#(tagging those on Graces' behalf)

[emilythezeldafan]

oh the pains of liking a character no fanfiction writer/roleplayer writes for

[ixiot-ghostrebel]

Another sagau reader hearing someone insulting characters and going apeshit but when someone insults reader are like "......hmm shodul I drink hot chocolate or tea today?" This time ganyu( becose I still pissed at one guy who insulted her i her own story quest) bennet and nilou (another chance to make azar feel terror)

COMING RIGHT UP, ANON. THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING OMG 💀 I have been too dead without these requests, fr.

Click Me For Part 1!

When Someone Insults Ganyu, Bennett, and Nilou vs When Someone Insults Reader...

(Disclaimers: Might Be OOC, Mentions of Violence, & Quest/Genshin Impact Lore Spoilers!)

Ganyu

Okay, first of all: Yes, I am adding that stupid idiot cough Xin Cheng cough into this.

You were just following the Traveler and Paimon, joining Ganyu's Story Quest which, for some reason, was not completed yet. So, you decided to tag along to see Ganyu!

You weren't hyped when that beggar came out of nowhere and started to do all that fairytale stuff even you don't approve of—and you were someone that sticks themselves into your own head, thank you very much.

So when this man started to gain the audacity to insult Ganyu, you knew you had to step up and do something. No one, and you quite mean it, was going to insult her and get away with it.

"Hey!" You came out from your hiding spot (you're the Almighty Creator, you know it'll make the situation worse). "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, huh?"

Xin Cheng pales at the sight of your enraged figure. He stutters to make an excuse, but you cut him off. You're having none of it.

"Get your useless self out of here, before I decide to kick it down the mountains myself!"

To say that Ganyu was shocked that you were getting angry over a mortal was an understatement. She was beyond surprised that you even stood up for her.

But she did have to intervene with your threatening—after all, she is still an Adeptus. Protecting the people of Liyue was still her duty.

"Your Grace...Please let him go. I'm sure he already understands his mistake." Ganyu's soft voice only made your anger increase—she sounded so upset!

"Y-yes, please, Your Grace! I understand what I've done wrong, I—"

"Silence." You glare down at the mortal. Your turn back to Ganyu, and considered your choices. While you wanted to wreck absolute vengeance on this man, you also didn't want to hurt Ganyu's feelings more.

Guess you were going down Trauma Lane, then. You sigh, and stomp your feet as you turn around to glare at Xin Cheng, catching his petite form by surprise.

"If I ever see you do this again..." Your eyes narrow. "Believe me when I say it—you will be granted no mercy by any adeptus nor Rex Lapis himself. Now SCRAM!" With that, he was running for the hills. You weren't entirely satisfied, but you'll take it. For now.

What would Happen if Ganyu heard you get insulted? Well, first of all, she would gasp quietly to herself. What was this blasphemy? She's utterly horrified.

Ganyu thinks she might faint once she realizes you were nearby, checking out vendor goods next to where the gossipers were spilling terrible insults of your image.

"Y-Your Grace! Please accept my apology on behalf of the people of Liyue." Will literally run up to you and apologize for them. While she may not be the one who did it, she's still cares about the People of Liyue—and thus her reasoning as to why she's askign for the mercy of the Almighty Creator.

Your puzzled look turns to Ganyu. "Who are you apologizing for?" Ganyu blinks.

"The, uhm—the gossipers..?" You're still confused, until your eyes shine once recognition hits you like Truck-Kun.

"Ohhh, those dudes! Yeah, don't worry about them—they're pretty boring, saying the same thing like a broken record. Say—wanna shop with me? I'm paying, of course."

And that's how you got Ganyu to be more comfortable around you! :D

Bennett

Ah, our unlucky yet optimistic adventurer! This boy—he is good. He's cool, and he's rather awed by most of the kids in Mondstadt.

He was hanging out with Razor and Fischl when someone decides to insult him. this genuinely upsets him—after all, they were insulting his ability and his position in the Adventurer's Guild...

Already, Razor and Fischl were already up to defend him, but what they didn't expect is for the Almighty Creator (aka you) got to it first.

"I beg your pardon," you say through gritted teeth. "How exactly is having a bad luck aura got to do with ANYTHING related to being an adventurer?" You're glaring so many daggers you could practically say you were breaking all the walls. "Perhaps we'll see just how lucky you are when I send you to Dragon Spine and watch your dead corpses FREEZE TO DEATH?"

The insulters were paling the more you went on. Razor and Fischl aren't sure what to do—you're already there, dealing with the situation.

But Bennett? Well uh, like usual, his bad luck got the best of him, and he accidentally stumbles towards you (miraculously). He bumps into you, and you shift your gaze onto him.

"Uh—Sorry, Your Grace! I really didn't mean to bump into you, I swear!" Poor guy is scared because his bad luck affected him at the worst time of all. He thinks he might get killed.

You though? Oh, hell nah. Your gaze already soften, and you decided to show favoritism! You pull the boy into a hug, glaring at the insulters one more time as a warning to scram, before you go back to enjoying giving the boy affection!

But when Bennett hears you get insulted? Well, first of all, screw his bad luck because the insulters were quite literally telling him how bad of a Creator you were!

He immediately tries to avoid getting too deep into the discussion, trying to sway the topic elsewhere to no avail, and he pales when he realizes you were literally a few steps away from them!

And it seems his bad luck gets in the way again, because you just turned right as he was staring at you with shocked eyes!

However, instead of being mad, you were actually beaming when you see him. You wave at Bennett, smiling.

"Bennett! Help me choose some flowers, yeah?"

"Uhm—uh, Sure, Your Grace!"

And that's how the insulters were hiding in their homes for the rest of their lives as you merrily dragged Bennett out of that horrendous conversation.

Nilou

Honestly, do I need to say who decided to insult this amazing dancer?

Yes, it was fricking Azar again. What is up with this crazy old man, nobody knows. Perhaps you should put him in prison for a while until he's gained a sense of appreciation for the Arts. ALL of the Arts.

Apparently, when you had drilled fear into this man, he thought it only applied to flipping Nahida. As much as you love Nahida, you are not going to have Azar twists your words and make it seem like you grant him permission to snark down other people—especially the people of Zubayr Theater.

So when Azar finally decides to have scholars gain the nerve to insult Nilou on behalf of his stupid brain, you (of course) just had to get yourself involved with this.

"Excuse me, but since when did you have the audacity to judge someone else's profession of art, simply because it isn't 'academic' in any way?" You spat. "Where I come from, Art courses are necessary in order to move on in your academic life." When Nilou hears you, she, first of all, is grateful of you stepping up for her, and, second of all, very scared of what might be happening next.

The scholars pale, but they seem to have taken your comment as a debate.

"With all due respect, Your Grace, the Arts are anything but educational—"

"Was I looking for a second opinion, dimwit?" You narrow your eyes. "Besides, have you yourself ever tried the Art of Dancing or the Art of Music before?"

"Well—uhm, no, but—"

"Then shut up, then." The scholars begin to panic as your voice becomes low and dangerous. "You don't have an excuse to be judgmental if you haven't even tried this stuff yourself."

"Ex-Sage Azar told us to say this!" They blurt out, and that only increases your rage. Seeing that things might escalate, Nilou steps in.

"Your Grace, let's not be too harsh!" She exclaims, waving her hands frantically. "I'm sure they understand what they did wrong. There's no need to have them punished." You narrowed your eyes in disagreement, for a half second, Nilou thought she made the situation worse.

But when you sigh heavily, she knew you relented. You glare at the scholars again.

"Tell Azar if he does this again, to ANYONE, I'll cut his head off, and there's no more excuses there. In fact—bring me to him. I'll have a talk with him myself."

Yeah, Azar got traumatized again :)

But when Nilou hears you be insulted? Quite literally behind your back? She thought she was going to faint from the gossiper's comments alone! You being there to listen it to it all only made her feel worse.

She was about to confront them, until she saw other people nearby dealing with the situation. So, Nilou decides to check up and see if you were okay...After all, those comments weren't nice.

She was pretty shocked when she realized you were contemplating over wares instead, completely unbothered by the drama going on behind your back. Nevertheless, she was still going to apologize in case you were just hiding your emotions.

"Uhm, Your Grace—I would like to apologize on behalf of all of Zubayr Theater. We should've done something earlier." You look at her, confused.

"What are you apologizing for, Nilou?" You ask. She blinks.

"Uhm, the gossipers, Your Grace..?" Your eyes widen, before you bark a laugh.

"Oh, those dudes! Yeah—don't worry about them, honestly. Say—help me pick: should I get hot chocolate or tea from this lovely store?"

Let's just say you had a fun time hanging out with Nilou for the rest of the afternoon :)

AND THAT'S IT! WE ARE DONE! I AM SO SORRY FOR BEING INACTIVE AND TAKING 30+ YEARS TO FINISH THIS, BUT IT'S HERE! :D I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED IT!

Ghost Rebel Side Notes: To anyone who's waiting for The Lost Shining God of Celestia, yes I have been writing on it. However, due to personal life problems and other IRL circumstances, it's taking a little longer than expected. I am sorry, everyone!

✦ Check out The Ghost Rebel’s Blog Description & Info Page to See if Their Mailbox is Open! ✦

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Always an Angel, Never the God Pt 3

Pairing: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Runaway!Reader

Words: 1096

You left a trace. Hiccup has some thoughts and a lot of pieces of his own to pick up along the way.

Tags: Runaway Reader, Angst, Heartbreak, Projection, Denial, Internal dialogue, First to Third break is NonCanon/SemiCanon/Can be read Separately

<Previous - Full- Next>

Hiccup traced the faint outline of a Night Fury in the ice with his fingertips.

He tried to suppress the bubbling hope and dread at the thought his mother had been lying to him and his father about being alone all those years.

 He had left to get some air and to give his parents time together to linger while the snowstorm outside abated, taking shelter under a misty overhang of ice just off one of the tunnels leading back into the main dwelling. One that had fortunately not fallen victim to the heavy layers of snow drowning the uncovered surfaces below. 

Toothless had followed him out, of course, and sniffled curiously at the ground, giving the other few doodles littered across the ice an inspection of his own. Hiccup sat back, covering his mouth with his hand as he mulled over the implications.

He then stood, staring back into the tunnel leading back into the sanctuary. Much of the awe he had felt earlier at the discovery of his mother had washed away and a wave of uncertainty and hurt replaced it.

He knew he had been given grace. A lot more than he deserved. 

Since everything had changed, terrible mistakes became minor inconveniences. People no longer whispered about Hiccup the weird, Hiccup the Useless, the Hiccup who just didn’t get it. Rather, every jest on his behalf was now just another one of his strange little quirks. 

He did his part. He was happy to have a part now. A real one.

(He’d had a part. Blacksmith, inventor, friend.)

(Mistake.)

He thought they’d do the same for you. But you weren’t doing well. Even though he was busy with his new role, he noticed. He noticed when you fell behind, when you still couldn’t seem to find your place.

(His father, looking at him with shining eyes.)

He begged for you to not fumble this chance that you both had to be different. To be a part of something real, something tangible.

(He was so proud.)

Except. 

(It made him sick.)

He knew what it was like. To be the odd one out, to not be able to do things quite the way you were supposed to. After all, if he hadn’t had Toothless then he would still be the same old Hiccup. 

(He felt like the same old Hiccup.)

So yeah, it made sense that you weren’t always the first on call. It made sense, when you lagged behind. Why you weren’t part of the group the same way everyone else was. 

(Was he?)

Like a wall had been shattered and the curtains pulled, he’d been witness to some of the moments between the other Dragon Riders he’d not been included in when he was ‘other.’ Moments that he just couldn’t quite indulge in, that used to be aimed at him, that caused something ugly and sad to curl tight in his stomach.

That left the sour taste of stomach acid on his tongue that he couldn’t wash away, no matter what he drank or how many times he tried.

So he vouched for you when the whispers started. Hounded them until they stopped, despite the creeping feeling that they were right. Clung tightly onto the few moments you were able to spend together. The way things used to be.

(Pushed down the tiny voice telling him he still didn’t belong.)

Days. It took days for them to notice you were gone. Truly gone. And they couldn’t be sure at all when it had happened, what or why. 

They assumed you were dead. Once the next devastating winter set in, there was no way you could have made it on your own.

They locked your hut. An empty grave. The key, he’d taken and melted down into other things.

But. there was always a but.

Hiccup was a good handyman. For the most part. He’d caused a lot of handy-requiring, meaning he’d had a lot of practice.

He broke your lock.

Hiccup stared down at the piles of maps, noted, traced and copied sprawled across your desk, pulled out from underneath a loose floorboard by your bed. He clenched the various compasses and sea charts hidden in drawers and carelessly thrown under dishware.

 It turned out you had a lot of free time on your hands. 

There was something missing. Something missed when the other riders would joke and prod, wielding inside jokes he’d never been privy to just as easily as they wielded swords and hammers. And now he had no one to share with when they did.

There was something missing late at night working on a new tailfin, or a rig, or early in the morning when he was too tired to piece metal jigs together.

It just wasn’t the same, going to Fishlegs or Snotlout with these things, and heaven knows that Astrid wouldn’t entertain the idea at all. It was the dragons that appealed to her most. She was an early riser and an early sleeper and for many reasons she appealed to him, but she just couldn’t be what Hiccup needed. Not then.

You faded away as if you were a ghost, a door to a room no one used.

They didn’t get how it felt to spend all those years being the odd one out. He needed someone who got it. He needed someone who got him. A friend.

And like a note in the margins of a bad story, eventually no one mentioned you at all.

He flew as far and as fast as he could. Mapping the world, exploring farther and farther, as if he might somehow be able to trace your footsteps, following a lost trail that one day a long time ago you might have paved.

He’d flown as if, once he’d flown far enough, he might have been able to understand where you’d gone. 

(Why you left him.)

They figured a way to identify dragons through scale patterns. It was a skill Fishlegs had perfected first, taking vague, long held knowledge and putting it into practice, doing the math.

Hiccup ran his hand down the side of this dragon, eyeing the torn wings, the spiked crown. The jaw.

Recording its age, its gender, his place of origin.

“You know this dragon?” Valka asked cautiously. Distrustfully. She was leaning against her staff, face guarded. He didn’t need to look to know that last bit, he heard it just fine. 

Hiccup furrowed his brow. Two fish, a scratch under the chin. Dragon nip, a saddle, carefully woven and tenderly worn.

“I trained it.”

[pretty-batty]

Jewish Eddie Munson?

More like Cantor Eddie Munson!

Eddie Munson dreamed of being a cantor. Upon surviving the upside-down and fleeing to his grandparents' synagogue in Tennessee, he began his journey to achieve that dream.

He relies on the Sephardi pronunciations to perfect his trills, harden the t's, brighten this ah's. His Yemeni Hazzan insisted on it.

How you got to this Yom Kippur service doesn't matter. Jewish or not, you are there.

You gaze down the aisle on the holiest day at the holiest time, he stands with the weight of the community on his shoulders. Wrapped in his tallit, nearly bound by a kittel, head to toe in white, only a siddur in his hand to guide him.

So far from the arc.

"Hineini." Here I stand "He'ani mima'as." Deficient in good deeds, "Nir'ash v'nifchad mipahad." Trembling in fear of the one "Yoshev tehilot Yisrael." Who abides amidst the praises of Israel.

The weight of Chrissy's death looms over him, the deaths of that small town in Indiana, and in these moments he thinks of everything he didn't do.

His life was a lack of deeds worthy of God's grace. His only pride, his Hellfire Club, lead to mortal peril for his flock, his friends, those kids. One near death sacrifice could never balance the ledger.

Yet.

Here he stood, in his shame, in awe of God, he begs for absolution regardless of his own behavior, not for him but those around him. His congregation. The gates to heaven are closing today, the days of awe are ending.

He continues, his voice growing in fullness and volume. As he passes you, feet stopping, he holds out a note, a cry to Shaddai and her name, all-being on high. The melodic wail, so pleasant in its desperation moves you to tears. His feet begin moving again.

He recites in that ancient tongue:

"I beseech thee to help me in my task, to invoke thy mercy on my behalf, and on behalf of those who sent me."

He can smell the rot of Vecna, the frying of wires, all that blood and flame. It has been ten years. He can still smell it. In the moments of joy, in his loves and friendships, in the eyes of his children, it still remains.

The broken bones, the bloody eyes, the burning bodies.

"Let them not suffer through my failings."

