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darksplinters · 1 year ago

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𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢 · 𝗖𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘𝗗

𝗩𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗺 #𝟕

The wind howls. Dark tendrils of hair whip around my face, punishing me for daring to be outside. I’m nearly the only one. From my spot on the vast, vacant beach I can see a squat old man hurrying down a side road, in his hands, the object that spurred him out into the thick air of the coming storm: a pack of smokes and a brown bag heavy with at least two glass bottles.

𝘋𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘶𝘱 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴.

Mother Nature’s next attempt to rid this wretched little island of humanity.

Some say that Blackmoor is cursed, so beaten with weekly squalls that any attempt to repaint or renovate or repair – unless you are preparing for the next gale – is futile and foolish. But I happen to think the opposite, Blackmoor is blessed. It can only be by divine providence that every last shred of human settlement hasn’t been torn from this godforsaken rock by the tumultuous strength of the winds, or washed away by the angry battering of the waves.

A fierce gust tears down the beach, tugging at my clothes, an insistent lover entreating me to undress for her cold biting touch. I can see the swell of her clouds, rolling out over the choppy, grey seas. Blackmoor in her crosshairs.

My upstairs apartment is calling my name each time I have to clutch my jacket tighter around my slight frame. The upper level of a sturdy, split level cottage. Rented to me by a long-term resident of Blackmoor. Silas, a fisherman, was gone often and for weeks at a time, which meant that I would have the occasional relief of not worrying if my footsteps are too loud or if I’m bothering him with my comings and goings. With the potential for autopsy calls at all hours of the night, I could very easily become the worst neighbor. But Silas has never complained and I get the feeling that he quite enjoys the simple knowledge of someone else existing nearby. He doesn’t need the money that my rent brings. He explained when I first moved in that with the house having been left to him by his late parents, he was looking for a full time tenant to keep it from falling into disrepair during those stints away at sea. We coexist easily, with the periodic baked good left on his stoop, and periodic tin of imported tea left on mine. I wouldn’t call us friends, but there is an effortless and quiet coinciding.

All across the island residents are hunkering down, sliding the bolts on their doors, shuttering their windows, boiling kettles of water and pouring large mugs of tea and strong coffee. I should be doing the same, but I’m restless. Images of the still-unidentified man from two nights ago laid out on the autopsy table burn behind my tired eyes. Mutilated… mangled… the 6th victim of… who?

The ocean batters the shore in unrelenting heavy waves. I walk, slightly hunched against the chill with a mindless deliberation and try to conjure up a mental profile of the person responsible. But I cannot for the life of me produce a worthy suspect. My imaginings nearly always end up with jagged, rotting teeth inside a bloodied mouth. Grotesque claws grown from gnarled fingers. My mind can’t fathom the idea that someone capable of the type of human butchering I have seen doesn’t have some obvious, monstrous tell.

But I know that the truth is much more terrifying than iron ore eyes and ghastly scaled skin. The truth is that the person who has done this looks just like me… and just like my mailman, just like my local shopkeep, and every one of my neighbors.

A monster is terrifying not because he looks like one, but because he looks just like us.

A roiling wave of sand and sediment sloshes over my wellingtons, the force of it nearly making me lose my balance and I decide to finally turn back. But just as I stuff freezing hands into my pockets and feel the first few pricks of rain sting my cheeks, I see it…

A pale shape outlined against the shoreline. Unmoving.

I force my feet forward over wet sand, the soggy crunch of the beach beneath boots slows. Dread is a coiled snake in my gut. The stench of death rises above the scent of salt and I know what I’m looking at, paused a meter away.

Stripped down to briefs, the man’s discolored skin bloats with sea water, splitting grotesquely, peeling and slipping from muscle and bone. Filleted strips of waterlogged tissue hanging and half gnawed. I can make out the dark cavern of a deep abdominal wound, flesh caving in and five… no, six missing fingers. It’s difficult to distinguish the mass of cuts and bruises beneath the blackening sky.

Victim #7.

I need to call. I have 20 minutes, if that, before we are pummeled by the incoming tempest. Frantically, my hands search my pockets for my cellphone, gaze never leaving the swollen, malformed face of the body at my feet. Two pitch cavities instead of eyes. His jaw hanging crooked, disconnected at the joint, a silent, permanent scream. Where the hell is it?

Without warning, a heat blooms against the back of my neck. The subconscious awareness of human proximity.

“Missing something?”

The question sounds in a deep vibrato behind me and suddenly I realize I’m not alone.

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slutsofren · 4 years ago

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surrender the night

*this is a companion piece to my series, Danger Days, but can be read as a standalone

summary: you and joel have been together for a while, no longer worrying about fireflies or about ellie, the three of you became pretty close-knit out on the road and now in jackson but joel is usually closed off with you today until he wants to show you how much he loves you while hunkering down from the rain.

cw: no y/n, intimate/soft smut, mild bratty reader, slight angst, light humor/teasing, established relationship and life in jackson, joel being emotional AND vulnerable, SARAH MENTION that needs a whole TW i swear

word count: 3,884

a/n: congrats to pedro on this role and welcome new fans to tlou!! <spoilers> tlou2 isnt entirely canon in my version bc our man survives abby and her bullshit so we can all be happy here; but check out my series following the first tlou game with slow burn and other fun tropes here on ao3!

read on ao3 here!

Bandit attacks were on the rise again, always spiking before winter starts and at the tail end of it. You had been pulling nearly nonstop shifts at the wall and scouting nearby. Joel noticed how tired you were getting and tried to convince Tommy and Maria to give you less time on rotation. You thanked him heavily for it but if there was one thing you were good at, it was keeping those you loved safe.

The rifle was heavy in your hands, your thighs warmed by your signature dual handguns there, you were armed to the brim but it did nothing considering the visibility was poor. It was raining on and off since the two of you began your shift but as you neared the small town, it had gotten heavier as you got closer to the last stop on the scouting trail.

Beside you, Joel had been quiet nearly the entire time since the two of you left Jackson and each time you tried to ask him if he was okay, he shrugged you off. It wasn’t unusual for the man, he was a rather private person despite the many many months the two of you had been together.

