would tell her fantastical stories and she often fell asleep on the foot end of his bed listening to his calming voice, then the guards found them together in the mornings. He was her favourite person in the world, and when they weren’t together, he was often all she could think about.
***
When Ser Harwin had died, Maelessa ran away in the middle of the night. Her mother sent guards to look for her, and dragons were sent out to help the search. Her mother flew on Syrax and Jace on Vermax, looking for her everywhere, and the guards roamed through the forests. Yet it was Aemond who found her. He pulled down the hood of his cloak and leaned against the wall of the dog training yard in Cobbler’s square.
“Thought I’d find you here, Maelītsos,” he said quietly.
”There’s nowhere I can hide from you,” she mumbled, burying her head in Rocco’s fur. Rocco was a large brown dog that she had helped train since he was six weeks old.
“No. It’s foolish of you to come here. Though I suppose you blend in rather well,” he japed. She sniffled and sobbed.
“Someone murdered him, Aemond. Spontaneous fire in Harrenhal? Not likely.”
“You shouldn’t mourn in public for a man your mother claims to have no relation to. Time to go home,” he said and kicked himself off the wall, extending his hand. She wanted to stay here and sulk, cry until she couldn’t feel sadness anymore, seeking comfort in her four legged friends’ soft fur. But she took Aemond’s hand and followed him without protest back to the castle. She kept her head down so that people wouldn’t see her tears.
Aemond sat them down on a bench in the courtyard and wiped her tears. In his arms, the sadness felt less constricting, her chest felt lighter and more free. She inhaled the scent of him, calming her body even more. He always smelled good, her prince.
“It’s alright to be sad. Your tears are safe with me, Mae. But be smart. It was foolish of you to leave the Red Keep in your situation.”
“You’re right, I know,” she said and wiped her tears.
With a scream, Syrax crashed down in the courtyard and Rhaenyra came running towards them.
“Where have you been!?” she shouted. Maelessa didn’t answer. “Aemond, where was she?”
“Does it matter? I brought her back.”
“How did you find her?”
“There’s nowhere she can hide from me.” Aemond was proud of his statement, but Rhaenyra looked unimpressed.
“Thank you. You may leave.” But Aemond didn’t leave. He remained calm as ever, sitting quietly by Maelessa’s side. “That means leave, Aemond!” Rhaenyra clarified as if he was an imbecile. He smiled menacingly.
“I think you’ll find even less luck in speaking with Maelītsos if you force me away from her,” he mocked, purposefully using the pet name that Rhaneyra hated. Little Mae. Maelessa however loved every single pet name Aemond made up for her. The more names he gave her, the more singled out and cherished she felt by him.
Maelessa’s family were now moving to Dragonstone. She wasn’t quite sure why, if it had to do with the death of Harwin or if it was something else. She knew rumours circled the keep, rumours harmful to her family, but her mother didn’t reveal much to her children, saying they were too young to understand. Maelessa didn’t want to leave, though. She fought her mother tooth and nail, screaming that she refused to go. To her surprise, Alicent was very hospitable, telling Rhaenyra and Laenor that she was welcome to stay here with them. After much fighting, Maelessa’s parents had finally agreed to let her stay. After all, her grandsire king Viserys was here, and he still ruled, so what harm could come to her?
***
After her aunt Laena Velaryon passed, a funeral had been held on Driftmark. Maelessa had arrived with Aemond and his family, and her own family had come as well. Tears had been shed, but she felt she couldn’t quite grieve for someone she barely knew. In the night, when Rhaenyra sent her children to bed, Aemond had stopped the girl from going to her chamber and instead brought her outside, telling her to follow him on an adventure.
Maelessa watched in awe as Aemond climbed atop the green giant beast of a dragon. Vhagar had threatened to rain fire on him but he had stood his ground, and the dragon had rewarded him for it. She ran backwards as the dragon lunged, sand whirring into her eyes as the dragon stomped off the ground and took flight. She listened to Aemonds screams as Vhagar took off with him. For a moment it seemed he would fall off, but he had managed to steady himself, climbing back into the saddle.
Maelessa clapped her hands and cheered, then the pair disappeared from her sight, beyond the clouds. She watched and waited for a long time before they returned, this time the scream from Aemond wasn’t one of fear, but of triumph. They landed next to her and Aemond climbed off, running to pick Maelessa off the ground and spin her around in the air in cheer joy. He finally had a dragon, and not just any dragon. The biggest one known to them, and the fiercest war dragon. The two children laughed as they walked hand in hand into the cave.
Rhaena and Baela were in there with Jace and Luke, having been woken up from the noises of Aemond claiming Vhagar. Maelessa felt a little bad, because she knew Rhaena had wanted to claim Vhagar since she was her late mother’s dragon. But dragons chose their riders, they couldn’t be stolen. If Vhagar didn’t want Aemond to claim her, he would be dead. Which is why it angered her so when her cousins accused him of stealing Vhagar.
Her cousins lunged first, attacking Aemond. She yelled at them to stop, even running forward to hit them back, but Aemond had no issue battling off the two angry girls. When her brothers Jace and Luke joined in though, the fight became unfair. Aemond was strong and already a skilled fighter for his young age, but four against two were bad odds. Maelessa fought her own siblings in Aemond defence, trying to hold them back. Baela and Rhaena retreated, watching as the fight grew meaner and harder. Aemond once again taunted the boys for being bastards, and Luke was the only one who didn’t know that he was right. One of them threw sand in Aemond’s face, causing him to stumble. Then Luke grabbed the knife and lunged.
Before Maelessa could scream at him to stop, he had slashed the knife across Aemond’s face and he fell to his knees screaming in agonising pain. Maelessa ran to him, hunching over him to comfort him, shocked at the blood running through his fingers. A knight came running, way too late to break up the fight. She refused to let go of Aemond’s arm as they were all led back into the castle. She watched with tears running down her cheeks as a Maester stitched him up, sewing over his eye.
He looked terrifying, red bloody stitches going from his cheek to his forehead. The room filled up with knights and family members, the king, the queen and her protectors, Lord Corlys and princess Rhaenys, as well as Maelessa’s own mother and Daemon. Panic spread through the room as the adults tried to make sense of the situation, figure out what had happened. The children all screamed over each other trying to tell their stories. Rhaenyra fussed over hew bleeding sons and the unharmed Maelessa backed away from them. Alicent was furious over the loss of her son’s eye, while Rhaenyra was furious over the insults thrown at her children.
“Maelessa, come here,” she beckoned, reaching for her daughter, who backed off, placing herself next to Aemond and grabbing his arm, scowling at her mother. The king, instead of siding with his son who just lost an eye, sided with the grandson who had taken the eye, questioning Aemond about the insults instead of Luke about the attack. He warned them all that the in fighting just cease, but Alicent was not satisfied, trying to convince the king to take one of Luke’s eyes as justice. Maelessa squeezed Aemond’s arm in fear, and even he seemed to think his mother was out of her bounds for the suggestion. Rhaenyra tried to beckon Maelessa over again, to come stand with her siblings, but she refused to let go of Aemond’s arm.
“Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon,” the queen demanded. Luke cried for their mother in fear, Maelessa’s eyes widened and fighting broke out among the adults again. The king refused to let Ser Criston carry out the order, putting his wife back in place. As the king turned to leave, deeming this trial as over, Alicent leapt forward, reaching for his dagger.
Aemond stood, wrapping his arms around Maelessa and taking her behind him protectively. Luke screamed and Rhaenyra put herself in front of him, facing off against Alicent. Maelessa was scared, scared that Alicent may hurt her mother, but Aemond held her in his arms and she clung to him fiercely, finding security in his embrace. She didn’t quite understand what Alicent and Rhaenyra said to each other as one held a knife to each other, but then the blade slashed against skin and her mother was bleeding from her arm. Maelessa gasped and dropped her hand down to grasp Aemond’s tightly.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered in her ear. When the two women backed off from each other, Aemond and Rhaenyra looked at each other. Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped down to the clutched hands of him and her daughter, but she said nothing. Aemond then turned to his mother. “Do not mourn me, mother, it was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”
Her stoic prince.
Tagging @sadgirlxangel and @ner-dee due to previously shown interest, let me know if you wish to remain tagged or not :)
#The Kneeling Queen#aemond targaryen#house of the dragon#aemond one eye#Aemond Targaryen fanfiction#Aemond Targaryen x oc#aemond fanfiction#Ewan mitchell
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we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (27/?)
Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~4k
ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11-20 | ch. 21 - i wouldn't marry me either | ch. 22 - burn all the files, desert all your past lives | ch. 23 - i've still got love for you | ch. 24 - and the girl in your bed has a fine pedigree | ch. 25 - kept calm and carried the weight of the rift | ch. 26 - where the spirit meets the bones | ch. 27 - invisible string
The one with the desk smut, with a side of Cassian losing his shit over Nesta and some sisterly bonding <3
Read on AO3 or you can find the twenty-seventh chapter below the readmore.
I wanted to paint Rhys in shirtsleeves. He was sitting at the desk in his study, jacket gone, and a shaft of sunlight brought out the otherworldly blue sheen in his hair. Too engrossed in making notes on the map spread open before him, he didn't notice that I'd woken up.
Exhaustion had hit me shortly after lunch. As promised, I hadn't forced myself to sit through more meetings and instead had fallen asleep on the sofa. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, I hadn't been out for more than an hour or two.
Not bothering to sit up, I just took the opportunity to take in my mate's profile. It would take more than a few practice sketches to properly capture the curve of his regal nose, the sweep of his jawline, the sensuous perfection of his lips. Even if I spent a century on it, I wasn't sure I'd ever manage to capture him properly.
But I wanted to try.
After a few minutes of staring, I realized I was clutching the jacket he'd shed. I'd pulled a blanket over myself as I'd drifted off, so he must have given it to me. In my sleep, I'd brought it up to my nose. I couldn't scent him like a faerie, but a deep inhale filled my lungs with the pleasant, familiar smell of the pine-scented soap we both used.
I sat up and stretched. The movement lifted my shirt slightly, and suddenly Rhys's attention snapped from the map on his desk to the inch of bare skin around my navel.