At first I wanted to do a happy thing but then I was like, "No. We're doing hineini and I want angst." If you want to hear what it sounds like, enjoy. Tag list: @userchai @alohamoramylove

[what-the--curtains]

Fire & Ice

Chapter 4: Innocent Indiscretions

(Robb Stark x f!Targaryen!reader)

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

Summary: Disappointed in her sons behaviour, Catlynn plots to remove any and all distractions from his path leaving you caught in the crossfire.

Authors Notes: Thanks for all ur love and patience heres chapter 4! I hope it doesn’t disappoint💕💕

TW: Hearing Voices, swearing, mentions of pregnancy, grief

Word count: 4.9k

Tagged list: @kittykylax @winxschester @mihrimahsultan03 @stargaryenx @the-desilittle-bird @roselibrary @luxlisbonlover

Playlist

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

You wake tired. The sound of Viserys screams plagued your sleep. Even in his death he would not let you rest. You move about as if in a fog careless in your movements as you dress absentmindedly. The sun rises orange over the tree, casting a red hue across the sky as you exit your tent. The trees whisper as you walk, leaves rustling ready to fall. The smell of death clings to the air, suppressing your appetite. 

The smell wasn’t the only feeling turning your stomach. Even a man as stupid as Visery would not have penned a letter with such obvious intents of treachery. If Visery was targeted, you may be next. 

With Jorah off fighting on your behalf, you were left alone more often than not, leaving you vulnerable. You could not call him back, if your life was in danger you needed information. Information that would only come from the men that fought for your husband. 

The camp is quiet when you return and the hearth in your tent casts a shadow against the fabric. 

“Lady Rhaeanya, my apologies. I hoped to be finished with my business when you returned, lavender is said to help cleanse the air and ward off bad spirits,” Catlynn states stepping back from your bed.

“You need not apologise, your kindness is most welcome here at any time, if nothing else the lavender will rid the smell from the air,” you reply, laying your cloak down atop an armchair. 

“There is another matter of business I hoped to speak with you about today,” she states, as the sound of footsteps approaches. “Enter,” she shouts. 

The curtains part revealing a man clad in armour bright as the day with silver birds engraved along it. The armour had been cared for, dents and slashes dull against the polished material. Your eyes follow up towards their face finding it equally as perfect as the armour he wore. Clean shaven, warm deep brown eyes that drop to the floor as he bows, dark hair falling slightly as he does. 

“Lady Rhaeanya, this is ser Kean Darrion, he is a Night from the Vale, one of the few sent by my sister,” her inflection tense, evidently Catelynn had expected more “ I have known him since he was a boy, he visited Winterfell frequently after he became one of Jon Arryn’s squires, he was recently knighted by Lysa a few years back. We have entrusted him to protect you, and any future heirs you may have,”

“We?” you question. 

“Robb and myself,” you stifle a laugh. 

“Lady Stark, I understand your concern and I mean no disrespect to Ser Darrion, but Jorah is and has always been…”

“Ser Jorah represents you on the battlefield, and you are too often alone. Besides, two guards often prove better than one,” 

“Your Grace,” Ser Darrion says bowing once again, “It is my great honour to offer protection to someone so valuable to our cause, and I will happily share the duty with Ser Jorah if you will allow me,” he was beautiful, princely, like those you had read about in fairy tales, the ones from dreams you had long abandoned. 

But beautiful people were dangerous, meant to disarm and distract you. He could belong to anyone;  Lysa, Robb, Catelynn, the Lannisters, you should proceed with caution. However, there is a benefit to keeping one's enemies close.

“If you are willing to offer your services freely to me, then I will accept ser Darrion,” a smile pulls at Catelynn's lips, perhaps this was a test. Perhaps a trick, a handsome knight to tempt you, a reason to end your allyship with the Starks. Adultery was not smiled upon by the gods, old or new. 

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

“You have to leave her behind,” Catelynn enforces, laying her hands flat against the table “you have a duty.”

“To who, exactly?” Robb replies

“To your family!” she proclaims “To your sisters trapped by the Lannisters, to you Brothers stuck defending Winterfell when they should be revealing in their childhood, a luxury you were granted,”

“And you think she’s going to help us get them back? I would have done this alone if you had given me the chance and not gone behind my back,” he shoots back 

“She is the last of a bloodline that was usurped from the throne; marrying her has given you the best opportunity for victory! Do you understand that? The value of her name?” 

“And how has that name helped us so far?” he counters

“It has gained us an ally in King's Landing,” Catelynn responds, and Robb turns to look at her “The Lannisters have lost Arya,” she stalls, swallowing hard, “and Sansa is still betrothed to that monster Joffrey, and that her face is frequently bruised,” she finishes. 

“I’ll kill him,” Robb whispered, fist clenched tears threatening to spill. 

“Not alone you won’t,” Catelynn affirms, her hands on Robb’s shoulders. “You both will take King's landing, she will sit on the Iron Throne and you can return to Winterfell with your sisters, back where you belong with your family, is that not enough?” 

“I will not give up the person I love for power, I…” he stutters, stalling, looking for the right word.

“And what about family?” Catelynn presses. Without an answer Robb turns to leave, bumping into Jorah. 

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Jorah replies bowing

“It was my fault, Ser Mormont,” Robb concludes, continuing on his warpath. He looks back as Jorah enters Catelynn's tent, wondering if perhaps he should return. 

“If you won’t have her I will,” Theon states, drawing Robbs gaze forward. 

“She’d eat you alive,” he replies, watching the smirk on his oldest friend's face grow wide. 

“I’d hope so, I’ve heard girls from Essos have a particular speciality of going down south, is it true,” he pushes “very well keep your secrets, but if your not having her once a night you’re the biggest idiot this side of the river,” Theon states

“There's more to a woman than appearance,” Robb states. 

“Did she not win you a battle, besides I’ve never known you to need a smart woman,” he chuckles, eyes turning as a few nurses walk back. 

“You’re thinking of yourself,” Robb laughs as Theon looks over slightly offended, but shrugs his shoulders and laughs along with him. 

“For a King with two beautiful women you still manage to walk around like you’ve got a stick up your arse,” Theon states, watching Robb turn stern faced towards him “Apologies, Your Grace,” 

“You’re an idiot,” Robb laughs. 

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

“Lady Stark, you sent for me?” Jorah asks bowing as she turns towards him

“I have ser Mormont, I am sure you know my husbands banishment of you is something I stood by,” she recounts, watching Jorah shuffle on his feet. 

“Yes my Lady, as you should. It is a moment I wish erased from my past,”

“If it were you would not be where you stand today. Mistakes need to be remembered so they do not happen again. Lady Targaryen trusts you whole-heartedly, I however am still undecided.”

“For what it is worth to you, Lady Stark, I am no longer the man I was in younger, more foolish years. Money and love blinded me in the past, I now know the evils it drives a man to,”

“Evils and lengths. Money can certainly buy love, I believe it may be able to send it away. You must know by now, as he has made it obvious, that my son is not… well, he is not faithful to his vows,” she states, flushed with embarrassment. 

“I have heard mumblings amongst the men. It was not my place to verify the truth of it,” his apparent calmness betrayed by the clenching of his jaw. 

“He is a good man, despite what you may have seen of him. Had Talisa not been a factor I am sure Lady Targaryean would have known a different side to him. She is important to our cause, intelligent and a strategist worthy of challenging the Lannisters, I do not want her to feel this unwelcome. He needs her. Whether he understands it yet or not,  she will help lead him to victory, she will give the men something else to fight for, but only if he remains focused, singularly on winning this war,” She stalls, eye Jorah searching for a reaction, 

“I entrust you with this because I know you wish to see her on the throne, I know you would not betray her and if you can help it, you will not fail her. I have recently learnt the purpose of Talisa’s arrival to Westeros, in search of funds and medicine to send back to her ailing mother and brother, she writes them and sends money. I know her commitment and love for her family runs deeper than that which she has with Robb, all she needs is…”

“A nudge in the right direction,” Jorah finishes  “Thank you for trusting me with this Lady Stark, I will not fail your house, not again”

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

“Talisa” Jorah coughs, having caught her in the woods gathering medicinal supplies

“Ser Mormont, I am surprised to see you here I did not take you for someone who enjoys strolls through forest,” she smiles knowingly, “If you come here on behalf of Lady Stark I commend you but she, and you, and I all know by now that I cannot control the actions of her son,” she replies gathering medicinal herbs. 

‘No, but perhaps something exists to encourage you to part from his side,” He offers

“I hardly doubt…” 

“They offer a sum,” her hand stalls, still as the breeze blows her hair. “A large sum, enough not only for your comfortable passage across the narrow sea, but to ensure the greatest care and medicines for you mother and brother if you are to return, but only if you return indefinitely,”

“I will make the money myself,” she insists, hands once again gathering with speed. 

“Take it from someone who once believed hard work would satisfy the demands of life. No amount made on small wages will be able to save them, nor will it pay for the time you are able to spend with them if a cure is impossible,” he says softly. 

“How much?” she whispers, hardly audible. 

“More than you will ever need,” he relays, kneeling beside her. 

“Enough to save them?” she whispers, tears frosting her lashes. 

“I cannot guarantee that, but I can guarantee that this war will wage a long time, and the longer you stay the more they wither,” 

“What of Robb, what…” she stuttered, wiping her eyes, rarely did she allow them to fall lest in front of strangers, but her heart was conflicted, torn by the love for her family and love for a man she could never truly have.

“You need not see him again, we have a ship prepared ready for departure. I will escort you there, and then to your family to ensure all promises made are kept.” She swallows,  “He is safer with you gone, you must know that,” she wipes her eyes, looking up to Jorah, handing him the herbs she had collected standing to full height, she straightens her dress. She could not abandon her family, not when the possibility to save them was in her reach.  

“I have no things worth packing, but I do ask one favour from you Ser Jorah,”

“Anything My Lady,”

“You deliver Robb a note from me, I will not let him go on in life thinking my love for him was false,”

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

You sit in Catelynn’s tent, transcribing documents for the maesters, war messages in uncommon languages, a recent development you implemented to stop Lannister eyes from reading them in the field, delaying retaliations.  

A sense of peace washed over you as you wrote, the faint scratching of pen on paper lulling you into a relaxed state.

“Tell me it isn't true,” The tranquil atmosphere suddenly shattered “Tell me this is not what I think!” Robb shouts, breaking your focus causing you to smudge your script. 

“Robb of what do you speak,” Catlynn asks, standing from her chair, concern plastered on her face. You re-ink your quill returning to your work, family matters were well outside your scope.  

“You had her paid off,” he retreats from her touch.

“Robb,” Catlyenn shakes her head.

“You're doing no doubt considering Ser Jorah escorted her home himself,” he directs towards you.

“I do not even know what…” you begin, but your level tone is interrupted by another shout. 

“Talisa,” he proclaims as if obvious, “she has returned home, back across the narrow sea” causing you and Catelynn to exchange a look. 

“Then I am not surprised Jorah escorted her. He knows the way better than any, her safety will be secured until she returns I am certain of that,” you reply, glancing briefly at Catelynn. If she had anything to do with it, she hid it well. 

“She will not return though will she, you having sent her away,” 

“Why would I wish to send away the only thing that kept you out of my eyeline on a regular basis,” you reply, mind focused elsewhere. 

“Because you’re a spiteful person,” he prods, voice low. 

“Bold words coming from you darling,” you reply, flipping the page on your scripture.

“I killed you vile brother so you what? Send away my one source of happiness” he pushes. 

“Visery was more a prison guard than family most days. I thank you for expunging him from my life. It saved me a great deal of moral anguish,”  you relay through gritted teeth angered by Robb blaming you for another situation that was completely out of your control. 

“You resented our love, you were jealous of it,” He sneers. You lay down your quill and meet his gaze, it was not rage or malice that drove him, the pain was etched into him. It was obvious, so obvious that you should have let it go. 

“Forgive me Your Grace, am I mistaken or did she not just leave on her own volition? Perhaps your love was more one sided than you thought,” The air falls silent. Words were your weapon, and you had just delivered a wounding blow. 

“Leave,” his face is thunderous despite his silence, “I do not wish for you to be in my sight tonight or any other night for that matter,” you raise your brow despite the sudden shame you felt creeping up your spine “Now,” he snarls. 

The chair creaks as you stand “Thank you your highness,” you curtsey “for dismissing me from your court.” 

An admixture of remorse and validation courses through your veins as you flee towards the woods. Pride in your ability to fight back, but shame in your lack of restraint. Wounding someone already in pain. 

“Why,” Robb asks, tears threatening to spill over after you leave. Perhaps you were correct, perhaps his love had been stronger than hers. Perhaps Talisa had used him for his position, leaving him now he was married and her opportunity squandered. 

“Robb, she was never attainable long term, what were her options? A mistress until her death or yours? Rhaeanya’s death allowing you to remarry? Perhaps she simply realised this life was no longer what she wished for,” Catlynn explains softly. 

“I'll never forgive this,” 

“When you storm King's Landing and retrieve your sister from the clutches of Cersei Lannister this…this will feel like nothing but a distant memory. I have no reason to suspect your wife was behind Talisa’s departure. I feel she too is is upset as you will be spending more time being unpleasant towards her,” she scolds

“And she to me, I will not burden the entire blame for the hatred between us,” 

“Someone has to bend Robb, this tension cannot hold,”

“And that must be me?”

“You are in your homeland surrounded by men sworn to you, she has no one, and you just burnt her brother alive, so perhaps it should be you,” She relays condescendingly, if he was to act like a child, perhaps he should be treated as one. 

“She’ll receive no such kindness from me, if not to spite her then to spite you for what you have done to the last remaining ounce of my happiness. Everything I've done has been for you, why not allow me this once,”

“She left on her own accord Robb believe me or not,” 

“She would have told me,” He counters, and Catelynn falters, eyes glancing down. “What?” Robb whispers. 

“She sent a letter. I kept it from you, and for that I admit wrongdoing,” Robb strides over snatching the paper from his mothers, the letter read and carefully resealed by her hands, ensuring no words suggesting her involvement “read it yourself, and perhaps then you will see,” she replies leaving Robb alone with the letter. 

The words proved true enough information none could have known concealed within. She had left to return to her family in their final moments, not because she did not love him. He pushes down tears mourning the life that could have been as he reads her final lines. 

“I am fortunate to have known you, Robb Stark, and your good heart. I will cherish every moment spent in your presence. Let go of what could have been, but do not forget me. Bury me beneath the ground and return to look upon me with fondness

All my love,

Talisa”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Alone in the woods you curse yourself for the pit forming in your stomach, for the remorse you felt, and for the apology that sat at the edge of your tongue that you bit back out of spite. Jealousy was not the right sentiment for what you felt towards Robb and Talisa. You were not jealous, you were tortured by their love, pained by how much it reminded you of Drogo, and the love you once had. How he looked at you, how he protected you, how he craved you. 

The memories of a love you would never know again and the pain you felt every waking moment as you mourned alone. 

A motion diverts your gaze, you rub your eyes clearing them as the tree’s whispers follow your movements and turn into sentences. 

“Come deeper my lady”

“We wish to speak with you” 

“What! What do you wish to speak about with me,” you shout, sadness intermingling with anger, “tell me what you seek,” but there is no response, no response, save from the sound of footsteps fast approaching. You compose yourself when you see Ser Darrion, quickly wiping away your tears. 

“Ser Darrion, my apologies, I am… I… well I...” you stall, unable to find an explanation. 

“I didn't mean to frighten you, Your Grace, I saw you head to the woods I followed and then I heard shouting,” a silence continue between you, “ I must admit, you are making my job difficult,” He smiles softly “It will be my head if I lose you, and other parts if a wolf took you,”

“I am not so sure losing me would render you an enemy with my husband,” you mutter “I am sorry to have worried you, and I apologies for losing my composer, I am not so hysterical most days,” you reply, taking the arm he offers you. 

“Grief is all consuming, it rips through your entire body. Sometimes shouting towards the sky, or at the trees offers comfort, and I see no madness in that. My condolences for your loss,” he says, the sincerity of words southing you, the only condolences you felt were sincere. 

“Thank you Ser Darrion, you have managed to make me feel sane in a world that seems to unravel my very fibres of being,” 

“I was sorry not to see you at the day’s strategy meeting. I must admit, I am eager to see your mind at work,” 

“It seems to be the only way I am able to contribute besides producing a future king. I used to dream of fighting those who stood in my way,” you admit, causing the knight to smile up towards the sky “Cutting down those who had wronged me, securing my way to the Iron Throne, back to my ancestors freeing their bones from those who hold them captive still…well you know the rest,” you finish abruptly, rambling was one of the many things Visery had scolded you for. 