The one thing that warned you something was wrong was a conversation the two of you had only last night. For the first time ever, Joel spoke of a memory between him and Sarah, the daughter he lost over twenty years ago, of how she would banter with him and keep him on his toes. He smiled while telling you a couple stories of her but fell into a tense silence afterwards that seeped well into today and you figure his silence has to do with it.

Your horses came to a stop in the garage of the safehouse as the two of you jumped down. “I’ll shut it,” you offered quietly as you lowered the garage door to keep the horses safe and warm away from the harsh chill of the winds and rain. Joel gave a grunt of confirmation and he opened the inside door to enter the house, shaking his head a bit to rid his hair of some of the dampness.

As the garage door shuttered gently to the ground, you turned to follow Joel up to the third floor of the safehouse and gave a firm pat against your horse as you walked by. Joel had already begun turning on the small lamps that were sparsely laid around the stairwell to make sure you didn’t trip. This was one of the few three story homes that were still viable despite how broken everything was inside. The walls still had some insulation but the dust and debris were stark reminders of everything that had been lost since the cordyceps virus took the world by storm.

When you reached the landing, your stomach was in knots, Joel’s behavior wasn’t unusual per say but he was rarely like this with you on scout missions, often being more in the moment with you than his usual reserved self. Being outside of Jackson, the two of you had to communicate in order to stay alive, everybody did. It was the only means to survival but his behavior was beginning to worry you more and more.

You removed the rifle from your shoulder then leaned against the doorframe of the master bedroom, watching as Joel signed in both your names on the sheet on the desk that had been pulled in the room. He sighed heavily and turned to face you, “I don’t think we’ll make it back to Jackson anytime soon with the rain.”

“You’re probably right.” You pushed off from the doorframe and shrugged off your backpack, reaching for the long-range radio. You shifted it in your hands before clicking it on.

“Base, this is Athena’s Mark, please be advised we are hunkering down at the last checkpoint. Rain is too heavy to travel. Over.”

After a couple moments passed, you heard the tell-tale sign of a response with static then a click before Maria’s voice rang out. “Athena’s Mark, your message has been received. Notify Base if there’s any sightings out there. Stay safe you two, over and out.”

You looked up from the radio in your hands and saw Joel leaning against the desk with his arms wrapped in front of his chest. He looked at you and you gave him a soft smile before fully entering the room and setting your weapons and backpack down beside the large bed that was still in rather good condition all these years later and sitting on it.

“Y’know you never told me why your code name was Athena’s Mark,” he asked from behind you, watching as you began to unlace your boots.

You smiled as you recalled the memories. “When I was still running with the Fireflies I would sneak over to the Humanities department and steal some of the abandoned books from the offices. One of the rooms belonged to a Greek historian and I found their book on mythology,” you explained without looking up. “By the time I arrived in Jackson, I still had a few of those books in my possession. One day Maria and I got drunk and she called me Athena as a joke but the name stuck with me on missions.”

You laid the unlaced boots on the floor and laid down in the bed, listening to the rain patter against the roof and windows, drowning out all the outside noise. “She said I looked like a goddess of war when I had blood on me, fighting to protect Jackson.” You threw a hand behind your head and stared at the ceiling before continuing. “If the world hadn’t gone to shit, I’d like to think that’s what I would have done with my life. Become a historian or something.”

“I think I would have liked to see you like that,” Joel said in his gruff voice. You smiled at his words.

“What would you have done?”

“I was a carpenter, and even wanted to start my own business. Work was shit to come by but it paid the bills.”

You smiled, remembering all of his wood carvings in the spare bedroom of his house. “If bills weren’t an issue back then, what would you have wanted to do,” you prompted instead.

“I wanted to be a singer but with Sarah and all,” he trails off. You remembered him admitting this once, forever ago but now the candor feels different because he said her name.

Sarah.

You sit up from the bed and look at him, the broad strong man he is, looks like he’s a million miles away. His eyes are unfocused and his face looks conflicted. You get up and take tentative steps towards your boyfriend. “Joel?”

He looks up at you and unfurls his arms from his chest, instead opening them up at you. You walk to him a bit more confidently and walk straight into his embrace as he wraps his arms around your frame. He buries his face into the crook of your neck while you encompass him and rest one of your hands on the nape of his neck, your fingers gently dancing in his dark hair.

“I love you,” he says, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion. His arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you closer into him. “I think she would have liked you.”

You try to pull back a little to look into his eyes but his grip only tightens around you, refusing to let you budge. “I think I would have liked her too, Joel.”

For a man of few words, the ones he spoke have taken your heart by storm. The two of you have been together for a while but the intimacy between you has rarely been like this.

He stays like this for a few more minutes, composing himself. You play with his hair with one hand and the other draws random circles across his back. Silently telling him you’re there for him. After these moments pass, Joel pulls his head back from the crook of your neck to start leaving a trail of kisses there, his beard leaves a scratchy but familiar burn across your skin.

Without using words, he’s telling you how much he loves you, how much he cares, how much it pains him when you’re not together, and you bask in it. “Joel,” you whine as his kisses suddenly shift to small sucks and bites on the sensitive skin on your neck.

“Come here,” he demands slowly, finally bringing his lips to yours.

As the two of you kiss, he tangles his fingers in your hair, his other hand kneading the flesh on your ass. Joel has you melting in his hands as your worries fade. You figure today was rough on him and you’re more than happy running away from the anxiety.

The two of you do this dance with each other's lips until he pushes off the desk, advancing to his full height towering over you. He doesn’t let you break the kiss instead he presses harder into you deepening it.

The more he wordlessly asks, the more you feel like you’re drowning in him, his scent, his touch.

Joel places both of his hands on your hips as he pushes you backwards, walking you to the bed. The backs of your knees hit it and you stumble a little but his sturdy warm hands keep you from falling down. He breaks the deep kiss the two of you were sharing, both just slightly out of breath but heavily disheveled. A shuddering intake of breath and he leans his forehead on yours, his eyes closed. “Will you have me?”

“Yes,” you sigh against him. “Please.”

