#Disquieted attempts to write

[rae-gar-targaryen]

darling, how could i fear any hurricane? [qimir/the stranger x force sensitive!reader]

Summary: Neither the backwater planet you’d chosen for yourself, nor the sanctity of your own mind, is safe from the nightly visitations of your dream stranger. Is he real, or just another trick of the mind? And what of the power he promises? Desire, he’d spoken of. Desire, desire, desire…

Pairing: Qimir/The Stranger x Force-Sensitive!reader [my reader is written ambiguously, but as with all of my reader inserts are written with a Latina!reader in mind]

Warnings: 18+ please – fingering, dry humping, the brief mention of choking, Qimir being a seductive motherfucker, relatively minor smut, all things considered. The briefest descriptions of violence; reader has female anatomy.

Word Count: 5.7k of sinful soliloquy and definitely no manipulation. No, you want this power, don’t you??

A/N: Breaking my writing drought with this. I don’t know if it’s any good, and no one asked for it. But I’m glad to be sharing my writing again. Please be gentle!! Also, if you’ve ever read my Mandalorian x princess!reader fic, there’s an easter egg in here for you!

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The verdant planet of Vorduun was known for very little – A small, outer-world, far from the shiny Core planets that boast chrome, progress, and bureaucracy. Lush plantlife, a fertile place with brimming riverbanks, and jungles teeming and thrumming to life with flora and fauna at the turn of the seasons. Off the edge of the map. Off the edge of the world. A perfect place to hide.

To lose yourself. 

And the night is stifling, to say the least. Of all the Vorduunian summers you’d endured in your self-isolation, this one had to be the worst. The months’ long deluge of spring rains had made for a stiflingly humid summer, the green jungle steaming with sticky heat. If a saving grace was to be found in the swelter, it was that the night skies were unlike everything you’d ever beheld – a far cry from the fluorescent pollution endemic of your years on Courscant. 

Tonight's Vorduunian sky is no exception – a clear expanse of rich velvet, stars like diamonds crushed into the smooth folds of the expansive sky. Twinkling and winking richly down at you through the gaping slats of the shack you now called home. 

You twist, a serpent in your own threadbare bedsheets, attempting to find comfort in the sticky summer heat of the planet, chasing the elusive promise of coolness as you flip your pillow to the other side with a huff. 

Kind of a sick game, if you thought about it. That if you weren’t running from something, you were chasing something else. 

At present? Chasing a good night’s rest. Preferably dreamless, if you were honest. Your dreams of late are plagued with all sorts of incomprehensible flashes, feelings of being watched, feverish and hazy. Your subconscious’s foreboding certainty that if you’d only just turn around, you’d be met with a face that was not your own -– the disquieting sense of something, or someone, lurking just around a corner. Sprinting down echoing hallways with promises, greatness, a warrior's oath, all just out of reach, certain that if you’d slowed your pace, whatever was pursuing you might just snatch you, an unseen stranger.

Other nights, the dreams were different – the unflinching and unchanging grin set in a mask of metalloid teeth, baring themselves at you . Of ever-watchful eyes judging, as you forced yourself through training drills. The disapproving shake of your Master’s head, his disappointment palpable and always, always directed at only you . The seizing terror of being dropped into combat with no saber – of being skewered through by an unseen shadow with a red plasma blade. Of walls closing in on you. Of the Knights whom you had once considered your friends turning their backs on you while you fought tooth and nail. Of your lungs filled with your unreleased screams – of terror or frustration, you weren’t sure – pulling you down beneath the surface of your failure until you drowned in the disappointment of others’ unfulfilled expectations. Of hands on an unseen body tinkering with phials of something, producing poisonous concoctions of sickly green that the unseen stranger dripped down your throat, pouring them past your lips with sure, warm fingers pressing on your tongue. You swore you could feel the poison upon your waking, the phantom feeling of liquid shredding your veins with horrific heat, your heart thundering. 

Other nights the dreams were different yet, still. Of shadows shedding their inky cloak to reveal hands that caressed. Of hands that held you and wiped your tears. Of thorns falling from vines – leaving what once had pricked and scratched you to now soothe with velvety softness as the vines wound their way around your wrists, tugging you into an unseen embrace with whispers of promises humming in your ears like the tufty wings of insects. And you would go willingly. Of the warm breath of another in your ear, their body warm behind you, distinct in its softness from that of the sunwarmed cliffs the two of you would watch the sunset from, just you and your unseen stranger. Of those same metalloid teeth melting into a radiant smile of brilliant white, beheld in a sharp jaw – the critique of disapproving masters replaced by his balmy, sublime approval. 

Of the tease and taste of his cinnamon lips brushing your own, the fluttering fan of lashes along the peaks of your cheekbones. Of warm, wan whispers of want , desire , soothing your ears. Of warm, fine-boned, assured hands atop your own, guiding yours in a sensuous glide along your own skin. Promises of m ore, more, more as silken lips slipped their way along the column of your throat – your hitching gasps met with his rumbling hums of satisfaction that lasted in your ears for the duration of the following day. Of the gentle lapping of water over smooth-rocked shores, a hand grasping yours with a promise of power. Yet again of more, more, more, if you’d just … Well, you weren’t sure. 

What you were sure of was that it had been weeks of these dreams. Your exhaustion was tugging at the corners of your reality, manifesting itself into silly mistakes – a slipped knife while cutting your meals, or the prickling feeling of someone watching from the dark corner of your room. At times, you weren’t sure what was real and what was dreamscape. A slow descent into madness, torment that felt justified, somehow –-

This purgatory was clearly your penance for your failure. To atone for the fact that you could never be more than what you are now – a former padawan cast out of a renowned Order, thanks in part to her own passions and propensities, roiling rages, and lilting lust. A warrior stripped of all pomp and credential. A blistering reminder of something never to be, of someone you could never be. 

And so here you were. Piteous and exiled in the jungles of Vorduun with no one other than your occasional unseen dream stranger for company. And what of tonight? Had you slept? Were you asleep? The hazy jungle heat made it impossible to tell. When your days consist of the same, tedious routine maintenance to your little corner of jungle, purely isolated, save for irregular treks to the nearest settlement to barter … And when you tossed and turned your nights away in fitful fugue states of half-awake melded with oppressive dreams – well, who was to say what was really real?  

The ghost of a touch along your exposed shoulder didn’t merit a response … Until it happened again. Causing you to sit bolt upright in bed, eyes tracking the room for any disturbance – seen or unseen. 

That prickle, so like static rippling across your skin couldn’t be the Force. No, no. It was the trickle of sweat down the back of your neck, and nothing else. What reason would you have to feel the Force here, now? 

Just another heated night, just another heated dream….

And now, were your eyes deceiving you, or were the shadows in the corner of your room were moving, swirling into shape as a well-toned arm emerges from the darkness, raised in a gesture of … peace? And the rest of him follows, stepping into the muted illumination from your single gaslamp that sputters in the corner of your room, casting his shadow along the opposite wall, sinuous and slinking as he slowly approaches. 

You spring from your bed, eyes darting to the loose slat in your floor where you housed your ill-used saber, quickly considering the relative size of your room and how many steps it would take him to reach you, arms outstretched, to snuff the life from you before you could call the blade to your hand . 

His eyes track yours, clocking the floorboard, before placing both hands up in front of him now, a plea – 

“You don’t need that,” he murmurs, taking a tentative step toward you. And whether it was the room that shrank around you both, or that was just his presence in your space – so unused to anyone but you – you weren’t sure.

“Need what?” Play dumb, and he won't have any reason to harm you, leaving you an opportunity to strike. Your favorite trick, a minor deception for a tactical advantage.

He steps into the dim, flickering light of the gas lamp, a mild smirk blooming along his full lips, the lamplight warming his skin.

“Your Jedi weapon.”

You glance once more between the loose floorboard and the man slowly approaching you, cocking your head as his features became revealed to you, your mind tickling with recognition as you noted the sharp angle of his jaw and the baleful, syrupy darkness of his eyes –

“You,” you breathe. “I know your face.”

“Do you?” His eyes meet yours, searching. 

Yes. You had a good memory for faces, and his you had seen a few times before. Your trips to the nearest settlement every tenday for the open-air market to barter what you had cultivated from the land around your ramshackle home for fruit, thread, and other goods you didn’t often come by on your own. You had seen him at a stall selling tinctures and other apothecary-type goods. You’d never approached, of course. Hadn’t had a need for burn creams or toxins. But there was no denying the swooping lock of hair that would curtain over his eyes, the sharp angle of his features. The way his eyes would track the movement of the market, hawkish, despite the seeming ineffectual haze in them…

A minor deception, you now realize. But for what tactical advantage?

“The chemist from the bazaar,” you reply.

His lips quirk at your realization – the bud of the smirk now unfurling into a full smile. 

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for, warrior,” he stands before you now, hands still lightly held up in a gesture of peace. “That’s good… A nice surprise ,” his voice taking on an almost-purr of satisfaction.   

You pause, lips parting lightly. What could he mean by that? 

“Qimir,” he gestures to himself by way of introduction.

Qimir. Likely not his real name. Still, you ponder, an interesting choice. Qimir. Like Chimaera, something ancient and unknowable. A monstrous creature signifying the parable of illusion – the promise of something only too impossible to achieve. You wonder if he knew what his “name” sounded like when he’d picked it.

And you hope your face hasn’t betrayed your whirring thoughts as you continue your assessment, hoping to keep a sweep of neutrality across your features as you address him again.

“If you say so. Business must be slow if you’re here to rob me, poisoner. I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed,” your eyes flit around the relatively bare bedroom, gesturing with your chin to the equally Spartan main room of your little ramshackle cabin. “Not much here of value.” 

He crosses one foot over the other as he takes a step to orbit you, almost swordsmanlike. As though he were preparing to duel. You mirror his step, your back to your bed now, facing your doorway. His body between yours and your exit. 

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he brings a finger to his chin as if in ponderment. “You’re here, after all. And why would I give you my name, show you my face, if I intended to rob you?” 

“Why you do anything means nothing to me,” you bite, “and you’ll have to forgive my manners if I don’t feel like giving you my name. Leave, now , while I let you leave, Qimir.” 

His eyes sweep your form, note your weight on the balls of your feet, bracing for a fight. You probably have weapons other than your laser sword stashed away, if he had to guess . He takes a tentative step toward you, a low chuckle escaping him at the fire in your eyes, trying not to smile any wider than he has already, to give away his pleased impression of your fury. 

“I know who you are,” you blink at his statement, trying not to let the surprise show on your face. “You don't have anything to fear from me, little Jedi.”

“I am no Jedi,” you snipped, rolling your eyes at the insolence of the man before you. If he cared at all about your rude display, Qimir said nothing.

“I am more than aware of that, too,” he murmured, his voice like silk in your ears as he takes yet another small step toward you, invading your space, close enough to breathe your air, a hair’s breadth from touch.  

Too close. You flex your fingers, calling your lightsaber from its hiding place under your loose floorboard into the palm of your hand in a flash, the cool metal meeting your palm like an old friend, a sense of relief. You surge forward into Qimir’s space, pressing the hilt of the saber into his abdomen.

“If you know so much, then you also know you shouldn’t have come,” you snarl. “I don’t know if you didn't take the hint, here at the edge of the world, but I don't take kindly to uninvited guests.”  

“You did invite me, little viper,” he insists, his voice never losing its even, dulcet quality.

At your furrowed brow, he gently brings his fingertips to brush the bare skin of your wrist that’s pressing the hilt of your lightsaber into his stomach. A familiar, prickling ripple bursts across your skin, causing goosebumps to stipple your arms. So familiar. So like the feel of lips from your unseen stranger. So like the Force. 

The dark eyes that met yours in the low light of your room were familiar for more than just an observation in passing at the market. 

“Y-you,” you gasp, the realization causing your chest to seize, to clench your teeth in the wave of seething anger. “You’ve been … in my head … for months …” 

He cocks his head at you, watching the emotions process along your face. He had seen your fears and failures, your heart’s greatest desires. He had seen it all …

“The quickest way to your heart,” he reasons. “Through your head. So you’ll have to forgive my intrusion. I wanted to know you.” Sweet words meant to soothe.  

You aren’t sure if that makes it any better. Perhaps the reasoning makes it worse.

“So like a poisoner,” you level his gaze with a steely one of your own. “To try to slip through the cracks unseen. But I know the quickest way to your heart.”

“You do?” He seems surprised at your rejoinder. As if he hadn’t expected you to play. To be so quick of wit as you were of reflex.

“Between your fourth and fifth rib,” you hum, your voice taking on an almost-seductive tone – a contradiction to the reminder of you pressing the hilt of the saber into him, precisely where you mean to. 

“I appreciate a good threat. Clever,” he smiles, placating. “But there’s no need for that, little warrior. After all… I wouldn't leave you to the dark, not like they did,” he assures, brushing his fingertips against the bare skin of your wrist, so lightly you would’ve thought you’d imagined it. Using the contact to connect to you through the Force once more – your shared memories dancing behind one another’s eyes. Of your fellow Padawans succeeding while your Master only saw failure. Of the dazzlingly white smile of your classmate with the bronze skin and twists in his hair, his yellow lightsaber flashing as you drilled together, his smile fading to frown with the rest of his features as you had used the Force to push him away a bit too hard – rage bubbling to the surface – in direct violation of your training ordinances. Of your departure from Coruscant, no one to bid you goodbye, not even your training partner who had once called himself your friend.

You make to turn your head, to break contact with his dark, glimmering, all-seeing eyes. Like tar pits, drawing you ever deeper. His other hand catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, drawing you back to his gaze, an orbit you cannot escape. Would you even want to?

“And do you believe you would have belonged? The Jedi are deceivers. They deal in abandonment … cloaked in empty platitudes,” he trails his index finger along the curve of your  jawline, an almost illusory brush of his skin against yours – the whisper of a touch, as though to illustrate the point. “The wisp of a  promise, like spun sugar. Sweet, but false, their promises of righteousness. Of importance.”

Your lips part, catching the barest bit of his thumb as it does so, your eyes now searching his, seeking motive.

“And what do you offer instead? That's what this is, right? An offer?”

He smiles wider now, nodding in the barest acknowledgment. As though you’ve finally asked the right question.

“I … make the intangible tangible.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning …” his hand leaves the curve of your jaw to touch his fingertips to your temple, pressing, rendering a vision to your mind. And what Force magic was this? To make you see beyond your own eye’s sight. Foresight? An illusion? A vision? A memory? A promise or a deception?

Whatever it is, you see it so clearly – an uninhabited plant roaring with ocean as far as your eyeline can perceive. Waves lapping gently along grey-stoned shores. Moss-covered alcoves where you sit with him, your stranger, the sunset warming your skin as he caresses your face, your hair, whispering praises just beyond your mind’s own comprehension into your ear – the tone sinful, syrupy. His arms securing you in the night as you rest, no more dreams of abandonment. 

Warmth, endless warmth… as his lips trail the shell of your ear, down your neck, bestowing belief of besotted brushes of lips. Adroit affection aimed right at the heart of you. 

“Hmmm … meaning …. Your feelings, your power, your talent all working, to manifest toward something real. Something you want.” His hand leaves your temple and rests on your shoulder, taking advantage of your state of ponderment to gently guide you, ever mindful of the still-unlit lightsaber pressed to his stomach, leading away from your bed to the wall just next to the adjacent doorframe, the patient waltz of a waiting predator. He brings his hand to rest on the wall, next to your head.

“Something I want,” you reply dreamily, coming back to yourself just enough to realize what he’d said, exhaling through your nose in an indignant little huff. “In exchange for … ?”

“Tell me something,” he replies, lithely lilting around your question with one of his own, flexing his fingers where they rest on the wall. “Why are you no Jedi?” 

“I … abjured,” you admit, a bit too primly, the lightsaber now feeling like an unbearable weight in your palm at your words, the weight of choices – both your own and those of whom purported to teach you. To guide you to something greater. Was it as he said? Were their promises so meaningless? “Broke my oath,” you suck your lower lip between your teeth, pausing before daring to meet his gaze again. “I couldn’t … suppress how they wanted me to. I didn’t want to fail anymore. I was so tired of failing. So, I … abjured. I was weak.” 

Your eyes meet his once more at your admission, yours shining with unshed tears waiting to fall like stars. Shimmering promises to slip down your cheeks, unkept and unchecked. Your fingers fumbled, seemingly of their own accord, unwilling to hold the weight, the threat, of the saber against him any longer. The hilt clattered to the floor, a clanging finality to punctuate your words. And when was the last time you had been so honest, so vulnerable with another?

How … unlike you. 

“Not weak,” he cups your cheeks with both hands, fine-boned thumbs tracing the peaks of your cheeks, as though to wipe away your unshed tears. “The same as me. Power searching for its other half. An unwaning, unflickering flame.” 

Your unseen stranger, now seen, takes your hands in his, the buzz of the Force still tingling across your skin at his words, at the recognition of his power.

“You asked what I want. You want the same as me, and I the same as you. A companion . A partner. Unlike them, I won't judge you for your feelings. Won’t judge you for your power …  You want – I can feel it rippling across your skin,” he closes his eyes, cocking his head, shivering as though to illustrate the point. “... Mmm, and I want,  too. We can want together. If you'd let us.”

