#Back to the parapets of stone. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novelmonger · 3 months ago

Text

I wasn't expecting it to take this long, but after a million distractions, I'm back to going through the LotR audio commentaries and taking note of any interesting tidbits I haven't heard before.

Please enjoy my notes on the RotK design team commentary with Richard Taylor, Tania Rodger, Grant Major, Alan Lee, John Howe, Dan Hennah, and Chris Hennah:

They had to make Deagol's ears out of waterproof gelatin rather than latex because he was going to fall in the water, and the normal latex ears would have come off. I guess they must have done the same any other time a Hobbit got submerged, but they didn't say that.

The fish that Gollum eats at the beginning is made from some kind of edible gelatin so he could actually bite into it. They also had another prop fish that wasn't edible that they gave Andy Serkis to keep at the end XD

The little stone hollow thing where Frodo and Sam are sleeping for their first scene in the movie was a set they built with a removable back wall so they could get a camera in to shoot it from the back as well as the front. Why did I never think of that before?

There were a couple of extra shots they needed of Orthanc in the background to finish up the movie, but they hadn't managed to get the footage from the miniatures (and I guess the miniatures were gone by that point? idk). So they took one of the model collectibles Weta had made and took some photos of it out in the parking lot XD

Whoooooaaaa! Okay, so Alan Lee talks about how, in legends, they say that you have to kill a wizard three times for him to stay dead. And Saruman dies "three times" - first he's stabbed, then he's impaled, then he's drowned. So Saruman is dead dead. Dare I say it? This is...I think this is a better death than the one in the book ._.

They even put carvings on the crossbeams underneath the seats of the chairs in Edoras! You are never ever going to see them, but that was their dedication to making everything feel authentic. That's what sets this apart from so many fantasy movies and shows made these days.

Red in the costumes is meant to suggest royalty. That's why Aragorn, Boromir, Theoden, and Theodred all have red in their costumes - as well as Bilbo and Frodo! You're meant to look at someone wearing red and unconsciously think, "there's something regal about them."

John Howe points out that you probably wouldn't ever reforge a sword like they do with Narsil, at least not in the sense of putting the pieces back together, because it wouldn't be as strong as it was originally. (You could melt it down and start over again, of course.) But, he reminds us, these are the Elves, and it's more of a symbolic thing anyway.

The great hall in Minas Tirith was inspired by Charlemagne's chapel (and Byzantine architecture was one of the main influences on the design of Gondor in general).

The statue of the king in Ithilien was made out of polystyrene, which you would think would be pretty light, but it was so huge it was actually very heavy. They had to transport it to the location in three pieces: the base, the body, and the head. And to lift one on top of each other, they had to rig a sort of pulley system over the limb of a tree, using a four-wheel drive truck to pull it. But they discovered that the first truck wasn't getting enough traction, so they hooked a second truck up to it, and ended up pulling the first truck up into the air along with the statue!

They created fourteen new weapons just to put in the background of the armory in the scene where the Witch-King is getting ready for battle @_@

John Howe said that his inspiration for Minas Morgul was...getting his wisdom teeth pulled??? He describes a metal clamp digging into the perfectly healthy enamel of his tooth to pull it out, and draws a parallel to the metal pieces the orcs fitted to the top of the pristine white parapets, staining and violating them. Um...thanks, I could've done without that visual, John.

I can't believe I never thought about this before, but there's a little wooden roof over the pile of wood for the beacon that Pippin lights. The reasoning behind that is you need some kind of cover to keep the wood more or less dry for when it needs to be lit in an emergency. The beacon will burn away the wooden roof, but it can be replaced easily enough, and it's worth it to be able to quickly light the beacon.

A lot of the saddles they used were ordered from the Indian military, because they had a good, old-fashioned sort of look to them. Then they would add onto the saddles with things that would make them look distinctly Rohirric, rather than Indian.

Alan Lee's daughter worked on some of the figures in the doors of Minas Tirith!

John Howe goes off on this whole tangent about how there's no religion or religious structures in Middle-Earth, and why that might be, but the whole time I was just sitting there going, "...have you never read The Silmarillion????"

Because they had to make over a hundred suits of Gondorian armor, other than the hero suits, they couldn't make each one exactly the right size for the man who would wear it, so the casting department had to only get actors within a certain range of size. They also built the suits of armor with sliding pieces, so they could be somewhat fitted to different sizes.

The horses started out as being part of the art department's responsibility, but as time went on, there were just so many horses they had to keep track of (and the various liveries they would have to be fitted out with) that they had to make a separate horse department to oversee it all.

Because so much of the movie was filmed on-location, in some very remote locations, they had to make a sort of caravan of mobile repair stations that they could take with them. They had all the tools and crew necessary on hand wherever they went so they could repair broken props or ripped costumes, reapply makeup for gore and injuries, take nicks out of the edge of weapons.... It was really like moving an army around!

For the dream where the Evenstar breaks, they made a version of it that was five times bigger than normal, out of a very brittle resin. Then they made an oversized section of the floor and dropped it from a great height so it would completely shatter in a dramatic way like that.

Anduril was John Howe's design. He based it on a sword belonging to a friend of his in Germany, which to him is the ideal sword, the most beautiful sword. He also talked a bit about how Men were taller and bigger in the First and Second Ages, so their swords would have been longer.

John Howe: "Why do people criticize Tolkien for not developing his characters sufficiently? I cannot fathom that kind of criticism. I think it's done by people who don't read between the lines."

Richard Taylor said they had a lot of fun gathering up all the skulls after each take in the Paths of the Dead to put back up at the top so they could be poured down again. Apparently Viggo liked to gather them up and try to throw them at the crew members! "Many hours of skullduggery was to be had," as Richard put it XD

Apparently, they'd made dozens of really finely detailed silicone heads to be lobbed over the wall of Minas Tirith, but then all but one of them were stolen! So they had to quickly put together some crude latex ones to use in the shoot instead (one of which the mayor of Wellington threw). They didn't talk about this, but I'm assuming the one good head that was left is the one that gets a close-up. You have to wonder who out there was sitting around with a bunch of highly realistic latex severed heads in his basement or something....

While most of the siege towers are miniatures or CG, they built the top third of one and put it on tracks so they could move it up against the wall. They built the set with breakable ramparts for when the little drawbridge thing crashes down.

They had the same trouble in Minas Tirith that they did in Helm's Deep, with the battering ram being too heavy for the stunties to lift. But they never actually explained how they got around that problem, if it was the same solution or not :/ All they said was that they had replaceable panels in the doors, in case they were damaged by the battering ram.

In order to make Shelob's webs, they had to heat up two polymers and mix them together to make the stringy, sticky material. In order to mix them, they had to be heated up to 220 degrees C, but if they got up to 228 degrees, they would burst into flame @_@ After they were heated and mixed, they would dribble the mixture on top of a vat of water, where it would cool in spiderweb-like shapes. Then they would lift it out on a frame, and they could carefully place it on the set. One time, the polymers did burst into flame, and they were running out of fire extinguishers to put it out! O.O Eventually, they did call the fire department, who said they'd done everything the fire department would have done. They got the fire put out, but it was a nerve-wracking moment, because the room where they were making the webs was connected to the studio, so it could have been disastrous D:

Bernard Shaw apparently got the idea to do that whole bit where he knocks his sword against the row of spears when he saw the collection of spears all lined up in a row in the art department.

The "oil" that Denethor pours over himself and Faramir is a mixture of glycerin and water. (I always wonder about these things, so I'm really glad they mentioned it.)

When they were filming the pyre scene, they had a silicone dummy for Faramir on the burning pyre. Apparently somebody on the crew brought "David Wenham" a cup of coffee over because they thought he'd fallen asleep on the side of the set, only to discover that it was a dummy! XD

The horse rig they made for close-up work of people on horseback got affectionately nicknamed "the Phony Pony." The first day they brought it on set, Peter Jackson got up on it and "rode" the horse, making the whole crew laugh XD

One of the ideas that Peter Jackson came up with for the mumakil in a brainstorming session (which Richard Taylor says he's still not sure if PJ was serious about or not) was that they could suck up several riders in its trunk and then fire them out like bullets. I'm...really glad they didn't go with that, whether PJ was serious or not <_<

Alan Lee says that the first time he saw the dead mumakil that Weta made for the set, the body was hollow, and some of the crew had set up a TV inside it and were watching a rugby game XD

The last miniature they built for LotR was the Minas Tirith docks where the Corsair ships come in. It kept getting put off until almost the end of the shoot, so they only had five days to put it together! @_@

All of the dead horses are fake, of course, so Weta had to make them all. They were made of lightweight material, so each day you'd see the set dressers just kind of casually carrying in a whole dead horse and then picking one up from the battlefield afterwards like it's no big deal. They had to do a lot of repairs to the dead horses, because the legs and ears kept falling off or getting bent the wrong way XD

The stone Watchers in Cirith Ungol have Maori influence in their design. I wish they'd talked about that in more detail, but it was just mentioned in passing.

They were concerned about the various copies of the One Ring being stolen, so they kept it in a lunchbox that was labeled "Screws."

The scene where Frodo and Sam join the orc convoy was filmed on location up on a mountain, so they had to deal with a whole bunch of extras in extensive prosthetics and armor, which would make them sweat while they were moving around, but then when the camera wasn't rolling, it would be a challenge to keep them warm. The way they did most of the orcs was that they wore a rubber mask and then a helmet, and they would need to take them off at regular intervals so the actors could get some air. So in between takes, after the director called, "Cut!" there would also be a cry of, "Heads off!" That meant the dressers would have to rush into the crowd and quickly take off the extras' helmets and masks XD

Because the crew was committed to not damaging any of the flora and fauna in the places where they were filming, even in the location that became the plains of Mordor that Frodo and Sam struggle across, there were little flowers and moss that they wanted to protect (and it was a national park). So they would lay down carpets on the ground for people to walk on, so they wouldn't damage the plant life. I'm sure that made for a strange sight, Frodo and Sam struggling in tattered clothing over rocks and boulders, surrounded by perfectly ordinary rugs XD

To do the decapitation of the Mouth of Sauron, they had a headless dummy sitting there, and Viggo would swipe his sword where the head should be. Then Weta Digital put in the head afterwards.

The lava in Mount Doom was mostly a miniature (except for the set where Sean and Elijah did their part), made from methyl cellulose and other things to make it look like lava. They set it up on a table that they would tilt so it would flow down around the model boulders made from urethane.

Richard Taylor said that, at that time, no one had really done a very good CG bird, so he was especially pleased at how the eagles turned out.

There were about 400 people working in the art department total, and most of them had never worked in the film industry before! @_@

Ngila Dickson's philosophy for the Elves was that none of their "crowns" or headpieces would go upwards, but would fit close around their heads and then go down. That's one of those things I've subconsciously noticed all these years, but never really thought about before.

Apparently, a little bit of the graphite used on Aragorn's armor in the coronation scene kind of puffed out when he and Arwen go in for their kiss, and got on Arwen's dress D: And some well-meaning person tried to rub it off, but only succeeded in spreading it around further, thus ruining the dress. And most of the female characters only had one copy of each costume, because all except for Eowyn don't see battle and thus don't need different versions with varying amounts of wear and tear. They're just made to wear in one or two scenes of them looking pretty and walking through a room. But alas, that lovely green dress was ruined.

They didn't have much time with Sir Ian Holm, so they only had a week to get a mold of his face and make the old-age prosthetics for the Grey Havens. But then word came down that he didn't want to have prosthetics, so they were to just make him look old with makeup. They were really disappointed, but then on the day, Ian Holm saw the prosthetics sitting off in the corner and asked what it was. When they explained, he said it wasn't true, and insisted on them putting the prosthetics on instead.

One thing that was really impressed upon me during this whole commentary (over all three movies) was just how much love and joy all of the crew had for the project. Sometimes you watch a movie or read a book that really means a lot to you, that's changed your life, and you wonder if the people who made it fully grasp what a beautiful thing they've created. These people know. They were fully aware, from start to finish, that they were making something truly great and worthy of praise. And I think that's beautiful.

#lord of the rings #lotr #return of the king

248 notes · View notes

jmkjournalblog · 20 days ago

Text

"Soulmates" Part 2

Part 1

Pairing:Wednesday Addams x FemVampire! Reader

Summary: The Fem!reader, vampire with a penchant for dark humor and psychopathic tendencies, is sent to Nevermore Academy by her parents following an unpleasant incident involving the murder of a couple of triple students in her previous school. Despite their contrasting personalities, the reader and Wednesday form a complex bond, navigating their differences while facing challenges that threaten to keep them apart.

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes

Warnings: None

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

Y/n POV

My boots clicked against the cobbled pathways as I trailed slightly behind Enid and Wednesday. The cold seeped into my skin, but it was a welcome chill—reminding me that I was awake, alive, and in the midst of something new and dangerous.

Enid chattered on about classes, the cafeteria’s dubious offerings, and the school’s annual Poe Cup race. She walked between me and Wednesday, trying desperately to bridge the chasm of our conflicting energies. Her voice, warm and bright, seemed to wrap itself around us, a shield against the gloom. I tried to listen, but my senses were sharper than usual, picking up every rustle of the wind, every whisper of movement around the stone parapets.

And then I felt it—a shift in the air, like static before a storm. My eyes flicked upward, catching sight of a massive stone gargoyle teetering precariously on the edge of the nearest building. Time slowed. In that instant, I saw it lean, its shadow stretching long and ominous across the courtyard.

“Wednesday!” I shouted, already moving.

I didn’t think. My body reacted, faster than I’d ever needed to move before. In a blur, I lunged, tackling her to the ground. We hit the cold stone hard; I cushioned her fall, but it was far from graceful. The gargoyle crashed to the spot she’d been standing, splintering into jagged shards. Dust filled the air, mingling with the scent of crushed stone.

I was on my feet in an instant, senses searching for the threat. My eyes, now blazing, scanned for movement in the shadows above. Whoever had done this was either very bold or very stupid. When I felt no immediate danger, I turned my attention back to Wednesday, still on the ground.

Her dark eyes were locked on me, a mix of shock, rage, and—dare I say it—a hint of something else. She quickly masked it, but I’d seen it. Vulnerability. And it struck me more deeply than I cared to admit.

“Get off me,” she said coldly, her voice as sharp as the shards scattered around us. She pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from her clothing. I expected her to be grateful—or at the very least acknowledge what had just happened. But this was Wednesday.

“Not even a ‘thank you’?” I asked, my voice low but laced with something raw, something I couldn’t quite suppress. I’d just saved her life.

Her eyes met mine, unblinking. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, stepping closer, my voice losing its playful edge. “Even if you’d prefer to be flattened by a gargoyle.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. But her breathing was slightly faster, her gaze searching mine. For what, I couldn’t tell. “If you think that earns you any kind of favor, you’re mistaken.”

I exhaled, a humorless laugh escaping me. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Her expression didn’t change. But there was a spark in her eyes—an acknowledgment that, despite her words, she’d felt something. She stepped past me, brushing my shoulder. “Don’t expect gratitude from me, Y/n. Your heroics are… unnecessary.”

I watched her walk away, every fiber of my being alive with tension. I had never wanted to both throttle and kiss someone more in my life.

Wednesday POV

Wednesday strode quickly, the sound of gravel crunching under her shoes grounding her. Her heart was pounding, and she cursed herself for the betrayal of her own physiology. Why did this girl, this aggravating, cocky newcomer, make her feel so… off balance?

In the distance, she heard Enid’s voice, calling after her with frantic worry. She forced herself to slow, to breathe, to appear unfazed. She needed control. Always.

“Wednesday! Are you okay?” Enid’s voice was frantic, and she gripped Wednesday’s arm with surprising strength.

“I’m fine.” The words were curt, but Enid’s grip tightened. Wednesday’s eyes met hers, softened slightly by the uncharacteristic display of worry. “Truly, Enid. It was a coward’s attempt.”

“Still, it could’ve—” Enid’s gaze flicked to Y/n, who stood a few paces back, watchful, tension evident in the set of her jaw.

Wednesday turned away, focusing on her breathing, on the anger simmering beneath her skin. She hated needing help. But she’d been seconds from a painful, possibly fatal end. And she couldn’t quite shake the way Y/n’s voice had cracked when she’d shouted her name.

“I’ll find who did this,” Y/n said, voice low and dangerous. It wasn’t a question. It was a vow.

“Do whatever you like,” Wednesday replied, refusing to meet her gaze again. “But don’t expect me to owe you anything.”

Y/n’s lips curved into a humorless smile. “I never do.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Wednesday with the realization that for all her careful plans, all her walls—there was a crack. A very, very dangerous crack.

******

The crowd had started to thin, curiosity satisfied for now. Some students whispered as they walked by, eyes darting to Y/n and then quickly away. The sound of crunching stone underfoot punctuated the silence, and as the commotion faded, Y/n found herself standing alone for a moment, watching Wednesday's retreating back.

She clenched her jaw, feeling an unexpected weight in her chest. Annoyance, mixed with something far more complicated. She’d acted on pure instinct. She wasn’t sure what she had expected in return—gratitude, certainly not—but Wednesday’s cold dismissal struck deeper than it should have. She turned sharply on her heel, shaking her head, and made her way toward the forest edge. She needed air, space to think, and to cool the simmering heat of anger, frustration, and a hint of fear she still couldn’t shake.

The woods were thick with life, the scents and sounds amplified by my heightened senses. Birds rustled above, and small animals scurried through the underbrush. I took deep, steadying breaths, but my mind was restless, racing with everything that had just happened. That gargoyle wasn’t some random accident—it was deliberate. Someone had aimed for Wednesday, and that meant the stakes were higher than I’d thought.

But even as I replayed the scene, the sound of her heartbeat against my chest lingered. Her scent—a mix of pine, ink, and something uniquely her—clung to me. I cursed myself for noticing, for caring, when I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.

“You’re getting sloppy,” I muttered aloud. “Dangerously sloppy.”

The snap of a twig pulled me from my thoughts. I spun around, fangs bared. But it wasn’t a threat. It was Yoko, her dark eyes gleaming as she leaned casually against a tree trunk, arms folded across her chest.

“Rough day?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I relaxed slightly, though I didn’t let my guard down. “You could say that.”

She stepped closer, her gaze flicking over me with a curiosity that was anything but casual. “Word spreads fast here. You saved Wednesday Addams. Bold move.”

“I wasn’t trying to be bold,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Just doing what needed to be done.”

Yoko tilted her head, her smile a touch too knowing. “Still. Not everyone would’ve jumped in like that.”

Her words, though seemingly harmless, carried an edge of challenge. I chose not to rise to it. “What do you want, Yoko?”

She moved closer, and I noticed the faint glint of crimson at her throat—likely some concealed charm or ward. Smart, considering what she was. “Maybe I just want to see if you’re as interesting as everyone says.”

“And?” I crossed my arms, forcing my body to relax. It was a game, and she was playing it well.