Just as you slightly beg, any worried thoughts you had were whisked away as he removed your denim jacket from your body. His large calloused hands worked their way back up to your head, his fingers getting tangled in your hair, gently pulling you back so your neck was exposed.

He gently laid kisses up and down your jaw, taking sweet time and care with you.

Your hands drifted up his torso, unbuttoning his soaked red and black flannel. Once the last button popped, you moved your hands across the expanse of his chest, pushing both his flannel and brown coat off him.

A deep groan rises from Joel’s throat, “Easy now.”

He takes a step back and fingers at the hem of your shirt, pulling it off your body. You rush a little and put your hands behind your back, undoing your bra. Joel watches you silently as you discard the article to the side of the bed where your shirt lay on the floor with his.

His hands return to your body, working themselves at your jeans and he pulls them down, gently easing your leg out of each pant leg. He’s being so gentle with you, being so vulnerable and soft.

You stand in front of him as he remains kneeling in front of you, still in the position he was when he removed your jeans. He leans forward and rests his head on your stomach and you feel his breath over your panties.

“May I,” he asks, fiddling with the elastic waistband.

Your fingers catch in his hair as he pulls back, looking you in the eye when you grant him permission, “Yes.”

His eyes study you as he tentatively pulls your panties down, letting them fall. He comes back against your skin, kissing from the tops of your thighs and makes his way upwards across your stomach, between the valley of your breast, your chest, and neck, before finally coming back and kissing you on the lips.

“Get on the bed for me, will you?”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, lost in this tender moment with your lover.

Naked and kneeling on the bed, Joel fixes his stare on you, taking his time to unbutton his belt then jeans. His eyes trail over your body, watching as you begin to squirm under his watch.

He pushes forward and kneels on the bed before maneuvering himself to lean back against the headrest. He grabs your leg to swing over his thighs to make you straddle him but his hands stay at your waist, keeping you from fully sitting on his clothed cock by giving attention to your breasts, licking and biting gently as he did with your neck not moments before.

“You’re breathtaking.”

A giggle leaves you at his words aligned with feeling overstimulated by the way his mouth and beard felt on your skin. “Joel, please.”

“Settle down, you heathen,” he says between nips and kisses. You feel him smile across your skin as he pulls you down onto the sheets, coming back to your lips to kiss you more and more. His hands encompass your body, roaming up and down the valleys on your skin, completely enamored with you.

“Make me,” you tease against his lips.

Joel takes this as a challenge and he sits up, leaving you prone against the pillows. He towers over you, his thick fingers dancing gently across your skin, making a winding trail down your body. “Please,” you begged softly.

Joel said nothing as he sank two of his rough fingers into you and laid down between your thighs to suck and lick at your clit. Your hands flew to his shaggy black hair, taking a sharp inhale at the sensations. Joel eats you out nervously, taking pride in the way you moan to the walls of the empty house. Your sharp intakes of breath get lost under the patter of rain against the roof and windows.

“I love you,” he says against your heat. “I love you so fuckin’ much.”

Your breath is already stolen away at the way he fucks you with his mouth and fingers but you’re breathless by the way he admits his love for you. The vulnerability of it makes you come against his tongue.

“That’s my girl, that’s it.”

His approval and praise send you soaring but he doesn’t slow down his efforts, instead going faster. Before you could even come down from the blissful high of an orgasm, another tidal wave is rising again. “Joel, I’m coming again,” you whine.

“Come as many times as you want,”

He leaves another trail of kisses across your stomach as he makes his way back to kiss you on your lips. You can feel your wetness on him, taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into him.

“Lay down, let me treat you,” you say in a low voice as you try to push Joel against the bed. He leans up and puts his hands on your wrists, stopping you.

“No, tonight is about you.”

“Wha-,” he cuts you off with another opened mouth kiss on your lips, he keeps kissing you down your neck to your left arm, not stopping until he’s kissing your hand.

“Have I ever told you how pretty you are,” he whispers against your palm. “The first time I saw you, I fell for you. You had your gun pointed right at me, coulda killed me.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

He huffs, hot breath hitting your hand. “I sure as hell am too.”

He drops your hand and shifts on the bed, removing the last piece of cloth covering his erect cock, “I think I woulda let you toss my ass around that first day I laid eyes on you, if I’d known then what I know now.”

“You almost didn’t let me go with you, remember,” you tease.

“Would’ve been the biggest regret of my damn life, sweetheart.” He drops his boxers to the floor, not taking his eyes off you.

“Tell me again, Joel.”

He line’s himself up with you, “I’m glad I found you.” He gently thrusts only the head of his cock into you and pulls out. “I’m glad you never put up with my bullshit.” He repeats his movements but pushes a little more into your wet cunt. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” Finally he pushes himself all the way in, eliciting a sharp whine from you. “Fuck, I’m so lucky.”

Your lover pushes back your thighs, allowing him to fuck you deeply. His movements stir that insatiable beast inside you, constantly lingering for more and more pleasure.

He sinks harder and faster into you as his warm hands grasp your hips, his eyes trained on the way your soaked pusst takes him so deeply. He’s locked on the sight of the way the two of you are connected just as how you are mesmerized by watching him.

“Do you feel as good as I do, darlin’?”

You respond by squeezing around his cock, “You feel so good in me.”

It was like he got a second wind by the way he fucks you even harder than before. You throw your head back as you feel the familiar rumble in your abdomen and you squeeze your legs around him, not allowing him to pull out further. Joel surprises you by using two fingers to rub tight circles against your clit.

You bite down on your lip to try and contain the coming moan but fail. He feels too good in you, on top of you. His scent invades your mind bringing you to the ultimate climax. Your head is tossed back and a throaty loud moan is released into the air by you.

“Joeljoeljoel,” you plead, coming again against him, your legs spread so far to allow him to penetrate you deeper. Your orgasm rolls through you like waves and your body lifts in response, searching for more, more, more.

He continues to pound harshly into you, not swaying in pace. “You’re so beautiful when you come around me, feels heavenly too,” he moans above you. The hand he had tangled in your hair moves to your jaw, his thumb caressing your bottom lip as you sigh, coming down from your high.

