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admiringlove · 2 months ago

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➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. gojo satoru was a slytherin through and through—cunning, clever, and infuriatingly charming, with a reputation as both a prodigy and a troublemaker. you, a gryffindor prefect, couldn't be more different—fearless, fiercely principled, and far too stubborn to let someone like him get under your skin. or so you thought. by day, the two of you bicker and clash, bound only by your shared duty, but by night, within the room of requirement, you're partners in something far greater—a secret operation known as the marauders, granting the whispered wishes of hogwarts students.

➵ warnings. gojo being gojo; mentions of unforgivable curses; mentions of strangling someone (gojo); mentions of injury; slytherins being called anarchists; snape; mentions of hexing a cat (i think that counts as animal cruelty but idk for sure); profanity; slight timeline inaccuracy bc i like professor fig so i kept him in the fic w the others; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; etc.

➵ word count. 6.6k.

➵ author's note. so so excited to introduce you guys to mischief managed! big thanks to @gojofile for proofreading. have fun reading, and i hope slytherin prefect gojo warms your hearts <3 also also, taglist is still open!

➵ navigation. masterlist, next.

Gojo Satoru.

The mere mention of his name was enough to stir an unpleasant bitterness in your mouth—like biting into a sour Acid Pop, sharp and unforgiving. He leaned casually against one of the stone pillars near the corridor leading to the Great Hall, his posture so relaxed it was almost infuriating. You, however, stood at the top of the steps leading down to the bustling crowd of prefects below, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. It was the sort of wait that carried the weight of years—years of dealing with him, with this. You had, like the others, arrived promptly, but unlike them, you had been watching the clock tick away in growing frustration, the minutes wasted under the strain of his absence.

With every second that passed, the sour taste in your mouth grew. You were no stranger to his arrogance, no stranger to the fact that Gojo Satoru never seemed to care about anyone else’s time but his own. How predictable, how utterly insufferable. He had this remarkable ability to ruin an entire evening simply by being late, the kind of late that stretched from a few minutes into an eternity. The others, however, had long since forgiven his transgressions, accepting the lack of discipline as some sort of unavoidable part of his charm.

You didn’t share that sentiment.

He walked up to the group then, casually slipping past the other prefects who all, unsurprisingly, seemed more than willing to let his tardiness slide. His lips curled into that infuriatingly charming, carefree smile, and the first few apologies that spilled from his mouth were as hollow as they were insincere. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking entirely too pleased with himself. If there was one thing you had to give him credit for, it was his ability to navigate the world with a confidence so blinding it nearly rendered everyone around him incapable of holding a grudge.

Except, of course, for you.

You could feel the weight of your own gaze burning into his back as he spoke. He was an impossible contradiction—infuriating, selfish, and absurdly arrogant, and yet, undeniably captivating. Even with all his faults, there was something magnetic about him. Those piercing blue eyes of his, so impossibly bright, and the soft curve of his lips, perpetually tipped upwards in a self-assured grin, had a power over people that you could not quite ignore. You’d seen it yourself—the way his presence could make entire groups of students lose their composure, how even the toughest of professors faltered under his gaze.

But not you.

You couldn’t care less for his entrancing gaze, nor for the way his words slipped from his lips like honey, perfectly crafted to disarm and beguile. His blue eyes, though striking, could not erase the irritable taste of his disregard. And his smile? It only made your stomach churn. You had learned long ago to keep your distance, to shield yourself from the charms that so effortlessly ensnared the rest. You were no fool.

"Alright, round up," calls the Head Girl, her voice slicing through the hum of conversation like a well-aimed hex. You sigh, already weary, and stand as she begins to rattle off the night’s patrol assignments. Your fingers toyed absently with the sleeve of your robe while you listened, half-attentive, until the sound of his name snapped you into focus.

Your gaze found him instinctively, as if drawn by some unseen force you hated to acknowledge. He was leaning back against the wall, all easy confidence, that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Those pink lips, which were far too perfect for a boy who never seemed to put in any effort at all.

“[L/N], you’re with Gojo. Astronomy Tower and the North Wing.”

You exhaled sharply, the sound almost lost in the shuffle of murmurs and groans from the other prefects. Of course. Of course. You could practically feel his satisfaction radiating across the room without even looking at him. But you couldn’t resist. Your eyes flicked back to his, catching the faint tilt of his head, the knowing gleam in his irises. That smirk had only grown wider, as though he knew exactly how much this would infuriate you.

He always did.

You brushed past him on your way out, your shoulder caught the edge of his robe in a deliberate slight. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, only watched you with that insufferable grin as though you amused him beyond words. You ignored him—pointedly, completely. He wasn’t worth your breath tonight.

There was too much at stake. You had an hour of patrol to endure before you could finally collapse into bed, and an early Potions lesson tomorrow morning with Snape waiting to shred your dignity into pieces. Snape adored Gojo, of course. He always found reasons to praise him, whether for his technique or his "sharp mind," as if the boy ever cared about rules or discipline. You, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky.

You could still feel the sting from the first day back, the dull thud of Snape’s heavy Potions tome cracking against the back of your skull because you’d dared to yawn during his lecture. Gojo, meanwhile, had been sprawled at the back of the class, sound asleep, the faint rise and fall of his chest utterly unbothered. Snape hadn’t said a word to him. Not one.

As you stepped out of the eastern wing and into the cool, open air, the castle loomed behind you, its shadow stretching long and dark across the grounds. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the cobblestones, their rhythm unsteady, almost reluctant. You yawned, stifling the sound with the back of your hand, though the ache of it lingered in your jaw. It had been a day—a week, really. The first week of your sixth year at Hogwarts, and already it felt like you’d lived through months.

The Astronomy Tower rose ahead, its silhouette sharp against the star-flecked sky. The air was crisp, biting against your skin as you fought to keep your eyes open. Another yawn threatened to escape, but you forced it down.

“A little tired, are we?”

His voice cut through the quiet, smooth and sharp, his steps falling in perfect cadence with yours. The click of his boots on the stone floor reminded you of a metronome, steady and deliberate, as if the universe itself aligned to his whims. You didn’t look back, didn’t even bother to reply. A hum escaped your lips instead, low and dismissive, but you knew it wouldn’t deter him.

“You know,” he continued, unperturbed, “I didn’t see you at dinner tonight, Fawkes Junior.”

The nickname landed with its usual weight, heavy but familiar, like a coat you’d grown used to wearing despite its ill fit. It wasn’t the “Fawkes” that bothered you anymore—not after you’d finally experienced the beauty of the bird last year. The phoenix was a marvel, even more luminous than you’d imagined, its plumage shimmering with an otherworldly glow. No, it was the “Junior” that still irked you, the diminutive edge of it, the implication that you were less than.

You remembered that moment in Dumbledore’s office, the phoenix rising from its ashes with a blaze of light so blinding it had brought tears to your eyes. Dumbledore had watched you closely, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he recited the same words he’d spoken countless times before. A phoenix, he’d told you, could carry the heaviest of burdens, its tears more potent than any potion. He’d winked then, a gesture that felt both knowing and unnervingly intimate. You’d laughed it off, of course. What else could you do?

Shaking the thought from your mind, you replied curtly, “I was in the library. Something about Quidditch. McGonagall wanted me to look over the first-years’ picks.”

“Ah.” His voice curled around the word, drawn out and laden with that peculiar tone he used when he wanted to draw people in. You hated that tone, the way it made you feel like a moth fluttering dangerously close to a flame. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to up my game, then. Can’t let you Gryffindors get too comfortable. The House Cup is ours this year.”

You glanced at him then, just long enough to catch the glint of mischief in his eyes, the faint tilt of his lips. “You and I both know we won last year fair and square,” you said, your voice tinged with accusation. “Not that you didn’t try to hex our Seeker into food poisoning before the match.”

He laughed, a low, melodic sound that set your teeth on edge. “And you caught me. Hexed me right back, if I recall.”

“It was deserved.”

“I’m still the best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in our generation,” he said, his tone mockingly self-assured.

You arched a brow as you ascended the final steps to the Astronomy Tower. His claim was, unfortunately, true, but you’d never admit it—not to him, not to anyone. Instead, you let silence answer for you, the faintest quirk of your lips the only acknowledgment of his words.

The door to the tower creaked open, the chill of the night air spilling over your skin. He stepped ahead, turning to face you with that same infuriating grin, as if he’d already won whatever battle was brewing between you.

It was the first week of September, and the air already carried a bite to it—sharp and unwelcome for the Quidditch players who would soon be out on the pitch. You pulled your cloak a little tighter around yourself, biting back the impulse to complain about the chill, but it slipped out anyway. "Bloody hell," you muttered under your breath, though the frustration wasn’t entirely with the weather. "Not that I mind it, really. I quite like it. It’s just—"

"—going to be a bummer while we’re playing Quidditch," he finished for you, his voice light, teasing, like always. You didn’t even look at him when you said it, but you knew he'd be grinning that absurd grin of his, the one that seemed capable of disarming entire rooms with nothing more than a flash of teeth.

"Right. And you try to find a new way to cheat. Again," you added, rolling your eyes at the inevitable.

He chuckled, a low, amused sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air between you. "I say we stay here for the hour," he proposed, his tone one that would’ve convinced anyone else in the world. But not you. "Not like anyone gives a damn. Nobody’s going to be out in the North Wing at this time, except for us. Not when the dungeons lead directly to the Room—"

You could feel the weight of his words, could almost see the exact way his eyes would be sparkling with the promise of mischief, the way his mind was already working out the logistics of evading anyone who might ruin his latest scheme. He was clever, yes—brilliant, even. But it was always something else. That glint in his eye, that knowing smirk, the feeling like there was more behind every word and every movement. He was a bloody narcissist, but you could admit it: he made it look like an art.

You shook your head, muttering a small "Shut up," with a stern tone, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to even glance in his direction. As you brushed past him, your shoulder nudged his as a small warning, the smallest of touches, but enough to tell him that you weren’t in the mood for whatever else was about to come out of his mouth.

"You’re such a bore," he muttered, his voice dripping with mockery as he rolled his eyes. You huffed, the sound escaping you before you could fully hold it in, and made your way toward one of the arches. The cool wind rushed against your face, teasing the strands of hair that had escaped your ponytail, and you felt a warmth rise to your cheeks. The Black Lake stretched before you, vast and murky, the Forbidden Forest just beyond it, a dark, intimidating blur. The rustle of leaves whispered to you on the breeze, and the air itself smelled fresh, clean. It was almost peaceful—if not for his insufferable presence.

"I'm only doing what's asked of me, Gojo," you said, voice cutting through the silence between you. Your eyes flicked to him, and you almost wished you hadn’t. He was leaning casually against the stone, an impossibly carefree smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "If you can’t do your job, maybe you shouldn’t be a prefect. You’re not fit for it anyway."

"I know," he said, his tone suddenly so dramatically solemn it made you want to roll your eyes in return. "I’m only fit to be the most marvelous person at this school, unfortunately. Everyone else is... well, they’re just ordinary, and that bothers me. Except for you. And Suguru. Maybe Shoko." His gaze flickered to you, challenging you to disagree, but you remained silent, too exhausted to indulge him.

"I thought I was a bore," you said, raising an eyebrow as you turned to face him, arms folded loosely across your chest. He chuckled low, the sound rich and almost taunting.

"Oh yes," he agreed easily, “You are a bore. You're sort of filthy, too, really. I get this weird, uncomfortable feeling whenever I see you—like a cockroach."

You didn’t have to look at him to know the grin that must have spread across his face at his own words. You could feel it in the tone of his voice, could practically see the smugness radiating from him. You twisted away, sharply, walking back toward the stone staircase that led down. “This cockroach,” you muttered, “will hex you to fall out of the tower to your death.”

"Ah, threatening me again," he said, a laugh in his voice as he followed, always too close behind. "You really should be careful. I wouldn’t want to be the one to give you an excuse to use that hex."

"Come along," you snapped, the patience draining from you. "I suggest we finish our patrol soon so I can actually get some sleep."

"And I," he replied without missing a beat, his voice light, "shall nap in Snape’s class tomorrow. We’re learning about the Blood-Replenishing Serum anyway. I did it last year—privately, of course. I’ll probably just wait until we actually have to brew it to pay attention."

"Self-absorbed prick," you muttered under your breath, but he heard it, as always. His grin widened, as if he had just received the highest form of praise, and his eyes sparkled with mock admiration.

"Pitiful nag," he retorted, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn’t even have to try to sound smug. It was just part of who he was. And the worst part was, you couldn’t help but be aware of how much it irked you. And, somehow, how much you... didn’t mind it at all.

The next morning, Snape’s voice droned on like a monotonous hum, the same lecture about the Blood-Replenishing Serum that Satoru had so carelessly mentioned the night before. You sighed quietly, your quill scraping against the parchment as your thoughts drifted, mind half on the lesson and half on the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. Every so often, you glanced up, only to see Gojo doing exactly what he'd said he would do: napping.

His head was cradled in his arms, the silky white strands of hair fanning out around him like some sort of halo, and his chest rose and fell with each slow, rhythmic breath. You scoffed under your breath. Typical.

Turning your attention back to Snape, you could feel the tension build in the pit of your stomach. The silence in the room lingered longer than usual, and when his eyes met yours, it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Shit.

"[L/N], would you care to enlighten us?" Snape's voice was smooth, deliberate. "What exactly seems to be distracting you from this crucial lesson in the very field you have expressed an interest in pursuing upon graduation? Do you or do you not want to go to St. Mungo’s?"

You blinked, the weight of the question settling over you as you rose from your seat. There was no use in pretending; he saw right through you, as usual. "Sorry, sir," you mumbled, staring down at your notes with a sudden sense of urgency.

He didn't buy it. You could feel his presence looming over you as he approached your desk, the air thick with expectation. "Without consulting your notes," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing, "name five ingredients required to make this serum work effectively. Without fail."

Your stomach twisted, but you met his gaze. The whispers of your classmates buzzed at the edges of your hearing, but they didn’t matter. You had been listening—despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on you—and now it was time to prove it.

"Powdered unicorn horn, sir," you said, voice steady, making sure to pause, "for its restorative and revitalizing properties. Knotgrass. Ginseng Root. Phoenix feathers. And Essence of Dittany."

There was a long pause, his gaze unrelenting, studying you like a hawk eyeing its prey. For a moment, you thought your heart might beat out of your chest. Then, finally, he let out a low hum, almost as if he were impressed but refused to let it show.

Without another word, he turned, striding back to the front of the room, leaving a tense silence in his wake. You slowly exhaled, unaware that you’d been holding your breath. The weight on your shoulders lifted slightly, and you sank back into your seat, your quill still hovering over the paper.

You turned your head, drawn by the weight of his gaze. Gojo Satoru watched you, his expression unreadable, a kind of casual indifference that masked something deeper, something you couldn’t name. He didn’t look away, not at first, just met your eyes for a long, deliberate moment before letting his head slump down again, a silent punctuation to whatever this unspoken exchange had been. You rolled your eyes and forced your attention back to the lesson, willing your pulse to even out.

By the time you emerged from the classroom, booksack slung over one shoulder, he was waiting, as though he had planned it all along. He fell into step beside you, grinning the grin that always made you question why the universe bothered with him at all.

“Looks like you’ve been brushing up on Potions,” he said breezily. “I might actually have competition now.”

“You’re not all that great, Gojo,” you replied, voice flat with practiced disinterest. You waved a quick goodbye to Utahime and Nanami, your friends already slipping into the tide of students heading toward their next class.

“Besides,” you continued, “don’t you have Suguru to bother?”

He groaned theatrically. “Him and Shoko don’t have Potions with us first period this year. Absolute tragedy. If Suguru did, I wouldn’t have to spend every lecture napping.”

“You’re insufferable,” you said, scoffing. “How can you even—”

“Ask me anything,” he interrupted, hands tucked casually in his robe pockets, his tone too smug for someone talking about Potions theory. “Anything we learned today. Go on.”

You stared at him, wishing—for perhaps the hundredth time—that there weren’t rules against strangling your classmates. The image of your hands wrapped around his neck, his perfect jawline slackening, his too-blue eyes dimming, was fleeting but satisfying. Instead, you sighed, letting the moment pass.

“You’re a bastard,” you said, shaking your head. “I don’t have time for this. We’ve got Defense Against the Dark Arts now, and unlike you, I actually care about passing.”

“Ah, DADA. Another subject you just happen to excel at,” he drawled, his voice laced with mock admiration.

“I excel because I work for it, not because I’ve got daddy’s money and a legacy to coast on.”

“Convenient how you keep forgetting I’m better than you at everything,” he said, the grin widening.

“Not everything.”

“Oh, right. Because you’re the dueling queen now. We both remember what happened to that poor third-year's cat last year,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“And yet, I’ve beaten you. Twice.” You smirked, savoring the memory of those duels. “I am Head of the Dueling Club, remember?”

“Because you’re unbearable?”

“No. Because I’m better.”

“You still can’t get the Patron—”

“Gojo Satoru and [L/N] [Y/N].”

The voice was sharp and clipped, and you both turned as one. Professor McGonagall stood in the corridor, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“I trust,” she began, striding toward you with the air of someone who had better things to do than reprimand wayward students, “the two of you are maintaining decorum this year.”

You winced, the memory flaring sharp and uncomfortably vivid. Last year, an argument between you and Gojo had spiraled into chaos in the courtyard. Wands raised, tempers hot, and spells flying—until yours, a hex meant for Gojo, ricocheted off a stray shield charm and struck someone’s cat instead. The poor creature froze mid-leap, rigid and unblinking, to the horror of its owner and the delight of a small crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. McGonagall had arrived moments later, her reprimand as swift and merciless as her counter-curse. The scolding had burned itself into your memory, along with the mortifying sight of the cat limping off, thoroughly unimpressed. You'd received detention for the first time that year.

“Yes, Professor,” you said, your voice meek in comparison to how you’d spoken to Gojo moments earlier. “We were just heading to class.”

“Good.” Her sharp gaze flicked to Gojo, who suddenly seemed far less amused. “And I trust Mr. Gojo hasn’t been neglecting his responsibilities. If I find you late for your rounds again tonight, you’ll no longer be in contention for Captaincy of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Madam Hooch and Professor Snape will see to that. Do I make myself clear?”

Gojo swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, his voice devoid of its usual bravado.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, quickly masked behind your Potions textbook. His humiliation was rare, and you intended to savor every moment of it.

As you walked away from the corridor and towards DADA, your smile only widens. This year might just turn out to be more interesting than the last after all.

When you entered the Great Hall for dinner that night, you spotted Gojo immediately. He’s at the Slytherin table, a loose sprawl of limbs, his laughter a little too loud, his hair catching the light like spun silver. You glanced away before he hooked you in, too. It's a small, bitter truth: you would have liked to sit with Shoko tonight. But she was at the Slytherin table, and the social architecture of Hogwarts had always been unkind to cross-house friendships.

You settled instead next to Utahime, who is demolishing her plate with a ferocity that suggests starvation, and across from Nanami, who has arranged his roasted parsnips into orderly lines. You helped yourself to a pasty and let the quiet chaos of dinner roll around you.

“Do you have rounds tonight?” Nanami asks. His voice is steady, his gaze as deliberate as his movements. Everything about him measured, careful. A newly minted Prefect, he wore the title like it was a chore he knew he’d never be allowed to set down.

“No,” you said, reaching for another pasty. “Iori might.”

Both of you turned to Utahime, who paused her assault on a piece of roast lamb long enough to let out an exhausted sigh. “Of course I do,” she said. “I have rounds, I have Quidditch, I have first-years practically dangling off me like flobberworms. Did you know McGonagall’s been having me run drills with Itadori? That kid’s a menace. Eleven years old and flying like he was born with a broom in his hand. Eleven! At that age, I could barely manage not to knock myself out midair.”

“You got scouted at the end of first year,” you pointed out, narrowing your eyes at her.

“Because I broke half the bones in my body trying to,” she shot back, grabbing what looks like a slice of shepherd’s pie—or maybe baked potatoes. It was hard to tell anymore, the table a patchwork of dishes, all melting into each other. “Itadori didn’t even have to try. Just showed up and decided to be brilliant. No learning curve. No effort. Nothing.” She shakes her head as if personally offended. “I hate people like that.”

Nanami nodded solemnly, as if Itadori’s existence were a philosophical tragedy. You scarfed down a Yorkshire pudding, barely tasted it, and pushed your plate aside. “Going somewhere?” Utahime asked, raising an eyebrow. “You were eating like you had somewhere to be.” “Snape,” you lied smoothly, leaning back in your seat. “I had some errands from today’s class.” She snorted. “I heard what happened today. Good luck trying to appease that sourpuss.” You laughed, the sound light, harmless. It was an easy lie, so practiced that it slipped off your tongue without weight. Let her think it was Snape. Let her think it was anything but the truth.

The truth, as you glanced toward the Slytherin table, was waiting. Shoko caught your eye first, and you gave her a small wave and an exaggerated grin that she returned. She turned back to something Suguru was saying, and then, just for a moment, Gojo’s gaze found yours.

It was quick—imperceptible to anyone else, but it was there. A look. A nod. That was all it took.

He stood, his departure casual enough to be an afterthought, though you knew better. You watched him slip through the Great Hall doors, his frame momentarily silhouetted against the darkened corridor before he was gone.

You reached for dessert—chocolate gateau, custard—but left the ice cream untouched. No time tonight.

Something, or someone, awaited you. Both, perhaps.

“I’m heading up,” you murmured, pushing back your chair. “I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

Utahime barely glanced up. Nanami nodded, distracted. No one questioned it. Why would they? You gathered your things and stood, your resolve quiet but purposeful.