“I would prefer to hear your version,  it seems that besides strategy you possess a great talent for weaving tales, and I assume great speeches,” 

“I read many great speeches in my youth, I transcribed them for the old masters across the sea. You pick up on a few things, but speeches do not win wars,” you relay 

“I would argue they do, though if you wish for training in the way of the sword, I would gladly offer my services. I offer my qualifications of being a knight,” he relays, his smile catching your eye. 

“Only a knight,” you reply and he chuckles, it's warm, and it fills you with heat. Your arm drops from his as you re-enter the camp, despite your desire to hold on, you would not play the hypocrite, knowing what you had said to Robb on the basis of properness. 

“Thank you for finding me, Ser Darrion,” you relay eyes finally meeting him. “I am glad to have another ally here, and another person to talk to. The trees will finally be free from my lamentations,”

“I would listen to you speak all day, and for what it matters, I am not the only one who wishes to converse with you. Lord Umber and Lord Karstark speak highly of you, even Lord Bolton managed a uncharacteristic compliment on your competence,” 

“Is that so?” you chuckle

“When you wish to begin training, let me know, I would gladly beside you on the field,” he says, 

“I can hunt well enough,” you admit, not wanting the conversation to end “at one point I could shoot a sheep a good thirty yards right in the eye,” 

“That I must see, speak with your husband about the lessons, I'm sure he will approve,” Ser Darrion bows, leaving you feeling in better spirits than you could remember since arriving here. Any jollity souring when you turn to see Robb approaching, you prepare for battle, but it doesn't come, he by-passess you grabbing a few books before departing, not returning again till the morning. Women were frequently brought in for the men, perhaps he had gone to drown his sorrows in them. 

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

A recent setback had increased the tension around the camp. The men needed a fight, or they would soon forget what they were fighting for. 

 Robb was unfocused, overworked and heartbroken. He had been pacing more, dark circles had appeared under his eyes. He needed a plan, one that was not coming to fruition. If he could not come up with a plan, then perhaps you could. So you followed him, each morning for the past three days to the war room, staring over the maps on the table while Robb remained hunched over candle light. The following day, you find yourself glazing over, as Robb circles the table, pushing and prodding houses, returning and replacing them. The book in your lap was a last resort, writing on early wars upon man's first arrival to Westeros, but you had read half a dozen books this morning,  and you grew tired of the feel of pages.

“You have nothing better to do than stare at me,” Robb asks. 

“Perhaps I was considering every possible way you could be assassinated,” you state evenly, causing his head to raise. His mouth is ajar in an attempt to decipher your words. The tone showed no sign of being a joke or a threat, he could not read you, not in the slightest. “In order to circumvent it of course.” you finish

“I’ve seen men hung for less,” he mutters

“A noose would free me from my dull cage of existence,” you retort. 

“If you are bored,” he says exasperated, “then perhaps you should learn a skill, any would suffice.” 

He returns to starting down at the carving. You sigh, pulling out an older book you had gone over the other day. You walk over, dropping it down before him, his gaze looking to you, as you open it. 

“This is in Valyrian,” he says blankly

“My mother tongue,”

“And how is this supposed to help me?”

“Well I assumed you could not speak it so I transcribed it,” you pull out loose sheets filled with neat handwriting, laying it down beside the map. 

“Why?” he questions, suspicion dripping from his lips. 

“I want to beat the Lannisters just as much as you do, ancient strategies in other languages may be a good way of outsmarting them, or at least levelling with them,” you explain, as Robbs eyes skim the writing. 

“Perhaps we have found at least one thing in common,” he murmurs, picking up the sheets. 

“Besides our utter disdain for each other? Well that and the Lannisters killing our fathers, not that they were much alike,” 

“And our brothers, well only an attempt in my case”

“I wasn’t aware,” you state sympathetically “but it was a Baratheon who killed my brother for loving your aunt,”

“For abducting my aunt,”

“You believe that?” Robb looks at you, and you opt to let it go. 

“What happened to your brother,”

“They pushed him out a window, he was ten” 

“Murdering children has never been above the Lannisters, I doubt your brother will be their last victim. They will pay for their sins. Review what I made note of, tell me what you think, if you see a fit for it somewhere. I can’t quite place how it should be adjusted for your army, and well you know your men best, “

“You wish to freely spend time in my company? 

“I wish to stop you from ruining my chances at the throne,”

“Your chances,” he asks gruffly, 

“The iron throne is mine, I will get to it, with or without your help,” he laughs, “Had we not been forced into this situation I would have my own way across the narrow sea and the Lannister’s would have paid their debts. As for my learning a new skill Ser Darrion has offered me training to defend myself.”

“If it will free me from your presence, by all means,” 

Ser Darrion stands outside the tent, guarding you as promised to Catelyn 

“Well, when do we begin?” 

“Begin?”

“Our lessons,” 

“We’ll start tomorrow,”

“I look forward to it,”

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

 You startle back at Robbs presence in your shared tent, his figure lit by the warm hues of the hearth. 

“You startled me,” you relay, but it gets no acknowledgement. 

“We need to have a frank conversation,” Robb says

“Have you identified a strategy?” You guess

“I believe so, but that is not the matter we must speak of, it is more urgent, perhaps more sinister,”

“Is this it?” you question, Robb’s brow scrunching  “you’re finally going to reveal your plans to kill me?” he relaxes, for a moment you think a smile crosses his lips 

“Not yet,” he replies, sitting down rolling up the sleeves of his undershirt “It pertains to your family, to your lineage and what you wish your legacy to be. Now, you made it clear on the night of our wedding that you would not breed my heir, but what about yours. With your brother dead, you are the last Targaryen,” 

“I am acutely aware of my isolation, thank you Your Grace,”

“This is not said in spite, it is said in practicality. You will take the Iron Throne, it is your wish, yes?” you nod your head “you are intelligent, tell me what happens if you take the throne and die without an heir,” The issue of legacy had crossed your mind multiple times since Viserys death. You thought more time would have been allotted to make plans. 

“All this starts over, and that in itself is a reason to fight against us,” you reply

“We must make it apparent that this will be the last great war, that once you pass, it will not restart a cycle of battles and kings,” he was right, infuriatingly, and on multiple levels, but as you stare the fire Mirri’s laugh enters your minds, her words of your barrenness, your inability to reproduce. The price you had paid for a life you took. 

“Well I know of your displeasure towards my behaviour though I  was not aware my appearance was so adverse to you as well,” Robb relays, a poor attempt to make light of the grimace across your face. 

“I want you to know that I do not make a habit of breaking promises, a person is worth only their word, my threats are rarely made and when they are they are kept,” 

“That being said,” his eyes meet yours, “I  will revoke my oath to never allow you to touch me, but I remain on the fact that love will never bloom between us. The soil is rotted and I am well aware you have no longing for me. I will produce an heir as it is a necessity, but it does not go beyond that. Is that understood?” He nods.

“I shall speak to the wet nurse for the best times to begin.” 

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

Summary: He’s been alive for more than a hundred years. After everything he’s seen and done, what he really wants is to dream.

Characters: Soldier Boy/Benjamin Grace x multiple readers/characters

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, dream sequences, bondage, dirty talk, name-calling, this will eventually get dark and each posted part will have its own warnings

Words: in progress

Author’s notes: SB's full name is the product of too much research on my behalf and a dash of star-spangled fuckery. I also tweaked his dad's middle name, so I'm not writing fanfiction about a real-life steel tycoon.

Eugene Grace was the president of Bethlehem Steel Corporation (in Philadelphia) from 1916 to 1945 and chairman of the board from 1945 until his retirement in 1957.

A libertine is a person devoid of most moral principles, a sense of responsibility, or sexual restraints, which they see as unnecessary or undesirable, and is especially someone who ignores or even spurns accepted morals and forms of behavior observed by the larger society. Libertinism is described as an extreme form of hedonism. Libertines put value on physical pleasures, meaning those experienced through the senses. As a philosophy, libertinism gained new-found adherents in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, particularly in France and Great Britain. Notable among these were John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, and the Marquis de Sade.

SUSPENSE | FEAR | VIOLENCE | GORE | SUPERNATURAL

[sithsjedi]

TITLE: TV Tropes

OBJECTIVE: Browse this website and select 3-10 tropes that represent your chosen character. You may elaborate on these selections if you wish, but it is by no means necessary.

TAGGING: @vendettavalor (Sutek), @divinehr (Priscilla), @ofthestcrs (Aadila), @enkindledrage (Seth), @lmperiums (Crimson), @mvndrvke (Seril), @shadowedlights (Archeon), @ncmad (Ellie), @forcehunts (Tara), and you!

⠀ ⠀

Shi’al Valorum — Canonical Timeline

⠀ ⠀

ALL-LOVING HEROINE: Shi'al — at least, prior to the rise of the Empire wherein she BECAME HER OWN ANTITHESIS due to Darth Sidious’s machinations — was renowned throughout the galaxy at large for her kindness, compassion, and empathy. An idealist at her core, Shi’al always believes the best of everyone, and is adamant that the galaxy is inherently good. Shi’al will not hesitate to provide second chances, and strives to encourage redemption for those who have done evil. In her later years, after the fall of the empire, her immense compassion leads to her pitying Dark Siders such as Darth Sidious and Darth Tyranus instead of fearing them.

* In the FORCE SUPPRESSED universe, there exists an EITHER/OR PROPHECY which speaks of a being who will “either guide the lost back to the light, or plunge the galaxy into endless night.”. Shi’al is revealed to be the child described by this prophecy — she is capable of either being the ALL-LOVING HEROINE who helps redeem those lost to the dark side, or becoming a COMPLETE MONSTER worse than Sidious who destroys the light to create a Sith Empire.

MIRROR CHARACTER: To Count Dooku. Both Dooku and Shi’al began their stories with an earnest desire for positive change in the galaxy and used an inherited public platform to make it happen; however, both were also manipulated, led astray, and corrupted at the hands of Darth Sidious. While corrupted, they share the ferevent belief that their sins are righteous.

BLUE BLOOD: By virtue of her status as the sole child born to House Valorum, Shi’al is a member of the Coruscanti Aristocracy. Shi’al both subverts and personifies this trope throughout her narrative; she uses her inherited social power as a stepping stool for her activist career to fight on behalf of marginalized communities, but during Palpatine’s reign as Emperor, she loses touch with the galaxy’s populace in her effort to construct Sidious’s ironclad public image.

CHESSMASTER SIDEKICK: To Palpatine. Shi’al is one of Emperor Palpatine’s closest advisors and, as his Press Secretary, the architect responsible for creating and maintaining his public image.

GILDED CAGE: Although Shi’al operates under the belief that she has the freedom to explore the galaxy and travel to where marginalized beings need her efforts most, this is naught but an illusion. In reality, she has never experienced true freedom once in her life and will not do so until Palpatine is dead. Palpatine is the puppet master that has designed almost every aspect of Shi’al’s life as part of his grand plan for galactic domination, and only his death will truly free the songbird from the gilded cage in which she is imprisoned.

PRETTY PRINCESS POWERHOUSE: She is beauty, she is grace, and she will punch you in the face. Not only is she a renowned ballerina and opera star; Shi’al also has a gift for martial arts and knife throwing that she utilizes frequently throughout the Separatist War. By age fourteen, she was capable of throwing five knives in quick succession and hitting targets dead-on while blindfolded. She held a third dan Black Belt at the time that the Separatist War ended, and were it not for her martial arts training, she wouldn’t have survived the war. This training enabled her to survive one-on-one combat with Ventress, Count Dooku’s apprentice — and it also got her out of more than one tough situation relatively unscathed.

⠀ ⠀

[alarrytale]

Marte, I will say this once on behalf of all your followers. You are literally the sweetest, kindest, and most patient larrie out here. The amount of difficult and similar questions you get every time about CO, closet, stunts, and their morals is insane, yet you answer them with such grace no matter how many questions you get. Those big larries (Gen*inemusic, twop*ppies, skept*calarrie, and Daisiesonaf*eld) literally brush those things off, and I feel like they kind of believe Louis and Harry are free just for the sake of it, even without actual evidence. Also, Gen is really mean.

Hi anon,

Thank you for the compliments! I don't know how patient i am with the repeated topics ask though. I don't want to spam my dash with things i've answered and talked about many times before. Unless my stance has changed or we get new information, i might not answer. If i don't just scroll or check my tags for previous answers or context.

I think everyone must curate their blog and fandom experience, so if the 'big blogs' you mention don't want to get into things, or give you the answer you seek, i think you should respect that. If you don’t like how they blog or their tone then don't read their blog. No one has all the answers or are up for answering heavy topic asks every day. Answering heavy topic asks also draws out unwanted attention from antis/solos/rads. Your ask might spark hate towards the blog you want answers from. So it's important to keep that in mind 🧡

[shinydixon]

this is another one from that possible vq. this time it's grace saying she's working on her own series and that she's written herself a part (said in the tags) and the vq's/troll's comment is "a romance with Joe I hope 🥺🥺"

I say "troll" because that previous anon was right: they have liked steddie and posts from futuregws. though they've also liked posts from grace. even if they're trolling, their actions grosses me out. like, make fun of phoenix and vqs all you want, but not by mentioning Joe on grace's personal posts! especially not ones where she's expressing that she's not doing well! this is embarrassing. I can't believe I'm appalled on grace's behalf. pretty surprised grace didn't delete those posts after that... or blocked the user? she really didn't check the notes afterwards? the "romance with Joe" was added more than a day later, so maybe she didn't see it.

People should know when to not cross the line.

She clearly said in that post that filming took a toll on her, which means she's not feeling good and so you shouldn't joke on that.

[theladyofdeath]

The Viscount Who Loved Me {Fourteen}

TVWLM Masterlist

An A Court of Thorns and Roses fanfiction, inspired by the first 2 seasons of Bridgerton.

Written alongside @snelbz

**CHAPTER WARNING: NSFW.

Ships: Nesta x Cassian x Elain - Feyre x Rhysand - Elain x Azriel x Gwyn

Summary: (see TVWLM masterlist!)

A/N: Thank you for reading! We're almost 3/4ths of the way done posting this beast! We would love to hear what you think. x

Tag list is at the end. If you’d like to be added, please comment below or submit an ask. :)

Dear Readers,

Is it just me or has a certain Viscount been eyeing a certain Diamond? If only one could know what happens when the ton isn't watching.

The Suriel

Azriel was standing by the refreshments table as others danced around the floor, lost in their partners’ embraces. He had hardly moved in the hour since the ball began and if he was being honest, he wasn’t sure why he was still there.

Cassian and Elain had announced their proposal to the ton.

Azriel should be happy, should be thriving and joyous and celebrating on behalf of his brother, but he could not find it in himself to. The only other person that looked as pissed about the situation was Nesta, who stood against the wall since the announcement.

Cassian and Elain could not have looked more thrilled, however. They spun around together, her lost in his arms. Azriel watched, fretting and wishing he was in his rooms, drawing.

He had just had a glass of champagne when the last person he wanted to see approached him, but the moment she said his name, he was lost in her voice.

“His Grace does throw a lovely ball, Azriel.”

Azriel turned to find Elain staring up at him, eyes wide and glittering.

He smiled, although he feared it wasn’t very convincing. “Indeed. He can complain all he’d like to, but he does have a knack for them.” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice as he said, “Don’t let him fool you though. This is all the work of his housekeeper, he just paid for it all. Miryam is the real mastermind.”

As he winked, Elain’s hand came up to cover her mouth as she laughed. “Well, I guess I can keep his secret.”

Her engagement ring shone in the light of the crystal chandeliers, seeming to glare at Azriel from where it sat on her finger.

Clearing his throat, he gave her another forced smile. “Are you enjoying your time here?”

Elain beamed as she turned around to the room. “I am, Lord Lunasa’s home is certainly beautiful, but it’s the gardens I can’t get enough of.” She faced him again, those brown eyes soft and at ease.

Azriel liked that she felt that way around him.

“I’ll have to admit that they haven’t gained my attention like they have yours, and I’ve been coming here almost my entire life,” he admitted, sipping from his champagne.

“Feyre and I discovered them while you all were on your hunt this morning,” she said, and then her eyes brightened. “Didn’t I tell you Nesta was a good shot?”

“Yes, you did, I just wish I could’ve seen it myself.” His eyes settled on the woman herself across the room. “Largest buck I’ve seen this year and she took it down with a single shot.”

He should start praying to the Cauldron on Cassian’s behalf ahead of time, for whenever he inevitably does something that pisses the eldest Archeron sister off.

“Nesta is very talented,” Elain said, full of pride.

His eyes were on her as she said, “As are you.”

“No.” She waved him off. “Feyre can paint, Nesta can hunt and dance spectacularly. All I can do is garden.”