The flickering light of your room seemed to dim in tandem with his syrupy words, cloying and dripping like honey into golden nettle tea. The swirling honeytar of his eyes appraising you as the Force connection prickled with hazy heat between your bodies and the damnable musk of the jungle air.

You press yourself further into the wall he’d leaned you against, tilting your chin to appraise him in kind, searching for veracity in his words. Something more substantial than the “spun sugar” he’d accused the Jedi of weaving. 

As though he could sense your trepidation before it could cross your face, he placed a hand on your hip, the contact searing you through the thin fabric of your tank top.  

“They kicked you out because you feel. I'd never do that. I want you to feel … to feel power. To feel what you’re capable of. Of what it can become. Rage. Fear. Loss. Desire. Train with me, you’ll feel it all. I want you to feel it all … to feel me.”

Desire, he had spoken of. The gentle roll of his low voice over the syllables echoing perfectly in your ears. Desire, desire, desire. That desire, so  like venom snaking its way through your blood, hot and purposeful. An all-consuming burn through your blood, befitting of a poisoner as he. 

“You felt it, didn’t you? When I came in,” he iterates, somewhere south of a plea. “All. That. Power.” The hand not resting on your hip comes to cup your face once more. “I can teach you.” 

You had read somewhere once, in the Archives, about creatures on long-abandoned planets with the ability to draw their prey in through vanity. The flash of feathers. Or shiny scales. Big, baleful eyes, perhaps. Only to sink their teeth in once their intended had come too close. 

You draw in a breath, searching his pleasing face for any sign of a tell. Of the flicker of eyes that would signify deception. Of hidden fangs beneath his beautiful, full lips. Of anything that would bely his true intentions behind your Force connection. You swept your eyes across broad, defined shoulders, down toned, muscled arms exposed through his sleeveless shift. A warriors’ weapon wrapped in a pleasing package, to be sure. But … with no discernable hint of false suggestion. 

You shift your weight once more onto the balls of your feet, away from the wall and into him . Continuing your appraisal as you tilt your head, allowing the scent of his skin – the tang of sweat from the humid jungle air commingling with something sharp and clean – to wash over you. 

You invade his space now, leaning into the hand that grips your hip and the other that cradles your head, boldly brushing your lips along his with the barest hint of touch, feeling his lips smile against yours.

You whisper, your lips silken against his, “Tell me, poisoner … You seduce me with lies, is that it? You wish for me to call you Master? Forsake all else to worship at your altar?” 

You catch the flash in his eyes as the word “seduce” leaves your lips.

“I haven't lied to you,” his voice is a hum. An attempt to provide reassurance as he couples them with what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His fingers travel from your hip to trail your ribs, a partial embrace.

“Do you consider not telling the entire truth to be a lie?” 

“Have I shown you any lies? No. Just dreams. The promise of what could be. What I –,” he pauses, “– we could be. I cannot fabricate the Force, little warrior. Everything you feel tonight is you . It’s me. What more could you want? ” 

Your once-steely resolve is crumbling under the weight of his insinuation … "everything you feel tonight” –  the honey in his words sweet to your ears, you wonder fleetingly if he'd be even sweeter on your tongue. 

And he knew you, didn’t he? By his own admission, he’d seen your faults and flaws for months … your desires. And he had shown you promises, premonitions, predilections… a future of power. And if there is power in two hemispheres – one of sweltering heat, one of blistering ice. Which were you? And which was he? 

Together you would surely melt…

“No more rules, little warrior,” he sighs, “just the power of two.” He slides his lips across yours, purposeful, before capturing your lower lip between his teeth, nipping once before releasing, admiring the way your expression flickered from defiance to desire before surging forward, pressing you back into the wall as his lips capture yours.

He swallows your gasp, bringing his fingers to wrap loosely around your neck while his other hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. 

You break from his kiss with a gasp between swollen, bitten lips. But he gives you no reprieve, his lips trailing to your neck, where he sets about pressing hot-mouthed kisses. Molten lava flooding the column of your throat, chased with the scrape of nipping teeth. Soothe and scrape. Push and pull. Give, give, give, take.  

You thread your fingers through the silken hair tucked behind his ears, tugging him from his ministrations on your neck and forcing him to meet your eyes – to see if the blaze of want you felt scorching your skin was reflected in the liquid coal, ready to ignite. 

His lips twist into a smirk at your insistent tugging; if he was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. His face the perfect picture of pleasure. 

“What would we do with it?” You inquire, “This power?” 

“Hmmm,” he pretended to ponder, suddenly scooping you, a brief lift as he crossed the short distance to your bed, seating himself with you on his lap. No concession of dominance; merely placing you precisely where he means to. To allow you to feel him beneath you. 

“What would you like to do, little warrior, hm?” His fingers flicked the thin straps of your flimsy sleep shirt, exposing your shoulders, leaning forward to trail his lips along the now-bared expanse of your shoulder, your collar bones, your neck, his eyes glancing up to watch your face as he went. “Make them pay? Take what’s yours?” 

His hands feel their way down your form, down your sides, along your hips, the skin of his palms rasping against the smooth expanse of your thighs has his fine-boned fingers make their way beneath the loose fabric of the cropped pants you sleep in, dangerously close to the precipice of your desire , urging you to move. Guiding your hips in a rhythmic glide in his lap. 

You gasp at his attentions, at the combination of his promises and the heady feel of his skin along yours, bringing your hands to grip his biceps – desperately seeking a way to anchor yourself. 

And if it’s his poison that will bring you to the edge, would you regret it? You were starting to believe you could never regret him , not at the feel of his chest pressed against yours, the toned muscle beneath your fingers. His sharp angles caressing your soft curves, replacing the lonely ache in your bones with the lovely heat of him, both his promises and his attentions.

His mouth was keyed and intentional in its work of you, with pressed kisses like flower petals blooming along the skin of your neck, followed by the scraping thorns of his teeth. Brutish and beautiful, as his fine-boned fingers crept to the inside of your thighs, rubbing along your clothed center, intensifying the ache you felt. He shifts your weight in his lap, causing your legs to spread wider, straddling him lowly as he tugs the offending fabric aside, guiding your hips into a roll over his clothed lap and his growing hardness. Manifesting his delight at the choked gasp you emitted in the form of a teasing little buck of his hips, guiding you down as he guided himself up, delighting in the sharp gasps that met his ears as he continues to sway you to his rhythm. 

“Desire isn't a sin, little warrior,” he breathes the words into your mouth, lips a hairs’ breadth apart, the better to swallow your moans. “What we feel feeds our connection to the Force, gives you strength ... If you know how. Let me show you. Touch me.” 

It was as though electricity was crackling, popping beneath your fingertips as you took his instruction and began to explore the expanse of his body, slipping your hands beneath his tunic to feel the silken heat of his firm torso, the ache within you mounting at the heady combination of the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips – so long since you’d touched another, been touched – and his hardness between the cleft of your thighs. Smoldering, low-heat burned along your skin and beneath your fingertips. Or was it his fingers that were doing the burning? It was hard to tell where he ended and you began, one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you bodily into him, an infinite loop of power and pleasure.

As you continue to touch him, you could feel it – his connection to the force, strong, volatile, like lightning striking the ocean – crackling and formidable like the man who contained it.

And Qimir – you had long since given up trying to determine if it was, in fact, his real name – rewards you with a gift of his own, the velvet rumble of a groan of pleasure emanating from his throat at your touch. A sound of syrup and satisfaction. 

Pleased that you could garner such a reaction from a being as powerful as he, you smile, boldly meeting his lips with a kiss, opening your mouth with a gasp, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth, to taste the zip of power that he had determined in his moths of observation was just you, a torrent of citrus drizzle, bold and sweet. 

Reluctantly, he parts his lips from yours, ducking his head to tug the straps of your top down with his teeth, exposing your breasts to the heated air of the room. And if your desire at the repeated rolling of his hips beneath yours wasn’t enough to do you in, you figured this might. Bathing in the celestial feel the press his lips to your nipple, tongue swirling over the peaking flesh. Pleased at the goosebumps that erupt now in the wake of his attention. 

While he continues to tease your breasts with tongue and teeth, Qimir guides his other hand along your thighs, slipping his practiced fingers beneath your shorts, delighting in the wetness he was met with, basking  in the jolting shiver the motion elicited from you, at the friction of his fingers rubbing along the seam of you – causing you to wiggle, to roll your hips into his touch. 

And oh, as he slips his fingers inside of you, your eyes roll back, tilting your head to allow Qimir to admire the curving, elegant slope of exposed throat – prey before a predator, gasping at the pleasure he wrought. Breathless. If you thought he was teasing you before, his fingers inside of you were their own type of mocking punishment, well aware of his effect on you and the way your cunt throbs as he strokes inside of you. You could do nothing but wriggle your hips, whimpering piteously and attempting to roll your hips to follow his fingers as they work you, as this crescendo builds.

“Say you’ll be mine, warrior, and you can have it.” he promises. A new oath. One you’d never forsake. For him, you’d never turn, never abjure. Not so long as his touch made stars erupt behind your eyes, not so long as his lips dripped syrup promises down your throat.  

Kissing you once more, golden and slow, molten and revelatory as he works his fingers inside of you, your thighs parting to accommodate him. His thumb rolls repeated brushes over your clit, delighting in the starshine burst as you reached your peak, a broken little moan that sounded suspiciously like the word “master,” passing your lips in a keening sigh. 

You regard him through bleary, closing eyes and the warm, citrus haze of your orgasm as he slips his fingers from you, guiding you down to recline in your bed, stroking your hair as he does so, lulling you as a lover would. 

“Sleep, warrior,” his velvet voice meets your ears, lyrical and lilting. “I’ll be back for you.” 

And like each night before that one, his figure slips from you… as though he was never there. It wasn’t a dream, was it? It was hard to tell after months of this teasing game. After his promises built so much only to guide you to this release. 

And in the silvery light of the jungle’s dawn, you awoke with that very question on your lips, met with the sight of your saber placed gently on your little bedside table as opposed to its usual hiding spot. You wake to the sweet afterache of something between your thighs, to the scraped marks of teeth along the expanse of your neck. 

And to the promise of something – of a future of power and partnership. If only you’d be so bold as to accept it. As you eyed the saber, you recalled the prickle of his Force power along your skin, increasing with his proximity. And by the time he arrived to meet you again, you knew what your answer would be … 

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[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Devil's Snare part.4

Aemond Targaryen x reader Description: Aemond has won the love of his handmaiden, but he worries that her shyness is stopping her from feeling truly comfortable expressing her affections. When Y/N receives unwanted advances from another Lord, Aemond proves just far he'll go to protect his lady.

Previous Part Part 5

Writer's note: I cannot express enough how much all your lovely comments mean to me. I still feel quite new to writing fanfic so it's amazing to know people actually want to read what I write. There's a brief mention of sexual assault in this so please don't read if this is triggering or upsetting to you in any way.

Warnings: female reader, brief mention of sexual harassment and attempted assault, protective (aka violent) Aemond, incredibly fluffy, lengthy as always, I have an obsession with Ewan Mitchell's hands; I'm being so brave about it but I will make it everyone's problem.

Aemond gently grazed his knuckles up and down Y/N's ribcage absentmindedly as he read to her, her body pressed into his side. She had appeared nervous when he'd first suggested it, a week having passed since then, but she never seemed so relaxed in his company as she did now listening to him read of ancient Targaryen dragon riders. He had been so happy, so relieved, when his shy girl had reciprocated his love. But he had not accounted for her shyness around him persisting even now that she knew he loved her. She was always tentative about expressing her feelings, and rarely initiated any physical contact with him. He had been concerned at first that she had reconsidered her feelings, a worry exacerbated by her reticence to inform anyone else of their betrothal. He thought back to the moment she'd agreed to marry him, how he'd immediately wanted to take her to see his mother and declare his intentions. It had been Y/N who had stopped him, frantically grabbing onto his arm and pulling him back to her, immediately putting him on alert.

Crouching back down in front of the chaise where she sat, his gaze had softened as he saw her eyes widened in alarm, hand still gripping his sleeve tightly. He spoke in as calm a tone as he could muster as he tried to ignore his own disquiet. "What is it my love?" Y/N smiled at him, but he noted that it did not reach her eyes.

"You might find me rather silly." Aemond brushed his knuckles lightly over her cheekbone in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "I assure you I will not."

"It is only that I cannot help my more reserved nature. I feel comfortable with you not to judge me for it, but not others. And I know there will be whispers about your choice of a handmaiden to wife."

Aemond's good eye narrowed slightly. "I will have the tongue of anyone who bismirches you."

Y/N had lightly shaken her head at his suggestion. "I do not wish you to. Just allow me some time to get used to the idea that you love me first. I wish for it to be only us for now."

Aemond took hold of both her hands, saddened by her choice of words though desiring to be understanding of her wishes. But he would be firm on one matter.

"I do love you."

Aemond tried to oust these thoughts from his mind, comforting himself that Y/N did not shy from his touch at least, rather she always leaned into it. Though, it would always have to be him who took her hand, pulled her in for an embrace, or brushed his lips against hers. And he had begun to worry she did not think she could touch him. That their difference in status, her naturally timid disposition or, gods forbid, fear of him or his reaction prevented her from doing so. He wanted her to know she did not have to ask for his permission or wait for him to initiate, although he was more than happy to do so. He wanted her to understand that he adored her and would gladly welcome any and every affectation she would permit him.

Y/N seemed to be the most comfortable when he read to her and sometimes she would even rest her head on his shoulder, her breathing slowing so much he thought she might have fallen asleep. It made his heart soar every time for her to feel such trust in him to do so and he would always wrap an arm around her shoulder to pull her closer,  tilting his head down to lean it against hers, in the hopes he could encourage her and assure her that he appreciated and greatly desired her affection. Removing his hand from her to turn the page, he noticed that her eyes followed his movements. From their first meetings, when he'd observed her watching him weave a coin through his fingers, her gaze had always gravitated towards his hands. It had pleased him to know that she found him attractive despite his scar, though for him she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Dropping a hand down from the book he was holding, he took hold of his lady's hand, which was resting in her lap, and interlocked their fingers, a smile forming at the light dusting of pink on her cheeks at his action. He only wished she'd feel more comfortable to take his hand herself should she want to.

Y/N felt her cheeks heat as Aemond took hold of her hand in her lap, sure he must have spotted her staring. She thought every part of Aemond beautiful, but she had a particular fascination with his hands from the beginning. At first she'd just thought them elegant for someone who looked so fierce, whose sword was almost an extension of his hand. Looking down at their intertwined hands she marvelled at how large his looked over hers. There was a time when this might have frightened her. Now, along with his ever present gaze that always seemed to follow her, the warmth of his hand encasing hers just felt safe, protective. She struggled to initiate any physical affection with Aemond, still not fully able to comprehend his regard for her. So she was ever grateful for his patience with her, always taking the lead. But Y/N knew it would be unfair for her to always rely on him in this way, and she worried that he'd begin to think she did not love him in equal measure.

Resolving to at least try to set aside her nervousness for him, she separated their hands in favour of taking his in both of hers. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a look of confusion cross Aemond's face until she began to lightly trace her fingers across his knuckles, making her way slowly down his hand, tracing veins and drawing patterns along his skin. She heard his sharp intake of breath at her actions and willed herself not to be self-conscious or alarmed by this, slowly turning his hand over to trace patterns along the lines of his palm. Aemond seemed only too happy to relinquish his hand to her, awkwardly turning the page with one hand in favour of withdrawing the one she held. She continued her ministrations and Aemond continued to read without comment, perhaps not wanting to draw attention to her affectionate gesture in case it should embarass her. Y/N smiled at the thought, keenly aware of how gentle and caring Aemond always was with her. While she found it difficult to be confident in showing affection, Y/N determined to find small ways to express her love for him.

Aemond was pleasantly surprised to see Y/N grow in confidence each day, his gentle encouragement helping to make her more sure of herself. She'd begun by simply taking his hand of her own accord. Yet this small attention still served to drive him almost to complete distraction as he tried to focus on reading the words before him rather than the soft touch of her fingertips against his skin. It was not long before Y/N was comfortable to take Aemond's hands whenever she wished, assured he would only grasp hers tighter in response. Thereafter, she would reach up on tiptoe to sweetly kiss him on the corner of his mouth as she saw him off to the training yard each morning. She had looked away from him sheepishly the first time she had done so, but quickly lost her embarassment as he eagerly pulled her in to kiss her himself.

The Prince came to realise that Y/N would always retain her shy disposition, but his heart was gladdened to find that this was not a reflection of any wariness towards him any longer.  Throughout Aemond's life, he had lacked the unconditional love he'd longed for, ignored by his father, relentlessly teased by his brother and bastard nephews. The loss of his eye had only served to distance others from him further, and it was only the strength of his bond with Vhagar and the kindness of his gentle sister Helaena that prevented him from succumbing to his overwhelming feelings of loneliness. He could not understand how Y/N, who seemed to be made of pure light, could be drawn to him in spite of the darkness that festered within his heart. But he was everyday grateful she had chosen to love him and he admired her bravery to push through her trepidation and show him as much. This only emboldened him all the more in his own expressions of his love for her.