Joel’s thrusts soon turn erratic and sloppy as he chases his own high, you hear a deep growl rise from his throat. “Fuck, shit,” he breathes, pulling out of you swiftly, pouring himself over your stomach.

You reach up and thread your fingers in his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. You praise, “Good boy.”

Vulnerable, Joel laughs and sits up on his knees to look down at you. Basking in your afterglow with remnants of his love smeared across the expanse of your stomach that reflected in the soft glow from the lamps and setting sun. He fingers his own hair with both hands, sweeping his messy locks back.

He gives you an indecipherable look that he hides by shifting off the bed and rummaging through his backpack insearch of a rag to clean you with. He returns and does his usual routine while you lie on the bed, feeling warm and safe.

He returns to the bed and you crawl on top of him, seeking to add his warmth to yours to fight away the rainy chill. His arms wrap around your back, holding you close. Refusing to let you move away.

Together, the both of you came down from your blissful highs, your breaths synchronizing into calm and slow inhales and exhales. You laid your head on his shoulder, dancing your fingers along his chest drawing nonsensical designs. The two of you laid like that for a while, you listened as his headbeat fluctuated from steady to rapid and back as if he was working himself up. Just before you open your mouth to ask if he was alright, he took a sharp inhale.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he starts.

“Oh, no. Nothing good comes from you thinking,” you laugh, hoping to ease his mind.

Joel squeezes your hip and pulls you closer, “Hey now, none of that shit.” You laugh a little more at teasing him before he takes another sharp inhale as he continues. “As I was sayin’, I know this isn’t conventional, hell, none of this is conventional,” he gestures wildly in the air, “but I was wonderin’ if you’d do me some kind of honor and make me your husband.”

This knocks the breath out of you, more than the wonderful dick down he just gave you. You lean up and face him, trying to make eye contact but his stubbornness doesn’t let him take his gaze off of the ceiling.

“Joel, are you serious,” you ask.

He furrows his brow before letting go of your body and getting up from the bed. You’re about to start protesting when you see him reach for his own backpack and pull out a wooden box before he sits back on the bed and stares at it hard.

“Y’know I was married before. Back then. I never wanted to do it again, especially not in this world. But then I met you. That shit don’t compare to how much I love your ass. You’re smart, you keep this old man in check, and most of all,” he looks at you, “we don’t get to take life for granted any more. Not when every time we leave Jackson could mean we don’t make it back alive. I want to marry you in every meaningful way, even if you are a goddamn brat.”

As he says this, your eyes fill with tears and you sit up on the bed, facing him. “Is that why you’ve been so quiet today?”

He nods once, “What? You make me fuckin’ nervous.”

You smile wide and lay your hands on his, over the box. “I love you, Joel Miller, you stubborn old bastard. Now gimme the damn ring”

Joel lets out a sharp laugh at your words and lets a smile hang on his lips. He opens the box and hands it to you where you see a beautiful silver ring with a delicate floral design. A gasp leaves you as you take it in, how intricate and ornate it looks.

“Talked to the blacksmith and got it made for you especially,” he explains.

You take the ring from the box to admire it closer before Joel takes it from you and places it on your ring finger. “You had Gustavo make this for me?”

“I told him your favorite flowers and he did the rest.”

You’re too stunned to speak by his admission. He knew of your love and attachments to the old blacksmith which made this ring that much more beautiful in your eyes. You pull the elegant ring out of the box, treating it like it’s fragile before placing it on your finger.

“I’ve been wanting to marry you since you saved my damn life,” he admits. “But it wasn’t until last night when I told you about Sarah without feeling angry or sad when I knew it was time.”

His confession wells tears in your eyes again, his long since passed daughter was always a subject the two of you danced around, even his ex-wife. Him talking about this, about Sarah, it means he’s nearly ready to open up and it means the world to you.

“Does this mean I finally get to teach Ellie how to throw knives now?”

“Absolutely not, what the fuck?”

#joel (the last of us)#joel miller x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller #the last of us x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller / reader #joel tlou #joel tlou x reader insert #asher's writing #surrender the night #danger days fic

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years ago

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Kissing Dead Pearls (Part 2)

Rain beats against the side of the lighthouse, it comes down in sheets as Zuko yanks her inside. “Zuko, no!” She calls, her voice is oddly desperate and she can’t say why it is so. “I need to go back out there.”

Zuko flinches. “For what?” He asks. She can see the concern etched on his face. She pries herself from his grasp.

“I--” She starts. “There’s someone out there.”

“Since when do you care?” He asks, “even if you do care, what do you think you can do for them?”

He is right, she knows he is, every logical part of her knows it. The ship is too distant for her to do anything but reach an arm out and roar with the wind only to have her words swept away by the storm and pulled out to sea. But the feeling, that nagging desire, isn’t of logic. It is something far less rational, something rooted wholly in instinct and yearning.

“This is about Sokka isn’t it?” He persists, he is gripping her shoulders again, trying to keep her from leaving the house again. She tries to shake his grip off. “You’ve got to stop this! He’s gone, Azula.”

“It’s not about him.” She says as the wind howls against the window and rattles the door in its frame. But it is about him, deep down she knows. Why else would it matter?

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” His eyes widened. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re trying to…”

“No!” She argues quickly. “I’m not. I don’t want to die, because he isn’t dead. Even if he was, I wouldn’t…”

“Then why are you doing this?” He gestures to the door.

“Because I saw a ship, it was…”

“There’s no one out there!” He shouts

“There is! There was...” She insists with an almost frantic gesture to the window. The wind throws the door open, her already sopping hair whips in her face and clings to her cheeks and forehead.

“Shit!” Zuko shouts before throwing himself at the door. “Help me with this.” He huffs.

With haste, Azula adds her weight. Even with the two of them leaning as heavily as they can against the door, it still threatens to bang open. “Zuzu,” she says through gritted teeth. “I told you that we needed to get a new door.”

“With what money?” He replies, voice just as strained. “Last I checked dad, spent that fund on his drinking habit.”

Azula frowns. It had been her job to keep him from doing that. Her job, because he is more inclined to listen to her than Zuko. At her own failure her body slackens. It is just enough leeway for the wind to burst the door open.