"How did you sleep?" he said, gaze traveling slowly up, up my chest, lingering there before finally landing on my face. For a moment, the air in the study seemed to grow hotter.
"Fine," I said getting to my feet. I held the jacket out towards him. "Do you want this back?"
He shot me an irritated look. "It's wrinkled."
I rolled my eyes—if Rhys could mist entire armies without blinking, his magic could certainly handle smoothing out a few creases. He waved a hand, and the jacket disappeared, probably into a hamper somewhere.
I crossed the room to get a better look at the notes on his desk. "What are you up to?"
The moment I stepped within reach, Rhys's arm snaked around my waist and pulled me onto his lap. A startled laugh escaped me, my shoulder bumping his as I tried to regain my balance. He pressed a kiss to my temple.
For a moment, I thought he might ignore my question. But even as he pulled me closer, he said, "Contingency planning. If the worst comes to pass, the villages on the Night Court's western shore will be the hardest hit."
I pestered him about it, curious about the handful of small fishing towns near the mouth of the Sidra—the vast majority of his people lived in the Hewn City, Velaris, or Illyria. But the stubborn faeries the Night Court's small towns were no less deserving of protection, and with Cassian busy in Illyria, the task of preparing them for a possible war fell to Rhys.
If the questions bothered him, Rhys didn't let on. By now, he knew I needed to ask. I trusted him more than anyone, but after finding out I'd been living in a manor full of servants invisible to only me…I worried. Maybe I always would.
He answered everything thoroughly, and when there was nothing left to say on the subject, I asked, "What's left for today, then?"
"Was what I showed you this morning really so unmemorable?"
"It wasn't. But do we have the time?"
"We made enough progress for today," he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear, "and if we run ourselves ragged this early, we'll forfeit a war before it even begins."
Rhys wasn't wrong. After all, I'd spent the entire morning listening to him calmly craft a plan to shore up the Night Court's emergency stockpiles, expertly conveying the gravity of the situation without causing any of the officials and representatives of his court to panic. And he'd just appealed to my sense of practicality, which even I knew was the best way to get through to me.
But we were sitting in summer sunshine. The days were growing shorter, and instincts honed from years of hunting were screaming at me not to waste a minute preparing for the lean times ahead.
A tendril of darkness traced a soothing line down my back. My old fear of long, cold nights faded, just a bit.
I leaned down and kissed him fiercely, intent on chasing pleasure until my mind went blank. Rhys answered with a bite to my lower lip, then gently nudged me off his lap. As my feet hit the floor, I started to ask why he'd pulled away.
But before I could, a warm, broad hand settled between my shoulder blades. I let him press me forward until my chest rested against the desk, the smooth, polished wood cool against my bare arms.
Gently, Rhys gathered up my hair and swept it over my shoulder to keep it out of the way. I waited to feel his hands on me again, but he merely paused, giving me an opportunity to ask him to stop. Careful—he was always so careful with me.
I bit back an irritated reminder that I wasn't made of glass. After everything he'd survived, it would break him to hurt me like that, even accidentally. I twisted my head to the side to look back at him. "Go ahead. I trust you."
The words seemed to unleash something inside him. A flicker of magic danced along my bare skin as my clothes disappeared, and both his hands settled on my rear, kneading it. I drove my hips back in search of more contact.
His lips found the nape of my neck instead. A shiver ran through me as Rhys slowly kissed his way down my spine, the calluses on his fingers scraping closer to my core.
With his mouth occupied, his voice floated into my mind. *I've wanted to do this since I first saw your ass in leathers.
I reached a hand back, needing more of him. His fingers had nearly spread me open, but I'd barely touched him at all. He let out a low chuckle as my fingers scrabbled uselessly towards the fastenings of his pants, the tops of his thighs, any inch of him I could manage to reach.
If you want something, ask nicely. Otherwise, just let me take care of you.
"Ple—"
The door slammed open, the sound cutting through the air like a thunderbolt.
I yelped in surprise, straightening up. Rhys's power surrounded me in an instant, the darkness covering my nakedness like a cloak. A vicious snarl ripped from his throat, a savage, bestial threat.
He'd moved closer, putting his body and wingspan between me and whoever the intruder was. I shuffled to the side and peered around him to see what was going on.
Cassian had barged in, hair windswept, and there was a peculiar wild look in his eyes that I'd never seen before. Without bothering with a greeting or even acknowledging Rhys, he looked at me and said, "Who hurt Nesta?"
"Did something happen?" I said, stomach already lurching. I was dimly aware of another tang of magic and my clothes reappearing on my body. The tendrils of night continued hovering around me protectively.
"Not recently, as far as I can tell."
I stepped out from behind Rhys. "Then what the hell are you talking about?"
Cassian took in a deep breath, slowly—carefully—letting it out. I'd never seen him like this, struggling to keep calm. He gripped the back of a nearby chair so tightly that the wood groaned.
I couldn't imagine what it took to rattle the most powerful Illyrian warrior in history.
After a moment, he said, "It's not faeries she's worried about. She wouldn't be the first woman to be skittish around our kind, and that's even without her seeing through glamours and your kidnapping. But the questions she asked, the way she flinched…someone put their hands on her. I'm sure of it."
Tomas Mandray, if I had to guess. Apparently, Nesta had listened to my warning, but we hadn't discussed the details. She probably would have snapped at me for prying if I'd asked, even out of sisterly concern.
And if she'd have my head for that, I couldn't imagine how badly she must have reacted when a strange faerie male had asked her about it. Even if it was his job to know and keep her safe.
No wonder Cassian seemed so agitated.
Rhys still hadn't spoken. At some point, his fingers had turned to talons, but he'd barely moved, just watched us intently. He was still refusing to interfere in anything involving my sisters, I realized. This matter remained mine to handle.
"I have my suspicions," I said slowly, not quite sure if naming Tomas was wise when Cassian seemed fully prepared to rip off his head and present it on a platter to Nesta, "but nothing concrete."
"Who?" Cassian's fingers twitched towards the dagger at his hip.
"If Nesta wants him dead, it needs to happen quietly. That makes it a job for Azriel, not you."
I felt a flicker of Rhys's approval through the bond, plus something warm that might have been pride. A muscle jumped in Cassian's jaw, but he nodded his assent. I loosed a breath.
"She's sharp-tongued, but your sister didn't ask for anything unreasonable. And she didn't kick me out of the house, so I think it went alright," Cassian said.
I motioned for him to sit, then debriefed him properly, asking for details. Despite all his bawdy humor and easy laughter, Cassian was still a soldier, and his polite yes ma'am and no ma'am had gone a long way with Nesta. So had adding himself to the rotation of sentries guarding the manor; he'd be nearby on a regular schedule, not merely giving orders from Prythian.
He regretted not being able to send female sentries, especially when the servants left and it was only Nesta and Elain in the manor at night. But during Amarantha's reign, the camp-lords had stopped training the girls, and they'd clipped the wings of the few existing female warriors. Safely extricating them from marriages they'd been forced into during the last fifty years was an ongoing, delicate operation that required coordination between Cassian, Rhys, and Clotho.
It would be a long time before Illyria would see any females with the training and experience required to guard the High Lord's family.
I needed to write Nesta another letter to ask for her side of the story. And to beg, perhaps, for advice on how to play courtier when I visited Day. But still, by the time Cassian left with a wink and a reminder to air out the study, some of my worries had eased.
My gaze slid to Rhys, who'd remained silent the entire time. "I know you have opinions about all of this," I said, ready to hear them.
"I anticipate we'll need Nesta's assistance getting the Book from the queens. It's in our best interest not to antagonize her," he said, crossing an ankle over his knee.
He wasn't wrong. I'd had the same thought, though I'd hoped that I could put off broaching the subject until after we'd secured the other half from Summer. If only to keep Elain safe, Nesta would agree eventually, though I dreaded the fight that would break out over it. We'd only just started getting along.
But something in Rhys's tone gave me pause. I cocked my head, studying him. "Is not antagonizing Nesta a problem for you?"
"That's not the issue." A non-answer, accompanied by a twitch of his wings.
"Then what?"
"Can I ask you to keep this between the two of us for now?" he said with a sigh. I nodded, then waited for him to continue. "Cassian would lay his life down for Nesta merely because she's a member of my family. And if someone did indeed hurt her, he would be right to be outraged by it. That said, I've known my brother a long time, and while he's certainly a hotheaded idiot, something getting under his skin to that degree is…unusual."
I could practically feel him holding something back. "Rhysand…"
"If I suspected someone had assaulted you, my reaction would have been similar."
I nearly scoffed and said it was impossible. But perhaps the bond in my chest was proof otherwise, and now that I thought about it, there had been something familiar in the wild look in Cassian's eyes. I'd seen it on Rhys—and I had probably looked the same way at the mention of Amarantha or Ianthe.
We were treading on dangerous ground.
"You— You truly think they might be mates?" I breathed.
"I don't think we can discount the possibility. My dreams of you predated your immortality, and Nesta is the only human I've known with a natural ability to see through glamours. There may be forces at play we're just beginning to understand."
I could see the logic in it. And in truth, it didn't seem to change much when we were already well aware of the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Perhaps this just meant Nesta was destined to neatly sidestep heartbreak in the same manner I had with Rhys. Tomas had never deserved her. But Cassian….Cassian would indeed be worthy of someone brave and loyal enough to trek through the winter woods to rescue me.
But I was getting ahead of myself. "Nothing to be done until a bond snaps, I suppose," I said, standing.
"I'll continue to defer to you where your family is concerned, of course. But I suggest that you avoid playing matchmaker."
His lips twisted into that particular smirk that told me he knew he'd correctly guessed my thoughts without even using his daemati abilities. More annoyingly, he was also right that we should let them sort it out. I said nothing, just kissed him to wipe the look off his face.
Rhys kept his promise from the morning, and I was bent over the desk again before long.
I spent the flight back to the townhouse feeling happily boneless and sated. As we ate dinner, I drafted a letter to Nesta. The response came a few hours later, appearing on my pillow just as I pulled on a nightgown.
Dear Feyre,
General Cassian lacks delicate manners and asks too many questions, but he appears competent, which is more important. The sentries are far more tolerable when I'm not convinced I'm going mad. As long as they don't come sniffing around Elain, they can stay. I wouldn't have chosen any of this, but considering the position you now occupy, I understand the necessity.
