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mysicklove · 1 year ago

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𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆

DAY 14: LEG HUMPING

With: Ryomen Sukuna

Word Count: 4.4k (wow)

Warnings: Sub! Sukuna, Gn! Reader, Yuuji and reader r dating (Yuuji x reader), lots of threatening of death/small violent acts,, reader slaps him, sukuna has 2 cocks in his true form, heavy power dynamics, mention of subspace, previous cuffing, small mounts of blood

A/N: i feel like i wrote this while i was high, but i was sober. idk. this is unedited but i will edit it tomorrow morning

“I fucking hate you, you know that? Despise every cell of your body.”

You hold back a laugh, running your fingers through his hair, which earns another near animalistic growl. “Well aren't you dramatic, King of Curses. Where did my Yuuji go?”

Sukuna glares up at you, lips curling upward. He was kneeling, with his hands chained behind his back, while you sit on a chair, crossed legged. He was in the position Yuuji was in seconds ago. The position that Yuuji asked to be put in. Sukuna, obviously did not agree to this arrangement.

Yuuji must have lost control when he sank into the subspace. Just for a second, which was all the curse needed to arise. He was watching the entire time, snickering when Yuujis begs got too dramatic, or joining in on the unwelcomed degradation when the boy started to cry.

But the only time the king was silent was when you spoke. He would conjur himself on Yuujis arm, face, hand, and just listen.

His vessel was a pervert, really, and you were too. He watched the boy go through the most humiliating things, and still he would always end up begging for more. The curse would rather die than to steep as low as Yuuji did. It was pathetic, truly.

But sometimes, when Sukuna sticks around for too long, he finds himself hypnotized by your voice. It was always so soft with Yuuji, full of adoration, but he could not miss the authority that oozed from your tone. Strict rules that were meant to be followed, commands that were not dared questioned, and punishments that were no empty threats. He was there when Yuuji was also punished, in those rare times. They were not fun, even if the brat held a raging hard on through it all.

But overall, Sukuna was strangely enamored by your character. He was always top dog, the strongest, the king of curses, but what about you sends a shiver down his spine? Why does he want to hear your doting words? Not to Yuuji, but to him.

Sukuna realized not long after having these thoughts that he wants to fuck you. Or maybe just get a handjob while you whisper lewd things in his ear, the way you did to the brat. Or maybe you'll wrap your lips around his dick if he was to play nice for a bit.

It will be just a one time thing. Just so he knows for sure that he doesnt want you. Yuujis thoughts of you must be clouding his. Tonight he was here to confirm.

“Brats gone. You’ve broke him or something. Humans do that,” Sukuna pipes up, rolling his eyes, and glancing back at the cuffs he has on. He rips them off without hesitation, sending the metal falling to the ground.

Sukuna was lying. Yuuji barely was dipping into the subspace, and you know his limits well enough. Sukuna was out because he wants to be out with you. But alas, you want to see how far this will go, so you continue to play with him. A fake pout covers your face and you sigh. “Those were Yuujis favorite cuffs, was that necessary?” Not a lie.

Sukuna dramatically stretches his hands out, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders. He still remains on his knees. “Annoying things. Not like they would work on me.”

“Yeah, because they weren't for you.”

He stares at you, flashing his teeth. “He could have broken out of them too.”

“But he wouldn't have. He is good.” Your foot presses on his thigh, where it was previously resting, and Sukuna raises an eyebrow at you. You were into this, he could tell.

But he wasnt going to let you know, that he was also strangely intrigued as to what was going on right here. So, he rolls his eyes, and shifts under your foot, but doesn't move completely. “Doesnt fucking matter. Whatever. Brats pathetic.”

“He’s not. Dont be an ass,” You sigh, leaning back into your chair, and cracking a smile at the ceiling while you think about the scene that is about to unfold. Never would you have thought he would be coming to you. You always had small fantasies of fucking Sukuna, but you would never act on them, frankly because you knew that the curse wasnt interested. He was the one to nearly spit on the two of you during these times. But now, the cards were in his hands.

Sukuna’s hands creep onto your lower leg, and you try your best to ignore it. His nails gently scratch over your skin, and you dont dare to move. Instead, you let out a dramatic breath, and then press onto his thigh again. “Now what do I do…” You, very obviously, prompt, and Sukuna wants to roll his eyes.

“You want me to fuck you, that right?” He in turn teases, seeing if you will take the bait. The both of you are teetering on ice, waiting for eachothers next move.

To this, you lean forward, resting your arms on your knees so that you are face to face with the curse. He doesn't even flinch, just stares with an amused expression, while your fingers trail along his jaw. “But thats not what you want, is it?” You purr, face nearly inches from his. “And besides…Thought you hated me?”

He grins at you, smile borderline predatory. “I do. You make my vessel do disgusting things.”

“You watch us a lot, don't you Sukuna?”

He falters for a second, and then suddenly he feels your foot moves from his thigh, and toward his boxers. Yuuji was only wearing his black briefs when he was sent to Sukuna's domain. “Do you get off to it?”

The familiar glare replaces the smile, and his nails dig into your skin, harsh in warning, but not enough to draw blood. “As if. You two make me sick. You are corrupting the brat. You're disgusting.”

He can tell he is beginning to tick you off, but he does not mind, especially the way your foot slowly begins to press down on his cock. “Then why are you here Sukuna?”

“To fuck you,” He quips, rolling his eyes as if it was the obvious – he did already tell you this. The hand on your leg doesn't let up, and he hitches a breath when you step almost uncomfortably hard on him. A shiver runs down his spine, and he loathes the fact that maybe he is getting off to this.

“And why would I allow you to?”

But alas, his pride would never let up. “Allow me to? You think you can tell me what to do all of the sudden. I could kill you in a heartbeat.”

You roll your eyes at his bared teeth and the narrowed red eyes that are looking up toward you. “You are the one kneeling before me.”

He doesn't move from his position and the two of you stare in silence. You restrain from voicing your approval, not wanting to piss the already tempermental curse off.

Sukuna sighs and taps on the skin of your leg, signalling you to continue. “Get on with it. I want to see how gross your desires can be.”

“Will you be good for me and listen?”

“Is that what the boy does?”

You cock your head to the side, fighting the urge to furrow your eyebrows at him. “Yuuji? You know the answer to that question, you voyeur.”

The curse pinches at his brow, obviously peeved by your statement, and you cant help but giggle lightly at hin. “Not a voyeur. Just want…Whatever. Now for fucks sake, do something. Yes, yes I'll listen, do you want me to bark or some shit? I am not as pathetic and moldable as your other toy.”

The slap comes quick, sending a stinging sensation to his cheek, and Sukunas eyes nearly pop out of his head. He slowly brings his hands up to his face, touching the now pinkened skin, before turning to you. He didnt even have time to process it, or get angry about it, before you spoke. "Enough with the insults to Yuuji. Are you looking for some sort of attention?”

“Fuc-”

Another slap directly to the same spot, and Sukuna knows this time that he could have blocked it. You were a human, your attacks were slow, weak. But he didnt block. He let you do this. He was going mad, he had to be.

His face stings, and your hand comes forward to grip at his jaw. He tries to hide a wince, but you watch him clench his teeth together. “Are you done?”

He had two choices in the matter. One to keep, willingly, Sukuna notes with much hesitancy, get slapped around, or he can get his dick possibly wet. He came for the latter, and so he will abide, even if it damaged his pride. He looks away, and that is the best answer you'll get. “Good. Well that was easy. Does your face hurt?”

Sukuna barks a laugh, and you raise your eyebrows. “Do you have any perception of how weak you are?”

You raise your hand up immediately to strike, and the curse flinches, preparing for what was to come next. But you just keep your hand there, eyes widening in glee, while Sukuna borderline growls. He doesn't say anything though, so you lower your hand, and rest it on his head. The act causes his whole body goes rigid, but he continues to remain silent.

“I want you to put your hands behind your back.” Your first command toward him, and Sukuna, as embarrassing as it is, feels his heart begin to pound. His mouth goes dry, and he slowly releases them from your leg and slides them behind him, his wrists crossing over.

A playful smile pulls at your lips, and you lean over to him, ruffling up his hair as if he was some sort of dog to be pet. “Good little curse!”

Sukuna's heart pounds in his chest, and he begins to grow restless. His cock throbbed pathetically at the words, and he was embarrassed to admit that the praise felt nice. Different than the deranged pleasure he felt from the slap, and the harsh tone, but….Good overall. He nods with a scoff. “Yeah, yeah. Can you fucking hurry up.”

His hips gently buck into the pad of your sock, and you try your best to stay calm. He was liking it, all of it was so weird, but endearing, so you didnt move to stop him. “Are you getting frustrated, ‘kuna?”

The nickname has him catching his breath, and shifting on the pads of feet. The tone of your voice was sickenly sweet, and if he allowed himself to, Sukuna could melt into it. He tries to hold some of his dignity. “N-No,” He stutters out, and then curses under his breathe of how stupid he must sound. He quickly recuperates himself. “What do you want from me, you sick fuck?”

“Anything I want?”

“Don't hold your breath.”

You slowly remove your foot from his crotch, and the curse bites his tongue to hold back a complaint. He watches your eyes travel to the ceiling, lost in thought, before you turn back to him with a small grin. “Take your boxers off, and then put your hands back where they were. Exactly where they were.”

Sukuna was not shy, and neither were you, so he is quick to remove the article of clothing. Though of course this was Sukuna, so it was unnecessarily dramatic. He slices the thin fabric open with a single nail, and then throws the useless cloth away. Then he sighs when he looks down. “Of course the brat is small.”

Yuuji was many things, but small was definitely not one of them. He is well over the average size, and it was borderline intimidating. If Sukuna was calling Yuuji small then you didnt even want to know what the curse was carrying. “Small compared to your inhuman-freakish cock?”

“-s”

Your furrow you eyebrows and hum in question.

Sukunas grin is cocky, his body reeking of arrogance, even if he was the one kneeling. “You forgot the “s”. Cocks. Plural.”

Your face controrts to first shock, fear, and then finally lands on distain. “That's disgusting.”

“You say that now but when you are drooling on them later–” Another slap across the face, and Sukuna actually didn't see this one coming. It stuns him speechless for a moment, but then he shivers, cupping his cheek with one of his hands. His eyes flicker to you, but they don't hold any disdain in them – he simply just watches, curious of your next move.

He fails to notice the glob of precum that falls onto the floor after the slap. “Ah, are you leaking Sukuna? Does getting hit turn you on?”

It may be the pain, or may be the psychological aspect of it all. If he says something wrong, he gets punished, and for some reason or another, that drives him insane with desire. He gulps, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. “Of course not. I am not the pervert here.”

“But I bet I could make you do some perverted things.”

His cock, as humiliating as it is, likes the sound of that. It noticeably twitches, and he hopes that more pre doesn't slip out before starting anything. His hands shift from behind his back, but he doesnt dare to move them. “Yeah? How far does your twisted mind go?”

“Far. But I dont want to scare you off too badly tonight,” You sigh, leaning back comfortably in your chair. Sukuna holds off a growl, peeved at how you worded the statement. “Guess you can just hump my leg.”

He laughs, loud and proudly, but your smile withstands. You rest your cheek on your palm, and you wait for the booming laugh to die down. It does, not after long, and slowly when he realizes that you arent joking, the curse glares as you. “Oh fuck off. I told you I am not to be your dog.”

You sigh, and stand up from your chair. “Guess we will end here for the night then. Send Yuuji back when he is well rested.”

A clawed hand wraps around your leg, and Sukuna bares his teeth at you. “Fine. I'll do it. Would you stop being so dramatic?” He gets out through clenched teeth.

You nod and sit back down in your chair, kicking your leg out. Sukuna eyes it, as if unsure of what to do. “Mount it,” You encourage, shaking your limb ever so gently.

“I know how to, you fucking idiot,” He bites, and then slowly uses his knees to push himself forward. His red eyes lock onto yours, and he stares at you the entire time as he straddles you. Your foot rests beneath his body, and his cock barely grazes your lower knee. One hand rests on the back of your leg for security, and the other onto the edge of your chair.

You gulp, and move your leg upward, pinning his cock in between his stomach and the skin of your leg. The curse doesnt dare to move, and he holds a wince when he glances at the glob that drips from his tip and smears onto your leg. A token sign that he is unbelievably turned on. “Drooling over me already? I'm flattered.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Bite your tongue before I rip it off.”

You don't even flinch at the threat, instead applying more force upward, making the curse curl inward on himself as he tries to lift his hips upward, away from the foot. “Get on with it,” You command, leaving no room for complaints.

His eyes flicker toward you when he hears the strictness in your tone, and he blinks when you glare at him. He gulps, ignoring the pleasant shiver that runs down his spine. But he doesn't dwell on it, because you lower your leg again, and he is free to move. His hands feel strangely shaky, but he hides it well, not wanting to know how much power, Sukuna is discovering quickly, you have over him.

He lines his cock to the middle of your leg, and thrusts forward without much hesitancy. The skin is soft, and it glides over with little resistance, and Sukuna’s eyes are glued to the spot.

Its strange, not as pleasurable like all the previous women he has fucked, nor a warm throat, but for some reason or another, it sends his head spinning.

His hips retreat, and they push themselves upward against the plush of your leg. Eventually he falls into a steady motion, entranced by his actions. It's pathetic, and gross, but why did it feel so good? A leg shouldnt be pleasurable – it doesnt wrap around his cock like he wants it to, but it is strangely addicting.

He realizes quickly why it feels that way – Sukuna is no idiot. He likes the psychological part behind it. He likes that he is kneeling for you, and getting off to something so measly as this. It makes him feel gross compared to you – nothing more than skum, and you, must be some sort of god. It turns him on so much he can barely stand it.

His head falls forward, and it taps onto your thigh. His whole body seems to tremble, and the timing of his thrusts seems to pick up – they are quicker, frantic, and his cock nearly slides off more than it should.

Your fingers fall to his head, and this time he doesnt move, in fact he seems to melt into the touch. This was weird, and you were both intrigued, and slightly scared. “You really seem to be liking this, huh?”

He doesn't respond for a long second, maneuvering his fingers to hold onto the back of your leg with his thumbs left in front of the limp. It provides a makeshift “O” and finally the curse feels like he is actually fucking something, rather than just grinding. “There ya go,” He mumbles to himself, as if lost in a trance. His cock slides itself between your leg and his thumbs, and its driving him insane.

When he doesnt respond, you tug backward on his hair, forcing him to look up at you. To your surprise, he doesnt glare at you, nor let out a biting remark; instead, the curse moans. Its low, and holds a sort of vibration to it, but definitely there. “Oh you fucking freak.”

He lets out a lazy grin, neck uncomfortably craned upward. You watch the way he licks at his teeth, and he breathes out, “More.”