A dull ache is the last thing she registers as her body is thrown to the floor. Zuko toppled over her. She isn’t awake long enough to tell if he is also out cold. Hurricane waters rush to wet the entry room.

She wonders if dad would have wanted this. If he would change things if he’d known just how much pressure he has put upon them. If he’d known that he would be drunk in a sailor’s bar while his daughter lie sprawled on the floor with her forehead bloodied, storm kicking up a merciless howl just outside.

.oOo.

Lightning illuminates the interior of the Deep Dubloon Saloon, it is the only light to be had now that the storm has raged enough to throw power out. It’s winds shake the entire foundation of the building, not that it has a sturdy structure to begin with.

Ozai sits with a wooden tankard in his hand. He hasn’t seen a storm like this since the one that stole his wife from him. He stares unseeingly into the nearly empty mug. He almost laughs aloud, it is a storm like this that has him sitting upon the bar stool he inhabits. And it would seem that the ocean seeks to remind him of exactly why he is there.

“Help me with these, will ye?” Requests Khozen. His long silver hair is tangled by rain water and harsh wind. He pants as he chucks another sandbag outside and curses the weathermen for their short sight and lack of warning.

Ozai has known Khozen for many years. The man had been a pirate of sorts, he still has a parrot on his shoulder, though the creature is now safely secured away from the storm in a cage behind the bar. Next to it is a tank housing his iguana.

Ozai downs the rest of his drink and makes his way towards Khozen’s emergency supply of sandbags. He sees no point in it, the sandbags can only do so much for a building that is as ill prepared and rickety as the Deep Dubloon.

If Zuko and Azula could see the state of the bar… He knows that they have been wishing on stars for it to be blown to splinters. From the looks of it, they will have their wish.

“This be a mighty storm.” Khozen grumbles. “I’d hate to be at sea now.” His eyes go wide as he recalls that his ship is probably being thrashed mercilessly against the docks, sails ripping, boards splintering, perhaps a bolt of lightning has set it aflame. “The mightiest I’ve seen in…”

“Nearly a decade.” Ozai finishes as he hoists a sandbag atop the one he’d just laid down. “You’re lucky that your bar isn’t as close to the harbor as some of them.” He is lucky that his favorite bar is that much safer.

Rain pelts him mercilessly as he carries out his task. His eyes journey down the road and closer to the ocean. The lighthouse is a glow, but he can barely see its beacon through such a thick curtain of rainfall and mist. He has the decency to consider, for the first time, that he should be there. He wonders how his children are faring against the storm. His stomach lolls like those waves at the though that a storm could claim two more that he holds dear.

“C’mon yee big ass, we don’t got time fer starin’ at the sea, not when she’s a brewin’.”

A brewin’ is only scratching the surface. Palm trees bend nearly to the floor, shutters slam against windows or tear off entirely, water rushes to fill streets ready to was cars away, and lawn decor, umbrellas, and lawn chairs sail through the air as though they weigh nothing at all. He can hear from the inside, the buzzing drone of the battery powered weather radio.

He can do nothing now, an attempt to reach the siblings would be certain death. Were he any manner of good father, he would have done it anyhow. But he had been a poor husband and he is a worse father.

He picks up another sandbag and tosses it onto the pile.

.oOo.

Azula’s head throbs. There is a wetness on her face, a wetness all over. Her hair and clothes are soaked through and through. She jerks at the sound of a loud bang. She pulls herself up. The door is slamming in and out in the hands of a wind that is emitting a high pitched scream. Thunder roars, a battle cry, a warning that it is going to seal lives away again, just as it had all those years ago. Once again she and her family are on the frontlines.

She jolts again; Zuzu! At first she doesn’t think that he is moving. That he isn’t going to. She calls out to him but her words are lost beneath the unceasing torrent of raindrops, wind gusts, and thunder.

It doesn’t matter to terribly because he stirs and sits himself up, eyeing her with a measure of horror before coming to her side. They both shudder. “You almost went out there.” He mentions, nearly too quiet to be heard.

One door to the head and a nap later she fully processes the weight of what she’d almost done and she shudders all over again. “Sorry.” She mumbles. She isn’t sure to whom the apology is for, herself or Zuko.

He pulls her into a tight hug. He hasn’t hugged her in years. He holds her firmly and strokes her hair. Lightning briefly halos their silhouettes as the rain floods in.

“We have to do something about that door, Zuzu.” She comments. It highlights her point by slamming back against the wall, the bang echos with a roll of thunder.

“How?” He frowns.

Azula stands and looks about the room. She points to the sofa. “We’ll just rearrange the furniture.”

“Father isn’t going to like that.”

“Father should be here if he cares that much.” She shrugs. “Besides, we can move it, knock it over, and blame it on the storm.” She pauses. “We’ll probably have it back in place by the time he gets home.”

“You’re right.” Zuko agrees.

As she moves towards the sofa, she steals a glance out the window, at the furious ocean. Ribbons of lightning decorate the sky in faster intervals and rain slides off roofs, pushed by the wind, they fall heavier on the ground gathering in large puddles on sand and on the docs. In a particularly powerful finger of lightning, she sees it again, the ship. She can barely make it out before it plunges back into the water until only its sails are seen.

The power surges back on, flickering softly before plunging back into darkness. Azula backs away from the window and tries to put it out of her mind. Though images of Sokka’s smile play back in her mind as she heaves furniture. Interspersed between them are flashes of his face, but waterlogged by the ocean, barnacles and kelps clinging to it while fish work between eye sockets. Azula doubles her attention on securing the lighthouse.

For their efforts they have a sofa, a bookshelf, and a small table to hold the door shut as the hurricane batters the tabby walls of the lighthouse. Feeling entirely drained, Azula drops herself onto the remaining available sofa. Zuko is close behind. They sit in silence listening to the ruthless onslaught of rain and the roaring crash of the waves against the cliffside. She finds herself grateful that their lighthouse is perched upon a cliff high enough that the water can't reach them. Still, in the back of her mind, she fears that a particularly powerful strand of lighting may blast their seemingly sturdy perch into the restless tides below. She doesn’t know much about the tides, but she does know that they won’t hesitate to bash her bloody against the rocks as they tear her apart.