The lie had been effortless. The truth, however, was already starting to make its demands.

You stood, smoothing the creases of your robes with deliberate care, before slipping quietly out of the Great Hall. The buzz of conversation receded behind you, replaced by the low hum of torchlight flickering against stone walls. You moved quickly but not hurriedly, your eyes darting to the shadows, tracking movement that wasn’t there. You were certain the white-haired idiot had taken the quickest route—through Professor Fig’s classroom, perhaps ducking into the dungeons if he had been feeling bold. Typical Gojo, always choosing chaos and convenience in equal measure. You, of course, were left with the scenic route.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft as a feather, as you veered left down a quieter corridor. It was second nature by now, mapping out where Filch would be at this hour. Filch was predictable. His blasted cat, however, was not.

Rounding the corner, you stopped short. Mrs. Norris. The yellow-eyed menace herself. She sat planted in the middle of the corridor like a gargoyle come to life, her tail flicking languidly against the flagstone floor. Those unnervingly bulbous eyes fixated on you, unblinking, as though she had been expecting you all along.

You froze, your hand instinctively twitching toward your pocket—not for your wand, no, but for something far more effective. You had learned her ways, after all. It had taken a few unfortunate encounters, a near-miss with Filch, and a fair bit of trial and error, but you had cracked her code.

Fish pie. Trout. Even a sliver of smoked salmon would do. You had kept a stash since fourth year, just for occasions like this. Slowly, deliberately, you pulled a neatly wrapped morsel from your pocket and held it out. Her ears perked up, and for the briefest moment, you swore her sharp features softened. She approached, silent as a ghost, her eyes darting from you to the bribe.

You crouched, placing the offering on the stone. She sniffed once, twice, then devoured it with alarming efficiency. Satisfied, she gave you a look that felt almost approving, before slinking away into the shadows.

You exhaled, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you straightened up. Mrs. Norris might have been Filch’s enforcer, but even she had her price. You glanced down the corridor, the way clear now, and continued on your path. What awaited you at the end of this journey—well, that was a secret you intended to keep.

The Hospital Wing loomed just ahead, its faintly glowing windows casting soft squares of light onto the cold stone floor. You kept close to the shadows, your footsteps light as a whisper, your gaze flicking toward the open door. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight, but you knew better than to trust the stillness. She had an uncanny way of appearing precisely when students would have preferred her not to.

Your hand brushed the cool banister of the staircase as you ascended, the air shifting subtly, growing cooler and quieter with every step. The torches along the corridor flickered faintly, their light wavering as if uncertain whether to welcome or warn you. You glanced back once, twice, the hush of the castle wrapping itself around you like a cloak. You were close now. Close enough to feel the familiar pull in your chest, an inexplicable certainty that drew you forward.

The corridor narrowed, the stones beneath your feet vibrating faintly, like the heartbeat of the castle itself. You reached out, your fingers grazing the smooth curve of a pillar, and paused. The walls ahead began to shift. Slowly, subtly, they rippled like water disturbed by a single drop. Then, as if answering an unspoken request, the stones crackled and ground against each other, carving themselves into something new.

The outline of a door emerged, its edges glowing faintly before darkening into a deep, obsidian black. The transformation was seamless, almost elegant in its inevitability. A smile tugged at your lips, small and triumphant. The Room always answered, but the spectacle never failed to enchant.

You pressed your palm against the cool surface of the door, letting it ground you for a moment. The world felt impossibly quiet now, the weight of secrecy pressing against your ribs. One more glance over your shoulder, a final check to ensure you were alone. The corridor was empty, the castle asleep in its ancient stillness.

With a deep breath, you pushed the door open. It glided inward without resistance, revealing the familiar expanse beyond.

The Room of Requirement greeted you with its usual, maddening perfection. The cavernous ceiling stretched high above, shrouded in shadow, while bookshelves lined the walls in neat, endless rows. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the cozy seating arranged nearby. Round tables dotted the space, their surfaces scattered with parchment and ink. On the far side, a collection of training dummies stood silently, their worn surfaces gleaming faintly in the firelight. The space was vast and intimate all at once, a sanctuary conjured just for you.

But then your eyes landed on him.

Standing near the corner, his white hair catching the golden light like a beacon, was Gojo Satoru. He leans against a bookshelf with his usual infuriating ease, a smirk playing across his lips. His eyes, those unnervingly sharp blues, found yours immediately, and for a moment, you swore he’d been waiting here all along.

“Welcome back, Fawkes Junior,” he drawled, his voice breaking the spell of the room, his smirk deepening as he took in your expression. “You’re late.”

“No matter.” You shrugged, brushing past him and making your way to the sprawling pinboard that dominated the far wall. Tacked to it were parchment scraps and intricately scrawled maps of the castle, the grounds, even the surrounding Forbidden Forest. The parchment looked well-used, edges curling and stained with ink spills and hurried fingers. Across the room, a long table was strewn with yet more parchment, quills, and ink bottles. A small lantern burned low at its center, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Gojo had, at least, taken the liberty of setting up the space for that night’s work. Small mercies.

You shrugged your robe off, tossing it carelessly over a chair as you approached the table. “Let’s get started. How many requests so far?”

“Four,” Gojo replied, lounging lazily against the table with that infuriating grin of his. He tapped his finger against a short list he'd scribbled onto a scrap of parchment. “All from different drop points. I checked the rest last night, after rounds. Nothing new since.”

You leaned over the table, your eyes scanning the list. One particular entry caught your attention—a hastily written note, its ink smudged and nearly illegible. You tapped it with your finger. “Is this one from Reynard Willis? That new fifth-year transfer from Ilvermorny?”

Gojo smirked, his white hair catching the light in a way that made you want to throttle him. “The very same. Apparently, he was in desperate need of a Time-Turner. Got himself into some… personal entanglements he’d like to sort out.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “A Time-Turner? Is he insane? How does he even know about us?”

“Word gets around,” Gojo said with a shrug, though his grin widened. “Shall we indulge him?”

“Absolutely not,” you said firmly, shaking your head. “From what I’ve heard, he’s the type to lose his own wand, let alone keep something like that safe. No. Too risky. Reject it and take up this one instead.” You pointed to another request, this one penned in neat, precise handwriting. “Partridge Locks, seventh year. Wants her Charms grades adjusted from a pop quiz. Harmless enough. We won’t even have to touch her professors’ files—just a quick charm on the grade book.”

“Boring,” Gojo groaned. “Though you’re right. Getting caught stealing Time-Turners from McGonagall’s office would be catastrophic. You’re lucky you already have one. You get to parade around with something so precious while I—”

“I use it to attend all my classes,” you interrupted, rolling your eyes. “History of Magic and Ancient Runes are scheduled at the same time this year, and I wasn’t about to choose between them. Believe me, it’s hardly glamorous.”

“Still not fair,” he muttered, pouting. “Alright, fine. I’ll handle Locks. If I time it right, I can slip into Flitwick’s classroom through the dungeons.” He leaned over the map, tracing a path from the Hospital Wing to the Astronomy Tower. “Exit here, loop back toward the Great Hall, and no one will even notice.”

You crossed your arms, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Is there one for me? These other two seem simple enough. What’s this one about sneaking a love potion into the Ravenclaw Tower?” You plucked the parchment from the pile, scanning it. “Ooh, to Higuruma? Interesting. That could be fun. Though he’s clever—he probably wouldn’t drink it.”

Gojo snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Clever? Please. He’s a Prefect, not a genius. You could slip it into his breakfast tomorrow morning, and he’d down it without a second thought. Besides,” he added with a dramatic wave of his hand, “I hate sneaking into the Ravenclaw Tower. Riddles to get inside? Who has the patience for that?”

You laughed, a quiet, mischievous sound that echoed softly in the dim room. “Fine. I’ll take care of it. But if he figures it out, I’m blaming you.”

“No one even knows who the Marauders are,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an air of smug satisfaction. “For all they know, we could be an underground organization—some shadowy network pulling strings behind the scenes. It’s kind of brilliant if you think about it. Nobody suspects it’s just two bored students who stumbled across the Room of Requirement and thought it’d be fun to enchant parts of the castle to take requests.”

His grin widened, and you hated how infuriatingly infectious it was. “Come on, Fawkes, loosen up a little.”

“Loosen up?” You shot him a pointed look, then crossed your arms, leaning against the table. “You almost revealed to the entire Potions corridor that we can conjure Patronuses. Patronuses, Gojo. Do you even comprehend how much trouble we’d be in if McGonagall overheard? Let alone Snape. Although, knowing him, he’d probably let you off the hook and come after me instead. I’d be expelled before you could blink.”

You shuddered at the thought, and he snorted. “You’re such a goody-two-shoes. It’s honestly painful.”

“And yet, somehow, I still don’t know what your Patronus is,” you grumbled, narrowing your eyes at him. “The one thing I’m actually curious about, and you keep it locked up like some great clan secret.”

“It was all part of the mystery,” he said, his lips curling into that insufferable smirk. “Anyway, I’ve been working on something. A little… project. Something that might help us out.”

��What kind of project?” you asked, one brow arching.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He clicked his tongue, wagging a finger at you. “You think I’m just going to tell you? Please. You’ll see it when it’s done. Next week, maybe. Until then, you’ll just have to suffer in suspense.”

You rolled your eyes, exhaling dramatically. “I hate you, you know that?”

He grinned, all teeth and mischief, as though he’d won some unspoken game. You grabbed another parchment from the pile on the table and scanned it, a frown tugging at your lips. “Take this one, too,” you said, sliding it toward him. “A Quidditch request. Someone—oh, of course, it’s a Slytherin—wants us to hex a Bludger for next week’s Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw match. Anarchists, the lot of you. Just want to watch the world burn.”

He laughed, the sound reverberating off the high stone walls. “What can I say? Chaos is entertaining.”

You dropped into the chair where your robe was slung, your posture dissolving into a practiced slouch. “This year better be fun,” you muttered, your voice edged with a hint of boredom. “These requests have been so dull. Remember last year, when someone asked us to enchant everyone’s quills during the O.W.L.s? Now that was creative. I want more of that. Something… exciting.”

Gojo leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze gleaming with intrigue. “Patience, Fawkes. You never know what the castle might throw our way.”

You sighed, letting your head tilt back against the chair, the flickering torchlight casting strange, restless shadows across the room. Despite the monotony of the tasks before you, there was an undeniable thrill in the secrecy, the subterfuge, the strange magic that bound you and Gojo to the whispers of the castle.

And somewhere, deep down, you knew this was only the beginning.

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aventurineswife · 3 months ago

Note

Can I make a request for Veritas and Kaveh and how they react to the reader taking care of them after a long day of work, even when they insist they're fine? (Established relationship).

Tides of Solace

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Kaveh x Reader, Established Relationship, Fluff, Comfort, Caring/Supportive Reader, Gentle Touch, Vulnerability, Emotional Healing, Slow Burn, Introspection.

Warnings: Mild exhaustion (physical and emotional), Light mentions of overworking/stress, Mild pride issues.

It had been a long day. Ratio had spent hours in the Intelligentsia Guild's archives, poring over documents, theorizing new methods to combat ignorance, and lecturing on the importance of knowledge. As usual, he pushed himself to the limits of his intellect, all while dismissing any signs of exhaustion that might have crept up on him. He was a man of intellect, after all, and to rest would be to acknowledge weakness.

Yet, as he entered the modest quarters he shared with you, a shift in the air told him something was different tonight. The warm glow of the lamps softened the edges of his usual sharp demeanor, and a quiet peace seemed to settle in the room. He hadn't noticed you sitting at the small table, an empty cup of tea still warm beside you.

Ratio sighed softly, running a hand through his hair, the weight of the day lingering on his shoulders despite his attempts to mask it. "I'm fine," he said, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his words. "A mere nuisance. Nothing to worry about."

You rose from your seat, walking over to him with a soft smile. Without a word, you reached up and began to remove his arm braces, carefully placing them aside as he silently watched you. His usual air of self-assurance melted as your hands moved with such precision, as though you knew his body better than he did himself.

"Veritas," you said gently, "You don't always have to carry the world on your shoulders."

"I do," he replied without hesitation, though there was a quiet softness in his eyes as he met your gaze. "Who else will? The ignorance of the universe is vast, and it's my burden to bear."

You smiled, knowing how much his sense of responsibility weighed on him. But tonight, you wouldn't let him carry it alone. You led him to the couch, settling beside him as you wrapped a warm blanket around his shoulders. You didn’t speak for a while, letting the silence speak volumes. Slowly, his shoulders relaxed, and the tension he'd been holding onto all day began to ease.

"I’m not asking you to bear it alone," you whispered. "I’m here for you, always."

Ratio’s eyes softened, his gaze meeting yours for a moment longer before he closed his eyes. For the first time all day, he allowed himself to truly rest, his mind quieting beneath the comfort of your presence. He could feel his intellect slipping into peaceful surrender, and for once, he allowed it.

“Thank you,” he murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t hear him.

Kaveh had spent the entire day overseeing the restoration of one of Sumeru's ancient landmarks. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and his body felt the toll of the hours he'd spent bent over blueprints and giving impassioned speeches to his workers. Yet, in his heart, he was content—he had done his part to contribute to something greater than himself.

When he entered his shared living space with Alhaitham and you, however, the fatigue hit him all at once. His usual jovial smile seemed a little more strained, his usual wit absent as he made his way toward the small table where you sat, already preparing a warm cup of tea.

"I'm fine," he said, brushing a lock of hair from his face as he collapsed into the chair opposite you, though his tone was less certain than usual. "Really, it's just... a long day. I can handle it."

You didn't respond with words; instead, you set the tea aside and stood, moving toward him. Your gentle touch on his shoulders made him sigh deeply, his back slumping under your hands. He knew better than to resist—after all, he'd seen how you took care of him in small, thoughtful ways, but his pride often kept him from asking for help.

He chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "I suppose it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it? Letting someone take care of me. I’m supposed to be the one helping others."

"You don't always have to be the one giving," you said, guiding him to the couch. "Let me help you for once."

As you began to loosen the straps on his sash, Kaveh allowed himself to let go of his usual walls. He leaned back, eyes closing for a moment as you worked. His heart, too, seemed to soften in the quiet of your touch.

"You always know just how to make me feel better," Kaveh admitted, his voice tinged with both vulnerability and gratitude. "I don’t deserve it, but I’m glad you’re here."

You could feel his tense muscles begin to relax as your hands worked over them, loosening the knots of stress he'd carried all day. His breath deepened, and for a moment, the worries of the world melted away. You settled beside him, offering him the tea you'd prepared earlier, and he took it with a faint smile.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes meeting yours with genuine sincerity. "I’ve always thought of myself as strong, but I think I’m realizing that I’m stronger when I have you by my side."

Kaveh’s heart, ever so tender and full of passion, found peace in your care. The idealist within him might have once rejected this form of help, but tonight, he welcomed it—and, in doing so, he welcomed you deeper into his life.

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thewulf · 11 months ago

Text

Frosted Steel || Cassian

Summary: Request -Can i request a Cassian x Reader?? Here's what I'm thinking-Reader is from winter court. She's gifted with unique ice-binding magic from her home and arrives in Velaris to help Rhysand finalize a critical peace treaty?... Read Rest Here

A/N: Well... this one got away from me hahaha but I had a blast writing it. Def in the zone writing these ACOTAR fics so please keep sending them my way!

Pairing: Cassian x Female Reader (Winter Court Reader)

Word Count: 9.8k + (WHOOPS)

TW: swords, reader gets cut, blood, general ACOTAR warnings

In the silent, shimmering halls of the Winter Court you stood before Kallias, your father and the formidable High Lord. His piercing blue eyes reflect both concern and determination as he addresses you. The throne room was usually a place of austere beauty but felt colder today. The frost patterns on the walls mirroring the tension in the air.

"Velaris is not just another city, and this is not merely a diplomatic visit my daughter," Kallias begins. His voice resonant and commanding. "Rhysand needs our support to finalize a peace treaty that could stabilize relations of the Winter Court for generations. I need someone who can represent our interests with both power and delicacy. Someone like you."

You shift slightly with your boots whispering against the icy floor. "But father, my magic is suited for creation not conflict. Surely there are others better suited to navigate the intricacies of a peace treaty?" You tried your best to convince him, but it was sure to fall of deaf ears. When he had a plan there was no talking him out of it.

Kallias rises. His height and presence filling the room with an almost tangible force. "No one else possesses your unique abilities or your perspective," he insists. "You understand the fragile nature of peace. This treaty needs more than just political acumen… it needs the trust and bond that only your magic can foster." You knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to flatter you. You lowered your gaze knowing there was no talking him out of this. You felt the weight of his expectations pressing into you. It is an honor yes, but a daunting one, nonetheless. The responsibility feels as heavy as the ice that clings to the peaks of your homeland.

Seeing your hesitation Kallias softens before stepping down from the dais to place a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "I would not ask this of you if I did not believe in your ability to carry our hopes," he says. His tone infused with a rare warmth. "You have always risen to the challenges presented to you, greater though they may seem."

Drawing a deep breath you nod, accepting the mantle he's offering. "I will go to Velaris. I will help broker this peace." You spoke even though you truly did not want to go.

Kallias smiles with pride evident in his eyes. "Rhysand has arranged for an escort to meet you at the city gates. They will ensure your safety and aid in your acclimation to the Night Court's ways. Spend some time there. Get to know them. It will only aid in our recovery efforts after the war.” As you turn to leave your heart steadies itself. The path ahead is uncertain and is filled with potential alliances and hidden perils. But as the frost air fills your lungs you feel your resolve harden. You will meet this challenge as you have met all others with the cool grace and quiet strength of winter itself.

He didn’t give you long to get ready to leave. Within a day you were already finding yourself at the outskirts of Velaris, the once hidden city of the Night Court. As you step through the threshold into the city your senses are immediately overwhelmed by the vivid contrasts. Unlike the icy, silent elegance of your homeland, Velaris pulses with life. Its streets bustling with faeries of every conceivable form and hue. The air here carries the warmth of starlight even into the night. It was a stark contrast to the crisp, cold air of the Winter Court. Your unique ice-binding magic was a rare gift in your cold dominion, and it stirred within you responding to the latent energies of this foreign land.

Your arrival isn't just a mere visit as your father had informed you. It's a mission charged with the weight of potential peace or conflict. Directed by your father you are here to assist Rhysand, the famed High Lord of the Night Court and one you were incredibly intimidated by, in finalizing the critical peace treaty. The responsibility weighs heavily on your shoulders as the outcome could define the future relationships between your frigid realm and the temperate lands of the Night Court.

As you glide through the throngs of fae your eyes marvel at the architectural wonders of Velaris. The buildings around you display intricate designs that emit an ethereal glow, seeming both ancient and vibrantly alive. Despite the surrounding beauty you remain vigilant, your magic at the ready. Your heart beats a complex rhythm of excitement and caution as you near the meeting point. In Velaris, amidst allies and strangers, you must navigate the intricacies of court politics. Utilizing your magical talents for diplomacy and perhaps learn to defend yourself in more ways than one.

However, a different sensation stirs within you—a blend of nervousness and unease—as you anticipate your first encounter with Rhysand and Feyre. Both are Daemati, a kind of power that deeply unsettles you. This fear stems from a harrowing past encounter with a Daemati under Amarantha's command who had mercilessly killed twelve children of the Winter Court. One of these children was your Ivy. She was a young fae you were mentoring. Ivy, like yourself, possessed potent abilities but her promise was brutally cut short. She was a loss that still haunts you to this day.

Now as you approach the House of Wind with your escort a mix of fear and determination tingles through your nerves. You replay the pain of your past and the loss that continuously gnaws at your spirit. Yet, you steady yourself with the knowledge that your father has prepared you well to shield your thoughts. He had trained you relentlessly once he returned from under the mountain. At the time it frustrated you but now, in this moment, you are profoundly grateful for his persistence.

Rhysand and Feyre greet you at the grand entrance. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and intimidating. Rhysand's dark hair and piercing gaze are balanced by a surprisingly warm smile. While Feyre's poise and grace exude a calm strength. Though their reputations are fair and just leaders precede them you can't shake the lingering trepidation of their unique abilities.

"Welcome to Velaris," Rhysand says. His voice both smooth and inviting. "We are honored to assist the Winter Court in these crucial talks."

You manage a polite nod making sure to keep your mental shields tightly woven, an invisible armor against any potential intrusion. Rhysand’s eyes seem to glimmer with a hint of understanding, but he makes no move to address the unspoken tension.

Feyre then steps forward with a gentle smile. Her empathy palpable even without words. "We hope you find comfort here during your stay. If there's anything you need at all, please let us know."

As they lead you through the corridors of their home filled with the light of glowing crystals and the scent of night-blooming flowers you remind yourself of the mission at hand. You are here to negotiate peace. To secure a future for your court. Despite the warmth of their welcome, you remain vigilant, prepared to protect your thoughts and heart from the painful memories of the past and the daunting power of the present.

After showing you to your room, a beautiful space with a view of Velaris that twinkles like a starlit sky, Feyre gently suggests that you join them for dinner. As you follow her down to the dining area your nervousness manifests subtly. Your leg shakes rhythmically, a silent tick showing the unease churning inside you. The room is beautifully set with candles flickering softly. They cast a warm light over the array of dishes that smell of spices and something sweetly floral.

You take your seat making sure to deliberately avoid the gazes of Rhysand and Feyre who try to make the atmosphere as welcoming as possible. Your leg continues to shake under the table and despite their friendly demeanor you find yourself unable to meet their eyes. You choose instead to focus on the intricate patterns of the tablecloth. You felt terribly out of your element. Why had your father sent you here? You couldn’t even look them in the eyes, how were you going to negotiate peace with them?