Her smile widened, showing the barest hint of fangs. “Still deciding.”

She turned and started to walk away, pausing just long enough to throw a parting glance over her shoulder. “If you’re looking for allies, or just a way to blow off steam… I’m not hard to find.”

As she disappeared into the shadows, I felt a flicker of something resembling intrigue. But there was no time to dwell on it. I needed answers. Whoever was targeting Wednesday had just made this personal.

*timeskip*

The sun dipped low, casting the dormitory hallway in warm hues of amber and crimson. I walked beside Enid, her endless chatter filling the otherwise quiet space. She spoke of the upcoming carnival with childlike enthusiasm, her bright energy a welcome contrast to Nevermore's dark corners. It was amusing, watching her bounce from one topic to another like a hyperactive puppy, but my attention was elsewhere. Specifically, I could feel a pair of eyes boring into me.

Wednesday Addams walked just a pace behind us, her stare unwavering, analytical. The air between us was always charged, a pull of magnetic forces she’d never admit to feeling. I caught sight of my reflection in a cracked windowpane and couldn’t help but note the difference between us. Enid’s optimism radiated like a halo, Wednesday’s presence was a storm cloud of calculated indifference, and me? I was fire—dangerous, hot, and burning too brightly in all the wrong places.

“You know,” Enid said, spinning on her heel to face me, “I bet you’d look killer in one of those leather jackets they sell at the carnival. Add some chains, maybe a dark rose, and bam!” She gestured with her hands as if sketching the outfit in the air. “You’d make half the school faint.”

I chuckled, the sound low and throaty. “You think so?”

“Please.” She rolled her eyes playfully, her gaze flitting over my figure. “I know so. Trust me. You have the look.”

She wasn’t wrong. I’d always known my body held an edge over others, though I wielded it sparingly. My movements, whether deliberate or casual, were often accompanied by lingering glances or stammered words. Wednesday might claim indifference, but I’d seen her eyes travel across my silhouette when she thought I wasn’t watching—a barely perceptible flicker of interest she’d never acknowledge. I took a moment, stretching languidly, making sure my form spoke volumes in that fleeting gesture. Behind me, there was silence. I smirked.

“So, what do you think of the carnival?” I asked, turning slightly to catch Wednesday’s reaction.

She arched a single eyebrow, her voice cool and flat. “If you’re asking whether I find frivolous celebrations amusing, the answer is no.”

Enid nudged me with her elbow, eyes sparkling with conspiratorial glee. “Don’t listen to her. Wednesday just likes to pretend she hates fun. Deep down, she’s probably planning which rides to go on first.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath her pale skin. “The last time I attended a carnival, it ended with a burning Ferris wheel and at least three casualties.”

“Spoken like a true thrill-seeker,” I teased, stepping closer. “Why am I not surprised?”

For a brief moment, her dark eyes met mine, flickering with an intensity that made the air grow thick. She took a small, deliberate step back, as if to regain some semblance of control over whatever had just passed between us. I enjoyed the challenge far too much to let it go.

“Come on,” Enid chirped, dragging us toward the room we shared. “We need to pick outfits! And yes, Wednesday, you’re coming too. I already got us matching wristbands!”

Inside the dorm, Enid’s whirlwind energy took over. She flitted around, pulling clothes from drawers, and chatting about the carnival’s attractions—the haunted house, a shooting gallery, some wild fire-breathers rumored to perform. Meanwhile, Wednesday settled into her usual corner, methodically preparing for whatever tasks her peculiar routine demanded. I moved with a certain feline grace, feeling their eyes on me. I could almost hear Enid’s excited thoughts and Wednesday’s more guarded curiosity.

“Y/n,” Enid called, tugging a black leather jacket from her side of the wardrobe and tossing it my way. “Try this. It’ll suit you.”

I caught it mid-air, feeling its weight against my hands. As I shrugged it on, the material hugged my form perfectly, accentuating curves and lending a dangerous edge. Enid clapped in approval; even Wednesday’s gaze lingered for a second longer than usual. My lips curled upward.

“How do I look?” I asked, spreading my arms slightly. The question was meant for both of them, but my eyes found Wednesday.

She tilted her head, lips parting as if she were about to offer a cutting remark. Instead, she hesitated. “Acceptable,” she said finally, her voice devoid of emotion.

Enid laughed. “Acceptable? Please. You look like you just stepped out of a gothic romance novel.”

“Perhaps a dark tragedy,” Wednesday corrected, her voice low. “A fitting choice for her, don’t you think?”

“Tragedy, romance, it’s all the same,” I replied, stepping closer to where she sat. “And you, Wednesday? Will you blend in with the crowd or haunt the carnival like one of its ghost stories?”

She stared at me, unblinking. “I don’t blend. Ever.”

“Good,” I murmured, leaning back against my bedframe. “Neither do I.”

*Later that Evening*

The grounds were transformed, strung with twinkling lights and bustling with life. Music thrummed from hidden speakers, blending with the laughter and screams of students on various rides. Enid dragged me past vendors selling everything from candied skulls to twisted metal trinkets. Her excitement was infectious. But all the while, my attention remained divided. Wednesday walked a few paces ahead, her dark aura unbroken by the revelry. I wondered what she thought of all this—a chaotic mix of joy and hidden danger.

“Y/n!” Enid’s voice cut through my thoughts. “This way! There’s a mirror maze! You’ll love it!”

I let her pull me along, glancing over my shoulder just in time to catch Wednesday watching me. I gave her a playful wink before disappearing into the maze's gleaming hall of glass.

The air within the mirror maze was different—cooler, more distant from the vibrant sounds of the carnival outside. The walls stretched around me in reflective splendor, distorting every angle of my form. My image twisted and elongated as I walked past each mirrored surface, creating endless copies of myself. A faint smirk tugged at my lips; there was something poetic about the illusion of infinite versions of me, each gaze equally challenging the world.

Enid had dashed ahead, her laughter echoing faintly through the labyrinth. I let her voice guide me for a few moments before deliberately slowing my pace, the thrill of isolation too enticing to resist. My senses sharpened, honing in on every small noise. The flicker of carnival lights outside cast shadows that danced on the glass, creating shifting patterns that felt almost alive.

I took a step forward, and there she was—Wednesday, standing perfectly still amidst the sea of reflections. Her dark hair framed her pale face like ink spilled across porcelain. For a brief moment, I thought it was another trick of the mirrors. Then she moved, her gaze cutting through the maze to find mine.

"Lost already?" I called out, my voice bouncing through the mirrored walls.

"Hardly," she replied, her tone sharp. She moved closer, her steps silent against the polished floor. Each reflection of her was as precise and menacing as the real thing.

As she neared, I leaned casually against one of the mirrored panels, my body language deliberately relaxed. "And here I thought you avoided carnival nonsense."

Wednesday stopped a mere breath away, her eyes narrowing. "I am simply observing how quickly people lose themselves in meaningless distractions."

I tilted my head, tracing her silhouette with my eyes. "Is that what you think this is? A distraction?"

She didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a measured step closer. We were surrounded by endless versions of ourselves, each silent and expectant. “You tell me, Y/n. Why are you here? Is this another stage for you to perform your games?”

Her words hung between us, a challenge I couldn't resist. I closed the distance, letting our reflections align behind us in perfect symmetry. “If it is a game,” I whispered, “then you’re playing too. Deny it all you want, Wednesday. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

For a second, her gaze softened. Something unspoken lingered there, in the depths of her stormy eyes—something raw, uncertain. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by the iron control she wielded like a shield. She stepped back, the tension snapping like a taut string.

“You give yourself too much credit,” she said, voice cold again. “This is merely a test of your predictability.”

I chuckled softly, the sound echoing in every direction. “Predictability? Oh, Wednesday, you haven’t even begun to know me.”

She turned, a fluid movement that sent her raven hair cascading down her back. “Then stop wasting my time.” Her footsteps were precise, deliberate. I watched as she walked deeper into the maze, becoming a shifting ghost of mirrors and reflections.

Wednesday’s POV

As I moved through the maze, the glass surfaces reflected Y/n’s form—always watching, always following, even if she stood still. It was irritating how her presence lingered, carving out space in my mind where none should exist. She was a paradox; a being I wanted to avoid, yet always found myself confronting.

She’d gotten too close. Not physically—there was always some distance I could claim. But with words, looks, her damnable confidence. It gnawed at me that my composure had faltered, even if briefly. The carnival’s noise and chaos outside seemed to amplify what I refused to acknowledge.

Focus. The word repeated itself in my mind like a mantra. I turned a corner, scanning the mirrored path ahead. This maze, this ridiculous charade, was a distraction. I needed control, not confusion. Yet every step brought her voice to mind, every reflection a reminder of the tension neither of us would name.

Footsteps approached. I stiffened, ready to parry another round of words. But it wasn’t Y/n who appeared—it was Enid, her bright smile glowing under the carnival lights that crept in through slits and cracks. “Found you!”

She grinned, unaware of the storm raging in my mind. I nodded and allowed her to take my hand, leading me away from the maze’s grip. Before stepping fully into the open air, I glanced back one last time. In the distance, one reflection of Y/n lingered, a silent promise of more games yet to come.

#wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter x reader #wednesday addams #jenna ortega x you #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday addams x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday netflix #jenna ortega x fem reader #tara carpenter x fem!reader

200 notes · View notes

danikamariewrites · 1 year ago

Note

Hi could I request a Xaden x reader where reader is super nice and kind of shy and is a marked one like Xaden. Possibly set during conscription day where Violet and Reader are in the same year and reader has to cross the parapet. Reader and Xaden are already in a pre-established relationship because they were in the same foster home.

Parapet

Xaden x reader

A/n: This is so cute anon omg 🥹

Warnings: slight anxiety, some angst, and fluff

Your heart was pounding as the end of Parapet grew closer and closer. The wind and rain making you wobbly on the narrow stone walkway. You would have lost your very small breakfast had it not been for the two kind girls in front of you. They gave you hope that the Riders Quadrant might not be terrible.

A few more steps. You can do it y/n, you're almost there and he'll be waiting for you, you thouught to yourself.

Two more steps, then you'll be on solid ground.

Violet jumped down. Immediately shaking from the adrenaline coursing through her body. You weren't ready for that and the nausea that would over come you. But you couldn't stay up here forever.

Without looking up from the ground you could feel Xaden's gaze on you. Leaping down onto the gravel you let out a deep breath. "Name?" A deep, familiar voice asks. Looking up at the man you love and have been separated from for two years your eyes sparkled. Tears threatened to spill out. You had to hold it together or you'd be targeted by whoever hates Xaden.

You could see it in his eyes that he wanted nothing more than to pll you into a tight embrace. Xaden bit back that boyish grin you knew all too well.

"Y/n y/l/n." He wrote it down, telling you to wait in the courtyard with the other cadets. You set out to find Rhiannon and Violet, wanting to make sure they were doing ok after one of the most stress inducing tasks you had ever faced.

After being put into your squads you started heading off to the dorms. Along with Violet and Rhi, you had been put in Fourth Wing, which to your relief, Xaden is Wing Leader.

Xaden grabbed your arm pulling you aside in the rotunda. You looked up at him as he tilted his head toward one of the massive pillars away from prying eyes. You followed until the two of you were covered by shadows. Once Xaden made sure you couldn't be seen he scooped you into his arms kissing you fiercely. Pouring all his emotions and love that he had bottled up for over two years.

Breaking apart an eternity later you rest your hands flat against his strong chest. Good gods! How much muscle had he gained since getting to Basgiath. You knew he was trained from his teenage years by your foster family, but still.

Xaden cradled your face in his large hands. You felt the callouses he had earned from training over the years. Gods you want those rough hands all over your body. To get reaquanted with every curve and crevice he left behind.

Your boyfriend stared deeply into your eyes. Like he was making sure his memories of you were correct. His thumb ran across three little freckles on your top lip that had shown up just after he left. Xaden let out a breathy laugh. "Those are new. So cute, so you." He breathed out. You smiled again. Letting the tears pricking your eyes flow now that you were alone.

"I missed you so much Xaden." You say softly just for him. He let his tears go at the sound of his name on your lips. "I read all of your letters over and over again." Xaden pulled you flush against his chest again, resting his head on yours.

"I missed you too my love." You gripped his tunic so hard your fingers started to cramp. You just couldn't imagine letting him go now that he was infront of you again.

Reluctantly pulling away Xaden held you by your shoulders to see all of you. "Are you ok? Did anyone give you trouble?" You lightly shook your head. "No, but I think I made friends. The two girls I stood with in formation." Xaden nodded slowly. He looked as if he was debating telling you a big secret that was killing him.

"Stick with them. I'm glad you're in my wing, that way I can protect you." You nodded, giving him another smile. Gods you were too kind and delicate for the Riders Quadrant. He should've fought harder to have you put in with the healers. Unfortunately General Sorrengail wouldn't budge on her decision.

Xaden lightly traces your relic on the side of your neck. A shiver runs through your body making you giggle. Xaden melted. He missed that sound. He missed you.

"Just keep your head down, stick to who you can trust - especially Liam - he'll watch you. We'll get through this ok." You nod again. It felt like that was all you could do. You still didn't trust your voice. If you tried to speak you'd probably burst into hysterics.

Xaden started walking you to the dorms. He drops your hand putting his arms behind his back. "When you get your own room I can come and see you. For now we'll just have to the day time."

"I'll take what I can get with you." You sigh. Xaden stops halfway down the hall. "I have to go, but I'll see you at dinner." "See you at dinner." Xaden gave you one last longing smile before turning on his heel, heading back down the hall.

Taking another deep breath you push the door to the dorms open. It was loud. People talking, making friends, and fighting over who's bunk is who's. You immediately spot Rhiannon and Violet. They were fierociously guarding three beds. Violet makes eye contact with you, a smile gracing her lips as she waved you over.

You rush over to the girls, throwing your pack on the bed they saved for you. "Thank you." "We didn't want you to miss out." You smiled at the two girls as you all started to set up your beds.

Something told you this wouldn't be so bad. And that this squad is where you're supposed to be.

#fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing fanfiction #xaden fourth wing #xaden riorson #xaden riorson fourth wing #xaden x reader #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson x you

796 notes · View notes

heliads · 1 year ago

Note

hi!! Can I request Harry Potter x f!reader, where Harry and y/n are dating and during the battle reader gets severely injured almost dead by Voldemort and Harry doesn’t know until after he defeats him he goes looking for reader but can’t find her, getting scared he goes looking for her and finds her under a pile of rubble realizing she’s about to die he uses the resurrection stone or wand to bring her back to life/heal her. Sorry if it’s really I’ve never requested before!

just read manacled so i'm desperately craving to write some hp angst so this request was perfectly timed thx anon xoxo

'someone take me home ' - harry potter

masterlist

The air is dark, choked with the ash and smoke of Harry Potter’s only true home.

Although he is not the one setting fire to the turrets, sending trolls in to demolish the stone parapets, or hurling curses through glass windows, Harry still feels responsible for the destruction. He is the one who challenged Voldemort by trying to hunt down his Horcruxes. He is the one who has brought this needless death and destruction into the castle. When Voldemort made his pronouncement that all of this fighting could cease if they would only turn Harry over to the Death Eaters, Harry had felt the weight of that guilt settle onto his shoulders like a cloak. It is his doing, all of this. He is the one to blame.

The only way he can make up for it is to end this, once and for all. If he does not kill Voldemort tonight– if he cannot end this war quickly– every life lost, every shred of memory and pride lost in the broken castle’s rubble will have fallen because he could not get the job done. Harry is responsible for everything that happens here tonight. He has to be responsible for winning it, too.

Harry is close to the end. So close. He has already died once tonight. He does not want it to happen again. For a moment there, when he went into the woods alone to meet his soon-to-be killer, armed only with a wand, a wish, and a deeply seated terror that would not leave him, Harry had not thought that he would come back. Dumbledore had not had the chance to specify that in his memories, that Harry would survive the Avada Kedavra curse for the second time in his life.

Harry had not known at all. Through Snape’s memories, he had seen that he would have to die for Voldemort to be killed, but there was no guarantee that Harry would come back. When Harry came away from the Pensieve burdened with that terrible truth, he had assumed that the blinding flash of green light would be all. When he said goodbye to Ron and Hermione, he had left them thinking that he would never return. Walking away from them was horrible, the price of seven years’ worth of incredible friendship. The only thing worse than that was leaving Y/N.

Y/N L/N. Harry’s girlfriend. They started dating during their fifth year, coasting on the thrill of sneaking around behind Umbridge’s back to run the DA. He’d liked her for longer, of course, he swears half the boys his year had a crush on Y/N at least since their second winter at Hogwarts, but Harry was the one who got to keep her around. He never forgot how lucky that made him. And, leaving her behind in the ruins of Hogwarts Castle to end his life, Harry reminded himself of it then, too. Even if he was going to die, he had lived a properly good life before the moment the Killing Curse was spoken aloud. He should have no reason to mourn all of the moments he would never have when he already experienced and enjoyed so many.

To distract himself in those cold, empty woods, Harry had reached into his pocket for the small, dark stone left to him by Dumbledore in the shell of a Golden Snitch. It’s probably not wise to carry a Deathly Hallow through the Forbidden Forest in search of a Dark Lord, but Harry was, after all, headed towards his certain death, so he figured that a little bit of risk was acceptable under those circumstances. Turning the Resurrection Stone over in his pocket, Harry had let his eyes flicker closed as he thought of something– as he wished for it, more than anything, more even than he needed to be alive– and then his eyes had opened, and he had seen his parents.

His first thought was that they looked just like their photographs. They smiled at him, reaching out wispy hands to guide him onwards. Remus and Sirius had joined not soon after. It was easier to be brave when he wasn’t alone, and it must have just been his mind imagining it, because he swore that just before he emerged into the clearing containing Voldemort’s camp, Harry saw Y/N there too, smiling and calling out to him.

He just wanted to think of her one last time, that was all. It meant nothing. Y/N was alive with Ron and Hermione. The one-hour truce had probably ended by then, so they would all be fighting again, but his two best friends would keep the love of his life alive. Of course they would. He made them promise.

Harry had removed that worry from his mind, and then he had died and subsequently come back to life. When he was lying on the cold ground, when Narcissa Malfoy had bent over him and asked him as quietly as she dared if her son was still alive, Harry has to admit that he was not thinking about the good of the mission to kill Voldemort, nor how he could keep up that crusade if he stayed alive. No, he thought about seeing Y/N one more time, and so he told her that Draco was still living. Harry didn’t even know if it was a lie or not, it didn’t matter, it worked. It could be true. Harry had no way of telling if Draco had passed away. All he could do was survive, clawing inch by inch until he could make it back to the grounds of the castle and tell for certain who was dead and who was alive.

The ruse, however misguided, had worked, and then Voldemort had crowed with sickly joy and dragged Harry’s body back to the castle. Harry was forced to remain stock-still, terrified to move so much as a muscle lest he give himself away and incur a second Killing Curse.