Y/N was lost in thought as she passed along the halls of the Red Keep. She often found herself so, thinking of Aemond when she was not with him and pondering on her own apprehension to marry the man she loved. She knew that Aemond would have married her the instant she'd agreed to be his wife. He'd told her as much. Yet she could not fully suppress her fears over the judgements of others, the potential opposition they would face for such an unorthodox match. Though, day by day she found herself growing less concerned by these possibilities, moved by the extent of Aemond's love for her and patience to wait until she was ready. With her mind thus preoccupied, she was thoroughly startled when a hand encircled her wrist and tugged her into a sequestered passageway, letting out an audible shriek. The momentum caused her to fall forward into whoever had accosted her. Arms wrapped around her, hands splaying out to cover her waist...Aemond's hands, she realised as she looked up to see him grinning at her playfully.

Before she could scold him for scaring her, he crashed his lips against hers. Y/N's hands flew up to grip Aemond's shoulders as he slowly shifted them backwards until she felt the cool stone of the Keep's walls pressing against her back. Aemond brought a hand up to rest against her cheek, tilting her head up to his to deepen the kiss. Y/N broke away from him a few moments later, shoving lightly against his chest, out of breath. She was sure she didn't strike a particularly intimidating figure, panting for breath, her hair mussed and cheeks surely ablaze. But she tried to fix the Prince with a stern look nonetheless, lightly swatting at his chest. "Aemond, you scared me half to death."

Aemond only smiled wider and grabbed her hand before she could retract it, placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles before lowering his head to brush his lips against her jaw, his breath tickling her skin as he spoke. "Are you very angry, my love?"  Y/N found herself unable to reply at all as he slowly planted kisses along her jaw, her cheek and finally her forehead. He paused briefly to hum at her questioningly, having received no response. When Y/N only gripped his tunic to pull him closer, he recaptured her lips with his. She reached up with her free hand to entangle her fingers in his hair, feeling him smile against her lips as she did so.

It was Aemond who pulled away then, resting his forehead against hers. "I earnestly apologise for scaring you my love. I missed you and it could not be helped." Y/N ran her fingers through the lengths of his soft white hair.  "You are forgiven." Aemond smiled at her and went to kiss her again but she quickly turned her face from him, laughing at his boyish eagerness. "Aemond, I have my duties to attend to and I am certain you have your own. You are Prince Aemond Targaryen of the Seven Kingdoms, you cannot spend all your time with me."

Her tone was jesting but she laid a particular emphasis on his title. She did not wish to distract him from his duties as a Prince of the realm.  Aemond shot her a smile so dazzling she felt her heart stutter, before tilting his head down to meet her eyes and speaking so softly it was almost a whisper. "I am your Aemond." Y/N gulped, her hand subconsciously tightening its hold on Aemond's tunic. Seemingly pleased with himself at having once again left her speechless, he pulled back. "But if you insist, I will accede to your wishes and withdraw." Y/N shook herself from the dazed state she too oft found herself in around the Prince, taking embarrassingly deep breaths to calm the uneven fluttering of her heart.

But she grew suspicious when Aemond remained planted to the spot, a strangely knowing smirk upon his features. "Aemond, I promise to see you later. But we must go our separate ways for now." Aemond's eyebrows glinted mischievously, in complete contrast to the seriousness of her tone.  "In order to do that you would have to let me go, little one." Y/N's eyes widened with alarm as she looked down to find herself still clutching onto Aemond's tunic, abruptly releasing her hold. Aemond laughed before affectionately tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "It is alright my darling, I did not wish to let you go either." The rogue did not wait for her response before turning to walk briskly away from her and out of the passageway.

Y/N's heart leapt in her chest as she watched an ornate vase emblazoned with the Targaryen House sigil shatter on the stone floor of Aemond's chambers. She'd knocked it off a side table by accident whilst she'd been making her survey of the room for the evening, and as she cleared up the mess she was racked with nerves at the prospect of telling Aemond, not knowing if the vase was valuable to him in anyway and if he would be angry with her for her carelessness. In her guilt she took him by surprise as he returned to his chambers for the night, all but barrelling into him, wrapping her arms around his torso and hiding her face in his chest.

Aemond had immediately brought his own arms up to wrap around her and return her embrace, letting out a pleased laugh at her display of affection. "While it gladdens my heart that you are happy to see me, might I ask what fortuitous circumstance has prompted you to throw yourself at me?" He spoke low and teasing close to her ear. When his lovely handmaiden only tightened her grip on him in response to his jest he grew truly concerned.

Pulling back from her slightly so he could see her face, he was startled by her penitent expression. "Has something happened?"

Y/N looked up at him regretfully.

"Promise you won't be angry."

Aemond's face had fallen at her request. While he had kept his promise to never again raise his voice to her after he'd first done so and frightened her, the memory still pained him.

"I give you my word."

Y/N nodded, taking a deep breath before rushing out "I broke the vase on your side table. It was done accidentally and I am sorry for it."

Aemond nearly laughed again with relief that it was such a small thing that concerned his lady, but did not wish her to think he was being cruel or laughing at her. He bent his torso slightly so he could look into her eyes. "Is that all? You can change anything to your liking or break it if you will, these will be your chambers too one day when you are my wife. I do not wish you to worry yourself about such an inconsequential matter."

Y/N was grateful that Aemond had not been angry, indeed he was not in the slightest bit perturbed at her clumsiness. But his allusions to their marriage and shared life together had her cheeks turning red with embarassment and she quickly returned her head to his chest to hide the fact. She'd felt his chuckle resound in his chest as he gently extricated her from him oncemore to hold her face. "Do not hide from me, my love. I will not rush you. We will marry when you are ready."

Y/N rushed from Helaena's room, brushing aggressively at the tears blurring her vision. She'd hoped to visit the Princess and return a book she'd borrowed, having grown to see her as a friend. But she was surprised to find her chambers empty save for Martin Reyne, one of Prince Aegon's retinue of friends. His lecherous smirk upon spotting her sent shivers down her spine, as she watched him mentally undress her.

"No need to leave on my account, I was just looking for Prince Aegon. Alas, he is not here."

Y/N bristled at his presumption to skulk about the Princess Helaena's chambers, only shooting him a furtive look before she turned to leave, not wishing to remain in his presence alone any longer. But he quickly closed the distance between them, grabbing her arm forcibly and pulling her further into the Princess's chambers. No sooner had his hands began to wander than the door was flung open by Ser Erryk Cargyll, who'd angrily shoved the Lord away from her. She had only just been able to whisper her thanks to the knight before falling apart and fleeing from the room. Y/N could hardly breathe through her attempts to stifle her sobs as she stumbled down the halls of the Keep, hoping she could avoid running into anyone. She needed to be find somewhere to calm herself and found herself headed in the direction of Aemond's chambers, where she felt safest, before she had even consciously made the decision to do so. He was never in his chambers at this time of the day so she did not expect to see him standing by his desk, back turned to her. She let out a startled gasp at which Aemond instantly turned to face her. Falling against the nearest wall for support, she placed a hand on her chest in an attempt to calm her frantic breathing and stop the flow of her tears, aware that both were causing her to feel faint and unsteady on her feet.

At the sight of her distress, Aemond ran to her side, lightly taking hold of her elbows to keep her steady as he looked over her rapidly for any signs of injury. Y/N couldn't speak, she could only fall against him and sob into his chest as his hands flew up to hold her against him. One hand stroking her hair, he tried to whisper words of comfort to her and hush her cries for long enough to ascertain the cause. "It is alright, you are safe. Can you tell me what happened?" When her breathing only became more erratic, Aemond swept her up into his arms, her own instantly finding purchase around his neck, and carried her over to his favoured arm chair before setting her on his lap.

In any other circumstance he would have been deliriously happy to be able to hold her this close, to have her nuzzle into his neck as she did now. But he had never seen her so upset, not even on the one occasion when they'd argued, and he felt his own heart race and dread seep into his very bones at what could have prompted such a response from his lady.

It was a long time before Y/N felt able to tell Aemond what had happened and she could not bring herself to meet his gaze as she did so. Aemond had to tilt his head to hear her voice muffled against his shoulder, stiffening and feeling rage rise up in him at every word. He did not interrupt her, only speaking once he was certain she had finished. Kissing the crown of her head, Aemond tried to contain his anger so as not to frighten her further, promising to himself that he would deal with the bastard who'd dared touch her later. But for now he knew Y/N needed him more. "No one will ever harm you again."

A short while later, Aemond stormed into the throne room, where Ser Erryk had informed him Aegon and his lickspittle friends would be. He heard their laughter before he saw them, and that only served to fuel his rage further. It did not take him long to pick out the object of his ire. Aegon had turned upon hearing his heavy tread "Ah, brother."

Ignoring his brother entirely, Aemond headed straight for his friend, his voice booming across the hall. "Reyne!" The Lord in question looked thoroughly alarmed at being addressed in such a manner by the one-eyed Prince, taking a cautious step back, his own voice wavering. "My Prince?"

Aemond roughly grabbed hold of the Lord's front. "Did you think your actions would go unpunished you craven bastard?"

Reyne's eyes widened with alarm as he took note of the dangerous glint in the Prince's eye and his venomous tone. "My Prince, I do not recall committing an infraction against you."

Aemond shoved Reyne against a nearby pillar, hearing a satisfying smack as the Lord's head resounded off it. Aegon swiftly stepped in to aid his friend.  "Come now brother, what is the meaning of this?"

"He assaulted my handmaiden in our sister's chambers" Aemond all but growled through gritted teeth. Realisation dawned on Reyne's face and Aemond narrowed his eyes, feeling the blood of the dragon heat within him as a light-hearted grin broke across the bastard's face. "All this over a girl? It was only a bit of fun, she didn't need to go getting upset over it." Aegon saw the danger before his foolish friend and made a grab for his brother, but Aemond was stronger and quicker, merely shoving his brother aside before punching Reyne in the face with enough force to break his nose. As blood began gushing from the Lord's nose and he unceremoniously fell to the ground clutching at his face in pain, Aemond grabbed him by the back of his neck, roughly dragging him from the hall. He dragged him all the way to the front entrance of the Keep before throwing him atop the stairwell, leaning down into the Lord's face, his voice low and dangerous. "If I catch you within the walls of The Red Keep again I will fucking kill you."

When Aemond returned to his chambers dusk had fallen and Y/N had yet to move from where he'd left her, curled up in his favoured chair. Seeing her look so fragile, her arms wrapped about herself, he wished he'd killed the blaggard after all and resolved to comfort her as best he could. Her head snapped up at the sound of his footsteps and she jumped up to greet him, her eyes gravitating towards his still bloody knuckles. He quickly moved to assuage the concern forming in her eyes. "The blood is not mine. Mostly. He will not touch you again." Y/N took his hand to place a tender kiss upon his grazed knuckles. "I am grateful, Aemond. Though I would not have you hurt yourself in defence of me."

Aemond was moved by the sweetness of  his beloved's temperament and her concern for his wellbeing. But he wanted her to see him as her protector, for he always would be. He levelled a charming smile at her. "Do you really think me so fragile and weak?"

Y/N's eyes widened. "Of course not Aemond, I did not mean that."

With the hopes of amusing her, and thereby distracting her from her current troubles, he feigned offence. Pulling away from her he paced to the other side of the room and sighed exaggeratedly. "Alas, my lady does not think me fit to protect her. I do not know that I can stand the shame."

"Aemond, I know you are powerful and perfectly capable of defending me. You are a formidable swordsman. That is not..." Y/N started to apologise but stopped mid sentence as she looked suspiciously at the upturn of his lips, realising he was just teasing her. "Aemond that isn't funny", she tried to look stern but struggled to repress her own smile at his antics. Aemond quirked an eyebrow up at her. "So my lady thinks me powerful, does she? Formidable even?"

Y/N blushed at her own words thrown back at her, stuttering out her response. "You know what I meant, Aemond. Don't be arrogant."

Aemond's smile broadened in response and he slowly began stalking back towards her. He had a playful gleam in his eye that had Y/N stepping backwards in response and moving around his desk, unsure of what game he was playing. "What are you doing, Aemond?"

Aemond halted on the other side of his desk. "It would appear I have to assure my lady of my capability to defend her."

Y/N's confusion at his words lasted only a moment before he darted around the desk, reaching for her, and she turned to run from him. It wasn't long before she found herself giggling as he chased her about the room. She knew he was only pretending, purposefully allowing her to escape his hold each time his fingers grazed her waist, but that only made her laugh harder. She'd not known Aemond had such a playful side to him.

Wishing to hold his lady, Aemond decided to end their game, pleased to have made Y/N laugh and to have distracted her for the moment. He caught up to her and swept her back into his arms, her back flush against his chest as he spun her about, picking up speed in accordance with her laughter. Placing her gently back down he cupped her face between his hands and looked at her seriously, wanting her to know he was in earnest now.

"I will always protect you, defend you with my life if I have to. You are my love and will be my wife one day, whenever you give the word."

Y/N smiled up at him with gratitude and love in her eyes. "Aemond, I think I am ready to be your wife now."

Aemond could not contain his joy at her words, feeling a weight lift from his chest. He had been willing to be patient for her, but each day Y/N continued to feel unsure of their marriage, of him, the deep seated insecurity that had haunted him since childhood had grown stronger.

"Truly, my love?"

"Truly." That was all he needed to hear before he captured her lips in a passionate kiss.

You were expecting Aemond fanfiction and instead you got an ode to Ewan Mitchell's hands. Whoops 🤭

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[leahrintarou]

Suna with an s/o who's really scared of thunderstorms pls?? Your work is always so awesome btw-

✩₊˚.⋆ SAFE & SOUND - suna rintarou

CW: y/n is scared of thunderstorms ofc, suna being a sweetheart, fluff, she cries just a teeny bit, reader with she/her pronouns.

Word Count: 1k

Author's Note: hi guysss, i hope that you enjoy reading this! i found it sweet and cute to write so i hope you enjoy it anon. (i'm so happy that you like my works btw!) ty for reading ;D show your support by leaving a like or reblogging :P

ever since she was a child, a mere girl in grade school, the reverberations of thunder and the harsh flashes of lightning that bled through her window panes had filled her with dread, a fear that dug deep into her very being. the tremors of anticipation, the oppressive silence before the crackling sky split open, and the way the air itself seemed to hold its breath—all conspired against her peace, robbing her of sleep. those sleepless nights became a constant companion, gnawing at her young mind with a persistent unease that lingered long after the storm clouds had passed. tonight was no different.

y/n lay beside suna, her eyes wide open, pupils dilated against the darkness. exhaustion weighed heavy on her bones, yet her mind refused to surrender. though her body ached for rest, her thoughts churned restlessly, denying her the release of slumber. beside her, suna embodied tranquility, his form rising and falling with each untroubled breath. he was a man who could sleep through any chaos—be it the squabble of the twins or even the catastrophic shockwave of a sonic boom. he seemed impervious, shielded from the disquiet of the world by some blessed indifference.

his arms were folded beneath his pillow, his broad back exposed and facing her, a silent wall between his peaceful dreams and her waking nightmare. his head, cushioned against the soft fabric, was turned away, as if even in sleep, he sought to shield her from his contentment. the room lit up briefly as lightning cast spectral shadows against the walls, and y/n stiffened, every muscle bracing for the inevitable roar that would follow. the thunder did not disappoint, crashing through the silence like a judge’s gavel, making the house shudder beneath the sound. her hands trembled as she curled into herself, seeking comfort where there was none.

she stole a glance at suna, his features serene and undisturbed, and guilt twisted in her gut. he had been through so much this week—long hours, relentless days—and waking him for something as trivial as this felt selfish. she should have outgrown this irrational terror; it was a childish fear, something to be dismissed like nightmares in the light of day. yet, here she was, her heart racing with each peal of thunder as if it were some primordial beast come to claim her. each fresh rumble tore another sob from her throat, her arms tightening around herself in a futile attempt to hold it together. her breathing was ragged, panic prickling at her lungs, and tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, spilling over to stain the sheets below.

a sob broke free, soft but sharp, piercing the quiet. though suna was impervious to the clamor of the world, there was one sound he could never ignore. his eyelids fluttered open, his gaze bleary and unfocused, drawn to her shape beside him. “sweetheart?” his voice was thick with sleep, rough around the edges, like sandpaper against silk.

for a moment, confusion clouded his eyes, but comprehension dawned swiftly as the storm outside roared its fury, shadows of the tempest dancing across their room. “shhh, it’s alright. you’re safe, y/n,” he murmured, the haze of sleep dissipating as he reached for her, drawing her trembling form close. his voice, though still laced with fatigue, was warm and reassuring, an anchor in the midst of the storm.

“it’s so loud,” she whispered, her tears falling freely now, soaking into the pillow they shared. he felt a pang of guilt, a knife twisting in his chest, for her suffering. “why didn’t you wake me, sweetheart?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing away the wetness on her cheeks.