Noticing your discomfort Rhysand addresses the elephant in the room with a gentle directness. "It must be quite unsettling being far from home and surrounded by strangers. Especially strangers who possess abilities that might seem... invasive. We both understand the significance of mental privacy and consent," he begins. His tone imbued with empathy. His acknowledgment of his and Feyre's Daemati powers catches your attention prompting you to glance up briefly.

"We're committed to using our powers to protect and heal, never to harm or coerce," Rhysand continues hoping to ease your worry. "It's a rule we hold sacred in Velaris. A promise to each other and to those we welcome into our home."

As Rhysand speaks there is a sincerity radiating with each word. You find the courage to lift your eyes and meet his gaze for the first time this evening. Something in his expression, a deep-seated earnestness, cuts through the fog of your apprehension. You nod slowly acknowledging his pledge and the safety it promises.

"Thank you," you speak quietly. "I've heard much about both of you and your abilities. Forgive me for being so… cold." The smirk that follows is light and tinged with the irony of your homeland's icy reputation.

Your gaze shifts between Rhysand and Feyre. Their attentive postures encouraging you to continue. "The reason for my caution," you explain, "stems from a… an awful experience. One of the children taken by Amarantha's enforcer was under my protection. Her name was Ivy. I was supposed to shield her. Protect her. To nurture her abilities. But I could only watch helpless as her mind was torn apart. Piece by piece. It was... traumatizing to say the least. The fear of that power. The fear of it being used again so mercilessly has stayed with me." You let out the breath you were holding feeling a weight being slowly lifted off your shoulders in your admission.

Taking a deep breath, you fight through the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. "Ivy was more than just a pupil to me. She was like a daughter," you begin. Your voice trembling as the words spill out. “Young and brilliant. Her very presence could brighten the darkest winter nights. She had a rare gift for ice magic. The kind that comes once in a generation. Ivy could weave frost into intricate sculptures of breathtaking beauty. She could coax snowflakes into patterns that told stories. Her magic wasn’t just powerful, it was art. Art in the purest and most captivating form."

Your voice cracks as the memory surges forward, raw, and as sharp as the day it happened. "When the enforcer came, I tried to shield her. I stood between them. I begged him to take me instead. But he just laughed..." Your hands clench into fists at the memory with you nails digging into your palms as if to anchor you against the pain. "And then he turned his attention to her. Ivy was just a girl. A beautiful little girl brimming with potential, and I had to watch from a distance… utterly powerless, as he ripped it all away. Her screams... the look of sheer terror in her eyes... it's etched into my memory. A nightmare that never fades."

Pausing, you swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears as they threaten to breach your composure. "I couldn't save her. The guilt of that moment, the utter helplessness. It’s haunted me ever since." You wipe away a tear that manages to escape, your voice a whisper now. "That’s why I’m so wary around Daemati. That’s why your powers… even though I know you use them for good, initially stirred such deep fear in me. The memory of what was done with similar abilities. It terrifies me still."

As you finish the room is enveloped in a heavy silence. Rhysand and Feyre absorbing the depth of your pain. Each of their faces etched with compassion and sorrow for your loss. Feyre's reaction is immediate and visceral. Her eyes fill with tears, and they silently overflow as she listens to the end of your harrowing experience. Moved deeply by your pain and the horrific loss of Ivy, she can barely contain her distress, reflecting her profound empathy.

"I'm so sorry," Feyre whispers. Her voice quivering as she reaches across the table, seeking to provide comfort even as she struggles with her own reaction. "That you had to go through that, to witness such horror... it's just unthinkable. I can't express how deeply sorry I am for your loss and your pain."

Rhysand's expression is one of solemn resolve as he observes both you and Feyre. He places a reassuring hand on her shoulder offering her a silent strength before turning his attention to you with a serious yet compassionate gaze. "What happened to Ivy, the terror she endured—such things are what we fight against every day," he says firmly. "Under my watch we hold ourselves to a promise: that we use our power to protect, to heal, not to harm. What you experienced will not happen here. You have my word." He nods his head in reverence.

The sincerity in Rhysand's voice and his protective assurance coupled with Feyre's empathetic tears create a poignant moment of understanding and solidarity. It offers a small yet significant reassurance that in Velaris you might find not only safety but also allies who genuinely care about your well-being.

As dinner progresses the conversation gradually shifts towards lighter topics. Focusing on the details of the peace treaty. The atmosphere has eased significantly with Rhysand and Feyre both engaging in thoughtful dialogue about the future plans and the roles each court might play in fostering peace. You find yourself becoming more invested in the conversation feeling a bit more at ease with each passing moment.

Just as you're beginning to relax fully the door bursts open and two figures storm in, deep in a heated debate. Their voices are raised, each trying to overpower the other with their arguments.

“You think charging in without a plan is the answer, Cassian? That’s reckless, even for you,” the darker-haired one asserts, his expression intense and clearly frustrated.

“And you think waiting around is going to solve our problems, Az? We can’t just leave it unresolved!” the larger man retorts with his broad frame gesturing emphatically.

Rhysand sighs, setting down his utensils before looking between his two friends. “Alright, what’s this about?” he asks, ready to mediate with a practiced ease.

As Cassian and Azriel's loud entrance interrupted the dinner your eyes immediately locked with Cassian's. Despite the intensity of their ongoing argument something about his direct gaze halted all other thoughts. It was as if a gust of wind had swept through the room, leaving you momentarily breathless. Amidst the unexpected disruption the corner of your mouth quirked up in amusement. Such candid, boisterous dynamics were a rare sight back in the Winter Court and the sheer openness of it all struck you as refreshingly odd. Even as the argument continued your focus remained riveted on Cassian. You found it impossible to break away from his gaze, his eyes holding a mixture of passion and warmth that was intensely captivating.

Catching your amused smile, Cassian halts mid-sentence. A playful glint appearing in his eyes. “And who do we have here?” he asks. His tone shifting to one of curiosity mixed with a hint of charm. “A spy from the Winter Court come to watch us squabble like market hagglers?”

Azriel rolls his eyes at Cassian’s dramatics. “Ignore him. Cassian thinks every new face is part of a grand intrigue.”

Rhysand chuckles and intervenes before Cassian can respond. “No spies here, just Kallias’s daughter from the Winter Court. She’s here to assist with the peace treaty negotiations. Remember?” Rhysand explains gesturing toward you with a warm smile. “And apparently to witness the Night Court's General and Spymaster in their, let’s say, natural habitat.”

Cassian’s face lights up with a broad grin as he extends a hand in greeting. His earlier fervor now redirected into welcoming you. “Well then, welcome to Velaris! I’m Cassian, the General. And the brooding shadow over there is Azriel, our Spymaster. Seems you’ve got a front-row seat to our tactical disputes.”

Azriel gives you a nod, his earlier annoyance fading into a reserved smile. "It’s good to meet you. Please don’t mind us. We argue, but it’s all in the spirit of making the best decisions for our people."

Your initial amusement grows into a genuine smile, touched by the warmth and candidness of their welcome, even amidst their lively disputes. This evening has certainly turned out to be full of surprises. Painting a vivid picture of the Night Court as a place of vibrant personalities and fierce loyalty.

As the energy from their spirited discussions simmers down and the laughter echoes into a comfortable lull you take the opportunity to express your amusement at their robust debate. Greeting Cassian and Azriel warmly you share how refreshing you find the candid nature of the Night Court. It's a stark contrast to the more reserved and formal interactions typical of the Winter Court, sparking your curiosity about the dynamics of this lively group.

"Well, it's certainly different here," you comment with a light laugh. "I'm looking forward to seeing more of this... enthusiasm during my stay. I'll be here for a month or so. I hope to learn as much as I can."

Rhysand, seizing on your mention of an extended stay, exchanges a quick glance with Cassian. He gave him a sly smile as he senses his brothers attention shifting toward you almost immediately. "A month or so gives us plenty of time," he says thoughtfully. "If you're interested in learning more than just politics perhaps you'd like to join some of our training sessions? Cassian here leads our warriors and I'm sure he could arrange something that accommodates your skills and interests."

Cassian’s eyes light up at the suggestion. He was always eager to bring someone new into the fold of his training regimens. Especially someone as unique as you seemed to be. "Absolutely," he agrees with an enthusiastic nod. "It’s not all sword swinging and strength training. We focus on strategy, agility, and even some elemental control that might align nicely with your ice magic. It could be a good way to blend some of the Winter Court techniques with ours."

As Rhysand suggests joining the training sessions you hesitate, a flicker of doubt crossing your face. "I appreciate the offer but I'm not really a fighter," you admit slightly apologetic in your nature. "My strengths lie more in diplomacy and magic, particularly ice magic. I'm not sure how well I'd fit into a warrior's training regimen."

Rhysand, observing the interplay at the table, seems particularly keen on your participation. His insight as a leader might allow him to sense the undercurrent of interest from Cassian toward you. Something potentially deeper than it appears. He pushes gently but with a knowing smile, "It’s not just about fighting. It’s about understanding different perspectives and disciplines. It could be a valuable experience."

Cassian although typically straightforward and jovially aggressive, adopts a slightly softer demeanor. His usual bravado tempered by earnestness. "Training can also be about balance and harmony. About integrating the physical with the magical. Your skills could bring a fresh perspective, not just to our tactics but to our understanding of magic and combat."

Then Azriel, who normally stays quiet in such discussions adds his own encouragement. His subdued voice carrying weight. "It’s worth exploring. Sometimes stepping into unfamiliar territory reveals more about our strengths. It could be enlightening for all of us."

Cassian's expression briefly reveals his surprise at Azriel’s interjection. It was a small, almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows signaling to you that Azriel's encouragement is out of the ordinary. This small gesture subtly hints at the importance of the moment.

Feyre as if sensing the nuanced shifts in the conversation supports their suggestions with a warm and inclusive gesture. "It’s also a way to connect with everyone here. Our training sessions are as much about building relationships as they are about building skills. It would be wonderful to have you join, even just a few times to see how it feels."

Encouraged by their collective support and Cassian's surprised yet approving glance following Azriel's seemingly rare endorsement you find yourself reconsidering their proposal more seriously. "Alright. I'll give it a try," you agree, a tentative excitement building within you. "This will be very… interesting."

"Excellent," Cassian says. His eyes brightening with enthusiasm. "We’ll start at a pace that feels right for you. It’s about growth and learning, not just exertion."

As the dinner concludes and plans for your training begin to take shape you can't help but feel an intriguing pull towards what lies ahead. The possibility of new friendships and perhaps deeper bonds begins to form, hinting at the start of an enriching journey within the Night Court.

On your first day at the training grounds, the crisp morning air of Velaris is invigorating, filled with the sounds of clashing weapons and distant calls from sparring partners. Cassian leads you to a quieter section reserved for one-on-one sessions away from the more vigorous activities of his usual warriors. The atmosphere is slightly tense. The space between you filled with cautious curiosity. Each of you is clearly gauging the other trying to find a comfortable rhythm in this new training partnership.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," Cassian suggests. His tone friendly but carrying a hint of challenge. He watches intently as you demonstrate some basic maneuvers with your ice magic. You created delicate yet sharp frost patterns that float gracefully in the air. His nods of approval are sparing, and you can tell he’s mentally noting each display of skill though he keeps his feedback measured and professional.

As the days progress the initial stiffness that marked your interactions begins to melt away. Cassian’s coaching style is intense. His commands are sharp, his expectations high. However, as you meet his challenges with increasing confidence you begin to understand the method behind his rigor. You also start to catch glimpses of humor in his sharp eyes. A sign that there’s more to this formidable warrior than just discipline and strength.

"Try not to freeze my soldiers. We’re running out of good men as it is," he jokes one morning after you skillfully direct a swirl of ice around a training dummy skillfully stopping just short of a group of soldiers watching nearby.

With a small laugh you shoot back, "I thought the Night Court could handle a little cold."

His laughter in response is hearty. A sound that seems to echo around the quiet corner of the training grounds. It's a turning point, signaling a shift from mutual respect to something warmer, more friendly.

By the end of the week your training sessions are characterized by easy banter and playful challenges. One afternoon Cassian dodges your icy projectiles with nimble grace only to slip slightly on a patch of ice you cunningly left in his path. "Not bad for a scrawny little thing," he grins while steadying himself with the agility of a cat.

In response you flash a mischievous smile and with a subtle flick of your wrist, you freeze his boots to the ground. "And not bad for a brawny brute," you retort. Laughter bursts from a few nearby trainees who have started to look forward to these exchanges between the two of you.

Cassian manages to break free before brushing ice from his boots with mock indignation. "You’re going to pay for that one," he warns though his eyes sparkle with amusement.

As the week draws to a close the training ground has transformed from a place of cautious appraisal to one of growth and friendship. Your sessions with Cassian are no longer just about learning to integrate your ice magic with physical combat. They’re also about the laughter shared over slipped footing, the shared grins after successful maneuvers, and the light-hearted jests that now flow freely between you. This evolving camaraderie promises not just improved skills but a deepening bond, hinting at the development of a relationship built on respect, challenge, and mutual delight in each other's company.

The atmosphere at the training grounds is usually charged with the sounds of diligent practice but today there’s an added layer of excitement due to some young onlookers from the Night Court. Cassian plans a session that balances demonstrations of your unique ice magic with some basic combat techniques hoping to impress not just you but the eager young fae watching from a distance.

Wearing your elegant Winter Court attire, which was more suited for display than combat, you find yourself not in your usual training leathers. Today was supposed to be about finesse and control not full-contact sparring. As Cassian readies the next exercise you catch the eyes of the children peeking out from behind the trees. Their expressions were filled with awe and curiosity. Smiling back at them your attention momentarily drifts from the task at hand.

Cassian notices your distraction and the intricate fabric of your attire raising an eyebrow in mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to change into something more... practical?" he asks you once more. His voice laced with skepticism.

You shake your head while stepping forward confidently. "I believe today's session can benefit from a different approach," you explain. Your voice steady, confident. "My attire from the Winter Court is designed not only for aesthetics but for mobility in a certain style of combat. It’s more strategic and less about direct confrontation. It might offer a new perspective for your warriors."

Cassian looks dubious but intrigued by your assurance and the potential learning opportunity for his trainees. After a moment of consideration, he nods slowly. "Alright," he concedes. His tone cautious yet curious. "We'll adjust today's training to focus on technique and precision. We'll go light on the physical combat to accommodate your attire."

Grateful for his flexibility you prepare to demonstrate that finesse and strategy can be as effective as brute strength hoping to prove the value of your unique approach and the versatility of your court's combat style.

As dusk deepened over the training grounds, the session with Cassian was intensifying. He was fully focused on you, guiding, and challenging you with each swing of his blunted training blade. He did not notice Azriel's silent approach until his brother was almost beside them, landing softly. The sudden appearance of Azriel, so smooth and silent, caught your eye at the crucial moment.

Cassian, thinking you were prepared and about to dodge, continued with his planned attack and swung the blunted blade in a broad, sweeping motion towards you. Normally you would have sidestepped smoothly but distracted by Azriel's unexpected arrival you froze. The blade, though blunt for training, struck directly against your side with surprising force due to your lack of movement. The impact was hard enough to slice through the delicate fabric of your Winter Court dress and nick your skin, drawing a line of blood.

Immediately realizing the mishap Cassian dropped his sword and rushed to your side, his expression flooded with concern. "Are you alright? I thought you saw me coming," he asked quickly as his voice was laced with worry.

Trying to mask the sharp sting and the sudden warmth of blood seeping through your dress, you attempted to reassure him, "I’m okay, Cassian, really, it was just a shock more than anything—"

But as you spoke a wave of dizziness overwhelmed you, your knees buckling under the dual assault of pain and sudden faintness. As you started to fall Cassian instinctively reached out, catching you just in time. His hands which were initially meant to steady you felt the wetness of blood through the fabric of your dress. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the bright red on his hands realizing the cut was more serious than a mere scrape.

Without a moment's hesitation Cassian scooped you up into his arms. His movements were swift and filled with urgent care. He looked up at Azriel who had stepped forward, concern etching his features. "Keep the training going, Az. I’m taking her to Madja, now," Cassian instructed firmly. His voice carrying the weight of his resolve.

Azriel nodded understanding the gravity of the situation and stepped back to allow Cassian to pass. Cassian, holding you securely, moved with purposeful speed towards the infirmary. His mind was racing with worry. The flight was quick. His powerful wings beating against the cool air of the evening, each stroke propelling you further away from the training grounds and closer to the healing hands of Madja.

As he flew you clung to him feeling the cool air against your face, which helped alleviate some of the dizziness. "I'm really okay, Cassian," you tried to assure him again, your voice soft, noticing the tension in his body, the way his jaw was set with worry. "It’s just a little cut, I think. I’m sure it’s already healed up."

Cassian only tightened his hold, a gesture of protective care. "We're not taking any chances," he said firmly. His tone brooking no argument. "You’re getting checked out, no arguments."

Suspended in the air, held securely in Cassian's embrace, you noticed the tension in his expression. His jaw set firmly as he navigated through the skies. Wanting to alleviate his concern and lighten the mood you looked up at him, your voice competing with the rush of the wind. "Okay, no arguing," you conceded with a soft, reassuring smile. "But how about an even less swordy day at training tomorrow?"

"You know, maybe we should consider taking a rest day tomorrow," Cassian suggested hesitantly. His voice carrying a protective tone. "Just to be sure you're fully recovered. It might not be wise to jump right back into training."

You looked up at him feeling the warmth of his care but also a spark of your own determination not to be sidelined by a small injury. "I appreciate your concern, Cassian, but really, I feel fine," you countered quickly. A hint of stubbornness in your tone. "A light day as planned with some tactical drills. Nothing too strenuous. I think it would be good for me. For you"

Cassian raised an eyebrow with a small smile breaking through as he sensed your resolve. "Oh, how quickly you've changed your tune, princess," he remarked with a playful smirk. The affectionate tease in his voice floated on the wind as he continued to fly, his grip around you reassuring and strong.

The brief exchange brought a light-heartedness to the moment and Cassian's smile broadened slightly appreciating your spirit and resilience. "Alright, tactical drills it is then. But at the first sign of any discomfort, we're taking a break," he conceded. His tone still carrying a hint of caution but softened by his growing trust in your judgment.

As you both neared the infirmary the flight through the crisp evening air felt less like a rush to aid and more like a shared journey back to stability. Cassian's initial hesitation faded, replaced by a quiet confidence in your resilience and a deepening sense of connection between you. The city of Velaris spread out beneath you, a silent witness to the bond that was strengthening with every beat of Cassian's wings and every word exchanged above the rooftops.

Landing smoothly at the infirmary Cassian carried you inside where Madja was already preparing her tools. Cassian gently laid you down on a cot as his hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes were searching yours for any sign of further distress.

Madja quickly assessed the situation. She cleaned the wound and confirmed it was shallow. Though the blood loss and the shock had caused your faintness. "You'll be fine. Just a little rest and you’ll be up in no time," she reassured both you and Cassian, more so Cassian, who finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

You turn to Cass with a smirk playing on your lips. "See, told you so, General," you tease in an attempt to ease the palpable tension that had followed you from the training grounds.

Cassian's relief is immediate and visible. He lets out a deep breath, the tightness in his shoulders relaxing as he returns your smirk with a wry smile. "Fine, you were right. But let’s avoid making this a habit, shall we?"

Before you can respond the infirmary door swings open abruptly. Rhysand strides in, his expression a mixture of concern and command clearly having been summoned by Cassian’s urgent mental call. His eyes are wide as he quickly scans the room landing on you sitting relatively unscathed on the infirmary bed.

"Are you alright?" Rhysand asks. His voice tight with concern. He moves closer. His gaze flicking from you to Cassian, seeking an explanation.

You nod reassuring him with a calm smile. "I’m just fine, Rhys. Really, it was much less dramatic than it seems. Cassian has been worried enough for everyone," you say, glancing at Cassian with a playful raise of your eyebrows, signaling that all is truly well.

Rhysand's gaze softens though the lines of worry don’t completely disappear. "Cassian briefed me but seeing you well makes a world of difference. These training accidents... Well, they shouldn’t happen. We’ll review the protocols to ensure this is an isolated incident."

Turning to Cassian, Rhysand claps him on the shoulder. A gesture of support mixed with a mild reprimand. "Take care of her. Make sure she follows all of Madja’s instructions," Rhysand instructs, his leader’s tone resurfacing.

Cassian nods solemnly, "Understood. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again."

With a final nod and a comforting smile directed at you Rhys exits the infirmary, his presence leaving as quickly as it arrived. The room feels lighter now, the earlier tension dissipating with the confirmations of your well-being.

Cassian stays by your side. His relief evident but his watchfulness remaining. "Now, about that 'less swordy' day tomorrow..." he begins, ready to shift back into the lighter, teasing dynamic that has marked your growing friendship. Grateful that the day’s scare has ended on a reassuring note.

As Cassian suggests a less physically demanding day focused more on magic you can’t help but giggle. A slight relief moving away from any activities involving bladed weapons. “That sounds perfect,” you agree with enthusiasm brightening your voice as you discuss potential exercises that would let you showcase and refine your control over ice magic without the physical strain.

As the conversation continues Cassian helps you up ensuring you’re stable on your feet and offers his arm for support as you begin the walk back to your quarters. The corridors of the Night Court feel quieter than usual. The soft echo of your steps mingling with the fading adrenaline of the day’s events. There’s a palpable shift between you and Cassian. A new layer of closeness brought on not just by the day’s scare but also by the accumulated time spent together over the past few weeks.