You press your leg deeper into him, and Sukuna in response lets out another gutteral moan, except this one holds a whine to it. The sound travels straight to your groin, and you sit up in your chair, eyes slightly widening. “What changed, king? Dont tell me your getting off to grinding against a mere human peasant like me?”

He lets out a small, breahthless laugh, but doesnt dare stop his motions. “Just this once. Just this once let me, and th-then I swear you are dead.”

Your leg is glistening in some small areas, from when he leaked and spread it into the skin with his tip. He stares at your face the entirety of it, even when you look away to glance at his cock. “But ‘kuna, whose leg will you frot against if you kill me? Aw dont tell me, youll find another to cling to. Y’know I am the only one who can take care of you.”

You drop his head and he goes back to resting his forehead on your knee. His pants are warm against your leg, and you feel him shake his head.

You are right of course. He would never dare show another this side of him to another. He doesnt want to either, even if he never would admit it outloud. “J-Just stop it. Please.”

Please was not in the king of curses vocabulary. Your eyes widen with glee. “How much do you like it? Tell me, does my leg feel good?”

“Does. Fuck. Fuck, I hate you. I hate you.” He nods his head into your leg, hiding his face. His body turns a shade similar to his hair, and it begins to glisten with sweat from his movements. He lets out small breathless moans, and stares at the tip moving up and down the fake color.

His body seems to curl around you your limb, as if trying to trap it in his hold. His lips, much to your surprise, press themselves to your knee and you can hear the smallest chant. “Love it. ‘S mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.”

You raise your eyebrows at the deranged, borderline creepy words. “So you hate me, but love my leg? Don't tell me you got some strange fetish.”

You feel his canines hover over the space just above your knee, a small warning from the curse. You blink at him, surprised by the small resistance, but dont do much. He licks at the flesh a second later, and pulls away. You have to bite back a laugh.

His hands by this point have dropped, and are instead clawing at your chair. He doesnt need them anymore, considering that he is so close to you that that his stomach and your leg are stimulating him on both sides.

“Fuck. I'm close,” Sukuna mumbles into your skin, pressing himself impossibly closer. You wish you had your phone to take a picture – he was basically cradling your leg as if it was some sort of prized possession.

“Are you asking me for permission?”

“N-No. ‘m not. Can I?” He paws at your thighs, nails threatening to dig into your skin. Of course he would never, at least not in this meager state.

“No.”

He bares his teeth at you and glares, but his eyes convey his true feeling: panicked. His pace doesn't slow though, and your leg is now sticky from the amount of precum lost. “I-Im going to whether you like it or not. Fuck. Fuck you. I hate you. Ngh, can you just–just agree!”

His mouth is back onto your knee, sending it sloppy kisses, and small bites. His tip is pulsing red, and it begins to throb. His legs were beginning to tremble, and he tries to focus on not cumming. For some unknown reason, Sukuna wants you to allow him to.

“But you were a brat all day? Boys who threaten death, dont deserve certain privileges,” You hum, and then run your fingers through his hair. “But I am a mere human, and you the king of curses. Why would you listen to my commands?”

Sukuna bites his lip, immediately tearing blood. It dribbles down his chin, but he is quick to wipe it off, and reheal himself. His brows furrow and he scowls at the floor. The only noises let out are the grunts of his movements, and the moans that seem to get higher in pitch with each coming second.

He is lost in thought. The curse doesnt understand why he wants permission, but he needs it. He cant cum without it, it was bound to dissapoint you if he did. The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and finally, the pathetic words that he has been thinking this entire night come spilling out. “Cause I want you to! Command me, give me orders, do something to me. J-Just I–fuck! I need it!”

“Why?”

He was growing frustrated and more panicked as the seconds go by. He was moments from cumming. “Because I–I ngh–Want to please you! Would you just fucking…” He warbles, praying that tears don't come. “Let me cum. I beg you. Let me. I'll do anything.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and blood flows to your crotch. His watery eyes blink up at you, and he continues to rut against you, like some sort of dog. But thats what he is, or seems to want to be. So, you cock your head to the side, and provide him with a lazy grin. “Go ahead, Fido.”

His red eyes seem to light up at the approval, and he nods to himself as if bewildered by your agreement. But, he does follow through with the plea, and suddenly he is cumming. His whole body trembles, and he holds onto your leg with such force that you have to slide your hands on to of his, in a slight warning to be gentle. Cum shoots out onto your leg, but you can barely see it, considering his body has caved in on himself. He continues to rub himself out even through it all, as he pants into your knee. The curse wears a lazy grin through it all, and lets out small high in pitch moans.

He collapses backward, landing on his ass and panting to catch his breath. You glance away for a second, at most two, to look at the cum stained on your leg. A chuckle falls from your lips.

When Sukuna recovers, he goes straight back to scowling at you. In a heartbeat, he stands over you, borderline growling at you. His nails dig into your shoulders, and your eyes widen at the quickness of it all. Then he leans forward, a near inch away from your ear he whispers, “Don't get your hopes up. This will never happen again. Do you hear me?”

His nail presses uncomfortably hard into your skin, and so you are forced to nod. And with that your vision goes black.

For the next two weeks, Sukuna doesnt conjure up on Yuujis body anytime you are around. You dont mind it too much – it did save you from bickering with the arrogant prick. But to be honest, you were a little disappointed, having call his bluff.

You werent disappointed for long.

Low and behold, two weeks later from the incident, you find yourself faced to face with the King of Curses, who was already kneeling before you.

He glares at you, teeth on full display, as if he didnt realize what position he has put you guys in. “If you mention this to anyone, I will tear you to shreds.” Is all that he says.

But you arent too picky. So you grin, and hold your leg out.

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marysfics · 3 months ago

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Against the Wind

Your profession is more dangerous than your girlfriend's.

Fluff

The gentle hum of the Spanish countryside was a peaceful backdrop as you adjusted the straps on your helmet, the familiar weight of it a comfort before what would be another intense downhill training session. You stood by your bike, the sleek lines and custom colors gleaming in the soft sunlight, while the rugged mountain trail stretched ahead, steep and unforgiving.

Behind you, you heard the light sound of footsteps. You didn't need to turn to know who it was; the familiar energy made your heart quicken. Alexia Putellas was watching you, as she always did before a big ride—quiet but present, her support unwavering, though today there was something more behind her eyes.

"Are you sure about this one?" she asked softly, her voice holding a gentle note of concern.

You turned, meeting her gaze. The sunlight hit her perfectly, casting a halo around her golden-brown hair, but it was her expression that caught your attention. Alexia was strong, focused, a force on and off the pitch, but when it came to your career—the steep drops, the high speeds, the unforgiving terrain—there was always a flicker of worry in her eyes.

You smiled, walking over to where she stood by your gear bag. "You ask me that every time, Ale." You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, your fingers lingering on her skin. "But yes, I’m sure. It’s just another practice run."

Her lips quirked into a smile, but the concern didn’t fade completely. "I know, but this trail is… different. Steeper, more dangerous."

You glanced back at the path, its jagged edges and unpredictable turns thrilling you in the way only a true downhill racer could understand. It was the same thrill that Alexia felt on the pitch, that need to push boundaries, to test your limits. But you understood her worry—downhill biking was unpredictable. One mistake could lead to serious injury, or worse.

Turning back to her, you reached for her hand. "I get it. I know you worry about me, but I love this just like you love football. The adrenaline, the challenge… it’s who I am."

Her fingers tightened around yours, a sigh escaping her lips. "And I love who you are. That’s why I worry."

Your heart warmed at her words, and you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. Alexia returned it, her free hand resting against your cheek as if grounding herself in the moment, in you.

When you pulled away, her eyes searched yours. "I’m proud of you, you know. Always. For chasing your dreams, for being fearless."

You smiled, a flicker of pride and love swelling in your chest. "I’m proud of you too. You’re unstoppable out there, Ale. And you’re always there for me. I couldn’t do this without you."

Alexia’s expression softened, but the shadow of concern still lingered. "Just… be careful, okay?"

You nodded, your smile reassuring. "Always." You squeezed her hand before pulling back, grabbing your bike and rolling it to the trail’s edge. You could feel her eyes on you as you mounted the bike, the weight of her emotions following you like a second shadow.

As you positioned yourself, the familiar excitement bubbled up. The trail was daunting, with its sharp bends and sudden drops, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. Still, Alexia's presence, her constant support and care, gave you a new sense of responsibility. You wanted to be at your best—for her, for the future you both saw together.

"Ready?" you called back over your shoulder, your voice light, trying to ease the tension.

Alexia’s arms were crossed, but there was a glint of pride in her eyes now. "Always."

With that, you pushed off, the wind immediately rushing past you as your bike soared down the first steep incline. The world around you blurred, the trees and rocks becoming mere flashes in your peripheral vision as you focused on the path ahead. Each turn demanded your full attention, every dip and jump testing your reflexes.

But even in the midst of the high-speed descent, you thought of Alexia. Her love, her concern—it wasn’t a weight, but rather a reminder of what waited for you at the bottom of the mountain. You weren’t just racing for the thrill of it anymore; you were racing for her, for the life you were building together.

The final stretch approached, and with one last burst of speed, you flew across the finish, coming to a skidding stop. Your heart pounded, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but it was the sound of Alexia’s approaching footsteps that grounded you.

Before you could even dismount, she was there, her arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace. "You did it," she whispered into your ear, her voice filled with pride, relief, and something deeper—love.

You grinned, pulling off your helmet and resting your forehead against hers. "I did. And I’m still in one piece."

Alexia chuckled softly, her breath warm against your skin. "Thank God."

For a moment, the world around you disappeared, and it was just the two of you, standing at the edge of that mountain, together against the wind.

And as long as you had Alexia by your side, you knew you could face any challenge, any race—because she made you feel invincible, even in the face of danger.

"I love you," you murmured, brushing a kiss against her temple.

"I love you too," she replied, her arms tightening around you. "But next time, I’m picking a trail that’s a little less... life-threatening."

You laughed, the sound echoing through the valley below, and in that moment, you knew you’d never trade this life for anything—not the risk, not the thrill, and certainly not the woman who stood with you through it all.

#woso x reader #woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #alexia putellas one shot #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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itsabouttimex2 · 2 months ago

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Eclipse Kings

Part One: Mountain Monkeys

(Part One: You Are Here) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: Wild Dawn)

(Extra One)

(The eternal kings of Flower Fruit Mountain certainly did not expect a thief smelling of their lost son to invade the palace on the day they intended to mourn his disappearance.)

The people in your village don’t go hungry.

But they’re never full, either.

Abundance is a word whispered only in longing, yet never a reality to be tasted.

Plates are modest—never empty, yet never brimming. Bread and fish are the staples, filling enough to survive but just shy of satisfying. There’s no indulgence here, no clinking glasses of wine or wedges of cheese. The villagers say this is the way of life for those who dwell beneath the gaze of the demon kings of Flower Fruit Mountain.

Once every month each family is expected to deliver a “tribute” to the two demon kings who reign over your village from

And if you “play your part” to the kingdom and make your proper tributes, the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain WILL protect you, your family, your property- that is not a privilege many demons are willing to provide.

Some families choose the customary fruit offering for the little long-tailed monkeys around the mountains. Young, tender fruits like mangoes, starfruits, and papayas are diced into neat chunks, artfully arranged on freshly washed taro leaves, and tied up with twine. The leaves are then hung from the branches of the flowering trees at the mountain’s base, a silent signal for the little monkeys to descend.

These creatures are far from simple animals; they are spirits of the mountain, bound to the Kings, with eyes that shine with uncanny understanding. They clamber down with hungry, chittering excitement, ravenous for the colorful spoils. Villagers know to keep their distance, watching from afar as the monkeys gnaw on the bounty, tearing at the fruit until nothing remains but juice-stained leaves and the echoes of satisfied squeals. The villagers believe the monkeys carry whispers to the Kings, tales of each family’s offering—or lack thereof.

Some of the craftier types (usually those with several little mouths to feed) in the village whittle toys from wood and decorate them with feathers or colorful strips of fabric and leave those about in the woods, saving more food for themselves and their children.

Some villagers, either brave or foolish, choose to journey directly up the mountain with their tributes. This is a long, exhausting up a path that was treacherous, steep, and wild, twisting through the ancient woods that seemed almost alive with the spirits of the many mortals who came before.

They would inevitably be hounded by monkeys and insects, trying desperately to sample the goods before they were given to the mountain lords to be devoured or given as gifts to those few other demon lords that the vaunted simian had compiled as allies.

And though the tribute was mandatorily gathered each month, and every family’s name was marked and closely tracked in a ledger by the sable king, with sufficient enough explanation tribute can be delayed or even outright pardoned- as the Eclipse Kings were fathers themselves, they took mercy upon struggling parents and orphans.

…they probably wouldn’t bat an eyebrow at you, honestly.

Living in a ramshackle hut sank half into the earth and insulated with straw and mud that you had smeared into the ever-growing fractures, it was just enough to tide you safely through the year.

When it grew hot you would pull out all the dirtiest blankets and clothes in your possession, sitting for hours in the shade of the many flowering trees of Mount Huaguo, feet dipped into the cool waters of whatever lake you found first- and you’d shred those tattered fabrics to long strips and bundle them up for kindling in winter.

They would be the last thing to go, only after the dried grass and wood you had gathered months prior were gone, used to melt ice for water or ease the ache of deep chills.

You had accustomed yourself to this cycle- prepare for winter all through summer and fall, then take spring as a chance to relax and live a little more freely.

You had accustomed yourself to it for a while, at least.

And then little MK had come tumbling through your door, sniveling and shaken.

Back then he had been almost too young to speak, too small to voice whatever his fears were, too utterly weak to cry for more than a half-minute before the tiny thing collapsed in your arms.

He hadn’t needed to explain.

The pounding footsteps and booming hollers had told you enough- he was being hunted.

Months prior you had dug a little shallow ditch in the soft mud of your home, then hid it under the stiffest rug you could find, reinforced with bark and smeared with mud for camouflage, praying that it would hold and go unnoticed in the event of a raid such as this.

You hadn’t expected to share it with a toddler, though.

But it had held firm and gone unnoticed even as everything else in your home was overturned and thrown askew, ripped apart by invaders with cheap leather armor and fishing knives- an hastily gathered army, clearly.

Before leaving in anger, the lot of them had shredded through your broken house and thrown their frustrated fists through the crumbling walls, leaving dozens of holes that you would have to patch with naught but straw, hay, and mud.

Winter would be harder this year, and every year after.

Especially with a baby in tow.

You hadn’t the heart to throw MK out, or leave him to the elements, but you hadn’t been brave enough to seek out his parents, either- if someone wanted him dead, then you would be on their list for harboring him, too.