Now he is back, back here, back in the present moment, back in the castle. Harry is alive and everybody knows it. Harry heard the cheers erupt when he flung himself away from Hagrid to stand opposite Voldemort again, but he dared not look back. One distracted glance gives Tom Riddle a chance to kill him, and Harry cannot– he will not– give himself away like that after everything. His friends need him. Y/N needs him. Harry must do this, he must win.

Harry is no stranger to dueling, both with friends and enemies. When Voldemort points the Elder Wand at Harry, the wand that technically is under Harry’s control, Harry feels the moment thrumming in his veins like a bloodlust even before his opponent casts the spell. His wand hand rises of his own volition, the spell rising to his lips by reflex alone.

Two incantations are chanted at the same time. Avada Kedavra, Voldemort shrieks across the dusty courtyard, his voice like a death rattle. Expelliarmus, Harry shouts back, his heart leaping into his chest. He has never meant a spell like this before, and he swears he never will.

For a moment, all is still, all is quiet. The Death Eaters and students alike watch with bated breath as the two spells arc across the courtyard, but then Voldemort’s bright spark of green rebounds the second it comes into contact with Harry’s, sending both tumbling towards the Dark Lord. The Killing Curse hits Voldemort, and just like that, with no pomp and circumstance, no drama befitting the one who has caused them all so much violence and grief, Tom Marvolo Riddle dies.

Harry doesn’t believe it. Truly, he doesn’t, until he forces his limbs to walk over to the body of Voldemort and stand, staring, at the corpse until he is certain it does not move again. Slowly, surely, the Death Eaters peel away, and the students and members of the Order of the Phoenix come back again, surging around him like an ocean wave, rejoicing in their victory.

Ron and Hermione reach him first, one at each side. They embrace him, half crying, half beaming. Hermione’s saying that he’s done it, he’s won, and Ron is grinning at him proudly, telling Harry that he knew he could do it. Harry waits for the fourth person to join their party, but for some reason, she never does.

Harry pulls back slightly from their embrace. “Guys,” he says uncertainly, “Where’s Y/N?”

Ron and Hermione exchange confused looks. “She was just here,” Ron says vacantly. “Wasn’t she, Hermione? I swear I saw her a minute ago. We were fighting together, then a bunch of Death Eaters split us up. I got back to Hermione as soon as I could, but–”

“But you didn’t see her?” Harry interrupts. His voice sounds harsher than he intends, but a sudden, icy panic is beginning to flood through his system, and he cannot think about anything– he will not think about anything– until he is certain that this fear is unfounded.

He looks desperately at Hermione, the reasonable one, the one who always comes up with answers in times of crisis like this one, but she shakes her head quietly. “None of us have seen her since the fighting started up again,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“No,” he says forcefully, “No, that’s not right. Y/N is alive. We just lost her in the crowd, that’s all.”

It must be true. Harry won’t look at either of them, won’t see the slow rush of guilt that’s creeping into both of their faces. Y/N has to be here. She wouldn’t just leave him like this.

Harry pushes past the two of them, fighting his way back through the crowds. He scans every face he sees, ignoring friends and professors the moment he’s sure they aren’t her. When he doesn’t see her immediately, Harry looks not at the crowds but the grounds, the walls, to see if she’s lying down somewhere. She could still be resting, or maybe she has a broken leg or something and can’t move. There is still a way that she could be alive. There is still a way that she could come back to him.

No sign of her. Harry is about to leave the courtyard and try searching somewhere else, and then he sees a hand crumpled near a pile of rubble. The hand, bloody and streaked with dust, is connected to an arm, an arm which lies limp from a shoulder, which leads to a chest which leads to a face, a face he knows, a face which is Y/N’s.

Harry is kneeling on the ground in a flash. The body of a fallen Death Eater is somewhere to the side, and Harry has the brief, proud thought that Y/N managed to kill one of them before she– He cuts himself off just in time.

Y/N seems perfectly fine by all accounts, were it not for the ash beginning to tint her face a lifeless shade. It gets everywhere, that stuff, but it won’t matter, they’ll have time to clean up later, once it is all over. It is all over, he realizes belatedly, but not quite yet. Not until she sits up again and smiles at him like she always does.

Harry waits for this to happen, for her chest to rise and fall, for any sign of movement. Nothing comes. It is only sitting here, waiting, watching for nothing, when he realizes at last that Y/N is dead. He missed his chance to save her. Y/N is dead because Harry couldn’t beat Voldemort fast enough.

The grief crashes over him in spasming attacks. He cannot lose her, not like this. It was easier to be the one dying when he knew she would go on to live a long, happy life, but this is wholly different and much worse. Y/N deserved far more than a death at seventeen. She deserved far more than Harry letting her down in this final way.

He can’t allow this to happen. Harry has killed the Dark Lord, he has freed the Wizarding World from death and destruction, he will save his girlfriend and it will be his last victory. Harry claws at his pocket for the Resurrection Stone– he almost lost it in the Forbidden Forest, but not quite, and now he has it still– and presses it with shaking hands against her heart. Harry closes his eyes and wishes with everything he has that she would come back.

He doesn’t want to open his eyelids. If it doesn’t work– he can’t look at her again, fallen and still. He stays in the darkness until someone tells him in a light voice, “You can look now, Harry. I’m alright.”

Harry opens his eyes and almost sobs again. There, sitting up, is Y/N. She smiles at him. “Don’t look so surprised. You know what the stone does, don’t you?”

“I do,” he croaks, “but– I was so afraid, Y/N. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t have to,” she whispers back. “We’ll always be together now.”

He wants this. Harry reaches forward and embraces her. He can hardly feel her hug him back, but she’s probably still injured from the fight. She’ll have to get up to the hospital wing as soon as possible, Madam Pomfrey can make her as good as new in a second’s flash.

Harry steps back so Y/N can stand up, and then he starts to lead her back through the courtyard. Ron and Hermione have caught up to him by now, and they stare at Y/N with undisguised shock.

“She’s back,” Harry says exultantly, as if they couldn’t tell that already.

Hermione nods faintly. “Harry…”

Her voice trails off. Ron lays a comforting hand on her arm, then turns to Harry. “You found her, then?”

For some reason, he doesn’t seem nearly as happy as Harry thinks the situation deserves. He’s just found out one of his best friends is alive, after all, but instead he seems as if he’s just come from a funeral.

“I did,” Harry confirms. “I’m going to take Y/N to the hospital wing now, just in case.”

Y/N nods in agreement, which makes Ron and Hermione exchange knowing glances again.

“What?” Harry asks, somewhat cross.

“Nothing,” Hermione says a little too quickly. “It’s just– Oh, Harry, you have the Resurrection Stone, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Why do you ask?”

The look in her eyes is deeply sorrowful. “You have to let go, Harry.”

He shakes his head. “What are you talking about? I just got Y/N back, I have to make sure that she’s alright.”

He moves to brush past them, but Ron holds out an arm. “Here, I’ll take Y/N to the hospital wing. How about you stay and talk to Hermione for a little longer?”

Y/N looks unhappy about this, and although Harry doesn’t quite want to be parted from her yet, he can’t technically see any problems with this, so he agrees, and watches mournfully as Y/N trails away behind Ron. She’s moving slower than usual, but again, that must be due to injury.

Hermione takes him by the arm and steers him away from the quickly burgeoning crowds. “Harry,” she begins slowly, “Do you remember what Xenophilius Lovegood said about the Deathly Hallows, about the Stone in particular? How it drove the second brother mad because his bride came back from the dead, but she was never really the same?”

“I do,” Harry says vaguely, not entirely sure what this has to do with him, “But that’s not the case with Y/N, though, she’s fine. I reckon it’s because I have the Elder Wand too, you know?”

Hermione sighs. “Harry, that’s not the Y/N you lost. She’s different. I think she’s closer to a ghost than a person.”

“No,” Harry says unsteadily, “She’s just like I remember, honestly. I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s nothing like a ghost.”

Hermione takes a slow breath in and out. She’s obviously fighting tears. “That’s because she hasn’t been herself lately, even before she– even before she died, Harry. The war has been hard on all of us, but her especially. It’s taken quite the toll on her, so much so that you would see a ghost of the girl you knew and still think it was her.”

“That makes no sense,” Harry protests, but a persistent feeling of doubt is starting to shadow his mind.

“I can prove it,” Hermione insists, and reaches into her pocket to pull out a photograph.

Harry holds it in his hands and stares. He remembers the moment this photo was taken more than he recognizes the actual people inside of it. This was one of the last days they had to themselves before the war broke out in earnest and everything went to hell. It had been in the spring, all four of them in the Gryffindor Common Room. Colin Creevey had taken the photo while they were unawares and to punish him, they’d confiscated it. Harry had no idea Hermione had held onto it, but now he’s pressingly grateful that she had.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all look the same, albeit a little younger, a little less beaten down, but Y/N– the Y/N in this photograph is nothing like the girl he’d just seen. This Y/N is vibrant, laughing uproariously at a joke one of them has just told. The version of her in the photograph turns with a start when the photo is taken, but she’s still grinning up at him, still happy. Harry feels as if a saturation charm has been cast upon the photo, it’s the only thing that would explain why she looks so bright and alive here.

Alive, unlike how she looks right now, because she isn’t. Harry had tried to bring her back, but it hadn’t worked completely. Just like in Lovegood’s story. He thinks back to the past few months and he remembers how Y/N had been, how the light had slowly drained from her. The constant running had been hard on all of them, but it was worst of all on Y/N. She was the one forever thinking of new places to go, new things to try, wearing the locket for the longest, never putting up a fight. Slowly but surely, it had coaxed the life out of her, so much so that Harry couldn’t even tell when she was just a shade he had brought back from the dead.

Hermione nods slowly, seeing that Harry understands at last. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” he murmurs bleakly.

“Are you going to end the enchantment?” She asks him.

Harry feels like he’s drowning, engulfed in the ash and flame surrounding him. “I will. Just– let me say goodbye first.”

“Of course,” Hermione says. “We’ll be here when you need us.”

It’s more than he can ask of her right now, both to pull him out and to support him when he’s reeling from the shock of it all. They must be devastated too, Hermione and Ron, both of them have friends here who have died in this final battle and throughout the whole war, but they’re putting him first again. He’ll never be able to thank them enough for that, but he can try.

An idea occurs to him as he walks over to Y/N. He’s still got the Elder Wand in his pocket. He hadn’t needed it for the Resurrection Stone, he hadn’t even been touching it, but maybe– just maybe–

He casts a quick summoning charm to bring his invisibility cloak over, then pulls the Resurrection Stone out of his pocket. The Elder Wand in his other hand completes the triad. All three Deathly Hallows, all together at last. Dumbledore had wondered what having all of them together might do, how one might finally become a Master of Death. He had mused once that perhaps one had to accept the inevitability of one’s own death, to brush it off and greet Death as an old friend, as the third brother had done in the tale.

Harry has done this already. Died. He accepted it then. Facing Y/N, he accepts it now. He may die from doing this, but it would be alright. Y/N deserves to live. Harry embraces his fate, whatever it may be. He has the Hallows, but he would give them up for her, he would give up anything. Even himself. He has not meant a spell like this before, except once, and he swears he never will.

There’s a sudden rush of wind around him that forces Harry’s eyes shut, just for a moment. When he opens them, Y/N is still there, but she’s a shade no longer. This time, when she surges forward and hugs him, he feels the embrace completely.

“It’s really me,” she laughs, shocked, “I don’t know how you did it, Harry, but I’m really back.”

“You promise?” Harry gasps, half choking on his own surprise.

“I promise,” she smiles.

Harry glances back over his shoulder to where Hermione and Ron are watching with dropped jaws. One look at his friends is all he needs to know at last that yes, this is real. He’s finally won. The Dark Lord is dead. His love is alive.

At last, at long last, the last of his burdens disappear into the faint light of morning. Harry Potter is free.

harry potter tag list: @rogueanschel, @cameronsails, @neewtmas, @lovesanimals0000, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @eclliipsed, @frenchgirlinlondon, @23victoria, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter x reader #harry potter oneshot #harry james potter #harry james potter imagines #harry james potter x reader #harry james potter oneshot #hp #hp imagines #hp x reader #hp oneshot #harry potter fanfic #harry james potter fanfic

451 notes · View notes

callsign-rogueone · 6 months ago

Text

conscription day - a.g.

Aaric Graycastle x reader words: 1.2k 🏷: at incredibly long last, here begins the story of Aaric and Sunny! no pronouns used in this chapter but future ones will use she/her. very minimal Iron Flame spoilers. their story will follow the whole book so more major stuff in future chapters. in this one: canon-typical peril, dragon fire, implied death of unnamed characters. proofread, but with a migraine. five points of extra credit if you can identify another girlfriend or two in here 👀

Crossing the parapet was easy enough, and that should be the hardest part of your day today, yet you still can’t kick the nervous feeling in your chest, even after you have both boots on solid ground and your name has been recorded as having made it across, after you've been organized into a squad...

It persists through the handful of boring patriotic speeches about the commitment you’ve made to your country, which go in one ear and out the other. You know why you’re here. You don’t need to be given any other reasons.

You look over at the boy next to you. He doesn’t look scared of anything; not the quartet of dragons perched on the stone wall fifty yards away, nor the rest of the cadets around him who are all armed to the teeth, but he’s not loud and proud about it like some of the other cadets you’d heard talking on the Parapet. He’s keeping quiet, and watching.

It’s almost like he doesn’t want anyone to see him, trying to blend into the crowd as an average guy so as to not make any enemies or expose any weakness he might have — but he certainly doesn’t look like he has any weaknesses, tall and strong and well trained, wearing his weapons like he knows how to use them, silently watching the rest of the crowd in the courtyard.

Maybe you’re a little bit alike in that regard; not in your level of preparation — you’re definitely the least-armed person in the squad, and likely in the entire quadrant, with one knife at each hip and absolutely nothing else, as that was all you’d been able to afford before you left for Basgiath — but in the way you present yourselves to the rest of the world, focusing on figuring everyone else out and keeping quiet, not sharing much.

Your nerves are finally starting to settle. The four dragons continue to eye you, some scarier than others; a battle-hardened red, a bored green and an equally disinterested brown that actually yawns -- and looks to be missing a few teeth when it does, and a mean-looking blue at the end of the row. Just missing black and orange.

As if the thought had manifested into reality, a massive, one-eyed orange dragon swoops down to perch on the wall too, stone crumbling under its feet. The other dragons clearly weren’t expecting this — the red bares his teeth at the intruder, the others backing up to give him a healthy amount of space.

One of the wingleaders, the only girl of the four, shouts something you can’t distinguish, and then there’s a chorus of screams as the orange unhinges its massive jaw, spewing red flame upon the formation.

A girl across the courtyard springs into action, leaping in front of her wing with her palms outstretched, making some kind of invisible shield over herself and the group of students behind her that deflects the fire. Clearly there isn’t anyone in your area that has this ability — everyone hits the ground, or yanks each other aside and prays they’ll be far enough away to avoid being burnt.

The boy you’d been watching locks eyes with you, and then you’re on the ground underneath him in a matter of seconds, wrapped up in each other; chest to chest, his hands braced against the gravel on either side of your head, one leg between yours, your faces less than three inches apart.

The intimacy, the implications of this position you’re in with a total stranger, a man you’ve never met, and an armed one, at that, should make your skin crawl, should make you want to kick and scratch to get him off of you, but you stay in place, under the safety of his armored shoulders, because it’s clear that he doesn’t want to hurt you, or to assert his power over you — but to protect you.

You have a deep-down feeling that you can trust him, despite not knowing anything about him. He doesn’t know anything about you, either. You don’t think he even knows your name — you’re certainly too shaken to remember his, if you’d heard it -- but he hadn’t hesitated to put himself between you and danger, turned his back on a fire-breathing dragon to make sure you were safe.

You’re still transfixed by the color of his eyes, a gorgeous jade green with a ring of gold around his pupils, which are dilated with the same mix of shock and fear that yours must be -- maybe he’s not as fearless as you thought. No, brave is a better descriptor. Isn’t that what bravery is, being scared but doing it anyway?

If every day at this school is like this, you could certainly learn a thing or two from him.

The screaming stops and the heat lessens, replaced with the sound of an earth-shaking roar and the smell of smoke and charred leather.

“Are you okay?” he asks, the first time you’ve heard him speak. His voice is soft and cool, soothing.

“Yeah,” you manage, blinking up at him. “I’m okay.”

He rises to his knees, then his feet, extending a hand to help you up. You take it appreciatively, regaining your footing, surprised by the steadiness of your steps.

He reaches forward to brush the dirt from your hair, tucking a loosened strand behind your ear.

Your heart has never beat this fast in your life. You’ve never been touched this gently, never seen such a deep look of concern in a man’s eyes, that gorgeous shade of green looking down at you… You realize that he’s still holding your hand -- rather, you’re still holding his. You let go quickly, your cheeks warming with embarrassment.

“I’m okay,” you repeat, as much of a reassurance for yourself as it is for him. “Thank you,” you add after a second, still a little stunned by the events of the last two minutes — especially by the way he’d acted, to come to your rescue without hesitation.

He would smile at you if he hadn’t just watched a dozen people be incinerated. “We’re supposed to look out for each other, aren’t we?”

You manage a nod, your eyes finally moving from his to assess the damage and regretting it immediately. All of Second Wing seems intact, having been protected by the girl who had put up the air shield. She looks a little unsteady on her feet, but otherwise unharmed — it must have taken a lot of energy to do something like that. First Wing was far enough away to be unscathed, but Third Wing, and the squad beside yours… if you had been placed anywhere else, there would have been a reasonable chance that you’d have been burnt alive.

You don’t have much time to dwell on it as the girl you remember to be the squad leader, Rhiannon, barks out an order to fall back into formation.

You step back into place at the back of the block, between your hero and a blonde girl who looks like she regrets eating breakfast this morning. “Deep breaths,” you whisper to her. “In through your nose, out through your mouth, like you’re blowing bubbles.”

She blinks at you, but tries it anyway, and it seems to work, her posture loosening slowly. “Thanks,” she replies quietly, keeping her eyes forward.

The boy is right — the three of you should look out for each other, if you want to make it out of here alive.

#aaric and sunny #aaric graycastle #cam tauri #aaric graycastle x reader #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader

134 notes · View notes

angstywaifu · 10 months ago

Text

The Lost Sister

Xaden Riorson and his lost sister. Synopsis: Xaden is known as an only child due to his sister who 'died' during the Rebellion. Little do they know she didn't die and has been so close this entire time. A/N: This is my first ever fan fiction I have written, so please be kind! Also happy to take any advice. This is quite short but wouldn't mind maybe making this into a few parts? Maybe with Liam x Reader or Garrick x Reader? The Lost Sister Masterlist | Masterlist

From my tower I have what some would consider the perfect view of the parapet for conscription day. The perfect view of seeing those falling to their death trying to make their way into the riders quadrant. And soon it will be my turn. My heart beats faster at the thought. And its not the parapet that scares me. Its who I will see on the other side. The friends and family who think I'm dead just like my father. Instead I was taken captive and trained by General Melgren.