Cassian’s voice breaks the comfortable silence. His voice softer, more reflective than before. “I’ve really enjoyed these last few weeks with you,” he admits. His gaze fixed ahead. “You’ve taught me more than you’ll ever know.” His words hang in the air laden with a sincerity that draws your attention fully to his expression. It’s open, honest, and there’s a hint of vulnerability there that you hadn’t noticed before.

You look at him, touched by his confession, noticing the slight hesitance as if he wants to say more but is holding back. Maybe it’s the fear of crossing an unseen boundary or the uncertainty of your reaction that keeps him from continuing.

Encouraged by his openness you respond warmly, “And I’ve learned a lot from you, too, Cassian. Not just about fighting or training but about what it means to really care about your warriors, your friends.” You pause searching his face for a reaction. “It means a lot to me, all of this time we’ve spent together.”

Cassian’s eyes meet yours and there’s a moment of silent communication. A mutual understanding and appreciation that seems to deepen the bond between you. “I’m glad,” he finally says with his voice low. “I hope we can keep this going, no matter what the training schedule says.”

As you reach your quarters there’s a reluctance to part between the both of you. A desire to prolong the connection that has clearly grown beyond the confines of instructor and trainee. Cassian lingers at your door, his usual confidence tempered with a newfound tenderness.

“Get some rest princess,” he says softly before stepping back with a reluctant smile. “We’ll start fresh tomorrow. Less swordy, more... magical.”

You nod, smiling back at him, feeling a warmth that extends beyond the fading pain from your injury. “I look forward to it, Cassian. Thank you for everything today.”

He nods, then turns to leave, but not before throwing a look over his shoulder. It was a promise of more shared moments, more lessons, and perhaps, deeper revelations yet to come. The door closes softly behind you leaving you with a sense of anticipation for what the next day might bring, both in training and in your evolving relationship with Cassian.

After the incident at the training grounds and a night of rest you dive back into the treaty negotiations with renewed focus. As the talks commence you are at the forefront, your diplomatic skills shining as you navigate the complexities of the discussions. Your adept use of magic not only impresses but also serves as a poignant reminder of the Winter Court's strengths and capabilities. The treaty talks progress smoothly and a successful agreement begins to take shape much to the relief and satisfaction of all parties involved.

However, despite the importance of the negotiations and your central role in them your thoughts intermittently drift to Cassian. The memory of his concerned eyes, his protective stance, and the warmth of your conversation lingers with you, distracting you more than you'd like to admit. As you mentally rehearse your next points in the discussion, you find your mind replaying moments from the training sessions, his laughter, his teasing remarks, and his unexpectedly gentle care.

Unbeknownst to you, your mental shields—usually so meticulously maintained—begin to slip slightly amid your daydreams. Rhysand, who was not actively probing but is always somewhat attuned to the emotional and mental state of those around him, picks up on your wandering thoughts. He catches snippets of your internal musings about Cassian, not enough to grasp the full context but enough to piece together the gist of your distraction.

Throughout the meeting a knowing grin slowly forms on Rhysand's face, amused by the realization of your burgeoning feelings for his brother. He doesn't comment on it during the talks. Making sure to maintain his professionalism and focusing on the successful closure of the treaty. However, the little smile that occasionally plays at the corners of his mouth doesn't go unnoticed by those who know him well.

Later, as the meeting concludes with handshakes and a collective sigh of relief over the treaty's ratification. Rhysand pulls Cassian aside just before your evening training session. In a quiet corner away from prying ears Rhysand's grin broadens.

"I think someone has managed to catch more than just your training expertise," Rhysand teases as his eyes twinkled with mirth. "Our Winter Court princess seems to be a bit distracted by a certain general." As Rhysand delivers his playful revelation, Cassian's initial surprise quickly shifts to a broad, almost uncontrollable grin that spreads across his face. The sudden display of joy is uncharacteristic of the usually composed general, revealing just how deeply the news has affected him.

"Oh? And what makes you say that?" Cassian tries to maintain a semblance of composure, but his voice betrayed a hint of excitement beneath the casual façade.

Rhysand notices the change in Cassian's demeanor. The light in his eyes that hadn't been there moments before. "Well, let's just say that her thoughts were a little less guarded than usual," Rhysand replied. His voice laced with amusement. "She might be more interested in the person teaching her than just the lessons themselves."

Cassian's smile widens and he shakes his head slightly almost in disbelief but clearly delighted by the prospect. "Is that so?" he murmurs more to himself than to Rhysand, his mind already spinning with the implications.

Rhysand watches Cassian's bright grin, a knowing look crossing his face as he teases, "Seems like those training sessions are about more than just tactics and spells."

Cassian’s expression remains upbeat but a hint of seriousness creeps in. "They’re enlightening," he admits while giving a nod. "There’s something unique about her… beyond just her skills."

Sensing the depth in Cassian’s tone, Rhysand's demeanor shifts slightly, becoming more contemplative. "Just be careful, Cass. It’s easy to let your guard down when strong feelings are involved."

Cassian pauses as he felt a weight in Rhysand's caution. He looks at his brother, a silent plea for understanding without words. Rhysand, ever perceptive, senses the depth of Cassian’s feelings, realizing this might be more than just a fleeting fascination. "Cassian, do you think she could be…" Rhysand trails off leaving the implication hanging in the air, heavy with the weight of possibilities. His question is subtle, probing—asking if Cassian feels the deep, fated connection of a mate.

Cassian meets Rhysand's gaze with his own eyes reflecting a mix of hope and uncertainty. "I don’t know," he confesses softly. "But there’s something there. Something that feels… right. More than I've felt before."

Rhysand nods slowly as he processed this new revelation. His initial caution softens into a more supportive stance. "Then take it seriously but carefully. If this is what I think it might be, it’s not just significant for you but could be for the Night Court as well."

He places a hand on Cassian’s shoulder with a firm, reassuring grip. "Follow your heart but keep your head with you. She’s not just any visitor. She could and is likely to be much more."

As Rhysand walks away leaving Cassian to ponder the future the conversation not only cements Cassian's resolve but also clarifies the stakes. It’s a turning point. Marking a shift from casual interest to considering the profound potential of a deep, lifelong bond. Cassian feels empowered and cautious now acutely aware of the significant path that might be unfolding before him. This is no longer about training or simple affection. It could be the beginning of the rest of his life, your life.

As dusk settles over Velaris with the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the training grounds, Cassian awaits your arrival. His mind a jumbled swirl of thoughts from the earlier conversation with Rhysand. His anticipation is palpable, heightened by the significant discussions about feelings and futures that may be closer than he's admitted to himself.

During that first meeting in the dining hall his mind was a whirlwind of emotions. As he and Azriel entered mid-argument his initial focus was entirely on their spirited debate not the important dinner he was walking into. The sudden sight of you was an unexpected and striking presence. You brought a sharp halt to his thoughts.

Cassian was immediately struck by your poise and the quiet confidence with which you held yourself among such esteemed company. His first impression was of your elegance and the serene way you observed the dynamic entrance he and Azriel made. There was something about the way you carried yourself as a blend of strength and grace that captivated him instantly.

Embarrassment quickly flooded him with a blush creeping up his neck as he realized the discordant note their arrival struck in the otherwise serene setting. There you were, seated elegantly among the dignitaries of the Night Court with an aura of quiet confidence radiating from you. Despite the potentially disruptive entrance your expression remained unflustered. The slight, knowing smirk playing at the corners of your lips, and the amusement twinkling in your eyes spoke volumes. It was clear you were not only unfazed by the raucous disruption but also mildly entertained by it.

What struck Cassian more deeply was the way your attention seemed focused solely on him, as if the room and its other occupants had faded into the background. This singular focus, paired with the amused arch of your brow, left him feeling both exposed and intrigued. It was as if you could see right through to his typically hidden insecurities prompting a mix of vulnerability and a compelling desire to engage further.

Cassian felt a twinge of chagrin for not having presented a more composed entrance. Especially in front of someone who commanded such a presence as you did. The initial embarrassment, however, slowly morphed into a quiet determination. He was keenly aware that he had an opportunity to make a more meaningful second impression. One that could perhaps intrigue and draw you in just as you had captivated him from that first shared glance.

As he moved to regain his composure, smoothing back his hair, and adjusting his jacket, Cassian was already plotting how to transform this awkward beginning into an opening for deeper connection. The evening had just begun, and he was determined to show you a side of him that resonated with the depth and discernment he now saw reflected in your gaze.

When Rhysand later suggested that Cassian take the lead on your physical training, he seized the opportunity without hesitation. Training was his domain where he felt most in command and most himself. He anticipated that in the structure and discipline of physical training, among the straightforwardness of drills and exercises, there might be space for more informal interactions. For laughter and light conversations that could bridge the gap between formal dining hall introductions and a genuine connection.

Cassian saw each upcoming session as a canvas. As an opportunity to impress and engage you, not just with his skills but with his insights and his approach to teaching and leadership. Privately he knew he’d have to thank Rhysand for the suggestion—whether it was a calculated move or just a fortuitous throwaway idea, it had given him a golden opportunity to explore the potential that he sensed bubbling beneath your initial poised exterior.

He was intrigued, more so than he had been for a long time. The initial physical attraction was strong. Yet it was your demeanor, the intriguing mix of diplomacy and candor, that truly piqued his interest. Cassian left the dining hall that evening with his mind full of questions and curiosities about you. He was eager for the next opportunity to interact and perhaps to understand the compelling figure you were beyond just the surface.

From the memories of that first dinner to the present moment on the training grounds, Cassian's journey of understanding and admiration for you had woven through weeks of anticipation and subtle discoveries. Each interaction had added layers to his initial perception, enriching the image he held of you in his mind.

Then as if to punctuate his thoughts you appeared for the training session, garbed unmistakably in Illyrian warrior attire. Much different than the training leathers and Winter Court apparel he had grown used to see you in. The traditional leathers of his people clung to you, accentuating both strength and grace in your every move. The sight of you in such commanding attire sent a jolt through Cassian. His reaction visceral and immediate. His eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and admiration flashing across his face as he took in every detail—the way the leather fit you, how it moved with your body, and the undeniable air of confidence it brought to your demeanor.

The transformation was not just in your appearance but in the energy you exuded. Standing there you embodied the strength and resilience of an Illyrian warrior, qualities that resonated deeply with Cassian’s own identity. It struck him then how seamlessly you seemed to integrate into his world. How naturally you adopted its symbols and its strength. This was no longer just about training or sharing skills. It was a visual affirmation of your integration into his life and culture.

As he approached you his initial shock gave way to a profound respect. The way you carried the weight of the armor, the casual yet respectful nod you gave him as he walked up. These small actions spoke volumes. Cassian felt a renewed sense of connection. A deeper bond forming not just from shared interests and conversations but from seeing you embrace a part of his heritage with such ease and honor.

In that moment as he closed the distance between you, Cassian realized how deeply he was drawn to you, far beyond the physical allure. It was your spirit. Your willingness to step into his world, to don the armor of his people and stand ready to engage on equal footing. This realization brought a warmth to his chest and a smile to his lips. One that was both proud and welcoming.

As you stood before Cassian in the Illyrian warrior attire your presence was a striking blend of determination and slight apprehension. The soft evening light cast long shadows across the training grounds accentuating the quiet resolve in your posture. You were about to propose a change to the day’s lighter, planned routine. While confident in your suggestion there was a hint of nervousness tinged your voice, reflecting the care you took in challenging the agenda.

"Um, Cassian," you started, your voice carrying a cautious undertone, "I know we planned for a less sword-intensive session today..." You paused trying to gather your thoughts. But before you could continue your eyes met Cassian’s, their intensity like a direct challenge, causing a sudden vulnerability to flutter in your stomach. His gaze was penetrating, studying you with a warmth and focus that unnerved you. For a moment the confidence you felt started to waver under his scrutiny. The depth of his attention making you want to melt into a puddle right there on the training grounds.

However, drawing a deep breath, you summoned your resolve. Despite the shake in your confidence, you pressed on bolstered by the knowledge that this was an important step in your training. "I feel fine. But I've been thinking. I'm already quite familiar with my magic, and not as much with swordsmanship." Your voice grew slightly firmer as you continued, "Maybe, if it’s alright, we could incorporate more of that?" As you reached the end of your proposal a slight stammer betrayed your nervousness. "If you're okay with that, that is," you added with a nervous smile. Eager yet uncertain of his response.

Cassian, still somewhat in awe of your striking appearance and the commanding aura you exuded in the traditional leathers was momentarily taken aback. His response was on the tip of his tongue, an agreement forming, when Azriel quietly joined the duo. Observing the scene, Azriel noted your determined stance and Cassian’s admiring gaze. A knowing smirk crept onto Azriel’s face. "Looks like she’s going to give you a run for your money, brother," he teased unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

Cassian was caught between his brother's teasing and your challenging proposal but managed to regain his composure. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, his confidence rekindled by the familiar banter and the prospect of a spirited training session. "Alright then," he agreed with a nod. A smile breaking through as he embraced the challenge, "swords it is. Let’s see what you’ve got."

As the session progressed Azriel lingered on the sidelines, his eyes shifting between the clashing swords and Cassian’s animated instructions. Every now and then he couldn’t resist throwing in a light-hearted jab especially when it seemed like Cassian was particularly impressed by your quick learning curve or deft movements. "Careful, Cass, I think she might just outdo you in your own game," Azriel called out after a particularly skillful maneuver from you. His tone teasing but proud of you.

Cassian shot a mock-glare at Azriel, but his eyes sparkled with humor and something softer, an undeniable delight in your prowess and enthusiasm. Despite himself Cassian found that he enjoyed this, the mix of training intensity and the undercurrent of playful rivalry. Not just between him and you but with Azriel's involvement as well. It felt oddly, natural. You’d found a way to integrate yourself into the court within only a month of being in Velaris.

Throughout the training Cassian’s admiration for you only grew. Every block, every parry you performed with increasing confidence seemed to not only impress him but also deepen the sense of connection that he felt. This wasn’t just about teaching you how to handle a sword. It was about sharing a piece of his world, his passion, and seeing you embrace it with such fervor was both exhilarating and endearing.

As the sun dipped below the horizon Azriel’s teasing remarks faded into the background, replaced by a quiet acknowledgment of the shift he saw in Cassian. It was clear to him that his brother was, indeed, in trouble. But in the best possible way. Cassian's usually unshakeable demeanor was softer when he looked at you, filled with a mix of pride, respect, and a burgeoning affection that went beyond the confines of the training ring.

When the session finally wound down and the cool evening air settled around, both you and Cassian were catching your breath, reveling in the afterglow of intense physical exertion. It was then that Azriel, unable to resist the opportunity for a little brotherly teasing, stepped forward. Clapping Cassian on the back with a broad grin he couldn’t help but comment, "Well, that was quite a performance. And here I thought today was supposed to be less about swords."

Cassian, still a bit winded from the session, shot Azriel a quick, warning glance. But even he couldn’t hide the amused smile that tugged at his lips, indicative of his own acknowledgment of the shift in plans. Your puzzled look darted between the two brothers catching the tail end of their dynamic, your smile mirroring Cassian's albeit with a touch of confusion.

"Less swords, more magic, but I guess plans change when you're dressed for battle," you chimed in attempting to play off Azriel's comment, still somewhat oblivious to the deeper layers of teasing.

Azriel’s smirk widened as he observed the interplay, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Absolutely, plans do change. Especially when a certain someone decides to show up looking ready to join the ranks of Illyrian warriors," he teased you, turning his gaze back to Cassian with a sly expression. "Makes a general reconsider his strategies."

Caught in the moment, you shared the origin of your attire, a light chuckle escaping you. "Feyre absolutely insisted on me wearing the traditional leathers," you explained, your smile fond as you recalled Feyre's insistence. "I thought it was just for protection, given the training. She seemed really adamant about it."

Cassian’s expression softened at this with a brief smile acknowledging the hidden hand of Rhysand in this setup. Though he connected the dots, realizing his brother's likely involvement in Feyre's insistence, he chose to keep this revelation to himself. Instead, he simply nodded, appreciating your earnestness and perhaps, deep down, thankful for the unintended push it gave him to see you in a new light—strong, capable, and utterly captivating in Illyrian leathers.

As the training session drew to a close and the night deepened around them, the playful banter and shared laughter began to ebb. Azriel's remarks, though lighthearted, had hinted at the shift he observed in the dynamics between you and Cassian. A development that seemed to promise much more than just companionship in the future.

Recognizing the cooling air and the perfect, serene evening that enveloped Velaris, Cassian suggested a leisurely walk back through the city. "How about I walk you home tonight? It's a nice evening to cool down and stretch out after training," he proposed. His voice casual but with a hopeful undertone.

Azriel caught the subtle inflection in Cassian’s tone and simply couldn’t resist one more jab, his knowing smile broadening into a full-blown, mischievous grin. "Sure, take your time," he teased, his voice rich with implication. With a final chuckle and a wink at Cassian, Azriel spread his wings and took to the skies leaving you both to the quiet of the evening streets.

Cassian walked beside you there was a thoughtful distance in his initial steps. As if he was contemplating the right words or simply savoring the shared silence. Gradually, he drew closer, his presence a comforting constant at your side. The soft lighting from the streetlamps cast gentle shadows and the faint rustle of the leaves created a backdrop that enriched the moment with a quaint, almost magical quality.

Every now and then his hand would lightly touch your arm or guide you around an uneven patch on the cobblestones. Each contact sending a quiet thrill through you. Despite the casual nature of the walk there was an undercurrent of something deeper. A thread of anticipation weaving through the air between you.

"Same time tomorrow?" Cassian finally broke the silence. His voice a blend of softness and something undefinable yet unmistakably tender.

"Definitely," you replied with your smile genuine and wide. The connection you felt with Cassian was undeniable and while you might not fully grasp the depth of his feelings, the pull towards him was strong and only growing stronger with each passing day.

When you reached your quarters Cassian lingered for a moment, his demeanor protective and gentle. He seemed reluctant to part ways, but he was satisfied to know you were safe for the night. "Make sure you rest well tonight," he said with his hand resting briefly on your back, his smile warm and lingering as he wished you a good night.

Retreating to your room, the echoes of the evening replayed in your mind. The laughter, Azriel's teasing, the soft, serious timbre of Cassian's voice asking to see you again. There was an excitement brewing within you. An eagerness for what these sessions and these new feelings might lead to. It was an intriguing mix of anticipation and a bit of nervousness, stepping into this newfound connection with Cassian, but every instinct told you it was a path worth exploring. As you settled down with thoughts of the next day’s training, and more importantly, of seeing Cassian again, it filled you with a warm sense of expectation and a quiet joy.

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moronkombat · 1 year ago

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I don’t know if you’ve done this before but I’m begggggging you for a Reiko alphabet 😩😩 no one ever writes anything about him

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Satisfied and quite pleased with himself and his partner's performance. Aftercare is not something he is fond of in terms of giving and receiving. The most Reiko will do is lay close to his partner with them resting against his chest while his hands lay confidently beneath his head

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Reiko is proud of his overall physique. His body has been trained for war and destruction and it shows. He is particularly fond of his shoulder blades. Why? He feels he can carry the weight of the world atop them

Their thighs. He knows just how...powerful those lovely muscles can be and he loves being so buried in them, feeling just how they strain against him as his tongue devours and claims

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Prefers to change it up. Some days he will absolutely fill you to the brim, cumming all over your tender and sore insides. Other times he prefers to paint you as if you a blank and awaiting canvas

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Reiko doesn't have many secrets in terms of bedroom activities with his partner. If he is wanting to do something, he will propose it. He is quite fond of having sex after killing his enemy. He is riled up and wants to share his raptor with you

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Has enough experience to know what feels great and feels even greater. Reiko likes to be well versed in everything, sex is no exception. Though, sex for him is relatively casual. He does not see sex as something you do with someone you love. It is merely an excellent way of rewarding the body

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

His favorite position is you on top of him. He wants to see you riding and bouncing. He doesn't want to miss a single second of the pain and pleasure that is written on your face

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Reiko is not overly serious but he is not exactly humorous. For him, sex is a battle. He is a dominant individual but a switch in the bedroom. If you want to be the dominant one, you need to fight him for it

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Clean and smooth. Reiko is very much a purist in how he portrays his body. He wants nothing to be hidden by hair and so it is all removed

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Not romantic. Well, he is in his own way. For him, to battle his partner is the most romantic thing one could ever do. Will he buy you flowers? No. Will he bring you the head of his enemy? Yes. Sex is not romantic, it is fierce, rabid and untamed

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Typically isn't one to partake in such pleasures. No, Reiko will seek out his partner over everything else. There is no need to pleasure himself when he has a beautiful partner's legs to slide between

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Marking- He will always leave marks on you and you better leave some on him as well. Everyone is leaving that bedroom painted in the glory of love making. He never hides the marks you give him. He wears them with pride and will even boast about them if he catches others looking. Yeah you guys are that annoying couple that openly talk about your sexual adventures. You better not hide those marks either. Not only will he find it insulting, he'll be hurt by it.