“you’re tired,” she mumbled, shaking her head, her voice laced with resignation.

he huffed, a sound that was half-amused, half-exasperated, and he found her chin, tilting her face up towards his. “and so are you. how long have you been up?” she shrugged, the movement small and helpless, and his hand slipped beneath her shirt, tracing soothing patterns along her lower back.

“a few hours,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a breath.

suna cursed himself silently, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. he should have known. he had been aware of the storm’s approach, but the knowledge had slipped away, lost in the depths of his exhaustion. another roll of thunder reverberated through the house, and y/n flinched, pressing closer to him as if seeking refuge. he pulled her nearer, her head resting against his bare chest, his heart beating steadily beneath her ear. “it’ll pass soon, okay?” he promised, his voice a low murmur against the crown of her head.

she wanted to believe him, to let his words soothe her frayed nerves, but it wasn’t about how long the storm would last. it was about the fact that it was happening at all, that the fear was still there, alive and pulsing, even after all these years. suna’s hand left the warmth of her skin, and she looked up, startled, as he placed both palms gently over her ears.

her world muffled, the roaring tempest outside reduced to a distant murmur, and she blinked up at him, eyes wide with surprise. the thunder rolled again, a muted tremor through the house, but the sound did not reach her. only the soft vibration of the walls registered, the storm’s voice silenced by his touch. “better?” he asked, his lips brushing against her temple.

she nodded, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. suna leaned down, his breath warm against her skin, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead and then to her lips, the gesture gentle and comforting. he guided her back down, her head resting once more against his chest, his hands still shielding her from the storm’s wrath.

she could hear his heartbeat, a steady, soothing rhythm beneath her ear, even as his hands softened the world around them. “thank you, rin,” she whispered, her voice heavy with fatigue.

he hummed, a deep, resonant sound that she felt more than heard, the vibration echoing through his chest and through her, anchoring her in the present moment, safe in the circle of his arms. for the first time that night, the fear began to ebb, her eyes growing heavy as the storm raged on outside, distant and far away, a mere echo of the terror it once was.

“get some sleep now, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

got a request? send it in and i'll write it :D

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[emeritusemeritus]

Hi love! Could I request a Fred Weasley x Sirius Black's daughter? Like low key goth, full of attitude, and overly confident reader, maybe they're in a meeting for the order and she's giving full attitude or something?? I just need more confident/bitchy reader bro T-T I'm tired of all the 'not like other girls' and shy readers like brother I speak my mind. anywho I love you and you're writing your amazing <3

Hello dear Anon! I hope it’s okay that I tweaked this just a little because I’ve been reading OOTP and it’s a crime that this scene wasn’t included because Fred vs Sirius?! I’d initially planned something much different but ended up 4k words deep here 😂 I love writing a fiery reader and would love to do more of this OC. Hope you enjoy! 🖤

Warnings: mentions of injury, Arthur’s attack, general unrest, drinking, brief mention of potential alcohol addiction, sadness and anger. Fred has big emotions. Mentions of Umbitch. Brief nod to the reader potentially being a seer? Secret relationship that gets revealed.

Word count: 4k words (I got sucked in)

The eye of the snake.

"But professor," you protested weakly, actually considering the implications of your actions for once.

"I hardly think now is the time for propriety Miss Black," Professor McGonagall says as she ushers you through the common room and up the stairs towards the boys dormitories, whilst she heads towards the girls to retrieve Ginny. An odd night all around, you thought.

With shaking hands you held your illuminated wand out in front of you as a beacon, though you hardly needed a guide having made this walk so many times before, though never this quickly and without watching out for every creaking floorboard. You reached out for the door handle and slid it open, trying to stay quiet as to not disturb Lee. George was snoring as usual, surprisingly in rhythm with Lee's slight nose whistle which briefly made you ponder how the hell Fred was able to sleep through this crescendo of noise.

You creep towards Fred's bed first, knowing that time was of the essence and gave him a quick shake on his shoulder whilst whispering his name. You felt almost guilty for waking him, seeing him so peaceful in his sleep, knowing that Dumbledore's immediately summoning of yourself and the Weasley children was an ominous and foreboding sign. He looked so handsome, so relaxed and for the briefest of moments you forgot your assignment, wanting nothing more than to just climb in and cuddle up to him, feeling his warmth and softness.

You'd felt it all night, sleep evading you and your eventual dreams disturbed, the sense of something bad occurring pulling at the edge of your mind like a summoning charm. You'd felt the unease, the disquiet all night but couldn't sense anything beyond that, with no details making theirselves known, no visions of what lay ahead beyond the general sense of impending doom.

"Freddie!" You say a little louder, giving him a harder shake, watching as he stirs and eventually opens his eyes, immediately squinting at the light your wand is emitting. "Get up, it's important." You hoped that your blunt tone was enough to drag him out of his slumber and shuffled off towards George's bed where to attempted to wake him too.

"George," you say, giving him a harsh nudge on his shoulder, knowing that he'd be sleeping much deeper than Fred ever did. "George wake up!"

He groans, throwing his arm over his face but you don't pay him any mind, reaching for his dressing gown on the chair beside him and throwing it directly at his face.

"What's happening?" Fred groans, voice deep and thick with sleep.

"Dumbledore's called for us, McGonagall's getting Ginny, somethings happened."

He was out of bed in a flash, recognising your tone of voice enough to know that you were far from joking. George took a bit more corralling but he was quickly roused as you walked out of their dorm, followed closely by both twins who were every inch as disheveled physically as you felt internally. You met Ginny and Professor McGonagall at the top of the stairs and walked quickly and silently behind her, allowing Ginny to walk ahead with her brothers.

"There's been an... incident," McGonagall says, her words carefully considered to give little away of the situation, another ominous sign. "Your father has been injured, though we don't know how serious it is at this time. Professor Dumbledore is doing all he can with Potter's guidance."

"Harry? What's he got to do with this?" Ginny asks quickly, naturally hanging on every word that the professor said. She looked frightened and you could hardly blame her, considering the news. The twins remained uncharacteristically quiet as you walked quickly through the corridors until you were outside the headmasters office.

"Fizzing whizbee."

McGonagall turns to Ginny, casting a glance to the rest of you out of curtesy as the spiralling staircase presents itself at the correct password.

"It appears Mr Potter saw the attack take place."

"We've located your father and he's been taken to St Mungo's Hospital for maladies and Injuries. I'll be sending you all to Sirius' house, it's much more convenient than the Burrow. You'll be meeting your mother there," Dumbledore explains. At the mention of your father, your eyes shoot up to Dumbledore and it suddenly becomes clear why you have been sent for in addition to the Weasley family. Your dad, the safe house, the order of the Phoenix. Arthur must have been injured during Order business.

"How are we going?" Fred asks, his voice sounding as sullen as his face. He sounds unnerved, shaken, and you fight the natural instinct to reach for his hand. "Floo powder?"

"No." Dumbledore says with a slightly shake of his head, "the Floo Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey,"

He indicates to an old kettle lying innocently on his desk, the inanimate object having missed your notice upon entering. "We are waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back... I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you on your way."

His gaze slips to you upon mention of your great-great-great grandfather but you avert your eyes, hardly knowing your place in that moment. Usually you had no trouble expressing your opinion, regardless of the situation, but right now you felt the best thing was to stay quiet and offer a supportive presence.

You thought of your own father, the both of you having spent so long forced apart and of his current predicament, essentially forced under house arrest by the Order. It was safer that way, but your heart still ached for how lonely he would be. You felt conflicted and impossibly guilty at the slight excitement you felt at seeing your dad again in respect of what your boyfriend and the others would be feeling at their own father's fate. Mr Weasley had been a surrogate dad to you whilst your own father was locked away and had been a constant presence in your life, making you feel even guiltier for the hopeful feeling you had about your own dad.

Your eyes suddenly whip around to the flash of a flame from the centre of the office, watching as a golden feather emerges from the combustion, your eyes trailing it downwards as it floats right to the floor.

'"Fawkes's warning," Dumbledore half-explains, eyes flickering between the golden feather and then towards McGonagall.

"Professor Umbridge must know you're out of your beds. Minerva, go and head her off - tell her any story."

Professor McGonagall was gone within seconds, her messy braid whipping behind her as she exits the office in a flash.

"He says he'll be delighted," an all too familiar voice suddenly says in a grumbling, bored voice. Your eyes trail up to the portrait of your ancestor, the Slytherin banner proudly waving behind him, his face as sour as you remember.

"My great-great-grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests," he adds with a particular distaste before his eyes meet yours for only a moment, recognising instantly who you are. "As does his daughter."

"What a lovely reunion," you snark, fighting back a roll of your eyes as the familiar anger simmers deep in your gut at his choice of words, not even bothering to conceal the archaic values of your ancestors that belong in the past with them.

"You have all used a Portkey before?" asks Dumbledore, waiting for confirmation from you all as you huddle around the old black teapot, each of you nervous for different reasons of what will be waiting for you on the other side.

"Good. On the count of three then... one... two..."

"Back again, the blood-traitor brats. Is it true their father's dying?" You barely had time to register the creaky voice, never mind distinguish his words as you recovered from the nausea of travelling by portkey. Your stomach still felt tingly, the pulling sensation behind your navel and the wind ringing past your ears as you trapsed through space and time was never a comfortable feeling, having ended up in your dad's gloomy kitchen only moments later.

"Mistress Black returns with her blood traitor friends." You're about to curse into the horrible little elf when you hear a second voice shout loudly from the sidelines, rendering you speechless.

'OUT!'

Fred from beside you helps you up, knowing even in his time of need that Portkey travel did not agree with you and gives you a little nudge towards where your dad leans on the doorframe awaiting your arrival.

"Dad!" You scrambled, running off to hug your father who welcomed you with open arms, chuckling heartily as you barged into him with a slam. You felt awful doing this in front of the Weasley children but you'd allow this for yourself now and apologise later. You looked over your dads shoulder through the wild brown ringlets of his hair and saw that a single place had been set at the table, with a single lit candle and the remains of a solitary supper that made your heart clench. He smelt like stale drink, your stomach roiling nervously at the thought. Was that how he was occupying himself?

You suddenly pulled away, knowing that it wasn't the right time for a long, drawn out reunion and stepped back in line, in between Fred and George.

"What's going on?" He asks, turning to look upon the Weasley siblings. "Phineas Nigellus said Arthur's been badly injured —"

"Ask Harry," says Fred, particularly bluntly, no doubt frustrated that he wasn't getting a solid answer. You watch as your dad turns to Harry, pulling him into a warm embrace, trying to get him to open up.

"Yeah, I want to hear this for myself," adds George.

"It was, I had a - a kind of - vision," he stutters, beginning to explain the vision in great detail. Throughout the retelling, you have to stop yourself for reaching out for Fred's hand multiple times, knowing that you can't in front of everyone.

"Is Mum here?" Fred asks, turning to your dad once Harry had explained everything. You watch as George's face fills with dread, apparently having not realised up to now that she wasn't present amongst you.

"She probably doesn't even know what's happened yet," explains your dad. "The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledores letting Molly know now."

"We've got to go to St Mungo's," says Ginny with a sense of urgency. You watch as she pauses, looking around all of you who are still dressed in your nightwear having been ripped from your beds not an hour before. 'Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything? Y/n?"

"Hang on, you can't go tearing off to St Mungo's!" Your dad says suddenly, eyes ablaze as if he's personally affronted by the suggestion. Your mouth opens immediately to protest but Fred manages to find the words first, his face stern.

"Course we can go to St Mungo's if we want, he's our dad!'" You can see how physically tense he's gotten, not taking very well to being told no by someone he didn't see as an authoritative figure, even if it was his girlfriend's dad.

"And how are you going to explain how you knew Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his wife know?"

"What does that matter?" Adds George hotly, clearly thinking along the same lines as Fred, outraged at your dad's block.

"It matters because we don't want to draw attention to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that are happening hundreds of miles away!" Your dad replies angrily. "Have you any idea what the Ministry would make of that information?"

You reach out suddenly for Fred's hand, trying to ground him. The physical contact seems to pull him back to earth, preventing him from saying something he'd inevitably regret... or maybe not knowing Fred.

Ginny instead tries to offer alternatives in a much more grounded way, "Somebody else could have told us... we could have heard it somewhere other than Harry."

"Like who?" Your dad says impatiently with a sigh. "Listen, your dad's been hurt while on duty for the Order and the circumstances are fishy enough without his children knowing about it seconds after it happened, you could seriously damage the Order's-"

"We don't care about the dumb Order!'" Fred shouts, breaking away from your grip, as if it was holding him back. You're suddenly acutely aware that you are stuck in this awkward position, trapped between your dad and your secret boyfriend, hardly able to say anything to diffuse the situation. Your mouth physically hurts as you bite the inside of your cheek, finding it near impossible to keep out of it.

"It's our dad dying we're talking about!" George yells, mere seconds later.

"Your father knew what he was getting into and he won't thank you for messing things up for the Order!" Your dad replies with as much force as he was receiving, "This is how it is - this is why you're not in the Order - you don't understand - there are things worth dying for!'

You're a second away from physically pulling Fred away, knowing that whatever the next words would be that came out of his mouth, they'd be harsh and venom-filled.

"Easy for you to say, stuck here!' bellows Fred. "I don't see you risking your neck!"

You watch in horror as your dad pales, the look in his eyes darkening and you know in that moment that he'd quite like to hit Fred, something you would not be allowing. You'd been quiet too long, allowed them both to get out their frustrations but you'd had enough of that. You wouldn't choose sides, wouldn't force either of them to comply or get along but for your sake you hoped they could at least be cordial. You'd take the brunt of their frustrations if you had to, just to diffuse the situation.

"Right that's enough," you say, finding the words escaping you before you could really think about what you're saying. "Dad get the kettle on," you say with a nod of your head, a small and very false smile playing on your lips. You turn to the twins, names Fred who looks positively mutinous, trying a much softer approach on them. You know if you reach for Fred right now he'll reject you and you couldn't deal with that so you fold your arms over your chest, looking up towards the towering twins.

"We need to wait for your mum, we'll all set up in the lounge to wait or Gin you can have my bedroom if you want," you offer, casting a glance at the youngest Weasley who looks sullen, shaking her head slightly, as you expected. "Just wait to hear from your mum and then we'll work out our next move okay?"

Fred doesn't relent as easy as George who nods after a few moments in understanding. Instead, Fred is still shooting daggers at your dad over your shoulder and you sigh, knowing he's stubborn as a mule. A few tense moments pass and you watch as his eyes suddenly flicker to yours and soften considerably before he nods in agreement.

"No milk," your dad says suddenly from behind, a look on his face somewhere between disgust and shame.

"Right, butterbeer it is then," you say, trying to redeem the situation, "it's in my bedroom." You shoot a look to your dad, knowing you can't do magic here and you were hardly ready to leave Fred and your dad alone again.

"Accio Butterbeer!" Your dad says, taking the lead. Immediately the bottles of butterbeer float across the room and your dad placed them into the table as you reach and distribute the drinks.

You all take your seats in the lounge surrounding the fire that had dwindled slightly since your arrival but with a single flick of his wand, your dad refreshes it.

Ginny takes the old armchair closest to the fire and curls herself up within it.

Harry and Ron take the two seater, the most uncomfortable seat you'd ever had the displeasure of experiencing and you watch with a barely concealed grin as Ron's face immediately conveys his regret as he takes a seat upon the torture device. You reach for a cushion and throw it towards him; hitting him square in the face but for once he doesn't care but instead smiles thankfully for the cushion, not that it would do much. George throws himself down into the sofa closest to Ginny's chair and Fred follows not far behind. You stay standing, feeling suddenly uncomfortable at intruding and begin to back away from the room until the fire suddenly crackles dangerously. There's a burst of light and you frown, hearing the round of gasps as a scroll of parchment flies out, accompanied by a familiar feather.

"Fawkes!" Your dad says, quickly marching into the room at the sudden disturbance, snatching up the parchment and pulling it close to his face. "That's not Dumbledore's writing - it must be a message from your mother - here."

He thrusts the letter into George's hand, who had jumped up anxiously at the sudden intrusion. George then ripped it open and read aloud for everyone to hear.

"Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St Mungo's now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum."

There's a dead silence that follows Molly's communication, each of you thinking the same thing.

"Still alive..." George says slowly. "But that makes it sound..."

Fred pulls the parchment out of George's hands and read it for himself, then looks up at Harry for a moment, before he looks back to the parchment.

"You should all go to bed and deal with it properly in the morning," your dad suggests and before you can deal with the inevitable onslaught from the Weasley kids, you pull your dad away back into the kitchen, feeling the hot stare of Fred burning a hole in your back.

"They're worried about their dad," you say, keeping your voice down so that they wouldn't hear you. "We'll just hole up in the lounge for the night."

"Y/n," your dad sighs but for some reason his attempt to disagree with you seems to anger you instantly.

"What would you do? Just go to bed and pretend nothings wrong?"

"Well I didn't care very much for my father," your dad begins to snark, forcing you to roll your eyes.

"Right, so maybe just pretend you can imagine what they're going through and just accept that they're hurting and need each other right now."

Your dad's eyes widen a little at your outburst but you don't back down, "you don't have to host us, go to bed if that's what you're concerned about, or back to your drink."