“Y/N,” the young boy squeals, breaking you from reminiscence as he runs up to you with a smile. “There’s monkeys outside again!”

“…huh. Usually they don’t come around here. Make sure you stay away from the door, buddy.”

You turn to face him, only to sigh at his blatant disobedience- he’s toddling straight towards the broken hole you use as an entrance, only covered by a thick sheet of wool- it had been a sweater that grew too dirty for further use, leaving you to use the rancid thing as a weighted tarp to keep out chills.

Soap was a luxury you could rarely get your hands on, which meant it was better used for personal bathing than clothes-tending.

If you or MK; whom you tiredly sweep up into your arms, needed new clothing, you could always head down to the cemetery on a windy night to snatch up all the fabric left as offerings- they could easily be repurposed into makeshift garments.

The boy squirms in your lap, tugging on a lock of your hair to steady himself as he stands up.

“Why can’t I go out and play with the monkeys? I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Monkeys like to eat babies, kiddo. They might snatch you up and throw you into a pot,” you return, poking his squishy little cheek.

“I’m not a baby, and monkeys don’t use pots! Cause they don’t have kitchens!”

“Yeah? I hear they get to use the whole palace on the top of the mountain,” you lie, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “And I hear they take itty-bitty babies up to the ovens to be cooked.”

“…liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

MK, in spite of his age, is a pretty good sport when it comes to teasing and jesting. He doesn’t hold grudges and doesn’t ask for much. He eats what you give him and never asks for a second plate.

…really, he’s just a good kid.

You’ve done what you can for him. Warm clothes and clean bedding, and the occasional toy when you could scrounge it up. He eats before you do, and you make sure he has the softer portion of whatever meal you’ve scraped together. At night, he sleeps close by, wrapped up in the cleanest blankets you have, his little head nestled against your shoulder. Sometimes, his tiny fingers tangle in your shirt, holding on tight as if, in sleep, he’s afraid of being lost.

You’ve made it through rough times with him at your side, never without purpose as long as you could return to him.

You can make it through anything, you think, as long as you have MK.

But this year, you worry. Winter feels sharper already, creeping into your bones even though it’s only autumn. The flowers on the mountain haven’t died off yet, but the chilly bite warns you that cold days are coming fast. Supplies have been meager; the mountain rains came early, spoiling at least some of the crops before they could be harvested and gathered.

But MK—little, bright-eyed MK—he’s full of life, unafraid, and curious. Where you see danger in the forest’s shadows, he sees playmates and adventure. His world is small—just your home, the patch of trees nearby, and the lakes you risk bringing him to in the break of dawn. He doesn’t yet understand what it means to live with less. To him, the world is a place of wonder.

And you, for all your struggles, feel lighter with him around. His laughter fills the little corners of your life, and his bright chatter fends off the loneliness that once crept in on quiet nights.

“Y/N?” MK’s soft voice pulls you from your thoughts again. “If the monkeys go back to the kings, maybe they could tell them to bring food down here.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “Oh, you think the demon kings will listen to a bunch of monkeys? They’re big and mighty, MK. They don’t worry about little things like the people below.”

“Maybe…” he murmurs, thoughtful, “But maybe if I ask really nice, they’ll listen. Then you wouldn’t be hungry.” His face scrunches up, serious and brave. “I can be nice. Really, really nice.”

Your heart squeezes a little at that, seeing the determination in his young eyes. “Oh, buddy,” you murmur, stroking his hair. “You’re plenty nice. But there are some things we can’t ask for, even from the kings.”

He frowns, thinking it over. “But…maybe if I brought them a really, really good tribute, then they’d listen?”

You stifle a sigh. MK’s generosity knows no bounds—he has so little, yet he dreams of giving. “Let’s not worry about the kings,” you say gently, redirecting his thoughts. “The best thing you can do is keep me company, just like you always do.”

He considers this, nodding, and a smile breaks out on his face again. “Okay!” He hops down from your lap, already chasing after a stray insect that has wandered into your home, flitting in and out of the small rays of sun that pierce through the cracks in the walls.

And you know, as you watch him, that no matter how harsh this winter might be, as long as MK is with you, there will be warmth to hold on to.

“Y’know, I hear that today is the lost prince’s birthday!”

“Really?!” he gasps, his tiny hands clasped in excitement.

You nod, a sly smile playing on your lips. “Yep. Word is, there are grand feasts in his honor, all the way up in the palace on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

His eyes widen, filled with wonder, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “Wow… Can we go see it?”

“Ah, but it’s only for royalty and their guests,” you reply, ruffling his hair. “They guard that palace like hawks. Only those with a golden invitation can even get close. But, this year… I hear that before they eat, they’re going to the village a mountain over to visit their friends this time… and that their guards are going with them.”

He perks up immediately, eyes wide and gleaming- a little ray of lustrous light to match even gold.

“Y/N… are you going to sneak in?”

“I’m gonna rob them blind,” you confirm, squishing his cheeks between your hands. “That’s why I need you to stay inside today, buddy-“

“I’m going up the mountain.”

Those had been the start of your parting words to your surrogate little brother, instilling a brilliant radiance into his wide, innocent eyes. The thought of a belly full of food fit for kings… what orphan didn’t dream of that?

The trek up had been strikingly simple- all the usual simian distractions had retreated to their dens to mourn the lost prince, leaving you with only the occasional fly or gnat to swat away.

No guards. No soldiers. Nothing to stand in your way.

In hindsight it had been foolish to expect things to be so easy, but… the journey up to the peak hadnlulled you into a false sense of security.

The climb grew colder as you neared the palace. The lush forests below gave way to sparse, twisted trees and jagged rocks, their edges sharp enough to draw blood if you weren’t careful. Shadows lengthened as the day waned, and the silence grew thick, broken only by the occasional whistle of the wind through cracks in the stone.

At the top, the palace loomed—a grand structure carved from dark stone, adorned with gilded statues and red banners that snapped and waved in the mountain breeze. It was as silent as a tomb, its towering gates shut tight.

As you reached the summit, a dense mist clung to the air, and the grand stone gates of the palace loomed before you—ornate and ancient, their carved simian figures seeming to leer down with knowing eyes. Despite your heart thundering with the thrill of what you were about to do, you felt a strange weight settle in your chest. The palace was silent, and the eerie hush made it feel like a place caught between realms, haunted by whispers of an ancient power that was never meant to be trifled with.

But in spite of that internal warning you had crept easily enough to the side, and popped open a glinting, golden-framed window, then slid your legs through the maw- and started your thieving crawl through the palace.

The kitchen is laid with a spread so luxurious it makes your stomach clench with hatred and greed- golden plates piled high with delicate fruit, honeyed meat strung from a dozen racks, wine jars glittering with jeweled necks, the air itself thick with the scent of expensive incense and exotic spices.

All for the birthday of the lost prince, you reminded yourself, a prince who had likely never known hunger or hardship.

“Qi Xiaotian,” he had been named, was lost as a babe to a rebellion led several years ago by the discontented people of your village, those who decided that dying by their makeshift blades was better than living under royal heels.

After he had been; presumably, kidnapped by one of the rebels who had broken through the palace gates, the kings had grown cold and harsh, retreating from the world at large and leaving their lavish dwellings only to accept tributes and settle riotous disputes.

…that wasn’t enough to make you feel bad for them, though.

Tray after tray you scout, going through rows of jars, sacks, and baskets overflowed with preserved fruits, dried meats, and delicate pastries. Your hands tremble as you fill a small bundle with as much as it could hold- a handful of salted meats here, a mooncake wrapped in delicate paper there—enough to sustain you and MK for… maybe a month.

Just as you were finishing up, a strange sensation prickled at the back of your neck. You turned, heart thudding, but saw nothing. Just shadows. The silence, however, had shifted, as if holding its breath. Then a voice—low, smooth, and dripping with amusement—broke the stillness.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

You froze, and before you could even think to run, a figure stepped out from the darkness. His robe flowed like liquid night, embroidered with threads that gleamed in the faint light. A crown of twisted vines adorned his head, casting intricate shadows over a face that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Beside him is a simian bearing fur the color of sunlight, radiant fur flecked with beads of gold and wound with strings of glimmering citrine. His garments are wrapped with shimmering threads, emphasizing each muscle bulging from below the silk.

The Eclipse Kings of Flower Fruit Mountain: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque.

The sable king steps closer, eyes narrowing as he looked down at your small, trembling form. His lips curved into a smirk. “Stealing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain. Bold, and… foolish… unless you were planning to pay us back for it?” Prods the long-tailed macaque, poking your crumb-stained cheek with his forefinger.

“I don’t have anything to give,” you whimper, tears of fear and pain beading up in your eyes. “I don’t-“

“Hush hush hush!” Coos the brighter of the kings, moving to lightly swat his mate’s hand from your chin with a dramatic flourish of his claws. “Moonlight, look at this little one!”

As the king who had caught you steps back to make space for his husband, the golden monkey snatches you by the waist and lifts without so much as straining a muscle, clearing your feet well from the ground. His golden tail wraps lazily into an approximation of a heart, bouncing around happily.

“Just look at you, dumpling! Such a cute little thing rummaging around in our cabinets, hmm? Were you too hungry to stay away?”

“…you shouldn’t give grace to such a naughty thief, Peaches,” says the umbral king, holding his hands out to you. “Let me see them.”

Although this one is clearly the icier of the two, he holds you with care in spite of needing to exert more effort than his mate.

“Usually,” the golden simian chirps with glee, “we would execute thieves on the spot! My mate’s cleaved more than a few right down the middle for snatching from our castle.” His face is pulled into an easygoing grin, tail still excitedly wagging.

“I stopped doing that a long time ago,” snaps the darker monkey. “It takes forever to clean bloodstains, and maids are hard to come by, Peaches. I don’t need them wasting their time scrubbing down my carpets.”

“Our.”

“Shut up, you damn-“

“And speaking of what’s “ours”… what do we do with this little thing?”

The two monkeys look over you with varied looks, one grinning ear to ear as he pokes at your cheeks and strokes your hair, the other more restrained with only a cocked eyebrow.

“…what we usually do to thieves and trespassers.”

The feeling in your gut isn’t unlike a falling icicle, coldly sundering any hope you had of making it out of this castle alive. You were going to die. You were going to die and never see your brother again, and then he was going to starve all alone in that awful little hut.

You were going to die alone.

You were going to die unloved.

The golden king sounds a pitying gasp as tears begin to spill over your cheeks and trickles down your chin, splattering onto the polished marble floors below.

The air in your lungs begins to quickly fade, replaced with sharp gasps for breath interspersed with desperately babbled apologies. Sorry after sorry after sorry after-

“Little one, little one! Shh, shh,” the Great Sage pleads, scooping you into his powerful arms. “Shhhh, shhh, there there… it’s okay, dumpling… please, no more tears… you’ll just break this old monkey’s heart, you know that?”

“Stop fussing,” demands his mate, reaching over to card through your messy hair. “You aren’t going to manipulate us.”

“I- I’m not- no, I’m not- that’s not-“

“Shhhh! Be a good little mortal and shush! No more words, little one!” Macaque, what are you even-“

“Haven’t you noticed how they smell?”

The golden king freezes, glittering eyes going wide as his mate points out something he sincerely hadn’t noticed at all- that your scent is indeed strikingly familiar in a way that shreds out his heart and leaves him weak.

Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Handsome Monkey King- buries his face into the top of your hair, cradling you like a babe as his lips ghost the crown of your scalp, not unlike a father bidding his child goodnight with a kiss. He breathes in deep, taking the scent into his lungs and chest and holding it tighter than he holds you, only gasping it back out when breathless tears prick his eyes.

“…you smell like our son,” he whispers, holding you tighter and tighter. “I thought I was never going to- I thought I was going to die before I ever felt this- I- no, it- it’s like… gods, it’s like he’s here with us. Macaque, what do… what do we do?”

“…mortals don’t have the same scents as demons. They’re not as complex or strong. The only way a mortal gets the same scent as a demon is to spend hours with them.”

“So he’s alive”, Wukong croaks, the air in his lungs warbling with the effort to stay steady. “Our baby boy is alive. Macaque, he’s still here. Gods, he must’ve been lonely. He was so little, Macaque! He… he’s still alive.”

Wukong drops sharply to his knees, setting you on the ground with the downwards crash. The gold-veined marble cracks under the force of his movement, a testament to well-hidden power.

“Sweetie,” he coos, speaking to you as one speaks to a startled toddler,” “tell me- tell about all of your friends. Start to finish, okay? Can you do that for me, sweetie? I need to know who all they are.”

There’s a deep, desperate pleading in his voice, golden eyes scrunched to hold back tears.

“Please, please. Please tell me you know where my baby is.”

He’s so brokenly hopeful, so pleadingly anguished, so despairingly optimistic that give in to the welling guilt and admit-

“I only h-have one- he- his name is… it’s MK. He… he has brown hair and black eyes, and he’s… his favorite color is orange. He-“

Macaque screams.

He screams louder than the winds howl atop the mountain in winter, louder than tornados roar in the dry spells of summer, louder and louder and louder with each consecutive shriek until gilded windows shatter and silver braziers are snuffed.

“THAT’S HIM,” the sable king wails, throwing a fist through a solid sheet of the gold wall before him. “THAT’S MY BABY!!”

He rips his bleeding arm from the opulent ruin and tackles Wukong in a fit of relieved tears and broken openness, leaving the two tumbling in an eclipse of hues, gold and ebony rolling together on a red carpet.

They embrace in a moment of sheer, mind-numbing relief, wailing together that their beloved son hadn’t been lost, so utterly allayed that they almost forget there’s a world spinning around them.

You take your chance, and dart from the room, footsteps dulled by the luxurious carpet below.

They’ll realize that you’re gone any minute, and raise a din and raise their army- you can imagine them in the village already, desperately offering armfuls of gold and silver to any who can find you or drag you from whatever hiding place you’ve snuck to, to anyone who can return their last ticket to reuniting with their precious little cub.

You don’t even turn a single corner before what sounds like four steps of footsteps sound, racing close behind- too scared to look back, you simply fling yourself from the nearest broken window and pray you’ll land safely.

Sure enough, there’s a peach tree just below you, providing an uncomfortable cushion that prevents any fractures or breaks, thought not without shredding your arms and knees against the rough and untrimmed branches.

But losing a little blood wasn’t much when you were already afraid to lose your life.

The night air feels is oppressively thick, bitingly cold as you scramble down from the branches, your whole body aching from scratches and bruises.

It hurts, but not as much as the thought of losing MK hurts.

Every cut burns, but fear drives you forward as you push through the dark orchard. Peaches litter the ground beneath the trees, bruised and rotting, filling the air with their sickly-sweet scent. You can still hear the faint echo of anguished screams from the castle above, and you know you have to keep moving, no matter how heartbreaking the noise.