“It takes a special person to grow something from nothing,” Azriel said, quietly, and something flashed in Elain’s eyes that disappeared as quickly as it had come. The flash of it had his heart tightening and her cheeks reddening.

“Thank you,” she said. “You are always so very kind to me.”

“You deserve that kindness,” he promised. That look in her eyes returned. “Would you like to go for a walk through the gardens?”

Elains smile faltered. “I— now?”

Azriel nodded, making a slight gesture to those around them. “Surely we would not be missed for twenty minutes.”

Elain hesitated. The look in her eyes that he’d liked so much had vanished and now she would not meet his gaze. “Apologizes, my lord, but I must decline.”

The formality of her words had his body tending. “Pardon?”

She met his gaze and there was nothing there. Nothing but something that resembled regret. “I fear it would be inappropriate. It is late and we would be alone.”

He wanted to tell her of all the times they had been alone before but no words came to him. Had he overstepped? Perhaps he had, but when she approached, their conversation had been light, welcoming, comfortable.

Now, it was everything but.

“I was not trying to be inappropriate,” Azriel said, voice low, unsure of what else to say.

“Of course not,” she promised. “But…I am to be married.”

Those words…

She said them as if they explained everything and perhaps they did.

She would soon be married to Cassian, she was another man’s betrothed. Not his. She never would be his.

“I apologize,” he said, and the words hardly came out. 

Her gaze found his for no more than a second, before finding her skirts dreadfully interesting. Nodding, as if that was acceptance enough, Elain played with the ring on her finger.

Cassian’s ring.

Taking a step back, Elain curtsied. “Excuse me, Lord Draeven, I should find my sisters.”

The words felt like a punch to the gut. It had been weeks since she’d used his formal title, had been calling him Azriel since before their visit to Cassian’s country home. “Elain…”

“Good evening, Lord Draeven.”

Her steps were hurried as she crossed in front of him, heading down the long hallway that led to the wing of rooms the Archeron’s were sleeping in.

Swallowing, Azriel watched her go, not sure of exactly what had taken place to upset her as badly as he had. He wanted to follow her, to apologize again, but he thought better of it, downing the rest of the champagne in his hand in one long swill.

Deciding that he was done with the party, he took his leave without saying a word to Rhys or Cassian, not able to locate any of them in the spacious ballroom. If they needed him they knew where to find him.

As soon as he entered his rooms, he regretted it. Should’ve stayed at the ball and gotten drunk on Rhysand’s champagne, rather than come up here and wallow.

Propped against one of the walls was the painting he’d done of Elain. He had debated on giving it to her while they were here, had been mulling over his conversation with Gwyn.

Now, he knew what a mistake it would have been. 

Now, the painting alone brought a pang to his chest.

It was time to accept what he could not control.

Elain would be marrying Cassian. She was not his. She never was and she never would be. It was not his place to ask for walks, was not his place to have meaningful conversation. It was not his place to act as if he cared, even though he truly did.

Azriel took the painting of Elain and placed it in his portfolio, out of sight.

Then he laid down and cursed himself for caring in the first place. 

Yet, as he closed his eyes, her face was the first thing he saw.

Whether she spoke to him or not, he was already damned.

It was simply too late.

<.>

Feyre wondered what Rhysand was thinking as they spun around the dance floor. Without the Prince present, she didn’t feel obligated to dance with anyone else. No, she had danced with Rhysand thrice and although others had asked, she had stated that her card was full, even though it was not.

They had just finished the waltz when they stopped for a drink.

“I am exhausted,” Feyre stated, wiping the dampness from her forehead. “I feel as if we’ve been dancing for years.”

“Take a break,” Rhysand replied, eyes soft as they roamed her. “If you’d like, we can take a walk, get out of the stuffiness of the ballroom.”

“Do you not have duties as a host?” Feyre asked. “Surely they will know you are absent.” 

“I assure you that ten minutes will not alarm anyone,” he promised. 

Taking a moment to look around the room, she found Elain and Cassian speaking with a lord who was known to have connections in the wine business. They were likely discussing refreshments for the wedding.

It was still hard to believe, that her sister was going to be a Baroness. She’d had no doubt that Elain would accept Lord Cassian’s proposal, she would be a fool not to, but Elain had always believed in true love. Even when they were little girls, playing house with their dolls, Elain wistfully dreamed of the day the love of her life would sweep her off her feet and make her his wife. Looking at them across the room, Feyre knew Elain could come to love her new husband, but she knew as of right now, there was no love between them.

It made her profoundly sad for a reason she couldn’t place.

“Feyre?”

The brush of Rhysand’s fingers against the inside of her arm caught her attention again and she turned back to Rhysand. “I think a walk would be lovely, your Grace.”

Narrowing his eyes at the use of his formal title, he caught her smirk as she took his arm and he led her out of the ballroom. Rather than taking a left and heading out into the gardens as Feyre had expected, Rhys turned right, taking them deeper into the manor house.

“Where are we going?” She asked, disappointment making her voice softer than she’d meant it to be. When he’d asked her for a walk, she had hoped it meant they would end up in the gardens again. She’d hoped it meant he was going to kiss her again. Those kisses he gave her when no one was looking, to the back of her neck, the shell of her ear, the inside of her wrist, kept her up last night, the even breathing of her sisters in the same room the only reason she hadn’t sought him out.

The arm in hers tightened as a smile bloomed on his handsome face. “There’s an open air conservatory on the roof. Fresh air and privacy from the leering eyes of the ton.”

A rush of nervous excitement filled her bones. To be alone with Rhysand again…

It was all she could think about. 

She longed for another taste of him, another moment of drowning in pure bliss.

“And why would we need privacy, my lord?” She asked, and he chuckled. He loved how she took his title and used it to tease him. 

“I assure you, I only have the truest intentions,” Rhysand said, leading her to the back staircase. “I will be a perfect gentleman.”

Feyre met his gaze and raised a brow. “Must you?”

Rhysand stopped and slowly turned to face her. His dark eyes were lit with amusement and desire. “And what are your intentions, Feyre darling?” 

“Education.”

She started up the stairs without any explanation and it took Rhysand a moment to spur into motion. Halfway up the stairs, he caught up to her. He stopped her just before she topped the stairs, his hand on her wrist, “What do you mean by that?”

“I told you that I had very little knowledge when it comes to…what we did in the theater.” Her voice started out confident, but she was stumbling over her words by the end. “I was…merely hoping you might be willing to give me another lesson.”

Cauldron, damn him, this woman.

Climbing up another step, he was level with her face for once, rather than his usual towering. Her lips parted as he brushed a thumb over them. “Lesson one,” he replied, voice low, leaning in, stealing the space between them. “What we did in the theater has many names. Call it what you will, sex, fucking, making love, but acknowledge what it is.”

Feyre wondered if he could hear her heart skip a beat, as it did when Rhysand got crass with her, but his mouth covered her before she could say anything. His arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her towards him, and she gasped as her hands braced herself on his strong shoulders. His tongue swept into her mouth, eliciting a soft whimper from Feyre.

Ripping his mouth from hers, Rhys pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. Breathing heavily, he said, “Now tell me again, Feyre, what is it we did in that theater?”

Her eyes were wild with need, the light from stars above making them glow and her chest was rising and falling rapidly. “You fucked me.”

Rhysand shuddered. “And how did it feel when I fucked you?”

“There are no words to describe how magnificent it felt,” she said, and her voice was shaky as his hands swept down her sides, to her hips, where he bunched up the fabric of her skirts. “The experience has left me in utter, agonizing want these last few days. Need.”

“Need,” he whispered, a breath against her lips. “And what is it you need?”

“You.” Her words were barely audible as if speaking had grown to be too much. “You, deep inside of me.”

Rhysand practically groaned at her words. He lifted her skirts up and with every hitch of the fabric, Feyre’s breathing increased. When he had an opening, he slid a hand beneath the dress and her shift until it found the throbbing warmth between her thighs. “And what is it you want deep inside of you?” He asked, kissing her softly, quickly, as a hand slid beneath her undergarments. He slid a finger between her slick folds. She was, indeed, in want. It drove Rhysand mad. “My cock?” He asked, voice low, and slid a finger slowly, so slowly up inside of her. “My fingers?” He thrust them in deeper, and Feyre gasped. “My tongue?”

She blinked, her eyebrows furrowing. “Your…tongue?”

The smile on Rhysand’s face became positively feral. “Imagine that I’m kissing you, just like this…” His words fell off as his mouth claimed hers again, his tongue sweeping her mouth. He only pulled away once she was panting, her hips rolling needily against his hand. He brushed his thumb over her mouth again. “But instead of kissing these lips, I’m kissing these.”

He punctuated his words by swirling his thumb around her clit and added another finger to her core.

“Oh my,” Feyre breathed, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

“Do you think that’s something you would like?” He breathed, praying she’d say yes.

“I suppose we should try it and see,” she said, hands running down his chest. Against his hand, those hips continued to move, begging him deeper, needing something to claim her then and there. 

Rhysand let loose a breath and before she could form a solid thought, he was on his knees.

“Right here?” She asked, heart beating wildly. She looked around even though it was clear that they were completely alone.

“No one uses these,” he said, then added, “except the servants.”

Feyre balked but frowned as his fingers slid out of her. “And if a servant walks upon us?”

Rhysand’s eyes grew dark as he motioned for Feyre to sit upon the smooth marble, wide stair above him. She did as she was told. “Considering they’re all at the ball, they shouldn’t.” He lifted up the skirts of her dress. “But if one should happen upon us, let them see how much I please you.”

It was wild, reckless, and completely thrilling. Rhysand pulled off her undergarments and put them in his pocket before guiding her leg over his shoulder and trailing slow kisses down her thigh.

When he was settled between her legs, he looked up at her and grinned, cruelly and wickedly.

It set her soul alight as that need in her core grew immensely.

“Eyes on me,” he breathed and then lowered his head.

Feyre was holding her breath so tightly that when he pressed a featherlight kiss to her sex, she released a shocked puff of air.

Rhys lifted an eyebrow and raised his head, looking at her. “Yes?”

“That’s all it is?” She asked, voice strained.

“That’s all?” He repeated, and Feyre immediately knew she would regret the words. “Baby, I’ve only just begun.”

His head dropped again and this time, Feyre felt his warm tongue slide between her folds. Her gasp turned into a moan as he repeated the motion but dragged it up further, circling the sensitive nub his thumb had been teasing only minutes before.

Her head fell back, resting against the stair above her, her back arching off of them completely, and she moaned softly.

“Eyes on me, Feyre, darling.”

Rolling her head back towards him was a harder task than she would have imagined, but she found those violet eyes staring up at her. There had been emotion she couldn’t name that she’d felt in her chest for the past week and she found it reflected in his gaze. “I want you to watch me as I devour you.”

Her skin prickled at such a grand word, but it was not used lightly. He did devour her.

He sucked and licked until Feyre was seeing stars. The sounds flying from her mouth echoed in the silent staircase, each one growing in intensity. 

All the while, she watched. She watched his brows furrow and twitch, watched him close and open his eyes, watched his head bob and his tongue dance. And when that tongue of his slid up inside of her, she watched him meet her gaze and grin.

The sight alone had her reaching that point of release. The feeling of utter euphoria was simply the icing on the top of the cake.

The staircase filled with her cries as her knees shook around his head but Rhysand didn’t stop, he only pushed forward, fucking her with his tongue until her body was so tense that he thought she may break in half.

Then he moved back to her clit, sucking the sensitive nub between his lips as two of his fingers filled her and continued to do his tongue’s previous job.

When her release found her for a second time, Feyre practically screamed his name, followed by a string of curses that should never leave a lady’s mouth. 

Rhys waited until her knees quit shaking, waited until her breathing evened out to press a kiss to her inner thigh and lower his legs from his shoulders.

He adjusted her shift and then pulled down her skirts to cover her. As he reached for her hand, he crooned, “Consider your lesson complete.”

Her smile was brilliant as she stood, legs almost as wobbly as they’d been the night they’d spent together. “Very enlightening, your Grace.”

His tongue darted out, licking his lips, and it took Feyre a moment to realize what he was doing. What he was licking off of his lips. Her cheeks burned. “Can— Is that something I can do to you?”

The lust that had extinguished in his gaze came flooding back. “You want my cock in your mouth, Feyre?”

The way he spoke, it both scandalized her and aroused her. “If it’s something you would want.”

“You have no idea how much I would want that.”

Grinning, he leaned in and kissed her. She tasted it then, something salty and heady and…sweet. Pulling away, her tongue brushed her bottom lip and Rhys’s eyes tracked the movement. “You taste divine.”

Feyre could hardly breathe with how badly she wanted this man, needed him. She was about to ask him to take her to her room, his rooms, it didn’t matter where, just as long as he was between her legs, fucking her within the next few minutes, when there was a noise from the hall at the bottom of the stairs. He turned and looked, waiting, listening.

Finally, he turned back and cupped her face. “We should go back to the ball, we’re bound to be missed by now.”

Disappointment bloomed in her chest, but he was right. Nesta had no doubt noticed her absence and would be questioning her as soon as they returned.

She nodded and he gave her one last kiss.

It wasn’t until they re-entered the ball, him walking to the left, her to the right, that she realized her panties were still tucked away in his pocket.

<.>

For the entirety of the evening, Cassian could feel Nesta’s eyes on him. It bothered him far more than it should have. He didn’t care for her approval, didn’t even care that she did not approve of him marrying Elain.

Yet, the very thought of her sent a sensation through his body that had his heart pounding out of his chest. This woman was insufferable, a complete misery. Whenever she was around, she was all he could think about. Even when she was absent, she filled his thoughts.

It was not right, how she had begun to consume him. After watching her kill the buck that morning, his feelings had only intensified.

And they had been so close, sharing a breath. If the deer had not approached, Cassian feared he would have done something that he could not take back.

Yet, for a moment, there had been a look in Nesta’s eye that almost, almost resembled longing, resembled adoration, resembled need. 

He needed some sort of distraction to help him get through the night, but neither of his brothers were anywhere to be found, nor was his betrothed. She’d slipped off nearly half an hour ago to refresh herself and hadn’t yet returned.

Glancing around the room, Cassian wondered if he could disappear for a moment himself. The ballroom was full, people dancing and drinking and, most importantly, distracted. It was likely that no one would notice him leave and he would be back within just a few minutes. Why swig champagne when he could drink whiskey?

As he was about to leave, he realized he hadn’t seen Nesta and, for once, didn’t feel her weighted gaze on him. He knew that meant this was his best chance to get out unnoticed and headed for the hallway off to the side of the ballroom. As he approached the foyer leading to the bedrooms, he heard a familiar voice and felt a familiar gaze.

Elain was speaking with a few ladies of the ton, mamas included, and Nesta stood beside her.

“Lord Nazari,” one of them called as soon as she saw him. “We were just congratulating your fiancée on your engagement. We cannot wait for the wedding.”

The smile on his face was forced, but after years of perfecting it, no one would know. He couldn’t wait either. As soon as he was married to Elain, these ridiculous thoughts of Nesta should be gone forever.

Or so he kept telling himself.

As he looked up to the woman in question, he could have sworn that she saw right through his false grin.

His eyes tore from her and settled on the mama who’d spoken. “Thank you, Lady Chamberlain, we are excited, as well.”

Elain was beaming up at him, but when he smiled down at her, he didn’t see the same intensity in her eyes that he saw in Nesta’s. He saw happiness, of course, but Elain was marrying him because it was best for her family and because he’d asked.

He remembered the scandal from last season. He had been drunk for most of the season, but he remembered the way she’d looked at the man who’d been courting her all summer.

She didn’t look at him like that.

“The ring is absolutely beautiful,” another said, holding her hand out until Elain delicately placed hers in it. They all stared at it, not a single thing that could be scrutinized. “What jeweler did you visit, I simply must stop in and see what else they have to offer.”

Cassian’s eyes were on the ring, no longer feeling his hand at the base of Elain’s spine. “It was my mother’s. No jeweler in town will have anything like it.”

“Ah,” the woman said, then went on to ramble about something that Cassian did not seem to hear, so he did not bother. He tuned out, although he kept that smile on his face just in case someone was looking, watching. 

“Do you care to take a walk through the gardens, Lady Elain?” One of the young women asked. “I would love to hear your thoughts on your big day. Unless your betrothed wishes to spin you about the floor, of course.”

Elain looked up at Cassian but he shook his head. “Oh. No. Whatever Miss Elain would like.”

Elain looped her arm through the young lady’s and a group of them were off. Cassian watched them go only to look beside him and see that Nesta had not gone with.