In his eyes I was young enough to not understand what was going on completely. He thought me young and naïve enough to be angry at my father for being apart of the rebellion. For turning against our own. But the black mark starting at my wrist and weaving its way up my arm and up my neck is a reminder of where my allegiances truly lie. Of who I really am.

A knock on my door startles me as I turn to see a guard standing in my doorway. He nods his head and motions for me to follow him. My time to cross the parapet had come. I cross the small room and grab the pack from the end of my bed. As I pass through the doorway I hear the screams of another candidate as they fall to their death from the parapet.

As we cross the courtyard I look up to see a group crossing the parapet with ease. They are too high for me to be able to see who they are. But by the way they cross the parapet as if its second nature to them, I know they are not first years. And it means General Melgren has gotten his way. I will pass the parapet last while they are all in formation. No distractions.

As we reach the top of the tower, the guards who lead me here step to either side of the archway. Infantry are not allowed in the riders quadrant. A nod them a thanks before adjust the pack on my back and taking the first steps onto the parapet. And suddenly I am glad for the training General Melgren had put me through. Every day for the last 5 years he had made me walk across various beams and walkways in different scenarios and conditions. None of them this high, but I now understood what he was preparing me for.

Despite the rain having passed the wind is still strong and the stone of the parapet is slick and slippery. And yet again I am thankful for General Melgren and the gear he had given me to wear for today. Despite him wanting to use me as a weapon and turn my on my friends and family, he had given me the best training to prepare for today and what awaits me on the other side. I take the last steps off the parapet and into shelter and come face to face with the very man himself. General Melgren.

The look he gives me is almost proud. “You passed that better than some third years. Clearly I’ve trained you well.”

I bow my head at him. “I didn’t expect to see you today General.”

The smirk he gives me sends a chill down my spine. “And miss seeing your brothers face? I wouldn’t miss today for anything.” He gestures with his arm for me to follow him through the archway and into the rotunda.

As we pass through other riders flank my sides, almost as if they are hiding me from what's ahead. I look up to see Dragons around the edge watching everyone closely. And judging by the smell and a few black patches on the ground we pass through, it seems a few first years have already been claimed.

An eerie silence has fallen around us. All eyes are on the General and his entourage making their way through the rotunda. He never makes an appearance on conscription day. He usually doesn’t show up till Threshing, not wanting to waste time on those who will not making it through the next few months. As we pass through all the cadets stand up that little bit straighter, and bow their heads as we pass.

“General. To what do we owe this pleasure?” A voice calls out. A very familiar voice. Its someone I know. But who?

“I have another cadet for you.” He says proudly, the smirk very evident in his tone of voice.

I hear someone rush forward and shuffling of paper. They’re checking the list of names of who crossed and didn’t.

”Everyones already crossed the parapet, we have all our candidates General.” The same familiar voice calls out.

The General turns his head and motions me forward. The entourage around me steps aside to let me pass. I hear a few gasps as those closest can see who I am. I don’t dare turn my head to see who they are.

”Trust me, you’ll be wanting this one Wingleader.”

As I step around General Melgren I finally see the face the familiar voice belongs to. It might have been 5 years but there is no denying who stands atop of the stairs at the rotunda. He’s bigger and taller than I remember. But there’s no denying its him. My brother. Xaden Riorson. Part 2

#xaden riorson #garrick tavis #bodhi durran #violet sorrengail #fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #liam mairi #general melgren

228 notes · View notes

polutrope · 10 months ago

Text

The night his father rides out over Anfauglith, Fingon does not sleep. He stands upon the parapet of Barad Eithel’s highest watchtower. It is a clear night of icy starlight — but to the North all is dark.

The Eagle appears suddenly, like a blue brushstroke against the blushing dawn. All through the slow sunrise Fingon’s heart hangs upon the brink of hope and despair. Could Manwë’s pity bless them twice?

He teeters towards despair on the Eagle’s return journey, for it is somber and without urgency. Still, Fingon waits. He waits until the ends of his nails are scraped away from clinging to the stone walls.

The Eagle wheels down into the jagged bowl of the Echoriath.

Fingon forestalls the onslaught of grief with denials, clinging, clinging. Say not that he is gone. Say not that the Noldor have lost their King. The Eagle rises again!

“Thorondor!” Fingon cries, knowing he can be no other.

Once the Lord of Eagles bore Fingon hither. Against reason Fingon hopes to see his father where once Thorondor accepted the burden of another Fingon loves.

But Thorondor’s back is bare. Fingon chokes, nearly collapses onto the stone — but his eyes catch on a flash of light beneath the Eagle’s great body. He hauls himself to standing.

Thorondor lands upon the tower’s roof, huge and majestic. In his talons he holds Fingolfin’s sword. Ringil, glittering through ropes of thick black blood.

The Eagle offers no words of explanation or consolation. He lets the sword fall gently at Fingon’s feet, and that is enough. Fingon knows: Fingolfin has fallen, but not in vain.

Reverential, grieving, Fingon bends to pick it up. As he stands, his cheeks are streaked with the salt trails of his tears, blown back by the beat of the Eagle’s wings.

#fingon #fingolfin #thorondor #ringil #triple drabble #my fic #no but Fingon deserves a bit of Fingolfin too

170 notes · View notes

corroded-hellfire · 1 year ago

Text

A First Second Date - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Feeling bummed about your dating life, you have a middle of the night run in with the cute guy who lives in the apartment across from yours.

Note: Me? Projecting? Never. Also, yes, Butterbean is a real cat who hangs around mine.

Words: 2.1k

The apartment still has the warm pleasant smell from your earlier baking as you walk out of your room, shrugging on an oversized navy hoodie. A little baggie awaits you on the counter and you snatch it up and shove it into your hoodie pocket. The heavenly smelling sugar cookies you’d made look too tempting as you pass them by, forcing you to grab one. Then halt in your tracks, turn around and grab a second one, before continuing your way towards the front door.

It’s just before two in the morning and it’s quite possibly your favorite time of day. No one asking you to do anything, no one expecting anything of you, time to just be. The whole apartment building seems to have fallen silent—another perk to this time of night. The sound of your feet padding down the thinly carpeted hallway is all that’s heard.

Coolness kisses your skin as you push outside, making sure not to let the heavy door slam behind you, lest it disturb the peace. Only a few wispy clouds decorate the sky above, most of the frills consisting of the glistening stars and beaming moon.

Dry grass crunches underfoot as you step across the lawn of your apartment building. There’s a small stone wall up near the sidewalk, with a large oak tree conveniently plotted right behind it to give you something to lean back on when you’re lounging on the parapet. Taking up your usual post as the late night watch woman, you take a generous bite into one of the soft cookies in your hand. The vanilla and buttery notes have you letting out a content sigh as you tuck your legs up underneath you and lay your back against the mighty oak.

As if your sigh was the cue he was waiting for, your loyal nighttime companion hops up on the wall next to you. The pale ginger cat greets you with an insistent meow before he begins to rub up against your arms, the calming purr radiating throughout his body.

“Hey, Butterbean,” you say as you reach up to scratch between his ears. The volume of the purring increases as Butterbean moves his head around, letting you know exactly where he wants the scratchies. While he’s in his ecstasy, you finish off the first sugar cookie. As if the sight of your treat reminds him, he looks up at you eagerly, ears high on his tiny head, and his large eyes wide.

“Yes?” you ask.

He lets out another meow and brings his paw up to scratch against the chest of your hoodie.

“Oh, is that what you want?” you tease the feline. “Of course I’ve got something for you.”

Butterbean’s excitement grows as he watches you take the plastic baggie out of your pocket and sprinkle the cat treats on the stone wall next to you. Your pantry has its own little stash of cat treats ever since you befriended this neighborhood sweetheart. He’s gained weight since you’ve begun giving him the food—which he needed. You don’t know where he was before he came into your life, but you prefer to think that the little nub he has on his rear end instead of a tail is just how he was born.

“Glad you like ‘em, kid,” you tell the cat as he finishes eating. Next, he decides it’s time for him to bathe himself right there next to you on the wall.

Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back and take a deep breath. You’ve been trying to keep the thoughts at bay for a while now, but now was the time for them to resurface.

What did I do wrong? Should I have offered to pay for dinner? Could he not stop staring at this stupid zit on my chin? Did I say something stupid? Oh, I probably did. And why stop at one thing, there were most likely several stupid things I said.

Letting out a groan of frustration, you run your hands over your face. This was the fourth first date you’d been on in two months. Not a second date to be found. Why was the only one who wanted a second date the one who I wanted to literally run from? You’re about to voice this question out loud to your furry friend, but the sound of footsteps coming up the sidewalk catches your attention. No one’s ever out walking the streets this late at night. It has you on your guard, and you’re ready to sprint for the front door of the apartment if you need to—scooping up Butterbean to bring him to safety as well. But it’s just your across the hall neighbor, Eddie. The one you’ve had a massive crush on since the day you moved in. How could you not when he offered to move the heavier things for you and then gave you that devastating smile? Life would be so much better if you could just date him. But you don’t even let your mind think about that for too long unless you're lying in bed at night with your hand between your legs. Thinking about dating Eddie, about him caring about you, was just asking for more heartbreak than you already have.

“Hey, stranger,” Eddie says as he strolls over to you. Butterbean raises his head to look at Eddie, who waves at him like it’s a common occurrence. “Hello, Ginger.”

You can’t help but let out a snort of laughter at that. “Ginger?”

“Yeah, I named the cat,” Eddie says defensively, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “So what?”

“No, no,” you say with a shake of your head, still laughing. “I named him, too. Just something a little more creative than the color of his fur.”

“How do you know he’s a boy?” Eddie presses, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because it’s very rare for an orange cat to be a girl,” you inform him. “It has to do with the chromosomes.” Great job, you think to yourself. Give him a science lesson, that’s how to seduce a man.

“Okay, Miss Smartypants, what did you name the distinguished gentleman?” Eddie asks, with an overdramatic flourish in the cat’s direction.

“Butterbean,” you admit, bashfulness creeping in your voice.

Eddie throws back his head and lets out a crack of laughter. It’s not at you, though, you can tell.

“Oh, I love that,” Eddie says. “So much better than mine.”

A chill breeze blows across the yard, making you tuck your legs up closer to your body. A reminder of what time it is and that you should probably get inside soon. What was Eddie doing out this late? Probably coming back from a date. The thought brings a lump to your throat. If he’s coming back this late from the date, it must’ve gone well. Images of Eddie in some other woman’s bed start to invade your mind and you’re pretty sure you’re physically wincing when Eddie’s words break you out of your thoughts.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Hmm?” You look up to see Eddie gesturing to the second sugar cookie in your hand. “Oh. I made these today. Do you want it? I just had one.”

“I will never turn down free food,” Eddie tells you as he plucks the cookie from your hand. As he bites into it, you watch as the crumbs scatter over his lips and the way his tongue pokes out to collect them. It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. “Holy shit. That is amazing.”

“Y-Yeah?” you ask with a nervous chuckle.

“Hell yeah.” He brushes the sprinkles of sugar off of his hands and gives you a playful smirk. “You’ll make some man a happy husband someday.”

“Ha!”

You didn’t mean to let that out, but it felt like a reflex to respond to the idea of someone wanting to be with you with a bark of laughter.

Eddie furrows his eyebrows at you. “Why’s that funny?”

“Nah,” you say, shaking your head. You don’t want to get into this with him, so you try to just play it off. “S’just I don’t see it happening.”

“You don’t want to get married?”

“No, I do.” You’re speaking to your lap now, and Butterbean has curled up by your side for support. “I just don’t think I will.”

“I don’t understand,” Eddie says with a shake of his head.

“Can’t seem to get past a first date with anyone,” you say with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Hey.” Eddie nudges your shoulder, so you look up at him. “Least you’re going on dates, sweetheart. Same can’t be said for everyone.”

The slight downturn of the corners of his mouth makes you frown.

“Wait, you don’t mean you, do you?” The very idea boggles your mind.

“Yep, little ‘ol me.” Now it’s Eddie that seems to look anywhere but at you.

“You’re not coming back from a date now?” Again, not something you meant to let out. Your filter must stop working at two in the morning.

“From a date?” Eddie meets your eyes, his eyebrows raised into his frizzy bangs. “No.” He chuckles as he shakes his head. “Covered a shift at the plant my old man works at. He wasn’t feeling great and he’s getting older, so I said I’d fill in.”

“Oh.” The knot in your stomach from picturing him with a woman starts to untie itself. “Well…you should go on dates.” With me, you don’t add.

“Why’s that?” Eddie counters.

“Because…you’re great.”

“So are you,” Eddie says, jutting his chin in your direction.

“So, we’re both great,” you say. The words hang in the air, and you wonder who will speak first. You’re not sure if he’ll pick up on the implication that you should go on a date together because, well…it was barely there. But you leave the ball in his court, the silence between the two of you only broken by Butterbean’s soft snores.

“Okay, uh,” Eddie starts. He clears his throat before continuing. “Say the next guy you go out with isn’t a total asshole. Where would you want him to take you on a second date?”

“Well, you said he’s not an asshole?” You click your tongue and shrug your shoulders. “That means he won’t want a second date. Only the assholes do.”

“Hypothetically here,” he says, throwing you a small smile.

“Second date…” You purse your lips as you ponder the question. “Where did he take me on the first date?”

Eddie squeezes one eye shut as he thinks of a proper date spot. “Lunch date at Benny’s Diner.”

“Not a bad choice,” you concede. “Second date, hmm. Might not be a step up, probably a lateral move…but Waffle House.”

This makes Eddie laugh. His ring-covered hand comes to hold his stomach and he shakes his head in amusement.

“The Waffle House?”

“Best waffles I ever had,” you tell him.

“All right,” Eddie says as he scratches the slight stubble covering his chin. “So, what would you say if I asked you to go to the Waffle House?”

The cookie you’d eaten only minutes ago suddenly feels like it sprouted wings and it’s flying uncontrollably all around your stomach. Afraid to scare him away by simply shouting YES at him, you take a moment to think of a calmer response.

“I’d say that sounds like a second date spot and we haven’t been on a first yet. But I’d make an exception for you.”

The smile that grows on Eddie’s face baffles you. You put that smile there? That stunning, orgasm-inducing smile? All by saying you want to go on a date with him? Seems impossible.

“I’m honored to be the exception.” Eddie sketches a bow that sends you into a round of giggles. The noise wakes Butterbean up, and he stretches his long paws out in front of him.

“When should I expect this Waffle House invitation?” you ask.

“Hmm. Perhaps as I escort you back inside? It’s pretty late.”

Conceding to his point, you hop off the wall, Butterbean jumping down after you. After rubbing himself up against your legs a few times, he wanders off, only to be seen again tomorrow night when you have his little baggie of treats.

Eddie opens the front door of the apartment for you, and you step inside the building that now feels too warm. The two of you walk side by side up the stairs, and after he holds the staircase door open for you, he clears his throat.

“So, would you like to go to the Waffle House sometime? Whenever you’re free?”

“I’d really like that,” you say, excitement bubbling throughout your whole body. “Are you usually up this late? Because I am and the Waffle House is open 24 hours.”

“I could go for some midnight waffles, shit yeah. Tomorrow?”

Trying to keep your beaming smile to a minimum, you nod your head.

“It’s a date.”

“The first of many, hopefully.”

Maybe all guys weren’t so bad after all.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction

762 notes · View notes

mrsjoeythehurler · 3 months ago

Text

When I Met You

(OC FMC x Liam Mairi)

All characters except for Aurora Sallow who is my OC and the FMC of this fic belong to Rebecca Yarros. The plot of Fourth Wing also belongs to Rebecca Yarros.

Content warnings: most of the warnings that are for Fourth Wing are also going to be in When I Met You. That includes: Blood, death, injury, violence and war. The only content warning I am adding is panic attacks (2)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟAurora Sallow ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

This is not ideal.

Looking straight ahead, I debate my options. The Parapet is thin, not something you can walk on regularly. One wrong move and the wind will take you to your death.

One foot in front of the other. Keep your eyes on the stone in front of you.

I can do this. I've seen countless others just cross it with my own eyes. There's no reason why I can't do it too. Except for the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing. I haven't trained like everyone else. I'm not prepared like everyone else.

I feel the anxiety start to take hold again, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath and praying to the god of luck, Zinhal, that I don't fall to my death.

"I can do this. There's no other option. I can't back out now."

Opening my eyes, I look at the stone ahead of me and take a step onto the Parapet.

Inhale, step, exhale, step. I repeat the cycle. The rain is pouring down, making the rock slippery beneath my feet, but my boots hold, and I take my time, trying not to worry about those behind me.

The wind blows hard, making my hair fly out around me. The stone beneath my feet is steady, but some of the rocks on each side of the mountain crumble and fall into the thrashing river beneath.

I'm halfway to the other end of the Parapet when I hear a squeak, like a shoe slipping against pavement. Turning my head slowly, I see a boy about my age just starting to regain his balance. His dark blonde hair was wet from the rain.

"Be careful!” I shout over the sound of the rain.

He looks up at me, and even though he looks neutral, I see the speck of fear in his eyes.

All I'm thinking to myself is, I don't want this boy to fall to his death.

Not thinking too much about it, I walk backward towards him.

"What are you doing?!" he yells.

"Helping you!" I yell back.

I look back at him and see I'm within arms' distance. "Hold on," I say, extending my hand for him to grab.

He looks at me, stunned momentarily, before grabbing my hand.

We inch our way closer and closer to the end of the Parapet, our free arms held out to keep balance. The rain continues with a vengeance, and the wind rips through, making it harder and harder to take a simple step.

I can hear the sound of rocks crumbling down the mountain and the river rushing below, but I never take my eyes off the stone ahead of me. I never let go of the boy's hand.

Gust after gust of wind slams into us, but we prevail, continuing to take step after step.

When we finally reach the walls, we run to the entrance.

I smile to myself. We made it.

Finally letting go of the boy's hand, we stand in silence, catching our breath and waiting for the adrenaline to ease. We're in a courtyard where two Riders stand to the side.

He breaks the silence first. "Thank you," he says, "for helping me. You didn't have to do that."

I give him a look. "I wasn't going to let you fall."

He gives me a small smile and reaches out a hand to shake mine. "I'm Sawyer."

Even though I've held this guy's hand for the last 20 minutes, I shake it. "Aurora."

After talking with Sawyer for a couple minutes, we both head over to give our names to the Riders in charge.