Branches continue to scratch at your skin as you hurry through the orchard, weaving between the twisted trunks of ancient peach trees. The cries of the two kings haunt you, but your heart pounds with a different terror—a need to survive, to get back to MK and keep him safe.

Swallowing hard, you push onward into the forest, where the air turns colder and the ground is uneven, littered with stones and roots. It’s dark, and the towering trees block out even the faintest hint of moonlight, leaving you to stumble blindly forward, each step a gamble.

Your lungs burn, each breath sharper than the last as you push through the dense underbrush, your only light the faint silver of cloud-breaking starlight piercing through gaps in the canopy. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to see the flash of golden eyes in the shadows.

You’ve had your fill of gold and silver- that gleam has quickly lost all luster.

In your scramble down the mountain path, you nearly trip over a root hidden under the leaf-strewn ground, catching yourself just in time. You can feel a faint ache in your chest as you think about MK, probably huddled up alone, waiting for you to come back. You bite back the surge of guilt for leaving him and going so far in the first place; there’s no time for regret, no time for anything but survival.

So you fervently press on, slipping and sliding overrocks and mud, your hands numb and cold as you cling to branches to steady yourself.

You’re going to feel like hell in the morning.

Every step feels heavier, but the thought of MK—waiting, maybe scared and hungry—keeps you upright. You cling to that memory like a lifeline, using it to drag yourself forward when exhaustion claws at you, urging you to collapse into the moss and leaves.

Just as you’re ready to push on, you hear something rustle behind you, faint but distinct. Your heart skips, and for a split second, you’re sure it’s them—the kings, tracking you, maybe already upon you, with Wukong’s wild desperation and Macaque’s icy agony close on your heels. You whip your head around, pulse thundering dangerously fast in your chest. But there’s nothing there, only shadows that play tricks on your eyes.

It’s just the wind, you lie to yourself.

Yet, no sooner have you relaxed than you hear another sound—a soft murmur, almost like…laughter? It’s chilling, unnervingly familiar, a low chuckle that seems to drift from the very darkness around you. You start running, branches whipping against your cheeks, the laughter echoing in the trees like mocking ghosts.

As you push further, the underbrush begins to thin, the ground leveling out into a narrow path long worn into the mountain. Relief fills you as you recognize it—the way back to the village, back to MK. But just as you think you’ve escaped, a figure steps out from behind a nearby tree, blocking the path ahead.

It’s Macaque.

The dark-furred king stands there, arms crossed, his piercing gaze fixed on you. His tail lashes behind him, giving away a tension that his otherwise calm expression doesn’t. “Running away, little rabbit?” he purrs, voice smooth and soft, velvet hiding a dagger. “You thought we wouldn’t find you?”

Panic coils tighter around your heart. You don’t answer, can’t answer, with your breath shallow and eyes locked on his, searching for any hint of mercy. Yet, even in your fear, you see the pain in his eyes, the raw, unhealed wound that losing a son has left behind.

He takes a step closer, and you instinctively back up—until your heel catches on a loose stone, and you stumble. Macaque moves in a flash, catching you before you can fall, his grip like iron around your arm. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, almost as if he’s hesitant, but it vanishes just as quickly.

At that moment, you feel a warm presence nearby, and a golden glow illuminates the path. Wukong appears behind Macaque, his expression far softer than his husband’s. He looks at you with tearful eyes, earlier desperation simmering beneath his clouded gaze. “We just want to know where our son is, sweetie,” he says, voice coaxing. “Help us find him, and we can put all of this behind us.”

For a moment, you’re trapped between them, their eyes—glowing —boring into you with the weight of ages, burning on either side of you. You are prey, trapped in the gaze of ancient predators, creatures who could tear you apart if they chose.

You feel a lump rising in your throat, guilt twisting in your chest. You want to help them, to tell them more, to ease that raw grief carved into their souls. But how could you? MK didn’t remember them. He’d never once spoken of a family, of a past like theirs.

Would it really be a betrayal to bring him to people who could no doubt care for him better than you ever could?

You rip from his clawed grasp with a sob, blood spilling from your arm where his nails were clutched tight- and then step back.

Air whistles around you through the sharp plummet, blaring out the wails of the two kings. It’s not too long of a fall, it won’t break or kill you- it’s just one more thing that’s going hurt tomorrow, when you wake up next to MK -and you will wake up next to him- and bid him “good morning”.

As you fall, the world blurs around you, and for a moment, there’s only the rush of air and the distant cries of the kings above. The impact comes suddenly—a jolt that rattles every bone in your body as you hit the shallow puddle below, your vision sparking with a burst of white. Pain blooms in your side, sharp and searing, but you manage to roll onto your hands and knees, gasping for breath. Everything aches, but you’re alive. And more importantly, you’re closer to the outskirts of the village, closer to MK.

You rise shakily, wiping a streak of blood from your face. The path ahead is illuminated by starlight growing ever fainter, barely peeling through even the sparsely dotted trees.

The half-hovel is only a short walk away, barely three meters from your spot of impact, leaving you to start crawling; hands and knees alight with pain, to that little refuge.

Every inch forward feels like a mountain climbed, your breath coming out in ragged gasps, as you drag yourself closer to that pitiful excuse for a home. The hut is run-down, its roof half-collapsed, with walls patched by whatever scraps you could find. But right now, it’s the only place that feels safe, and the only place where MK will be waiting for you.

Your fingers scrape against rotted as you pull yourself up onto the threshold, bracing against the shattered doorframe, steadying your shaking limbs. The inside is dim, with just the faint embers of the fire you lot in that little stone pit, the weak light casting long shadows against the walls. And there, curled up on a ragged mat, is MK—sleeping soundly, his tiny form bundled up in a blanket far too thin for the chill in the air.

You feel relief rush over you like a wave, washing away the pain and exhaustion, if only for a moment. You swallow back tears as you carefully lower yourself beside him, reaching out a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair from his face. He stirs at the touch, eyes fluttering open with a groggy mumble, his gaze unfocused at first before he realizes it’s you.

“You’re back,” he whispers, his voice small and sleepy, a hint of worry melting into relief as he reaches for your hand. “I… I thought you weren’t coming back this time.”

“I’d never leave you, MK. Not for anything.” Your voice wavers, and you squeeze his hand tighter, trying to push down the overwhelming flood of emotions. “I’ll always come back for you.”

He smiles—a soft, innocent smile that nearly breaks you. You can’t tell him what happened, can’t bear the thought of burdening him with the danger you faced tonight, or the kings who would give anything to find him.

Instead you settle beside him, draping an arm over his small shoulders as he curls up against you, his warmth seeping into your aching bones.

“Did you get any food?” he asks tiredly, eyes drooping shut again.

You reach for the cloth bundle on your back and pull it off, watching all four corners unravel and flutter open as it’s tossed into the ground-

It’s all still there. Busted, bruised, some of it mangled, but it’s still there. Fruit, veggies, nuts, meat, and even sweets.

Just like you promised.

The boy (a prince, you’ve learned) squeals with delight, clambering over to sample the spoils of your hellish night. He settles for cramming his little face with an assortment of the pilfered banquet, accidentally crushing some bit of it into crumbs with how badly his hands shake from excitement.

It’s only when he’s full enough to pause that MK looks over to you with a frown, clambering over with a mooncake held tight in his little hands- and then he pushes it to your mouth.

“Say ‘ahhh’!”

Even through the agony pricking through your skin, a smile forms- such a sweet little thing he’s grown into, even in these… limited circumstances.

“…aaaah”, you acquiesce, allowing him to nudge the pastry between your parted lips, eating half of it in one go.

“…good?”

“Really good, buddy.” You take another bite, swallowing the rest with some small satisfaction. “I’m gonna take a quick nap, okay?”

“…promise you’ll wake up.”

Oh, gods. That hurt. Sometimes you forgot how perceptive the boy was, how eager and clever. How could you think he wouldn’t notice the suffering crawling all through your body?

“Oh, kiddo. I will wake up, I promise. I’m just tired. I’ll wake up and start a fire, and we can roast the meat and nuts to warm ‘em up, okay? I promise.”

He doesn’t seem too convinced, but settles into a hushed state as he polishes off a mango and ties up the bundle again.

“You better,” the little one huffs, looking over to see that you’ve already fallen asleep. He shuffles to his little chest and pulls out the cleanest blanket he has, draping it over your shoulders before starting to crawl in with you-

Right until a knock sounds on the outer wall of the hut.

MK freezes, clutching the edge of the blanket, his wide, black eyes darting to the door. The thin walls do little to muffle the gentle, deliberate tapping. His face twists in confusion and fear, and he inches back toward you, pressing himself close against your side, trying to make himself as small as possible. He can hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest, the room so silent that each beat feels like a drum signaling his hiding place.

The knock sounds again, a steady rhythm that’s somehow polite but insistent, as if the person on the other side knows exactly what lies within and won’t leave without answers. The thought tightens MK’s chest with dread. He glances at you, wanting you to wake, but exhaustion has claimed you too fully. He shifts, leaning close to your ear, whispering with all the urgency his little body can muster.

The matted wool curtain is pulled aside, and a long shadow falls over the two of you.

It’s Wukong.

He’s not dressed in the regal robes from before, his crown and adornments discarded somewhere along the journey down the mountain. He looks oddly… humbled, vulnerable even, his golden fur matted and streaked with grime. He too has trekked through brambles and mud to find this place.

In that moment, the fierce, untamed warrior, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, reduced to a father—nothing more, nothing less—just a father, lost and found in the presence of his child.

“My son.”

MK stiffens, eyes going wide with confusion and a strange, nameless feeling that curls tight in his chest. The voice calls to something deep within him, something he doesn’t understand yet can’t ignore. He doesn’t remember this voice, but he feels it as though he’s always known it—like a lullaby, like the whisper of leaves in the wind.

MK clutches the edge of your blanket tighter, his face a mixture of uncertainty and fear as he looks up at the stranger in the doorway. Wukong’s gaze softens further, and he steps into the dim light, eyes filled with a desperate hope tempered by patience. He’s careful, his movements gentle and measured as he crouches down, bringing himself to MK’s eye level.

“Do you know me, little one?” he asks, voice trembling slightly as he waits, searching MK’s expression for any glimmer of recognition.

MK tilts his head, brow furrowing as he studies Wukong. There’s a flicker in his black eyes—a hint of familiarity that he can’t quite place, something ancient and deep inside him stirring, like a faint memory from a distant dream. But he shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed together as he shrinks back a little, still clutching the blanket.

Wukong’s face falls, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his grief. He swallows, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. “I… I thought maybe you’d remember.” His voice is barely a whisper, so soft that it sounds like a confession, a plea.

But Wukong quickly straightens, forcing a small, trembling smile. He can’t bear to scare his child, can’t bear to make him feel any more uncertain than he already does. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice still gentle, though there’s a glimmer of resolve in his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t remember, little one. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He glances down at you, still asleep beside MK, his expression softening with gratitude. Despite everything, despite the fear and pain you must have faced, you had cared for his son, protected him in his absence. There’s a flicker of respect, maybe even admiration, in his gaze.

But then, before he can say anything else, the curtain shifts, and Macaque steps into the hut as well, his dark, intense gaze zeroing in on MK. His movements are slow and deliberate, as though afraid that anything too sudden might frighten the boy. He stops just inside the threshold, his usual sly demeanor replaced with a vulnerability that’s almost startling.

“…my baby.”

The weight of those two words settles over MK like a blanket of warmth, a feeling he doesn’t quite understand . Still, it stirs a pull in his heart that defies reason. He glances at you again, hoping for some guidance, some sign of what to do—but you’re still sound asleep, completely oblivious to the quiet storm raging in his heart.

After a moment, MK opens his mouth, and his voice, so soft and uncertain, trembles through the space.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

The question, so small yet filled with an innocence that pierces both kings, brings a quiet gasp from Wukong. He reaches up to touch his chest, struggling to contain the ache there. He can’t meet MK’s eyes for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor as he takes a shuddering breath.

“That’s… that’s because you were very young when we… when we lost you, my little peach,” Wukong finally whispers, his voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t remember us, not after so long, but… we’ve missed you every single day.”

MK steps forward for a moment, wanting and wanting and feeling so very loved-

But then the boy pulls his hand back, glancing at you beside him, his expression suddenly filled with uncertainty. “But… I already have someone,” he says softly, nodding to your prone form. “They take care of me. They’re… my family.”

“We’ll take them too,” Wukong spits out, dropping to his knees and becoming his lost son forward. “All four of us can go home together, Xiaotian. Like… like a big, happy family.”

Macaque steps forward shaking with the effort spent to not rush him immediately. “That’s right, baby. We’ll take you, and… and we’ll take the little thief, and we can go home. Together.”

MK looks back at you, so broken and worn that he fears you might not make the night without someone else’s help- the thought straightens his brow, and sets his little head into a stiff nodding motion.

Finally, he could help you, just as you had helped him so long ago.

“Ok. Let’s go home- all of us, together.”

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #MK #Monkiefam #Eclipse Kings #Not The Beloved #Inspired by it at least #6k #My mother took me to an aquarium for my birthday and I dreamt this one up looking at the isopods

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novaursa · 27 days ago

Text

Legacy (winter is coming)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Events of the canon don't match the timeline in this story. The plot is purposefully altered to fit the narrative of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: but you will fly

- Next part: cold winds

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The wind howled across the hilltop, carrying with it the earthy scent of the Riverlands mixed with faint smoke from Viserion’s great form. The dragon's wings spread wide, kicking up gusts of dust and loose leaves as she settled onto the ground. Her talons dug into the earth, the weight of her landing reverberating through the earth beneath you. You winced, gripping at the ridges of her neck as the last shudder of movement rattled your already battered frame.

The journey had been hard. The strain of staying mounted on Viserion without a proper saddle left your thighs raw, your hands blistered, and countless thin cuts etched into your skin from her scales. Blood smeared your palms, and you could feel it trickling down your legs, staining the fabric of what remained of your riding clothes. You leaned forward for a breath, whispering, “You’ve done well, Viserion. Rest now.”

Viserion’s molten-gold eyes turned to you briefly, softer than one would think a dragon’s could be, before she slumped down onto her haunches. Steam rose faintly from her nostrils as she exhaled, her body coiling protectively near the clearing.

The hill of High Heart rose before you, crowned with its circle of ancient weirwood stumps. The air here felt different—thicker, heavier, as though steeped in old magic. You could feel it settle into your bones. But before you could take another step, the soft sound of footsteps reached your ears. Then voices.

“She said we’d meet her here,” a familiar young voice said, and you turned sharply, your heart skipping.