Elain is well. The social season is in full swing, and without Father here, my hands are full chasing away her many unscrupulous fortune-hunting suitors. It is, however, good to see her thriving at balls and parties again.
All my best to you and the new Mr. Archeron.
Nesta
I re-read it several times, marveling at her calling me "dear," even if it was courtesy rather than real affection. But there wasn't an insult or a harsh word to be found. Beyond that, she'd mentioned Rhys again, and it was strange to think of him as….well, an in-law someone might be on polite terms with.
I wasn't built for this sort of domesticity. Would we be sending Solstice cards next?
The next morning, I took the additional rest day that Rhys had urged me to. Instead of spending my morning in the training ring, I brought the letter to an isolated corner of the library and struggled my way through a response alone.
Dear Nesta,
I'm glad that Elain is well. I hope you mean that she is truly enjoying the time with friends this season. Your mention of suitors worries me. There is no reason for either of you to feel pressured to make a desirable match for status or money. If you marry at all, it should be for love. You and Elain deserve nothing less than the happiness I've found here in the Night Court.
And of course, if there are any issues with Cassian or the sentries, tell me. I'll make sure they're addressed.
I also wanted to let you know that I have an upcoming trip to the Day Court, so there will be a few days I won't be able to receive letters. I'll be going with Mor and Amren as Rhys's emissary. We need to visit some of their libraries and hopefully put some of the more nasty rumors about me to rest. No one in Prythian seems to know what to make of me, a human who now lives among the fae.
I'm…nervous. This is the sort of thing you were always good at, not me. I'm not supposed to be a lady who wears gowns and spends entire days surrounded by books, and I'm positive by the end of the visit I'll embarrass myself or worse. I know you'll probably say I'm hopeless, but if you have any advice at all, I could use it.
Yours, Feyre
I'd never written anything so long before. For a while, I just sat and stared at the paper before me, shocked I'd managed it. My handwriting was still embarrassingly childish, especially next to Nesta's elegant script, but it was legible enough.
It felt odd to commit my thoughts and feelings to paper—everything was there, in black and white, making me far more vulnerable than baring my soul in a painting ever did. I didn't want to think about that too deeply. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sealed the letter and sent it.
I couldn't stay in the too-quiet library and think about my shortcomings. What I wanted was the training ring—or failing that, a target I could shoot arrows into until my fingers bled around the bowstring. But I'd made a promise, so instead I spent the afternoon stalking around the perimeter of the Rainbow like a ghost.
Another day passed before I heard from Nesta, and she'd dutifully compiled a list of useful phrases to keep in mind—"How embarrassing for you", "What an odd thing to say", "A little small, I suppose, but it's very nice", among others. There had been some general advice as well, reminders to listen more than I talked and to cross my legs when I sat in a skirt.
At the end, in large letters, she'd added, Good luck.
When the day finally came to leave, I didn't feel much better. The last time I'd worn a white dress of my own volition, Nesta called me an idiot for getting grass stains on the hem. Hissing insults the whole time, she'd forced me inside to change before I embarrassed our mother at a dinner party she was throwing that night. I must have been seven or eight.
Now, I still didn't quite trust myself not to tear or stain the gown Cerridwen helped me into. Like silk, the fabric was cool and smooth against my skin, and despite being lightweight, it was also perfectly opaque and sturdy. Lines of embroidered night-blooming flowers circled the waist and hem, the stitching impossibly intricate. I'd never seen anything like it below the Wall.
Thin straps criss-crossed the open back—if I had them, the design would accomidate Illyrian wings. Instead, it merely showed off the powerful upper back muscles I'd gained from years of shooting a bow.
I hadn't asked where the dress came from, though I assumed Rhys had chosen it himself. Considering the amount of time he spent picking lint off his own clothes, I doubted he'd delegate the task of buying mine to someone else. Not that I minded—he had excellent taste.
Beyond that, I was relieved I hadn't needed to pick anything out myself for the trip to the Day Court. As an emissary, every aspect of my appearance sent a message. I assumed this gown suited the occasion.
But still, my stomach did a nervous little flip as Cerridwen set a diadem atop my head after pinning my hair up into an elegant braided bun. Even Mor didn't wear a crown.
I looked pretty, if slightly wrong. It wasn't just the crown—the cut of the dress was Day Court style. Probably better suited for bright sun and heat, but I wouldn't have chosen it for myself.
Rhys had left his dressing gown on my chair again. I fingered the midnight-blue cloth and met Cerridwen's eyes in the mirror. "Could you please pack this so we can take it with us?"
"Technically, you just asked me to steal from the High Lord," she said, voice stern even as the corner of her lips quirked up into a half-smile.
"Which isn't a bigger ask than anything Azriel has every instructed you to do."
She slid one last pin into my bun. "I'll make sure it gets packed with everything else. You can repay me by sitting still next time I arrange your hair."
I nearly told her it was a deal, but that was perilously close to a bargain. I didn't need another tattoo. Instead, I thanked her and made my way downstairs to be ready when Mor and Amren arrived.
Rhys—in reading glasses again—had stretched his long legs across the sofa as he skimmed the intelligence briefing that Cerridwen had delivered when she arrived. An expression I couldn't read flickered across his face as he drank in the sight of me. He barely seemed to take in the crown; it was the dress, I noticed, that made his lips part for a moment. I didn't understand why.
"Even more radiant than usual," he said, answering a question I hadn't been able to ask.
But still, I shrugged. "Easy to do when I don't set the bar very high most days."
His violet eyes seemed to shutter, even as he set the report down and came over to me. I let him pull me close, and his breath tickled my cheek as he sighed.
"One day, you'll believe it when I call you beautiful," he whispered.
Though I was a far cry from ugly, spending my days surrounded by the perfect, ethereal beauty of the fae made it hard to feel attractive. I said nothing—I could already imagine Rhys's smug reminder that mates were equals and the Cauldron had matched me with the most handsome High Lord for a reason.
Careful not to smudge the makeup Cerridwen had applied, Rhys pressed a kiss to my bare shoulder. I savored the closeness, the heat of him. My eyes fluttered shut.
The sound of Mor's voice made us both jump; we'd gotten so lost in each other that we hadn't noticed her winnow in with Amren. "Do you two ever manage to get your hands off each other?" she said.
"No," Rhys said, slowly—deliberately—raking his hand across my body, from my ribcage to my hip.
I reached up and cupped his cheek with my palm. "We don't."
Amren made a noise that might have been a gag. Rhys ignored it, tipping his head to kiss my hand, then dragging his nose down the inside of my wrist. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to memorize my scent before I left.
Cauldron, I was going to miss him.
"I am certainly not explaining to Helion that we're late because you can't stop sniffing your mate," Amren hissed.
Also choosing to ignore her, I pulled Rhys closer and kissed him goodbye. Mor stood with her arms out, waiting to winnow us, and once I pulled away from Rhys, I slipped my hand into hers. Rhys's gaze slid to Amren, and for a moment, I wondered if they were speaking mind-to-mind.
"Don't give me that look," Amren said, taking Mor's other hand. "You know perfectly well it's not that sort of mission, but yes, I'll protect her with my life, High Lord."
"Mine, too. Don't give your brothers too much trouble while we're gone," Mor said.
We faded into mist, and the distance hit me like a brick. The last time I'd been this far from Rhys, I'd been in Velaris and he'd been Under the Mountain. Our mating bond seemed to groan in protest, and for a moment, I felt as if it might rip my rib right out of my chest. As we materialized, the pain faded to a dull ache.
…only to be replaced by the discomfort of too-bright sunlight shining directly into my eyes. I squinted and dropped Mor's hand.
The three of us stood on a balcony overlooking a city full of white limestone towers and domed golden roofs. Everything seemed to reflect the sunlight back into the sky, and a hazy heat made the air feel heavy. I had the sudden urge to find a rock and lie motionlessly like a lizard or stretch out in a sunbeam like a lazy, contented cat.
Once my eyes adjusted, my gaze dropped down to the balcony floor, where colorful shadows danced along the white stone. I turned and found the source—hanging ornaments of colored glass dangling in the open archway. Each intricate shape seemed expertly carved to best reflect the the sunlight, and if we weren't about to meet with a High Lord, I would have stepped closer to appreciate the artistry.
Though…there wasn't a High Lord in sight. Or any advisors or courtiers here to greet us, either. "Where is he?" I said.
"Due east," Mor said. "He might be a bit far for human eyes to spot just yet, but he'll be here soon."
Once I shielded my eyes, I could just make out a dark spot against the cloudless blue sky. The outline of wings came into view, and for a moment, I thought I might be looking at an Illyrian. Then again, if Rhys had a hidden set of wings, so might the other six High Lords. Maybe they'd all tucked them away Under the Mountain…
But no—the wings belonged to a horse. And Helion was its rider.
Back in his own domain and with his magic returned, the High Lord of the Day Court seemed to glow even more powerfully. Like Rhys's, Helion's skin had returned to a healthy dark color now that he was no longer confined underground—though if I dared paint them, I'd need a deeper burnt umber pigment for Helion. He wore the same crisp white bolt of cloth I'd seen before, now with the addition of a radiant spiked golden crown. It glinted atop his onyx hair, which had been arranged into a cascade of small braids adorned with golden beads.
The stallion he rode was just as beautiful as its rider. The jet-black horse was all muscle, its fur gleaming in the sun and the hair of its mane billowing in the wind off its wings. I stood, transfixed by the creature's graceful movement through the air.
"Thank the Mother," Mor breathed at my left. "Meallan is his most beloved pegasus—I'm glad Amarantha didn't manage to butcher him along with the others."
Meallan's hooves clicked as he alighted on the balcony, and Helion patted his thick, muscular neck before swinging a powerful leg over the beast's flank and dropping easily to his feet. He approached us, amber eyes wary. I braced myself for bows and formal greetings, ready to play courtier.
But when Helion's gaze landed on Mor, his expression softened, as if he was too overwhelmed to continue keeping up appearances. "It's so good to see you alive," he said, pulling her into a hug.
I caught Mor's smile as she squeezed him back and said, "It's been a long fifty years, but you don't look like you've aged a day."