#fourth wing #fourth wing fic #fourth wing x reader #liam mairi #liam mairi x reader #iron flame #xaden riorson #violet sorrengail #xaden and violet #xaden x reader #x reader #fics #rhiannon matthias #ridoc gamlyn #sawyer henrick #garrick tavis #bodhi durran #dain aetos

61 notes · View notes

littlelostmabari · 2 months ago

Text

Day 12: Romance

This is my first published smut, please be kind 🫢

Pairing: King Alistair x Queen Cousland

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: The Queen is coming home, and the King has made plans.

NSFW. Smut. 18+ MDNI. Oral sex. Vaginal sex / penetration. Established relationship. Fools very much in love.

She arrived in the middle of the night.

It was more difficult to scale the walls than it should have been: the handholds she had planned on using on the northeast climb were missing. Some had been filled with plaster, others worn down with intention. She cursed under her breath as she hung from the parapets for a solid seven minutes waiting for the stupid guard to move his stupid feet.

The walls were more heavily manned than they should have been for this time of night. This area had only a pair of guards when she was here last, and now she was pulling herself up just as one guard turned around because another was coming around the corner.

Both men turned towards her, but she was a shadow gone before they had a chance to realize anything was moving; they passed each other with a nod that nothing was out of the ordinary. She landed hard on the other side of the wall between buildings at the stables; she tucked into herself and rolled up to her feet and pushed toward the inner keep.

There were more guards in the yard than there should have been, too. They patrolled in threes instead of alone, and they were paying more attention to their surroundings. Their heads were on swivels, their eyes piercing the darkness that bled through the torches they waved.

Were they… warned?

She ducked into the stables and into the nearest stall, where she hushed the king's horse with a rough nuzzle of her hand against his nose. There was a carrot tucked in her back pocket for this exact scenario. He was fortunately silent as he pressed his warm shoulder against her as he nibbled from her palm. The guards passed by without incident and she dodged out into the night.

She pursed her lips and her brows tightened into a knot between her eyes as she dug the toes of her boots into the dirt and launched herself toward the wall of the inner keep. Those handholds were still there, at least, and she was able to quickly scale to the patio on the fourth floor, where candlelight flickered behind the glass panes of the door that was left slightly ajar. She stepped forward across the tiled stonework, making no noise even among the gravel that was unusually strewn about. Someone was certainly expecting visitors.

The door was locked, but she had expected that. It took her longer to get her picks from her bag than it did for her to pop the lock on the patio door. It made a small squeak as she pulled it open, and the candlelight within flickered in the breeze from behind her. It was dim enough that the moonlight cast her shadow more strongly than his as he faced the ornate desk on the other side of the room and poured a chalice of wine.

She was still, now, as he pulled the wine bottle up and wiped a drip from its neck with a finger that he lifted to his lips. He placed the bottle down next to the candles on the desk and turned to face her, a goblet in each hand and a sweet smile across his face.

"Welcome home, my love."

She sprinted toward him, meeting him in the middle of the room with her cloak billowing behind her and gravel flying up from her feet. Her body slammed into his, and the chalices and the wine went flying across the stone. He laughed as he spun her around fast enough that her legs left the ground and made an angle with his. He had expected to start tonight with a glass of wine and a kiss, but should have known better. Her face was pressed into his chest and neck as her feet met the ground again and he felt warm tears soaking into his shirt before he felt the shaking of her chest under his hands. One hand remained tight around her lower back while the other snaked between them to unclasp her cloak which dropped to a pile on the floor.

The hand then found her chin and pressed upward, raising her face to his. Even amongst the mess of tears and hair that had fallen from her bun, she was still so beautiful.

"There you are," he murmured into her lips, finally pressing himself to her across every plane he could reach. Fingers snaked from her chin around the back of her neck and tangled into her hair. He pulled the ribbon until her hair fell down her shoulders in the way he loved.

Her hands let go of the back of his tunic and fingers met bare skin at his hips where she had tugged the tunic lose from his trousers. He smirked into her mouth, and then pressed his tongue forward to meet hers. The soft moan that left her lungs went straight between his legs.

"Did you," she asked between kisses, "increase the number of guards on the parapets?" He hummed assent as her nails raked across his hips. "And the yard? Told them to keep an eye out for intruders?" He leaned back from her but she pressed forward and he had to take a step back to compensate. "And you got rid of my handholds on the outer walls." Now he was grinning while he pulled back even more. There was a foot, then two, of space between them and she was tracking him with a predatory gaze. "And gravel across our patio? And you locked the door?"

With each step he got closer to the bed and she dropped another piece of her kit to the floor, first her traveling bag, then her jerkin and her tunic and every bit else until the only cloth on her body was covering the parts of her he most desperately wanted to see. The heel of each hand, one at a time, pressed the tears from one eye, the other, until her face was a mess of red and weeping makeup. She looked feral.

Maker she was beautiful. He would go to the Void for blasphemy but he would be honest with himself: she was divine.

The back of his knees hit the mattress, and he fell with a bounce onto his elbows… but she kept closing the distance. She was all of his dreams incarnate, and the bulge in his trousers reflected the need he had been nursing for ten months.

"Oh, sweet Alistair," she purred as she finally reached him, running a single finger down his chest where soft red-blond hair peeked out from the opening of his tunic. "You do know how to spoil your Queen."

He really did try to think of something witty, but she was on top of him with her mouth on his before he'd even had the presence of mind to think. She straddled him with her clothed core pressed against his, one hand desperate at his laces, the other winding through the ginger hair he had grown out in the months since she'd seen him last.

When she had finally pulled his cock from his trousers it was thick and weeping in her hand. Her fingertips teased the underside of its head and he let out a gasp as if he had been punched — she did have a habit of driving the air from his lungs. His eyes rolled, seeing only the silk hanging over the mattress, and he released the hand he had in her hair so that he could wrench at the sheets. She giggled as she lifted off of his chest, making to move down his body, but he stopped her just in time.

He… he had plans. Yes, plans. Big plans. Plans that did not involve him losing his mind before he could wring his name from her mouth at least four times.

She was limber, flexible… nubile. But he was strong. She squeaked as he sat up with a loopy grin on his face and pulled her bodily over him as he laid down on his back once more. He was only able to relax when her calves were wrapped around his shoulders and her hands pressed into the sheets next to his head.

"A King is supposed to spoil his Queen," he murmured into the damp cloth of her underthings. He pressed his nose against them as she gasped, and he inhaled her scent like it was the only thing that would acceptably fill his lungs. The underthings were gone a moment later, ripped along the seam and thrown somewhere they probably wouldn't be found again.

The flat of his tongue met the sweet of her cunt, lingering on the taste that he had missed with every ounce of his being. She had been his first, and he wanted for no other. When she squirmed, he let her press herself against him, and then flicked the point of his tongue up to meet her nub. He heard the sheets rustle above him and although he couldn't see her in this position, he knew the look on her face would have undone him in an instant.

"Oh, Alistair," she moaned from above him. He had to use one hand to keep her muscled thighs from clamping around his ears — he expected more sweet noises from her and he had not heard them in too long.

He had made plans, and she had met them all as he had expected. He wasn't a fool. He knew his wife, and the way she would have entered the castle tonight. He had pulled men from the southwest quarter to patrol the northeast, he had personally strewn the gravel and locked the patio door, knowing that she would have loved the challenge. But he had intended to woo her with wine and sweet words, to make up for all the time that she had been gone searching for a cure to their Calling. The night was meant to be in the candlelight and the forgotten roses and the wine that now seeped into the stone. He wanted to romance her.

So he complained. He complained with a thumb to her clit and his tongue pressed into her cunt, spelling out her name and then his and then hers again. He complained with his nails dug into the roundness of her ass as he pulled cloth away from her breasts. He complained with his fingers that pinched and pulled and weaved across nipple and stomach.

He really did whine into her as her thighs tightened around him, her sweetness pouring into his mouth as his hips thrust up of their own accord against nothing but air. He drank from her, begging for the mercy that he had been denied these last ten months.

And then he punished her by clamping hands down on her hips and stopping any of her efforts to remove herself from him when she had only just come down from her first high. Fingers that a moment ago had been pawing at her chest moved down her body to trace her center. He sunk two into her core and husband and wife gasped in tandem. She was warm and wet across his fingertips, and she was begging him for more. More, as his tongue pressed against her nub and flicked up from where his fingers were inside her. More, as she unlaced one hand from sheets and tangled it in his hair. More, as she flung her head back and sat upright so that she could writhe above him, riding him through another orgasm.

"My lady," he murmured as she fell to the side. He allowed it, feeling the shudder in legs that likely would not be able to hold her upright any longer. She reached a hand out to him and it wobbled.

"My King."

It must have been magic, the way his tunic and his trousers and his underthings disappeared. Either that, or the sheer sight of his wife, in his bed, with that combination of love and lust on her face had made him momentarily black out. He crawled over her with kisses trailing up from her ankle to her knees, to her hips (where she whimpered, Maker did he miss that sound) and stomach, one to each breast, then to her own lips where she hummed at the taste of herself.

"Please, Ali," she begged when they finally parted, and he obliged, lining himself up with her and pressing himself inside without a downward glance. He knew these motions. It was like coming home.

The hum that left her as his hips met hers almost undid him, but he staved off the high with a groan. The movements he offered with his hips were slow, lazy. He could feel himself dragging along the inside of her; even as wet as she was around him, she was still so tight. He buried his nose in the crook of her neck, in her hair and took in the smell of smoke and leather and horse and her. His hands pressed between her back and the bed and pulled her up into him so that he could wrap his strong arms around her middle. Her arms mirrored his but around his shoulders and neck.

This, this is what he had planned. He had planned to make love to his wife, to worship his Queen in their marital bed. He had planned to remind her of all of the things she had been missing while she was away. He had planned to write his remembrance with his tongue along every inch of her skin.

She didn't need reminding — he was the only one who had ever made her feel as full as she did now, her legs intertwined around his back, her hands in his hair and his shoulders and pulled against her as if she was trying to become a permanent part of him. His chest pressed against her breasts, his panting echoed in her ear, and it was a moan that vibrated from deep within him that brought her to a quiet end.

He couldn't control himself, the way she pulsed around him, and he came with a final thrust and a moan and she felt him shudder within her as he finished. He caught himself from crushing her by holding himself up by his elbows instead, his palms still cupping her shoulder blades. When he finally had enough mind to sit up and pull away, she whimpered and pulled him back.

His shoulder felt her smile grow as he shook with a chuckle, and he finally did pull back enough that he could look down into her face.

She was a mess, her hair was all atangle (that was only probably a little bit his fault) and there were new tears that ran down the outside of her eyes back towards her ears. The Alistair of years past would have fumbled and jolted, looking for injury to body or spirit, but King Theirin, husband to the Warden Queen, knew the tears on his beloved's face were of joy instead of sorrow. She allowed one arm to fall just until her hand could cup his day-old scruff, and he leaned into it with eyes that threatened to close, but no, this was his wife and she was home and she was safe and he wanted to see her.

"I found it," she whispered, new tears rising unbidden.

"That conversation is for the morning, dove." He returned her smile with a small one of his own. He leaned down just enough to nuzzle his nose to hers as he pulled himself from her and lay at her side. His arms folded around her again and she found herself enrobed by his arms and his legs and his love.

"You're home."

#veilguard30 #30 days of dragon age #author's first smut #I read the “romance” prompt and I wrote up to “spoil your Queen” and then I think I blacked out #alistair theirin #alistair x warden #king alistair #alistair dragon age #alistair x cousland #dragon age

42 notes · View notes

celtigxr · 2 months ago

Text

The Pink Dread (Master List) - - - - - ch. xii: High Horse

Chapter Summary: A tragedy is struck at Dragonstone, urging the King, Queen, and a few others to leave for the week. At the same time, the Baratheons and the Starks have made it to King's Landing, adding a bit more to the already simmering pot of problems at court.

Word Count: 3728

Sneak Peak: “Lady Valeana,” Ser Criston greeted with a stagger, “Why are you out this late? If you are lost, I can show you back–” “That isn’t necessary, Ser Criston,” Valeana resisted the urge to bite back that she used to live at the Red Keep, and knew it well. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, where the black stallion still remained, and his silver-haired rider still perched on top. “I need a word with Prince Aemond, if he allows me.”

Warnings: Miscarriage mention. A G N S T

T H E R E D S

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Valeana bit her nails down to the tips of her fingers, undoing the weeks worth of growth she had been trying to achieve. It had been three days since the fiasco at the library, and Val had been pacing and tossing and losing her mind over her decision. She had nearly flipped on it, deciding to take on Aegon’s opinion of how Aemond didn’t deserve her forgiveness nor her apology. It was greatly out of character for Valeana to fold like that; usually her stubbornness and ferocity rivalled the crabs that littered the beaches of her ancestral seat. All hard and sharp edges, ready to pinch and attack anything that tried to come close to it.

A ghost of a smile came to her face at the memory of a crab that somehow escaped its inevitable death from a boiling pot in the kitchen. It had grabbed the knife the cook was trying to use to stab him with, and started to wave it around comically. Clement had pointed it out and said: “That’s you whenever you get into an argument with someone, and you are clearly losing”.

Eventually the crab won its freedom and was brought back to the beaches, knife and all.

A loud screech above her head snapped her out of her nostalgic reverie and back into reality. Vhagar flew above the Red Keep, with a distinct black figure on her back. This was the only time she was able to see Aemond after these past few days. From what her father had told them, The Cannibal had been sighted coming more west than he was known for, and they had Aemond fly Vhagar around the city a few hours in the day and nights to deter him from trying to reach the Pit.

Val had been waiting for an opportunity to cross paths with the prince, hoping to get her apology over with so it no longer weighed so much on her mind. With all this time waiting, however, her resolve was waning with every thought of doubt that passed her mind. It was nearing the hour of the bat, and the members of court will be shut in their apartments, eating their final meal of the day over a lavender tea or a mulled wine before bed. She felt too nauseous to eat, so she went for a walk through the parapets that overlooked the couryard, the gardens, and the Godswood. Aemond would return at any moment, and with the Keep being quiet and near empty, this would be the perfect opportunity to intercept him before he reached the Holdfast, where eyes and ears were keener to personal conversations.

Valeana walked through the parapets and towers until she made it down spiral stone stairs that lead to the corridor that would then lead her into the Throne Room. After all these years she still felt a sense of unease everytime she was met with them, and unfortunately, they were in abundance in both the Keep and at home. She took her time walking down the steps, as she always did, eyes glued to the ground, one hand lifting her skirts and the other bracing the wall as he watched one foot after the other.

By the time she reached the Throne room, the sun had fully settled under the horizon and the braziers were fully lit, giving the large room a foreboding glow as the shadows of iron and steel swords cast upon the ground. She stopped in the middle of the chamber to look upon it, as did everyone who passed through the grand room. It was difficult not to. Terrifying, beautiful, ancient, like the family that owns it, that created it with fire and blood.

When she exited the Throne Room, a gust of wind greeted her on the top of the grand stairway, forcing her to hug her arms as she descended slowly. A few gold cloaks looked at her curiously as they passed by, some nodding their heads and muttering a ‘my lady’ out of respect. About halfway down the main gate opened and a horse trotted through, his rider unmistakable even from her distance.

Valeana picked up her skirts and carefully sped down the stairs, which were blessedly wide, and less likely to threaten her life. Her eyes glanced from her feet to the black stallion, who stood in the middle of the outer courtyard with Aemond still atop, as a white cloak stood nearby. It looked like they were conversing about something, likely about the whereabouts of the Cannibal. Under normal circumstances, the dragon’s appearance would interest her more, but her mind had been otherwise occupied with more pressing issues.

She made it down the steps without tripping, and then took long swift strides just as the knight left the horse’s side and turned around once she was within earshot.

“Lady Valeana,” Ser Criston greeted with a stagger, “Why are you out this late? If you are lost, I can show you back–”

“That isn’t necessary, Ser Criston,” Valeana resisted the urge to bite back that she used to live at the Red Keep, and knew it well. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, where the black stallion still remained, and his silver-haired rider still perched on top. “I need a word with Prince Aemond, if he allows me.”

Cole’s eyebrow quirked at this, and he turned to look over his shoulder at the Prince. Aemond wasn’t looking in their direction, instead he was facing forward, lips pursed as he considered his response.

“You may go, Ser Criston. I’ll ensure the lady is returned to her apartments safely,” he slowly pivoted his head towards them, eye finding hers. When violet met green, she found herself taken back, speech caught in her throat even after the knight bowed his head and bid them a good evening.

Aemond was staring at her in complete indifference.

Swallowing thickly, Valeana took a step forward towards him and his horse, but as soon as she did, Aemond kicked the side of the animal gently for it to walk at a slow trot. She stared at the back of his head in confusion, and opened her mouth to ask him to stop, but he already cut her off before a word came out.

“Keep up, Celtigar.”

“Keep up, Celtigar!” Aemond laughed as he sped down the Serpentine Steps. “Oh c’mon, Aemond! You know I can’t run as fast as you! I got little legs, Godsdammit.” Val huffed, holding up her skirt, her face red and brow sweaty as she tried to keep up with him. He slowed to a stop about halfway down and looked up at her, “Alright, alright. I’ll wait for you. But we’re going to be late!” “I rather be late than break my leg on these stupid stairs.”

With an irritated huff, Valeana picked up her skirts and jogged next to his horse, being careful to keep her distance as she approached behind. She had already been kicked more times than she can count back home, and had since learned what not to do.

“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” His voice was stone cold, with no use of her formal title.

“About the library,” she replied, out of breath as she struggled to keep up with the gait of his horse. “About that night. And– and, well, everything.”

They were approaching the drawbridge, forcing her to get closer to his horse to fit the width. Trying to keep up with him was making her left knee and her stump start to ache, but she swallowed it down.

“Hm,” the noise that filtered through his nostrils was a bit like a laugh, though humourless and barely there. “Everything. That is a lot of ground to cover, and I am a busy man, Celtigar. Speak swiftly.”

When they passed the inner gate towards the main courtyard that led to the stables, two gold cloaks flanked the entrance and both exchanged curious glances at the odd pair. They, however, didn’t say anything, or offered to help her. Briefly, she thought about Ser Harwin Strong, and how gallant and chivalrous he was. He would have helped her, surely.

Shaking her head free of depressing memories, she scrambled to continue, to find the right words.

“I wanted to apologize,” she rushed, a huff filtering through her lips. With a brief glance up at him, she saw that it was enough to catch his attention. He merely peered down at her through his lashes, his chin raised in the way he always did when he was trying to appear superior. Valeana was overcome with the desire to quite literally knock him off his high horse, but she viciously reminded herself she was here to make amends, and broker peace.

Still… It would be incredibly easy just to slap the horse’s rear and cause him to buck.

When he didn’t say anything she continued, “You tried to be civil initially – kind, in your own way – with me, and I acted like a juvenile.”