A group crested the hill—the Brotherhood Without Banners—led by Lord Beric Dondarrion with his ever-present grim determination. Thoros of Myr followed close behind, his robes dusty, the ever-burning faith in his eyes. Behind them trudged men in mismatched armor, and there, to your surprise, stood Arya Stark.

Arya saw you first. Her expression froze, her wild grey eyes widening in disbelief before she broke into a run. “Y/N!”

“Arya?” Your voice cracked, disbelieving, but she was already on you.

The girl flung herself into your arms, her thin frame shaking as she hugged you tightly. The force of her embrace nearly knocked you off balance, and you stumbled back, suppressing a wince as the cuts across your body protested. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, pulling her close, ignoring the pain.

“I knew it! I knew you’d come back,” Arya whispered fiercely into your chest, her voice muffled. “I tried to find you before… but they took you.”

You smoothed a hand over her tangled hair, the gesture calming, though your voice wavered slightly. “I’m here now, little one. And so are you.”

As Arya finally stepped back, her brow furrowed, and she gasped softly. “You’re bleeding.”

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the streaks of crimson that marred your hands and thighs. The ride had taken a greater toll than you realized. “It’s nothing,” you murmured, though Arya clearly didn’t believe you. “Cuts from dragon scales—nothing more.”

Behind her, Lord Beric watched the reunion silently, his one good eye assessing you, but there was no shock in his expression. If anything, he looked unsurprised—as though he had expected this very moment.

“You’ve traveled far,” Beric said at last, stepping closer, his gruff voice low but steady. He glanced at Viserion, whose massive form loomed behind you like a mountain of scales and power. “And brought something the world thought lost.”

You turned to face him fully, your posture straightening despite the pain thrumming in your body. “The world’s forgotten much about dragons. But they are not gone.”

Beric tilted his head slightly, the flicker of a smile almost touching his lips. “I imagine she led you here for a reason.”

“She did,” you replied, casting a glance back at Viserion, who watched the group warily, the muscles in her wings twitching. “This place called to me. There’s something here I need to see. To understand.”

Thoros of Myr finally stepped forward, rubbing his hands together as he regarded the dragon with curiosity and awe. “The Lady of High Heart said the past walks again… and here you stand.”

Arya’s fingers tugged at your torn sleeve, pulling your attention back to her. “Why are you hurt? Did someone do this to you?”

You crouched down to meet her eye level, despite the pull of pain through your legs. “No, Arya. Dragons aren’t made to carry riders, not without saddles. Viserion’s scales are sharp, and I wasn’t prepared.”

Arya glanced back at the dragon cautiously, though her fear seemed to be overshadowed by awe. “She let you ride her?”

“She did,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Arya’s face. “Dragons are not slaves, Arya. They choose. And she chose me.”

Arya’s face twisted in thought, but before she could say more, Beric’s voice cut through the moment. “The Lady awaits us. She will want to see you.”

You nodded faintly, rising back to your feet. Arya moved to your side immediately, like a shadow, her hand brushing against your arm protectively. Beric turned to Thoros and gestured for the others to stay back.

Before you could follow, Viserion let out a low growl, her wings rustling like thunder through the air. You turned back to her, lifting a hand to calm her.

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “Stay here. I’ll return.”

The dragon tilted her head, her eyes locking with yours, unblinking and deep. For a moment, you wondered if she would refuse to let you go, but then Viserion exhaled sharply and slumped back onto her haunches. Arya watched the exchange wide-eyed.

“She listens to you,” Arya murmured, half in wonder. “How do you make her do that?”

You gave her a faint smile as you turned to walk alongside her. “I don’t make her do anything. We understand each other.”

As you followed Beric and Thoros toward the circle of weirwood stumps, Arya’s voice whispered next to you. “You’re like a storybook hero now. Riding dragons and saving the day.”

You smiled down at her, though it was tinged with sadness. “I wish it were as simple as stories, Arya. Dragons aren’t just fire and wonder. They’re war, too.”

Arya looked up at you with a quiet determination in her gaze. “Then I hope you burn the ones who deserve it.”

The hilltop of High Heart loomed before you, its crown of ancient, weathered weirwood stumps standing silent and watchful, steeped in magic older than memory. Each step forward made the air grow heavier, heavy with something unseen but deeply felt—a presence that seemed to pull at you like invisible hands. Arya stayed close at your side, her grey eyes flicking between you and the path ahead.

From behind, the sound of hurried footsteps and clanging armor broke the stillness. “Seven hells,” Hot Pie’s voice carried, breathless and wide-eyed as he pointed toward Viserion, who lay coiled at the base of the hill like a great golden-creamed sentinel. “Is that a real dragon?”

Arya spun around and shot him a glare, her voice sharp as a whisper. “Shush, Hot Pie!” She turned back to you, her expression exasperated. “Ignore him. He’s like that.”

You suppressed a small smile, though your focus remained fixed ahead. “It’s alright. It’s a fair question. Dragons don’t walk this world often anymore.”

Gendry joined them, his usually steady demeanor unsettled as he kept glancing back toward Viserion. “It’s… huge,” he muttered, half in awe. “Does it bite?”

“Only when threatened,” you replied quietly, though a glint of amusement softened your tone.

Hot Pie stared at you in disbelief. “How’re you so calm? That thing could swallow us whole!”

“Because she’s more than a beast,” you answered, your voice steady as you moved forward again. “Come. We’re nearly there.”

When you reached the summit, the chill in the air was sharper, though no breeze stirred. The Lady of High Heart was waiting at the center of the ancient weirwood stumps, her small figure perched atop a gnarled root like a bird of prey. Her milky-white eyes turned toward you the moment you approached, unblinking and all-seeing, as though she had known you would come.

“Child of fire,” she rasped, her voice thin and reedy, yet carrying like a whisper on the wind. “You’ve come at last.”

You stepped closer, Arya hovering protectively near you while Beric and Thoros lingered just behind. “You called me,” you said softly. “Why?”

The ghost of High Heart tilted her head, the corners of her mouth twitching in something like a smile—or a grimace. “I did not call you. He did.”

You frowned, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her small, wrinkled hand rose, pointing a bony finger toward the circle of stumps. The world seemed to shiver as the light around you dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally. A voice whispered faintly, so close it might have been in your ear. “Come, cousin. Walk with me.”

The voice belonged to him—Brandon Rivers.

Suddenly, the world shifted, and you felt yourself pulled, weightless and untethered, into something else. The hilltop dissolved into mist, the figures of Arya, Beric, and the rest swallowed by shadow. When the haze cleared, you were no longer standing on the hill of High Heart but walking through a vast forest of frost-covered trees, their branches clawing at the grey sky.

Beside you strode a figure draped in shadow—a tall man with a pale face, his one red eye gleaming in the cold. Brandon Rivers, the Three-Eyed Raven, walked silently at your side, his heavy cloak brushing the snow-covered ground.

“You came,” he said at last, his voice both gentle and knowing, as though you were old friends meeting after years apart.

“I didn’t have much choice,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Why am I here?”

“To see,” he said simply, gesturing ahead. “To understand.”

The scene around you rippled and changed like water. The forest blurred, replaced by a stark, endless expanse of white. You were standing on the edge of the world—or so it seemed—as a howling wind swept across the frozen tundra. Shadows moved in the distance, dark shapes that sent an icy chill through your bones. The wind carried a sound that made your skin prickle—a shriek, inhuman and terrible.

“What is this?” you asked, your breath visible in the freezing air.

“Beyond the Wall,” Brandon murmured, his red eye fixed on the horizon. “The storm gathers, child of fire. The Long Night comes again, and with it, death.”

You shivered, not just from the cold but from the weight of his words. Shapes became clearer as they emerged from the distance—figures shrouded in frost, their blue eyes glowing like frozen stars. They marched forward, relentless and silent, as if nothing could stop them.

“And why do you show me this?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Brandon turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp and unfathomable. “Your son carries the blood of fire and gold. He is more than you yet know. Protect him, for he will shape the future of this world—and the war to come.”

Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “What do you mean? Damon is just a child—”

“Not forever,” Brandon interrupted, his voice cold as the air around you. “And your husband, Tywin Lannister—he is a man of stone and will. You must keep him close, for the choices you make together will determine whether fire or ice consumes this world.”

The vision rippled again, shifting abruptly. The tundra melted away, replaced by a campfire crackling in the dark. A group of figures sat huddled around it, their faces weary but familiar—wildlings. And there, standing among them, was Jon Snow.

Your breath hitched. Jon looked older, worn by the harshness of the North, but his face was unmistakable. He stood beside the fire, his sword strapped to his back, his expression contemplative. Suddenly, as though sensing your presence, he froze and turned his head sharply.

Jon’s grey eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, it was as if he truly saw you. His mouth parted in surprise, his brow furrowing as recognition dawned across his face.

“Y/N?” he whispered, his voice carried on a wind that seemed to reach you even across the vision. “Is it you?”

You tried to speak, to call his name, but the vision shattered like glass. The sound of Jon’s voice still echoed in your ears as you fell back into the present, the hilltop of High Heart solidifying around you once more.

You stumbled, the weight of what you’d seen pressing on your chest. Arya grabbed your arm to steady you, her voice tight with concern. “What happened? What did you see?”

You blinked, your breath ragged as you looked at Arya, then at Beric and Thoros. The ghost of High Heart was watching you still, her expression unreadable.

“I saw…” You swallowed, the words thick on your tongue. “I saw what’s coming. And Jon.”

Arya’s eyes widened in disbelief, but you had no chance to explain further.

The stillness of the hilltop was shattered as a sudden, sharp pain tore through your body, pulling a cry from your lips. You stumbled forward, clutching at your side where the cuts from Viserion's scales had deepened, raw and angry. The warmth of fresh blood seeped through the torn fabric of your riding clothes, staining your palm crimson.

“Y/N!” Arya’s voice rang out, her hands grabbing at your arm as you faltered. “What’s happening? Are you alright?”

The ghost of High Heart watched silently, her small, withered frame framed by the ancient stumps, her white eyes turning milky pink in the faint light. Without another word, she stepped back into the shadows, her presence dissipating as though she were never there.

“Wait—” you gasped, reaching weakly toward where the ghost had stood, but the pain twisted again, doubling you over. You felt as though fire licked at your skin, the wounds stinging deep with every breath. “The vision—The Others—”

“You’re bleeding too much,” Beric Dondarrion interrupted sharply, stepping forward with urgency. His single eye narrowed as he surveyed your injuries, his gloved hand catching your shoulder to keep you upright. “Thoros, see to her.”

Thoros of Myr nodded and immediately knelt beside you, his movements quick yet careful. “She’s been riding without stopping,” he muttered, his hands tugging at the torn edges of your clothing to get a better look. “The cuts are filthy—dragon scales are sharp as knives, and they’ll fester if we don’t clean them.”

Arya, her face pale with panic, hovered near you. “Then fix it!” she snapped at Thoros, her voice high-pitched and desperate. “Can’t you see she’s in pain? Hurry up!”

“Calm yourself, girl!” Thoros barked, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “Shouting at me won’t help.”

The Myrish priest rummaged through the pouches at his belt, pulling out flasks of water, strips of cloth, and an old salve that smelled of herbs and something faintly bitter. He looked up at Beric. “Hold her steady.”

Beric crouched beside you, his grip strong yet careful as he braced your shoulders. “This will hurt,” he said simply, his eye locking with yours.

“I’ve felt worse,” you managed through gritted teeth, though the sweat beading on your brow betrayed you.

Thoros poured the water over your wounds without warning, and you hissed sharply as the freezing liquid hit your raw skin. Arya flinched at your cry, her small hands curling into fists. “You’re hurting her!”

“I’m saving her,” Thoros replied firmly, his expression set with grim determination. He worked quickly, his fingers skilled as he pressed the salve into the open cuts. The sting burned deep, worse than dragonfire, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“Talk to me,” Beric said, his voice low and even. His hand tightened ever so slightly on your shoulder, grounding you. “Focus. What did you see? What was it?”

You swallowed thickly, your breath coming in shaky bursts as Thoros continued his work. “I saw them… The Others,” you whispered, your voice faint. “The storm beyond the Wall. They’re marching.”

Arya’s face twisted in confusion, though her concern didn’t waver. “The Others? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You nodded faintly, though every muscle in your body trembled with exhaustion. “The dead, Arya. They’re coming—endless and cold. And they won’t stop.”

Thoros exhaled sharply, as if unsettled by your words, but he kept his hands moving. “Visions are dangerous,” he muttered under his breath. “They bind us to things we’re not meant to understand.”

“She understands more than you think,” Beric said, though his gaze remained fixed on you, searching your face for clarity. “And if the dead are marching beyond the Wall, the world will need to know.”

“Let her rest first,” Thoros interjected gruffly, wrapping the last of the cloth bandages around your thigh with quick precision. “She’ll not be spreading any news until she can stand without collapsing.”

Arya hovered close, her worry etched plainly across her young face. “Is she going to be alright?” she asked Thoros, her voice quieter now.

The Myrish priest sighed, wiping his hands clean against his tunic before rising to his feet. “She’ll live,” he said, though his tone carried a note of weariness. “But she needs rest. Proper rest.”

You shifted slightly, testing the bandages as the pain dulled to a throb. “Thank you,” you muttered, though your voice was hoarse.

Beric offered his hand, helping you back to your feet with care. “Easy now. You’re strong, but don’t push yourself.”

“I don’t have time to rest,” you said quietly, glancing toward the direction where Viserion waited below the hill. “There’s more to this… more than I understand.”

“You won’t understand anything if you bleed out,” Thoros shot back, though his tone had softened.

Arya clung to your arm again as you steadied yourself. “You have to stop them. If the dead are coming, we have to do something, don’t we?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a hand against her tangled hair. “We will do something, Arya. But we need to be ready.”

Beric nodded grimly. “Then let us see to it that you survive long enough to face what comes.”

As Thoros gathered his supplies and the Brotherhood set to making camp, you allowed yourself to glance back toward the edge of the hill. The golden shape of Viserion was visible below, curled like a sleeping cat, though her head was lifted, ever watchful. A sense of calm settled over you—fleeting but real.

The vision of the Others, their frozen march and their glowing eyes, still burned in your mind. The world felt heavier now, the weight of what you had seen pressing on your chest. But you had faced storms before. You would face this one too.

The cold wind howled across the frozen expanse, carrying with it the whisper of something unseen. Jon Snow stood at the edge of the camp, his chest rising and falling as he turned his head sharply, his eyes fixed on the emptiness before him. He felt it again—that strange pull, that phantom connection, lingering like a breath of warm air in a place that knew only ice.

“Y/N!” Jon shouted suddenly, the name tearing from his lips before he realized he’d said it aloud. The sound echoed into the silent tundra, scattering the nearby ravens into the pale sky. The wildlings nearby turned to look at him, murmuring in confusion.