No, she was looking at Cassian, watching him intently. “Were you trying to escape the festivities, my lord?”

“On the contrary,” he argued, turning to face her. He couldn’t help the sarcasm that leaked into his tone as he said, “I was looking for you, to see if you were enjoying yourself.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed, knowing perfectly well the thoughts that ran through his mind. “What’s not to enjoy? It is a lovely ball. I only have so many before I bid Velaris farewell. I may as well enjoy them while I can.”

Cassian’s entire being stilled. His heart stopped beating. He stopped breathing. His very soul halted in its existence.

“You’re…leaving?” His words were stilted, short. “When? Why?”

From the way her eyes flared slightly and her shoulders tensed a bit, it was clear she hadn’t been expecting his reaction. “I made a promise to my mother that I would make sure my sisters were ready for their debuts into the ton. Making sure Elain and Feyre find respectable matches is the only reason I have lingered in Velaris as long as I have.” She swallowed roughly and looked off to the open door, at the road that led out into the dark, into…wherever she wanted it to lead. “I have no doubt that Feyre will find a husband by the end of the season, once her infatuation with your brother recedes, and since you and Elain will be married soon, my promise will be fulfilled. I won’t be the poor, beautiful spinster who was too cold to find a husband. I’ll be…whoever I want to be.”

He wasn’t sure at what point he started shaking his head, but the back and forth was constant. “Where are you going? When will you leave?”

“I don’t know, my Lord, not until Feyre is at least engaged.” She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, but her gaze didn’t feel judgemental like it did before. “And I don’t know where I’ll go either. Wherever the wind takes me.”

Cassian stared at her for a moment, unsure of what to say. There was too much he wanted to say but nothing he could put into words, so he simply stared until Nesta shifted on her feet.

Then he was spinning away from her and hurling himself into the hall. 

He thought he heard something behind him but he ignored it. The pounding in his ears helped with that.

Leaving.

She was leaving?

What foolishness. She couldn’t just up and leave. It was ridiculous, yet he knew that she had meant what she had said.

In hardly no time at all, she would be gone and there would be nothing he could do about it. Not that he wanted to do anything about it, at least that’s what he told himself.

Yet, he ducked into the library at the end of the hall and shut the door behind him. Unable to control his breathing, he gripped the desk with white knuckles. 

He should not care if he ever were to see Nesta Archeron again. Yet, the thought of her absence left a hollowness in his chest that he could not fix. 

The door opened and closed behind him.

“What is wrong with you?”

He knew she’d follow him, somehow he knew. Turning, he was surprised to see Nesta’s eyes burning and her cheeks red in…in anger. “I would’ve thought that you would be thrilled about my departure, my Lord. Elain is free to make her own decision and she has made it, even though she knows how I feel about you.”

“And how do you feel about me?” His voice was far louder than he meant for it to be, but she did not flinch from him.

The storm in her eyes raged on. “I hate you.”

He rounded the desk between them. “Do you?”

As he approached, she steeled herself, it was as if Cassian could physically see walls going up in her eyes, her heart. “Yes.”

“And why, pray tell, do you hate me?” He paused a healthy distance away. “What exactly have I done to make you hate me? Why have I earned your scorn?”

“Because…” Nesta’s chest was heaving and she closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Because you vex me!”

Cassian almost laughed, but he didn’t. Nothing in his life had ever been more serious than what was happening right now. But the fact that she found him vexing? When she infuriated him so?

“And what is it that you think you do to me?”

Nesta was still shaking her head, but those eyes had shuttered a bit. “I don’t care what I do to you.”

“Because you hate me?” He asked, voice low, stepping closer.

Her breath caught at his approach. Her eyes burned into his but they had lost their edge. Her gaze alone made his body tense, hard, and he longed to take her face into his hands and bring that longing into fruition with his mouth against hers. 

“Yes,” she breathed. “I hate you.”

A lie, a complete lie, but a necessary one. He stared at her, hands flexing at his sides. 

“Nesta,” he began, her name nothing more than a whisper. He was close enough now to hear how uneven her breathing was, was close enough to see her hands trembling. Yet, her eyes never wavered from his. 

“Yes, my lord?” For once, his title was not a sneer on her tongue. Instead, it felt like a request; a quiet, sensual demand. Her chest was flushed, her cheeks paled.

Cassian’s tongue trailed his bottom lip and her eyes quickly darted from his to track the movement. He hadn’t realized that they had gotten so close that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, as if there was a gravitational pull between them that defied all logic and propriety. 

“I am a gentleman…” he began, and he wasn’t sure if he was reminding her or himself. He thought back to Tanwyn’s words when they had last met, when she had acknowledged that he was certainly not a gentleman. Perhaps she was correct.

“And your heart is with my sister,” Nesta added, although he hardly heard her words. He was too focused on her lust-filled eyes, certain they mirrored his own. 

“And my heart…” he began, his voice low, rough, his forehead nearly touching hers, so close to what he so desperately wanted, “is with your sister.”

Another damned lie.

Another necessary one. 

One more move, just a slight dip of his chin, and his lips would find hers. He wondered what they tasted like. 

Nesta’s eyes fluttered shut, those lashes brushing against her cheeks. “What are you…”

He had no idea where this was coming from, why he felt the need to drag his fingers over her gloved arms. He longed to feel her skin beneath his, but knew that would snap what little control he currently held. “Say you do not care for me.”

The gasp that left Nesta was nothing more than a sharp inhale, parting her lips and bringing them somehow closer together. She was shaking her head again, those eyes he so often got lost in still closed. He wanted her to open them, wanted to see the fire churning within them. 

He brushed his fingers against hers, sparks igniting despite the silken fabric between them. “Tell me you feel nothing and I will walk away.”

Her eyes opened once more and there was a softness there that had Cassian’s breath ceasing. “I feel….”

He waited for her to finish but she never did. Cassian’s chin tilted, just barely, just enough that the softest of whimpers came from Nesta’s parted lips.

His fingers brushed hers again and she gasped, his breath hot against her mouth.

He was going to kiss her.

He was, he was so close, every inch of his body was on edge. He could nearly taste her, could nearly brush his tongue along hers and feel just how much longing was confined within the bounds of her exquisite form. 

But he never did.

The door burst open and both of their heads snapped to the intruder.

Feyre stilled, eyes wide as she took in the scene before her, their bodies nearly touching, both of their chests heaving. 

“Oh..” she hesitated, and took a step back. “My apologies.” Then she was gone, fleeing the scene before Cassian could even more.

“Feyre!” Nesta called, and panic had taken over her features. “Feyre, wait!”

She did not give Cassian another glance before running out of the room, after her sister. 

____________________________________________________________

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[wrenhyperfixates]

The Raven Haired Rebel

Prologue

Pairing: Loki x reader Series Summary: After invading New York, it was decided that, as a punishment, Loki would work for SHIELD. Yeah, right. After escaping from their custody and stranded on Midgard, the God of Mischief decides to prove he’s the one thing no one ever thought he was: the good guy. Now a vigilante, Loki attempts to make amends for his past wrongdoings while also evading the Avengers, including their newest member. You. Brought in specially for the case, you notice more and more details about the prince’s story don’t add up. When you get the chance to turn him in, will you listen to your employers or your heart that believes Loki’s done nothing wrong? Chapter Summary: In which Loki decides to forge his own path. Chapter Warnings: none :) A/N: Welcome to the start of my new mini series! The idea came from the Send Me a Fic Title ask game. This was a title sent in by @lokistan​! Hope you enjoy!

Permanent Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan​ @lowkeyorlokificrecs​ @gaitwae​ @whatafuckingdumbass​ @castiels-majestic-wings​ @kozkaboi​ @cozy-the-overlord​ @birdgirl90​ @myraiswack​ @mythicalgarlicknot​ @what-a-flammable-heart​ @marvelouslovely​ @laurenandloki​ @fallinallinmendes​ @sophlubbwriting​ @mooncat163​ 

RHR Tag List: @happygalaxymilkshake​ @electroma89​ @stardust-walker​ @i-would-kneel-for-loki​

Masterlist

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Loki wondered what his cell on Asgard would look like, for surely he’d be transferred there any day now. For three days now, he’d been held in the belly of a SHIELD base in these ridiculous cuffs. Tony had, at least, sent down that drink Loki had asked for. Whether it was a taunt or a small bit of kindness, Loki honestly wasn’t sure. Either way, he’d downed it in one gulp; Midgardian alcohol never having a strong effect on him. Honestly, he probably should have been concerned if it was poisoned or not. Then again, after everything he’d been through, what did he care?

“Brother,” Loki greeted Thor as he walked into view. “How lovely of you to finally grace me with your presence. Though I take it this is not a leisure visit, hm?”

“You know full well it is not,” the God of Thunder replied with a stern tone.

“And here I was so hoping we could catch up.”

“If you want to talk, then talk, Loki. Explain yourself. What has transpired that you have attacked so many innocent people in this way?”

Loki wanted to laugh at that. Innocent? Who was Thor to talk of innocent with all the unrighteous battles he’d fought, all the blood spilled by his hands? The God of Mischief had done what? Attacked a military base? Made a few people kneel? Corralled a few groups into buildings? Which really was for the own safety so they wouldn’t be in the way of the battles on the streets. But no; conquest was apparently only just when Odin decided to do it. When Thor wanted to follow in his footsteps. But for Loki, there was a whole other set of rules. Of course, no one ever bothered to outline them for the trickster, just let him know he failed to obey them.

Besides, he hadn’t been in his right mind. Rather, he’d been under the mind stone’s influence, under Thanos’s control. He worked his jaw as he tried to figure out whether to say that or not. If he had any sense of self preservation, he probably would have. Yet after living his whole life being told he was weak, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Whether Asgardian culture, his family, or he himself were to blame for that, he wasn’t sure. Still, best just to stick with his wit.

“Pardon, brother,” Loki finally replied. “If it bothers you that much, I will stop following your example.”

“You dare insinuate I would do such a thing?” Thor rhetorically asked, appalled and shocked now that his honor was called into question. “Truly, brother, your mind is far more twisted than I had imagined. I see now I should not have advocated for you; you are too far gone. And yet, I already have, so your second chance you shall have.”

“How benevolent,” Loki rolled his eyes.

In reality, Loki was actually kind of touched Thor had spoken on his behalf. It was more than he expected from the blonde. Though, he had a feeling he hadn’t been spoken of in the most flattering light. Regardless, Thor opened his cell and, accompanied by a couple agents, led him to the upper floors of of the base.

The light blinded Loki for a minute as he saw sunlight for the first time since he’d been locked up. The glares passing agents gave him did significantly less to burn him, though. He was used to scorn. Of course, he did feel a wave of regret as he realized he’d probably killed some of their colleagues, their friends. Even if he didn’t have control of himself, he’d still done it. Why did he have to be so weak as to let Thanos gain control of his mind, he wondered? Such horrid deeds had never been in his nature before, though it seemed Thor was ready to believe he’d been evil all along.

The brothers were silent the whole way to Fury’s office, even as they waited for the director to come in. From his seat in front of the desk, Loki surveyed the office. Nice enough, he mused, but could use some more color. Maybe some drapes. Loki wondered if he should laugh that that’s what he was thinking. Though, in all honesty, it might be a chuckle of relief, knowing that his thoughts were finally his own again.

When the director did finally walk in, he and Loki just eyed each other for a moment, sizing the other up. Loki was fairly confident he could get out of this room, out of this base, if he really wanted to. But what was even the point? He wasn’t particularly interested in playing a game of cat and mouse, as SHIELD would try desperately to recover him. No, he’d rather take whatever punishment was about to be doled out. At least for now, anyway.

“Well, thank you for having me,” Loki quipped, being the first to break the silence. “I am afraid I have never been much good at small talk, though. How about that weather?”

“Funny,” Fury deadpanned. “Glad you didn’t lose your sense of humor when you killed my men.”

Loki’s smile faltered ever so slightly. It seemed like people were going to keep bringing that up despite that it had not even been his intention to kill anyone. Injure and temporarily dispose of, sure, but not kill. He supposed that having been on the verge of collapse himself, he wasn’t able to be as precise as he usually was.

“That little stunt you pulled should have you locked up for life,” Fury continued before Loki could respond. “However, we are prepared to offer you a deal. You are going to work for SHIELD to make up for your crimes.”

“Ah. I see. So gracious of you. And my other options are?”

“You come with me back to Asgard,” Thor chimed in, “and father can do whatever he wants with you.”

Well, that created three possible paths, really, Loki figured. Be sent to Asgard and locked up there was option one. Then the second was to be sent back and killed. Was it bad he kind of hoped for the latter? Oh, it definitely was. Yet, that’s how he felt. And then he could stay here, play along until the opportunity came to break free. Live his life as he wanted for once.

“Alright,” Loki agreed with a smile that he was sure would be seen as more untrustworthy than anything else. “When do I begin?”

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

A week of tedious lectures later, Loki was out in the field. He’d listened with rapt attention as he’d undergone his brief training. And somehow they deemed him trustworthy enough to send on a mission already. So, here he was in a Quinjet with his fellow agents. Maybe they didn’t entirely trust him. After all, Clint kept eyeing him with something akin to murder in his gaze.

Still, once they touched down, Loki followed the procedures he’d been taught. Thankfully, they hadn’t trusted him with any of the more important jobs, just securing the perimeter. That, of course, was a mistake on their part. As soon as it was time to break apart from the others, Loki created a double of himself. Meanwhile, he causally strutted over to a nearby motorcycle. Ok, he had to admit he didn’t really know how to ride one, but he’d make do.

Loki’s drive was surprisingly smooth as he escaped his would-be employers. The joke was on them for trying to tie him down, he thought. It was actually rather freeing to be racing along the open road, wind in his raven-black hair. Maybe he could find a nice little secluded home somewhere and live the rest of his days out in peace. And then he saw a burning building. Really, he should just keep going. You Midgardians had forces to deal with this. And yet, something made him pull over and rush inside, saving those he found trapped by the flames.

“I can never thank you enough,” a lady blubbered as she clung to her child, who Loki had just saved. “Please, what’s your name? How can I repay you?”

“You can call me, Loki,” he replied with a charming grin. “And really, no thanks necessary. It is just what I do.”

And as he rode off again, Loki decided he was going to make that last statement true. Look out, Midgard, he thought to himself. Looks like you have got yourself a new superhero.

[gojo-x-reader]

Red String of Fate

Relationship(s): Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

Warnings: slight swearing, slight manga spoilers

Tags: Soulmate AU

AO3 Link: here

Words: ~2.3k

Request:  “Hello I'm actually not sure if I'm supposed to put put my request here? well, if its not supposed to be here, then please ignore it. Anyways, can I ask of you to share your thoughts on Soulmate AU w/ Gojo around 12 to 16 yrs old where he can see signs of who's soulmate is whos meeting his possible fiance who turns out to be his soulmate (I asked that age bc first meeting! he's from a noble clan and its really weird he doesn't have fiance or something) Sorry if its confusing and Thank you!”

Gojo Satoru was twelve years old when his Six Eyes began showing him the red strings of fate. Every person’s string was different. Some of them stretched on for what seemed like an eternity, almost seemingly never reaching the other end. Others were shorter, connected to the person they stood next to (whether they knew of their existence or not). And unfortunately, on some, Satoru could see the end of the string, but it dragged behind someone, unconnected to another human.

Satoru had told his mother about the strings as they appeared. Those are strings that lead one to their soulmate, she had explained to him. Everyone has a soulmate, but not everyone is in love with theirs. There are different kinds of love in this world.

Satoru’s parents were soulmates, but they did not love each other; that much was clear from how his father treated his mother. He never hit her or anything, but he didn’t treat her like an equal; more of a vessel that gave birth to an heir. He only interacted with his wife when necessary, the two not even sleeping in the same room at night.

For that reason, Satoru was scared to meet his own soulmate. He had one, that much was clear by the bright red string tied around his left pinky that stretched on for kilometers. He didn’t want to end up like his parents.

Gojo Satoru was fourteen years old when his father announced that he would be marrying you, a girl from the Kamo clan. You were the youngest daughter in the secondary branch of the family, just a year younger than him. Tomorrow, the two of you would meet for the first time.

You were nervous about tomorrow, for several reasons. Number one, you had heard the rumors about Gojo Satoru--the first member of the Gojo clan to be born with the Six Eyes and  Limitless, the two inherited techniques of his clan, in a hundred years or so. That meant, in a nutshell, he was much stronger than you could ever hope to be, as someone who hadn’t even inherited the Kamo clan technique (which is why you were being shipped off to another clan). Number two, you had heard rumors of his personality, somehow both cold and carefree at the same time, but one hundred percent a horrible personality to be combined with your timid and quiet nature. And number three, you almost resented him because now you were stuck in an arranged marriage and you saw how well that worked out for your parents.