Azriel's words from weeks ago came back to me—that everyone knew I had been the reason for reunions like this. The thought bolstered my confidence, and I stood a little straighter.
But as Helion released Mor, he turned to Amren next. "A pleasure as always," he said, giving her a brief nod.
I tried to look unbothered as Helion's attention finally landed on me. A lazy smile spread across his face, and it took everything in me not to hide my left hand behind my back. If he'd known I was glamoured Under the Mountain, then he surely detected the spells covering my tattoo and my scent just as easily here in his domain. As I waited for him to say something about it, I forced myself to keep breathing.
But all he said was, "Welcome to the Day Court, Cursebreaker."
#feysand#feyre archeron#we said hello and your eyes look like coming home#i'm in my rhys & nesta feels again don't mind me
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Pushing up daisies | Ch 2 / 3
T | FMA:B / Manga | Royai / Roy Mustang character study
[Can be canon compliant if you squint. Ch 2 covers Conflict at Baschool / Chapters 71-73 to The Promised Day / Chapters 80-83]
Roy is not exactly coping with recent events very well. The impulse purchace of a car full of flowers is probably evidence of that - and, unexpectedly, a great source of relief in the months to come.
--
Roy pulls a long day at Central Command. Partially to dissuade any reproach for getting to his desk late - and to properly earn a fucking drink.
Or seem like he’s decided he’s earned a drink, and thus plausible cause to drag his sorry self to Madame Christmas’ bar where he can foist more flowers on people who might actually enjoy them. After such a grueling day, it would be excused as ploys for female attention, of course. To make himself feel better.
And maybe he should drown his sorrows while he’s got his ass on a barstool, anyway.
“You’re spoiling him,” his aunt grouses, eyeing the five drinks that have been crowded around him.
He can’t be sure how many of the girls heard her above their delighted chatter, but one of the few unfamiliar to Roy raises her voice to say, “Only because you didn’t spoil him enough, Madame!”
An uproar of laughter - so she’s very new, then. Roy’s perfectly put-upon expression almost falters.
“Oh, she was so cruel to poor Roy-Boy,” Madeline teases, adjusting her flowers with prim satisfaction. “After years of such severe treatment, he feels the need to buy our affection. It’s it just - so tragic?”
Roy takes a good swing of his beer before responding. “Here I thought I was paying for information.”
“That too. But you love us!”
“Some more than others,” Chris observes. The smoke of her cigarette leaps as her smile twitches to life. “You know damn well what you did, not bringing flowers for all the girls. Favoritism does nothing but stir up trouble.”
“Figured I would keep you busy.” He smirks through the remainder of his glass, reaching for the second. It will probably be his last - less drowning his sorrows, more like getting their feet wet. Alcohol is a burn that always feels so tame, so well-behaved, when he knows well it can rage out of control just as easily as any fire. Growing up in a bar will teach you that.
It also teaches you to pay attention; Roy takes his time with that second drink, watches the girls talk among themselves and coo over the flowers. He also sees a patron return with a bouquet of his own to offer up, which is admittedly pretty funny.
Madeline (at the vied for spot to his left) is almost leafing through her floral arrangement, lips pursed.
“I didn’t hide any notes in there,” Roy says, “if that is what you were thinking.”
“Oh, Roy, you’re not that naïve.” She pauses on a white rose at the center with a little aha! “There we go - secrecy! I knew there was something more to these.”
He asks, “What?”
[Read from the beginning] [Keep reading on AO3!]
#ft. Roy seeing the language of flowers and asking 'is anyone going to make a secret code out of this?' and not wait for an answer#also ft. Roy being a pining bastard. and a traumatized bastard. and a scheming bastard.#remember people getting a hobby is great for your mental health! or at least like. better.#fullmetal alchemist#roy mustang#royai#fma fanfiction#fma brotherhood#jean havoc#riza hawkeye
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Protecting a fire with bare hands
Heimdall x reader ch 3
---- I feel like I should say that reader is how I feel seems more realistic in a way. Anyway I'm trying not to make every chapter chronilogical order it's like blast to something from the past and back to the present it's not as confusing as it sounds hope you like i wanna tag @loki-love cause maybe they'd like to read the chapters but you can find this on AO3 !! Under the same name lagncx! <3 enjoy please if you think it's ass tell me---/
You were in and out of it you felt yourself being lifted up and carried out of the hall and into a room. The room was dark but you could’ve swore it was bright daylight a second ago, your stomach burned in pain. You opened your eyes looking up at whoever sat next to you in the bed, it was Heimdall his back was facing you quite literally your mid section was curled around his back in a way, you let out a pleased hum the warmth from him soothing the pain in your stomach from that blow from Thor. You then went to sit up feeling like you were a burden just taking up his space. You let out a gasp when the pain started to pulse. You shifted yourself next to him, the silence was so loud, and looking over at him his eyes were staring holes into the floor, before you could say anything he beat you to it “Modi’s dead.” Your mouth hung open, eyes wide, “Thor, did he?” He shook his head “When you fell to the floor. I had got Modi as far away from his father as I could pushing him towards a realm door and he got away, and…fuck.” He slumped over “Not even fucking a day That dumbass motherfucker Baldur came back and when I had just got Sif to calm down…” he looked up and mocked his brothers voice “Sorry to interrupt brother but, the other kid is dead too.” You frowned “Sif screamed so loud, and her thoughts were even louder, her mind was only racing with pure anger…towards me. She blamed me, I promised her I got him safe. And I thought-…I thought I did. Sending him away.”
You had never seen this side of Heimdall before seeing the way his eyes were a dark purple all the color looked to be drained. “They were idiots but they were still…my family is mine to protect. Whether I like them or not.” You looked down ‘Why is it so dark’ you thought to yourself. And Heimdall looked at you, obviously hearing your thoughts “come on.” He said getting up and slowly lifting you up gently as you walked next to Him holding your stomach walking through the hall was like a nightmare, there was screaming and cries and yelling. Heimdall carried himself in a way that screamed exhaustion. You looked towards Thor and Sifs room “How'd you get Thor off of him?” You asked Heimdall and he shook his head “Big guy is slow, even slower when I slow down time. zipped my way with Modi to the door.” You jumped when there was crashing in Thrudds room, you went to the door and looked back at Heimdall who crossed his arms and shrugged giving you the freedom to do whatever you wanted. You pushed open the door ducking at the oncoming object, you saw Thrudd holding a book ready to throw it at you but she only sobbed and dropped the book, you walked inside Heimdall stood in the door and you crouched down to her level pain shooting in your stomach. You and little Thrudd had kept eye contact with each other like you were exchanging thoughts.
She laid her head on your shoulder, you picked her up holding her close, you were probably the only one comforting her, Thor and Sif were fighting, Odin probably was in his study with Baldur trying to figure out what happened. Everyone was tense, but little Thrudd was alone, dealing with the fact that she’d never see her brothers again. Even if you wanted to let her go she clung to you like a lifeline, you swayed back and forth with her in your arms, footsteps approached behind you and Heimdall laid a hand on the little girls forehead whispering a prayer that made the girls eyes close and her breathing to even, looking at Heimdall he nodded at you. You kneeled next to the girl's bed and Heimdall pulled back the fur blanket letting you put her down, you got up and he took a second but snuggly tucked her in.
Walking through the hall again was not feeling cozy as some of the few times you had been here, Heimdall pushed open the doors that after you both walked out closed looking up at the sky you muttered “Shit…” it was clouds and leaves had been scattered around the sky, Lighting and thunder boomed This had to be Thor…and maybe everyone else in that lodge, looking at the village in the distance people were rushing inside their homes. You knew angering the gods had its effects but you never thought a storm like this could happen, you wonder which part of this was Heimdall. He only answered you with a snarky comment “Don’t be stupid, none of this is me.” Heimdalls hair had gotten untangled in the harsh wind blowing it down, you approached and grabbing a piece of thick string from your clothes you put your hands on his hair but he didn’t flinch and waited, you took two hands getting as much of his hair as you could before using the string to tie it into a ponytail. “There” Heimdall felt the bun and nodded “Thank you.” You hummed and went back to his side “Does the All father know?” Heimdall nodded “Yes but…he remains indifferent. Says we should hold off on even trying to track down who killed magni and modi. It’s…” he bit his lip holding back the words “his, decision.”
The sky was red and lightning striking around the sky thunder booming, in a way it was beautiful to see how horrifying the gods powers could be, but life without the two boys was going to be different. But right now you only wanted to comfort your friend, slowly you wrapped an arm around his shoulder he tensed stiffly standing but relaxed. You could’ve missed it but he moved closer to your side. You smiled solemnly.
Unfortunately things did get worse, Thor started drinking, Sif and thrudd would fight, all father…hm. But the one that stung the most other than Heimdall pulling himself away from you, was Baldur's death, and suddenly it felt like the realms had changed.
--- okay so I have a fat ass idea on where I want this to go. But bare with me.---
#writing#fanfiction#x reader#fanfic#x female reader#heimdall gow#heimdall god of war#heimdall/reader#heimdal god of war#heimdall x reader#heimdall#god of war x reader#god of war#god of war ragnorak
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⌁ Stung by Jealousy ⌁
(Miguel O’Hara x reader)
🕸️ Entangled series 🕸️ ch. 6 (flashback) prev part
Summary: You and Miguel hang out at the mall, where you both get flirted with. These encounters evoke jealousy, and challenge your feelings for each other as well as both of your patience.
⋆。‧₊°༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻༉‧₊˚.
“You gotta pick: ‘Pretzel Palace’ or ‘Cookie Crumbs,’” he asked, pointing at both neon signs in front of us. Miguel had called me to hang out today last minute after ditching yesterday’s study session for a “family emergency.” I knew he felt guilty, so I agreed, but deep down I was still butthurt and suspicious of where he really was or who he was seeing.
* * * *
“Do you go to NYU?” the cashier asked, handing me my cookie.
“Nueva York, yeah. How’d you know?” I asked, slowly grabbing the cookie from his lingering hand.
“You look like it… Smart,” he said, smiling at me.
My cheeks flushed.
“I also go to Nueva York. Thanks for asking. And I’m guessing you… don’t,” Miguel cut in, shrugging, crossing his arms.