She thinks of the ship, overtaken and at their mercy. She clutches the sunstone starfish pendant that hangs upon her neck. She hasn’t taken it off since he’d given it to her.

“I doesn’t look like there’s too much damage.” Azula notes. The lighthouse is designed to withstand. The townsfolk are quite fond of reminding everyone that, “when the ocean takes the town, Sea Candle Lighthouse will remain.” She supposes that she should be glad that her home is allegedly secure.

“Yeah, we can worry about the flooding after the storm.” Zuko agrees.

She lays her head back and observes the spiraling staircase that lead to the uppermost part of the lighthouse. Sometimes she and Zuzu grab sleeping bags and sleep there were they can stare at the stars and the ocean. Tonight they will remain on the couch, content to ignore the storm as much as they can. Though night won’t fall for another six hours at least.

“Is your head okay?” Zuko asks.

Azula touches the knot on her head. “Yeah, I think so. Your’s?”

“I didn’t hit my head. But my elbows are bruised.”

She lights up a few candles and thinks of the stormy days when their mother had read them stories. Those days had been so brief.

“I hope father is enjoying his drinks.” Zuko scowls.

She understands his resentment and hatred. But Azula can’t bring herself to share it; frankly she feels pity for the man. Perhaps even empathy--Sokka was supposed to have returned months ago. He has been declared dead by law. Lost at sea. She doesn’t believe it, not quite. They haven’t searched long enough to say so, they haven’t found wreckage. But people at school look at her the same way the fishermen and dock workers looked at Ozai after Ursa’s death.

“Let’s talk about something else, Zuzu.”

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Zuko #Ozai #Fanfiction

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laqualassiel · 6 years ago

Text

House of the Stranger (HP-GOT Xover)

Robert Baratheon strode through the halls, heedless of the water dripping from his sodden clothing. Grand Maester Pycelle had sent a raven to the hunting party announcing the queen had gone into labor that morning, and Robert immediately turned to race back to the Red Keep despite the fierce storm that caught him halfway.

He had no love for the Lannister chosen to be his wife. But he'd needed her father's armies in the wake of the war to ensure the damned Martells and Tyrells didn't get any ideas. Robert would never love any woman than Lyanna. She should have been his wife, his beloved queen. Not the blonde haired, poison eyed harpy.

But he was a father now. The Grand Maester had been waiting for him as he entered, to congratulate him on the birth of a healthy babe, a healthy daughter.

Nervous excitement quickened Robert's footsteps until he nearly jogged down the halls towards the nursery. Cersei wasn't there anymore, returned to her chambers to rest and recover and leaving the newborn in the care of the wet nurse.

No skin off his nose. Robert didn't want to deal with Cersei at this late hour.

Ser Barristan nodded to him, standing guard by the door to the nursery. The old knight had fought for the Targaryens, but the man was the best sword the Kingsguard had. Robert could overlook the man's previous loyalties so long as he protected Robert's child just as fiercely.

Normally Robert would throw the door open, announce his presence to all within. Now, he stepped as quietly as he could. He didn't want to startle the babe.

The wet nurse woke despite his care, rising from the bed in the center of the room. The bassinet sat closer to the roaring fireplace, nearer to the window shuttered against the storm still roaring beyond.

Robert waved the woman off. He wanted a moment alone. The woman slipped through the still open door, and Robert padded over to the bassinet.

The babe was tiny. Small enough to fit in one of his hands. He leaned down, picking her up as gentle as possible. His daughter didn't stir from her slumber, and Robert tucked her into the crook of his arm as his mother Cassana once showed him after Renly's birth. His little girl already had a head of dark hair, the locks baby-soft under his calloused fingers. It would fall out in the coming weeks Robert knew, leaving her bald until her actual could come back in.

Would it come back as dark as his? Or would it be lighter, closer to Cersei's? Perhaps it was selfish, but Robert hoped his daughter would look like him.

His daughter. He was a father.

Robert never thought he could love anyone as much as he loved the little bundle in his arms. Fear struck Robert, wondering if the babe would survive the coming months. Would she live long enough to call him father? Would he see her grow and learn and become a wife and mother?

Robert quashed those thoughts, shoving them to the back of his mind until he could work through them in the sparring court. She was his daughter. A Baratheon, a daughter of the storm. She would survive.

"You'll be a fierce one," Robert murmured. He smiled, a silly little thing. "Your grandmother always said I'd have children as hard headed as I was. Wild as the Stormlands themselves." Gods knew his mother was never wrong. His little one needed a name, a strong one like his little girl would no doubt be.

There was only one he could think of.

"Lyalla. Lyalla Baratheon, first of her name."

"Princess Lyalla Baratheon!"

At her Septa's shriek, Lyalla bolted down the hallway. She didn't think the Septa would be coming to her rooms so soon!

Full grown, the Septa would normally be able to outrun Lyalla any day. But the Septa was wearing a long habit with full skirts, and thought running full tilt was terribly improper. Lyalla on the other hand had managed to dress herself in a pair of breeches and a simple shirt and tunic and had no problem at all sprinting through the Red Keep.

Likely the reason for the scandal in her Septa's expression. Boy's clothes were not proper for a princess to wear after all. Especially because Lyalla made these herself, the hems messy and crooked from a four year old's clumsy work.

Lyalla was proud of her work. She made them without any help at all, and the hems were sturdy! They wouldn't come apart unless someone deliberately tore them! Sure the clothes weren't fitted, but none of the Keep's seamstresses would make her anything but dresses! Desperate situations called for desperate measures and this was something Lyalla could take into her own hands!

It was seven hours into the morning, which meant her father would be talking with Lord Arryn in the Tower of the Hand. She didn't have lessons until nine, so Lyalla didn't know why the Septa had such a burr up her skirts.

Now, how to get there without Ser Barristan or Uncle Jaime intercepting her?

Oh! Lyalla grinned and veered left at the next available hallway. The Red Keep had just as many secret staircases as Hogwarts. Lyalla had maybe been a not so good little girl and snuck around at night finding all of them.