“Hm, yes, I’d say running off crying after being gently shoved is quite juvenile,” his comment made her head twirl up to him. He wasn’t looking at her again, eyes trained forward as they slowly approached the stables.

Valeana’s trot slowed down, her chest heaving in deep breaths and beating wildly from a heart that was struggling to stay in one piece.

“That isn’t– That’s not—” She cut herself off by running her fingers over her eyes in frustration. When she pulled them away from her face, Aemond was dismounting and landing gracefully next to his horse, whilst a stablehand took the reins from him. She remained where she stopped, legs exhausted and knee in pain, and it was starting to feel like it was all for nothing. “Please don’t make this difficult.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip curling upwards derisively, “That is rich.” Then he slowly closed the space, but stopped short at three feet, “Is that all you have to say?”

“No,” she licked her lips, and failed to notice how his eye flickered to them for a brief moment. “What you did to me when we were children… It destroyed me, Aemond. Quite literally.”

He turned his cheek to her, looking about the courtyard, at the servants and knights that filtered through the castle and its grounds. His blind eye was facing her, possibly by design, given now she had no way to read him.

“And I did not want to forgive you, for a long time, but I have grown tir…of…– Are you even listening to me?” Valeana took a step forward when he still wasn’t gracing her with his attention. She peered around the area for a split second, wondering wildly if there was actually something of more importance or he was just being a jackass on purpose.

Aemond pursed his lips, slowly turned so his good eye could look at her through the curtain of his lashes, “Save your breath, Valeana. You’re almost out of it.”

“.... Excuse me?”

He continued, “There is no need for you to apologize… You have every right to your bitter resentment over a decades old childish blight. I also do not need your forgiveness… I did not apologize for it, and I have no intention to. My earlier attempt at reconciliation was merely a favour for my father, the king, who I am obligated to please. But I will tell you what I told him: I was a child who acted the way a child would after being cornered–”

“Cornered?!”

“--And now I am a man grown. I have no desire to dawdle in the past, like you may do.”

Her mouth was agape, completely gobsmacked by everything he said. From the blatant delusions of what he had done to her, to his complete apathy for everything. She did not know why she let Helaena convince her to reach out to him… Valeana was right all along; Aemond was too far for her to grab. She should’ve listened to Aegon, which was almost laughable. Aegon, the wiser one.

Valeana swallowed the pit that was forming in her throat, and immediately shook her head when she felt her nose tingle and her eyes sting. She was trying her best not to let her sensitivities get the best of her again, but Aemond was not done driving the dagger in her back.

“Gods,” he rolled his eye, and stepped back from her. “If you want pity, Celtigar, go run back into the arms and pillows of my brother. You shall not find it with me.”

“Wh-what?” She blinked wildly at him as he stomped past her, confusion joining the party of her emotions.

“I’d prefer you cease seeking me out, Lady Valeana,” he called out to her once he was a few yards away. “I do not wish to be the villain in your story any longer.”

She watched him walk away, eyes marbled wide, tears freely lining her flushed cheeks. Her anger peaked as the distance between them grew.

“TOO LATE!”

T H E G R E E N S

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The Baratheons had arrived the same day they received a letter that Princess Visenya, Aemond’s only niece, had passed away from a fever that she had been battling for a fortnight. The Targaryens were then plunged into mourning for a child they had not met.

King Viserys met with Borros Baratheon with sorrow in his heart and an apology on his lips. He needed to get to Dragonstone, to be with his daughter, to be there when they cremate his only granddaughter. Borros understood of course, and gave him and everyone his condolences.

The King and Queen, as well as Lord Bartimos, his Lady Wife, Clement and Helaena had left to attend the funeral. The rest remained behind, but they all wore dark clothes in respect.

Borros’ lady wife had remained at Storm’s End, being pregnant with hopefully their fourth child and heir. From what Aemond had learned, they had been trying relentlessly for a son, but after four daughters and a few miscarriages, they were unsuccessful. So, the Storm Lord was being overly cautious.

With him though, he brought the Four Storms, his daughters, and the five of them resided in the northern tower of the Keep, which had been furnished and made into suitable apartments for their honoured guests. When questioned why the Baratheons were made accommodations, but not any other great houses, Otto simply said they would not be in King’s Landing for the entirety of the Conclave, and it would make little sense to set up pavilions when they could find temporary accommodations.

The truth, of course, was because Borros Baratheon and his four daughters had sensitive egos, and would not have taken kindly to the Celtigars (a lesser house) being treated grander than them. Aemond would have to agree, even if the Celtigars were of purer Valyrian blood, when the Baratheons merely had a drop in the bucket.

Shortly after, the Starks arrived while the King was still at Dragonstone. It was a smaller party, with only Cregan and his sister, Wylla, but they had no issues with residing in a pavilion on the outskirts of King’s Landing. In contrast, the Manderlys that arrived with them were a large party, with two sons and a small army of young daughters, all to be married.

With their arrival, it felt the Royal Conclave would officially begin, but no events would truly start until the King returned. It would begin on Maiden’s Day, which would be followed by a ball, where all the unwed, of-age maidens of the Realm will be formally presented.

The Baratheon girls and Wylla Stark were a good distraction for the Celtigar daughters, it seemed. After the uncomfortable conversation he had the other day, Valeana had not made her presence known to him. The same could not be said for her step sister, who would happen to be just around every corner, anywhere he would be.

Floris –Grafton, not to be confused with the younger, far more prettier, Floris Baratheon– had somehow found out about her sister approaching him in the courtyard that evening. He wasn’t entirely sure how, but there were many guards and servants about, so he wouldn’t have put it past her to bribe them into being her little bird.

“I told you she was going to try something,” Floris strode next to him, a modest distance away from his left shoulder, his blind side.

“And what was she trying to attempt? I am still trying to understand what she gains by trying to reconcile.”

“She is attempting to be a martyr, because she knew you would not have accepted it,” she replied with contempt laced in her tone. “She even puts on quite a show in our apartments, walking around like a pitiful ghost. I don’t know what’s more pathetic, her charade, or how easily it sways my poor father and mother.”

“Your sister–”

“Step sister–”

“--Can put up an act all she wants. I have washed my hands of her, and kept my distance. Should she try to solicit reactions from others, they will find that there is no evidence of my involvement in her distress.”

Floris pursed her lips and remained quiet for a moment before concurring with him, “Quite right… Though, I do have a thought.”

As they exited the corridor and onto an empty parapet, Aemond turned to her, and she to him.

“Mayhaps simply avoiding her is not enough,” Floris put her hand on the stone balustrade, peering down at the gardens below, where chatter could be heard. “She will continue trying to get her petty, infantile revenge. If you wish to truly portray your non-involvement with her, then you must conduct your own charade. One that would not only convince the court, but will also paralyze her in fear and anger. She will not know what to do.”

Aemond tilted his head at her, attention now glued to her next words the moment she said ‘paralyze her in fear and anger’. It was not enough to just put Valeana Celtigar in her place publicly, he wanted to drive the sword right through her. If he was of a rational mind at the moment, he would be taken off by his own animosity for the girl, when she quite literally had done nothing to him…

Aside from making him think of her in all hours of the day and night. Aside from unearthing his decades old guilt he tried hard to bury. Aside from using said guilt to manipulate him, making him feel weak and look foolish. Aside from haunting him with memories, and reminding him of his true feelings for her… Aside from breaking him in two when she laid with Aegon. His own fucking brother.

“And what do you have in mind?”

She smiled wickedly, “Court a lady. Preferably one that… has potential. That the King and Queen would approve of.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Later on that day, Aemond found himself back in the comforts of the library. He had a small supper by himself in his solar, and decided to resume his attempts at finding a Celtigar relation in their family histories. He had been unsuccessful thus far, but he was determined to find at least the mere mention of a name.

From behind him, he could hear the large library doors open, then followed by Maester Artos’ gruff, aged voice.

“Is there anything I can help you with at this late hour, my lady?”

Aemond froze like a statue in front of the tome’s podium. All he could hear was feet on carpeted floors and his own breathing.

“Actually, yes, Maester,” came a feminine voice, foreign to his ears. Aemond’s shoulders relaxed. “I am curious to see your collection on herbology and flora life. I saw some interesting plants and flowers in the gardens that I’ve never seen…and I’d quite like to identify them myself.”

Aemond slowly turned his head as he heard feet move further into the library.

“Of course, my lady, right this way,” Artos shuffled in his direction, and the feminine form of the lady in question followed suit.

Aemond now fully turned around, not just because he was curious, but because he did not want to appear rude by ignoring their presence.

“Oh, my Prince,” the brunette startled, then bowed deeply in a curtsey. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“You didn’t,” Aemond assured, moving his hands behind his back. She was one of the Baratheon daughters, but he wasn’t entirely sure which one. They were all somewhat similar, and near in age. The only one that was identifiable was Floris, simply because her face was still round and soft with youth, and she was known to be the prettiest of the four. The thin, lithe creature before him was not her.

She swallowed thickly, her hands clasped in front of her and fingers fidgeted, “Oh, good.”

Maester Artos, oblivious to the nature of the interaction, went on a head to collect books from shelves for her.

The Baratheon looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening at the size of the tome behind him, “What is it your reading, my Prince?”

Aemond looked over his shoulder briefly, “A bibliography of my ancestors. All members of the House of Targaryen since the Age of Conquest.”

“Oh, gods,” she smiled softly, “It must be quite extensive… Are– Are there any Baratheons mentioned?”

“As a matter of fact, I had just been reading about Jocelyn Baratheon, my cousin’s mother.”

“Oh, my father’s aunt,” she smiled, “I was told she was quite tall and beautiful.” The lady then cleared her throat, and as if suddenly realizing something she curtseyed again, “Apologies, my Prince. I realize I did not introduce myself.”

Aemond gave a half smile, “I gather you are one of Lord Borros’ daughters.”

“One of four. We often get confused with each other,” she smiled to herself. “I am his second eldest, Lady Maris.”

“Court a lady. Preferably one that… has potential. That the King and Queen would approve of.”

Aemond smiled wryly, hand reaching out to grasp hers and brought it to his lips to kiss.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maris.”

Note: Guys, he's still cooking. It's a crockpot, okay, it takes a while. The more you hate him, the more satisfying it's gonna be, trust.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

43 notes · View notes

bubbles-for-all-of-us · 1 year ago

Note

omg yes please write something for bodhi, i’m trying to find something because he just sounds such a nice person and hope he appears more in the next books, i also love xaden but i think he belongs with violet so i don’t wanna interfere there ahaha

If u want ideias idk maybe like a new student who was also obligated to go to the riders quadrant and she’s a sunshine and so he got a soft spot for her even tho they shouldn’t fall in love because that quadrant is ruthless u know? ahaha

At the first glance

Bodhi knew it was done and dusted the moment he caught a glimpse of your hair twirling across your face as you tried to keep your posture steady while on the parapet. For some reason the moment his eyes caught a glimpse of you that was the only thing he could look at. The only thing he could focus on. And something about that exact moment made his heart clench.

He had watched so many cadets cross that path. He was done flinching. Done caring that much. Bodhi too had mastered that cold expression Xaden wore but something about you, had made him lose all of that cool demeanor. A stone chipped beneath your feet making your right leg dip and Bodhi took a step forward without even thinking. "What the fuck are you doing?", Xaden hissed beneath his breath. But Bodhi didn't as much as stopped to listen, stepping closer to the very end of the parapet, to get a better look. "Bodhi", Xaden called out once more.

Your body swayed as your eyes darted down. Fatal mistake Bodhi thought to himself. A scream left your lips as you tried to find your footing, panic making you even more clumsy. "Eyes up here", Bodhi shouted through the wind. He could hear Xaden walking closer to him but he wasn't gonna budge. "Hey, eyes up here!", he shouted at the top of his lungs. And that's all it took for your frightened gaze to dart up.

From your frail body, Bodhi could tell that you had never even planned to be here. Pale skin was yet another indication that you spent little time outside. So there was no way you had magically woken up and chosen this fate for yourself. "You got this, you're almost there", he shouted as you rose back up to your feet. "We don't do this, Bo", Xaden pulled at Bodhi's arm but the male yanked it free instantly, "You interfere and I will throw you over the edge". Something gleamed in Xaden's eyes. For a second Bodhi was convinced that he was going to be the one airborn but not on his dragon this time. However, all that Xaden did was back away as he scowled at the crowd that had formed, making the noisy group break apart.

Bodhi's eyes were back on you as you neared the very end. Only now did he catch a glimpse of your damp cheeks. The bleeding lip no doubt from you biting it hard as you tried to concentrate. He knew the rules, he couldn't interfere. Couldn't help. No upper hand was allowed. Yet the closer you got the more Bodhi's hands itched to reach forward. You gasped as the solid ground neared. Nearly crashed into the rider waiting for you on the other side.

Bodhi's arm instantly wrapped around your lower back as he lifted you off the end of the stone ledge and into the solid balcony. Your knees buckled but Bodhi held onto you firmly. His other hand brushed over your damp cheeks, "Pull yourself together till they mark your name, then I'll find you a safe corner", he whispered, softly, blocking you from the rest of the people there. All you managed to do was nod as you pretended to shove him away, trying to take self-assured steps.

Bodhi met Xaden's eyes across the room. The look was displeased, to say the least. But they were family. They understood each other. So Bodhi didn't need to plead. Didn't need to pull any strings, at least not for now, to keep you safe. "Name", Xaden asked. You braced yourself against the table. The wing leader knew that hazy look all too well. "Name cadet?", he repeated. You blinked a couple of times, "Y/n Y/l/n", it was barely a whisper.

A loud cry echoed from behind you. Some gaps filled the room as the cadets rushed towards the windows. Someone no doubt had fallen and death strangely entertained people up here. Xaden looked at Bodhi, with a quick nod, pushing past you. And then you felt hands on you. You tried to move away, push yourself back but it was for nothing. "No, please", you breathed out but a hand quickly clasped over your face. Then the darkness of the side corridor fell upon you. "You're safe, I won't hurt you", Bodhi muttered, looking over his shoulder.

You eyed the man in front of you. You heard stories about the riders. About the brutality of it all. Bodhi turned back to you, "I'm Bodhi, you did good out there". You swallowed thickly, "I nearly fell...", you muttered. "But you didn't, you just can't show anyone your weak spots", his hands held onto your forearms, "The moment someone sniffs out your weak spot you're dead", Bodhi himself frowns at the coldness in his tone. Your eyes gloss over with nee tears that rip at Bodhi's heart.

"I never wanted to...", you brace yourself against the wall, looking so small that Bodhi had to fight an urge to wrap you up in his arms and snarl at anyone who looks at you the wrong way but he knows that wouldn't get you far. "I'll help you get through this", he said firmly. You shook your head, "I have nothing to give you", you wiped the tears away quickly. Bodhi simply smiled at you, "Let's call it a partnership at first glance", he extended his palm to you. You looked at him with confusion in your eyes for a moment before you shook his waiting palm, "Welcome to the rider's quadrant, sunshine".

#bodhi durran #bodhi durran x reader #bodhi durran x you #bodhi durran imagine #bodhi fourth wing #bodhi forth wing x reader #bodhi fourth wing imagine #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader

312 notes · View notes

gallery-of-writing · 1 month ago

Text

Imagine running into Levi on the roof

Note: This is part of a longer fic I'm working on, and what you need to know before reading this is that the MC has a best friend named Eliza. Hope you enjoy this little snippet!

On a cold autumn night, I find myself tossing and turning for hours under the covers of my squeaky bed at the Scout’s headquarters. After I grow tired of staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling as sleep eludes me completely, I end up putting my green cape with the Wings of Freedom on top of my nightgown, and climb to the top floor as silently as I can. The cool air outside feels almost welcoming compared to the dusty rooms inside, and I have to pull my cloak tighter around my body before stepping onto the southern wall. To my surprise, I am not the only one out here.

“Hey there,” I smile sweetly at Levi, who is currently sitting on top of the parapet with his unreadable expression. My voice startles him out of his thoughts, but he relaxes a little when he realizes it’s just me.

“Hey.”

As I walk over to him and casually lean on the cold stones, he turns his head towards the starry sky above us. The light from the moon nicely illuminates his side profile, and a few seconds pass until I realize that I accidentally stared at him for too long. As if feeling my gaze on him, Levi turns to me with a questioning look.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask him almost sheepishly, trying to act normal after he caught me staring.

“No,” he says courtly. “What about you?”

“It seems like I pissed off Lady Sleep, so now she won’t take me.”

“Lady Sleep?”

Levi lets out a small chuckle at my joke, and sends a sideways smirk at me. My heartbeat immediately picks up its pace at the glorious sight. If I wasn’t so flustered, I would tease him back, but instead I frantically fight against the warmth that’s threatening to engulf me, flushing my cheeks to an embarrassing color.

“Well, yeah…” I say as I pull my cape closer to my body, bringing up the front to cover my cheeks in a pointless attempt to hide from him.

“Are you cold?” Levi asks with the tiniest hint of worry in his voice.

“A little.”

Technically it’s not a lie, since my nightgown is almost useless against the cold air, but a tiny hint of guilt still spreads in my chest.

I glance down at the thin shirt Levi is wearing. “Aren’t you?”

“No.”

For a second neither of us says anything. Levi looks like he’s contemplating something, and I realize what he’s thinking about when he scoots closer to me on the wall and puts his arm tentatively around me. The sudden warmth coming from him makes my entire body tingle and this time I can’t do anything against all the blood rushing to my face. To hide my blush, I lower my head to his shoulder, feeling his body freeze after my gesture. It takes a few seconds, but Levi finally relaxes into the hug and ends up resting his own head on top of mine. A small smile sneaks onto my face as I nestle into his warmth further, listening to his steady heartbeat. My own heart happily falls into rhythm, and a warm sense of peace washes over me.

Our quiet moment is cut short by the door opening with a loud bang, and Levi jumps away from me in an instant. Whether from the unexpected intrusion or from the sudden coldness where his arm was a moment ago, my heart jumps into my throat as I glare at the two people standing in the doorway.

“There you two are!” Isabel shouts as if she’s trying to wake up everyone inside HQ. “(y/n), I woke up and saw your bed empty! And Furlan here—”

She points her finger behind her, towards the yawning figure of Furlan. His ruffled blonde hair makes him look like a cat roused from its deepest slumber.

“He told me big bro’s missing too!” Isabel continues her story as she jumps up to sit on the parapet next to me. Furlan sluggishly walks over to Levi’s other side, casually leaning on the stones with one elbow. “So we went looking for you guys! Watcha doing up here?”

“Uh…” I mumble as I try to come up with an answer for her, but all I can think about is how comfortable it felt to be held by Levi. Luckily his brain has not turned into mush like mine.

“You know I don’t sleep well, Isabel. (y/n) just found me up here.”

“Yeah,” I smile sheepishly at her, “I couldn’t sleep either!”