“Miguel,” I muttered, elbowing him. He ignored me; his solid stance didn’t budge.
“Y/N and I have physics together,” he added, leaning into me, blocking the cashier’s gaze.
His jaw clenched; I looked down at his hand pointing at the glass window. His other hand was in a tight fist resting beside his hips, his knuckles white.
The glass between them should’ve burst from the tension by now.
“And I’ll have two M&Ms—” he looked down at his badge, “Joseph,” he sarcastically smiled.
Joseph turned back to me, handing Miguel his cookies without making eye contact, keeping his gaze on me. My cheeks were uncontrollably pink and burning. He was cute, but not Miguel.
“So you’re just study buddies. Cool.”
Shit. He’s bold. I would be hiding behind that counter, shitting bricks if Miguel looked at me that way.
Miguel tilted his head at the cashier then turned to me. He was astounded, somehow more astounded than I was.
He looked down at me, waiting for a response from me, some sarcastic comeback, some rejection, but I was too embarrassingly flustered to talk.
“Yeah, so can we pay now? I didn’t know Cookie Craps was encouraging their staff to practice their social skills with their guests now! It’s much needed! Good for you!” Miguel exclaimed, sarcastically, pulling out his wallet. I turned sharply up at him, scolding him with my eyes, which he ignored.
“Cookie Crumbs. And yes, good for me,” Joseph responded, matching his sarcasm, smiling at me.
Miguel’s face dropped, his lips pulling down into an irritated frown. He offered his card over the counter.
“Anddd on the house,” the cashier nodded, his hand refusing Miguel’s card. His coworker looked over at him, rolling his eyes.
Miguel scoffed, also rolling his eyes. “No, you’re too generous,”
“You know what? You, however, can pay me with one coffee date?”
He’s fucking relentless. This is painful.
“I— I,” I stuttered, knowing the person who I wanted most in the world was witnessing this disaster. I would be flattered, and even excited, if I didn’t utterly and completely desire the man beside me.
But, this could also prove something to him. Other people want me.
It’s harmless anyways.
Though I hope it stings just a little.
I forced a less anxious smile and nodded agreeably, “Sounds good.”
“Here’s my number,” he said, writing on receipt paper.
He handed it to me.
I grabbed it slowly, looking up at him then at Miguel, then back at the scribbled numbers in my hand.
Miguel stood still, tense, pink in his cheeks, jaw clenched, and a small paper bag strangled by his fist. His eyebrows furrowed, staring daggers at Joseph.
“Thanks, Joseph,” I said, smiling, pushing my hair behind my ear.
I could feel the fire within Miguel burn next to me. It made me warm.
“Coffee it is,” he grinned, “Just shoot me a text, Y/N.”
* * * *
“Well, that was… something,” Miguel said, nudging me as we walked out with our cookies. “I mean, I guess I made a new friend?” I responded quietly, trying to subliminally communicate to Miguel that it meant nothing to me, that I was loyal to him, that I was waiting for him.
I did, however, find some enjoyment in Miguel’s jealousy.
“And you accepted his number? Wow, Y/N, how friendly,”
“What was I supposed to do? Be friendly and give him my fucking email? At least, I didn’t give him my number. Chill out and leave me alone,” I mumbled, rushing to out-walk and dodge his questions, or maybe avoid him seeing my satisfied smirk. This asshole is jealous.
“You fucking idiot. I told you you were oblivious!” he exclaimed, as we strolled.
He picked up his pace to catch up to me, “He was not flirting, he was being… friendly,” I reasoned.
“Do friends want to take you out for coffee, like he was so desperate to do?”
“We go out for coffee,” I argued.
There was a pause. “Yeah… well that’s different,”
“How so?”
“Just is,”
“How?”
“Shut up and eat your cookie,” he demanded, as we entered the bookstore.
Fucking coward.
I walked towards the back of the bookstore, where my favorite genre hid. Miguel followed behind me.
My eyes scanned the aisle, searching, focused on the plethora of small print.
“So… are you going to text him?”
This could be fun.
“Geez Miguel, you’re thinking about this more than I am… but who knows? I don’t,” I shrugged, smugly.
“How do you not know?” he mumbled, following behind me.
“He wasn’t too cute, and I just, I wasn’t too interested,” I muttered, sliding my fingers across the book bindings on the top shelf.
He just wasn’t you.
“Yeah, he was a fucking loser…” he mumbled behind me, “pushy asshole, pinche—”
“They have it!” I screeched, pulling it out and flipping through the pages. Miguel grabbed the huge cookie out of my hand, letting me have my moment.
He stood behind me, towering over me, peeking down at my book.
“I’ll buy it for you,” he said, grabbing it out of my hands. “It’ll be an early birthday present,” he said, flipping through the pages. I turned, grabbing it back from him.
“My birthday is in six months,” I grabbed my cookie back.
“Perfect, it’s your half birthday, even better,” he reasoned.
“I wanna read at least one chapter here. I’ve been looking for this goddamn book for months,” I said, walking to the sitting area.
“Okay, I’m going to go find something to read. Stay here. Don’t move.” he instructed, walking away from me.
* * * *
I sat reading, when I saw Miguel over my book, coming towards me with a huge quantum theory book. Of course.
He held it up proudly, grinning at me. “I’ve read it before, but it’s the only semi recent work they have,” he muttered, looking down and flipping through it.
“Nice,” I muttered, looking down at my book, continuing my chapter.
He sunk into the chair across from me, looking down at his book. His eyes peered over his book, straight at me. I was too scared to look up.
* * * *
“How’s your book?” I asked, avoiding eye contact.
“Same as when I read it last month: groundbreaking.”
I scoffed.
Suddenly, a girl approached us, more so approached him. She stood over him, whispering, inaudible to me.
He smiled, charmingly, looking up at her, then stood up, now obnoxiously towering over the already tall, beautiful girl. He combed his fingers through his hair, fixing himself up.
His charm made me roll my eyes.
Cocky asshole. So sure of himself, so confident and arrogant and annoying; I could keep going.
He nodded, continuing their quiet conversation, then crossed his arms. His forearms could make me fall to my knees. Her eyes looked down at them, violating him. They must make her weak too. It’s not her fault. He has that effect. Asshole.
She laughed, it was a pretty laugh too.
She’s beautiful. Hell, if I weren’t crushing on Miguel right now, I would be asking her for her number.
“Y/N,”
I snapped out of it, bringing my gaze back to him.
“Yes?”
“Can I use your phone?”
I tilted my head at him. “Where’s yours?”
“Left it in the car,” he said, shrugging.
I handed him my phone, which he handed to her.
She smiled, typing into my phone. She handed it back to me, keeping her gaze on Miguel, smirking back at him, like they had some inside joke, some fucking history I didn’t know about.
My cheeks burned as I watched from the outside; stung by jealousy’s merciless venom.
She started to whisper, seemingly her farewell. He leaned down, letting her whisper directly into his ear. My blood boiled, but I don’t blame either of them. They’re both young, attractive… fucking cunts.
They smiled at each other then she went on her way.
I watched her walk away, as Miguel immediately sunk back into his chair, looking back at his book, returning to his studies casually, as if some girl wasn’t all over him.
Smug son of a bitch.
I cleared my throat, signaling him to look up from his book.
“So what… was that?”
He took a bite of his cookie, “She asked for my number; thought I was cute,”
I rolled my eyes. “Cute,” I muttered, looking back at my book. “And I’m guessing you gave it to her?” I asked, refusing to look up at him and reveal my jealous weakness.
“Nope. I just had her put her number into your phone. I wasn’t too interested,” he muttered, looking at me.
“‘Too,’ hmph, and why don’t you have your phone?”
“Because I’m here with you. You drain enough of my energy and enough of my time,”
“But, you’re single, go give her your number, you fucking wimp,”
“‘Wimp’? I couldn’t— you’re fucking annoying,” he shook his head and looked back down at his book.
“You didn’t take it because I’m fucking annoying?”
“No. I— I mean, why are you so persistent that I give her my number? Do you want me to give her your number? Want me to go give it to her for you?… What’s it to you anyways?” he closed his book shut and placed it on his lap.
Oh. He’s mad. I pushed his buttons. Good.
“What’s it to me? I just don’t want to watch you waste away a loner. I care about you,” I responded, sarcastically.
“Oh you care about me, yeah? How sweet! Didn’t seem like you cared about me a whole bunch back there accepting fucking cookie man’s number, flirting in front of me,”
“And why would that bother you, O’Hara? Hm? You’re not my boyfriend, Miguel,” I asserted confidently, though it still stung to say because I wanted him to be, and I wanted him to want to be mine.
I hope it stung.
His eyebrows flinched, then softened. He saw right through me.
“Bothered me? It was fucking painful for me. I mean I felt bad for you. Don’t worry though. Someday, things will make sense. You’ll find the one… probably when you’re like 63 and less stubborn and fucking irritating, but nonetheless, you’ll find the one,” he reassured me, so kindly.
“Fuck. You,” I said, kicking his foot, hard.
He kept his foot planted, solid on the ground, scowling up at me.
“You. Wish.”
⋆ ˚。 ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。 ⋆
next part
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#miguel o'hara x reader#spiderman2099#miguel o'hara x y/n#miguel o'hara atsv#miguel o hara#spider verse#atsv x reader#miguel x reader#spiderman x y/n#spiderman x reader#atsv miguel#miguel o'hara#miguel ohara#miguel o'hara imagine#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara scenarios#miguel ohara x y/n#miguel ohara x you#miguel ohara imagine#miguel spiderverse
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wrongcaitlyn masterlist
decided to make this for anyone coming from greatest of luxuries or new to my works in general, in case anyone wants to check out my other stuff! my ao3
i have written quite a few pjo/marauders fics, am currently writing more arcane fics, and have also read a lot of fanfic, so if you'd like some recs, check out my 2024 fic rec masterlist :)
asks are open, i love rambling abt any of these fics (or general fandom stuff) <3
i currently have one main wip that i'm working on:
the edges of your soul (i haven't seen yet) - 1/11 ch, 10.5k words, caitvi fame au based off of 'stick season' and 'the rise and fall of a midwest princess' with folk singer vi and popstar caitlyn
and several completed fics (both multi-chaps and one-shots)!