Tomorrow arrived, and the maids dressed you up in the finest of kimonos, hair ornaments, and even makeup. You weren’t particularly into girly interests, more interested in training for when you enter Kyoto High in a few years; the feeling of foundation and lipstick felt foreign on your face.

You arrived at the main hall, escorted by your uncle (the head of the Kamo family), your parents, and a few maids. You normally didn’t wear a kimono often, except for very special occasions, and you have never been in one for this long. Graceful, you were not, and tripped a few times because of the geta chosen for you to wear with the kimono. Each time, the maids were swift to grab ahold of your arms and stabilize you. They even helped you sit down as you awaited your future fiance and his parents.

Gojo Satoru’s parents arrived before he did. They apologized on behalf of their son, citing that he was on he was back from a mission. You were jealous, he wasn’t even in high school yet and was already being assigned missions. While you weren’t powerful in comparison to Gojo Satoru himself, you could still hold your own against your older cousins and had a decent amount of cursed energy.

Gojo Satoru’s parents seemed nice enough, but the chemistry between them resembled that of your own parents; they tolerated each other, but that was it--no love, no spark, nothing. You wondered if his parents were also put into an arranged marriage. You could sympathize, but you also secretly hoped that the two of you wouldn’t end up like your parents.

You poured tea for your future in-laws, hands shaking slightly, a few drops of tea spilling. As you sat the teapot down, in came Gojo Satoru himself, dressed in a simple black kimono, but the sash was not tied tightly. His hair was touseled, and stained with either dirt or blood (you hoped it was dirt). Despite his unkempt look, he was gorgeous, with bright white hair and eyes blue like the sky matching neither of his parents. Despite the color differences, he took mostly after his mother with her soft features.

When he made eye contact with you, he froze, looking down at his left hand, and then back to you. Before you could even greet him, he immediately fled the room, both his parents calling after him, leaving after him.

That was a bit painful; your first time meeting him and he leaves immediately seeing your face. You weren’t sure how your self-esteem would recover after that blow.

About twenty minutes later, Gojo Satoru’s parents came back, empty-handed without their son. He refused to meet you, but they promised he would come around eventually. So, your family said your goodbyes and left the Gojo estate.

Once your family arrived back at the Kamo estate, your uncle slapped you across the face, blaming you for what transpired with the Gojo family. It was your looks, your lack of femininity that obviously scared your fiance away. Not even makeup or the finest materials could fix it.

So what, if you weren’t “feminine”? Being “feminine” doesn’t exorcise curses, now does it?

You grumbled an apology, leaving to your room and locking the door behind you. You started crying, ruining the makeup that took the maids hours to do, but not even bothering to care. It took a while to get out of the kimono, but you changed into sweatpants and a large T-shirt and left the offensive material on the floor. Neither of your parents bothered to check in on you, but the head maid did. She cleaned up your makeup and brought you some of your comfort foods. She was more of a mother to you than your own, and you were always grateful for her in your life.

The next time you would meet Gojo Satoru, there would be hell to pay for embarrassing you like this.

Gojo Satoru was sixteen years old when he next met his fiancee, this time on the battlefield rather than mitigated by their families. Kyoto was short by one for the Kyoto Goodwill Event, so you were allowed to join as the sole first year. You were glad for the opportunity because that meant you could finally pay back Gojo Satoru for the embarrassment you felt two years ago.

You were told you had great potential as a jujutsu sorcerer, already being promoted to Semi-Grade 2 as you entered Kyoto High. Of course, you weren’t even close to your fiance who was promoted immediately to Special Grade upon entering Tokyo High. While the power difference between a Semi-Grade 2 and a Special Grade was immense, you weren’t going to let that stop you. You held a lot of pain in your heart for how Gojo Satoru rejected you from one glance, refusing to ever see you again that day.

This was Gojo Satoru’s first Goodwill Event, as last year he was only a first-year and the spots were full from the second and third years last year. Since last year, Kyoto had won, the event was held at your school. Not a single second or third year at Kyoto believed they even had a chance to win this year, as Tokyo has not one but two Special Grade students this year participating in the event. There was only one Grade 1 sorcerer on the Kyoto side, a third-year, while the others were a Grade 2 or Semi-Grade 2. The goal was to stick together; power in numbers. While the two monsters Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru could take out the entire Kyoto team singlehanded most likely, the others on the Tokyo team were rather weak, at only Grade 3.

So, the Kyoto side would stick together, avoid conflict. The goal was to exorcise curses, not necessarily fight each other.

The six of you stuck together, exorcising curse after curse. It was strange, as several minutes passed and you hadn’t even encountered one of the Grade 3 Tokyo sorcerers. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stick up, then a voice behind you announcing, “Hello~”

You turned around quickly, barely able to avoid an attack. There he was, Gojo Satoru in the flesh. He was much, much taller than last time you saw him, now towering over you like a tree. On his (admittedly) handsome face was a smug grin, his bright baby blues peeking out behind round black shades. He held his hands in his pockets in a carefree manner. Almost not like he just attacked you and your senpai.

You glanced back briefly. While you were somehow lucky to avoid the attack from your fiance, your senpai behind you was not. The attack left them unconscious, back against a tree and blood running down their head.

While reading headfirst toward your fiance probably was not a good idea, only rage flowed through your head. You may not have inherited your clan’s cursed technique, you inherited a similar technique but more closely to your mother’s Zenin clan’s technique. You could manipulate shadows, not to summon shikigami, but rather to form weapons.

You summoned the shadows to form a sword, raising it to strike Gojo Satoru. But it reached just centimeters away from his body before stopping, almost like an invisible forced kept it in place, unable to move it further. You stared at your hand in surprise.

“Now, now, is that any way to greet your fiance?” Gojo Satoru asked, grin widening.

“Are you really though?” You asked, jumping back cautiously before he could ready another attack. “You didn’t even want to meet me two years ago.”

He placed his hand onto his chin in thought. “Hmm, I suppose that’s true. Tell you what, land a hit on me and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Bastard,” you called to him, switching your shadow weapon to a bow and arrow, pulling back the shadow string, and releasing it toward him.

Gojo Satoru held up two fingers as the arrow stopped in mid-air, much like your sword earlier. “I don’t think that’s my name, sweetie. Bad luck for you today. Seems like we’re just a bad match.”

You were frustrated. How the hell was he doing that?

A siren sounded out through the forest. The match was over; Tokyo won, only because Gojo Satoru had distracted the Kyoto group while Geto Suguru handled the stranglers and the remaining Grade 3 sorcerers were able to exorcise more curses than your side.

Gojo Satoru disappeared before your eyes, but you heard a whisper in your ear from him, “I’m feeling generous. An hour before the individual matches tomorrow, meet me in the garden. I’ll explain everything.”

So, that’s how you found yourself out in the garden at 8 am, shivering from the morning chill. The garden was huge, but somehow you figured your fiance would be able to find you.

“Yo,” he called out, startling you from your thoughts. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“I don’t think highly of you,” you admitted. “You embarrassed me two years ago and my uncle thinks I’m a disgrace to the family now.”

“Yikes, that seems a little harsh. Not like I annulled the engagement or anything. I just was going through some good ole teenage angst then, nothing more.”

“Still going through some ‘teenage angst’?” you questioned.

“Oh, you know, just the normal amount. I died a few months ago and it reset me back to typical teenage angst levels.”

“You what? ”

“But that’s a whole different story. We’re talking about why I left two years ago after seeing you.” He brought a finger up to his lips. “This is top secret. Can’t tell anyone.”

You nodded.

“So, my Six Eyes. I’m sure you’ve heard all about them, being in the Kamo clan and all. It turns out I can also see the red string of fate that brings soulmates together. My parents are soulmates, but they have a shitty relationship.”

“Okay.” You could relate, your parents also have a shitty relationship.

“And they’re the only pair of soulmates I’ve ever known. So,” he grasped his left pinky in yours, “when I saw that red string of mine connect to yours, I panicked. Didn’t want to be forced into a relationship with my own soulmate and end up like my parents. Call me a sappy romantic, but I wanted to meet you and get to know each other on our own, not because we’re in an arranged marriage.”

You couldn’t help but blush. Here was Gojo Satoru, your fiance, one of the strongest jujutsu sorcerers in the world, proclaiming that you were his soulmate. It seemed ridiculous, but you didn’t think he was lying. Suddenly, all the resentment for that time a few years ago left.

You took your pinky out of his, looking away from him in embarrassment, then stated, “There’s nothing that says we can’t do all that while still being engaged. Lets.” You took a deep breath, looking straight at those brilliant blue eyes past his sunglasses, then continued. “Let start over. Get to know each other the right way and see where this takes us.”

He grinned. It was the first time you saw him smile with pure happiness behind it. “I like that idea, soulmate.”

[simply-ellas-stuff]

Things I think Stray Kids editors should look into editing because I'm not seeing any of it anywhere

{If these edits have already been made, please tag the people who've made them because I'm not seeing shit in any of the tags or through whom I already follow, thanks Tumblr!} - The boys in suits - The boys doing random ass runway walks of iconic levels at seemingly odd moments - A comparison of the hottest moments, the cutest moments, and the "What the fuck" moments where we all have questioned why we love them (but then realize it's because we're just as fucking odd as they are) - Group edits of absolute chaos and that one member whose just chillin on the side watching the chaos - Chan's Parent™ moments/His 'I really love my kids' moments - Various protective moments between various members [we all know Chan is the protector but you can't fucking tell me theres no moments caught where I.N looks like he's going to deck someone on Lee Know's behalf or where Felix had one of those 'If Looks Could Kill' moments because someone fucked around with Chan] - Your personal 'This is when I fell in love with this band' moments and your personal 'This is when I decided my bias' moment. - Your favorite dance move from whomever - Your favorite jokes - Your favorite outfits - Your favorite stage fuck ups/saves that no one notices until someone else makes a zoomed in video - Your favorite 'Lead Dancer Lee Know' moments - Your favorite 'I.N could be a part of Danceracha' moments - Your favorite 'I totally fucked up this move but I'm going to pretend I didn't because if I play it off maybe Lee Know will give me grace' moment - Your favorite 'I fucked up and everyone noticed so lets laugh' moment - Your favorite 'This is going to descend into chaos' -> *it descends into chaos* moments

This is just a random list of ideas. You don't have to do them, dear editors/gif makers, but if you got a little inspired please tag me!

[pennyserenade]

tags: nameless female oc x oberyn martell rating: e ( explicit ) warnings: smut, language, mentions of death, mentions of misogyny word count: 2k+ summary: screaming the name of a foreigner’s god, the purest expression of grief - hozier notes: this might make no sense at all but i’m so in love with oberyn martell and i’m trying desperately to encourage you all to be, too. we need more content, we do  original gif by: @anakin-skywalker​

FOREIGNER’S GOD

It is not easy to cleave the flesh of hatred from the bone and allow oneself to take the world for what is—not even for men like Oberyn. He clings to his hatred and his preconceived judgments like any sensible man would, carrying it on his sleeve alongside his heart, but he doesn’t let it weaken him.

“The world is cruel,” he tells the woman on top of him. He is anguished, and deep in thought. “It is the worst thing I ever came to know—the wickedness of this world. I was not allowed to be under that assumption for very long, either, and for that, I do feel sorrow.”

“Is it why you have so many children?” she asks. “To get that back?”

He shakes his head. “I have so many children because I take solace in what beauty this world has to give—sex being among those things.” A smile graces his plump lips. “And you. You are very beautiful. Though I suppose that goes hand in hand with sex, no?”

Her mind churns, and she finds does not want his cock as much as she does his thoughts at the moment. She is sure he does not know the power of his passed down knowledge, or the way she clings to his words long after she’s parted his chambers. She is not simple by any means, but he was given the wonderful gift of being born rich and beautiful, touched by the sun and the God who made it. He can tell her that she too is made of the same cloth—that her skin is just as beautiful and that he loves her—but what she really values is the moments he gives her the opportunity to feel as though she is; the moments he lets her explore his mind the way he does her body—without abandon.

“I was not given the pleasure of believing the world to be imperfect for long either,” she confides. “I don’t ever remember believing that. My sister said I came out of the womb knowing the misery of the world—it is why I screamed so loud.”

“Perhaps it is why we all come out that way,” he mumbles. His fingers trace along her breasts, but it is not inherently sexual as much as it is intimate. He is reaching out towards her, and she is letting him.

“Yes, maybe. My sister was very wise, had a lot of theories about the world.”

“Where is she now?”

“A grave, probably,” she shrugs, “Or with a man, married, though I’m not entirely sure those aren’t two of the same things.”

Oberyn looks at her with acute sympathy for a moment, and she lets herself be mourned for. It never feels wrong, the way  he does it. She finds it easy to confide in him for this reason.

“My sister is dead also.”

“I have heard of her. She seemed beautiful, Oberyn.”

He nods his head. “They ruined her.”

“The world is cruel to women,” she tells him. “You feel rage for your sister, I feel it. It is feminine.”

His eyebrow perks. “Feminine?”

“Very,” she gives him a firm nod. “She lives on in you, I think. You are violently angry on her behalf, but it is reasonable. You do not feel rage like men usually do; you feel it because with her, they took your innocence, and that rage is powerful. You are aware of what it is like to have grown before you should, too wear a crown much too heavy for your little head. Inside you is a child who never got to be a child, and you are in pain, and your pain makes you angry, but yet, you are silent about it. That is womanly.”

“You feel this way?” His fingertips stop their track on her skin. “You feel a feminine rage, or is yours masculine?”

She smiles down at him. “No,” she laughs, “Mine is feminine too.”

“What of you is masculine?”

“My shoulders.” She sits straight up, letting the sheet that wrapped around her fall down onto him. She gives him a clear view of the expanse of herself. He takes her in.

“I don’t think that.”

She frowns. “No?” She raises her hands. “What about these—they look like my father’s I think.”

“No. You are womanly.”

“Do you mean that as a compliment?” she asks.

“No—as a fact. I think you would be beautiful with broad shoulders and big hands. I like those features just the same as I do the ones you have now.”

She rests her hands on his chest. “You like cocks, too?” she asks him. It is not mean, not judgmental. She is asking him because she wants to know, not because she wants to tease.

He smiles. “I do, just as I like cunts. What about you?”

She smiles back at him. “I am fond of women.”

Oberyn wraps his arm around her before flipping them over. He rests between her parted legs as she eases into the mattress, and she feels his half hardened cock against her thigh as he adjusts. She can’t help but wonder what Dorne must’ve had to endure when he was in his sexual prime.

She clicks her tongue. “Always full of lust, my Prince.”

“I hate when you call me that.” He kisses her abdomen. “It is not something that matters.”

“You should be grateful to have a title that people can say without some sort of disdain or mockery.” Her fingers thread through his hair, “What I would give to be called something decent—and have it mean something.”

He peers up at her. “Are you trying to tell me you despise the way I settle into my position?”

“No, I do not mind the way you relish your riches. I think you’re much kinder than most who hold the same titles as you.”

“Then what problem is it that you have, petal?”

“You are masculine in the way you don’t know how to listen.” She laughs. He rests his chin on stomach as he focuses on her. “I’m telling you that you are fortunate, and that you should understand that. Nothing more.”

“I do understand that.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not the way you would if you were me.”

Oberyn kisses her skin again, in a nature more gentle than she’s used to with him. “Do you want me to pay for you?” His breath fans against her skin, hot. “I do not mind. If you are in need of money, I will.”

“You need not try to fix anything, Oberyn. That was not the point.”

His tongue flicks out against the skin above her pubic bone. She watches him with intent as he returns his eyes back to her.

“I’ve never been good at listening,” he admits, “It has always been a fault of mine. I am stubborn, they say.”

“You are a man.”

“I think that’s a poor excuse, one invented by men to make women like you believe it is inherent to our beings to be flawed.” He presses another kiss down onto her skin. “It is a shame,” he mumbles against her, “We can be beautiful, you know? Better. Some just chose to be evil and of course they want you to believe it is because some God of theirs made them that way.”

“What are men like with you?” she asks. “How do they treat you when you’re with them like you are with me?”

“The same as you, which is how I know.”

“Put your lips on me,” she tells him evenly. “But be gentle.”

He smiles, and does not hesitate any longer. All the nipping and teasing he’s been doing has made him more than ready for those words to pour from her mouth.