Ygritte’s voice cut through the wind, sharp and teasing, though concern underpinned it. “What are you doin’, Crow?” she asked, striding toward him, her red hair wild in the breeze. “You callin’ ghosts now?”

Jon didn’t answer immediately, his brow furrowed as he stared at the emptiness in front of him. He swore he had seen her—standing there, pale as the snow, her silver hair whipped by the wind, her violet eyes filled with something heavy. And she had looked hurt.

Ygritte stepped closer, gripping his arm. “Jon Snow, what in the name of the gods are you shoutin’ at? There’s nothin’ there but wind and ice.”

Jon blinked, breaking out of his daze. “I saw her,” he said quietly, though his voice trembled with uncertainty. “I saw Y/N.”

Ygritte’s brow creased. “Who?”

Jon turned to face her, his breath visible in the freezing air. “The woman who raised me.”

Ygritte tilted her head, skeptical but curious. “Thought you didn’t know your mother, Crow. You always said as much.”

“I don’t,” Jon admitted, his voice rough. “But Y/N—she was the one who cared for me when no one else would. She was like my mother, even if she wasn’t.”

The wildlings nearby shifted closer, their interest piqued. A few murmured amongst themselves, but Ygritte ignored them, narrowing her eyes at Jon. “And who is she, this woman you’re seein’ in the middle of nowhere?”

Jon exhaled, the weight of the answer settling over him. “She’s a Targaryen princess.”

Ygritte stared at him for a long moment, then scoffed, her lips quirking into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A Targaryen? A bloody dragon princess? And you’re just tellin’ me this now?”

Jon shook his head, the ghost of the vision still haunting his thoughts. “It’s not something I talk about. She raised me in Winterfell when Lord Stark brought me back as a babe. She didn’t have to, but she did. Now, Tywin Lannister took her as his wife.”

“And now you’re seein’ her out here,” Ygritte said, her tone laced with doubt. “Beyond the Wall. You think the cold’s gotten to you, Jon Snow?”

Jon turned his head sharply toward her, his expression serious. “I know what I saw, Ygritte. She was here. She looked hurt.”

The smirk faded from her lips, and for a moment, Ygritte studied him in silence, her eyes searching his face. “Hurt, you say?”

Jon nodded slowly. “Aye. Something’s happened to her, and I felt it.”

Ygritte let out a heavy breath, crossing her arms as she glanced back at the wildlings watching from a distance. “You’re tellin’ me a woman raised you like her own and she’s a dragon princess… and now she’s married to a Lannister lord?” The disbelief in her voice was clear, but it was edged with curiosity.

Jon’s jaw tightened at her words. “I don’t believe she wanted that. Tywin Lannister is a man of ambition. He doesn’t make choices without a purpose.”

“And yet you’re here,” Ygritte said, her tone softening just slightly. “Far from your wolves and castles. What do you think it means, Jon Snow, seein’ her like that?”

Jon looked out at the vast, empty horizon, his dark eyes troubled. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

Ygritte watched him, her expression unreadable before she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “Ghosts and visions won’t help you out here. Keep your head where it belongs—on the living.”

Jon glanced at her, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features, but his mind was still far away. “I can’t ignore it, Ygritte. She’s out there, and something’s wrong.”

Ygritte sighed and shook her head, muttering under her breath as she turned to leave him standing alone again. “Bloody Crows and their ghosts…”

As Ygritte moved away, Jon remained where he stood, the cold biting at his face. He looked once more at the empty air where he’d seen you—your pale hair, your wounded stance. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. It had felt too real. You were calling to him, somehow.

And somewhere, across the snow-covered expanse of the North, Jon Snow swore he would find the truth.

The large stone chamber of Casterly Rock was cold, the long table surrounded by men who wore the weight of Tywin Lannister’s authority like heavy cloaks. Maps were spread before them, marked with quills and tokens, outlining routes traveled and territories searched.

Kevan Lannister stood closest to him, his voice steady but edged with hesitation as he finished his latest report. “Our men scoured High Heart, my lord. The hilltop was deserted when we arrived—no trace of the lady or her dragon.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Tywin’s fingers drummed slowly on the arm of his chair, the sound unnervingly deliberate. “No trace?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “Are you telling me that a dragon—a creature large enough to blot out the sun—simply vanished into thin air?”

Kevan shifted uneasily under his brother’s cold stare. “It would seem so, my lord. The locals speak of the hill as a cursed place. Some believe the dragon is… of magic.”

Tywin scoffed sharply, the sound laced with scorn. “Magic.” His gaze flicked over to the other men at the table, daring them to echo such nonsense. None met his eyes. “Find me practical answers, not old wives’ tales.”

Mace Tyrell cleared his throat from the far side of the table, leaning slightly back in his chair. “It appears, Lord Tywin, that the princess and her dragon move with a will of their own—elusive as the wind. Wherever they go, there are whispers, but no proof. It’s as though she has disappeared.”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Mace, and for a moment, it looked as though he might explode with anger. “My wife does not simply disappear, Lord Tyrell,” he said icily. “She is out there, and I will have her found.”

Kevan, unwilling to relent, pressed cautiously. “Brother, we’ve exhausted nearly every path. Riverlands, the Reach—our men are spread thin, and this search is leaving us vulnerable. We are bleeding resources for a single woman—”

“A single woman?” Tywin’s voice cracked like a whip, his face hard as stone as he rose to his feet, towering over the room. “She is worth more than every man sitting at this table, Kevan.”

The room tensed at his outburst, even Mace falling silent. Kevan took a step back, his expression one of wary resignation. “Tywin, I only meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant,” Tywin snapped, his sharp tone cutting through Kevan’s attempted apology. “You think I should abandon her. Cast her aside as though she were nothing.”

Kevan held his ground, though the weight of Tywin’s fury bore down on him. “She’s your wife, yes, but she is also a Targaryen. A dragonlord with a beast at her command. She is not loyal to our banners—can you be certain she will return to you willingly?”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table, his gaze cold enough to freeze steel. “She will return.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Kevan pressed softly, though the tension in the room was palpable. “What then?”

“She will,” Tywin repeated, his voice a growl of absolute conviction. “Because she knows what is at stake. I will not repeat myself again.”

Mace Tyrell, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet through the exchange, finally leaned forward with his hands clasped. “You trust her, then, my lord?”

Tywin turned his gaze to Mace, and for the first time, there was no hint of mockery in the Reach lord’s question. It was genuine curiosity. Tywin straightened, smoothing his hands over his doublet, his composure slowly returning. “Trust?” he echoed, almost as though testing the word. “I trust in her understanding of duty. In her resolve.”

His voice dipped slightly, though there was an edge of finality to it. “And I trust that no one in this realm—not one man—understands what it means to bear the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders better than she does.”

The room fell silent once more, the men around the table avoiding his gaze, their earlier protests buried under the weight of his words. Tywin settled back into his chair, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face.

“Double the patrols in the Riverlands,” he ordered, his tone calm once more but no less commanding. “Send word to every loyal bannerman between here and the Wall. She is not to be harmed. If they see the dragon, they will report to me. No one moves without my word.”

Kevan hesitated for a moment but nodded. “As you say, my lord.”

Tywin turned his gaze back to the map before him, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. His mind was calculating—always calculating. Y/n was out there somewhere, with Viserion at her side, and he would not allow uncertainty to erode his grip on her or their future.

“Dismissed,” Tywin said curtly, and the room began to empty, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of boots echoing through the hall. Kevan lingered for a moment longer but thought better of speaking further, following the others out.

When the door finally closed, Tywin’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly, though his face remained as still and impassive as ever. His gaze lingered on the map, on the Riverlands where her trail had last been seen.

For all his composure, a single thought gnawed at him: Where are you? And why haven’t you come back to me?

The corridors of Casterly Rock were unusually quiet this evening, the heavy tapestries and thick stone walls muffling the sounds of the stronghold. Tywin walked with a measured pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of cold authority. The day’s frustrations hung heavily on him, but he would not allow his weariness to show. His men doubted, Kevan questioned him, and whispers of dragons had begun to snake their way into the ears of his bannermen. But Tywin Lannister had weathered far worse storms.

He reached the door of the nursery and paused briefly before stepping inside. The warmth of the room greeted him—the hearth crackling low, the glow of candlelight casting soft shadows across the walls. A nursemaid rose from her chair and bowed her head as Tywin entered. “Leave us,” he ordered quietly, and the woman scurried away, closing the door behind her.

His son, Damon, lay in a cradle fashioned from carved gold and dark red oak, the Lannister lion emblazoned on its side. The boy stirred softly, his silver-gold hair glowing in the firelight as he let out a content sigh in his sleep. Tywin moved toward him, his usually rigid posture loosening just enough to betray the rare flicker of vulnerability he reserved for moments like this.

He stopped beside the cradle, his sharp gaze softening. The boy’s tiny hand curled around nothing, his peaceful face a sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding him. His blood. His heir. For all the trials of the past moons, here was proof that his efforts had borne fruit. Damon was a future secured, a legacy given form.

As Tywin watched his son, the door creaked open, and the maester entered hesitantly, clutching a scroll in his weathered hands. “My lord,” he said in a low, deferential tone, “Ser Jaime is en route from King’s Landing. He should arrive within the week.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to the old man, a faint narrowing of his eyes the only indication of his thoughts. “Jaime?”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester confirmed, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “It seems Queen Mother sent him. She… insisted.”

*Of course she did. Tywin’s jaw tightened briefly. He could already picture Cersei’s smug defiance, her desire to tighten her grasp on Jaime now that Y/N’s absence had destabilized the fragile peace. She would be hoping for support—perhaps even plotting. Tywin would deal with her when the time came. For now, his focus was elsewhere.

“You will prepare his quarters,” Tywin instructed flatly. “And ensure that no one else is disturbed by his arrival.”

The maester bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He shuffled out of the room, leaving Tywin once more alone with his son.

Tywin sighed softly—an uncharacteristic sound—as he sank into the chair beside the cradle. His gaze returned to Damon, who still slumbered peacefully, oblivious to the weight of expectation placed upon him. For the first time that day, Tywin allowed himself to relax, though it was subtle. The sharp lines of his shoulders eased, and the hard edge in his stare softened.

“You are stronger than you know,” he murmured quietly, his words almost lost to the crackle of the fire. “And you will need to be.”

Tywin leaned back in the chair, watching the boy as he slept. There was something about this small, helpless child that grounded him, even now. Damon was a mix of two powerful bloodlines—Lannister and Targaryen. His existence was proof that Tywin’s plans, for all their trials and conflicts, were succeeding.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. The Targaryens had once been his family’s greatest rivals, and now their legacy was entwined with his own. Tywin’s gaze lingered on the soft silver sheen of Damon’s hair, a reminder of Y/N’s, her fire. He frowned faintly, the thought of her absence stirring something uncomfortable within him. She had left, vanished with her dragon to gods knew where, but he refused to believe she would abandon this—their son, their future.

“You will know her strength,” Tywin said softly, his tone carrying a strange note of conviction. “And mine.”

Damon stirred in his sleep, letting out a small, quiet sigh as though in response. Tywin allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to cross his lips, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He reached into the cradle, his fingers brushing gently over the boy’s small hand. Damon’s fingers twitched instinctively, curling slightly against his father’s.

For a long while, Tywin sat there, silent and still, watching the child. Outside, the Rock’s great halls were alive with whispers of dragons, absent wives, and unstable alliances. But here, in this room, there was quiet—a moment of peace that Tywin would not allow the world to shatter.

When he finally rose, the hardness of his expression returned, but his movements were careful as he tucked the blanket closer around Damon. He lingered one last moment, his gaze lingering on his son.

“You will inherit a world stronger than the one I was given,” he said quietly, his voice firm with promise. “And you will endure.”

Tywin straightened, his full composure restored as he strode toward the door, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor. When he opened it, his features were a mask of calm authority, the face of a man who controlled everything and allowed nothing to slip through his grasp.

And yet, as he stepped into the corridor and the door closed softly behind him, the image of Damon’s small, sleeping form lingered in his mind—an anchor in a storm that refused to calm.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #house targaryen #house lannister #house of the dragon #hotd #got #got/asoiaf #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #legacy

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pickingupmymercedes · 15 days ago

Text

A Christmas Carol - Lewis Hamilton

A Christmas Special

genre: fluff (there's a bit of angst because it wouldn't be me without it)

wordcount: +3k

a/n: Wasn't planning on doing one, but alas, like the Grinch "I'm toasty inside and I'm leaking". Hope you guys enjoy it.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Christmas was supposed to feel magical. It was supposed to smell like cinnamon and pine, sound like kids laughing over the crinkle of wrapping paper, and taste like mulled wine and homemade cookies.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I power-walked from the kitchen to the dining room, a tray of meticulously arranged appetizers wobbling precariously in my hands.

“Where’s the rosemary garnish?” I called out, my voice sharper than I intended.

“On the counter where you left it,” my mom’s voice floated back, tinged with just enough exasperation to make me grit my teeth.

“Right, okay. Thanks!” I tried to sound upbeat, but it came out brittle, like one of the ornaments I’d already broken this week.

The house was perfect. Lewis’s Colorado cabin looked like it had been ripped from the pages of a Christmas catalog.

Snow blanketed the landscape outside, and the living room’s towering evergreen glittered with gold and red ornaments.

Both our families were here—mine and Lewis’s—mingling in various states of holiday cheer.

Everything looked exactly as it should.

So why did it feel like everything was on the verge of collapse?

I was usually the type to wing things. I’d always believed the joy was in the process, not the end result.

But this was different. This was the first Christmas we were hosting as a couple, the first time our families were all under one roof, and the first time I felt the weight of needing everything to be flawless.

“You’re overthinking it,” Lewis had said a week ago, catching me mid-panic as I tried to finalize the seating chart. “It’s Christmas. Nobody’s going to care if the napkins match the table runner.”

I’d rolled my eyes at him then, brushing off his easy confidence. “This is important, Lewis. It’s our first big family Christmas. I need it to be right.”

But now, with the pressure mounting and the hours slipping away, I was starting to wonder if he’d been right all along.

Still, I couldn’t stop.

There was too much to do, too much riding on this. It wasn’t just impressing everyone else; it was proving to myself that I could pull this off. That I could create something perfect.

“Y/n, the caterer just called. They’re going to be an hour late,” came Lewis’s voice from the kitchen, calm as ever.

I barely acknowledged him, my brain too busy spiraling into contingency plans.

Late appetizers meant a delayed dinner schedule, which meant the kids would get restless, which—… Okay, breathe.

“It’s fine,” I said tightly, not looking up from my task. “I’ll… figure it out.”