Bondage- Reiko is a fan of bondage solely for the purpose of escaping it or having you escape it. It is thrilling to him to break the chains that he keep him from touching you. He relishes in watching you rip the leather he's coiled you in. Liberation is the fun of using bondage

Pain Play- Sex is a battle. In battle there is pain. He will be in pain and so will you. The two of you are always finding ways to tear into each other. Except to leave the bedroom bruised and a bit battered

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Reiko is not too picky. He enjoys having sex anywhere when it comes to his partner. Though he does find himself a bit more excited to fuck you in the barracks or on the sparring grounds

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Victory and glory. When he is triumphant in a battle, he is brought into ecstasy. When he sees his partner's strength he wishes to taste it along with everything else

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Insubordination to the greater cause. He will not tolerate his partner not following the ways that he has been taught. Nor will he be receptive to forms of aftercare following sex. He finds it odd and boring

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Reiko will give and he shall take. He prefers neither over the other, happy to change it up as the battle between the two of you rages on and on

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Expect to leave the bedroom sore and bruised. Everything to Reiko is a fight even sex, especially sex. Sex with him is often incredibly long and full of blood and teeth. He bites, pulls and scratches and he wants you to do the same. The bedroom isn't a place for tenderness.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

They can happen but not often. He prefers when sex takes awhile, that way he and his partner can truly consume and tear each other apart

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Reiko will try just about anything. Danger is exciting. Danger is victory. If you two will be harmed then so be it, that is the fun of it after all

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Long time. Very very long time. Reiko will not allow for anything less than perfection. Expect to be encompassed by him for many many hours

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Reiko has different toys and will use them. Most of his gadgets, however, are related to bondage, and other BDSM related topics

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

It is not that Reiko is unfair, it is merely his partner must earn their place in the bedroom. If his partner wants to cum then they must show that they are demanding it and not requesting it

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Loud. Way too loud for his poor underlings. By gods they will hear the two of you going at it for hours

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

One of the most intimate things a partner can do for him is apply his warpaint. Reiko is completely exposing himself to his partner then and it is a silent affection between the two. There are no words said as fingers dip into tar and mark up a face that's seen and lived horrors of war. He doesn't let anyone get this close. This is a right reserved solely for you

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Muscular and broad. If he looks like he can knock you out with but one punch then he most certain can. He is well defined and shaped. His cock is girthy and ever thick. The head is the most tender area. He also likes shoving it against the back of your throat

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. Very high. Being a warrior, he is surrounded in battle and battle is a great turn on. He will seek out his partner often for sex

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn't usually fall asleep, though he is quite spent after the act. He will prefer to admire the marks you've given each other before laying with his partner for a little while

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat fanworks #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat headcanons #mk1 #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat smut #reiko #mk reiko #reiko x reader

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novaursa · 16 days ago

Text

The Second Daughter (the flight of war)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the fall

- Next part: what is given

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @l3thal-l0lita @alkadri-layal @ninihrtss @barnes70stark @scarletdfox @idenyimimdenial

The morning sky stretched endlessly above Dragon’s Den, the cliffs of Casterly Rock bathed in amber light, but all eyes were on the figures standing at the edge of the precipice. The wind howled around them, whipping at cloaks and banners alike, but the only sound that truly mattered was the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the two great dragons poised upon the cliffside.

Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, a beast whose size dwarfed the men who stood near him, his golden-bronze scales gleaming in the light of dawn. And beside him, smaller in comparison but no less fierce, stood Valyros, the silver-and-gold dragon of Aemerys.

Jason Lannister stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable, but Alysera could feel his gaze upon her even without looking. Her father had not spoken much that morning, merely giving a single nod when she stepped forward. But she knew the weight of that nod—permission granted, but not easily.

Aemerys was already mounted upon Valyros, his armor gleaming as the dragon beneath him shifted impatiently. His face was calm, but she knew him well enough to see the tension in his fingers where they gripped the reins. "You do not have to do this," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the wind.

Alysera turned her head toward him, her curls whipping around her shoulders. She was smaller than him, younger, but her chin lifted with stubborn resolve. "Yes, I do."

Aemerys’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I will be at your side," he said after a moment. "No matter what happens."

With a single breath, Alysera turned her focus back to Vermithor.

The Bronze Fury watched her, his great golden eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring slightly with each deep inhale. There was no malice in his stare, no open rejection, but neither was there clear acceptance.

This was not like her brother and Valyros. This was something older. Something greater. Her fingers tightened at her sides.

"Dohaerās," she whispered in High Valyrian.

The wind howled.

Vermithor did not move.

Jason shifted from where he stood, his posture as tense as the men beside him.

"If this beast kills her—" one of the knights started, but Jason silenced him with a single glance.

Aemerys turned to look at their father, but Jason did not meet his gaze. His eyes were locked on Alysera, on the girl standing so fearlessly before the dragon older than any living Targaryens.

"Alysera," Aemerys said carefully. "Do not force it."

She inhaled sharply, then took a step closer.

A sound rumbled from Vermithor’s chest, a low growl that shook the very earth beneath them. Alysera did not flinch.

Another step.

The Bronze Fury lifted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing further, but he still did not move.

She was close now—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his great scaled body, close enough to smell the sulfur on his breath. "Vermithor," she said, louder now.

The great dragon’s wings unfurled slightly, a warning—but she did not stop.

And then she reached out.

Her fingers brushed against his scales. For a single breath, there was silence. Then— a deep exhale, slow and measured. Vermithor’s great head lowered just a fraction.

Jason released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"She’s doing it," one of the men whispered.

Aemerys did not move, but his hands tightened around the reins of his own dragon.

Alysera ran her palm along the bronze scales, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel the raw power beneath her fingertips, the ancient strength of a creature older than kingdoms.

And then, slowly, deliberately, she turned and climbed onto his back.

The moment she settled into the saddle, Vermithor lifted his head fully, his wings spreading wide.

Aemerys moved instantly. "Go!" he called, giving Valyros the signal.

The silver-and-gold dragon leapt into the sky, his powerful wings catching the wind, and Alysera did the same.

Vermithor launched forward.

The ground trembled beneath him, his wings snapping open as he lifted off the cliff, his roar shaking the very bones of the men who stood below.

Jason stepped forward, his jaw clenched, his hands tight at his sides.

He had given his blessing for this, but nothing prepared a father to see his daughter taken by the sky, claimed by something so utterly beyond his control.

Aemerys and Valyros flew just beside them, shadowing Alysera as she took her first flight, watching for any sign of struggle.

But there was none.

She was flying.

And Vermithor roared, a sound that echoed through the heavens, a declaration of a new rider—a new bond.

Jason let out a slow breath, his green eyes fixed on the sky. "You’re not taking her from me," he muttered under his breath. "Not yet."

The great hall of Casterly Rock was dimly lit, the midday sun only just managing to seep through the high arched windows, casting long beams across the polished stone floor. The flames in the great hearth crackled softly, their warmth battling against the crisp autumn air that had begun to settle over the Westerlands. You sat in your usual place, hands resting lightly over the fine embroidery spread across your lap, though your fingers barely moved against the fabric. Your mind was elsewhere.

Across from you, Lady Leonella sat with her hands folded neatly, her hair streaked with silver as she regarded the maester standing before you both. Maester Halford, ever the bearer of ill-tidings, cleared his throat, his expression tight as he held a scroll in his aged hands.

"Another raven has come from King’s Landing," he announced gravely, his voice lacking any trace of neutrality. "In the wake of their return from battle."

You inhaled slowly. You did not need sight to know what came next.

"Go on, Halford," Leonella commanded, her voice even but her posture tense.

"The Greens have returned in force, with Aemond and Ser Criston Cole leading their march through the streets. But it was not only men they paraded."

The maester hesitated just a fraction.

"It was a dragon."

A chill settled over the hall.

You turned your face slightly toward the sound of his voice. "Whose?"

A silence stretched before Halford answered, his voice laced with something cold and heavy. "Meleys."

Leonella sucked in a sharp breath.

"The Queen Who Never Was… is no more. Just as a letter from Queen Rhaenyra stated." Halford continued, his tone measured, as if uttering the words too quickly would make them real. "The Greens carried her dragon’s severed head through the streets, parading it as their victory. The people of King’s Landing were made to look upon it as a warning."

Your fingers twitched against your lap, the embroidery forgotten entirely. "Rhaenys is truly dead," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Another dragon fallen. Another Targaryen lost to fire and ambition.

"And Aegon is alive. The word of his death was untrue," Halford said, his voice cautious. "Though he is… not unchanged."

Leonella frowned. "What do you mean?"

Halford exhaled heavily, his fingers tightening slightly around the parchment. "The letter that arrived bears the seal of the Queen Dowager, Alicent Hightower. It is not from Aegon himself."

That caught your attention. You straightened slightly, your unseeing eyes shifting toward him.

"And why would Alicent write to us now?" Leonella asked sharply.

The parchment crinkled slightly as Halford carefully unfurled it. He hesitated, then his gaze flicked toward you. "Because, my lady… it is addressed to Princess Y/N."

The words settled over the hall like a shroud.

Leonella’s lips thinned, her stern green eyes narrowing at the maester. "Then read it."

Halford nodded, clearing his throat before he began. "To my step-daughter, the Lady of Casterly Rock," he read aloud, Alicent’s words forming carefully upon his tongue. "I write to you in a time of great sorrow and hardship, knowing well that the past years have placed distance between us. Yet I write not as a queen, nor as a Hightower, but as a mother."

Leonella scoffed under her breath. You did not react.

"Aegon has woken from his grievous injuries, but he does not speak as he once did," Halford continued, his voice steady despite the weight of the words. "He does not call for his mother, nor his wife, nor his council. He calls for you."

The room grew very, very still.

"He calls only for you."

Leonella sat back in her chair, her fingers curling against the armrests, her expression unreadable. "Is that all?"

Halford glanced down, reading further. "Aegon has suffered much. He is weak, his mind clouded with pain and the weight of the crown. He speaks of you often, of the days before the war, before his burdens. I know you love your family, as I love mine, and it is because of this that I implore you—come back to King’s Landing. He needs you. I beg you, do not turn your back on him now."

Silence.

Halford exhaled softly, rolling the parchment back into its original form before looking up. "That is the message."

The flames in the hearth crackled, the sound filling the empty space where words should have been.

You sat, quiet, unmoving.

Aegon…

Your brother. Your blood.

You had not seen him in years, had not heard his voice since that final feast, when wine had fueled his tongue and his bitterness had boiled over into reckless fury. You had known he was a boy still, lost and unloved in ways that had broken him. But that boy was gone. And in his place was a king, a broken king, who now called for you in the wake of his own fall.

Leonella shifted beside you, her voice cutting through the silence like steel. "The answer is no."

Halford blinked. "Lady Leonella—"

"You will pen a reply," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "And you will tell Queen Dowager Alicent that my daughter-in-law, the Lady of Casterly Rock, has no reason to return to the city that spurned her."

You turned your head slightly, listening to the weight of her words.

"The king’s affairs are no longer hers. The west is her home now, and here she shall remain."

The declaration was final.

Halford hesitated only a moment before bowing his head. "As you command, my lady."

The room fell into silence once more.

But you could not shake the distant echo of Aegon’s voice, calling for you from the depths of the Red Keep.

The courtyard of Casterly Rock stretched wide beneath the overcast sky, a place built for war and kings alike, but today, all eyes were cast upward. The banners of House Lannister, rich crimson and gold, flapped in the heavy wind rolling in from the western seas. Soldiers stood lined along the battlements, their heads tilted toward the heavens, awaiting the return of the two dragons that had vanished into the morning sky.

You moved carefully across the stone courtyard, guided by Alys, your fingers lightly trailing against the edge of her sleeve as she led you toward Jason. Though you had long since memorized the path from the keep to the open field, the bustle of men and the shifting weight of the gathered onlookers made the air thick with expectation. Every step carried the weight of something unspoken, something held in the breath of the Westermen who had never before witnessed what was about to unfold.

Jason stood at the forefront, surrounded by his sworn men—Alester was there, as was Ser Manfred Banefort, along with half a dozen bannermen clad in the colors of the Rock. They spoke in hushed tones, though their words faded into silence the moment Alys stopped a few paces away, and you felt Jason’s gaze settle upon you.

"My lady," Alys murmured, giving a slight curtsy before stepping back.

The moment you stopped moving, Jason was at your side.

You felt his presence first—the quiet warmth that came whenever he stood near, the scent of leather and salt that clung to him after long hours spent overseeing his men. His hand brushed against your wrist before settling gently against your arm, steadying you.

"Did Alys tell you what’s happening?" His voice was low, even, but you could hear the tension beneath it.

"She did," you murmured.

Above, the sound of wings cut through the air—thunderous, heavy, the unmistakable descent of beasts that had once ruled the skies of Valyria.

Jason’s fingers twitched against your sleeve. "They’re coming in now," he said, his voice shifting, the weight of it pressing against the moment.

You tilted your head slightly, listening. The rhythm of the wind changed, the rush of air moving against something vast and powerful.

Then— the first impact.

The courtyard shuddered beneath the weight of the landing, dust and loose gravel scattering as the first beast touched the earth.

You felt the presence before the name left Jason’s lips.

"Vermithor."

A beast of fire and bronze, a remnant of the Old King himself, now bound to your daughter.

The air still rippled with heat when the second dragon landed, lighter, more fluid in movement—but no less powerful.

"Valyros," Jason muttered.

The silver beast gave a low, rumbling snarl, his claws digging into the stone as he shook out his wings. The bond between him and Aemerys had never been questioned, but now, in the presence of another sibling claimed by a dragon, there was an unspoken shift—a silent acknowledgment of something greater.

A voice broke through the thick air, high and breathless with excitement.

"Alysera!"

Rhaelya.

You felt your younger daughter rush past you before you could stop her, her footsteps quick against the courtyard stone.

Jason’s grip on your arm tightened briefly before he let go, moving to step forward as well.

"Easy, girl," you heard Aemerys say, his voice rough with the rush of flight, the exertion of keeping a watchful eye on his sister’s first ride.

The sound of a saddle shifting, the creak of leather and metal—Alysera dismounting.

"I did it!" Alysera’s voice, breathless, triumphant.

You could hear the unsteady movement of her boots against the stone, still finding her balance after the ride.

Then—her sister’s arms around her, Rhaelya colliding into her in a flurry of golden curls.

"You could have died!" Rhaelya scolded, though her voice wavered with something softer—relief, awe, pride.

Alysera laughed, a sound that carried across the courtyard, a sound that sent a ripple of murmurs through the gathered men. "I didn't, though."

Jason exhaled sharply. You knew that sound—it was the sound of a father, torn between frustration and fierce, undeniable pride.

His voice came next, steady, but edged with something deeper. "Alysera."

The laughter stilled.

A beat of silence.

A soft, measured steps, the light scuff of boots approaching.

"Father," Alysera answered.

Jason did not respond right away. Then you heard it—the shift in his stance, the way his shoulders must have squared, the way he was likely looking at his daughter with that unreadable expression he wore when his emotions warred beneath the surface.

"You're safe?" he asked finally.

"I am," Alysera said, quieter now.

Another pause.

A rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of a heavy embrace.

Jason pulled her into him, the roughness of his movements betraying his tightly held emotions. "Foolish girl," he muttered against her hair.

Alysera let out a muffled laugh, her voice smaller now, more like the girl she had been before this day. "Not foolish," she countered, though it lacked the usual sharpness.

Jason sighed heavily, but did not let her go.

You stood, listening to it all—the rush of the wind, the distant roars of dragons settling into their places, the murmurs of men who had never before seen such things.

And beneath it all, the steady, unyielding presence of your family, standing together in the courtyard of the Rock, bound now by fire and blood more than ever before.

The air in the Red Keep was thick with the scent of oils, herbs, and something metallic—blood, or perhaps the remnants of whatever tonics the maesters had forced down Aegon’s throat. The king lay propped against the heavy pillows of his great bed, his face paler than it had been in years, his once-proud frame reduced to something weaker, something more fragile. The fall had changed him, not only in body but in mind.

The yellow sunlight of late afternoon streamed through the great windows, illuminating the chamber in warm hues, but there was no warmth in Aegon’s eyes as he stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

"My king," Ser Criston Cole stood near the foot of the bed, his expression carefully measured, though the lines of his brow betrayed his frustration. "You must eat something. You must regain your strength if you are to lead."

Aegon did not respond.

Alicent Hightower, seated beside him, reached for his hand, her fingers soft and careful.

"Aegon," she murmured, her voice carrying that same tenderness she had always reserved for him, even in moments of disappointment.

At that, his lips twisted.

"I told you," he rasped, his voice hoarse from too much wine and too little rest. "Bring her to me."

Alicent’s grip tightened around his fingers. "Aegon, that is not possible."

At that, he let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless.

"Not possible?" he echoed, turning his head slightly toward her, though his gaze was unfocused, distant. "Everything else seems possible for you, Mother. Crowning me king, parading Meleys’ head through the streets. Yet bringing my sister home is where you draw the line?"

Alicent flinched.

Criston Cole shifted on his feet, the light sound of his armor clinking together filling the tense silence. "Your sister has made her choice," he stated, his tone edged with steel. "She stands with the Westerlands, with Lannister gold, with her husband. She will not return to you, my king."

Aegon’s jaw clenched. "You think I do not know that?"

His hands curled into weak fists, trembling slightly against the silk sheets. "You think I do not know that she is bound to that golden bastard? That he has taken her from me?"

His breathing grew uneven, the weight of his anger pressing against his chest like a vice.

Alicent reached for him again, her touch desperate, motherly, pleading. "Aegon, you must not think this way. You are king. You must focus on ruling, on—"

"Ruling?" Aegon let out another broken laugh, his head lolling back against the pillows. "What rule do I have, Mother? Look at me. Look at me!"

Alicent's lips parted, but she had no answer.

He turned his head toward Criston now, his violet eyes dark with something close to madness.

"And you—" he hissed, his voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "You crowned me. You swore your blade to me, said you would shape me into a king."

Criston stiffened slightly, but did not look away.

Aegon bared his teeth in something that was not quite a smile. "And yet here I am, broken, rotting in my own bed, while my enemies march, while my brother fails me, while the one person who ever truly loved me is lost to me forever."

He closed his eyes then, his voice nothing more than a whisper. "I should have been stronger."

Alicent felt her heart seize in her chest.

"Aegon," she murmured, her fingers ghosting over his forehead, brushing away the damp strands of silver-gold hair. "You are strong, my son. You—"

"I am not." His voice was ragged, stripped of the arrogance that had once defined him.

The king of Westeros lay before them, and yet he looked nothing like a ruler. He looked like a boy—a broken boy, trapped in the wreckage of his own choices, drowning in the weight of a crown he had never wanted.

"She would have made me strong," he whispered.

Alicent shut her eyes, grief washing over her like a tide she could not fight.

"She would have made me whole."

Excerpts from Fire & Blood: The Westerlands Stand Alone

The Lion’s Fury

— From the accounts of Ser Alester Lannister, written in the year 130 AC

"When word of the Queen Dowager’s letter reached my lord cousin, his wrath was a storm no man could quiet. A lesser man might have ignored it, but Jason Lannister was not a man to be ignored. He ordered his war council assembled at once, and when we were gathered in the great hall of Casterly Rock, he read the letter aloud. The words were laced with pleading, with desperation—Alicent Hightower’s final gambit to reclaim what she had lost. She begged the princess, her favorite stepdaughter, to return to King’s Landing. To Aegon. To the brother who had never let her go."

"There was a stillness after Jason finished reading, the kind that precedes a storm. Then he crushed the parchment in his fist and flung it into the brazier beside him. The flames consumed it in an instant, but his anger remained. ‘They would dare summon her as if she is theirs to command?’ he said. ‘As if she is some prize to be won?’"

"I have seen my lord cousin in battle, have heard his laughter over the clash of steel, but never have I seen him so enraged as he was that day. ‘They would dare reach for my wife, for the mother of my children, as if she is some lost lamb?’ he spat. ‘Then they will see what happens when a lion is provoked.’"

"He ordered garrisons built along the borders of the Westerlands, fortifications strengthened, men called to arms. Casterly Rock would not bow to the Reach or the Crown. ‘No Hightower rider shall pass our gates,’ Jason declared, and his men answered in kind. They would stand as one. The Westerlands would belong to Lannister blood and no other. And as for Aegon, the broken king who still called for his sister? Let him rot in his grief. He would find no comfort here.’"

The Queen’s Desperation

— From The Chronicle of Grand Maester Orwyle

"The Queen Dowager’s efforts to bring her stepdaughter home were not received as she had hoped. No response was sent, and within the moon’s turn, reports came that Jason Lannister was fortifying his borders. The Westerlands had declared their neutrality once before, but with this action, it became clear that Lord Jason had no love for the Greens, nor for the games of the court. He would not risk his House for the war between his wife’s family."

"This, of course, did not please King Aegon."

"The King had not been the same since Rook’s Rest. Broken and bitter, he lay in his chambers, calling only for the sister who was not there. Alicent, desperate to rouse him from his grief, turned to Ser Criston Cole, who now ruled in the King’s stead. ‘Summon Lord Jason,’ she told him. ‘Bring him to court.’ But Criston only shook his head. ‘He will not come,’ he said. ‘Not for you, not for the King, not for any of us.’"

"Alicent did not give up hope, but each raven sent to the Rock met the same fate—silence."

The King’s Madness

— From the testimony of Mushroom

"Oh, to be a mouse in the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, to hear the wailing of the broken boy who called himself King! Aegon did not leave his chambers, they say. Did not dress, did not bathe, did not do much of anything but drink and rage and call for a woman who had long since forgotten him."

"‘Bring her back,’ he would say. ‘Find her.’ But there was nothing to find. No path that led to the Westerlands, not for him. Not for the man she had left behind.’"

"And while the King drank himself into oblivion, Ser Criston Cole ruled in his name, gathering forces, making plans, speaking of dragons and fire and victory. He whispered of taking the Rock by force. ‘She will come when the lion is caged,’ he said. But Aemond only laughed at that. ‘It will not be so easy,’ he told Cole. ‘You do not know Jason Lannister as I do.’"