"Y/n Black!" Your father shouts but you don't flinch, knowing that you'd simply touched a nerve.

"I care about every single one of them in there, is it not just enough that I want them not to hurt? I care about Arthur too! Can you simply not understand that some people might actually be horrified at the thought of their father dying?"

His eye twitches at your words and you can tell he's considering the possible hidden meanings behind your words.

"Perhaps you care a little more for one of them," he snarks, unable to hold himself back. You see red immediately, only to be fuelled by your dad's following words. "Seems that you've absorbed his anger."

"He's not angry he's terrified!" You can't help it, the volume of your voice raising to match his. "Anyone would be in their situation! I'm sorry we're such a burden to you but the second we hear from Molly we'll be at St Mungo's out of your way."

"I didn't mean."

"No you never do," you say, averting your eyes and turning your body to walk back to the lounge.

"Y/n," your dad says, his tone suddenly back to normal if not sounding a little bit regretful. You sigh, tired and on edge, wanting nothing more than to just sit with your boyfriend and friends.

"You're a good friend to them," he says, trying to find words for the situation. Your nod slowly, the anger fading now as exhaustion washes over you.

"They're all I've had for a long time," you say, trying to avoid the sensitive topic of his imprisonment. "You're right about caring for them, and Fred above most. You're just seeing him on a bad night," you pause. "You know him and George stole the Marauders map from Filch's office in our first year?”

You watch as your dad's eyes light up in surprise, apparently never having been told this particular story.

"If you gave him a chance, on any normal day, I'm certain you'd love him."

"Do you?" Your dad asks gently, big brown eyes imploring your own. You frown, casting a look to the closed door that stood between you and the lounge, as if you'd see Fred through it.

You nod, getting more assured with every gentle movement of your head.

"I should get back," you say quietly, immediately feeling regret at the raised voices, not having expected your reunion to go like this.

When you step into the lounge, it's obvious that they had heard everything, though they all attempt to divert their eyes and look away to avoid making it too obvious but fail miserably. Fred's hand beckons you over and he pulls you into his lap, your head immediately resting on his shoulder, ignoring the shocked looks from Ron at the outward affection.

"Don't say anything," you whisper, looking at the flames of the fire instead of his face.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Fred says gently, making you look towards his face, seeing his tired eyes and the tiny hint of a smile upon his face.

"You're comfy," you say, pressing your head into the curve of his shoulder and you can feel the movement of his little chuckle. Arthur stays at the forefront of your mind and you're certain that there's not a moment he's forgotten amongst his children as you look at them throughout the night.

At some point Fred falls asleep, his breathing evening out as his head lolls onto your shoulder with the new position. His hand is entwined with yours, acting like an anchor so he wouldn't float away with his spiralling thoughts, your legs resting over his much longer ones. George is asleep the other side of Fred, emitting quiet snores and jerking every now and then. Ginny doesn't sleep, you can see the reflection of the flames in her eyes as she stares blankly into nothing and you're unable to tell if Ron is asleep due to his head being in his hands, slumped over. You settle down, snuggling into Fred as the tiredness overtakes you and you hope that when you wake there will be better news.

You don't see or hear your dad step into the room an hour later, pausing as he looks upon his daughter cuddling up to who he assumes is her boyfriend. Instead of being angry or protective as he expected to feel, he feels a sense of calm as seeing her look peaceful in her sleep. He may not have had the best interaction with the Weasley boy but he knows Arthur and Molly, they seemed incapable of raising a bad one

[moineauz]

જ⁀ "you are a 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌, dearest."

That was what your husband- Neuvillette- mutters breathlessly to you in an outpour of gentle rain. That was when he ultimately grasped the wispy and fleeting sensations of what a mortal calls a 'dream', like a feather grazing the skin before vanishing with an afternoon breeze.

While Neuvillette is poised, eloquent, observant and educated- the sheer complexity of mortal life puzzles him. He has grown to subconsciously question the facts, follies and simple acts of mortals for centuries in a subtle, smouldering aspiration to better comprehend why laughter erupts from your hearty lungs during downpours. Despite, rain being considered an omen of sorrow. Or how you childishly attempt to dance with the shadows of strangers before eventually embracing his.

Oh, oh how he could not help but gingerly place his pens and papers aside when you spend hours simply perched next to him. Eyes closed and silent yet breathing deeply into your stomach and exhaling through your mouth as you unwinded like string before him. Fully aware that you need not utter another word as you unfailingly glowed before him; taking up space in his very office as you did wherever your heart and legs took you.

You'd wrap a thousand-year-old tree in your arms and mutter thanks to the Earth before playing tag with the children on the street, sharing fruit with a local vendor whilst relishing in an evening stroll with Neuvillette. Just the two of you.

It was yet another practice of yours that first bewildered, intrigued and ultimately enamoured him. In the haze of afternoon light under the subtle whiff of smooth parchment- Neuvillette could not have sought a superior way to observe the mortal who unwinded him.

That was the day he began to scan and rummage through parchment and books- scouring for at least one word to encapture a sliver of you. Like an aerologist preserving a mere fragment of bone.

( Of course, the Melusines- who adored you terribly- sought to aid Neuvillette in whatever way possible. )

That was when he came upon a word as he overheard a curt conversation whilst ambling through the streets of Fontaine.

'A dream.'

Hence, as raindrops gingerly slid down your cheeks, Neuvillette observed your soaked figure. However, despite the grey clouds hung above, your eyes- rich and deep in colour- seemed to twinkle like stars.

You pause for a tender moment, your mouth slightly agape as the mellow tunes of rain dance in your ears. Yet, words do not rise from your throat. Instead, the warmth of evening tea sessions, paper filing done together and swaying to no rhythm or sequence of moves.

"Oh Neuvillette," your voice condensing into a mere whisper as you utter his name; having nothing left to say. The muscles in your legs move absent of thought. Thus, you stand now mere inches apart from one another. Rain soaking you both. As you observe his tender face you notice a streak of rain pouring down from the corners of his eyes. Or perhaps it was salty tears?

Worry flickers in your eyes like a match being lit as more tears roll down his cheek in a manner of ethereal grace. You gingerly reach your hand toward his cheek; cupping it tenderly. Neuvillette stirs slightly.

Before you can voice your disquiet, Neuvillette sobs. His eyes glanced down shortly before meeting your fretful eyes. His eyebrows furrowed in the manner you have seen a dozen times before.

Yet, his eyes glimmer like the rays of the sun kissing a broad vibrant lake. A scintillating dazzle of unobscured light.

"Do not fret dearest. These tears are not ones of sadness..."

Neuvillette raises his gloved hand and similarly caresses your cheek; eyes pooling into your starstruck ones.

"... but of my most ardent affections to my partner- a dream I wish to live in for as long as you allow me to."

waaaa what a fic. i accidentally deleted the draft halfway though writing it but thankfully i was able to get it back. hope you all are ready for my comeback!!! ( meaning more angst lol dw there will be fluff too... or not?!?!? )

reblogs with comments are highly appreciated!! pls interact... don't be a ghost reader!

[helvegen-s]

Rage, rage | nine

index

Pairing: Azriel x Hybern!Princess!OC

Summary: Nimue was a gift for the King of Hybern. His shining jewel, the perfect heir. However, she is clear about who the villain of the story is. When she saves her father's enemies from a tragic end, she realizes that now it's the Cauldron who has a gift for her: a mate.

Warnings: i think none...

A/N: im soooooooooo sooooooooo sorry for being gone for almost A YEAR, but I didn't have the inspiration or the time to write it the way I would have liked. I've found my enthusiasm again, so I'll try to continue this fic as much as I can :)

Nimue had spent the last few days navigating the treacherous currents of the Spring Court, observing and analyzing each interaction with a critical eye and attentive ear. She'd ensured that everyone believed her performance—the wounded princess returned to the fold—but she hadn't let her guard down for a moment. A disquieting stillness hung in the air, a persistent dissonance she couldn't ignore, like the ominous calm before a storm.

By day, she played the dutiful daughter, pleasing her cousins and the High Lord with her presence, offering smiles and nods at the appropriate times, all while her mind wove an intricate web of deceit. In the stolen hours, she would slip through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion, her steps silent as a whisper, a ghost drifting through the halls. She would pause in shadowy corners, her senses heightened, absorbing the conversations of others, the hushed whispers of conspiracies and betrayals. She had eyes and ears everywhere within those walls; nothing escaped her notice: the countless times Lucien had attempted to sway Tamlin from his reckless alliance with Hybern, the equally numerous occasions Tamlin, blinded by his all-consuming hatred for Rhysand, had attempted to reassure Lucien of their inevitable victory, of how they would use Hybern to their advantage to crush the Night Court…

A flicker of contempt danced in Nimue's eyes as she considered Tamlin's naivety. What could he possibly hope to achieve against Rhysand? Against her own father? His thirst for vengeance had clouded his judgment, blinding him to the true extent of the powers he was dealing with. Even Nimue, born of the Cauldron itself, couldn't fully fathom the depths of her father's depravity, the terrifying power he was wielding. It was a dark and ancient magic, one that chilled her to the core.

Seeking respite from the stifling atmosphere of the mansion, Nimue found herself in the gardens, beneath the sprawling branches of a centuries-old oak. The edge of the woods beckoned to her left, a tangible promise of escape, the ancient tree a silent guardian marking the boundary of the Spring Court. It was the perfect sanctuary, close enough for the lingering traces of her magic woven throughout the mansion to allow her to eavesdrop effortlessly, yet far enough from the prying eyes and ears of the soldiers and diplomats that swarmed the court.

She focused her senses, reaching out with her mind to a room deep within the mansion, where her cousins were currently engaged in a heated discussion. Something significant was unfolding, and she was privy to every word. Azriel, Rhysand, the entire Inner Circle—they were all aware of her findings, thanks to their clandestine meetings under the cloak of night. Every evening, she would slip away to the edge of the woods, her shadows merging with Azriel's as they exchanged information and strategized.

Despite her convincing portrayal of the naive princess, a pawn to be used in her father's twisted game, Nimue was playing a dangerous game of her own. While everyone believed her to be a victim, a weapon waiting to be unleashed, she was quietly orchestrating her own rebellion.

Yet, despite her flawless performance, there were those who harbored suspicions.

"Good afternoon," a voice sliced through the stillness, startling her.

Blinking against the sunlight that filtered through the leaves, Nimue reluctantly pulled her attention back to the present. She shielded her eyes, making out the figure of Lucien, his silhouette stark against the golden light.

"I would have thought that with all these politicians and soldiers about, a warrior princess like you would have much more to do," Lucien drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Especially now, when it seems your father's plans are falling into place with such alarming ease. And yet, all you do is smile, nod, and spend your days sitting here as if nothing matters."

Nimue offered him a sweet smile, relishing the unease it clearly evoked in him.

Oh, she knew men like him all too well. They craved knowledge, needing to know everything that was happening, what everyone was thinking, what they were planning. And with that uncanny golden eye, Lucien could see and read the intentions of others before they were even aware of them themselves. But with Nimue, Lucien saw nothing. A void. An enigma.

And it terrified him.

"You see, as you may have noticed, my relatives don't exactly include me in their strategic discussions," Nimue explained patiently, watching as Lucien let out a small snort, acknowledging the truth in her words. "And as for the fathers, brothers, and sons of my father's soldiers who are currently swarming this court... well, let's just say I used to kill them for sport back in Hybern. So, yes, I'm not exactly welcomed with open arms. I spend my time waiting for orders, waiting to be told who I have to kill next."

A heavy silence fell between them, thick with unspoken tension. Lucien had a thousand questions swirling in his mind, yet he voiced none of them. He trusted his instincts implicitly, and something about Nimue didn't sit right. He knew she wasn't the foolish princess she pretended to be. No one escaped from the heart of the Night Court unscathed, no one crossed the continent with faebane coursing through their veins and magically appeared at the perfect moment to be rescued by their family. No one, not even a being forged by the Cauldron itself.

"That, or perhaps..." Nimue's voice dropped to a silken whisper, laced with venom.

In a blink, she was behind him, her movements swift and predatory. Lucien felt the tendrils of a dark magic coil around him, cold and suffocating. He tried to turn, to summon his own powers, but an invisible force held him captive, a puppet in the hands of a cruel master.

"...perhaps I'm here to kill you all," Nimue continued, her voice a chilling whisper against his ear. "Perhaps I'm a spy, conspiring with Rhysand and his ilk to destroy you. Perhaps my plan is to overthrow my father and all the High Lords. Perhaps I want to be the Queen of Hybern, of Prythian. Why not? In my twenty years, I've found no limit to my power. Why stop at Prythian?"

Nimue circled him slowly, deliberately, like a predator toying with its prey. Her expression was that of an avenging angel, a cruel and triumphant smile that promised pain and destruction. Lucien struggled to breathe, to fight against the suffocating magic, but his lungs burned, his chest constricting. Nimue was choking him, crushing his bones with an inhuman strength.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, the magic vanished. Lucien gasped, his body trembling with the shock of reprieve. For a fleeting moment, before the vision faded, he saw fragmented images: dancing shadows, brightly colored candies, the sound of carefree laughter. He clung to these fleeting glimpses, burning them into his memory as reality snapped back into place.

Nimue was back on the ground, leaning against the tree, her eyes closed and her face tilted towards the sun as if nothing had happened. A laugh escaped her lips, a crystalline sound that jarred with the darkness Lucien had just witnessed.

"Just kidding, just kidding!" she exclaimed, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. "You can't blame me for being bored, dear Lucien. It's so easy to play with you..."

Lucien was speechless, his mind reeling. Rarely had he felt so vulnerable, so utterly powerless. Not even at the hands of his own cruel father had he experienced such fear. Under Nimue's power, he had been nothing more than a plaything, his life hanging by a thread. She could have ended him with a flick of her wrist, and he would have been helpless to stop her.

They were playing with forces beyond their comprehension, and Nimue was a wild card. An enigma in a world of black and white, wielding power that dwarfed that of any High Lord he'd ever encountered.

And yet, despite the terror that gripped him, he didn't flee. He didn't cry out for Tamlin, didn't beg to be saved from this creature who held his life in her hands. No, he stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Nimue, replaying those fleeting images: shadows, candies, laughter…

Suddenly, it all made sense. The suspicions, the feigned innocence, the effortless return to the Spring Court…

Lucien finally understood.

A slow smile spread across his face, cold and calculating, devoid of any warmth. Nimue frowned, a prickle of unease running down her spine. Any other male would have fled in terror after that display of power, but Lucien remained, unfazed, that unsettling smile playing on his lips.

Something was very wrong.

Lucien approached Nimue, his hands clasped behind his back, the picture of a harmless diplomat. He let out a heavy sigh, the sound echoing in the stillness of the garden.

"Tell me," he began, his voice deceptively soft, "are they treating Elain well in the Night Court? I do hope they're giving her some of those candies they seem to share with you."

"What?" Nimue felt a chill grip her heart.

"I've got you, Nimue," Lucien said, his voice now as sharp as ice.

Panic surged through her, a suffocating wave threatening to drown her. She scrambled to her feet, her eyes locked on Lucien's, desperately trying to maintain her composure. A nervous giggle escaped her lips, a betrayal that only served to confirm Lucien's suspicions.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lucien," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I haven't seen Elain. They've kept me locked up, away from everyone, and drugged."

But Lucien's smile didn't waver, and Nimue knew she was caught.

Azriel, help.

The wave of panic that slammed into Azriel was so forceful it nearly knocked him from his chair. Everyone in the dining room turned to stare as he let out a strangled groan, clutching his chest. He knew instantly that something was terribly wrong.

"Azriel?" Feyre's voice reached him, laced with concern. "Are you alright? What's happening?"

Before he could answer, another wave of terror crashed over him, and he surged to his feet, sending his chair skittering across the floor. Nimue's panicked voice echoed in his mind, a desperate plea for help.

Help, help, help, they've caught me, Azriel.

Without hesitation, he let his shadows consume him, surrendering to the primal pull that led him to his mate. He materialized in a forest, his shadows instantly dispersing, searching frantically for Nimue. When he finally located her, he sprinted towards her, his heart pounding with a terrifying premonition.

"So, let me get this straight," Lucien's voice reached him, laced with disbelief. "You've betrayed your father for people you've known for a few weeks?"

"Uh-huh," came Nimue's strained reply.

Azriel slowed his approach, his senses on high alert.

"And you're telling me you're here as a spy, playing both sides?"

"Yes, technically."

"Hm."

Azriel emerged from the shadows, his gaze falling upon Nimue and Lucien standing a few meters from the edge of the woods, engaged in what appeared to be a casual conversation. A primal urge to shield Nimue, to tear Lucien away from her, surged through him.

He forced himself to remain calm, to assess the situation. What was he thinking? What was happening?

"Oh, Azriel!" Nimue's voice held a note of forced lightness, but her eyes betrayed her fear. "You got here so quickly."

A wave of relief washed over Nimue as she saw Azriel emerge from the shadows. But it was short-lived. Lucien's next words sent a fresh wave of panic through her.

"I want in," Lucien declared, his voice firm. "I want to help you defeat Hybern."