“Babe, it’ll be fine,” he replied, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe him. How could he be so relaxed about this?

This was the first time I could show everyone that I wasn’t just good at planning vacations—I could host the kind of Christmas that would make everyone look back and say “Remember that year at Lewis and Y/n’s place? That was perfect.”

But perfect came at a price. A steep one.

I was usually laid-back on holidays, but this one… well, I was turning into someone I didn’t entirely recognize.

Someone who had snapped at Lewis when he joked ironing the napkins was a bit much. Someone who brushed off my mom’s attempt to help set up because “I’ve got it, thanks.” Someone who hadn’t stopped to sit down—or breathe—since the day before.

I knew I was being ridiculous.

Rationally, I knew that no one cared if the table settings matched the garland on the fireplace or if the cranberry sauce came from a can instead of being homemade.

But rationality didn’t exactly have a seat at the table in my mind. Instead, it was crowded with doubts, insecurities, and the quiet, nagging fear that if I didn’t get this right, it meant something about me.

I wanted so badly to prove that I could do this—not to Lewis, not even to our families, but to myself. To prove that I could handle blending traditions, making everyone feel at home, and creating a holiday memory worth cherishing.

The irony? In chasing that, I was starting to lose the very thing that made Christmas special.

“Y/n,” Lewis called again, his voice pulling me out of my thoughts. I realized I had been staring at the same strand of lights for a tad too long. “Why don’t you take a break? Have some wine or something.”

“I’m fine,” I said, sharper than intended. He didn’t reply, and the quiet that followed made me feel worse than any argument ever could.

I sighed, sinking to the floor, the lights still tangled in my hands.

I glanced around the room, the half-decorated tree leaning slightly to the right, the dining table still bare, and the unmistakable hum of chatter from the kitchen where both families mingled.

It wasn’t perfect. Not yet. But as I sat there, surrounded by the mess of my own making, a tiny voice in the back of my head whispered that it didn’t have to be.

I had just managed to shove the last box of ornaments under the console table when I heard a familiar voice call out, “Y/n! You didn’t even say hi when we walked in. What the hell?”

I turned, my brother already halfway across the room, his lopsided grin in place and a lumpy gift bag dangling from his hand. He had that look he always got when he was about to annoy me out of spite.

“Hey,” I muttered distractedly, glancing at the clock. Dinner prep was starting to fall behind, and I still hadn’t decided which candles to put on the table.

He stopped in front of me, arms crossed. “That’s it? Not even a ‘Merry Christmas, so glad you’re here, oh wise older sibling who taught me everything I know?’”

“I don’t have time for this, asshole” I said, brushing past him to fix the garland over the fireplace. “You and everyone else are so very welcome here, but I have a million things to do.”

He let out a low whistle. “Wow. Someone’s really leaning into their inner Scrooge this year.”

I didn’t bother responding, too busy adjusting a stocking that was slightly off-center.

“Alright, what’s going on?” he asked, softer this time. “You didn’t even notice when your niece tried to hug you.”

Guilt hit me like a truck, but I pushed it aside. “Nothing, I swear. I just… I want everything to be perfect, for her too, okay?”

“Perfect?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who once wrapped all Christmas presents in newspaper and duct tape because you forgot to buy wrapping paper.”

“I was sixteen and broke.” I snapped.

“And happy,” he countered, his voice pointed but not, at all, unkind. “We all were. Because no one cared what the presents looked like. Or if the tree was crooked or the turkey was dry. We were just… together. That’s what made it Christmas.”

I turned to face him, arms crossed. “Are you seriously trying to give me some kind of Christmas ghost speech right now? Because I don’t have time for—”

“Maybe you should make time” he interrupted, and for once, there was no teasing in his tone.

I hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in despite my resistance.

“Look, I get it” he continued, his voice softening again. “You want this to be special, and it will be. But not because of the table settings or the garland or whatever else you’re obsessing over. It’ll be special because you’re here, and we’re here, and that’s all that ever mattered to us as kids. It’s all that matters now, too.”

“Thanks for the Hallmark moment. Really. But I have things to do.” I sighted instead of admitting he was right, as I turned back to the fireplace.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped back. “Suit yourself, sis. But don’t come crying to me when the ghost of Christmas present shows up later to say ‘I told you so.’ over dessert”

I was halfway into rolling my eyes when it hit me. The pie. but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at my lips as he walked away. Still, his words lingered, like the faint smell of cinnamon that seemed to follow me everywhere this week.

“Seriously, what’s going on, now you look like you seen a ghost?” my brother asked, peering into the living room.

“Oh, no,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a freight train. I had forgotten dessert.

My brother smirked. “Guess perfection really is a myth.”

Lewis appeared in the doorway; eyebrows raised in concern. “Everything okay?”

“No,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “I forgot the dessert. I can’t believe I forgot the dessert.”

“Babe, it’s not a big deal,” he said gently, resting a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got plenty of food.”

“It’s Christmas, Lewis!” I suppressed a yell. “You’re supposed to have something sweet.”

Lewis exchanged a glance with my brother, who shrugged as if to say, ‘Your turn.’

“Hey,” Lewis said, tilting my chin up so I’d look at him. “What’s the one thing you always say when things don’t go according to plan?”

I blinked at him, tears threatening. “I don’t know.”

“You say, ‘We’ll figure it out.’”

“I’ve got it” I replied, careful to keep my tone light.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he came closer, a quiet warmth that made me hyper-aware of how tightly I was holding onto the matchbox in my hand.

“Y/n,” he said softly, and that was all it took for my defenses to wobble.

I set the matchbox down with a shaky exhale, staring at the empty plates in front of me. “I just want everything to be perfect” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

He stepped closer, his hands brushing lightly against my arms before resting on my shoulders. “It already is” he said.

I laughed under my breath, a sound that came out more bitter than I intended. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen the cranberry sauce yet.”

“Babe” he said, his voice full of that frustrating calmness that made me want to hug him and throw something at him, at the same time. “No one’s here for cranberry sauce.”

I turned to face him, ready to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped me cold.

They weren’t teasing or dismissive or even annoyed, like I probably deserved after snapping at him all day. They were warm, steady, and so full of love it made my chest ache.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked gently, his thumbs rubbing small circles against my arm. “You’ve been running around for days like you’re hosting the royal family instead of our families. What’s really going on?”

I swallowed hard, my resolve starting to crack. “I just…” My voice wavered, and I hated how small I sounded. “I want them to have a good time. I want them to see that we’re good at this, that we’ve got it all together.”

He tilted his head, studying me with that quiet intensity he always had when he was trying to read between the lines.

“You mean you want to prove that you’re good at this,” he said softly, and the truth of it hit me like a punch to the gut.

I dropped my gaze, staring at the floor like it might hold some kind of answer. “It’s stupid, I know” I whispered.

“It’s not stupid,” he said, his voice firm. “But you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Y/n. Not to our families, not to me, and definitely not to yourself. You’ve already done more than enough by bringing them all over.”

I shook my head, tears prickling at the edges of my eyes. “It doesn’t feel like enough. I just… I want them to look back at this and remember it as something special.”

He reached out, tipping my chin up so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. “They will,” he said simply. “Not because of the candles or the napkins or whatever else you’ve been stressing over, but because they’re here. Together. And because you made that happen.”

His words settled over, softening the tension in my shoulders and quieting the storm in my mind.

“I don’t know how you always do that,” I said with a shaky laugh, brushing at my eyes.

“Do what?”

“Manage to say the exact thing I need to hear, even when I don’t want to hear it. Especially then”

He smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to my forehead. “It’s a talent,” he said lightly, his tone teasing but his eyes still serious.

I leaned into him, letting the steady beat of his heart anchor me. For the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe again.

“You’re right,” I admitted quietly.

“About everything?”

“Don’t push your luck” I muttered, earning a soft laugh from him.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands still resting on my waist. “Come sit with us for a while,” he said. “The table can wait. Dinner can wait. Right now, I just want you to stop and enjoy this.”

I hesitated, my gaze flicking toward the half-finished table.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice low and insistent. “Please.”

The weight of that single word unraveled the last of my resistance.

“Okay,” I said softly, letting him guide me toward the living room and let myself just be.

Dinner was still salvageable, the table was mostly set, and the stockings—mercifully—were straightened.

It was fine. I was fine. We would be fine.

I hadn’t slept much. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the last few days finally wearing off, or maybe it was the quiet nagging feeling that I hadn’t quite nailed it.

Either way, when Lewis stirred beside me at the crack of dawn, his alarm buzzing softly, I was already awake.

He leaned over to kiss my forehead, murmuring something about taking a quick shower before the kids woke up. I mumbled back something that sounded vaguely coherent, but the moment he stepped into the bathroom, I slipped out of bed.

Still in my pajamas, hair a mess, and not a speck of makeup to hide behind, I padded softly down the stairs. The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes in those fleeting moments before the day begins.

The living room came into view, and I froze for a moment, leaning against the doorway. The tree stood tall, its lights casting a soft, golden glow over the room.

The presents we’d spent hours wrapping were still neatly stacked, though I knew that wouldn’t last long.

I sat down on the edge of the couch, tucking my knees under me as I watched the room come alive in slow motion.

First came one of Lewis’s nieces, her sleepy face lighting up the moment she spotted the tree. She gasped, then bolted back upstairs, her little feet pounding against the steps as she woke her brother.

A chain reaction followed—one by one, the kids tumbled into the room, wide-eyed and buzzing with excitement.

Next came my mom, her robe tied loosely around her as she headed straight for the kitchen.

I could hear her humming a Christmas carol as she rummaged for the hot cocoa mix. Within minutes, the scent of chocolate and marshmallows filled the air, mingling with the pine of the tree.

I didn’t say anything; I just watched.

Watched as the kids tore into their presents, the floor quickly becoming a chaotic sea of wrapping paper.

Watched as my mom handed a steaming mug to each child, all looking up at her with a grateful smile.

Watched as my brother shuffled in, still half-asleep but smiling as he plopped onto a chair with his coffee.

And then, almost as if she sensed I needed it, my mom came over to the couch and sat beside me, handing me a mug of cocoa, the marshmallows bobbing at the surface, and settled in with a soft sigh by my side.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she said, her voice as warm as the drink in my hands.

“Merry Christmas, Mom” I replied, leaning my head on her shoulder.

We sat there for a while, watching the chaos unfold.

One of the kids trying to explain a new gadget to my dad, while my niece proudly displayed her new doll to Lewis’s mom.

It was loud and messy and completely uncoordinated.

And it was perfect.

“This reminds me of Christmas when we were kids,” I said quietly, my voice almost drowned out by the laughter and chatter.

My mom turned to look at me, her brow lifting slightly.

“You know,” I continued, smiling faintly at the memory. “When we’d open our presents in the morning, and you and Dad would be in the kitchen getting food ready. All the relatives would be there, the cousins running around, someone always spilling something…” I trailed off, shaking my head. “It was chaos, but it felt like Christmas.”

My mom chuckled, her hand brushing against mine as she squeezed it gently. “That’s what makes it special, honey. It’s never about the perfect decorations or the perfect dinner. It’s about… this.”

She gestured to the room, where Lewis’s nephew was now gleefully dragging people to play with him, everyone looking thoroughly confused but nodding enthusiastically anyway.

“The mess?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

“The mess,” she affirmed, smiling. “The people. The noise. The love in all of it.”

I blinked back the sting of tears, resting my head against her shoulder again. For so long, I’d been chasing perfection, thinking it was the key to creating something memorable.

But sitting there, surrounded by laughter and torn wrapping paper and the occasional shout of “Where are the batteries?”—I realized I already had everything I’d been looking for.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“I hope I get it this messy, this right, every year” I said softly, my voice thick with emotion.

She didn’t reply, just leaned her head against mine, and we sat there in the quiet chaos, letting it all wash over us.

It wasn’t what I had planned. It wasn’t perfect.

It was better. So much better

And as if on cue, my mom glanced up and caught sight of Lewis standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

His hands tucked into the pockets of his pajama pants, his grin warm and knowing as he watched us. With a soft smile, she nudged me gently.

“Someone’s waiting for you” my mom murmured before excusing herself, her footsteps light as she headed toward the kitchen.

Lewis didn’t waste a second, crossing the room to take her spot beside me on the sofa. He flopped down with exaggerated effort, his arm draping lazily along the back of the couch.

“Well, well,” he teased, tilting his head to look at me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you out of the bedroom without a fully picked-out outfit, perfect hair, and makeup in days?”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “I’ve been… intense. Haven’t I?”

“A bit” Lewis replied, grinning as he reached over to tug my hands away. “But only because you care”

I lowered my hands, glancing at him shyly. “I just... I wanted this to be perfect. I needed it to be perfect. Not just for everyone else but—” She hesitated, her voice faltering.

“But?” he prompted, his tone gentle.

I bit my lip, my gaze flicking to the kids tearing through their gifts, then back to him. “But for me. For us. For... the possibility that this might be our future someday.”

The words faltered, vulnerable and unsure.

Lewis didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he reached out, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his chest.

“Y/n,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to try so hard. You’re already more than perfect.”

I let out a small, disbelieving laugh, but he pulled back just enough to cup my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly over my cheeks as he looked me in the eyes.

“I mean it,” he said firmly. “I’ve been dreaming about a future with you long before these past few days. Ever since I saw you barefoot on that trail, convincing Willow it was the best way to feel the earth beneath her. Since you let Roscoe slobber all over you on the beach the very first time you met him. Since we spent three days on that road trip, eating two-day-old sandwiches and drinking from streams, and you still made it feel like the greatest adventure of our lives.”

My eyes glistened, a shy smile tugging at my lips. “You’re really pulling out all the stops here, aren’t you?”

“Whatever it takes” he replied with a playful grin before his expression softened again. “ You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Least of all me.”

We stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in each other, watching the kids dive into their presents. The room buzzing with laughter and the occasional triumphant shout of “Look what I got!”

My chest felt lighter than it had in days, my worries dissolving like the marshmallows in my cocoa.

I rested my head against Lewis’s shoulder, my heart settling into a steady rhythm that matched his.

But then, a thought struck and I sat up abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Lewis asked, trying to pull me back by the waist.

I swatted his hand away with a smirk. “You’ll see.”

I sprang to my feet, clapping my hands to gather the kids’ attention. “Alright, who’s ready to make a mess in the kitchen?”

A chorus of enthusiastic “Me!” erupted as they abandoned their toys and raced toward me.

I led them to the kitchen, my laughter echoing through the house as I opened cabinets and pulled out bowls, flour, and cookie cutters.

Within minutes, the kitchen was alive —flour flying, cookie dough being enthusiastically rolled and eaten, and the sound of uncontainable giggles filling the air.