"Ah, yes! Aemond knew Jason well. Knew him from the feasts and the courts, from the days when Jason had stood in King’s Landing, a golden beast in red and gold, and had smiled at him with nothing but disdain. Aemond had hated him even then. Hated him for taking what should have been his brother’s. Hated him even more for keeping it."

"So the tension grew, the whispers thickened, and war crept ever closer. But Jason Lannister did not bend. The Westerlands would not kneel. And as for the broken King? He was left in the shadows, whispering her name into the night, his crown slipping from his fingers."

Excerpts from Fire & Blood: The West Stands Alone

The Testing of Westerland Borders

— From The Annals of Ser Tybolt Lefford

"The first true test of the Westerlands' resolve came in the moon of the Falcon, when Hightower outriders crossed into the lands of House Serrett, a lesser bannerman of the Rock. It was not an army, not yet, but a provocation—an attempt to see whether Jason Lannister’s growling would be matched by his bite. The riders claimed they were scouting, though Ser Manfred Serrett had no illusions about their true purpose."

"Lord Jason’s response was swift and uncompromising. The next dawn, Serrett riders pursued and captured the Hightower men. Their heads were returned south in a gilded chest, accompanied by a message written in Jason’s own hand: 'The next of your kind to cross into my lands will be returned in less pleasant condition.'"

"Ser Criston Cole, acting Hand of the King, took the message as an open challenge, but he knew better than to march an army westward. The price of war in the Reach was already high, and stretching forces thin for the sake of testing a lion’s patience would be foolish. Instead, Cole turned to his most trusted ally—Aemond Targaryen. The Prince was eager, always eager. 'Give me leave,' Aemond is said to have told him. 'Vhagar will remind Jason Lannister where power truly lies.'"

"But Aegon refused. He, still rotting in his chambers, did not wish for war in the west—not yet. 'She will come to me,' the King murmured into his cup. 'One way or another.' For now, the Westerlands stood untaken, its borders lined with men bearing the lion’s banner, waiting for the moment when provocation would turn to open battle."

The Stirring of the Greyjoys

— From The Collected Histories of Maester Halford of the Rock

"With the Reach harassing the Westerlands on land, it was only a matter of time before the sea became a battlefield as well. For centuries, the Greyjoys had hungered for power beyond their islands, and now, as the realm bled itself dry in civil war, the time had come for them to seize it."

"Their raids began small—merchant vessels plundered, fishing villages along the western shores burned. Jason Lannister was no fool. He had long suspected the Ironborn would move to take advantage of the chaos, and his response was immediate. War galleys were deployed from Lannisport, and ravens were sent to Pyke bearing one simple demand: Stand down, or the lions will come to your shores."

"Lord Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, laughed at the threat. 'Let the lions come,' he was said to have told his men. 'They will find the sea is not their den.' The raids continued, and Jason’s temper grew ever shorter."

"There were whispers that he considered taking to the field himself, leading his forces into battle against the Hightowers in the south or the Ironborn to the west. But there was another matter, one that had arrived upon the wings of a black dragon, bearing the seal of his wife’s bloodline."

A Marriage Proposal from the Black Queen

— From The Letters of Maester Gerardys, Dragonstone (translated by Archmaester Vaemir, 184 AC)

"The letter came upon the backs of two riders, bearing banners of red and black, their dragons circling high above as they crossed into Lannister lands. Jason Lannister did not order their capture. He allowed them through, as was his right. When the scroll was placed into his hands, the men of his court did not breathe as he read it."

"It was a proposal, as bold as it was dangerous. Rhaenyra Targaryen, the woman whom Jason had refused to serve, whom he had denied his banners, now sought to bind their houses in a different way. A marriage, between her son, Aegon, and Jason’s daughter, Aelina."

"The message was carefully worded, full of respect and deference, but Jason was no fool. He saw it for what it was—a bid for the West, an attempt to tie him to the war through blood rather than battle. The marriage would secure the Targaryen claim, would ensure that the Lannisters had a hand in the future of the throne, no matter which side prevailed. But at what cost? To accept was to choose a side. To refuse was to risk turning away a powerful ally."

"His wife, the princess, did not speak immediately when the letter was read to her. She sat in the great hall, listening, silent as stone. It was no small thing, to betroth a daughter. To wed her child to a dragon prince, one who had been raised in war, one whose blood called for fire and vengeance."

"The council debated for days. The Westerlands had remained neutral, but for how much longer? Could they afford to remain alone? Tyland Lannister warned Jason of what was to come. 'They will force your hand soon enough, brother,' he told him. 'One way or another.'"

"And so, Jason Lannister brooded, as war pressed closer to his doorstep, as the seas roiled with raiders, as dragons cast shadows over his lands, and as his wife sat beside him, her silence heavier than words."

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #house targaryen #house lannister #the second daughter #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #hotd jason #jason lannister #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n

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femoso-seben · 1 year ago

Text

Humanoid Monster

Part 1, Part 3

Laswell sighed as the delegation dragged on. Of course, neither side sent their leadership only lackeys to demand impossibilities for the others to complete. They still tasted blood in their mouth for their fallen. The human delegation was a man called Vladimir Makarov, a young Russian who led his paramilitary group in deep Siberia.

“Why should we agree to these terms?” Makarov asks, how he knew, or let alone who taught him English was beyond Laswell. Most humans don’t know more than one language. Rarely do they speak the languages of countries far away from them. Humanity is landlocked. It was a way to ensure humanity never teamed up to defeat the monsters.

“Why should we agree to your request either?” Laswell sneers her wings twitching, from her anger. She read about this man, how he slaughtered many monsters and used their pelts as decoration. He was fighting for a greater Russia, with only humans in it, abolishing any monster or hybrid in sight. A human utopia!

They were talking in circles, Switzerland’s military standing at watch ready to shoot both delegations dead if given the chance. They weren’t achieving anything here.

“Since this is a peace treaty give us the names of your task force,” Makarov asks, Laswell knew it was personal for him. 141 and he was in a long constant struggle.

“Give us the files on the Pale Death, White Fang, Angel of Death, and Hunter.” Laswell strikes back. Each one of those women caused so many problems, that they must have been resistance rebels.

Makarov pursed his lips and glared at Laswell, “We’ll give you the files for White Fang and Hunters. As for the Angel of Death, she wasn’t one of us, but as for the pale death? No, we will not.”

“Then you will only get the files on, Roach,” Laswell spoke. It seems like Makarov is only giving information on the dead so she’ll do the same. Makarov frowns.

“Deal.” They both knew a single member of Task Force 141 was far better than any human, dead or alive, all except for the Pale Death.

By the end of the meeting, they had only agreed to share files of the dead and nothing more they merely moved a single inch to the finish post. As Laswell walks out Soap, Price, Graves, and Ghost we’re waiting for her.

“Where’s Gaz?”

“Helping the Hapries to fly,” Soap rolls his eyes, “the human woman can’t even raise a harpy! They should need the least amount of training!” Price touched his shoulder silencing the Sergeant.

“What happened?” Price asks.

“Not much, I was able to get information on White Fang and Hunter,” Laswell sighed.

“Those two are fucking dead, at least get the Pale Death—”

“Their delegate is Makarov,” everyone froze and a low growl imitated from all of them.

“He’s here? That terrorist?” Ghost steps closer to Laswell.

“C’mon let’s review the files maybe their connections, sure White Fang and Pale Death worked together,” Laswell spoke up.

Jezebel reappeared and began to lead them to a place outside of the meeting point, a spacious military camp where they were staying. It was more like Switzerland wanted to watch them, making sure they didn’t unpack them negatively.

Laswell hands over the packet to Price, Ghost, Graves, and Soap. They slowly scan through the files.

White Fang:

name: Belinda Wolf

Age: 23

Height: 5’9”

Weight: 140lb

History: grew up on a resistance compound deep in Akaska forest. Grew up hunting animals to survive. Favorite targets were werewolves said they were the apex of trotted a hunter could win.

statue: KIA

The photo was of a plan-looking woman, nothing remarkable, but for Soap he felt a sense of victory over this wretch. He hunted the White Fang down and butchered her like she butchered his troops. He hated her flesh making sure she was truly dead.

Hunter:

Name: Rawiya Abadi

Age: 31

Height: 5’4”

Weight: 120 lbs

History: The daughter of a wealthy (free) man she grew up owning and hunting exotic animals. She soon turned radicalized and began to hunt down every predator species of hybrids for their pelts and horns, wanting to collect every type of monster.

Status: KIA

“We’ll these aren’t helpful.” Price grumbles.

“A bunch of psychos.” Soap drops the file onto the table.

“We’ll theirs one thing for sure,” Graves spoke up, “White Fang didn’t work together, and White Fang came after Hunter.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Maybe their master and apprentices? After all, they share the same M.O. two hunters, maybe they did meet up but it’s not stated here.” Graves continues.

“We never found Hunter’s body, maybe Hunter set up that compound and trained up an apprentice?”

“What about mother and daughter?” Ghost brought up.

“That could be plausible,” Soap said.

“Makarov said the Angel of Death isn’t connected to the resistance forces.”

“That human is lying.” Soap sneers his sharp claws poking out.

“It could be plausible,” Ghost spoke up. “The Angel of Death was in deep monster territory, to be a resistance force is unlikely as it was hard to pick that human out of a crowd. She acted like one of the enslaved.”

“That one is most likely inspired by the resistance.” Price grunts out.

“The fact Switzerland allowed a killer like the Pale Death to live here is insane,” Soap said.

“Mother Maia… how insulting.” Graves notes, “The Pale Death working with our children?”

“I bet Maia isn’t her real name,” Soap mutters.

“Agree,” Price grunts out smoke leaking from his maw.

“Why don’t we do some recon whilst we’re here” Graves stands up, “Price you stay with Laswell, Ghost asked the young Gargoyles about their life, and I will talk to Mother Maia.”

“What are you planning?” Laswell folds her arms, “Shepard wants a smooth deal where we get our concessions.”

“I know, but something feels fishy about this place.” Graves adds, “It feels… stage.”

“Let me—“

“I want you and Gaz to watch the children, and see if their body languages give anything away.” Sops clenched his fist but nodded and sat down.

—————————— /\ ——————————

Gaz looked at the little harpies their little down feather wings gathered around him like lost chicklings looking for their mommas. He felt himself smiling at the small yet wide-eyed little owls just staring at him.

Pricilla is seventeen, and the oldest person there. She had also spent the longest time at the orphanage.

“So you’ve been an orphan this long?” Gaz asks.

“No, Mother Maia is my adopted Mother,” Gaz eyes widen.

“When did she adopt you?”

“I was eight.”

“Does she have any other kids?”

“No,” Pricilla sighs. “She cannot adopt anymore, in Switzerland only monsters can adopt monsters, same with humans. We came to Switzerland mother and daughter,” Gaz nods and looks at all the little Hapries.

“There’s so many children here,” Gaz mutters there were at least fifteen harpies of flight age.

“Many monsters abandoned their injured kids here, many of them have actual parents who don’t want them, but a small few made it here on their own… the human orphanage is way more kids.”

“Human orphanage?” Gaz questions.

“A lot of humans give up their babies because they can’t care for them, some are given up because their parents died after arriving.”

“how do you know this?”

“We all go to school together.” Gaz’s mouth drops. Humans? Monsters! Together? In school! No way!

“We’re gonna narrow their football field for this flight practice.”

“… you know this land used to not be Switzerland,” Gaz said as they walked a mile to the place.

“I know it was a part of France, right?” Pricilla answer. Gaz nod.

“We monsters don’t use the old colonial name the humans created.” Pricilla nods, she soon arrives at a school and there a few humans are playing.

“Jakob,” Pricilla calls out, a blonde boy, around Pricilla’s age wave.

“We need to barrow your football field.”

“Why?” He asks walking over to the fence of the tennis court.

“Flying practice!” Pricilla cheers.

“I’ll go tell Gramps he can turn on the lights.”

“Thank you!”

“You seem friendly with that human,” Gaz said trying not to growl at her. How could she forsake her kind and be around humans? Doesn’t she know they are destructive and cruel?

“He’s my classmate.” She bashfully said. Cold realization dawned on Gaz this young harpy like that human. He was a decent-looking boy but it made his blood boil.

By the time they reach the football field, the lights turn on.

It was going to be a long night, the sun was setting and they had a few hours to teach them. The wind picked up, his wings flared out and the older harpies watched him, eyes wide and eager to learn.

Gaz couldn’t help but smile at these small harpies taking flight, their wings clumsily flapping in the air.

Taglist: @kkaaaagt, @kaoyamamegami, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore

#141 #call of duty #simon ghost riley #captain price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #cod #modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod monster au #cod x reader #monster 141 au

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postmorteum · 5 months ago

Text

“Drown.”

Tashi Duncan x fem!reader

TW: angst; reflection; inner monologue; feelings-thoughts-feelings about thoughts-thoughts about feelings; endless circle of self-consciousness and self-hatred established into ourselves from that tricky thing called genetics. Fuck genetics. wc: 1,3k Author’s notes: I’m drunk and in my feelings rn + listening to Russian songs that don’t help the cause. English isn’t my native language, for that matter. (Something short to let out after a shitty week.)

If anyone ever told you two months ago that THE Tashi Duncan would let her eye fall upon you, a mere mortal that was just entering the field of sports—tennis, precisely—in this myriad of chaos and chronic prostration, you would’ve let out a laugh of the week from how impossible and absurd the thought sounded aloud. Because what the fuck? Have you seen Tashi? Have you seen yourself? No, but really... when was the last time you really looked into the mirror and saw something more than the reflection of the person you remember was running down the halls of the middle school, gossiping about boys who you totally ‘didn’t’ like—what was there to like about them?—or the halls full of voices that didn’t give you a migraine or two from just needing to spend another second thinking,

Am I the only one who doesn’t want to know anything about all of this? ...about all of them?

What was your life about if you were not thinking, weighing your options, thinking about the options you weighed, weighing if the options you weighed were even worth weighting, or if it was in your damn head? Always your head.

Head... where was your head exactly when you graduated? Tashi liked to joke, ‘shoved up the crevices of your ass, apparently,’ which wouldn’t be so far away from the truth, considering all of this started because of your head. Not your heart, no—because you didn’t have one.

Remember when your mom used to say you were meant to do something greater than where you are right now? What was that greater exactly now? Slipping into the covers with the wife of your best friend? Seeing their friend, Patrick, stealing drunken kisses and leaving sweaty marks on Tashi’s latest Gucci—she could not deserve anything less—cashmere jacket, and then grabbing those calloused, manly hands and guiding, sliding, them into your underwear, while judging Tashi’s dishonesty? You were anything but truthful, and less to your own self.

What was there about ‘friendship codex’ which you heard years ago in one of the bathroom stalls when you first kissed your friend’s ex? Seems like a pattern no, doesn’t it? Thought you learned the lesson even though your eyes always seemed to strike away from Art’s? Out of pure respect or utter guilt—unknown.

What is good? What is bad? What is correct? What defines it? Humans? The engrained morals we’ve been carrying within ourselves since the origins of our birth? Was it what our parents used to yell into our faces when we would ‘accidentally’ let out a curse or two to our teachers under our breaths and they would ‘accidentally’ overhear them? Was it the recognition that the apple, indeed, doesn’t fall far from the tree? No matter how hard you might try and fail, over and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and...

What are we if not sinners meant to work for what we did in Sodom and Gomorrah? Was it fair if it happened centuries ago when humans couldn’t possibly imagine if they were gonna be able to survive, and to procreate for more masses that would eventually lead to this?

“Swallowed your tongue?” You remember Tashi asking you one day after yet another strenuous practice in which the ball hit your head so hard that you must’ve forgotten who you were talking to if the first thing leaving your mouth was,

—Patrick told me you two had broken up.

The following silence was accompanied by a feeling that you couldn’t properly describe now, but it was something akin to when your parents pushed you into the water so you would learn—by sheer instinct—how to swim. The utter panic. The terrific realization that you are, indeed, falling into the pit that was about to drown you if you don’t move your ass and fucking do something. Was it a dream? Another example of your overdrawn imagination that you never lacked, even when you were alone? When weren’t you? Don’t we come alone and go alone in this life? What was the point of trying to make friends if anything was meant to end like this... with Tashi staring at you as if you’d disappointed not her— her entire line of thinking that was practically built around both of you these two months that you knew were meant to end. What hasn’t ended if this life is all about the natural order of things: creating — ending it.

“I’m just thinking,” you told her in the most sincere way you could manage through the gathering tears that you wanted to scratch out of your eyes, because what the fuck, weren’t you enough,, haven’t you done enough to deserve this tone thrown into your face like the bag that you saw was pushed under Patrick’s feet with Tashi’s heel? After all, we all are dispensable and meant to be thrown away, isn’t it? It was good while it lasted... right?

“Why’re you looking at me like this?” Gosh, you sounded pathetic—get it together, girl; were your trembling hands, your prickling eyes, your thrown to the brim feelings, the seemingly unstoppable sensation of trying to make your way out of that water that seemed to grow hands and claw their way over your sinking body worth it? Your overcompensated circle of victim-victimizer: ‘I’m not worse than Tashi if she does the same’?

And blurting out, unthinking, really, “I haven’t done anything you wouldn’t in my place, too. Weren’t it us from the beginning?”

“You were never in the equation.” Okay, shoot her, it would’ve hurt less than whatever the hell Tashi just straight-up shitted in her face. “You want to feel special, want to be part of something?” That questioning hm felt like a finger being put on the trigger about to be shot, and not just anywhere. At you.

“Then play like you are something; I have no interest in playing with a person who can’t see their own worth.” The way Tashi crossed her arms and tilted her head felt like a mother disapproving of a child who just said they haven’t studied in the time given for that same purpose— but Tashi wasn’t a Mother Theresa, nor was she a lifeline, or the hand that you saw blurry waving out of the water for you to grab. Help yourself yourself. “What worth can be there if you can’t even focus on something as basic as not sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” she muttered the last part to herself. Ouch, for fuck’s sake.

“You wanted to be alone? Felt overly confident in your strengths, saw an opportunity and struck like the snake that you always were? I taught you this, after all, I should probably feel proud ‘n shit—but the only thing that comes to mind is that I want to choke you right now.” Your eyes could only watch how Tashi grabbed that cursed bag with big cursive capital “Art” sewn into the fabric, before throwing it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing. It probably didn’t in comparison to the weight that was left on your shoulders, leaving you grasping the doorframe as if it would’ve saved you from the undone damage. ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ whispered your consciousness, ‘you started this — now watch her finish it.’

“Please; be fucking alone.” Tashi never said a mere thank you to you, so to hear a simple please felt like everything you had and couldn’t have.

You could have if you had a heart, which you don’t.

#my works #tashi duncan x reader #a brief mention of patrick zweig x reader #challengers #a girlfriend would’ve saved tashi... but would tashi have saved a girl?#she’s anything but a savior after all.

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darkwicks · 2 years ago

Text

NOTHING IS LOST (YOU GIVE ME STRENGTH) – FUSHIGURO MEGUMI & READER

As minimal as this may seem, you wonder if he knows how much it means to you that he came. Your days have been lonely with you feeling increasingly out of touch with everything, but everything feels fine with Megumi by your side. Or, the one where you find your way back home.

TAGS.⠀gender-neutral reader; ambiguous relationship; childhood friends; aged-up au/canon divergence; brief smoking; angst & hurt/comfort; mental health issues, talks of death/suicide ideation, implied past suicide attempts; mild gore; near-death experiences; drifting apart and coming back together. hopeful/happy ending. SFW. 3,9k words

A/N.⠀my first work after so long and it's just a ventfic LOL sorry i have been looping phoebe bridgers and lorde for ages.

CROSS-POSTED ON AO3

For as long as you can remember, you’ve always felt things fervently.

One moment you’d feel euphoric, like you’re walking on air and nothing can get you down, but then everything crumbles and you’re left as nothing but an empty husk. It’s ironic how emptiness can feel so heavy, a constant weight on your shoulders, constant tugs at your heartstrings.

Despite all the things you hate about yourself, there’s still one part of you that you’ll always remember with pride: there is no limit to the unconditional love you can give to people. It’s taken some time for you to decide you want to live and love as much as you can.

But for some reasons you couldn’t fathom, these days, you feel as though your love is forced. Unnatural. Ingenuine. Like it’s just something you’ve gotten used to doing passively. Like you no longer believe, like you are living a lie.

In a way, maybe you are. The longer you are surrounded by your fellow Jujutsu sorcerers, the more aware you become of how rotten this world can get. Plagued with death, unhappiness and turmoil on every corner, and with humans repeating the same mistakes, you’ve begun to believe that this is all hopeless. You’re well aware that it’s quite a pessimistic view to hold, but in the world that you are in, you find that it keeps you grounded. A realist.

Or, as your beloved teacher Gojo Satoru would call you, a downer.

The sound of his voice referring to you as such makes you click your tongue in irritation. There’s not much you know about him, but the bitter part of you believes that he of all people should at least understand how you feel. You hold your position as a jujutsu sorcerer in high regard and with honour, but as time passes by, you’ve started to contemplate if it’s even worth it at all.

You wonder if people know that you weren’t always this way — as a child, you were bright-eyed and innocent, full of love for people and the world. Growing and going through life shattered it all, making you a husk of what you once were, and even now, you still don’t know who you’re supposed to be.

You lie and you cheat, tricking people into believing that you’re independent and fine on your own, but you are lonelier than words can describe.