Azriel stiffened, his shadows swirling around him menacingly. "You can't be serious," he snarled. "You're with the Spring Court. You're... an enemy."

"Not anymore," Lucien countered, his gaze unwavering. "Tamlin has lost his way. He's allied himself with Hybern, and I won't stand for it. I want to help you stop him, protect Prythian."

"And what about Elain?" Nimue asked suddenly, her voice sharp.

Lucien's golden eye flickered towards her, and for a fleeting moment, Azriel saw a flicker of vulnerability in his expression.

"I want her safe," Lucien said, his voice low and sincere. 

Nimue studied Lucien, searching for any hint of deception in his words or his expression. With her magic, she wove through Lucien's thoughts, searching for any hint of doubt. But all she found was genuine concern for Elain. A surprising wave of empathy washed over her. She, too, knew that yearning she had glimpsed within Lucien, that sense of not belonging, that desperation to find a place, and people, to call home.

"I trust him," she declared, turning to Azriel.

"What?" Azriel stared at her in disbelief. "Nimue, you can't be serious. We can't—"

"I trust him," Nimue repeated, her voice firm. "I see the truth in his eyes. He wants to help."

Azriel looked from Nimue to Lucien, his shadows churning with uncertainty. How could she be so naive? How could she trust a member of the Spring Court after everything that had happened?

"Nimue, this is madness," he argued, trying to reason with her. "We can't—"

"Azriel," Nimue interrupted, her voice soft but resolute. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

Azriel met her gaze, and he saw a steely determination he hadn't witnessed before. He realized then that he barely knew her, that he had only glimpsed fragments of the person she truly was. Doubt gnawed at him, whispering insidious questions about whether he was truly doing the right thing by blindly trusting her simply because she was his mate. He felt the sting of their mating bond, a reminder of the promise they had made to each other.

With a sigh of resignation, he conceded. "Fine. But if you betray us—"

"I won't," Lucien interjected, his voice steady. "You have my word."

Azriel nodded, still wary. The situation was precarious, and they needed to tread carefully.

"We need to leave," he said, his voice urgent. "It's not safe to stay here any longer."

"Agreed," Nimue said.

They turned to go, but a voice stopped them in their tracks.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Nimue and Azriel whirled around to find Dagdan and Brannagh, Nimue's cousins, blocking their path. Their faces were contorted with rage, their eyes burning with hatred.

"It seems our dear cousin has been keeping secrets from us," Dagdan sneered.

"And it doesn't look like it's anything good," Brannagh added, his voice dripping with venom.

A chill ran down Nimue's spine. They had walked straight into a trap.

Taglist:

@lilah-asteria @agentsofsheilds @leptitlu @just-here-reading @glitterypirateduck @saltedcoffeescotch @krowiathemythologynerd @donttellthecats @annblvck @annamariereads16 @crazylokonugget @smoooothoperator @superspideyparker @bookwormysblog

[morallysuperiorlips]

6 Tips That Are GUARANTEED to Help Make Your Villain More Unsettling!

There's cunty villians, there's over the top villains...but what about a good old villain that just makes your skin crawl? Here are some ways to help you achieve such a character in your own writing (with personal examples of my own :>)

1.) Juxtaposition is Your Friend: I like to say that a nuanced villain is a good villain, but it really works well on the "unsettling" factor when you're finding ways to pit their more amicable side against the side that makes them as deplorable as they might be. Nothing is more disquieting than a villain who gushes about something innocuous, then turns around and summons a wall of quantum dark matter to swallow up a children's nursery in the same breath.

EXAMPLE: The villain in my WIP, Chaos, is a #GirlDad who really does try to make attempts to be a decent father. But, not only is he the founder and head of the world's most prominent blood cult and genocidal terrorist organization, but he perpetually feeds his lackies who disobey him to his blood magic eldritch beast pet, and keeps the heads of his most hated enemies on spikes in his office for "tasteful decoration" and because "the look of terror in their eyes keeps him going through the day."

2.) Radicalize the Things They Love: Hear me out. Everyone, even our baddies, have things they enjoy or might positively be in love with (whether it's tangible or intangible). Another surefire way to ensure your villain ruffles your readers is to take that thing they love, and find a way to blow it up to the most extreme degree.

EXAMPLE: Using Chaos as an example to illustrate what I mean--I mentioned in the previous point that he is a #GirlDad and a relatively devoted one at that despite being a genocidal cult leader. However, he's taken this devotion to his daughter up about 800,000 notches by 1.) Attempting to kidnap her from her mother multiple times over the course of her childhood, 2.) Convincing his entire cult congregation to worship her as a religious "prodigal daughter" figure as he has, and 3.) Setting up the HQ of his cult in the country his daughter was born in (after realizing he can't kidnap her) so he could "be closer to her."

3.) Make a Show of Their Humanity: This all somehow ends up looping back into how nuanced your villain should be, but I think focusing on just how humane you can make a villain at certain points will pile on to their disturbing factor. And I don't just mean little acts of kindness here and there; I mean things that might make you pause and wonder if they're actually a villain. I'll never forget that part of Beastars where the lion yakuza boss was asking Haru how much she liked school and telling her how he held her in "high regard" knowing damn well he was going to kill and eat her within the hour. Things like THAT. Find ways where your villain can be in a position of "they're not so bad" before they turn around and make you realize "oh wait. Yes they are."

EXAMPLE: Chaos is a genocidal maniac with a steel-clad cruelty streak, but one of the key conflicts in my WIP is the relationship he soon develops with his daughter, the protagonist. My protag knows he's deplorable, and knows he's all-powerful and fully capable of committing these atrocious acts against the world she inhabits, yet the pedestal he puts her on leaves her deeply questioning and fighting herself about how she actually feels about him. He goes out of his way to protect her, love her, attempt to be her father (despite some clear obstacles), and just show her such a deep humanity that she struggles to comprehend how he can turn around and be a murderous blood cult leader.

4.) Be Sure Their Presence is Always Felt: Your villain might not always be "on stage" in your story. But, even so, to ensure maximum unsettling factor, you should attempt to find ways to make it seem like they might as well be. They're not physically occupying space on the page, they don't have any direct dialogue, but something is happening that makes it clear that their presence is still being felt. Do they have spies out and about? Are there any residual effects of their previous scheme? Do your characters keep replaying something they said over and over in their heads, and it constantly weighs them down through the story?

EXAMPLE: Before Chaos is even fully introduced as the primary threat of my WIP, his presence is known by all even if they aren't quite aware of it just yet. His cult is the rumored cause of a deadly drug epidemic that has the country of France, and other scattered places across the world, in a chokehold. Nobody really knows if this cult is actually real, and nobody has any leads on how to locate them, just that this drug is causing a lot of issues. Only when shit hits the fan does the protag group actually know what they're dealing with.

5.) Show Your Reader the Absolute Grit of the Fight: By this, I mean, try to find ways to showcase how deep both Team Hero and Team Villain have to go to get at each other. I believe an unsettling villain usually has some form of a methodical approach to their schemes, so with that in mind, show readers the absolute mind games and 4D chess your heroes have to play to even have a chance at coming face to face with your baddie, or even be noticed by them, and how your villain responds in return. Bonus points if your villain immediately catches their drift and pivots, thus wrecking whatever semblance of plans your heroes might have had.

EXAMPLE: It's not quite known until later in the story that Chaos is the big bad, but even before that point, there is a secret organization set in place to hunt him down and knock him out. My protag eventually comes into contact with this org, and discovers the tactical, 4D-chess-esque measures they've had to take to even scratch the surface of figuring out where Chaos is and what his actual motivations are.

6.) Take Your Time in Unveiling the Chokehold They Have on Your World: This might feel like an obvious one if you've read my acting examples, but it's pretty straightforward--don't lay down all your villain's cards from the get go. Give your protagonists time to really dissect and unearth just how powerful your villain might actually be. What might start as a small, maybe almost innocuous little case might slowly but surely evolve into a realization that your protags bit off way more than they could chew, and they're up shit's creek without a paddle. There's a sinking, disquieting "oh my god" moment that might come to your readers as they also realize, along with your protags, that they were only scratching the surface of what your villain was capable of, and now that they've found it, there's no going back.

EXAMPLE: The pure reach that Chaos' little cult actually has isn't felt until my protagonist meets him face to face. Only then does it really dawn on her that the man had so much more power than she, or her team, ever imagined.

As always, happy writing <3

[lunarw0rks]

hey, love your writing!!! i was wondering if you would do a drabble of kyle garrick x y/n where y/n is a member of the 141 and they are trying to keep their relationship a secret, and just kind of fluffy shenanigans sneaking around lol

༘⋆♡⸝⸝💌⊹。°˖➴ secretrelationship!gaz // hcs

A/N: gaz brainrot hours (๑ > ᴗ < ๑) i love him :)

『♡』 masterlist ♡ rules ♡ ask box Warning(s): sfw, slightly suggestive, co-workers to lovers, mild injury mention, fluff, 141!reader, gn!reader // Word Count: 984

SYNOPSIS; trying (sometimes failing) to conceal your less-than-platonic relationship with Sergeant Garrick :3

THE FIRST LOOK;

─── the definition of a meet-cute... or as cute as it can be on an active base. It was impossible to not be drawn to him; the youngest member there, sitting in the corner of the briefing room with Soap talking his ear off. After minutes of shifting awkwardly and finding solace in eye contact with Gaz, the chatty Sergeant finally walked away.

♦ His eyes finally raised from his desk, locking his gaze with yours. Despite his off-putting scowl, his umber eyes glued to you, and only you. At the very least, he knew he would have a good friend, though he was already picturing more.

♦ For a man so collected, he felt his chest tighten. "Sergeant... Garrick, is it?" You sat in the chair beside him, giving a look of warmness and disquiet combined. He remembered that feeling; the overwhelming atmosphere of a crowded compound, the tireless workload, and all the new faces and titles to memorize.

『 "Kyle, unofficially. And you?" 』

ON-DUTY TOGETHER;

─── more of them should've caught on. requesting the same hours for guard duty as an excuse to stand beside each other. the odds were in your favor, for the most part, because most of them thought nothing of it. you two were just... close "co-workers" who never ran out of things to talk about or tease each other over.

♦ "Aren't you supposed to be watching that hill, Sergeant?" You huffed, lowering your binoculars. He was watching the hill — but only when you caught him staring at you. It had only been a few weeks and the endless chatter had turned more into borderline flirting, if not full-on pursuit of the other.

♦ He shook his head, now refusing to give you the satisfaction of catching him again. "I am watching the hill, mate, since you're so concerned." He replied, pressing his lips into a slight pout. The blazing sun engulfed his tan complexion, somehow looking more fetching than ever before.

♦ You couldn't handle walking on eggshells much longer, otherwise you'd begin to think he had a violent distaste for your personality. Perhaps it was sleep-deprivation, or the fact that you had spent so many hours with him, but you finally addressed the elephant in the watch tower;

『 "Hm, is that all I am? Your mate?" 』

LATE NIGHTS;

─── taking into account the unrelenting humorlessness of your profession, lights out became the golden hours between you and gaz. besides, there were fewer prying eyes, therefore less concern about getting caught.

♦ Kyle made a habit of entering your quarters abruptly, usually with a mound of snacks in hand. "It's only nine and you're in bed? Swear you're an eighty-year-old at heart, love." One of your favorite candies had been chucked at your head, shattering any semblance of relaxation you had. By now, you had gotten used to this.

♦ He was the embodiment of a snack dispenser in the disguise of a co-worker. Even worse when you would attempt cutting back on the junk food. Ironic, considering how fit he was — though you could attribute that Gaz hitting the genetic lottery (looks and health-wise, no matter how much food he packed away).

♦ Hours of talking could pass, and you wouldn't notice until you glanced at the digital clock. In your defense, you were getting several hours of gossip out in one sitting. It's not easy to work with the one person you want to talk to, yet, be unable to speak to them until after-hours.

『 "I think Soap's onto us. Keeps starin' at me whenever you're around, trying to make me slip up and mention you." 』

IN TOO DEEP;

─── even after several months of secrecy, of petty arguments, of varying conversations — you had never been so upset at him. Until now, when he knew the risks and proceeded regardless. Entering hostile territory after evac, purely to sweep for innocents once more, and disobeying orders while doing it.

♦ Before Price could get a word in, you were in his face. For the first time, you had stunned your co-workers into silence. "What the hell is wrong with you? Look at yourself, Gaz." You motioned toward the gash on his forehead. Then, your attention turned toward the bullet absorbed by his vest, one that could've been the end of him if the hostile had been more accurate.

♦ "You could've been killed." No matter how hard you tried to contain the tremble in your voice, you couldn't. It was evident, practically palpable to the rest of them.

♦ His self-righteousness would be the death of you. Endearing, but made your heart stop every time. "Just a couple bruises. And this?" He pointed toward the scrapes on his face. "I've gotten worse from you." Kyle gave you a subtle wink, one the others wouldn't have seen.

♦ You collected yourself and turned on your heels, still under the watchful eye of the rest of them. At the sudden realization of how much they had seen, you stepped out of Price's way, "Sir." The captain sighed, giving you a nod to ease your anxieties. He knew something was up, but never had solid proof until now.

♦ And Soap? He barely contained his smirk — shifting his gaze from you to Kyle, who only returned the favor by sneering at the Scot. Had you blown the secret entirely? That was up for debate. But they were certainly suspicious.

♦ After he exited the med bay, now with a few bandages and a bruised ego courtesy of your wrath, you caught up to him. To keep appearances, you walked parallel to him while keeping your eyes ahead.

♦ But this wasn't done. Your boyfriend doesn't just almost die and go without penance. At least... your way of penance ;)

『 "This isn't over, Sergeant. You'll see, tonight." 』

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ divider cred. - cafekitsune

[see-arcane]

Poor Mina! The suspense is getting dreadful! If only she knew where to write and go to so she could contact her beloved Jonathan! 🥺

The address thing really gets to me, honestly

Because there is technically ‘somewhere to write to.’ Dracula has to use one or more postal services to deliver the letters. And Hawkins had to have correspondence before Jonathan ever went to the castle. But Mina still has no place to write to. Why?

Because by now she thinks Jonathan is either on the move or dead. And the only disquieting messages she has from him are the brief announcement that he’s going to stay an extra month with Dracula, followed by his departure scribble. The latter are hopeless to write to. But the former?

I’d bet money she did write to him early on, attempting to do as Hawkins did. I bet the old man even showed his exact steps so she could do it; maybe he wrote too. And when Dracula received those letters they went right into the fire with Jonathan none the wiser.

[ms-nesbit]

goodness (jason todd x reader)

rating: 18+ (fuck off, minors)

summary: jason wakes you up in the morning :)

warnings: jason todd is sad, this is FLUFF, implied smut, reader has night terrors, jason and reader have anxiety

note: i loved writing this. much more than smut. i might switch to being fluff only for a bit. lmk if you agree please :)

ao3

You shifted in your sleep, face twisting into discomfort as you detected danger. It was fictional, of course - all nightmares you had hadn’t come to life since you left home - but in your unconscious state, they felt as real as your body - or, these days, Jason - allowed.

And Jason didn’t sleep; it was what he craved some nights, and (what’s even more) could have used that lost rest, but chose to watch over you as you slumbered away. The first time he slept over, it was the night you found him bludgeoned and sprawled on the fire escape staircase just outside your window. In one word, it was fateful, something that neither of you dismissed. Jason awoke on your living room floor, you kneeling while haphazardly patching the punctures and wounds scattered around his body. A meet cute, he said to himself when he first laid eyes on you, your skin aglow from the kiss of the moonlight.

And was it the first time you’d tended to someone so bruised and bloodied? Absolutely not. Yet it was the first of many times he’d sneak to your window, seeking salvation in his disquiet condition; he was so worried the night would be his last, and he at least wanted to take his last breath by your side, your arms holding him, and wings encompassing him.

“Why are you here?” You asked in a forced whisper, bringing your hand into a tight fist. “I thought you said you didn’t want to see me anymore.”

Jason made it through the window before he collapsed on the ground, groaning in pain. He was quiet for a moment, and you rushed to his side, assuming position with one hand on his shoulder, and another taking his gloved hand. “Christ, Todd, what did you get yourself into?”

He heard the tears in your voice, and looked up at you. “I want to spend my life with you. Or whatever of it I have left.” he attempted to alter his weight distribution, lifting himself from the ground with his good arm, but it left him breathless.

You caught him, and helped him to the couch, where he slumped over on the armrest. Standing right to your feet, you began to walk out of the room to retrieve the first aid kit in the bathroom. “We can talk about this some other time, Todd, I just have to take care-”

But you were stopped with Jason’s grip on your forearm. “No.” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Just-just listen, okay?” you turned to face him. “I was scared that they would find you, that they would hurt you. I can’t lose you.” your teary eyes were met with his, and they bore more heartbreak than his contusions. He meant it. After days of silence and distance from him, he came back to you, and your hand was in his again.

“Please don’t leave again.” you started, voice wavering. “I can’t lose you either.” you placed a hand on his cheek, which he immediately welcomed, by closing his eyes and feeling your warmth. You felt the sting of a stray teardrop hitting your finger, and you brushed its trail away in hopes that no more would follow. “If that means my last day is tomorrow, I don’t care - I want it to be spent with you.” you grinned faintly. “I’m a strong woman anyway.”