Seemingly content with our explanation, Isabel turns to me with a playful spark in her eyes. “Do you like looking at the stars too, (y/n)?”

“Yeah, I… It’s my favorite thing to do, actually.”

“Did you hear that, Levi?” Isabel waves excitedly as she leans forward to catch a glimpse of him. “Maybe you two could go on a date stargazing!”

It takes every ounce of my willpower to not become a flustered mess. A part of me wants to run away and tuck myself under the covers of my bed for the rest of eternity, while a slightly less emotional part desperately wants to look at Levi’s expression right now. Instead of doing either of those things, I stare ahead into the distance, my cheeks flaming and my skin tingling from being too aware of his presence beside me.

“You should see your faces right now!” Isabel loughs loudly.

The playfulness in her voice encourages me to steal a glance at the boys. Furlan has a cheeky grin plastered on his face, while Levi glares at the ground with a faint blush covering his face. Maybe his mind is also replaying the hug we shared a moment ago?

Would something have happened if they hadn't interrupted us?

“Hey Furlan!” Isabel calls out to her next victim with a mischievous grin. “Where are you gonna take Eliza on a date?”

The smile from his face fades away in an instant. He buries his blushing face into his hands, but we’ve already seen it. Levi turns to him with a knowing smirk and punches him playfully in the shoulder.

“Yeah, Furlan, when will you grow a pair and ask her out?”

“I dunno, leave me alone!” He protests with a muffled voice, and I can’t help but chuckle at their antics.

A few moments pass in a comfortable silence, and eventually Furlan lowers his hands, letting out a deep sigh.

“(y/n),” he turns to me tentatively, his words barely understandable through his sudden stuttering, “do you know… I mean you’re her best friend an’ all that… D’you think she’d like to… to go out with me?”

My heart aches for poor Furlan. Maybe if he met Eliza about a year ago, when she didn’t have a crush on Erwin yet…

“Well,” I begin slowly and my heart almost breaks at the hopeful sparkle in his eyes. “I… I think you’d be a cute couple. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Really? Thanks a lot!” He fistbumps that air triumphantly as if I guaranteed him a date already. Which I don’t think I can get, but maybe I can persuade Eliza to forget her very inappropriate crush on our section commander, and quite older friend. We’ll see.

My breath is knocked out of my lungs as Isabel excitedly hugs me from the side, and at the same time, Levi locks eyes with me. His gaze is the softest I’ve ever seen, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips and starlight reflects in his rich blue eyes like little sparks. Maybe it’s a good thing that he doesn’t smile often, because if he did, I would not be able to function properly as long as he is around me.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman x reader #aot levi #captain levi #levi ackerman #furlan church #isabel magnolia #levi x reader #levi aot #levi x you #levi x y/n #aot no regrets #acwnr #aot x reader #aot fanfiction #fanfic #aot

37 notes · View notes

wmarximoff · 2 years ago

Text

𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: because Wanda is unlucky enough to understands as much as you do about the responsibility of those with great power — and the losses that come with it.

warnings (18+): smut, angst, handjob, gender neutral reader has a penis, major character death. MINORS DNI.

pairing: emo!Wanda x spider!gn!reader

word count: 4k

masterlist|

(please, don't flag the work)

༺ᱬ༻

There was something gratifying you could point to in the idea that, propelling yourself into the air, climbing in that arachnid-like acrobatics with your own body to the zephyrs of frigid wind in furrows at that high enraptured speed, the world around you could well be so tiny and contained that it would even be deprived of external evils and annoyances when seen from above.

And you always watched it from above, from above, from the corners, in swaying webs, flight towards the urban labyrinth of a city marked by its own life, in a majestic and vigorous existence – a giant that shines even when the dusk of night falls, warm even in the face of a shroud of icy snow in the middle of that October winter.

Admittedly, the cosmopolitanly avant-garde structures that made up the metropolis of New York were sprawling, treacherous, and indeed even fragile, but the charm of the Big Apple was passed right over everyone else's heads, on the surface, when you didn't peer deep into the alley violence in that capitalist machine that encompassed you as much as it did any other New York passer-by.

Your distinguishing factor, however, your peculiarity, was that for many of those people you were a protector, a masked safeguard of their integrity in the face of the everyday hostility that the system so poorly failed to sustain. You were responsible for protecting the helpless, the underprivileged, the underserved, the mainstay of the marginalized and the forgotten. You were, in accordance with your moral duties, the friend of the neighborhood.

Swinging from one building to the next was part of the job at that point. Aerial locomotion became more practical and utilitarian when dealing with moving from one point to another between the skyscrapers that rose to the dark immensity of the night, like arrows shot to the top of the borough of Queens, where a kind of human spider like you moved upwards, climbing and shooting webs, leaving behind trampled footprints in the accumulated snow on the corners of the parapets and on the lightning rod antennas.

You propelling yourself into the dark sky, your muscle cords contracting, pumping blood, gusts of icy air sliding through the fabric of your dark mask, inflating the white eight-legged spider etching emblazoned on your torso. Feeling fucking alive.

In front of panes of glass, pale lights and hums, there was the frenzy of a city that never sleeps – in an intense rustling buzz, active and dynamic amid the white snow and the thousands of lighted lamps, with people carrying briefcases, with suits and ties and sheltered in heavy clothes, with children and with animals, alone or in packs, cars mottled on the white streets, advertisements flashing everywhere. Conversations meandering through the most disparate topics possible to parrot about, a veritable array of options.

Life was happening right below you, as you swung in a black and white suit over the tops of pylons and tall buildings, beads of icy sweat pouring down the length of your back, delirious ecstasy pulsing through your veins added to your warm, radioactive blood.

But, away from the noise of the night's bustle, your web swings that night were heading towards a final stop on an otherwise quiet round – a small apartment complex with thin walls, raised in stone and red brick and in poor plumbing, rather weather-beaten, with a rent worthy of the salary of a pizza delivery person (and part-time barista) like you in Northwest Queens. A place where you've resided since you found yourself being on your own, a little over a year ago, because you weren't exactly the lucky kind of kid.

However, no longer so far from the popular residence, huddled in an arachnid position right on top of the snowy tiles of a corner market, behind the acrylic lenses in the shape of tears, both your eyes compressed their lids in a comically expression, confused in a furrow of brows, since out of the glass of that window situated on the eighth floor were beams of a white lamp luminescence – and, as far as you held a knowledge in your memory, you had left your dwelling still by the end of that partially sunny afternoon, therefore, never having even turned on the lamps that day.

“Shit,” beneath the fabric of the mask you held your frigid breath, sharpening your senses into a state of alert.

It only took a single jump propelled by your lower limbs and an accurate web shot ejected from the shooter attached to your right wrist, aimed right at the edge of the building's terrace, for you to maneuver cautiously in the air, between the light poles, like an elusive feline to then crawling up the emergency stairs outside your living room window, peering in for a glimpse of who the intruder might be that would have crept into your residence while you were away, merging with the shadows that shrouded that cold night.

But the ice in your lungs soon softened into puddles of itself, and at what lay there, laid out for your view from within those four withered walls that encompassed the narrow cubicle you called home. Your heart pumped in liquid explosion inside your ribcage that spread to the pit of your stomach, taking everything in its path in a dizzying hot drag. And that's why a tiny silly smile allowed itself to be enjoyed by the commission of your lips, against the thin fabric of your mask – it was just a natural act for you, to smile foolishly at the splendorous vision of Wanda Maximoff.

The far view alone was enough for you to find yourself smiling and truly content at your core – Wanda lying on your own bed, between thick blankets and poorly stacked piles of pillows, so oblivious to the fact that she was being watched; the pale expanses of her ring-lined fingers so subtly being nibbled on by her teeth, her nails varnished by a black nail polish chipped at the tips, one opalescent knee crossed over the other next to her chest, her dark miniskirt exposing her firm thighs in a way just as appealing to your desiring gaze.

And you loved the fact that her brown hair modulated coffee-colored tones when arranged in the dead of night, only in the pale light of a lamp placed near the right end of the bed – how even though it seemed so dark in the confines of that room, Wanda glowed in her own light sweeping a strand of profuse chestnut hair behind the shell of her right ear, her ringlet gleaming silver, her gaze so intent on the little television set in front of her.

How her irises seemed to adhere to traces of a mossy hue so bleak out of the sun, yet almost bordering on the innocence of someone who was only enjoying a television program displayed on the squalid screen of the small television set that was placed in front of the opposite wall to the bed, just above a small second-hand wooden table.

Over her torso she wore an old dark sweatshirt of yours, made of thick, warm material, bought at a Hot Topic store a few years ago, when you were still in your high school years. And Wanda was beautiful – the owner of a casual beauty, a simple natural and simple neatness, the kind in which there is no effort to pretend to be pretty. A beauty that begins and ends with itself, just because she was beautiful. The most beautiful sight anyone's eyes could be graced with. The kind that made you feel lucky, lucky to have her for yourself.

But it was then that the cold came to haunt you in a gust of stiff wind, the frozen hand of winter tracing the vertebrae of your spine in a chilling contact on your epidermis, which gelled the blood flowing in your veins and turned your bones to ice. Only then did you realize the reality where you were hanging on the snowy emergency stairs outside your apartment, away from the warm weather and away from Wanda.

And so, with your gloved right hand, you managed to lift the window and head your way into the small room, stepping on the floorboards inside with your left foot.

“Hey little witch, are you breaking and entering now? And here I thought you were one of the good guys...”

“Y/n!” Wanda got pleased immediately and, from the bed, she turned with her chin towards your voice that came from the window, a smile emerging in the outline of those pink lips she had, then getting up to receive you properly.

“It's cold outside, get in quick! You're going to catch a cold!”

And her southeastern European accent, still bathed by the Adriatic Sea, made itself present in her low-toned speech, hardening the enunciation of that soft voice. That's why you smiled – the tone of Wanda's voice always warmed your loving chest.

“Fine, fine, I'm fine,” you muttered in an enthusiastic tone, bringing your left hand behind you down on the windowpane that prevented any more gusts of icy wind from piercing the blister of heat that had become infatuated through the walls of that small room.

“I'm in one piece, see? Healthy as a,” you smiled to yourself, “Well, as a spider.”

And a chaste smile flickered back between Wanda's lips, a hint of skin being scrunched across the bridge of her nose in an adorable way, “You're such a goof, web-head.”

So it was that the young woman came walking towards you, warm, smiling, with open arms to welcome you into her affections.

And you took her for yourself, pulling Wanda's body close to yours, whereupon clever fingers dressed in silver rings hooked on the seam cut of your mask right in the middle of your neck, slowly then hoisting it so that in front of the Wanda's gaze revealed the skin of your chin, and then the pulp of your lips; the jadish irises aimed at your mouth and, morosely, the young woman bent down to take a kiss from you herself.

You held her, groping your fingers around her waist, when it was that, in a dizzying, crimson electric shock, soaked in a jubilation of fiery delight, your lips touched in a prudish, measured way. It was a kiss of a simple nature, yet lingering on her lips and imbued with impetuous feelings – the need joined to longing, the happiness of a jovial and healthy love. Something in you just yearned to return to her arms every day, as if your soul fit hers like a jigsaw puzzle by your lips united in a single tune.

“Hi,” you lisped in the tiniest tone against her mouth.

“Hey, детка,” was Wanda's reply, who still had the hem of your mask pressed between her rings, before she hoisted her forearms up to her chin and completely removed the piece of cloth that covered your face expression as smiling as hers.

“I really love your eyes, Y/n.”

“I can say the same for you, my little witch.”

After a little simpler caress of love exchanged, more kisses and hugs and little oaths of longing, you two separated then in reluctance so that you would undress your cold spider suit, choosing to wear more casual clothes and comfortable on your body – a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of snug, vaguely baggy sweatpants. And while you were doing that, Wanda, sitting right on the edge of your bed, watched you in front of the tiny closet door nearby, where a small door opened onto a narrow, dark room with clothes hanging on hangers and a small yellow light dripping from the ceiling.

“I was looking over your crime board earlier, before you arrived, and...” as she talked, her chin was supplanted by the elbow resting on the right knee of her crossed legs.

“Mmm?”

Wanda looked at you for half a second, her face creasing in curiosity, “Who's Wilson Fisk?”

“Kingpin,” your voice was somewhat muffled by the dark shirt you were halfway pulling on over your head.

“He's one of the crime bosses around here, he's involved in some pretty serious shit around town,” at last, you tucked the shirt over your torso.

“And I've been on his tail for a few months now, but I need to get on with my work if I'm going to gather enough evidence to expose him to the public legally. It's going to be difficult since he has pretty much the entire political underworld in the palm of his hand and other stuff too, of course, but... but I think I'm getting somewhere with this, yeah.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, “That sounds… kinda dangerous, Y/n,” Wanda sniffed with her nose to the side, speaking more to herself than to you per se.

“Maybe if you talked to Clint or Nat they could help you with that. Steve too, even. I know they are all willing to help you if you ask. Steve… you know, he’d really like you to take a chance and be on the team for a while. He thinks you'd make a good Avenger.”

"Yeah, I don't know about that, Wands," you muttered back, raising your right eyebrow at the idea.

“I don't think it's in the Avengers' niche to worry about that kind of thing, you know? I mean, you guys kind of exist to deal with out-of-the-galaxy threats and crazed AIs and evil government organizations and all that shit, don't you? And, well, Fisk is a pretty big fish in his own way, that's true... but he's just a stupid old bald guy who blackmails the local politicians and has created a criminal empire out of bribery and corruption – which is not it's very different from the billionaires we know out there. The difference is that Fisk is not a threat on a global scale.”

At the not-so-indirect burn to Stark Industries that couldn't be ignored, Wanda couldn't help but giggle infinitesimally under her breath, an act that elicited a goofy little smile from you, swaying your shoulders into your baggy blouse.

“Well,” she smiled a little too, in a kind of assent to your words, “You're not wrong.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you turned your head toward her, as your right foot tucked into the seam of thick gray cotton sweatpants.

“Plus, I have this certain, umm, responsibility to the people of this town, I guess. It was a promise I made after all, I... I'm here for them, both to keep all that crazy shit from spilling over on them, and just to look out for them when no one else does. That's my job around here, my function. It's just what I do. I'm not a super spy, or a super soldier, a genius billionaire or a giant green strong guy, Wands. I’m, I’m only...”

“The friendly neighborhood web-head?”

At your roll of eyes, Wanda smirked, like a small rabbit with moderately larger front teeth than the rest.

“That's just mean, witchy. I really prefer Spidey, you know? Spidey.”

“Spidey,” the young enchantress reiterated to you, “Well, anything sounds better than the Witch anyway. That's so fucking pejorative, like, burn the witch or something, what the fuck. I’m not a fucking witch.”

“You aren’t?”

“Shut up,” she rolled her eyes out of their sockets comically.

“The Witch, huh…” you looked at her, almost laughing when you did, “People really aren't good at coming up with superhero names, are they? Because this one is really bad. Really bad.”

“No,” Wanda chuckled in agreement, shaking her head, “They're not, not at all. And I’m not a superhero.”

“I see,” you droned, “And what are you then?”

For a second, Wanda looked at you, “A unlucky person who has made a lot of bad choices in her life.”

The television, which was flashing some old episode of a sitcom that made up Wanda's favorite series collection, was the only thing that filled the room with any kind of light or sound some time later, since, after stuffing yourself with the chicken paprikash that your beloved had prepared for you and then packed and stored in your fridge, the two of you snuggled in each other's arms, away from the cold and the chill, under a thatched hut with thick blankets on your bed during that bitter winter night.

But it was when you turned in search of a comfortable position to lean back against the pillows and your left elbow brushed Wanda's right, that you two looked at each other curiously as if only then had you realized how close you encompassed each other – two dark gazes in the middle of the room lit only by the artificial lighting of a meaningless program, together, alone.

And you craved the comforting body heat that Wanda radiated when as close to her as you were – the scent of red that wafted from her silky ebony hair and her smooth, pale skin. You felt, however, a gaze peering into you from the line of your jaw and cheekbones, and looking back, Wanda was staring at you with a voluptuous fixation on the darkened green corners of her irises. She looked at you like she could completely consume you, like something about her was going to swallow you up and eat you down, digest you to the bones.

And then, from beneath the cocoon of blankets, a subtle touch spread across your left crotch, still above the thick material of your sweatpants. Your gaze sailed from the heap of blankets placed in the region of your lap to the emerald gaze, so dimmed, of the young woman sitting next to your left elbow.

“Wanda...”

“Mm?” she hummed back, as innocent as could be, as if her fingers weren't so close to groping an area of your body that was already beginning to throb with signs of life.

“Wanda,” you lisped softly, again, so needy, pupils popping and blood bristling through your veins, “What are you…?”

“I missed you, детка,” her fingers dipped deeper and deeper into your crotch, her eyes still screwed into your field of vision as she did so, “I missed you so, so much… I get so lonely in my room in the compound, you know? And all I can think about in those moments is you... how much I miss you.”

She locked her upper teeth against the flesh of her lower lip, stifling a lusty, immoral smile when she realized something – already petrified in a flash of desire, beneath the fabric of your pants, was your semi-erection, a noticeable bulge that made Wanda's mouth throb with desire.

"And I bet you miss me too, don't you?"

“Of course I do,” you huffed out a breath of warm air, “Fuck Wanda, every goddamn night… every goddamn night I miss you.”

The bright, lively hand, with thin fingers wrapped in rings and well-cut black nails, couldn't help but travel through the dazzling skin of your abdomen, exposed by the lifting of your long-sleeved blouse, starting from the south, from your navel, into your hips, into the hem of your pants. Wanda captured your thick member and gave your shaft an alluring squeeze – her face then hidden in the contour of your neck, in the joint of your shoulder, to nibble, there, a piece of skin.

“Uh-f-fuck, Wanda...” you squirmed out of your nostrils like steam released from your bruised lungs, in a hoarse wail, somewhat drunk with the acute excitement present in your system.

Wanda smiled against your skin, her thumb lethargic caressing the strained head of your cock inside your pants and, in performed innocence, she placed a chaste kiss on the bone at the tip of your jaw.

“Just enjoy it, malышка,” was whispered in her low voice right next to your ear, in an accent hard and robust, but so dizzying when it came out of the crack of Wanda's lips, “Let me show you how much I missed you.”

And again, followed this time by a shameless tone of voice, leaking the red color from her pores, Wanda pressed the plump shaft between her slender fingers, causing a softness on your part. Following your moan, she placed a warm kiss behind your left ear.

“Allow me to make you feel good, Y/n.”

Wanda's right hand began its harassed, pleasurable work, up and down the length of your nervous member, raised to the intimate of your burning thighs – and you, wrapped in an embarrassed tremor, were exasperated as Wanda kissed your corner of the half-open mouth and the fluttering earlobe, threading your fingers through her brown locks as if it were a need between your hands, just in search of something to support yourself during that very intimate moment, shared by a couple of lovers as young and needy as you two were.