And just what do you live for? You’ve survived time and time again by sheer instinct and reflex, but you still don’t know what your purpose is. You fight and you risk your life to keep other people safe at the cost of your wellbeing. Every day is a task to complete for the greater good, but what’s in store for you? You’ve grown distant from your parents — on your end, anyway; it’s difficult to read people — and your once close friends rarely contact you anymore. All you have are your peers, but you still feel so out of place among them.

The cigarette burns between your fingers as you stare off into space by the edge of the river. At the mere age of nineteen, you feel as though you’ve lived several lives, all of which have harrowed you to no end. Nicotine flows in your system as you take yet another drag, wondering if this is what your youth was meant to be. Years of saving the city in favour of feeling like you’re wanted, needed should’ve made you feel happy. Yet here you are, alone in the streets of Tokyo, all because there’s nothing waiting for you at home.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” a voice says from beside you. It’s deep and quiet, almost monotonous, but you’d recognise the hint of concern anywhere. Megumi slightly grimaces at the sight of you exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“I don’t.” With a scoff, you put out the cigarette in the ashtray and turn to face him instead. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

He frowns. It amuses you how it seems to have been a permanent expression etched on his face since you were kids. You don’t remember if you’ve ever seen him with a different look, but that’s on you, you suppose. You haven’t spent much time with him for a while now. Time ages you and your weariness distances you from those you wish to stay close to.

When he doesn’t reply, you speak up again, “I'm trying.”

“I know.” He glances at you. As blunt as he sounds, you know he means well; that’s just the way he is. He looks like he has more to say but he doesn’t, instead opting to hand you a packet of your favourite mints. Any other time you’d take it as an insult, but you find yourself getting sentimental over the fact that he still remembers what you like.

“Thanks,” you mumble, popping one into your mouth. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

The corner of his lips quirks downward for a split second. With a quiet sigh, he lightly flicks your forehead, not reacting at all to the indignant yelp you let out.

“Where’s your jacket?” he asks in a chiding tone, though there isn’t any venom in it. “You’ll get sick. I don’t want you sneezing on me.”

“You always take care of me, though,” you grumble without thinking, putting on the jacket that was previously tied around your waist. Another beat passes before you realise what you’ve blurted out. Were you being too familiar with him? You’re not sure if he still wants to be friends after all that isolation you’ve been doing. You part your lips to apologise, but he interrupts with a huff and a flick to your forehead again.

“Shut up.” The pink flush on the tips of his ears betrays the irked expression he wears. You’re not sure whether it’s because of the chilly air or if it’s because he’s blushing, but it brings a smile to your face nonetheless. “Let’s go back.”

You were only twelve when you started seeing Curses everywhere you went.

You’d never been the type to get scared too easily, but there was something about those creatures that unsettled you to the core. They seemed horrifically disfigured and hungry, ready to pounce at any moment, and you could only be brave for so long. You tried telling your mother and your friends only to be met with suspicious and concerned looks.

They thought you were crazy. You didn’t blame them for that. You never believed in the paranormal, so this sudden change must’ve been quite a shock. It wasn’t until two years later did you learn what they were and that you could exorcise them, somehow like they did in the horror movies. Your memory of your recruitment is hazy, but you did remember sitting with Megumi and Gojo in the car and asking the most questions you’ve ever asked in your lifetime. Your new teacher found it amusing; your classmate, however, did not.

Your mother didn’t seem to mind sending you to a boarding school. With an elaborate lie about your full scholarship told by Gojo, she’d beamed in joy and helped you pack your bags. She’d be too busy to actually notice your absence, but that didn’t stop her from sending a message to check in on you every once in a while. At some point, you stopped responding. Not because you were annoyed, but rather, you just didn’t have the energy to.

Ironically, for a school with quite a handful of staff and students, you never felt lonelier in your life. You stuck by Megumi’s side for the sole reason that he was the only one you felt comfortable enough to approach. You didn’t talk to him much, but he was good company and you came to consider him a friend. Eventually, he started approaching you as well, and you’d spend time together like regular friends would do. It felt nice to be able to be around someone and not have to explain yourself all the time.

In hindsight, you think it’s your fault that you’re so distant from everyone now. You don’t quite know when it all began—the depressing thoughts, the near-uncontrollable impulses, the lack of care for your safety and well-being. Every time your teachers or a peer brought it up, you’d simply dismiss it as just a ‘hormone thing’ which seemed enough to make them stop asking. Megumi didn’t believe a thing. He doesn’t have to tell you for you to know that.

But what else could you do? You’re alone, and it’s not like anyone can help with whatever the fuck is happening in your head. Your mother got you in touch with professionals to help with your troubles, and even if she doesn’t say it much, you know she’s always worried sick and thinks you should just come home. You’ve been able to keep yourself in check since then, but with the sadness now mostly gone, you now have to deal with the void in your chest that plagues you constantly.

The forest surrounding the dormitories is quiet save for the leaves rustling in the wind and the cicadas chirping their evening tune. You’re not sure how long it’s been since your last official mission. You haven’t been good at keeping track of the time for a while now. But at the very least, you know that it’s been too long.

There’s no doubt Gojo had something to do with it, you think bitterly. Otherwise, you’d be as busy as your peers right now. If there’s one thing you hate about this place, it’s the fact that no one here ever really gives you a proper reason. You feel trapped, ignored, and maybe if you were more carefree you’d look past it, but you’re not. If they didn’t believe in your abilities, you’d show them; you don’t think being the underdog is that bad, after all. Maybe they’ll finally recognise your prowess and respect you.

With your heart pounding hard against your chest, you grab your ootachi and flee, letting your instincts guide you to wherever feels the most dangerous, exciting. The more rational part of you tells you that you’re going to be in trouble if you don’t turn back now, but you find that you really couldn’t care less.

You need to feel alive. You need to feel afraid, to feel something, anything. While you don’t mind resting, you also didn’t overwork yourself to the bone just to remain stagnant. You didn’t spend weeks training with every weapon the school had to offer just to let them rust. You didn’t hone your cursed techniques only to not use them at all. So punishment and criticism be damned, you’re going to do what you want whether people like it or not.

You find yourself standing in front of a dingy abandoned shrine in the woods. Unease settles in the air as you slowly creep into the light of the moon. It’s dim, incredibly so, but you can’t afford to be afraid of the dark now —you have something to prove, and you’re not going to let yourself be intimidated by something so childish. There are blood splatters on the cobblestone steps, both fresh and dried, and your grip tightens on the handle of your sword. Your instinct to fight rears its head within your body, adrenaline and the humane need to survive rushing through your veins, but you breathe and try to rein it all in.

You have to think.

(It’s quite ironic how for someone who doesn’t give a single shit about their life, you always fight your hardest so you can live.)

You take another step. A twig snaps beneath the weight of your foot. The dried leaves crunch and rustle like someone (or rather, something) is sizing you up, keeping itself unseen to take you by surprise. Incomprehensible gargled sentences echo from within and the stench of death and decay grows stronger. Even when fear starts to wrap you in its cold embrace, you walk through the gate and into the dark shrine. Your blood runs cold and your breath gets caught in your throat, but you force yourself to face the task at hand.

You’re met with a grotesque mass of green; all of its endless bloodshot eyes leer at you as its tendrils slither in your direction. Misshapen hands protrude from those tendrils and reach for you, taunting you with the blood and entrails stuck to their skin and nails, telling you that you are next.

Not today.

An aura of black and purple coats your sword as you withdraw it from its sheath. It’s not the best space to utilise such a long sword—the shrine is somewhat cramped and is lacking in space for mobility, much less combat —but you grit your teeth and decide that you will adapt. Electricity crackles from your blade, and without any more hesitation, you charge. Its tendrils are faster than you had anticipated; they come close to wrapping themselves around your legs until your cursed energy latches on to them and forces them to disintegrate.

The curse glares at you in fury. You can practically hear your heartbeat as you slash through its tendrils, splattering the wooden floors with its steaming blood. A guttural growl leaves the curse and the air feels thicker; it’s getting hard to breathe and your vision is starting to fade.

Am I going to die here?

There’s a sharp pain in your gut. The sword slips out of your grasp and blood sputters out of your lips. When you look down, you realise that the curse has pierced through you.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it fucking hurts.

But you can’t die here. Not like this, not without a fight.

Shakily, weakly, you put your hands together, breathe, and with the last of your strength, you fire a powerful blast that hits the curse square in the centre, making it screech in pain. Vapour rises from its form as it melts into the ground and eventually dissipates. A relieved sigh leaves you, but then the world spins, your body hurts even more, and before you know it, everything goes dark.

You fall into nothing.

(Somewhere not too far from the shrine, apprehension crawls into Fushiguro Megumi’s system.

He doesn’t hesitate. He follows the curse residue and he runs.)

You wake with a dull ache between your ribs.

The first thing you see is never-ending walls of white. There’s a generic decorative painting on the wall along with an old clock that tells you it’s a quarter past noon. Blearily, you realise that you’re in the infirmary, and judging from the soreness that spreads through your body and into your limbs, you’re still alive.

Somehow, you’re not as happy about it as you should be.

You feel like you’ve been through hell and back. In a way, you did. You’re too tired to regret your poor decisions from who knows how long ago, and you’re not a stranger to deliberately ignoring whatever makes you feel like shit. So you do just that all while staring blankly at the wall in front of you, hoping that you’ll eventually fall asleep again and forget. Maybe even not wake up until the month ends.

(You’ve come to a realisation that you don’t want to die anymore; you just want to stop existing for a while, get yourself together then come back when you’re ready. Like pausing a game or a video being played, you don’t lose the progress, but you sure as hell forget what the hell happened earlier.)

The door slides open. You contemplate pretending to be unconscious again, but your ears pick up heavy footfalls on the tiled floor and you decide maybe you shouldn’t.

“Hey, Ieiri-sensei,” you croak out, weakly raising two of your fingers in a peace sign. “I’m alive and moving.”

She hums, amused as she makes her way over to your bedside. “Yes, you are. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit?”

“Good. You would’ve been dead if Fushiguro-kun hadn’t found you. Can you stand?”

She gently urges you off the bed, hoisting you up by the shoulders as you try to maintain balance after being bedridden for hours. Or days. Or even weeks. You’re not sure.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

The concerning duration of your bedridden state goes completely ignored. All you can think about is the mention of Megumi.

You would’ve been dead if Fushiguro-kun hadn’t found you.

“What do you mean he found me?”

She smiles wryly. “That boy’s been worried about you. Ran off from Satoru as soon as he felt a ‘weird pressure.’ What were you fighting?”

You shrug and wince at how stiff you feel. God, you hate this. Your legs are shaky as she helps you walk out of the infirmary and on the familiar path back to the dormitories. The school is quiet, making you wonder where everyone’s gone for the day.

“Some curse thing. Had tentacles and slimy skin. It was gross.”

“Well, that thing punctured you right there.” She gestures toward your chest. “Surprisingly it didn’t hit any vital organs, but you still lost a lot of blood. Did you exorcise it in the end?”

“I did.” A beat of silence passes. “Am I in trouble?”

“Yaga-sensei’s suspended you for a month. Oh, Fushiguro-kun. Just in time.” She helps you sit on a stone bench as Megumi approaches, his fingers furling and then relaxing by his sides. “They still need some support when they’re walking, but they’re healing quickly. They’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m still in my thirties, silly.” She ruffles your hair affectionately. “Be careful, hm? Come see me if there’s anything else.”

As Ieiri-sensei takes her leave, Megumi sits down next to you on the bench. His brows furrow the same way they always do when he’s thinking of how to say something nicely. He opts for silence instead, eyeing you cautiously. It almost feels offensive, but it’s only then that you’re aware of the bandages that cover essentially your whole upper body, so you brush it off. If someone else were in your position, you’d be worried sick too.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this visibly upset (well, for someone like Megumi anyway) over anything, and knowing that it’s because of you strikes you with a pang of guilt. With your lips pursed, you avoid his demanding look and glance at your hands instead. The bruises have almost faded away by now. Ieiri-sensei must’ve worked herself to the bone to patch you up.

“I’m not happy, Megumi.” Your throat closes up and your nose burns as the tears start to form and fall. “I’ve been trying to force myself to feel something. It didn’t matter what it was. I just hate being like this all the time.”

It hurts to cry. It hurts trying not to. Your state of mind is in tatters and you’re desperately doing your best to hold yourself together, but the way he’s looking at you makes you drop your guard completely.

“I know I’m surrounded by people, but I still feel so alone.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything. That’s fine, you think. The last thing you’d want to do is pressure him to speak his mind. He takes every word into consideration and thinks a lot by default, and if he’s still the same boy you knew all those years ago, he’d prefer to let his actions speak for themselves.

“You didn’t have to come for me,” you murmur. “I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“No.” He pauses for a moment as if he’s trying to formulate what he wants to say into words that won’t feel like jabs. He huffs quietly. “I want to stay with you.”

Hearing him say those words practically has you melting on the spot, your heart fluttering as warmth rushes to your cheeks. You reach for his hand instinctively and with the slightest bit of hesitation, he responds by lacing your fingers together.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. You don’t know if it’s because you’re still exhausted or if it’s because you’re worried you’ll upset him somehow. Either way, it takes so much out of you just to talk anymore. “I’m trying.”

He squeezes your hand softly. “I know.”

“I say that to you a lot, don’t I?” you chuckle, leaning against his shoulder. I’m trying. You tell it to him every time you don’t have anything else to say, but it hardly feels true. Or maybe you’re just overly critical of everything you do, expecting yourself to reach certain heights before you consider yourself enough.

“You are trying,” Megumi says. “Even now.”

You smile weakly. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” He lets go of your hand and your heart sinks, wondering if you’d done or said something wrong, but then he gently flicks your forehead the same way he always used to do when you were kids. “I found you bleeding out on the ground.”

“Pretty gnarly, wasn’t it?” you joke, laughing nervously. He shoots you a glare that shuts you up immediately.

“We were worried about you,” he continues, ignoring your interruption. “I was worried about you. I thought you were going to die.”

“Is this the part where I tell you that all jujutsu sorcerers die at some point?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” you say meekly, “I didn’t know I was that important to you.”

“We grew up together.” You feel a slight weight as he rests your head on top of yours with a sigh. “You’ve always been with me. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t there.”

It’s unusual for him to be this open about his feelings; he’s never been the overly sentimental type like you are, so to have him be this vulnerable with you makes you feel like you’re going to burst. The cool breeze passes by as you hesitantly take his hand again, and for the first time in so long, you find yourself genuinely smiling. He cares about you. He loves you, despite what that voice in your head tells you otherwise. It’ll take a while for you to change or get used to knowing these things, but for him, you’ll do everything you can. You’ll live — if not for yourself, then for him. And as slow and tedious as your path to recovery may be, both physically and mentally, you think that it’ll be worth the endeavour because you’re not alone.

You are loved.

You are loved by him, and for now, that is enough to quell every anxiety in the back of your mind.

You glance at him. “Wanna watch a movie later?”

Almost imperceptibly, he smiles back. “Sure.”

(You never end up finishing the movie.

Halfway through, exhaustion gets the better of you, and you fall into a deep sleep on the bean bag you borrowed from the recreation room. When you wake in the morning, you’re sore and aching all over, but the blanket draped over your frame and the arm around your waist makes you forget about it for a moment.

With a content smile, you curl closer.

He’s still the same Megumi you’ve always known.)

#all #bitchcraftinc #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi x reader #fushiguro x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk angst #megumi fushiguro x reader #tw: sui ideation #cw: body horror #? kind of. i describe a monster #cw: death #cw: smoking #yippiee

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takami-takami · 2 years ago

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Stray Dogs Will Crawl Home.

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. angst (with a happy ending).

warnings— gn!reader. breakups. keigo's trauma because i can't give this man a break and he needs to heal.

For better or for worse, Keigo has always been thrust into the role of decision maker.

Sure, on the inside, his emotions pick and chew at his open wounds; but the man has driven the proverbial and literal knife into far too many backs to hesitate when he leaves you.

He can do what needs to be done. It's for your own good. You deserve more than half a man, more than the scraps of whatever is left crawling to your door after another day of putting his goals of building a peaceful society before you.

The night before he left you, stone-faced to contrast your tears and begs of 'why' on the cold of your doorstep, he lay on his side and watched you sleep. Tracing the bridge of your nose with the tip of a finger, he wondered, throat tight, what you'd think of him if you knew the truth of what he's done.

He can't bear to offer you a man who's already sold himself. You shouldn't have to shoulder the weight of his sins. He tells himself it's for the greater good, but under the cobwebs of his bed, he knows a smaller, childlike voice is telling him you deserve someone who isn't dirtied by a life counting shades of moral grey.

It aches like he's dying, sure, but that's what hero work is for, right? He can throw himself into the trenches, hour after hour, until the sun looms over the horizon and the lovebirds' chirps announce the arrival of another morning without you.

For what everyone in the media says about him being a 'golden boy', he just doesn't feel the sun without you.

His subordinates ask more than a few questions about the bags under his eyes, why his glowing smile has fizzled to a mere plastic performance. It's even easier to brush them off than it was to brush off you, to smile wider and turn the question on them— an unspoken order to fucking drop it.

But Keigo's kryptonite, the deep burn that itches under the layers of his skin, is that he's well aware of what happens after someone like you becomes single. The thought crawls under the remains of his bones, and as he perches on the highest point of the city, he makes the mistake of allowing himself to entertain it. If he wasn't weighed down under the drags of sleep deprivation, he'd curse himself for being so weak.

Deep down, he knows what happens after the weeks of digging through tubs of comfort food on the couch are over. You'll stop sobbing over the phone with your best friend. You'll probably start scheduling little dates with people who remind you less and less of him with each passing one.

You're going to move on.

Someone else's fingers will press against your skin. Someone else's quips will cause you to laugh into your sleeve, someone else will hear your shaky breaths under the cover of the night, someone else will whisper promises they can't keep.

Someone else is going to make a spouse of you.

He winces. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he takes a single stride off the ledge and surges upwards with the beat of his wings.

He makes a note to add another shift to his schedule. Maybe two.

Are you thinking of him? If you were here, he knows you'd tell him to be open with you, to stop 'being so goddamn stubborn'. You'd tell him he deserves a break from pushing his emotions down, that you knew damn well what you signed up for when you decided to be his, and to just trust your judgement for once.

To make matters worse, you'd frame it sweet, hook the words around his heart like a taffy lasso, make it so he can't resist. You do know how much he likes it sweet.

It picks at the anger thrumming in his veins. You expect him to lay himself bare? To expose the rawest parts of him, despite the commission's repeated orders not to? You expect him to be selfish?

Why does he want so badly to be selfish?

He should definitely add two more shifts to his schedule.

His phone begins to ring, startling him from his musings. He knows exactly who it is from the first note. Your favorite song plays on his speaker; the one you confessed reminds you of him, with your thumb swiping over the raised hairs on his skin. His heart hammers in the cavity of his chest, pleading to be let out.

He can't be fucking rid of you. Keigo's heart, his mind, his very bones crackle with the fire he frantically tries to put out. God, he wants to burn, wants to drag himself by his fingertips to the door of your chapel and beg you to just finish him off. He wouldn't mind serving as the ash of your incense. He'd do anything for a chance to fill your lungs.

Shit. He scrambles to dig his phone from his pocket, nearly dropping it like hot coals when he attempts to pick it up.

"H-Hey, sweetheart!" He cringes at the puppy-like excitement in his voice at the mere sound of yours. "I'm s-sor— I," he stutters for far too long before he finally gives up. Sighing into the speaker, resigned, he squeezes his eyes shut and says exactly what his mind is screaming he shouldn't.

"Can we talk?"

#GRIPPING KEIGO IN MY FIST. HEAL DARN YOU.#hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #🖋 writing #🍧 sugar #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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edwardsissyhandsthtdanceslikeabb · 1 year ago

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crazy person check: did you see Richie being eviscerated by Syd in steadily personal and intense ways, until he was ultimately bothered / defeated, after belittling and undervaluing her. while also backdropped by past gems of empathy/connection and fondness.

all culminating in them getting in each other’s faces, and Syd brandishing a knife against him, and a part of you didn’t see it as a mere symptom of the chaos erupting in the kitchen, but as a greater manifestation of their tension (despite the good), especially with how needlessly close and frankly abetting/low Richie was speaking, not stepping away from the challenge, which later led you to realize that you actually ship it?

Especially bc he valued Sydney’s words sm that it borderline induced his S2 psychological spiral (which is fckɪɴɢ hilarious lol), exemplifying her impact/value to him, and how she’s equally if not more unhinged than him. and was allowed her retaliation in a grander, more intense way which validates her feelings against Richie, and elevates her above a passive recipient. With this tension transcending into S2, with their pointed tentativeness whenever they would initially interact, although awkward, it was evidently made so by all the things unsaid.

And doubly appreciate the detail of S2 ending with Carmy and Syd on repeatedly bad/disconnected footing and Richie conversely, earnestly imploring Sydney trust him, wanting to be utilized by her, giving himself to the person who arguably holds the most weight (was the one who really saw his inherent issues/needed to prove himself to) and was thusly crucial in pushing him to grow. and how sydney trusted him, chose to in fact — despite everything — which allowed her to achieve a huge part of her dream, actually being there for her - in opposition to his prior trend of self-centeredness (and so becoming endearing to you and smth you really appreciate). And the easy synergy this brought, evidencing their compatibility and natural gravitation — so while sydcarm are mirrors, their fallibilities tend to distance and depersonalize them from e/o - at least in carmy's case. Did this make you admire their depth and dynamicness and their uncanny ability to complement each other, whether piercing under the skin or building the other up? Did their [initial] tension make you think they were gonna makeout, but are you satisfied even tho they didn't (OOC, duh), but lowkey think they wanted to/should, like sydrichie nasty sickonut hɑτefuck when (with knife even)?