Lyalla didn't like most of the memories stuck in her head. Harry Potter's life hadn't been a happy one. No parents, and an aunt and uncle that hated her for something she couldn't control. And when Harry finally found friends, she'd died to save them. Which, okay, Lyalla could understand. Harry loved her friends, almost as much as Lyalla loved her father and her little brother Joffrey, no matter how much of a brat he was.

If dying meant she could protect them, Lyalla would in a heartbeat.

She didn't just have Harry's memories though. No, Lyalla had magic. Which was cool, it was, but… it was also lonely. She couldn't tell anyone. Not when everyone believed magic was heresy and the Faith killed people for having it.

Lyalla didn't believe that it was heresy. If Harry's life the main religion had killed people with magic too, because the church thought it was a sign of the Devil. They'd been wrong, which meant that the Faith could be wrong too. Lyalla had to make sure none of them saw her magic, because she kind of wanted to make it more than Harry's seven and ten years.

More than that though… the Targaryens were said to have had magic. It's how they controlled their dragons, and when the dragons died so did magic. But Father hated the Targaryens. The Mad King killed Uncle Ned's brother and father, because Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped Father's betrothed Lyanna and wouldn't let her go.

Father loved Lyanna. He looked like Lyalla remembered Harry's parents did, when they looked at each other. Looked like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Bill and Fleur and Remus and Tonks.

Lyalla missed them. They weren't hers, but they were Harry's and Lyalla remembered the deep friendship and sometimes the longing in her chest hurt so bad Lyalla thought she would cry. She wanted friendships like that. People who would walk through fire for her, who she could trust unconditionally.

She didn't want her father to hate her.

The door to the Tower of the Hand was heavy. Lyalla grit her teeth and pulled, until the door opened the scant inches she needed to wiggle through. Then she dashed up the stairs on hands and feet, because she was four and there was nobody around to judge.

Gold armor at the top of the stairs, and Lyalla kept low, trying to control her gasps into something quieter. Gods there were a lot of stairs!

"Up to mischief?" A voice drawled, and Lyalla looked up into green eyes bright with amusement.

"Uncle Jaime!" She grinned, holding her arms out. Uncle Jaime laughed, sweeping her into her arms and settling her on his hip despite the heavy armor. "I wanted to see Father, but the Septa came earlier than I thought."

"She won't be here to box my ear will she?" Uncle Jaime asked, arching a brow. Lyalla was envious. She couldn't do that. "Give me bandits any day."

Lyalla giggled. "She's not that scary."

Jaime gave her a solemn look. "Then you are much braver than I, Princess." Lyalla giggled some more and Jaime cracked a grin at her. He turned and knocked on the door to the Hand's rooms.

"Enter!" Lyalla perked up. That was her father's voice!

Jaime opened the door with a flourish. "A visitor, Your Majesty."

The two men in the room looked at Lyalla, and the dark haired man brightened. "Spitfire!" Jaime set her down and Lyalla dashed to her father, shrieking with laughter as he lifted her high and around before tucking her against his chest. He grinned down at her with bright blue eyes. "What has you up at this ridiculous hour?"

"I don't have lessons until nine, and I wanted to learn to fight like you." Lyalla said. She knew her father - so long as Lyalla wanted to be like him, her father would let her do almost anything. "The Septa and Maester say I'm doing well in my normal lessons, and I'm wearing breeches and tunic instead of a dress, so please, please, please?"

She looked up at him with a pleading expression, even widening her eyes for added impact. Lyalla studiously ignored the muffled snickers from Uncle Jaime and the sigh from Lord Arryn.

Her father grinned. "Of course, Spitfire! Jon and I can finish up later when you're at your lessons."

Lord Arryn looked reluctantly amused. "Of course, Robert."

Lyalla brightened and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. She pressed a clumsy kiss to his cheek. "I love you, Father."

Her father melted, hugging her tight and rubbing his beard against her cheek. Lyalla shrieked with laughter as it scratched against her skin. "I love you too, Spitfire."

#harry potter #game of thrones #female harry potter #hots #another plunny I've had for a while #Robert Baratheon

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sabraeal · 6 years ago

Note

Seven Suitors Universe prompt: Obi holding the twins and midnight talks with Haki in Lyrias? And Haki teasing Obi for the mark Shirayuki left on his neck that his scarf is covering?

Set during Seven Suitors, Chapter Six; the night after Shirayuki arrives

There’s nothing so clear as a Lyrias night.

Obi tips back his head, eyes adjusting to the dark. Stars and galaxies swirl across his vision, rising up like embroidery against the tapestry of the night sky. They’re like little stitches from where he stands, a hand as steady as any of Haki’s ladies’ picking them out in luminescent thread. It doesn’t look like this in Wistal, the lights of the city drowning out anything but the moon and the brightest stars.

He’s missed it.

A wind whips down the mountains, fresh from Tanbarun, cutting right through his jacket and sending shivers down to the bone. There’s other things he hasn’t missed, too. The cold is one of them.

“The south thinned your blood?” Jirou laughs, swaggering across the wall. His eyes mark the snuffed torches, but he doesn’t say anything, just adds with a grin, “Weren’t you the one who sat out that entire storm –”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d forget that, thanks,” Obi drawls, rounding his shoulders against the chill. “Especially in front of Miss.”

White teeth flash in the dark, but Jirou only says, “His Lordship says your shift is over, if you need to go get warm.”

“Good,” he huffs, breath forming like a ghost between them. “He’s kept me from my bed enough lately.”

“Hmm,”There’s enough suggestion in his tone to make Obi struggle against the blush trying to creep up his neck. He’s been away a year, but a single sound and he can tell just whose bed Jirou thinks he’s being kept from tonight.

“Which is where I’m going,” he presses. “Not anywhere else.”

“‘Course not,” Jirou agrees, turning his back. “Wouldn’t imagine you anywhere else, sir. I’ll make sure the next boy gets these lit when he comes out.”

Jirou gives the torches a good tap, sauntering back towards the watch house, back toward the light, toward something approaching warmth.