“Y/n,” she called against your cheekbone, “I… I'm sorry, but I want you inside. Now."

“Fine,” was your airy reply, “Fine.”

And without delay, Wanda passed her thighs over your knees, linking the folds of her elbows to your neck, then sitting on your lap so that a pink and expert tongue could slide inside your mouth as the damp, warm walls from her cunt slid around your erection. And then, one hefty, powerful touch, palms wide open and pressed to the flesh of her ass beneath her skirt, you screeched out of the outline of Wanda's lips a savory moan that squirmed from the very core of your lungs to pulsate against her lips during the carnal act of penetration.

“Бля, детка… тобі так добре, Y/n…” she gasped against the shell of your ear in a drawling semi-moan, “Y/n…”

"Do you like it?" was your question against her skin, to which, girding your cock with her velvety walls, Wanda nodded, bobbing her head up and down.

“I love it,” and, drunk on a wave of scarlet ledice, Wanda smiled, “I love you.”

You fell silent for a measly second, in fact barely realizing what had happened. Television still featured some sitcom that no longer mattered to you or even her, who was most attracted to the thing between you two – not being as close as you were in that primitive, carnal or even lewd way; skin with skin, flesh with flesh. Raw, visceral, passionate. It was cold outside, but your chest had never felt as warm as it did during that moment. She loved you. She loved you.

“You love me?”

Pulling her face away from your neck, Wanda looked at you with bright eyes from under thick, heavy lashes. She looked at you like no one else but her ever had before.

“I love you, детка,” was a whisper, a promise, “I love you, Y/n.”

When she started to go down everything became hazy, pulsing, hot, red. Wanda was moving up and down your body and you felt her backs arch convulsively, still continuing, creeping towards her cervix, rubbing her from the inside with the head of your cock.

And she rode you with such firmness, moaning and crying out, doing the penetration herself while your eyes converged in a single vision; Wanda moving up and down, over and over, seeking with her hips, until you both came in a delirium of dizzying pleasure; you pouring yourself inside her walls, into her flesh, and her thighs pale, wet, at the meeting with your hips. When she sighed wearily against the hollow of your neck, you smiled into a lock of her hair.

“I love you, little witch.”

It was perfect, you and her. So perfect that you pledged your love two or three more times that night, loving each other in the flesh, in the core, in the heart. Making you cling to the luck of having that miserable moment reserved for you and her, wanting to multiply it, make it last as long as possible.

It was as if, about a month or two after the event, already at the end of that winter suffered on a late December afternoon, Natasha Romanoff had not found herself leaving the corridors of the compound, walking stiff towards Wanda’s room, the soles of her boots full of soot and snow.

As if, among the strands of that short fire-colored hair, the residue of shards of sparkling glass did not shimmer after a painful fall – as if the Black Widow's lower lip were not found bloody and swollen after an arduous fight, as if she had not left a child to fight alone until it was too late for her interposition to mean anything decisive. As if Natasha hadn't been advised by Captain America to let Wanda, still as young, as damaged as she was, digest what happened, still so recent in the popular imagination, on her own.

“She's going to need some time, Nat,” pleaded Steve in a disgustingly grim tone, when they, he and she, were still sharing the elevator space just after returning from the big city with blood on their hands.

“Give Wanda a break, she's been through a lot. She doesn't need it right now. She’s… she’s just a kid. An unfortunate kid.”

But Natasha walked into Wanda's room in that snowy early evening, the emissary of news so atrocious that it had just left the streets, with blood and glass and corpses everywhere, a body count so tragic it could have had more, much lower if you hadn't intervened. Of course, you. But you weren't the one there to tell Wanda what the result of that fight with Wilson Fisk that Christmas Eve night had been. Natasha was the figure standing there, clutching the remains of your mask between the fingers of her right hand. It felt so pointless. As pointless as telling a young girl her lover was dead could be. Your mask felt meaningless.

“Wanda, I…I…”

But Wanda was nowhere to be found in her spacious bed after the Black Widow entered the room filled with posters on the walls and ceiling, stuffed animals arranged next to the pillows and the books piled orderly on the shelves. That was a young person's room, Natasha thought. Wanda was young. The television bolted to the wall adjacent to the window followed the live narration that portrayed a hideous explosion in Hell's Kitchen, where the fire department was still in the process of fully assessing the high and enigmatic number of lives claimed that night.

Wanda was in the bathroom, after all, when Natasha walked over — sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, threading her fingers through her long hair, scratching the scalp as she squinted at her burning eyes where tears were streaming from; sadness that marked her cheeks. She looked as small and as young as could be. And then it was that Natasha remembered. She realized, indeed, what had happened.

Carrying your spidery mask with her, Natasha remembered that both you and Wanda were really just a pair of unfortunate children, as she herself had once been too – children who carried greater responsibilities than you could even handle, with a maturity as mechanical and precocious as what the world demanded of you two. Children like her. Unlucky children.

“What… what– what am I going to do Nat…?” Wanda sobbed, still not lifting her eyes to the open crack in the door, where the older woman was standing, still bloody, still injured, “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

And Natasha wanted to answer her. She wanted to, she opened her bruised lips to do so and then utter that speech she had already had in mind since she had held your body in her arms, still tucked inside that spider suit, in the snow and in the dark. But she immediately contained herself, refraining herself even before doing so, because that was when she saw it – prepared eyes spotted beside Wanda's so small and curved body a plastic rod with two lines marked in a baby pink color.

“Wanda… is... is that…?”

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried, “I don’t know, I don’t know…”

A pregnancy test of the kind one can buy at any local pharmacy, and the result was positive. And your mask was in her hands because you were gone. She was supposed to give it to Wanda as a reminder of your memory, but Wanda would have more to remember you by than a simple torn and bloody piece of cloth. She was pregnant after all. And you – you were dead. You were nothing but an unlucky dead bastard.

“I… I don't know,” Natasha's fingers tightened on the damn tattered fabric, “I'm so sorry, Wanda. I don't know… I don’t know.”

Wanda's tears, wide and warm, dripped between her bare feet on the pale bathroom floor tile. She had never felt so unlucky as she did at that moment.

673 notes · View notes

blackheartsclub · 4 months ago

Text

Working out || Xaden Riorson

You and Xaden hate each other... Or do you?

warnings: smut, reader has a female body, praise, dom Xaden, sub reader

word count: 2,6k

authour's note: ok sooo I loved fourth wing so I just had to write this... anyways enjoy

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

The sky was blue for the first time in two weeks, and you decided to take a walk to clear your head. Threshing was finally over, and you had bonded a red scorpion tail rather quickly. She was probably away hunting sheep or something at the moment, since she had cut you out mentally.

The parapet was slightly visible in the distance. You had been on it several times after making it over the first time, (stupid, I know), but there was just something so peaceful about being there. Not to mention that it was one of the few places you could be alone. You liked your friends of course, but sometimes you wanted to be alone with your thoughts.

You stepped onto the narrow stone overpass in front of you and immediately felt your body relax. Even though it was fairly good weather today, there were always some fog around the parapet. Which explains why you didn’t see the 6 foot huge man sitting in the middle of it until you were standing directly in front of him.

Xaden Riorson.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked and glared at his profile.

He slowly turned his head towards you and fixated his onyx-colored eyes on yours.

“Well, y/l/n, I could ask you the same thing,” he muttered and cocked his head to the side.

“Ugh, just leave,” you pointed behind you demonstratively.

“Is that the way you should talk to your wingleader, Little One?” he stood up.

Ugh, you hated that nickname.

“Riorson, please just leave me alone for once,” you muttered, not in the mood today for his teasing.

“Alright, alright,” he threw his hands up and stepped towards you.

You stared up at him, he was so freaking tall it was scary.

“Move, Little One,” he said quietly and gently moved you by your waist so he could pass.

“Don’t touch me, asshole,” you muttered, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach.

You were just met with a laugh as he walked away, leaving you alone on the parapet.

Xaden was your wingleader, and an annoying one at that. He loved to tease you for some reason, and you hated it. The nickname “Little One” came from when he had helped you up onto your dragon the second time you were riding. Now he saw you as tiny because of that, but on the other hand everyone must seem small to him.

There was some tiny piece of you that liked talking to Xaden… and looking at him. But come on who could blame you?? The man was gorgeous, no doubt. Everyone basically swooned when they saw him, and that didn’t make you jealous… Not at all…

When evening came, everyone assembled to eat dinner. You sat down with your two friends and started talking about the day.

“So, you disappeared for a while today y/n, where did you go?” Autumn asked.

“Yeah, we looked for you,” Ian said.

“Oh, I just needed to study some more,” you said.

“You always say that,” Ian looked meaningly at you.

Before you could answer there was something else that stole your attention.

Xaden and his friends just walked in, and you couldn’t help that you stared. He looked so damn good when he had casual fits on, gosh.

“You’re staring,” Autumn nudged you with her elbow.

“I am not,” you shot back and quickly looked down to avoid eye contact.

“Whatever you say,” she snickered.

You couldn’t stop yourself from looking up again and was met by onyx eyes staring right into yours. Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your cheeks heat. Shit.

Xaden smirked at you, freaking winked and then looked away.

“Are you blushing, y/n?” Ian blurted out.

“SHUT UP!”

The next morning started with sparring with the other first years. Occasionally you could fight someone from the second year. Imogen looked suspiciously happy today, which could mean she was fighting you…

“Alright everyone, first pair for today is Simone Casteneda and Jace Sutherland,” Professor Emetterio calls.

You try to focus on the fighting but it’s hard when the hottest brunette ever is staring at you. Like, really staring. Xaden hadn’t taken his eyes of you since you came in the room. He’s standing beside Imogen with his arms crossed and jaw locked, his gaze fixated on you. That can’t be good.

When the fight is over and Simone wins by taking Jace in a headlock, Xaden walks over to the professor and whispers something.

“Uhm okay, next pair is y/n y/l/n and Xaden Riorson,” Emetterio says.

What the hell?

“What?” Autumn whispers from beside you.

“Whatever, I’ll try,” you mutter back and step onto the mat.

You check so that you have your knifes strapped on where they’re supposed to be and look up at Xaden.

“Hey, Little One,” he says.

“Riorson,” you nod.

“I’ll be a bit fair with you, okay? I took away my weapons. But it doesn’t matter anyways ‘cause I’ll still win,” he smirks.

You feel the anger build in your chest.

“You think I’m no match for you? Huh?” you snap.

You leap forward, grabbing a knife from your thigh and aiming for his stomach. Xaden grabs your arm and quickly disarms you, making the knife fly away on the floor.

“You can’t let your feelings take over,” he says quietly, like he only wants you to hear it.

You twist your arm from his grasp and step back, massaging the skin absent mindedly.

Xaden gestures for you to come at him again with two of his fingers, and you gulp.

You try again. And again. And again. Finally, you only have one knife left strapped to your right thigh. You’re panting, and your hair has come undone slightly and little strands of it hangs in your eyes.

“Come on, y/l/n. Try one more time,” Xaden mocks.

You glare at him, but charge at him again. This time you try to go for his legs to make him loose his balance, but instead of him falling, you end up on your back with Xaden on top of you. You groan when your back hits the mat harder than you expected.

“Ow,” you mutter.

“Come on Little One, how can you take advantage of his situation, hm?” Xaden pins his arm against your throat, pressing slightly.

You consider sticking out your tongue at him but then slowly realize what you could do. You have one knife left. Before he can react, you’ve slid the knife from your thigh and press it against his abdomen. It’s hard to hide the triumphant smirk on your lips.

“Good, now you’re on the right track,” Xaden says and grabs the knife from you in one swift motion.

You groan and try to get up. Fine, he won, whatever. The guy is like a damn giant, who thought you had a chance anyways?

“y/n,” Xaden hiss.

He never uses your first name, what…?

“Don’t move like that, I’ll get up,” he says from gritted teeth.

“Why? What’s wrong-“ and that’s when you feel it.

Xaden is in a perfect position to… Oh. And he’s thinking it too.

You move again and Xaden grabs your wrist.

“No, stay fucking still,” he hisses again and stares at you.

Oh, this is… fun.

You move again and shit, you can really feel him against you.

“y/n, I swear to the gods I’ll take you right here in front of everyone if you don’t stop.”

Oh. My. God.

“I uhm…” you stutter.

Xaden just shakes his head at you and gets up, nods, and leaves the room.

What the hell just happened??

The next few days you don’t see Xaden at all, it almost seems like he’s avoiding you. But that can’t be it… right? You on the other hand has had your mind occupied by him every hour of the day. You can´t stop thinking about how close he was, how good he smelled, how he felt…

Almost as if he can read your thoughts, Xaden appears in the gym where you´re currently training on your own. It´s 11 p.m., perfect for working out if you want to be alone. Well almost perfect apparently, since Xaden just walked in.

You look up from where you´re standing doing squats with a bar.

“Oh, it’s you,” you say and continue.

“Hello to you too, Little One,” Xaden says and walks over to stand beside you.

“Something you want?” you ask.

“Nah, just wanted to work out,” he says and starts to take his shirt off.

Oh fuck.

He´s so perfectly built it´s unreal, and his rebellion relic looks stunning on top of that amazing body. Omg.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” you stare at him.

“Little One,” he walks up to you and tilts your head up towards him by putting two fingers under your chin, “Eyes up here.”

You stare at him, unable to answer. He has made you freaking speechless.

Xaden softly strokes his thumb over your lower lip, making a small electric current run through your body. You part your lips slightly at the touch, which makes Xaden´s eyes fall on your mouth. When he looks up at you again there´s heat in his eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks in a low voice.

“Please,” you breath.

Xaden slowly moves closer, almost painfully slow, and you sigh when you finally meet his lips with yours. He kisses you slow, but hard, making you long for so much more. You put your hands in his hair, his extremely soft hair, and tug him closer. His hands slide from your cheeks, down your curves and rests on your hips. He tugs you against him, and you push your body flush against his. Your heart drums hard in your chest, and you feel how the room seems to turn warmer.

Xaden pulls away for a second and just looks at you. You look back, in chock from what just happened.

“I don´t think I´m going to be able to stop kissing you, Little One,” he says.

“So don´t,” you almost whisper.

“You sure?” he pulls you towards him again, and gathers your hair in his fist to tilt your head back.

“Yes,” you breath against his lips.

He kisses you again, this time hard, and deep. He pushes his tongue into your mouth, and you whimper into his at the feeling. That seems to have an impact on him because he pulls your hair back to be able to kiss you even deeper. His hands squeeze your waist as he backs you against a table. In a moment he has you on top of it and steps to stand between your legs. A little yelp escapes you when he presses against you, fully hard, and squeezes your thighs.

“Feel that, Little One? That´s what you do to me,” he says and moves to kiss down your jawline.

“Xaden…” you sigh and hold on to his hair for dear life as he nibbles and bites the skin on your neck.

“Mhm,” he mumbles and starts sucking a spot just below your ear.

“Oh… Xaden!” you whimper.

“Fuck, Little One,” he says and steps back.

“What?”

“I don´t think I´m gonna be able to stop, you sure about this?” he says and licks his lips.

“Yes, I’m sure, Xaden,” you look up at him.

“Good. Shirt off. Now,” he orders.

You involuntarily squeeze your thighs together at his tone, and keep eye contact with him as you slowly pull your shirt over your head and drop it on the floor.

“Beautiful,” he breathes.

“Pants too,” he says then.

“Xaden…” you blush.

“y/n, take off your pants right now so that I can touch you,” he growls.

Fuck.

You nod, quickly letting your pants fall to the floor as well.

“Good girl.”

He walks up to you and kisses you hard again, this time letting his hands gently move over your now naked thighs. You feel goosebumps appear where his fingers touch you, and heat pools in your belly. Xaden slowly strokes his fingers over your panties, making you whine. He moves down to kiss your neck again and gently adds pressure, stroking you in lazy circles. You breath harder, holding onto his shoulders. Oh gosh.

“That feel good, hm?” Xaden murmurs.

“Y-yes, more…” you whimper.

“Oh, someone’s needy,” he chuckles.

“Shut up and- oh…” you whine when he pulls your panties to the side and continues stroking your now swollen clit.

“And what?” Xaden breathes into your ear and slowly slides a finger into you.

“F-fuck,” you moan.

“Mm, you´re so wet, Little One,” he groans while adding another digit.

“Xaden!” you moan, clutching his arm when he starts moving his fingers.

“That´s right, say my name,” he murmurs.

Xaden speeds up his fingers, and at the same time strokes your clit with his thumb. You see stars, it feels so good. It´s almost embarrassing how close you are already.

“Xaden… I-, I´m gonna…” you whimper.

“That´s right, come for me, Little One.”

You cry out and dig your nails into his arms, coming on his fingers while letting out small moans.

“Oh my god,” you pant.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Alright good, ´cause I´m gonna fuck you now,” he unzips his pants.

“Oh, fuck, okay,” you lick your lips when you see how huge he really is.

“You scared?” he smirks.

“Never,” you say back.

He grabs your hips and pulls you towards him, making you whine when you feel him rub against you. He looks at you and you nod, telling him it´s okay. Then he slowly sinks into you, and you hiss in pain when he´s all the way in.

“Oh fuck, Little One, you’re so warm,” his voice shakes.

You whine when he starts moving.

“You´re doing so good, y/n. You can take it. That´s it. Good girl,” he praises, while increasing the movement of his hips.

Soon the pain has turned into pleasure, and you hold onto his back for dear life while he feverishly drives into you. You can feel him so freaking deep inside you, it feels amazing.

Suddenly in the middle of it all, you both stop and listen. Footsteps. Someone´s coming.

“Oh shit,” Xaden grabs you of the table and quickly carries you into the nearest room with a door, which happens to be a cleaning scrub.

He sets you down and then manages to get your clothes inside as well just before the room to the gym opens.

You both stare at each other, not making a single noise. Shit.

Someone´s walking around out there, probably searching for who was in the gym this late.

You look at Xaden and sees he has a devilish grin on his face.

“What?”

But he just smirks and lifts you up, pushes you against the wall and fills you up again.

“Fu-,” Xaden slams a hand over your mouth.

“Shhh, Little One,” he hushes and drives into you harder.

You feel your second orgasm building, and you grip onto Xaden to tell him.

“I know, y/n. That´s it. Come on my cock,” he whispers, making you come undone.

You can´t stop yourself from moaning out loud, and Xaden presses his hand hard against your mouth to stifle your sounds. A few seconds later you feel him spill inside of you while he groans in your ear.

You rest your foreheads against each other, panting, sweating and smiling.

You sniff the air feel a whiff of… smoke? You look to the left and see a black spot on the floor where you could´ve sworn there had been a wooden stool.

“Was that…?” you start.

“Yup, guess we know what your signet is now,” Xaden says and laughs.

#fourth wing #books #xaden riorson #fanfiction #fantasy #writing #x reader

39 notes · View notes