ARCANE COMPLETED FICS
dream of some epiphany - one-shot, 1.7k words, caitlyn character study, her thoughts after she takes out the knife in the fight against ambessa and then after the battle
the girl's got gills! - one-shot, 4.8k words, caitvi barbie in a mermaid tale au, surfer vi and mermaid/surfer caitlyn
untouchable (burning brighter than the sun) - one-shot, 3.4k words, caitvi childhood friends to lovers/hs au, lots of fluff
PJO COMPLETED FICS
dear reader series - popstar au - talk your talk and go viral (i just need this love spiral) - 34 ch, 145k words, solangelo - still hoping that the fire won't burn me (just one time) - one-shot, 11.1k, valgrace - the greatest of luxuries (is your secrets): 27 ch, 163k words, solangelo - forever going with the flow (but you're friction) - 2 ch, 17.1k words, fierrochase - you don't need to save me (but would you run away with me) - one-shot, 6k words, shelper - still look at you (like the stars that shine) - one-shot, 7.4k words, rachel - i wish i could un-recall (how we almost had it all) - one-shot, 15.4k words, pollen - who's gonna stop us (from waltzing back into rekindled flames) - one-shot, 9.7k words, pollen - my mind forgets to remind me (you're a bad idea) - one-shot, 8.1k words, valgrace - got my past frozen behind glass (but i've got me) - one-shot, 4.5k words, thalia) - passed down like folk songs (our love lasts so long) - one-shot, 12k words, apollo)
keep your eyes open series - hunger games au - staying on guard (every lesson forms a new scar) - 6 ch, 40.2k words, solangelo, MCD - i've got a lot to pine about (a lot to live without) - one-shot, 2.2k words, solangelo/will solace-centric, graphic depictions of violence, psychological torture
because i'm a mirrorball series - will solace-centric, canon-verse - i've never been a natural (all i do is try, try, try) - one-shot, 10k words, will solace from pre-tlt to botl, not tsats compliant (written before that was released and my own version of will solace lore) - i'm still a believer (but i don't know why) - one-shot, 9.2k words, will solace from botl to tlo, not tsats compliant, canonical MCD - when i break, it's in a million pieces - one-shot, 1.7k words, will solace-centric, battle of manhattan aftermath, all canon/tsats compliant - i'm still tryin' everything (to get you laughing at me) - one-shot, 3.5k words, solangelo from ttc to end of boo, mostly tsats compliant - i'm still on my tallest tiptoes (shinin' just for you) - one-shot, 2k words, solangelo during toa, all canon/tsats compliant - all along there was some invisible string (tying you to me) - one-shot, 1.3k words, solangelo pre-toa, missing scene that's referenced in tsats (their first kiss), all canon/tsats compliant
god, i'm actually invested (haven't even met him) - one-shot, 5.7k words, solangelo au where nico goes to camp jupiter after the giant war instead of staying at camp half-blood, and will meets him years later when going to new rome university
so american - one-shot, 9.6k words, solangelo fame au (country singer will & actor nico)
checkmate, i couldn't lose: solangelo, hs/nerds/academic rivals (sort of) au, road trip with lots of fluff
let's go (battle royale) - one-shot, 7k words, solangelo fortnite streamers au, lots of references to the greek gods-themed season
on a wednesday in a cafe - one-shot, 2.3k words, solangelo college/coffee shop au, an absurd amount of taylor swift song references
like i'd be saved by a perfect kiss - one-shot, 1.1k words, aroace reyna-centric during toa, reyna's pov of rejecting apollo
i'm a mess (but i'm the mess that you wanted) - one-shot, 5.1k, solangelo arcane/timebomb au, nico as jinx and will as ekko but canon divergent from what actually happens in arcane (you don't need to watch arcane to understand it though)
midnights become my afternoons - one-shot, 3.3k words, aroace leo-centric on the argo II, with a bit of leo & nico friendship, canon compliant
MARAUDERS COMPLETED FICS
reputation (regulus' version) series - celebrity au - starry eyes (sparking up my darkest night) - 16 ch, 113k words, regulus as rep era taylor swift au, james as joe, marauders as a band, background wolfstar and dorlene - baby, let the games begin - one-shot, 1.7k words, bonus chapter to starry eyes, jegulus (in between chapters 15 and 16)
clear blue waters (high tide came and brought you in) - 7 ch, 32.1k words, jegulus cruiseship au, background wolfstar and lots of teenager tonks, very fluffy
OTHER COMPLETED FICS
- overdue for a revival - one-shot, 8.6k words, harry potter au where charlie weasley becomes the comc professor in poa
#pjo#marauders#wrongcaitlyn#nico di angelo#will solace#solangelo#jegulus#wolfstar#my fic#talk ur talk fic#talk ur talk asks#arcane#caitvi#wrongcaitlyn asks#edges of your soul
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His Soul Ch.18 ~Wakanda Forever~
“Sometimes the acts of rape will not be horrible or painful. Sometimes simply making your body enjoy it in hopes to bring shame to you, gives them power. Do not be afraid to feel what is needed to survive your enemy. He touches you softly and caresses you, accept that your body’s natural response may like it.
He plays with you in ways a man should only touch his wife in the comfort of his home, accept it. He may even kiss you in the disguise of love and intimacy and you will kiss him back as if he is the last man on this planet… But do not let your body’s natural feelings taint your mind.”
“Never…”
Attuma’s ring and middle finger are pumping away into the depths of my body reaching my cervix. I’m panting and moaning out, as he lies between my legs placing some of the weight of his free arm on my thigh to keep it open. His fingers are drenched in both the ointment and my cum. My vagina no longer hurt once he used this strange ointment, but it also made my insides felt on fire in the best way. My vagina is throbbing and popping in ways that made my brain unable to think. There must have been some aphrodisiac properties in it. His fingers curl over sensitive spots, his dark eyes watching me with fascination and over whelming lust as he lowly mutters words of praise and affirmation.
“Perfect mi alma. You’re doing amazing. Does it hurt any? How about here?”
One moment his fingers are pumping into me fast bringing me to the edge only for him to slow down and tease my quivering insides. He’s studying my face, trying to figure out what movement gives him which expression. My walls are clenching tight around him sucking on him as if it were his cock.
My throat burns from all the loud moaning and panting, my hips are grinding on his fingers only for him to use his free hand to hold me still.
“There will be plenty of opportunities to ride me my beautiful wife. For now, let me take care of you. Let me show you what my love can provide.” he coos as he teases me more. My knuckles are turning white as my head falls back against the blankets. He pumps into me more picking up speed once more, making my moaning grow heavier. I will accept this pleasure, take it and get my body used to it. I will do what is needed to survive and see my people.
“Aah! Ah ah ah ah ah aaahhhh!” I moan out before yelling loudly as my vagina is ringing in pleasure, a soft growl of satisfaction escapes him as he watches me cum all over his thick fingers. He slowly pulls his fingers out of me and my thighs are shaking. I look at him glazed eyes as he is licking his fingers of the white creamy substance that coated his blue flesh. He lets out a low moan as he slowly withdrew his fingers and sat up. I do my best to calm my breathing, my chest feels warm. My walls are throbbing again, and I can feel whatever was put inside me was still running its course.
Attuma can see my quickened breathing and he reaches down to rub his thumb over my wet, and now incredibly sensitive folds. I wince and mewl in pleasure as I feel the blissful ringing of my body.
“You still need more don’t you, mi alma?” he purrs, and I looked up at him, his voice a low tremor that echoes in my mind.
“Yes.” I replied with a soft pant. He tilted his head some as he observes me, his hair falling over one side of his shoulder. He begins to move between my legs.
“Then more you shall have.”
His cock is swollen, dripping precum all over the sheets as if he was in pain. He slowly begins to glide his girthy shaft against my wet entrance, teasing me more. My body trembles with need and I whimper feeling the pleasure growing deep inside me and he sees this. He sees my desire as I look up at him our eyes mirror each other. He pauses his teasing before he suddenly is inches from my face.
I almost gasp as he’s looking directly into my eyes. I see my brown skin in his eyes as he sees his blue skin in my orbs. We inhale each other’s scent; the smell of sweat and bodily fluids is a part of that smell. His lips press into mine and I respond with the level of passion and intimacy he is giving to me. His hands rest on my hips, and I feel his cock head against my entrance pushing into me with ease.
I gasp as I’m perfectly lubricated from the ointment and my cum. His hips began to grind into me deep and slow, he wants me to feel every inch of him inside my very core. And I feel him. I feel him deep in my stomach all the way into my throat it feels. Our foreheads are pressed together as our eyes stare intimately into each other. My hips grind against him, my walls tightening around him so he can feel the velvet smooth muscle milk him.
He grunts and growls as he picks up the pace almost immediately. I moan and pant and whimper the pleasure devouring me. And I let it. I embrace it because I have to. My head falls back and I’m crying out blissfully as he stretches me to the point I feel completely stuffed. His strong hips slam into me hard, his balls smacking my ass with each thrust. I feel his lips in my neck sucking on my jugular before biting its way down to my shoulders. I feel myself being torn in half and it feels amazing.
His cock is driving deeper and harder hitting all my sweet spots in ways that make my chest arch into him, my legs wrap around his hips to cling to him. He growls into my flesh whispering words of love and tenderness into my flesh. It means something to him, but it means nothing to me. I feel one of his hands come up to massage my breast.
“When you are swollen with my child, nothing else will matter. Our family will grow, and you will stay with me forever.” he breathes into my shoulder before biting down on it hard. I hiss as he breaks the skin and a small stream of blood pours down my shoulder and into the bed. I will give you nothing. He moves even faster and harder, hitting my womb aggressively sending me into a state of addiction for this feeling.
My moans grow louder, my heart is pounding fast, and I grip his forearms feeling my fingers biting into his muscles. I was reaching another powerful orgasm, and he can feel it. His hips falter a bit as his lets out a guttural growl. I feel his knot forming inside me, but he keeps going, he’s holding back until I cum. My thighs start to shake violently and before I knew it, I’m gushing around his fat cock so hard, and it feels amazing. I yell out hard gripping his back as he keeps pushing, riding out my orgasm before finally I feel spurts of heat filling me up, coating my walls in heavy spurts.