In the darkness, you could still see the glimmer of his smile; you were thankful he’d removed his helmet, as was protocol when he entered your apartment. “You are.” he placed his hand over yours, giving it a weak squeeze. “But I’ll protect you even when you can’t protect yourself. I’m here. Always.”

Always.

Always.

Jason dotted on you with sweet whispers in your ear and kisses peppered along your temple, forehead, and nose; you hadn’t realized it, but he absolutely spoiled you, because on the nights he was away on patrol, or out of state, you texted him the next morning that you felt colder without him beside you.

Here he is, dotting on you again, this time with a tender holding of your hand, and a gentle whisper. “It’s okay. It’s a dream. I’m here. I love you.” Jason reminded you, the words bearing more weight than gold, his voice dripping like warm nectar into your ear. You hummed in your sleep in response, rolling onto your back. “I won’t let them hurt you.” he stared right at you, seriousness steering his tone and expression.

“I won’t let them hurt you.” he rocked you as you rode through your wave of anxiety from the night terror. “They won’t do it; I won’t let them.”

Despite the nerves, you managed to return the embrace, burying your face into his neck as you sobbed. His grasp on your shirt became desolate, emotion overcoming him as well. Your chest heaved as you cried. “I’ve got you.” he assured, kissing your hair. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” 

You murmured in your sleep, still stirring. He watched over you as the palette of the sunrise painted your face into a beautiful array, something Jason couldn’t possibly get tired of. In fact, the nights you both stayed up and talked, and the same colors kissed your skin, Jason recalled his feelings for you deepening; it hadn’t even taken a week for him to develop the matured adoration.

“Shirt off, please.” you pleaded kindly, legs on either side of Jason’s hips. “I’ve always fantasized about what you looked like underneath your clothes.”

Jason stopped in his tracks, face still hovering over yours as he simply shook his head. “Why not?” you asked, offended.

Looking away, Jason sat back up on his heels. “Look - I know you know about Red Hood, and all that jazz, but-”

“But what, Jason? Is there something else you’re hiding from me?” your voice rose with tension, far different from the arousal you had just felt a moment earlier.

Jason sighed and removed his shirt hesitantly, and turned his face away from you to shield himself of your reaction. He was ashamed of himself, embarrassed by… scars. Ones that were so vulnerable, so telling, that he might as well have his life story etched on him.

You sat up and traced along his autopsy scar, from one end on his chest to the other, and then down to his torso. Then, to his surprise, he felt warm lips pressed on each scar, one by one, and he whipped his head back to you at the contact. You looked up at him with amiable eyes almost as naked as his chest, and once he realized you accepted him, he cupped your chin in his hands, planting a tender kiss as he laid you back down.

“Good morning, Princess.” Jason smiled down at you as you woke up to the happiest sight in front of you. You pecked his nose, pulling his hand to rest over your heart as you gazed at him.

Had there not been missions, patrol, or the ever-so-definite arguments between you two, you’d be waking up to Jason’s pleasantries every morning; he was there to greet and catch you when you’d least expect it. “Good morning, Jay.” you smiled back, and the words made him beam brighter.

“You know, you really are a dork.” you laughed, poking fun at Jason’s interest in literature.

Jason gawked. “What! There’s nothing wrong with liking Matilda!”

“But there is something up with you wanting a Matilda tattoo.” you added, tauntingly scrunching your nose at him. You nuzzled up closer, head on his chest. “Being a dork isn’t a bad thing, though, Jay.”

Each time you called him by that name, Jason was blanketed in affection and comfort. He was happy to be beside you, to have chosen you, again and again, after time.

And you were happy to be welcomed into his true self, beyond the red hooded boogeyman painted across the world. With each passing day, you two grew closer, and in no time, you two fused together.

[cleverinsidejoke]

Part 2

Part 1 | Part 3

I had fun with this one. It's been fun getting this started, writing characters as best I can, and getting this show on the road! If there are any triggering parts in this, let me know and I'll add on a warning.

wc: 1957

  The air in the Angel’s Share had shifted. The drunk Bard’s loud singing and boisterous laughter had dwindled to silence. Diluc looked up from the inventory book, seeing Venti sitting upright and tense, hand wavering just by the bottle of dandelion wine, head inclined at a subtle angle, as though listening to the whispers of an unseen being. 

    Beneath the mountains of Liyue, Azhdaha ceases his cries as the world around him silences as Teyvat’s internal conflict resolves itself. The earth begins speaking again, indecipherable words that Azhdaha is accustomed to, growing louder and louder, deafening to his sensitive ears.

Zhongli hears it too. Even in this mortal form, he is still attuned to the stories Teyvat says, has grown accustomed to ignoring the senseless chatter of the world. The silence unnerves him.

    The entities of the Abyss shift in the ancient halls, quieting as something calls to them from afar. The Princess smiles to herself.

    In turn, Foul Legacy claws at the edges of Childe’s mind in a poor attempt at claiming consciousness. It settles for a quiet harmony of Abyssal murmurs. It feels strangely calm for the creature. Too human. Almost religious. 

    Teyvat has been disquieted, in disharmony with itself. It hides it well. Celestia cannot be allowed to know.

    The landing lacks the same harshness that pulled you to this strange world in the first place, instead landing you on the ground carefully, as you would a pet or a delicate heirloom. “So this is real, right?” You look over at Gene, collecting yourself. “We’re in Genshin Impact?” They shrug, looking around with caution. 

    “There’s the Dawn Winery.” you follow their gaze. Sure enough, there it was. You were on the heightened area near the Statue of the Seven, overlooking Springvale. From here, you could see the great city itself, windmills dimly lit by the moonlight. A crisp breeze blew in, rustling the tall grasses around you. With the quiet surroundings and the peaceful atmosphere, Mondstadt felt nothing short of home. 

    “I don’t care if it’s Buckingham Palace or Disneyland. I want to find someplace to sleep.” It turns out that being transported into a new world after a long day of stress wasn’t the greatest of feelings. You begin a careful descent towards the road, using Windrise as a point of reference. 

    “Likewise.” Gene follows, taking hold of your arm whenever your footing becomes unsteady. As Windrise grows closer, so grows your need for rest. You’re soon leaning on Gene for support. The gentle breeze fades as you approach the large tree. The Statue of the Seven looms larger than you expected, even stranger to see in real life. Gene takes the opportunity to touch it. The Statue’s light glows violet in turn. A slow transition.

    “Let’s just see if we can get some place at the Goth Grand Hotel or the Church. Surely the sisters can’t say no to us. The poor, helpless outlanders.” Slumping over their shoulder melodramatically, you yawn. “It’s getting too late.” The pair of you make your way to the city, with no real plan. Timmy is absent from the bridge. A shame. You rather liked tormenting seeing the boy interact with his pigeons. But it was late, and thus, understandable that he was absent. 

    “Halt, strange, yet respectable travelers!” The familiar line wakes you up a bit, your head snapping up to look at the speaker. It’s only Lawrence, accompanied by Swan, guarding the gate. Of course it wouldn’t be Amber. It’s not her duty to guard the gate, after all. “What brings you to the gates of Mondstadt so late?”

    “We’re only looking for a place to stay for the night, sirs.” Gene continues to shoulder your weight as they speak to the guards. They offer a disarming smile to the men. That same gentle twist of the lips that you’ve become so accustomed to. A smile that practically begs to be trusted.

    “The Church or the Headquarters may have a place for you to stay. Do you know anything, Swan?” Lawrence glances at the other man, probing for an answer. 

    “I’m not sure. I can escort them to the Church if need be.” Your drowsiness dampens the words, your body growing heavy. Soon, your weight is heavy on Gene’s back, unsupported by your consciousness as a deep slumber overtakes you.

    The Anemo Archon had become restless. The dandelion wine was left untouched on the counter, the solemn nature of the bard causing some unease in the tavern. Diluc almost preferred the boisterous and easygoing attitude. 

    Not that it mattered at the moment though. The tavern would be closing in a quarter of an hour. It was time to begin closing. Diluc began by approaching the other patrons, quietly asking them to leave and informing them that the tavern would close soon. Finally, it was down to Venti. 

    “It’s almost closing time.” The bard remained still, unresponsive. Then he turned, looking up at the bartender. 

    “The wind carried news, Master Diluc.” Venti’s soft smile is out of place, unmatched with his quiet tone. “Good news.” He seems to have been waiting for someone to ask. 

    “News?” He couldn’t deny his curiosity, especially if the Anemo Archon thought it was good.

    “The Creator has returned, Diluc! The Creator! And, if the winds are accurate, then they’ve brought another with them!” Venti grinned, standing from his chair. “They should have reached Mondstadt by now. Good night, Diluc.” 

    The influx of information causes Diluc to stiffen. The Creator? But the holy texts had predicted them to arrive much later. Venti pranced out of the tavern, leaving the bartender alone to his thoughts in the Angel’s Share. 

    Venti allowed the wind to guide him, whispers fueling his excitement. Following the new Anemo footprint of the Creator, he made his way to the Church of Favonius. 

    You awoke to the sound of idle chatter. Sitting up, you took in the sight of the well lit interior of the Church of Favonius. Gene’s laughter was what rang out across the church, allowing you to get up and track them more easily. You grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around yourself, following the voices.

    You had been sleeping on a pew in the back of the church, so it wasn’t all that difficult to walk to the front, where people were gathered and talking. As you picked apart the crowd, you could see Barbara, the sisters, Gene, and Venti himself. 

    “Oh, Y/N!” Gene waved you over, settling their hand on their neck as they turned their attention to the others. “This is my dearest friend.” folding your arms across your chest, you approach the group, giving an awkward wave. Part of you had hoped it was a dream. The reality was an uncomfortable one to be accustomed to.

    “Oh, so this is the esteemed friend you spoke of!” Venti approaches quickly, drawing a subtle flinch from Gene. “Of similar caliber to yourself, Creator?” The final word is what captures your attention. Creator? You had read the stories and Aus. This couldn’t possibly end well, could it?

    “Yes. Y/N is from the same realm as myself.” Their discomfort was obvious, in need of something to lean onto. You approach, draping an arm across their shoulders.

    “Yep! So… what tales of grandeur are said about you, Gene?” Perhaps if you can find what myths detail them, then you can prevent future danger.

    “I’m not sure. I’ve been away for so long…” With a nervous laugh, Gene looks back to the people. Long conversations with strangers, no matter how familiar they seem, had always been a bit difficult for them.

    “Do you have any tales, Venti?” You offer a point of conversation to the extroverted bard. 

    “Of course! I’ll tell you all about it. We’ve even got a whole, ehm... library, for you.” Venti laughed. “I’ll tell you about it when we get there. C’mon!” Approaching the end of the cathedral, opening the entrance to the basement. “Oh, Barbara! Is everything ready down there?”

    “Yes, yes!” A rushed voice called back, the stairs creaking. The blonde deaconess exited the basement, curtsying as she spotted Gene. “It’s really you! And your attendant! It’s truly my honor to be present so soon after your descent.” Her words are honeyed, too sweet for your liking. “Um, please come down! We’ve been preparing it for you.” She ushers you down the stairs quickly, the creaking accompanying you. 

    You’re greeted by the expansive basement, the far ambulatory chambers with statues in the likeness of each archon, another in the likeness of Gene in the center of the apse. The nave has pews closer to the statue, albeit only a few rows. Bookshelves line the walls closest to the front. It is a meager church, unlike what you read about. 

    “The worship of the Creator is prohibited by Celestia.” Venti pipes up. “In fact, all texts about you were abolished and almost completely destroyed. This is what remains after years of tracking them down.”

    “Venti happened to have a collection. After your signs began appearing across Teyvat, the churches and temples opened in secret again. I would say they began happening after the Traveler arrived in Mondstadt.” Barbara smiles sweetly. “You’re more than welcome to come here as much as you’d like.”

    “Thank you.” The pleasantries continue as you wander over to the bookshelves, looking for interesting titles and points to research. “The Books of Creation”, “The Heavenly Principles” “Prophecies of the Primordial One”... Each book proves worthy of looking over. Pulling one off the shelf, you begin to read, opening to a note in the beginning. It appears to be a dedicated journal.

    The Creator, on their own, is reality. The only god needed to prosper. With their blessings, our nation can prosper. Remember that, Alberr.

    You skim through the everyday things, gathering context clues until you begin to read fully.

19.8. 

    The field tillers are working better than we thought they would. Other nations have expressed concern involving them, but it is a breakthrough that we cannot allow to go to waste.

24.8

    Siarri consulted the books the other day. The Creator is due to return from their journey soon. Perhaps they can give us an ultimatum about the field tillers then. I don’t want to give up so easily on the years of work we’ve put into it. It’s worth being outcasted from the other nations. 

24.8 

    Siarri has taken to calling me names.

1.12

    The creator is late.

25.1

    Khaenri’ah has fallen. Celestia came in with no prior signs of hostility. The archons were there too, fighting with a vengeance. Almost like they were taking something back. Were they upset because their people were inclined towards our ways?

    Celestia has been in turmoil since then. Worship of the Creator has been outlawed. Does that extend to the archons? Aren’t they closer to the Creator than us mortals are? Barbatos and Rukkhadevata used to be all for the worship of the Holy one. Maybe the Cataclysm is what caused this change. It caused Khaenri’ah to fall, so I can only imagine what damage has been caused to Sumeru and Mondstadt. What damage it will eventually cause.

    We can’t blame anyone. But we can make inferences. I’m going to travel and make as many connections as I can. I’ll get another journal to write that down in.

29.12

To-Do

Buy a new bag journal   

Check in with the kids

Document Mondstadt

    The journal is gently taken from you, glanced at briefly by the taker, and set aside. “I’m afraid that wasn’t meant to go to the library.” The voice is immediately recognizable. You turn carefully. “Kaeya, Knight of Favonius. It’s an honor.”

[spyridonya]

i will be an enabler. “ may i have this dance? “ for sophus and raphael could be fun maybe? 👀

oh my god i have an enabler than enabled me to write over 1500 words for the first time in months, thank you romeo! ❤️ first time trying to write in 2nd person, which normally isn't my thing, but we'll just blame the game's narrator.

sacred romantic raph being an ass moments meme

The uncanny stillness of the eternal gloom seeps into flesh and bones, even under the shelter of lacy moonlight. The sensation of coiling vastness would disquiet any soul, yet you find yourself reminded of the antipeak hours of your home when the wane of the luminescence leaves all to lantern light. This is not an unknown concept to the singular tadpole that remains coiled just behind your eye; you are both creatures of the planes on the most molecular level. The lapping sounds of water are still alien to your ears despite its gentleness, it's the strumming of Alfira's lute from far away that puts you at ease, the lazy notes falling like snowflakes upon your nerves, and the bard none the wiser.

The sound of teleportation makes your tadpole jump, though years of training that keeps you from the startle from rolling down your body, and keeping you still as a stone as the notes continue to waver in the air, the commotion too far for Alfira's attention. But that moment of panic is brief, you recognize the sound of this particular user.

It's not that uncommon of a skill, most arcane weavers can attest the sounds of a teleportation spell are based from it's point of origin. You wouldn't know the difference between the sounds of the Elemental Plane of Water from the Heavens, but you know the sounds of the Lower Planes. You won't ever forget the horrific timbre that aches like a soul shredded between rusty gears. 

You knew it long before the cambion set eyes upon you and yours upon him.

You don't give him the satisfaction of turning to him, presenting the solid wall of your back to him, a move that would have your comrades in the Cage mutter as if you had gone addled in the brain-box. An action that would make your current comrades mutter as if you had gone mad. 

The cambion’s steps are slow and purposeful against the ancient wood, making Raphael sound heavier than a man his size should be.

It's an old rage that makes your hand move, and your arms follow as the glaive swings. The weight feels sluggish in your hands, though the powerful muscles of your arms and the twist of your torso carry the motion until the blade just stops at the cambion's throat. Above the blade, Raphael grins, his teeth white against the copper of his skin.

You hate acknowledging how fetching that smile is, as if he were not your elder by millennia in truth and decades by appearance. That coyness is so strange and you find the pulse in your throat is throbbing as if you're the one with blade point against skin.

"Such unfathomable treatment of a guest, my dear boy. One would think you're displeased to see me."

"Whatever made you believe that, princeling?" You grit out; you know he's a cambion but not his sire. But cambions do not become this powerful without some false pride of their mastris on their tongue. You have your notions, but don't speak them.

"Ah, Sophus, you wound me- or have attempted at the least." Raphael chuckles lightly, his hand gently pushing the pole of the glaive from him in a slow arch, and you allow him to do so. Those heavy footsteps creak against the planks of the old dock once more, “You seem most eager to create of me an adversary.” Your gaze is hard as it narrows down upon the human form of the cambion, despite how you lower your weapon.

Raphael stops at his comfortable distance, a sentiment not entirely shared by you as your muscles tense. The cambion does not bring a rhyme to the curl of his lips nor show the flash of his teeth, he merely studies you with that coy gaze of his as darkness shrouds his amber eyes. “What are you here for?” You ask, knowing his old enemy is dead and in the Hells. Suddenly, you remember the child and your hand tightens on your weapon, “Not the girl, not Mol.”