Which is where Obi should be going, if he doesn’t want to become a new gargoyle for the wall until summer.

His feet follow the familiar path without thought; a good thing, since his mind is currently occupied with other things, like what Miss would look like wrapped up in sleep, back in her own bed, or –

Or the look she gave him when he said I won’t be able to go much of anywhere tonight. The way the heat had been so steady in her eyes, the hope of – of – later fresh in them.

It’s late. She’d had a long ride. He shouldn’t.

…But he could.

He could go to her now, and he know she’d welcome him, know she’d help off his boots and cloak and clothes until he was down to just his thermals and skin, maybe even –

Obi grinds that thought to a halt. He could. But he shouldn’t. This is – it isn’t how he wants it to go. Not with her.

Not when he could have more, maybe even – even –

Forever. If only he can muster up the patience.

He tears his hat from his head, a hand raggedly dragging through his hair. He needs to – to cool down. To try to forget what it felt like to have her hand in his, to have her breath in his lungs, as if they were one person –

He drags his eyes somewhere – anywhere – to distract himself, and –

The lights are on in Her Majesty’s room. His mouth curls, a different sort of warmth unfurling in his chest.

There are other people he’s missed these scant weeks too.

It’s nothing to slip down the stones, to come hang at her window – he’d complain to His Lordship about security, if he didn’t know it would please him, make him think he had finally won him around – and he finds it latched tight against the cold, as well as wayward guards.

Still, he’s not so easily deterred.

He swings to the next window – her parlor by the look of it – and presses his face to the glass. It’s dimmer in here, but he can make out her fair head tossed back against the back of a chair, a bundle swaddled in her arms, held up to breast –

He taps, grinning when she startles. He knows the exact moment she catches sight of him, because she mouths a word he’s sure His Majesty would find shocking to be said in front of his heir.

“Obi!” she gasps, pushing open the window. “What are you thinking?”

He grins down at her from the ledge. “I thought Her Majesty could use some company.”

“I have a door,” she tells him crossly. “You could fall.”

He slips in, shutting the window behind him. “I wonder.”

“Dexterous is not the same thing as invincible.” Her hands flutter, flustered, between them. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

He only offers her a grin, sauntering further into her quarters, over to where a small sling wiggles enticingly.

“Is this one of them?” he asks, hesitantly plucking at the cloth.

Her Majesty softens, her brow smoothing and mouth curving into a smile. “Yes. The last. The one you helped to birth.”

He peers over, and in the dimness, he sees the shape of a ruddy, chubby face, screwed up into an expression of malcontent. “Looks about right.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

His hand clenches on the cloth. “W-what?”

Her Majesty sweeps up beside him, taking the sleeping child into her arms. He’s bigger than Obi remembers, though still impossibly small. Maybe he’d take after his uncle, in that.

“Is that – that –?” He doesn’t know how to make words, or even what he means to ask. He’s good with children, with small little humans, not – not precious, fragile things.

He’s not gentle.

“I’m his mother,” she says simple, tucking the boy into his arms. “And a queen.”

He’s so light, like he’s holding nothing more than the cloth he’s wrapped in. Obi can’t shake the thought that he’ll forget he’s holding him, that he’ll just let him go crashing to the floor and –

“Breathe, Obi,” Her Majesty laughs gently, rubbing a hand down his arm. “If he survived his birth, he’ll survive you.”

He lets his body relax, lets his hold grow looser, less hunched. The child rolls his head, tucking it tightly against his body and –

And snores.

“How regal,” he deadpans, lifting a hand to brush back the dark gold curls dusting his head. “Does he have a name?”

“Not yet,” she sighs, swaying over to a set of more sturdy bassinets. “Babes aren’t supposed to be given a name until a month after their birth, at least here in the North. It’s tradition, and you know how my brother feels about tradition.”

Obi’s breath hisses between his teeth. Does he.

“This is the other,” she says, lifting another child into her arms. “The first.”

The heir. The next king of Clarines. He’s every inch his father’s child, save for the nearly white fuzz that sweeps over his crown. His eyes are closed, but he wonders at them opening, if he’ll see the familiar blue of his Master.

“So what do you call them?” he asks. “You can’t just be calling them One and Two. Or Heir and Not-Heir.”

“Of course not,�� Her Majesty agrees. “It’s Prince One and Prince Two.”

He grins.

“To be honest, I haven’t been calling them much of anything,” she admits. “Just – the hungry one. Whichever one needs to sleep.”

In his arms, the second prince grunts in his sleep, small fists flailing. His face wrinkles, like an apple drying in the sun, and –

His wail is piercing.

“I think His Fussiness wants his mother,” he laughs, holding him out. “Trade me His Chubbiness, and I’ll put him down.”

“His Fussiness,” Haki laughs. “If that isn’t apt.”

“I have a gift,” he tells her, laying the sleeping heir back in his bassinet. “Feel free to use my services at any time.”

“Speaking of services,” she says, suddenly sly. “Did Shirayuki enjoy yours, back at the inn?”

He nearly chokes.

“I did find her in your bed, after all.” Her eyebrow arches. “Did she get lost during the night?”

“MY,” he says, staring at the clock on the mantle. “IS THAT THE TIME?”

Haki’s mouth quirks. “Are you keeping your mistress waiting?”

It had been easier before, when it was all just – talk. A joke, a jest never to be made real. But now he’s heard the soft stutter of her breath, knows how she would melt beneath his touch –

“Have to be going!” he blurts out, throwing out the window. “Got – duty – morning –”

“I won’t forgot, you know,” she tells him archly. “I know what I saw –”

“GOOD NIGHT!” The shutter adds a good punctuation to the conversation, an ending –

One he knows won’t last. Her Majesty is not one for giving up the last word, and that she has ceded this one –

The queen consort does not believe the conversation over.

#Anonymous #seven suitors #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #my fic #ans #nonnie you will get that second request as well!#i just wanted to do this one first #before haki has some EVIDENCE to work with #and I'm always glad to have the excuse to write these two together #Obi holds his own so well #but you know he just could NOT if there was any TRUTH to the teasing about Shirayuki

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