His muscles tighten as he holds me close to his body, as if constricted around me. His knot expands inside me locking us together. My walls are vibrating around him the blissful high and pressure in my groin still very much there. I pant raggedly my throat dry from the moaning and panting and other noises I have made. He remains pressed to me his forehead pressed into my shoulder licking at the bite mark.
“Are you in any pain anywhere?” he asks as he finally looks at me, his eyes now gentle and soft. I lightly shake my head, and he gives a soft, almost needy look. He raised his hands to gently touch my cheek and use his thumb to glide over my lips. “Speak to me.”
It felt like a command, but I could hear the desperation of the request.
“I am not in any pain.” I replied. He seems relieved and goes back to nuzzling my shoulder and then my neck as we wait for his knot to deflate.
“Do you still want more?” he asked. I felt he was wondering if the aphrodisiac had calmed down. I shook my head.
“No.” I said watching him carefully to see if he’d accept my answer. He nodded with a low hum.
“Then we won’t use the ointment anymore unless you wish it.” he said lowly. I look up at the cave walls trying to quiet the sensations in my body. But I nod, nonetheless. After some time, his knot goes down and he slowly pulls out of me. My walls are sensitive and still gripping him some, but I sigh as I felt suddenly empty. Silently he moves off the bed after a moment and he moves to grab his mask and dip it in the vat of water before placing it to his face and taking some long breaths of the water.
Now he moves to the table and grabs what looks like some cloth. He comes back onto the bed and presses the cloth to my inner thighs cleaning me up. I was still watching him do this for a moment. His movements are gentle and calm as he cleans me up. With his free hand he’s merely rubbing my legs.
He then gets up again from the bed and moves to the table and grabs some fruit and a knife and he begins to cut it open. I watch him turn to me, proudly naked, and he bites down into the fruit and comes back to the bed. His cheek is large with the fruit as he leans down on his knee and holds up the other half of the fruit. I sit up slowly and take the fruit and silently we eat. It’s sweet.
“The ambassador and the scientists will be released tomorrow.” he said after swallowing. I glanced at him and nodded.
“Good.” I replied. I hoped they would get home safely, and it wasn’t a ploy for nefarious reasons on the Talokanil’s parts. He glanced at me for a moment.
“Knowing that this was your fate do you regret ever helping the Talokanil children?” he asked curiously. I looked at him before remembering the children. If they weren’t a ploy to inevitably get me here, which I do believe Namor would never use his people a pawn, then I can imagine I wouldn’t hold ill will toward them.
“No. I do not regret my gathering with the children, nor do I regret saving them… even if it all led me here.” I said. He looked a bit skeptical. “I do not blame innocent children for the actions of the adults in their lives.”
“Would your brother share the same sentiment?” I winced as I thought of my brother and his feelings. He was probably very angry and sad that I was taken. I shook my head softly.
“I don’t know… you took his only family from him; you took me from my only family.” I said softly.
“And now we are a family.” he said as if trying to make me feel better. I sighed gently.
“With what he is going through- with what Wakanda has gone through… I would say right now my brother is capable of anything.” I told. Attuma seemed to take my words into account, and he nodded, and we kept eating.
Normal POV
M’Baku was standing in his chambers merely looking out at Wakanda as it slept. This was his home, and he had to protect every life in this city. It is what he dreamed of since he battled the late T’Challa. There was a firm knock on the door.
M’Baku merely grunted and in came Shuri who gave the Wakandan salute before entering.
“My king, you wanted to see me?” she asked. M’Baku turned and looked at Shuri with glimpse of warmth in his eyes and nodded.
“Yes. I need you to get me a report of all our inventory from resources of our mines and all our food sources.” he said. She stood straight and nodded.
“For just Wakanda?” she asked. M’Baku shook his head.
“No… for all of Africa. I need reports on all ports with fishing boats and any other resources used for bringing in any type of sea life into Africa that makes its way to Wakanda.” he said.
Shuri winced some trying to wrap her head around why M’Baku would want this. Was he worried about Namor using the sea life to somehow poison any food coming into Wakanda?
“I can get this report, but it will not be a quick thing.” she said. M’Baku nodded in understanding.
“Get it to me as fast as you can then.” he said before turning from her. Shuri bowed and turned from him but paused and looked at him. She remembered the look in his eyes after killing the mercenaries who tried to break into their vibranium labs.
“M’Baku… I know what it feels like to lose your sibling… you and I… we both have lost our parents. I have lost my brother, and your sister has been taken but she is alive. Every decision you make from here on will not just impact her return, but all of Wakanda…”
“What are you saying Shuri?” he asked trying to keep his annoyance in check.
“We tried to capture Namor, and his people still managed to get the upper hand last year. I am saying whatever we do, and we will do it together, but whatever we do we cannot fail.” she said.
M’Baku nodded slowly.
“You are right… what I have planned cannot be done in a matter of days or even a few weeks. The fish man does not want an alliance he wants to rule over us and he’s using my sister to do it.” he said before turning and looking back out into the city. “Kore and our two scientists will be back tomorrow. I will hear what they have to say, and how I move forward, whether I decide to go through my plan or not, will be based on what they tell me.”
Shuri nodded.
“Whatever you plan… I am with you as are all the other tribes as well. We must answer this injustice with justice.” she said. After a brief silence Shuri left his chambers. M’Baku stared at the glass before silent tears fell down his cheek.
‘Survive my sister… I will save you.’
-----
Author's Notes
i finished this while lying on my stomach XD anyways what do you all think M'Baku is going to do?
#wakanda forever#blackfemoc#blackfemaleoc#attuma#Attuma x Blackfemaleoc#Attumablackfemoc#namor#princess shuri#m'baku#nakia#smut#hostage
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"Baby, don't make me spell it out for you...you know i want you"
Something i wrote in an ungodly hour instead of sleeping.

♡Pairing: Profesor!Jimin x Student!Reader
♡Word Count: 1.2k
♡Warnings: PARK JIMIN WITH GLASSES.
A dragon devouring paper after paper. His eyes like two marbles gobbled up every word you had written, smoke coming out of his nose and mouth every time his hand dropped a sheet on his desk.
Jimin looked at you for a second, less maybe, but you knew that meant one of two things: either your writing sucked or you could go get your diploma, you didn't need to pay to learn creative writing. You settled on the sofa intertwining your hands. You knew it was the first.
His brows went from furrowed to surprised in just three lines, almost unnoticed. It was a talent of Jimin's, that of not reacting or in such a subtle way that it went unnoticed by the human eye. So what the hell did you write on a night that had your teacher on the brink of a nervous breakdown?
Another sheet is arranged with the others on top of the desk. Only the last one is missing.
You closed your eyes and let the carbon-furred cat approach you. You let Mr. Jazz purr by your side, knowing you were in for an extra class on top of the previous 6 you had this morning.
Jimin lifted his glasses from the bridge of his nose and then looked at you, his movements always fluid and slow. As if they had been choreographed. He never moved his hair without first thinking about it or lighting another cigarette until the one between his slender fingers warmed his knuckles.
He and Mr. Jazz were an extension of the same stream. Little trickles of water that fall at the same time. Jimin clucked at him calling his cat to his lap and he responded instantly, leaving you alone on that huge, rough piece of furniture on the other side of the office.
"So," you began the conversation desperately, his silence and fixations had you on the verge of burning every piece of paper in the fireplace.
"So," he repeated, pulling a pen from his jacket, firm scratches on an open notebook. That scared you, you knew you should have turned in the job you had half finished. It was better than a hasty piece of writing after four glasses of wine and a sleepless night.
"Fuck, Jimin. Even in purgatory, they would judge me less." A nervous laugh came out of you.
Jimin looked at the words he had jotted down in his notebook, the cigarette went to his lips with a chuckle. You didn't understand.
"Am I a comedian now?" Before you could grab your writing, Jimin snatched it from you. Your chest contracted when you felt his warm hands touching yours, as if it were fire you took it away. Your eyes studying the floor instead of the dragon's eyes.
"May I?" Jimin grabbed the notebook and got up from his desk. With flushed cheeks and a mindset for the lecture that was coming, you nodded.
"Animalistic. Want. Lascivious. Velvet. Hungry. Burn. Frantically." Jimin began to say walking slowly to the office door to let Mr. Jazz out.
"I don't understand-"
"Open." he continued "Appetite. Divine. Tease... Jimin." Your eyes went to your professor's devilish grin, small and tight-lipped.
You crossed your arms and walked in his direction stealing the notebook from his hands. He did not object.
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"What are you trying to tell me?" Jimin stubbed out his cigarette and cocked his head "All those words were on the last page."
"Sorry?"
"You don't have to apologize. It just seems strange to me, even knowing that you wrote this less than twenty-four hours ago," he glanced at the watch on his wrist, of course he knew you wrote it overnight. "I find it incredible how...notorious your piece is"
"Notorious?"
"Evident"
"Yes, I know what it means." you were talking over him. Your hand squeezed the notebook in your hands.
"Well, then you understand how erotic your piece becomes in the end."
"Yes."
"It was on purpose?" Jimin raised his eyebrows resting his hands on the edge of his chair vehemently.
"Yeah." You don't really remember much of the last few pages. Your teacher sighed after looking at you for a long time, the fire was crackling in the fireplace and your hands tingled with the desire to throw the entire writing into the flames.
"Was it on purpose that instead of your main character, um...," he grabbed the paper on the table, "Jack. You wrote my name several times in the dialogue between his wife and him?" You don't remember anything from the last few pages you wrote, the wine had erased part of your memory and the protocol of reading everything twice before delivering.
You swallowed hard, looking for where to put your gaze without seeming you wanted to sink into your shame. "I wrote it on my cell phone and sometimes it changed to your name." You stuttered.
"Don't try, lovely. I can see how red you are even in the dim light from the window," he said grabbing the notebook from your hand, his chest was so close to yours. His fingers took their time as he brushed the material and the ring on your ring finger.
You breathed out looking into his eyes, the flames reflecting in his pupils making it look like all hell had broken loose on him. Who knew that reading his name a couple of times on a piece of paper could make a man's ego grow so big?
"I don't understand what you want me to tell you." His flirtatious smile made you want to slap him, his cheekbones looked like two apples you wanted to bite into.