He kneels before her, parting her legs more, inspecting her sex. She watches him with wonder—a genuine curiosity. He fucks beautifully, but not kindly; he slaps to the ass and bite marks, and on the most pleasant of days, he is a string of spit in her mouth or on her cunt and a hand wrapped dangerously around her throat. To see him attempt it, a sort of sex that will border on love making, piques her interest as much as it makes a delightful and delicious feeling form in the pit of her stomach.

He strokes himself lazily as his other hand reaches outwards to feel for her. He parts her folds, gathering some of her slick on his fingers. Her breath hitches at the contact; his fingers are cold against her, but it is not an entirely unpleasant sensation, just a new one.

His cock is hard as be when he lays down flat on his stomach in front of her. His fingers once more part her folds and he licks her all the way up to the sensitive bundle of nerves, but he does not stay there. He goes back down, dips his tongue into her hole, and his beautiful, aquiline nose rubs so gently—so teasingly—against her clit as he does. If he didn’t have a hold around her thighs, she would can’t her hips upward, pleading without having to say anything for more friction.

She appreciates the warmth of his tongue inside of her, despite her body’s greed. It is something she has had before, but not like this; he eats her out as though she is a meal for him to devour, not a treat before the main course. A soft moan emits from her mouth when she realizes that he’s rubbing himself against the mattress as he does so. She wants his cock and his thoughts, all at once. In fact, she wants all of him—a dangerous thought for a woman with a status far below his own. He can tell her that things like that don’t matter, but they do. Even a tongue as godly as his could not make this fact disappear. She can have him, but not in name—never in marriage.

Oberyn’s tongue licks upwards again, finding her clit. He enters a finger inside of her, testing her. It is an easy fit, so he puts another in, scissoring them inside her. It is out of habit that he does this, a precursor to fucking her, and when he realizes this, he readjusts himself, making a come hither motion that is more focused on her pleasure that it is his eventual one.

The combined pleasure of his mouth on her clit and his fingers working her cunt makes her weak, and the pleasure builds quickly. She feels engulfed in the flames of desire and struggles not to wiggle beneath him. She even tries to muffle her moans, but he doesn’t let her. His mouth leaves her and he says, “No, no, my petal. I want to hear your sweet sounds. They are music to my ears.”

So she does; she moans loudly as the orgasm washes over her, blinding her completely from anything over then it. It is consuming, what he pulls from her in that moment, and he does not stop, lapping up her juices on his tongue as her cunt moves uncontrollably beneath him, searching for both release and more.

It does not help the way he moans against her midway through. His soft sounds vibrate against her and a second orgasm tears through her. She grips onto his hair and whines so pretty for him, he can’t help but look up and admire the sight she presents to him. Sex makes her glow, and right now she looks positively ethereal bathed in the midday sun and the shine of her pleasure. He could watch her forever. Could cum just from the thought of her pretty little sounds and the sight of the breasts he always wants in his mouth. Has, when he was away and unable to have them. Does. Is.

He knew she was dangerous the moment he found himself requesting women who looked like her, and men who thought like her. He knew the men could not share the same quality of beauty, so he sought in them her mind, just seeking some quality that he could admire and lose himself in long enough for the pleasure to take its height.

The real thing was incomparable to all else, though. He would be a fool to admit that he did not love her, at the very least minimally. He even wanted to be slow, to draw orgasm after orgasm from her pretty little cunt just to hear the sound of pleasure draw from her throat to the air, sweetening the large expanse of rooms much too empty without her there.

It was now so much more than the lust that had drawn him towards her in the first place. This was powerful, the sort that will draw him towards the notion of marriage when he cock is in her, filling her to the hilt. She made him uncharacteristically possessive in those moments, wanting her, only her, wanting to know that his cock was the one who did it best for her.

Needy, she had teased him once, when he requested that she tell him she was his. His laugh had ghosted over her bare shoulder and she reached around to wrap her arm around his neck as he fucked into her. Oberyn came when the words poured from her lips—it was the most beautiful bit of fantasy he had let himself believe in.

He takes his mouth off of her when she tells him it’s too much, and a slight blush creeps across his features when he looks down at the sheets and sees his spend. He wants to blame it on old age, saying that he can’t last as he once had been able to, but it would be pointless because she knows that to be not true. She makes him feel like a giddy child, so loved up and enthralled by her he can’t even put his mouth on her without his cock responding in this way.

She does not tease. She is red and flushed, and wants his body near. Her foot comes up, beckoning him closer. Oberyn listens, abandoning his mess for the warmth of her flesh.

She wraps herself around his waist and brings her mouth to his, exploring it with her tongue. She takes his breath from him and he knows his lips must be bruised.

He likes to think he is the only one who receives kisses this passionate, that she wants only to give him something so intimate, but it is unfair to hold her to these desires. This is something he will never ask—that he be the only one—when he can’t hold true to those promises himself—and why should they? The world is so beautiful and as much as her body makes him possessive, he wants it to be worshiped by more too, to get what he may not be able to. He knows his touch is not as delicate as a woman’s, nor as a rough as some other men’s. She deserves these things.

He knows, too, that there are parts of her he cannot understand, and that she will need people who do. Understands that by trapping her into a marriage, he would be asking her to leave behind something integral to her being. She has a last name that belongs to no one, and he will not take from her that. She wouldn’t let him, even if he asked, he’s certain. This is what he values in her, among many other things.

The second being her desire to mother no children. She is firm in this and he does not mind, telling her he has many already.

All that possessiveness is so faint, a trait so unfitting for him that he doesn’t ever dare to stick around for long after his cock gives him back his mind. He looks at her adoringly and kisses her in a manner much too intimate. She hums against his lips and he feels perfectly content just like this.

Neither of them have to give anything to be happy with this. Neither of them really want to, either, content with their desire to not conform to another man’s beliefs. He is not fit for marriage, she’s not fit for motherhood, and that is just fine.

“With me, you will never have to plead to a Foreigner’s God,” Oberyn states. “No one hurt you so badly.”

She smiles. “You cannot promise me that, Oberyn, but I will be pleased with the promise that you will make me happy for a long time to come—that you won’t forget me.” She pushes back the hair pressed against his forehead. “That you never be the reason I must seek that sort of solace.”

He kisses her. “I promise,” he says. He is impossibly close—as close as he can get without entering her. He needs to be this close.

He knows what she says to be true, that he can’t protect her like that even though it is what he wants. It is a plain truth that everywhere in this world they are unkind to women like her—to women in general—and no amount of want in his body could make this ring untrue. All he can give her is his desire and his love.

He cannot cleave the flesh of hatred from his bones no more than he can eradicate the pain from hers, but what they can do is give one another is the sort of compassion they search for in others. They will be content with this. 

OBERYN : @hb8301​

EVERYTHING : @astroboots​ , @frannyzooey​ , @wyn-n-tonic​ , @rosiefridayrogersunday​ , @melaniermblt​ , @theorganasolo​​ , @amneris21​​ , @honestly-shite​ , @over300books​ , @elegantduckturtle​

[voiceless-terror]

Something to Talk About (TMA Fic)

Written for @jontim-week Day One: Rumors/Protect, warnings in tags

Rating: T

Words: 3,049

Summary: Jon and Tim deal with workplace rumors.

He’s only at the institute for six months when the rumors start.

Tim understands them, to a degree. He knows he’s liberal with his smiles and quick to charm, naturally affectionate and thinks nothing of an arm around the shoulder or a nudge to the side. Winking comes as easily as breathing. So yeah, he’s aware of how he comes off. People make assumptions, particularly in his case, as he’s been known to swing either way. It’s shitty and stereotypical, but sad to say he’s used to it.

What he doesn’t like, however, is when it involves his friends.

Tim’s friendly with most everyone, but he’s fallen into a group. When he first started, Sasha was assigned to train him and Tim’s not blind. She’s gorgeous, rivaling him in height and an even deadlier smile. She’s smart as a whip, willing to trade (occasionally hurtful) barbs and unafraid to give the bluntest of criticisms. And she’s a little strange too- she can wax poetic on the most esoteric of subjects, and wields her keyboard like a lethal weapon. Tim doesn’t want to know what she’s dug up on him. Sasha James is exactly his type...and very much not interested, despite the one night they spent together. She made it clear it wouldn’t be going any further and though it took time to get over that, he’s lucky to now count her as a friend. 

And Sasha and Jon are a package deal.

They’re an odd pair- Sasha, tall and imposing, Jon, scrawny and anything but. Jon kept to himself, barely spoke a word to Tim apart from a curt introduction, but with Sasha he shared an easy rapport. The two could spend hours debating the finer points of research methods- and if Tim was shocked by Sasha’s blatant disregard for privacy, he was even more so by Jon’s disregard for the law. Tim could spend hours listening to them snark back and forth, not getting a word in edgewise. At first glance he assumed they were dating, but when he tentatively broached the subject with Sasha, he got an almost mocking laugh. “Romance? Not my thing. And it’s very much Jon’s. We would not work out.”  

At first, Jon doesn’t seem interested in anything but work. He nods briskly at Tim as he sits across from him at his desk, occasionally answers a question or includes him on his tea run, but that’s about the extent of it. He stumbles through small talk, showing none of the easy grace and elegance of discussions with Sasha. After a few weeks, though, he opens up a bit more, allowing that deadpan humor to slip into conversations. He smiles (it’s crooked, a tiny thing but so endearing) and he lets out an occasional snort of laughter. He’s an encyclopedia of supernatural knowledge, able to practically recite his favorite passages and always eager to seek out new information. There’s nothing he enjoys more than thoroughly researching and debunking a case, and Tim can respect that. If he’s got a question on an article or a scholar, Jon’s the first one he approaches. He never asks questions, never pries. Tim appreciates that.

The two of them can make Tim genuinely laugh. Something he hasn’t done in the longest time.

They’re seen together more often than not. They’re a trio: if one’s on a case, it means the other two are as well. They’re a great team. So it’s natural that people would start to talk, make assumptions. The rumor mill is out of control; as it turns out, scholars need more than spooks to get them through the day. It starts with a few offhand comments about him and Sasha, ones that Sasha’s quick to shut down, even if there’s some truth to them. She’s never been afraid to speak her mind or come off as rude. It’s a trait Tim finds very admirable. 

But then it turns to him and Jon. 

He’s heard the snickers in the breakroom when they come in together, the arm around Jon’s shoulder mistaken for something beyond platonic familiarity. It’s not that he wouldn’t date Jon- he sees beyond Tim’s veneer, appreciates his intelligence as much as his wit, and isn’t bad looking himself. He’d consider asking him out if Jon weren’t so clearly uninterested in that sort of thing. People must mistake his blushes and stammer for a crush instead of his naturally shy and flustered demeanor. He puts up a good front for the others, scowling and snapping at most who cross his path, but he’s definitely a softie, Tim feels it in the way he leans into his side like a plant starved of sunlight. Jon needs someone in his corner that sees him too. 

So when Tim hears the mocking words in the break room, he loses it.

“Another notch on the bedpost, eh Stoker?” Marcus, the irritant from accounting with a perpetual sneer and permanently wrinkled shirt, says from his seat at the room’s sole table. “Didn’t think Sims was one to put out, but-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tim snarls, almost dropping his mug as he whirled around and stalked over to him. He’s almost surprised at the venom in the words, but the man took it a step too far. He knows those comments would be incredibly uncomfortable for Jon. And to be honest, he’s a bit pissed on his own behalf- can he not have a friend without someone assuming they’re sleeping together? 

Marcus immediately scoots back the two inches he can in his chair, attempting to hide his fear with a snide smile. It doesn’t work. “Whoa, calm down- didn’t think this was such a touchy subject for the likes of you-” 

“The fucks that supposed to mean?” He takes a step forward, reveling in Marcus’s flinch. Not such a tough guy now, eh? Tim’s not going to hurt him, no matter how much he wants to. But it’s an old wound reopened- he doesn’t need this reputation, and he doesn’t want Jon to go down with him.

“I-I-”

“I hope to god you haven’t said that around him,” he snarls, jabbing a finger in Marcus’s chest. “And you’re going to stop it with this shit before it gets round to him. We aren’t dating, we aren’t fucking. Me and Jon? Not a thing, never have been, never will be. Do you understand me?” Marcus stutters, swallowing nervously. Tim takes a step closer, leans as close as he can and narrows his eyes. “I said-”

“Yes, yes! Christ, I get it!” He puts his hands up in a placating gesture, as if trying to calm a wild animal. He’s scared. Good. “I’ll shut it, alright? Just- back the fuck up.”

Tim stares for a moment, relishing in the man’s fear, before giving Marcus a cheery grin. “Well! As long as we’re understood. See ya around!”

He turns on his heel and walks out, attempting to calm his racing pulse. Tim’s not one for confrontation, he prefers calm discussion over impulsive anger.

Sometimes, however, it gets the job done.

________

And now Jon’s avoiding him.

Well, not really. He still sits at the same desk, gives him his usual morning greeting and answers any work-related questions. But he doesn’t join in on any of their conversations, he dodges any attempt at familiarity that he used to lean into. He skips their lunches with the excuse of being too busy, and barely smiles in Tim’s direction. He didn’t realize how much he relied on that affection until it stopped. It stings.

Maybe someone said something to him, maybe the rumor got around? He’s going to kill Marcus if that’s the case, but when confronted, the man insists he shut up, and Tim’s inclined to believe him, if the ‘I’m going to shit my pants’ look he gave him was any cue. He wants to ask Jon about it, but that could make him more uncomfortable than he already is. If Jon needs space, Tim’s going to give it to him. No matter how much it hurts.

So he goes along with it, starts talking to him less and less, stamps down the urge to crack a joke or throw an arm around his shoulder. Doesn’t ask him to after work drinks. 

That doesn’t stop him from checking in on Jon every so often, leaving a protein bar on the days he works past lunch, bringing him coffee before he gets in and saying it’s from Sasha. They’re at a strange impasse, but Tim’s starting to accept the new routine.

Sasha isn’t.

“Can you two just talk?” She asks one day over shitty sandwiches in the canteen. “I can’t stand this tense atmosphere you’ve got going. What happened?”

Tim sighs, pushes away his plate and runs a hand through his hair. “There were all those rumors going about, remember? I told Marcus to fuck off, but I think Jon caught wind of something, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable-”

“Are you serious?” Sasha interrupts with a groan and a roll of her eyes. “Make him uncomfortable? Tim, I’ve never seen him happier than when he’s around you. He’s relaxed, he smiles. You don’t know how rare that is. We’ve known each other for two years, and he’s around you for six months and suddenly he can talk about something other than work.”

Tim tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach at the words. He couldn’t have made that much of a difference, Jon would do that with anyone, given the chance to open up. It’s not Tim’s doing. “Well, he’s the one avoiding me! I’m trying to give him space, really-”

“Space? Communicate!” Sasha slaps her hand down on the table with every syllable, startling the few others in the room. “You’re grown men, not children.”

“Communicate?” Tim snorts. “That’s rich, coming from the ice queen herself. You didn’t talk to me for a week after I made fun of that stupid show you love-”

“Time Team was an excellent programme, and I won’t be hearing any more slander.” She stood up, her chair squeaking back with the force of it, and picked up her tray to glare down at him. God, was she good at that. “Either talk to Jon, or I’ll go back to the silent treatment. And I’m great at it.”

Sasha follows through with her threat. She doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the day, studiously ignoring his questions and jokes, at one point propping a book up like a shield. It’s childish. And very effective. 

Looks like he’s going to have to talk to Jon.

______

“Did I do something wrong?” 

Jon jumps at the words, almost dropping the book in his hands. Tim’s managed to corner him in one of the more secluded areas of the library that Jon’s taken a recent liking to. Wonder why, Tim thinks with not a small amount of sarcasm.

Jon takes a step back, blinking innocently. “What?”

“You’ve been avoiding me these past couple of weeks.” Tim leans against a bookshelf, trying to seem nonchalant despite his clear nerves. He doesn’t want to seem threatening or accusatory, and Jon could very easily bolt.  “You never come to lunch, or talk with me and Sash. I just want to know if something’s wrong.”

Jon dodges his gaze as he hugs the book to his chest like a shield. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” Tim heaves a sigh; he’s going to have to be more blunt. Jon clearly wants to avoid the conversation, but he’s always responded better to clear phrasing and direct questions.

“Look, I don’t know what rumors you’ve been hearing,” Tim runs a hand through his hair nervously, carefully choosing his words. “But if I’m doing anything that makes you uncomfortable-”

“Me?” Jon lets out an incredulous laugh that gives Tim pause. “No- I - I thought I was making you uncomfortable.”