Would you lowkey love it if the show trolled and ended up not pairing sydcarm but unexpectedly the two that challenge each other - with sydrichie, despite many ppl falling to their knees in wallmart. Should sydrichie kiss sloppy style with τoɴɢue to make me very happy?

Do I need help? And is it an obvious problem that I ship Syd with any cousin 🐻 that breathes (she can't help that she's so charismatic and wifey 🤷🏿‍♂️)? Yes, yes. Clearly indicative of a hashtag normal person, very well adjusted yes.

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sunsblaze · 7 months ago

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cont. || @the-moonbreather-rp

His childhood was something he did not speak freely about, very few knew much at all about Yoriichi’s past, his adolesent life, nor the life he had shared with his beloved. It was much to painful to stir up memories of the past and let them leave his lips, especially when it came to her. His Uta. Throughout his life Yoriichi attempted to make his presence as small and insignificant as possible, he dared not breathe too loud nor did he barely even made a sound as she shuffled about in the background of his family’s life, a delicate dance to ensure he would make no ripples in the water, for they turned into waves. One wrong step would lead the Tsugikuni family to ruin- or at least that is what their father had Yoriichi believe. For years he had belived that his mere existance was a fluke, according to father he should have never been born, he was a cursed child and the mark he bore was irrefutable proof. Everything he did was for the sake of his family. The sole reason he began speaking after being silent for so long was to extinguish mother’s worries of him being deaf, she was already in a fragile state at the time, so if he could take this one weight from her shoulders, he would. All he wanted was to be like his brother, he looked up to Michikatsu, the one who would come to him behind their father’s back to ensure he had a full belly, the one who had crafted little toys by hand for his entertainment- the one who kept him from simply withering away in that three tatami mat room. His brother was his hero and in return he wished to serve by his side, saving others as his brother had him. That’s all it was though. A wish. One that would not come true for fate had other plans as Yoriichi’s true talent came to light. Their father would plot, plan to push the elder brother to the side in favor of the younger twin’s natural strength and skill. Michikatsu would be sent off, Yoriichi would inherit everything his brother had been working so hard for. He would not have it. He would leave the very night their mother died, he knew it was coming, her body showed the signs well before, he had already starting mourning before and even as he shared the news with his brother, his heart ached. A simple smile was the only parting gift he had to offer, he had nothing else to give to Michikatsu before he would depart. If only Michi knew the admiration Yoriichi held for him and the sacrifice he had made to unsure his brother had the chance at the life he wanted. Many years had passed since they last laid eyes upon one another, the years apart greater than the years they had spent together as children and as slayers. Still, he vividly remembered the day he found of his brother’s betrayal to not only the corps, but to him. He had taken the head of the master and had become the very thing they sought to rid the world of. The news had stilled him and deep inside this sorrow he held only spilled over, dripping from his eyes. It hurt. It was agony to lose yet another he cared to deeply for and the act of betrayal wasn’t the end of it. Yoriichi would sit before the other pillars and their master’s heir as they discussed his fate, he would be the one to pay the toll of his brother’s sins. Originally, the other pillars pushed for him to commit suicide, to slit his own belly, that would not come to pass, their new master and the flame pillar had argued against such a fate and in the end he was exiled from the corps. Alone once again. He always seemed to find himself alone in the end.

Now the sun user would let his tears flow freely down his sunken cheeks as he stood before the twisted image of his beloved elder brother, his heart aching painfully in his chest. Holding his blade in opposition to his own blood put a strain on his old bones, it was as if his body was trying to reject the truth of what needed to be done. That he needed to cut down his astray twin and let his soul pass to the other side so he could finally be at rest. He knew once this was done his own time would come to an end, even now he could feel his body failing him, yearing for rest. “Every creature that grazes this land will eventually come to the end of its life, so is the way of life and death…though some meet death in an untimely manner, some live well beyond their years.” In the end the Gods sought to reclain the souls of every living being, it was what made life worth living, the separation of life and death, an unpredictable cycle. “I admit I share the blame for it was my teachings that marked you and our comrads for death, that I will carry to my grave.” Yoriichi could not hold the fear of a life cut short against his brother, no one wanted to die, not at such an early age, still full of life and ambition, but becoming a demon, a beast that consumed the innocent, that is what lead to this moment. The moment he would hold his blade against his own kin. “This path you speak of, is it truly what you desire? The strength you speak of has been given to you at a price, a price you will come to pay, you will be shackled to that man until death.” Yoriichi appeared to simply be a frail old man, thin, frail, easily broken, his hair once a fiery-raven color now white, the ends tinged in silver. “My heart breaks for you, brother.”

#blessed by the sun || yoriichi #howling moon || kokushibo #//after 5 business years #i am done #i really enjoyed writing this

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bipolarman2022 · 6 months ago

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The Spanish man, shorter and of a thin build, stands in front of the imposing figure before him, a 40-year-old Arab man whose mere bearing fills him with a mixture of reverence and submission. His gaze is timid at first, but he can't help but take in every detail of the man, as if in his presence everything else disappears. He feels small, not only in size, but in essence, as if before him were someone from a superior race, a being made to dominate, to lead, to be admired. And then he begins to speak, his voice soft, almost hesitant, but full of respect:

"Sir... I have never seen such an imposing figure, so full of strength and authority. From the first moment I lay my eyes on you, it is impossible not to feel this presence, this energy that emanates from each of your movements. Your beard, so black and rough, seems like the insignia of a warrior who has lived through a thousand battles and has emerged victorious from them all. In each of those rough hairs I see the mark of power, a sign that the man I have in front of me is not just any man, but someone destined to command.

His chest, covered with that dark, thick hair, is like a natural armor, a symbol of raw, indomitable masculinity. I feel overwhelmed by that skin, as dark and hard as the earth itself. My hands, weak compared to yours, could never match the strength that I imagine hidden under that skin tanned by the sun and the years. I can only imagine what it would be like to be under your control, to feel the The weight of your hand on me, controlling me, teaching me what it means to be truly strong.

Your eyes… those dark eyes that pierce me mercilessly. When you look at me, I feel like you see beyond my exterior. There is nothing I can hide from that intense gaze, full of wisdom and judgment. Your eyes make me feel transparent, as if I could not lie or hide who I am. And that, sir, makes me want to be more, makes me want to be at your level, even though I know that is impossible. I am aware of my inferiority, of my weakness, and that leads me to bow before you.

Your shoulders are like mountains, firm, broad, capable of supporting any weight. That strength of yours is not just physical, it is something that emanates from deep within you, an unbreakable force of will. And I, at your side, feel weak, fragile. Every step you take is a declaration of your superiority. The ground seems to give way to your power, while I remain still, trembling at the mere thought of your control. Everything about you screams dominance, an authority that doesn't need to be imposed, it just exists, and I... I can do nothing but follow it, obey it.

Your hands, large and strong, seem designed to rule. I imagine what it would be like to feel your touch, that unwavering firmness that could easily handle me, bending me with a single gesture. I know that with those hands you could make me yours, mold me to your will, and I accept it. I am nothing more than a man who recognizes the greatness in you. Your body, your presence, everything about you is a manifestation of power, a power that I not only respect, but revere.

And I, here, in front of you, realize my place. I am small next to you, inferior in every way. But there is something in that inferiority that fills me with peace, with gratitude. Because, standing before a man like you, I know that I am before something greater than myself, something that I cannot reach, but that teaches me what true strength means, true virility. You are what every man should be, and I can only admire you, from below, with the respect and devotion that you deserve."

The Spaniard finishes his words, breathing deeply, his body almost trembling at the intensity of the scene. He knows that he is in the presence of something much bigger than himself, an Arab man who, just by existing, teaches him his place in the world.

#arabophile #arabophilia #islamization #arabization #arab superiority #muslim man #gay #male transformation #muslim new world order

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charlottesbookclub · 1 month ago

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time after time – chapter thirty (armitage hux x reader)

time after time masterlist

Summary: a happy ending 🥰

Warnings/Tags: gn!reader; set pre-TFA; let me know if I've missed anything!

Words: 2969

Author’s Note: I cannot believe we are at the last chapter!! thank you so much to everyone who has been following the story – I am so beyond thrilled that this fic was able to find such a lovely and welcoming audience! 🥰🥰

I have two key notes for today:

I will admit that I just fully made some stuff up about divisions within the First Order. I tried to still make it feel believable to canon, so hopefully that worked!

although this is the last chapter of 'time after time,' it is very much not the end of the story!! I have a number of bonus chapters already written that I will start posting soon, plus a whole list of other ideas that I'm working on writing as I have time. additionally, I enjoyed this story and these characters so much that I am working on some spin-offs/sequels as well! for longer stories, I prefer not to post them until I'm done with the whole thing, so it might be a little longer to wait on those, but I'm already a third of the way through writing one of them!

genuinely, thank you so much again for all the love you've shown this story, and I really hope you enjoy this happy ending! 🥰🥰

Hux sat in his office, anxiously awaiting a notification. Since the cycle he had finally confessed his love for you – and you for him – he had rarely felt anything but elation. He walked through his days like he was floating on a golden cloud, finding new enthusiasm for every aspect of his life. As he had so many times, he had wondered if that moment had been merely a dream, but when he woke up the next cycle, he had found you tucked tightly against him and you had murmured those same words again: I love you, Armitage. With that, he decided he was done imagining that his life with you was some dreamy haze that might disperse at any moment. You were real, you were with him, and you loved him. As soon as he let that knowledge, that certainty, settle into his body and make a home there, each of his days had been the happiest he had ever spent.

Now though, he was nervous. He didn’t like when things were beyond his control, and this was decidedly beyond his control. Your medical leave was set to lift soon, and he knew how eager you were to return to work. He was just hoping he could give you work that you would be even more thrilled to return to.

He had submitted a recommendation to the Diplomacy Division of the First Order, suggesting you as a candidate for a role as an official diplomat. It wasn’t something for which an individual could apply, they had to be formally recommended by someone else in order to avoid the desperate scramble for personal power and prestige that happened elsewhere in the ranks. Diplomacy was such a delicate matter; it required those who could actually finesse the finer points of discussion and persuasion rather than those simply seeking to elevate their own position through such a coveted role. Standing slightly outside of standard command hierarchies, diplomatic roles came with greater freedom, higher cost allowances, and more personal discretion than many other positions within the First Order. Armitage knew you didn’t care about that though; he just knew you would love the work. And you would excel at it.

He got up from his desk and paced the room, unable to contain his anxious energy. The representative from the application review committee had told him he would hear back about his candidate recommendation today. He, of course, had submitted a glowing and detailed account of the incredible work you had done with Senator Dentelle, hoping his name and signature would give the commendation even more weight. He hated to leave too much to chance though, and he had also solicited endorsements from your previous commanding officers and supervisors for your fieldwork deployments, each of whom he had found exceptionally willing to praise your work and support your candidacy for a diplomatic role.

As he made nervous circles through his workspace, he briefly regretted not being more heavy-handed, only to immediately retract that thought. Hux easily could have pushed your application through the review committee, wielding his power and influence far more aggressively to ensure you were accepted, but that had felt wrong to him. It felt wrong now, too, and he truly was glad he had refrained, even if the not-knowing was eating away at him. His reasoning had been twofold. First, other members of the Diplomacy Division were certain to be predisposed against you once they knew that he had essentially guaranteed you your position, a thought which troubled him to no end. And second, he wanted you to know that you had been accepted completely on your own merit. He knew your skills were beyond reproach, and he hoped that such an official recognition of your abilities would help to inspire your own confidence.

Hux’s datapad pinged. He practically dove across his office for it. His hands were shaking as he opened the notification. He almost collapsed with relief as he read the official acceptance letter from the Diplomacy Division, formally instating you as a First Order diplomat. Until he met you, Armitage had been completely unfamiliar with the concept of crying from happiness, but he understood it fully now. He read and reread the letter, feeling almost giddy. Now he needed to tell you.

His last obligation of the cycle had been a routine check-in with Mitaka, which he quickly canceled. There was no chance of him being able to focus, not while he had this knowledge. He was also aware that the Diplomatic Division would inform you of your acceptance soon enough, but he wanted to be the first to tell you. He hurried through the corridors, barely able to keep his pace under a jog. When the doors to your shared quarters slid open, he didn’t find you immediately in the main living space. He called your name, heartbeat feeling a little out of control.

“Armitage!” Came your reply from the bedroom. He could hear the surprise in your voice. Quickly discarding his exterior garments, even losing his uniform top along the way, he padded swiftly to your shared sleeping area. When he made it through the doorway, he was out of breath. He found you finishing making the bed, carefully adjusting the pillows. The soft domestic intimacy of the action was enough to make him lightheaded. Kriff, he was so in love with you.

“Oh!” you exclaimed with a little laugh as you turned to find him already in the room. “I was just coming to meet you, but you were too fast.” The sparkle in your eyes dimmed slightly into concern. “Armitage, you’re early – is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes – everything’s perfect.” His assurance came out in a breathless rush. He needed to get in control of himself. He took a breath. “I think you should sit down.”

“Okay…” There was a lilt of laughter lingering in the slight question that your voice raised into as you crawled onto the bed. You watched him with curious eyes and a small smile. “Armitage, what’s going on?”

Armitage cleared his throat before settling onto the bed in front of you, setting his datapad next to him. Your gaze flicked to the device and then back to him, asking a wordless question. He fluttered his eyes closed for a brief moment and took another steadying breath. In that second of stillness, his mind reminded him that there was something else he should ask you about. He swallowed. This point of transition would be the best time to ask, especially since so many other things would be changing, and this was one thing he wanted to know for certain. He opened his eyes to find you still looking intently at him, the corners of your mouth pulled up into a little smile, waiting for him to tell you what had him so excited.

“I have two things to ask you,” he started, gauging your reaction. You quirked your head with interest.

“Ask away,” you invited, your smile widening. He couldn’t help the smile that was beginning to bloom on his own face.

“How would you feel about undertaking a role as an official diplomat for the First Order?” Your reaction was immediate. He could read the hope and excitement clearly on your face before they melted into something much more resigned. His smile faltered.

“Oh stars, Armitage, I would love to.” He relaxed slightly in relief. But if you wanted to, why did you seem… almost a little sad? “That’s been a dream of mine for years. Probably an unrealistic dream though…” you mused wistfully.

“Why would it be unrealistic?” he asked, always shocked that you might deem yourself unworthy. “Your work is incredible.” You ducked your head shyly as his compliment before meeting his eyes again with a soft smile.

“Thank you,” you responded sincerely. “But I’ve heard the vetting process is quite intensive. And anyway, it’s not something I can just apply for. You have to be officially recommended, and then there’s a formal review of that commendation. I’d need a number of voluntary endorsements to even be considered.”

“I know.” Armitage couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. You looked at him, eyes widening slightly as though trying to parse the meaning of his words. “I submitted my official recommendation along with many from your former colleagues weeks ago.” He could hear the way your breath caught in your throat.

“You didn’t…” you breathed, elated disbelief etched across your features. He felt like he might explode. He couldn’t keep you in suspense anymore, he had to just tell you. He could feel your gaze fixed on him as he flipped open his datapad.

“I was notified of your formal acceptance by the committee today,” he informed you, turning the screen so you could see the letter, feeling his lips tug into what felt like the biggest smile he had ever experienced. He watched you intently, wanting to soak up every second of your joy.

Your eyes went wide, hands trembling as you brought them to your face. He could hear your breaths increase in excitement as you read through the contents of the letter. Eventually, your hands fell from your face as you wrapped your arms around your body, as though trying to keep yourself from floating away. He watched as your gaze skipped back up to the top of the screen, reading it again, mouthing the words as you tried to process their meaning. Finally, your eyes found his again, and he could have lived off the exquisite happiness he found shining in your gaze.

“As I’m sure you saw from the letter, the Finalizer will still be your assigned First Order base, but you’ll be spending at least part of your time away from the ship on official diplomatic duties.” Armitage had always known that this new position would mean that he would have to part with you at times. He had known that when he had written the recommendation, but he had submitted it anyway. In truth, he had fought through a thousand selfish urges, spent many a sleepless night next to you as the letter sat written but unsubmitted on his datapad. The thought still tormented him, but he knew unequivocally that it was the right thing to do. You were so good at your work – the cause needed you, kriff, the galaxy needed you. And he needed you too. But he had slowly realized that needing you might also mean knowing when he needed to let you go. This was the right kind of letting you go, knowing this time that you would always come back to him.

“And I know that this will be a major transition for you,” he continued, having to look away for a moment as he felt emotion bubble up in his chest. “And there will be a number of changes, so I completely understand if it would be… better for you to have your own quarters along with your new position.” Kriff, he hoped his voice wasn’t breaking as much as he thought it was. He had practiced telling you this nearly a dozen times, even before the official acceptance came through, but he had never quite gotten to the point where the words didn’t cut him a little on their way out of his mouth. “But I also wanted you to know that you are welcome— well, that I would be happy to have your official residence remain here. With me.” He knew the last part had come out strangled, but he couldn’t help it.

He kept his eyes averted until he felt your hands find his. At the warm, gentle touch, his gaze flicked back to you and found you watching him with glittering tears in your eyes, your smile all softness. The anxiety and pain within him melted immediately. He needn’t have worried. He could tell even before you spoke that you had no intention of leaving him. Maybe he was getting better at believing.

“Armitage, I am so, so happy here. With you.” You accented your words with a squeeze of his hands. “I would be delighted to stay for as long as you’ll have me.” All the air evacuated his chest in a rush.

“Then you’ll be stuck here for a long time,” he responded breathlessly, trying to meld some humor into the sincere statement. Kriff, he would have you forever. You laughed, a glorious, golden sound that filled the room with sunlight.

“I’m perfectly okay with that,” you assured him. Then you let out a squeal of delight, quickly covering your mouth to stifle the sound. “I still can’t believe this is real! A diplomatic appointment and I get to be with you – best cycle ever!” Armitage felt laughter pour from his own mouth at your endearing expression of happiness. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but a welcome one nonetheless.

“You must allow me to be the first to address you by your new title,” he insisted eagerly. He offered you his sharpest, most professional salute. “I commend you on your service to the First Order, Diplomat.” He watched as you tried to force your features into an expression of professional placidity as you echoed his salute, but you couldn’t quite erase the smile from your lips. Armitage wouldn’t have had it any other way, basking in your radiant joy.

“Thank you, General,” you responded. “It is an honor to serve amongst such esteemed officers as yourself.” Even Armitage’s long-perfected formal mask cracked at your words, melting into a smile. He dropped the façade completely then, overcome by the desire to kiss you. He leaned forward, already catching your face in his hands. You beamed even more brightly against his touch, angling your lips to meet his when you paused.

“Wait,” you said softly, pulling back slightly. “You said you had two things to ask me – what was the other one?” Blast it! He never should have said that. He ground his teeth together, frustrated at himself. Even so, Mitaka’s words from long ago circled through his mind: you could just ask, then you would know.

“Oh, it— never mind about that.” He tried to brush it off, rubbing his thumb softly along your cheek. You must have heard something in his voice that told you otherwise though, because you insisted.

“You can ask me anything, you know,” you promised, offering him a little smile and tipping your head into his touch. He swallowed. If he was going to ask, it needed to be now.

“Well, it’s kind of a foolish question, actually,” he started, already feeling a blush climb up his neck and into his cheeks. “Considering everything, I probably don’t need to ask it, but I— well, I would like to be certain.” He hated the way his words quavered a little around the edges. His stomach was suddenly tied in knots. You just looked back at him curiously, as though trying to guess what kind of question would require such a preamble. He sighed.

“I suppose it’s not something I can make official in any proper way, but I—” He clenched his empty fist, forcing himself to finish. It would be worse to back out now. He had to look away, pulling his suddenly shaking hand from your face. He breathed deeply. This was not something he had practiced, but he knew he had to get the words out one way or another. “With so much changing, I just wanted to be certain. I wanted to ask if you would like to consider this – us, that is – something official. If—if you – personally and—and romantically – would like to be my… partner?”

Armitage didn’t even have time to berate himself for his inelegant words or agonize over your response, because you were on him instantly, knocking the air from his lungs. You had thrown yourself into his arms, and he caught you on instinct, still reeling from the shock of such an enthusiastic response. He had thought you would have needed at least a second to consider his question. Apparently not.

“Oh stars, Armitage – yes, of course! A thousand times yes!” Your arms were locked around his neck, your mouth so close to his ear that he heard your words with perfect, ecstatic clarity. Yes. You had said yes. As his shock transformed into pure elation, he could feel everything again, but mostly he could feel you all around him; arms draped around him, body pressed against his chest, all of you settled comfortably in his lap, in his arms, melting happily into him. Kriff, it was the best feeling in the whole galaxy.

He inched away just slightly, and you seemed to perfectly intuit his reason for sacrificing a little contact, since you moved your head from where it was resting against his shoulder and caught his lips with yours instantly. To Armitage, every kiss he shared with you was the best. This one might have slightly surpassed the others though. He could feel your incandescent smile against his lips as he drank you in, always pulling you closer. This time, he believed, he knew it was real. You weren’t going to dissolve like some fantastical dream, you were warm and glowing in his arms, and you had chosen him.

It had taken him more chances than he would have liked to admit, but he had finally done everything right – he had chosen you. He kissed you more deeply, more reverently, than he ever had, hoping you could feel his everlasting adoration in every press of his lips, in every sacred touch. In that moment, as he held you to him like the precious miracle you were, he made a vow to himself: again and again, time after time, he would keep choosing you.

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