“For all your sharp teeth, little mouse, you forget yourself and your mind. You know as well as me that such investment in a child would never mature so rapidly.” He lifts his arms in a shrug, the motion muscle under the doublet that he wears is noticeable, “Let her grow, let her learn. Isn’t it far safer for her to know the dealings of the law than the grind of the Abyss?” A striking motion of his hand, and his amber gaze meets your steel. “No, no. Do not think that of me. Rather, I came to offer something else.”

You mutely realize that your back is to the water while the cambion’s to the Last LIght Inn. And yet Alfira’s music still floats about you, defying the stillness of the gloom and the tension of your body. Yet, all Raphael does is smile, offering his hand. His fingers look refined, straight, the tendons perfect and nothing like a man approaching his 50th turn of the spire, much less his possible 2500th.  “May I have this dance?”

There’s no humor in the high cheek bones nor his knowing smile, only a curious tilt of his brows. And he holds this pose for a moment, and you think you will out wait him when he realizes what he’s begun. Your mind flickers to Wyll and the rejection on his face as you turn your head from his dance. You rejected a good man, a good person. 

Your arms lift over your head, to return the glaive to it’s strap on your back and carefully you take Raphael’s hand. 

"I dare not ask if you are aware of any Calimshite dance,” Raphael responds and to his credit, he does not leer at the small triumph he’s won, “Such a question would be an insult to us both. However, a Havana based box step may be unfamiliar in name, but perhaps not in motion?"

The cambion's hand is warm in yours, his hand steady on your hip, yours upon his, and blood hammers in your ears as you follow his first step all the while your mind screams to stop.

In no time at all, you are led into a dance as Alfira continues to play to her unknown audience of two. Raphael is right, you may not know the name, but you know the motions and the damnable cambion knows each step - practiced until perfect. 

“In terms of asking a question that would insult either one of us, what are you getting at, Raphael?” You ask quietly, not sure what the tieflings above you in the inn would think of such dance or the intimacy of a cambions warmth not quite against your body. You try not to think of it as well, your mouth straight, your eyes narrow - even if old shames creep into your mind - a moment of wondering if the cambion truly likes what he sees. 

Or what he can harvest from you. 

“A planer-touched greeting to his fellow kin, even if we’re not entirely neighbors.” He replies with that charming grin as he leads you from the length of the dock that stretches over the water and closer to to the shallows that lead up into the Inn. “What is after this grand, heroic gesture of yours? Do you perhaps have a faction in the Cage that would approve of such?” The cambion’s grin stretches, seeing the line on your face, the lowering of your eyes. “I could help you get home… if you wish to go home.”

That is when you stop, that is when you pull away, your heavy steps creaking under you, not trusting the way your body reacts to the question and the way you breathe through your nose. 

Raphael does not look insulted, not ashamed, not even smug with that little curve of his smile. Rather he stands straight and tall, though he barely reaches your chin, and regards you in a way that makes you feel small despite your being far taller and larger. 

You find you want to wipe this expression of his face, hold him down and-

“I do not take silence as a no, little mouse,” The irony of that nickname isn’t lost, “Nor a yes… but an aasimar hiding as a half elf can only keep the ruse for so long, if only to himself. This is not your home, Sophus Firesbane. This place is so alien to your senses and to the powers that call themselves gods offend your sense of fairness.” The cambion takes a step back, then another, and this time you don’t follow, “Perhaps even more than you are offended by me.” And his tone becomes rumbly smoke, “Though I don’t believe you’re as offended by me as you wish you were.”

You don’t strike this time, though your arm aches to move. Once more you glare, “My oath is far more important than your promises.” From all that you’ve learned about fiends, you know how prized a paladin soul truly is to fiendkin. Including cambions with powerful sires never spoken.. 

“That oath of yours,” Raphael shakes his head, the dark mahogany of his hair almost tumbling from its perfect coif. “You’ve a long way in the darkness ahead, little mouse. Perhaps this will be a conversation for another time, if you survive.”  There is a scent of brandy, cherries, and sulfur that sours the sweetness - and the sound of souls being torn by rusty iron gears. “I hope that you do.” 

Once more you find yourself almost alone in the darkness, save for your silent and comfortable tadpole.

[autisticandroids]

Me again! My thoughts on tma are a little less harsh than urs for sure but I also think everything u said re: tma is dead accurate- i loved reading it and was nodding my head throughout and going hmhm (also I don't remember the mummy episode- my big gripe w tmas accidental uncritical recreation of racist and particularly orientalist horror tropes was Tom Han of the Flesh. Johnny ur seriously gonna codify this fear of the flesh through a stereotypical Dodgy Chinese Restaurant, u sure u wanna do that bud???)

Also YES YES YES I FEEL LIKE NO ONE TALKS ABOUT HOW FUCKING LAME THE CLOWNS ARE HOLY SHIT. The stranger has some rlly fun stuff in it re: rlly disquieting concepts and imagery (I'm fond of the not-thems tbh and while a lot of tmas episodes arent particularly scary the 3rd ep of s1 with Graham Folger always genuinely unsettled me) but clowns are 1. Not that scary *personal taste I know but also 2. Clowns are not Conceptually Rich Enough to Be a Load Bearing Pillar of a Horror Series About the Nature of Fear 3. Even if they were scary that gets lost in translation in an AUDIO ONLY MEDIUM WHAT THE HELL

And yeah while I'm personally a fan of the idea of a series that introduces you to a taxonomy upon which the whole plot hinges that ultimately reveals somewhere along the way that that taxonomy is in fact useless and actively obfuscative (and I still feel inclined to give a little bit of credit there) I also agree that the smirkes 14 severely damaged the stories capacity to be frightening by lashing them to shallow cliches. And thats a pretty unforgivable sin for a horror series.

Ultimately I feel like a lot of tma as a cultural object is contingent on a simultaneous draw towards and repulsion from Very Fancy Academia. Like. As an aesthetic and vibe and pursuit as a means unto itself (mostly as an aesthetic if im being honest) There's this sense i get (and it may be projection) that the audience and creators and characters are all disgusted by but powerfully enamoured w "Dark Academia" (forgive me for using this phrase but I can't think of a more expedient phrase to get at the specific itch tma seems to be attempting to scratch) especially quasi Victorian aesthetic (makes sense. Sims's previous work was as a front man for a steam punk band Or at least the main writer) but also everyone is aware that fancy old timey academia can be. Yknow. Shitty and corrupt and obtuse and stupid. I don't think tma as a text ever manages to reconcile its desire for academia of a very particular type with its awareness that such a desire is sort of shitty which results in writing thats ultimately kind of inept. I still love it tho. Xoxox thanks for indulging me and giving ur hateful response i found it insightful and fun.

god you're so right about the academia thing. lol. and yeah everything you said about the clowns!!! i liked the notthem too but it's SO dragged down by being shackled to those stupid ass clown. in an audio only medium no less

[mar-mots]

Anyway here's a snippet from a fic I'm writing that I actually really like :)

Viktor watches the dean for a long time, amber-gold eyes flicking across his fuzzy face in a desperate attempt to decipher any ill-intent or meaning behind the words. He finds none, and that’s perhaps more disquieting than a comforting lie. “Thank you, Professor,” He says in reply, a cautious string of words that doesn’t settle the uneasiness bubbling in his stomach.

Next on this blog: More nonsense about a silly fictional man 😌

[souleatqr]

⠀⠀ ⠀A THOUGHT ON AN AUTUMN NIGHT

✶ paring, Nishimura Riki/Niki + black female reader.

✶ genre, angst.

✶ synopsis, The autumn leaves falling from the trees as you walk with your lover are always nice, but the more the leaves fall, the more you feel your love fading.

✶ warnings, y/n uses she/her prns, niki might seem off, poor writing.

✶ music, a thought on an autumn night by jannabi.

✶ word count, 1,089.

The multicolored leaves were falling, the breeze was delicate, and the scenery was lovely; the sound of birds chirping and raking leaves was relaxing, distracting almost. Yet, it wasn't distracting enough.

A defeated sigh escaped y/n's lips as she sat on a mocha-colored bench, waiting for someone. The breeze skimmed over the slightly exposed skin she had, resulting in a chill overcoming her—a chill and impatience.

She felt impatient, but also anxious. Why? It's an ordinary meeting between lovers, yet something felt different. Maybe it was the atmosphere? Maybe it was the way her texting came across as dry as the season passed by. She didn't know, however; she knew it felt different.

As time went by, she was met with the presence of her lover, his figure growing the closer he reached; At that point, she nearly threw up. The sight of him made her nauseous, not because he was disgusting, but because an unpleasant feeling rushed over her.

"Y/n!" a soft, but deep voice exclaimed as he got closer to her, snapping her out of the repulsive feeling. She glanced up at him.

"Oh, Niki. hello." Her greeting was frigid, Niki paid no mind as there were many periods when she'd greeted him like this—and besides, it could've just been the season ruining her mood—still, he waved at her passionately before seating himself next to her; the aroma of his cologne lingered in her nose. sweet bergamot and pineapple, dressed in blue rose.

A diminutive smile etched onto her features before leaving as she glimpsed at him once again. Her eyes felt solemn and her heart felt like it was slowing down the more she stared; feeling her eyes, Niki glanced over at her, their eyes meeting. "Is something wrong?" He inquired, the way his voice was tainted with disquiet caused Y/n's stomach to empty. She looked down, averting his gaze.

"No, everything is fine." She spoke calmly—well, as calmly as she could—Niki nodded at her assertion, not speaking, as he felt like she wished to say something else based on her expression. "Would you care to join me on a walk?" Niki's eyes widened narrowly out of excitement before standing up, his tall figure looming over hers.

"Sure, I don't mind a walk." he grinned at her, extending his slender, smooth porcelain hand towards her. Y/n's eyes flickered over to him before locking her fingers with his and walking together.

The walk was quiet as the two of you observed the scenery in front of you. Leaves of multiple shades were on the ground, whilst some were still dangling on the trees. The smile on Niki's face seemed to grow because of this, and it made y/n smile too, omitting what today was about.

Soon, they were met with the sight of a tree that somehow maintained most of its leaves. "Y/n, let's sit over there!" He beamed, the sound of his voice aching her heart once again. Regardless, she nodded, and they proceeded over to the tree. Sitting down, they could capture everything with their eyes.

Pulling out his phone, Niki snapped a picture of the trees before turning it over to the two of them. This caught Y/n by surprise, but she posed for their picture, a smile plastered on her face, attempting to feel joyful, yet she didn't.

She could hear a subtle giggle from Niki as he opened messages and sent the photos, along with a little message that said, 'Out with MY pretty girlfriend! couldn't be you guys >: p' A mischievous grin on his lips as he sent it.

She couldn't help but smile at his cuteness; Y/n desired for this to last eternally, but she knew better than anyone that it wouldn't.

The sound of Niki typing filled the silence that was set between the two.

Tapping Niki's shoulder, he averted his attention from his phone to her. A 'hum' left his lips as he turned towards her, his blonde hair following the blowing wind, highlighting his amber eyes that were glistening, almost as though they were the stars in the sky, his porcelain skin, and his toothy smile, oh, his smile. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

Her eyes burned at the sight of him; wiping them, she glanced at him with a dejected expression. Niki's face altered once he noticed this. "Y/n, are you okay?" he questioned as he scooted closer to you, engulfing you in a hug.

she said nothing, being pleased with the hug for a few moments before breaking it.

"y/n?" he spoke out. The soothing sound of his voice made Y/n wish to break down at that very moment, but she kept it in. Looking at him, she felt herself crack. Her heart ached and the scorching in her eyes was vigorous.

"Niki. No, Nishimura Riki, I love you, you know that. I've loved you for so long. Ever since we first met during class, I've loved you." The more she spoke, the more she sounded like that of a broken glass. The way she articulated words seemed to vary her tone and pitch.

Niki's eyes trailed to her visage. Perplexity laced his expression and dismay laced hers. "Y/n, what are you talking about?" He had an idea of what she meant in his head, yet he hoped it was inaccurate.

The silence she gave him answered his speculation. His face shifted from one of bewilderment to one of distress. "Y/n... Please—" His pleading was cut short by the sight of tears falling. They weren't his, they were Y/n's.

Y/n was crying, and he wanted to cry. "Riki, I can't love you anymore. Even if I try, my heart has stopped beating for you. I've realized that you aren't mine anymore. I'm sorry, so sorry." She stated, causing Niki's heart to shatter. 'I can't love you anymore', those words reiterated in his head.

she stood up—brushing off the leaves and dirt that attached themselves to her clothes—her movements snapped Niki out of the slight daze that consumed him.

"Y/n, please. Wait..." He pleaded. His visage was scrunched up, tears streaming down his face, and his lip quivering. Y/n's walking halted, and she turned around to face him. The view of him made Y/n's abdomen empty. Her face contorted into one of remorse. But she knew she couldn't go back now.

"Nishimura Riki, you are like a little star. Farewell."

✶ author's note, this fic sucks tbh, but i wanted to get something out! anyways, @haevqi this fanfic is for them bc they made a fic for me soooo, hopefully you enjoyed it! (*´ω｀*)

[houseofbrat]

Seeing the front pages for today, Harry will be proud that he’s managed to make The King’s illness about himself.

William will be excited to have his turn today to play the alleged loving son and get some column inches for himself. This while briefing to his DM besties that he has no intention to step up for his family, The King.

Neither one of them genuinely care for their father. He’s just a convenient reason to garner positive press, like using their dead mother has been.

The media has a story to sell, and they're going to sell it whether they have all the pertinent facts correct or not.

William and his cult are full of shit when they say William & KP are not giving more information out about Kate because one of her former nurses self-deleted after being harassed by the media. If the privacy of health care workers was so important, then why mention that Kate had "two Filipino nurses looking after her" at a gala fundraiser, which is full of rich people. Are you fucking kidding me? Why don't you just give out their first and last names while you're at it? Now all of Fleet Street knows to start looking for Filipino nurses working at The London Clinic in attempts to get any information out of them. What a way to protect Kate's health care workers from future harassment!

Because the Wales fandom was using the excuse that they weren't revealing anything about Kate's condition because they didn't want the medical staff to be harassed like the nurse, Jacintha Saldanha, who committed suicide after Kate was hospitalized with hyperemesis gravidarum, when she was pregnant with George.

Clearly, William learned so much about that incident regarding respecting health care workers. The Wales fandom too because they're the ones making excuses for this man ALL THE TIME.

Let's not forget that William has worked exactly TWO DAYS since the start of the year, and isn't expected to be working full time at any point in the near future. After all, he did two engagements yesterday, then he's off for another ten-plus days. When will he do engagements again after the kids are off break? We don't know.

But we do know that most regular people would have to be back at work by now. Most people don't go on vacation every time their kids get out of school. William and Kate are on vacation far more than eight weeks a year. Most people don't even get six weeks of vacation. Not that their stans can admit it because if they did, then they'd have to admit that their faves are jokes, just like they are.

As for Harry, I'm not sure why he flew over. Perhaps it was for pr games, but if it was, I suspect his wife made him do it just so that she could get papped. Because for a brief moment a picture like that would actually sell more than it did two weeks ago.

I have no doubt that Harry might be freaked about it in general, but given that Charles's cancer doesn't seem to be life threatening, Harry clearly didn't need to visit. If Charles actually had life threatening cancer, then he would have visited with Harry for more than 30 minutes or whatever.

When Charles's biographer, Robert Jobson, is writing sentences like this:

Charles was widely reported to have been ‘touched’ by the gesture. Perhaps he was. Yet I am told that the reality is both more complex and more troubling – that Harry caused some disquiet by ‘taking it upon himself’ to fly over unbidden and at such short notice. Put bluntly, the King was unhappy about what amounted to a fait accompli served up by an emotional but well-meaning son. Charles just needs peace and quiet right now and had planned to fly off to the tranquillity of Norfolk with his wife, the Queen, much earlier on Tuesday. Yet thanks to Harry’s intervention, their Majesties were left kicking their heels at Clarence House, their main London home, while they waited for the errant younger son to appear.

If Charles's condition was far more dire, then they wouldn't be reacting that way. Harry would have had a much longer visit with Charles.

This is why I posted some comments by a urologist on reddit discussing bladder cancer yesterday. Because people hear that Charles is doing chemo and don't understand that it can be done by injecting the drugs directly into the bladder rather than going through the bloodstream. People like barkjack:

ICIs are immune checkpoint inhibitors, which are often used to treat bladder cancer in the US.

Charles is going to be fine. Yes, he's going to have probably a rough three months until his cancer is under control, but as the urologist from reddit said, "We treat people in their 70s and 80s all the time for this."

"All the time" = routine. Charles ain't dying this year or next year. I hate to break it to all of those "astrologers" and other people expecting Charles to suddenly die right now, but you're going to end up disappointed. Charles is going to be around for more than five more years. Better get used to it.

However, Fleet Street will continue to hype up any drama they can find to the highest degree based on the smallest grain, as the Middleton clan is about to find out.