"Implore. That's my favorite word."
"I already told you, Mr. Park. It was an incident, nothing good that my drunken brain came up with last night." Your gaze fell to his lips as he licked the corners of his.
"You know what they say about writers and alcohol."
"That they make a romanticized, disastrous mix?"
"That too. But also about honesty."
Jimin nodded, his free hand moving slowly to your neck brushing his fingertips behind your ear. Your legs trembled, wetness suddenly pooling in your cotton panties.
"Park," you muttered. "Really, I'm sorry." You started trying to keep your composure. "I don't know why I left that writing for last, I've been concentrating too much on my thesis and-"
"Baby, don't make me spell it out for you... you know I want you." Jimin whispered longingly, pushing his glasses up into his hair.
"What?" the notebook fell to the ground when his hands slipped to your ass squeezing hard until you got closer. You could only gasp grabbing the collar of his shirt.
"I. Want. You." He grabbed harder, looking deeply into your eyes. Raspy voice.
You were in shock, still not understanding.
"You're so clueless when I least want you to be." he whispered while giving pecks to your jaw.
"Park, I don't know what you're talking about." Your eyes did not stop analyzing his lips tinted pink, shining with his saliva. Hungry.
"Baby, you didn't write my name on your piece." His left hand went up to your waist caressing your side with his thumb.
"Then why-?"
"Because I would have loved to see it written in that sweet glossary." You searched his eyes under his dark hair.
"So it's good?"
"No, you can do better than that. I don't think you want me grading an overnight paper."
"No." you interrupted him, drunk on his perfume.
"Good." he interrupted back, lifting your legs off the ground and making you pin them around his waist. "Now, if you let me, I wish to recreate part of your piece."
Your mouth was watering. The craving you didn't know was about to change your palate.
#bts#jimin#jimin bts#jimin imagine#park jimin#jimin smut#drabble#bts drabble#bts imagines#dark academia bts
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Among the Sun Ch 21
Description: Miguel has been practicing reigning in his jealousy, but he can't resist reminding you of your time spent together in dreams.
He is a beast, a wild creature trapped within a mortal form, and he rages, rages against the sight of you laughing so easily with Andreas, he can feel your joy, the sense of security Andreas invokes in you. It is maddening. He debates killing Andreas, debates begging the man to divulge his secrets to tell him how he inspired such confidence within you, but he knows the answer, it is time. Andreas has had many years to build a friendship, one that is not confined to the hours of sleep, not hindered by distance.
It was Andreas that was first able to touch your skin, who first heard your cries of pleasure with waking ears, while Miguel could only take you in dreams.
He could claim he was first; he had been your first. On Miguel’s fifteen birthday, you came to him, kissed him, shyly asked him if he would be the one to deflower you. He told you not to give yourself to him as a gift, that your mere presence was more than satisfactory, but you had insisted. He did not need to feign awkwardness; his only intimate encounters had been with the butcher’s daughter, who was older than him and preferred to control each encounter.
Miguel was fumbling, nervous, afraid to harm you, while you were fearful of disappointing him, anxious that it would hurt, but eager to join with him in such an intimate way. He found beauty in that, in your shared inexperience. You had looked at him as if he were a god, confused and delighted by the sounds and sensations he brought forth in you.
Yes, he can claim he had you first, he shall have to remind you of that when you arrive, to remind you that it was he who taught you all you know, his name you moaned in your sleep. He has all intent to do so, to ask if you would like to repeat the night prior. He knows you were aware of his actions, he had confessed, you had confessed, it had been an almost humorous moment, one that led to you remaining in his arms as you slept. A victory for him.
Yes, he can remind you, but when you appear in his study, hair plastered to your face by the rain, gown clinging to you as if a second skin, he finds he wants nothing more than to fall to his knees before you.
“My water nymph, how ethereal you are this rainy day.” He says, taking your hand and pressing it to his lips.
You smile at him, it’s small, hollow, and his chest seizes.
“Are you well? Peter, have someone fetch the empress a change of clothes.” He orders, guiding you over towards the fire, dragging a chair closer so you can sit. “You will catch your death of cold.”
Once Peter slips from the room, he kneels before you, holding your hands between his own to warm them.
“I am well, simply a bit chilled from the rain.” You tell him, the firelight shines in your eyes. You are radiant, radiant, radiant.
“And dare I ask why you found yourself caught in such a storm?”
“Andreas is returning home today, to be with his son. I wished to say goodbye.”
Thank the gods.
“You will miss him, I am sure.” He has been practicing his responses, tempering his anger to avoid upsetting you. “He is a piece of your home returned to you.”
You nod hesitantly, tears collecting on your lashes. “I do not wish to sound ungrateful…”
He reaches up to cup your face, wiping the tears as they fall. “No, no, you do not.”
“I thought perhaps I might marry him, when I was young.” You admit quietly, eyes downcast. “I feared you would never come, then you disappeared from my mind and all other suitors were so boorish, or old.”
He curls his free hand into a fist, willing his rage to recede.
“He was kind, handsome, my age, and we shared a history, I knew he would treat me well.”
No, it is not rage, it is jealousy, burning white-hot, scorching him from the inside out.
“And I knew I would be somewhat satisfied, not that it was quite pertinent in my mind, but it was a slight worry—”
“I have a question.” Miguel cuts you off, sliding his warm hands under your skirts, delighting in the goosebumps that follow.
“Yes?” You ask, your face, your beautiful, beautiful face wears that endearing expression, the one that tells him you’re becoming aroused before the faint scent hits his nose.
“Do you remember a mere two or three years ago when the darkness broke for a single night? It was the anniversary of my coronation, and the people had been calling for me to marry. I had such a difficult time falling asleep, and then there you were. Spread out for me, aching and needy, whining for me to take care of you.”
You shiver, your eyes darkening, and he feels your pulse skip a beat, his hands inching closer to his sought after prize. “Now that my memories have begun to return, I do remember a handsome man climbing atop me, whispering my name as he ravished me. How he begged me to finish with him so desperately.”
Your hands find their way to his hair, nails scraping across his scalp, and he shivers as well. “Can you find fault within me for wanting such a thing? You sound so beautiful when you finish, and when you finish with me? It heightens every sensation.”
You hum in response, a happy, contented sound, and he swallows hard when you spread your legs for him ever so slightly. “Such flattery, I never do tire of it.”
There is enough space for him to squeeze between, forcing your legs apart further. “Nor will it ever run dry.”
You look down at him, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “I believe we have ruined our chances at being merely friends.”
“I have never desired us to be only so, I always desire more.” He resists the urge to compel you, to have you pliant in his hands.
“As have I…” You admit, hands moving from his hair to his horns, seemingly finding them a suitable handhold. “I desire more.”
Your arousal hits him full force. “All you must do is ask.”
You tighten your grip on his horns and drag him forward, pressing his nose against your bud, his mouth watering as you begin to grind tentatively against his face. “Please?”
TL: @not-aya, @belos-simp69, @deputy-videogamer, @sxnasbitch, @minimari415, @syndrlla97, @gejo333, @lady-necromancer, @zeyzeys-stuff, @tayleighuh, @loser-alert, @envyjmoney, @allysunny, @princessloveweird, @freehentai, @xlittlebubx-blog, @berry-potchy, @drefear, @jkthinkstoomuch, @ihateuguys, @yuuotosaka3, @queenofroses22, @ray-rook, @lollipopin, @faexsins, @drefear, @scorpihoooe, @mellowvisions15
#meg's writing#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#among the sun#emperor!miguel#halfdemon!miguel#princess!reader#miguel o'hara x y/n#miguel ohara x you#miguel ohara x y/n#ats
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The Echo and the Stain | ch 31
[Excerpt:]
Fuming, she shoved him with her hands pressing firmly upon his chest, launching him back as she exclaimed, “Get off of me!”
The padawan stumbled backwards, swiftly regaining his footing to prevent falling to the ground. He puffed out his chest trying to catch his breath and thanked the Force that her sudden move had eliminated his arousal completely, leaving him feeling insecure but less so than he had been moments earlier.
His eyes that had been wide and embarrassed were now glaring at her as he hissed, “What is your problem lately?”
She attempted to lunge forward but remembered she was unsteady in shoes that were too small for her long, thin feet, and she flinched, holding herself as still as she could manage. “My problem? My problem? How are you capable of going through life when you are oblivious to what is happening around us?”
Obi-Wan’s fists curled shut and then opened again as he tried to center himself. He would not give her the satisfaction of scolding him again. He managed to keep his voice steady as he growled, “Do not talk to me like I am beneath you.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Satine’s eyebrow perked up. The heat that she had felt from his lips against her skin sparked a flame within her that burned low in her belly, fueling the fire that flew from her mouth as she shot back, “You are not my equal. You are my protector. I shall talk to you anyway that I like.”
Rage threatened to consume him, and Obi-Wan bit down on his lower lip as he reached out into the Force until the urge to reply with cruel words passed; and when it did, he was struck by the depth of her feelings.
Standing across from him, the Duchess of Kalevala moved like a lithe Corellian sand panther, shifting her weight from side to side. Her eyes were fixated on him, studying him as if he were her prey, and then she licked at her lips.
Those beautiful, impossibly soft lips of hers.
And Obi-Wan’s mouth went dry and he held his breath as the Force could no longer keep her emotions at bay. The humming of her Force signature surrounded him, surprising him with both anger and desire, a craving so undeniable that it could not be mistaken for anything else. The closeness they had shared and the faux pas of his body against her own had not been a problem; it was the lack of initiation on his end that had been offensive.
His breaths grew heavy as realization and confidence made his pulse quicken and he pleaded with one word: “Cyar’ika.” The term of endearment felt natural as he uttered it, looking in her eyes, longing to be the young man who could rise to every occasion and fulfill every possible want she could ever have.
“Cyare,” she breathed.
--
Chapter 31 is up.
(I am still actively writing and all. Life is just insane right now. That whole "one chapter a week" business? *laughs insanely to herself, rocking in a corner*)
#the echo and the stain#obitine#obi wan kenobi#satine kryze#duchess satine#obi wan x satine#omg why are teenagers so fucking hormonal#both of them idiots#but idiots in love
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