Tim stares. This was not a possibility he prepared for when practicing in front of the mirror. How could Jon think that? Was it something he said? Did? Now he’s running through their interactions, trying to pinpoint a time where he might have seemed cold or distant.

“B-Being clingy, I don’t know.” If Jon hugs that book any harder, it’s liable to break. “Getting too close, getting the wrong idea. I know you don’t like me in that way, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with those rumors. That’s not fair.”

“What?” Clingy? Now that’s a word he never thought he would hear applied to Jon.

“I heard you. W-With Marcus. In the break room.” Jon bit his lip, a habit Tim always chided him on. He controls the urge to do it now. “You seemed so mad. And I didn’t want to be the cause of any more rumors for you, so I thought it best to...well, avoid you.”

Tim squints at him in confusion. Jon thinks he’s protecting Tim. The thought is both amusing and heartwarming, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I mean- yes, I was mad about that, but I...I didn’t want you to have to hear that. I know how uncomfortable that shit makes you, and Marcus is an ass- he won’t let up until you put him in his place. Besides, I don’t care about that dick and whatever he thinks. I care about you.”

“O-Oh,” Jon mumbles, looking to the ground and shuffling his feet. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if trying to find the courage to voice his thoughts. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. “It’s j-just...you made it sound so awful.”

Tim’s face softens. “Made what sound awful?”

“...Dating me.” Oh.

“Oh, Jon.” The mumbled words tug at his heartstrings. he really didn’t think Jon cared about all of that, but the man does have feelings. Tim could see how the words would hurt, and the vehemence he said them with probably didn’t help. He takes a tentative step forward, like he’s approaching a spooked animal, but Jon accepts the hand reaches for his shoulder, still not meeting his eyes. “That’s not what I meant. Anyone would be lucky to have you-”

“But not you.” 

Tim freezes and Jon shuts his eyes tightly, as if waiting for a blow that won’t ever come. He shrugs off Tim’s hand and starts to back away. “I’m sorry, forget I said anything-”

“Hang on,” Tim starts, gazing at the trembling man in front of him as a thought suddenly occurs. He doesn’t- he couldn’t- “What was that?”

“I-I-”

Tim takes a step closer. Jon doesn’t move. “Do you- did you like me?”

“Yes! No! I-I don’t know!” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, wincing as it gets stuck in his messy bun. Tim would’ve laughed if he weren’t also spiraling. “But you clearly don’t like me, and that’s fine-”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jon liked him. And Tim- Tim could’ve done something about it. “We could’ve-”

“I did!” Jon cries out, waving his book emphatically. “I asked you out and you said no! Months ago.”

Tim pauses. Huh? He runs back through as many conversations as he can remember, trying to think of any occasion where Jon might have asked him out, and comes up blank. Tim’s not that oblivious. “Okay, you’re going to have to help me out here. When exactly did this happen?”

“Back in December,” Jon says, as if talking to a child. “I told you about that new bookstore that opened near my flat.”

“..Okay.” He vaguely remembers Jon enthusing about this, but not very clearly. 

“They have a cat there, too.” Ah, now he remembers. Jon’s face always lights up when he talks about felines, and he’s seen more than a few pictures of a fat tabby on his phone. It’s adorable.

“I’m following.”

“And how they had a fairly comprehensive history section.” Another beat. Jon’s looking at Tim like he’s supposed to be getting the picture. He is not. “And the café next door. That sold the chai lattes you like.”

“I do like a latte.”

“And then you said, and I quote! “Sounds like your scene.” and turned back to your desk.” Jon crosses his arms, triumphantly. Apparently, he’s proven a point. Tim does not see this, and he’s pretty sure Jonathan Sims is the most infuriating man he’s ever met in his life. 

“Jon, there wasn’t a single question in that statement. You just monologued about a bookstore-”

“The question was implied!”

“Oh my god-” 

“And you turned around, and it seemed like you weren’t interested and I-I didn’t think I could handle if you said that to my face so I just- I dropped it, okay? It’s fine.” At this Jon loses all momentum, hunching his shoulders as if trying to disappear. He most certainly doesn’t look fine. 

And Tim’s going to change that.

“All this time,” he begins dramatically. Jon deserves a bit of theater. “All this time, we could’ve been going to bookstores, and having lattes, and-”

Jon’s head shoots up, his eyes going comically wide. “What?”

“What I’m trying to say,” Tim puts a hand on his hip, gives him the Stoker Smirk. Jon gulps. “Is the offer still on the table? Bookstore cat and all?” He watches as Jon gapes at him, suddenly fumbling with his book, as if suppressing a little stim of the hands.

“R-Really?”

“Course. Unlike some of us, I can ask a man a question.” Jon blushes even as he scowls. Tim’s looking forward to seeing more of that. “Whaddya say?”

“I-I’d like that.” He watches as Jon tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, suddenly demure. He hazards a glance up at Tim and lets out a little laugh. “I’m a bit of an idiot, aren’t I?”

“No more than I am,” Tim replies, throwing an arm around his shoulder and remembering just how right it feels to have Jon nestled against his side. He missed that. “Now, what’s the cat's name?”

“Spoons!” Jon perks up, his smile widening. “I think you’ll really like him.”

The rumor mill is gonna have a field day with this one. And for once, Tim doesn’t mind.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061116

[mooniefics]

— a life in your shape

pairing : jean kirschtein / reader

word count : 2.5k

tags : unrequited love, pining, near death experience, confession of love, hurt no comfort lol

warnings : canon-typical violence, descriptions of injury to the reader

summary : you've always wanted it, always pictured it, always ached for it. you loved when jean looked you way. all you'd ever wanted was a life with him, not just a life in his shape.

— originally posted 1 / 22 / 21 on ao3 —

the mess hall was buzzing with life, rowdy with the chatter of dozens of cadets seated at long tables and speaking through swallows of their food. glasses were lifted and set down, bowls and plates clinking, utensils scraping sharply over various surfaces, nearly so loud that you could barely hear yourself think. but it all seemed to come to an abrupt silence when you settled your eyes back on him, taking in his formerly pale complexion now bronzy and sun-kissed from your hours of training, the annoyed yet playful glances he shot to connie and sasha as he worked through his soup and bread, full lips forming words that you couldn’t quite focus.

you were almost embarrassed of how smitten you were with jean, but in your mind, you couldn't understand how anyone wouldn't be taken with him. his thin frame had filled out with lean muscle in the year and a half that you'd been training together in the 104th corp, somehow managing to grow even taller than he already was on that first day, still so spirited with his persistence to be among the best of this class, a lively spark that never seemed to dampen gleaming behind his eyes.

"oh god, this again, jean?" you heard connie bemoan exaggeratedly, pulling you from the trance that you were surprised the other three at the table hadn't taken notice of.

jean was almost pouting now, and you would've found it so endearing had it not been the next words to spill from his mouth, indignant and full of tenacity. "don't be an ass, i've been trying to figure out a good excuse to sit with her for days now."

you followed his gaze despite knowing exactly who you'd find his eyes locked on, and forced yourself not to frown when you were met with the sight of mikasa just a few tables away.

"she's out of your league, man. not to mention having a thing for jaeger already, and not to mention that jaeger wouldn't hesitate to hand your ass to you again if you pissed him off like you always do. cut it out."

"connie, that's mean!" sasha feigned offense on jean's behalf, most likely for the sake of goading the reply that came as a distraction to snatch the remainder of bread from his plate.

"i'm just being honest with him here. he's asking for advice, so i gave him some. jean always talks about being realist and yet he— hey is that my food?!"

you turned away just as connie was lunging himself across the table, hearing the sounds of his fruitless efforts to tear the loaf from the girl's mouth, propping yourself up on your elbows and allowing your head to fall into your hands with a heavy sigh.

"what do you think?" in an instant, jean's eyes were on you, amber irises looking so intently at you that you could already feel a bothersome heat flushing your face. but registering his question sobered you, and stealing a glance at the beautiful dark-haired girl seated somewhere to your left was all in took to snuff out the light flutter in your chest.

"i don't know, jean. i think connie's kind of right about the whole eren thing." you were honest with him on a surface level, but it still didn't feel good to see him frown when you told him something he obviously didn't want to hear. you tried to remedy it by offering something more introspective—something a bit more true to your heart. "what i mean is that.. i think you're selling yourself short. mikasa obviously has her sights set elsewhere at the moment, and i just think you deserve someone who can bring the same sort of.." you struggled with your words for a moment, how could you not when he was leaning forward like that, listening so intently to you and you alone. "the same sort of passion. someone who can reciprocate." someone like me. but you bit those foolish words back.

"you understand, don't you?" he implored, looking past the bickering mess that sasha and connie had devolved to and gazing with such longing in the other girl's direction, "i mean.. i've never seen anyone like her, no one as beautiful.." each word gouged at your heart, a cold, empty sensation that left your chest feeling painfully hollow. "i know you're a girl, but you can see it too, right?"

you could see it, you were painfully aware of how you could never match up to her unfamiliar yet alluring features, that graceful, slender frame that could somehow soar through the air with ease and still thrown you down onto your back so hard it would knock the wind out of you, introversion that gave off such a charming air of mystery to her admirers.

"yeah," you mumbled back, ignoring how a huffing connie fell heavily back into his seat beside jean, defeated, sasha happily gulping down her unfairly earned chunk of bread, only taking notice of how jean was too fixated on mikasa to pay your dismay any mind, "i see it alright."

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

the air was thick with an unrelenting heat, stinking of steam and coppery with fresh blood, your vision fading in and out. your head was ringing with a deafening, high pitched peal and such an unbearable, crippling pain. you could feel your boots dragging across the hot dry dirt as something tugged you back by the collar of your shirt, and the terror of a titan with its misshaped limbs and mouth hauling you to your demise made you thrash aimlessly, screams for help spilling out as a disjointed groan of pain. and though it almost sounded as if you were underwater, sinking further and further beneath the lapping waves of your impending unconscious, you heard it, muffled, desperate, thick with tears, your name spilling from his lips.

and suddenly you remembered, you remembered the kidnapping and the unfaithful comrades and the mission to save humanity's last hope, your former friend now an almost unrecognizable abomination with ymir, bertholdt, and eren sitting atop his shoulders, clasped in his monstrous hands, that had now resorted to flinging titans in his primal desperation for escape. and as you blinked away the spots blacking out your vision, head lolling uselessly to the side, you could see your horse, half crushed in a puddle of red on the yellow grass, and realized that the warmth streaming down the side of your face is your own blood.

"jean..?" you mumbled, uselessly, barely coherent, but the near sob of relief from behind you is like an anchor back to reality.

you could see his calves on either side of you, feet kicking up clouds of dust as he pushed you both back, further from the fray and carnage, as far as he could muster. one of your blade scabbards was missing, you could feel that the clip on your gas tank had snapped off in your spectacular fall caused by the titan that was flung down in your path, irreparable damage most likely made to the fine mechanisms within the housing of your gear. you felt utterly hopeless, watching as the shade of a tree just barely shielded you from the blazing light of the sinking sun, hearing jean's gasping pants from behind you, feeling how rapidly his chest was rising and falling against the back of your head as you slumped into his body, leaden limbs weighing you down uselessly.

"jean." you wheezed, trying desperately to crane your heavy head back to meet his eyes one last time, eyes that no longer harbored the naive passion of youth but still gleamed so radiantly, "leave me.. here. you're g'nna— gonna die.. if you stay..."

you could feel his violent trembles now, feel him rip his green cloak from his shoulder to press against the throbbing wound on your head. "no. i-i'm staying. i n-n-need," he was scared, you knew he was terrified of allowing what happened to marco to happen to you, or sasha, or connie, or anybody, even if the boy's death was nowhere near his fault, "i need to s-save you."

but you could also feel something else—feel it coming—the terrible, earth trembling footfalls of a titan making a shambling, uncoordinated advance to you and the scent of your blood. and suddenly jean was screaming, a sound so raw and petrified that you couldn't help but cry yourself at the sound of it. he laid you down on the ground, bunched cloak pillowing your bleeding skull, unable to push himself to his feet but still drawing his last blade to swing at the thing coming to kill you both, covering your battered body with his own.

and in that moment, you hated yourself. though your head was swimming and your lucidity was waning, you knew that you would both die there, under the baking sun and in the jaws of a titan, and it would be your fault. every regret that you'd ever harbored flooded your mind: not hugging your mother long enough when you still had the chance, not drinking that liquor when squad leader hange had offered it to you, and, most of all, never having the bravery to be honest with jean.

and you mourned all that lost time in those final moments, every late night you'd spent as trainees under the stars when you and your friends would sneak out of the dormitories to talk at some ungodly hour, every shared meal where you didn't speak nearly enough to him, every second of the crushing embraces you'd offered each other when the thought of your fallen friends caught up to you and proved to be far too much to handle on your own. how could you have done so much yet so little with your life?

and just as the titan was stumbling upon you, jean's scream of terror dampening out into a faithless cry, the thing was gone, galloping away to join a newly assembled horde descending upon one single point on the plain. but somehow, you felt no relief, not as you reached out a weak, trembled hand to grasp the blood and dirt streaked fabric of his shirt.

and as he turned to you, eyes still wide and body shaking with horror, thrumming with the adrenaline of near-death, you whispered, hoarse and tired as your grasp on the world slipped away. "i love you, jean. i love you."

your eyes fell shut, the involuntary spiral down further and further into the deep waters of unconsciousness pulling you in deeper and deeper by the second. you were grateful that you at least got to say something meaningful as your last words.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

there was a bright light, delicate, billowing fabric flouncing about in your bleary gaze as your eyes barely opened, something wrapped tight around your head, not making the pressure of the pounding headache any better. you couldn't fight the groan that even the small movement of turning onto your back caused, but you tried to force your lids open just an inch more at the sound of a gasp coming from somewhere in the room.

there were fast footsteps, a few shouts of "sasha, no!" and then a crushing weight on your chest, squeezing around you, pulling you up in bed as a tearful sob of your name came from a comfortingly familiar voice.

"sasha. please. h-hurts." you barely managed to croak out, feeling yourself been torn free—or rather, her  torn away—as connie yelled.

"get off them, you moron, they're fucking injured!!"

"i'm s-s-sorry!" she wailed, allowing herself to be dragged to the door by the disgruntled boy, "i'm j-just so happy you're s-s-still alive!!!"

"and i am too, but that doesn't mean i'm gonna go throw myself on top of them while they're in the hospital!"

their bickering was almost comforting in a way, allowing the strain in your chest from sasha's hug to ease as you watched them elbow each other in the sides on their way out of the room to take their loudness out into the hall, blowing raspberries and struggling to not laugh through their feigned anger. and finally your gaze was allowed to wander over to the furthest wall from your bed, and you saw jean, staring down at his shoes, brow furrowed and lip bitten. and he seemed almost startled to find yourself in his gaze, feet slowly taking him to your side.

"i owe you my life, you know?" you said as he settled himself on the edge of the mattress, still not meeting your gaze.

"you don't owe me anything. you shouldn't feel in debt to me."

"but i do," you risked to settle your hand over his, finally drawing his worried, amber eyes onto yours, and you could feel your heart beginning to pick up, the butterflies that you had always forced to settle with a pessimistic thought to squash your optimism light in your chest, "i meant what i said before i passed out in the field. i always have."

and for just a moment, you thought that this was finally it, that you would no longer have to languish over wasted time and wasted words, fingers just barely curling around his warm palm. then, a knock at the door, light and delicate before the handle turned, pushing open to reveal mikasa.

and you caught every small movement of jean's features, the way his eyes sparked with a familiar light, the sudden, faint flush of color across his slender face, lips parting and just barely perking up at the ends. an endless, unwavering adoration.

"eren is awake, if you'd like to talk to him." that was all she had peeked in to say, but jean was still gazing at the door for a moment too long after she'd left.

"u-um.. if you don't mind—"

"go ahead." you told him, gently, pulling your hand away, retreating as far as your body could into the mattress, under the covers, turning your gaze away.

and though he'd slowly, almost nervously exited your room, you could hear the clear pick-up in his pace as soon as he'd shut the door behind him and exited into the hall, probably rushing to try and catch mikasa for a moment alone in the hallway before he had to share her attention with everyone else.

and it hurt, like a blade buried between your ribs, being jerked and twisted with every memory of his affinity, the one that was never directed at you despite how you craved it. and you'd realized that you had melded a life in his shape, a life where you were always just a few steps too far behind, hand outstretched, reaching for him as you hurried to grasp at any minuscule opportunity to be with him, speak to him, hear his laugh and see his near blinding smiles that never seemed to last long enough to you.

but, perhaps one day, someday farther into the future. and if not then, maybe in another life.