Lewis stayed back, leaning against the back of the sofa, watching the scene unfold with a smile tugging at his lips.

I caught his eye once, winking at him as I smeared a dollop of cookie batter on one of the kids’ noses, eliciting a delighted squeal.

This could be our forever. Far from perfect, but perfectly us.

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songofapollon · 2 months ago

Text

Homeric Hymn III. TO APOLLO

Translated by H. G. Evelyn-White

TO DELIAN APOLLO

[1] I will remember and not be unmindful of Apollo who shoots afar. As he goes through the house of Zeus, the gods tremble before him and all spring up from their seats when he draws near, as he bends his bright bow. But Leto alone stays by the side of Zeus who delights in thunder; and then she unstrings his bow, and closes his quiver, and takes his archery from his strong shoulders in her hands and hangs them on a golden peg against a pillar of his father's house. Then she leads him to a seat and makes him sit: and the Father gives him nectar in a golden cup welcoming his dear son, while the other gods make him sit down there, and queenly Leto rejoices because she bare a mighty son and an archer. Rejoice, blessed Leto, for you bare glorious children, the lord Apollo and Artemis who delights in arrows; her in Ortygia, and him in rocky Delos, as you rested against the great mass of the Cynthian hill hard by a palm-tree by the streams of Inopus.

[19] How, then, shall I sing of you who in all ways are a worthy theme of song? For everywhere, O Phoebus, the whole range of song is fallen to you, both over the mainland that rears heifers and over the isles. All mountain-peaks and high headlands of lofty hills and rivers flowing out to the deep and beaches sloping seawards and havens of the sea are your delight. Shall I sing how at the first Leto bare you to be the joy of men, as she rested against Mount Cynthus in that rocky isle, in sea-girt Delos -- while on either hand a dark wave rolled on landwards driven by shrill winds -- whence arising you rule over all mortal men?

[30] Among those who are in Crete, and in the township of Athens, and in the isle of Aegina and Euboea, famous for ships, in Aegae and Eiresiae and Peparethus near the sea, in Thracian Athos and Pelion's towering heights and Thracian Samos and the shady hills of Ida, in Scyros and Phocaea and the high hill of Autocane and fair-lying Imbros and smouldering Lemnos and rich Lesbos, home of Macar, the son of Aeolus, and Chios, brightest of all the isles that lie in the sea, and craggy Mimas and the heights of Corycus and gleaming Claros and the sheer hill of Aesagea and watered Samos and the steep heights of Mycale, in Miletus and Cos, the city of Meropian men, and steep Cnidos and windy Carpathos, in Naxos and Paros and rocky Rhenaea -- so far roamed Leto in travail with the god who shoots afar, to see if any land would be willing to make a dwelling for her son. But they greatly trembled and feared, and none, not even the richest of them, dared receive Phoebus, until queenly Leto set foot on Delos and uttered winged words and asked her:

[51] "Delos, if you would be willing to be the abode of my son "Phoebus Apollo and make him a rich temple --; for no other will touch you, as you will find: and I think you will never be rich in oxen and sheep, nor bear vintage nor yet produce plants abundantly. But if you have the temple of far-shooting Apollo, all men will bring you hecatombs and gather here, and incessant savour of rich sacrifice will always arise, and you will feed those who dwell in you from the hand of strangers; for truly your own soil is not rich."

[62] So spake Leto. And Delos rejoiced and answered and said: "Leto, most glorious daughter of great Coeus, joyfully would I receive your child the far-shooting lord; for it is all too true that I am ill-spoken of among men, whereas thus I should become very greatly honoured. But this saying I fear, and I will not hide it from you, Leto. They say that Apollo will be one that is very haughty and will greatly lord it among gods and men all over the fruitful earth. Therefore, I greatly fear in heart and spirit that as soon as he sets the light of the sun, he will scorn this island -- for truly I have but a hard, rocky soil -- and overturn me and thrust me down with his feet in the depths of the sea; then will the great ocean wash deep above my head for ever, and he will go to another land such as will please him, there to make his temple and wooded groves. So, many-footed creatures of the sea will make their lairs in me and black seals their dwellings undisturbed, because I lack people. Yet if you will but dare to sware a great oath, goddess, that here first he will build a glorious temple to be an oracle for men, then let him afterwards make temples and wooded groves amongst all men; for surely he will be greatly renowned."

[83] So said Delos. And Leto sware the great oath of the gods: "Now hear this, Earth and wide Heaven above, and dropping water of Styx (this is the strongest and most awful oath for the blessed gods), surely Phoebus shall have here his fragrant altar and precinct, and you he shall honour above all."

[89] Now when Leto had sworn and ended her oath, Delos was very glad at the birth of the far-shooting lord. But Leto was racked nine days and nine nights with pangs beyond wont. And there were with her all the chiefest of the goddesses, Dione and Rhea and Ichnaea and Themis and loud-moaning Amphitrite and the other deathless goddesses save white-armed Hera, who sat in the halls of cloud-gathering Zeus. Only Eilithyia, goddess of sore travail, had not heard of Leto's trouble, for she sat on the top of Olympus beneath golden clouds by white-armed Hera's contriving, who kept her close through envy, because Leto with the lovely tresses was soon to bear a son faultless and strong.

[102] But the goddesses sent out Iris from the well-set isle to bring Eilithyia, promising her a great necklace strung with golden threads, nine cubits long. And they bade Iris call her aside from white-armed Hera, lest she might afterwards turn her from coming with her words. When swift Iris, fleet of foot as the wind, had heard all this, she set to run; and quickly finishing all the distance she came to the home of the gods, sheer Olympus, and forthwith called Eilithyia out from the hall to the door and spoke winged words to her, telling her all as the goddesses who dwell on Olympus had bidden her. So she moved the heart of Eilithyia in her dear breast; and they went their way, like shy wild-doves in their going.

[115] And as soon as Eilithyia the goddess of sore travail set foot on Delos, the pains of birth seized Leto, and she longed to bring forth; so she cast her arms about a palm tree and kneeled on the soft meadow while the earth laughed for joy beneath. Then the child leaped forth to the light, and all the goddesses washed you purely and cleanly with sweet water, and swathed you in a white garment of fine texture, new-woven, and fastened a golden band about you.

[123] Now Leto did not give Apollo, bearer of the golden blade, her breast; but Themis duly poured nectar and ambrosia with her divine hands: and Leto was glad because she had borne a strong son and an archer. But as soon as you had tasted that divine heavenly food, O Phoebus, you could no longer then be held by golden cords nor confined with bands, but all their ends were undone. Forthwith Phoebus Apollo spoke out among the deathless goddesses: "The lyre and the curved bow shall ever be dear to me, and I will declare to men the unfailing will of Zeus."

[133] So said Phoebus, the long-haired god who shoots afar and began to walk upon the wide-pathed earth; and all goddesses were amazed at him. Then with gold all Delos was laden, beholding the child of Zeus and Leto, for joy because the god chose her above the islands and shore to make his dwelling in her: and she loved him yet more in her heart, and blossomed as does a mountain-top with woodland flowers.

[140] And you, O lord Apollo, god of the silver bow, shooting afar, now walked on craggy Cynthus, and now kept wandering about the island and the people in them. Many are your temples and wooded groves, and all peaks and towering bluffs of lofty mountains and rivers flowing to the sea are dear to you, Phoebus, yet in Delos do you most delight your heart; for there the long robed Ionians gather in your honour with their children and shy wives: mindful, they delight you with boxing and dancing and song, so often as they hold their gathering. A man would say that they were deathless and unageing if he should then come upon the Ionians so met together. For he would see the graces of them all, and would be pleased in heart gazing at the men and well-girded women with their swift ships and great wealth. And there is this great wonder besides -- and its renown shall never perish -- the girls of Delos, hand-maidens of the Far-shooter; for when they have praised Apollo first, and also Leto and Artemis who delights in arrows, they sing a strain-telling of men and women of past days, and charm the tribes of men. Also they can imitate the tongues of all men and their clattering speech: each would say that he himself were singing, so close to truth is their sweet song.

[165] And now may Apollo be favourable and Artemis; and farewell all you maidens. Remember me in after time whenever any one of men on earth, a stranger who has seen and suffered much, comes here and asks of you: "Whom think ye, girls, is the sweetest singer that comes here, and in whom do you most delight?" Then answer, each and all, with one voice: "He is a blind man, and dwells in rocky Chios: his lays are evermore supreme." As for me, I will carry your renown as far as I roam over the earth to the well-placed this thing is true. And I will never cease to praise far-shooting Apollo, god of the silver bow, whom rich-haired Leto bare.

TO PYTHIAN APOLLO

[179] O Lord, Lycia is yours and lovely Maeonia and Miletus, charming city by the sea, but over wave-girt Delos you greatly reign your own self.

[182] Leto's all-glorious son goes to rocky Pytho, playing upon his hollow lyre, clad in divine, perfumed garments; and at the touch of the golden key his lyre sings sweet. Thence, swift as thought, he speeds from earth to Olympus, to the house of Zeus, to join the gathering of the other gods: then straightway the undying gods think only of the lyre and song, and all the Muses together, voice sweetly answering voice, hymn the unending gifts the gods enjoy and the sufferings of men, all that they endure at the hands of the deathless gods, and how they live witless and helpless and cannot find healing for death or defence against old age. Meanwhile the rich-tressed Graces and cheerful Seasons dance with Harmonia and Hebe and Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, holding each other by the wrist. And among them sings one, not mean nor puny, but tall to look upon and enviable in mien, Artemis who delights in arrows, sister of Apollo. Among them sport Ares and the keen-eyed Slayer of Argus, while Apollo plays his lyre stepping high and featly and a radiance shines around him, the gleaming of his feet and close-woven vest. And they, even gold-tressed Leto and wise Zeus, rejoice in their great hearts as they watch their dear son playing among the undying gods.

[207] How then shall I sing of you -- though in all ways you are a worthy theme for song? Shall I sing of you as wooer and in the fields of love, how you went wooing the daughter of Azan along with god-like Ischys the son of well-horsed Elatius, or with Phorbas sprung from Triops, or with Ereutheus, or with Leucippus and the wife of Leucippus ((lacuna)) . . . you on foot, he with his chariot, yet he fell not short of Triops. Or shall I sing how at the first you went about the earth seeking a place of oracle for men, O far-shooting Apollo? To Pieria first you went down from Olympus and passed by sandy Lectus and Enienae and through the land of the Perrhaebi. Soon you came to Iolcus and set foot on Cenaeum in Euboea, famed for ships: you stood in the Lelantine plain, but it pleased not your heart to make a temple there and wooded groves. From there you crossed the Euripus, far-shooting Apollo, and went up the green, holy hills, going on to Mycalessus and grassy-bedded Teumessus, and so came to the wood-clad abode of Thebe; for as yet no man lived in holy Thebe, nor were there tracks or ways about Thebe's wheat-bearing plain as yet.

[229] And further still you went, O far-shooting Apollo, and came to Onchestus, Poseidon's bright grove: there the new-broken cold distressed with drawing the trim chariot gets spirit again, and the skilled driver springs from his car and goes on his way. Then the horses for a while rattle the empty car, being rid of guidance; and if they break the chariot in the woody grove, men look after the horses, but tilt the chariot and leave it there; for this was the rite from the very first. And the drivers pray to the lord of the shrine; but the chariot falls to the lot of the god.

[239] Further yet you went, O far-shooting Apollo, and reached next Cephissus' sweet stream which pours forth its sweet- flowing water from Lilaea, and crossing over it, O worker from afar, you passed many-towered Ocalea and reached grassy Haliartus.

[244] Then you went towards Telphusa: and there the pleasant place seemed fit for making a temple and wooded grove. You came very near and spoke to her: "Telphusa, here I am minded to make a glorious temple, an oracle for men, and hither they will always bring perfect hecatombs, both those who live in rich Peloponnesus and those of Europe and all the wave-washed isles, coming to seek oracles. And I will deliver to them all counsel that cannot fail, giving answer in my rich temple."

[254] So said Phoebus Apollo, and laid out all the foundations throughout, wide and very long. But when Telphusa saw this, she was angry in heart and spoke, saying: "Lord Phoebus, worker from afar, I will speak a word of counsel to your heart, since you are minded to make here a glorious temple to be an oracle for men who will always bring hither perfect hecatombs for you; yet I will speak out, and do you lay up my words in your heart. The trampling of swift horses and the sound of mules watering at my sacred springs will always irk you, and men will like better to gaze at the well-made chariots and stamping, swift-footed horses than at your great temple and the many treasures that are within. But if you will be moved by me -- for you, lord, are stronger and mightier than I, and your strength is very great -- build at Crisa below the glades of Parnassus: there no bright chariot will clash, and there will be no noise of swift-footed horses near your well-built altar. But so the glorious tribes of men will bring gifts to you as Iepaeon (`Hail-Healer'), and you will receive with delight rich sacrifices from the people dwelling round about." So said Telphusa, that she alone, and not the Far-Shooter, should have renown there; and she persuaded the Far-Shooter.

[277] Further yet you went, far-shooting Apollo, until you came to the town of the presumptuous Phlegyae who dwell on this earth in a lovely glade near the Cephisian lake, caring not for Zeus. And thence you went speeding swiftly to the mountain ridge, and came to Crisa beneath snowy Parnassus, a foothill turned towards the west: a cliff hangs over if from above, and a hollow, rugged glade runs under. There the lord Phoebus Apollo resolved to make his lovely temple, and thus he said: "In this place I am minded to build a glorious temple to be an oracle for men, and here they will always bring perfect hecatombs, both they who dwell in rich Peloponnesus and the men of Europe and from all the wave-washed isles, coming to question me. And I will deliver to them all counsel that cannot fail, answering them in my rich temple."

[294] When he had said this, Phoebus Apollo laid out all the foundations throughout, wide and very long; and upon these the sons of Erginus, Trophonius and Agamedes, dear to the deathless gods, laid a footing of stone. And the countless tribes of men built the whole temple of wrought stones, to be sung of for ever.

[300] But near by was a sweet flowing spring, and there with his strong bow the lord, the son of Zeus, killed the bloated, great she-dragon, a fierce monster wont to do great mischief to men upon earth, to men themselves and to their thin- shanked sheep; for she was a very bloody plague. She it was who once received from gold-throned Hera and brought up fell, cruel Typhaon to be a plague to men. Once on a time Hera bare him because she was angry with father Zeus, when the Son of Cronos bare all-glorious Athena in his head. Thereupon queenly Hera was angry and spoke thus among the assembled gods:

[311] "Hear from me, all gods and goddesses, how cloud-gathering Zeus begins to dishonour me wantonly, when he has made me his true-hearted wife. See now, apart from me he has given birth to bright-eyed Athena who is foremost among all the blessed gods. But my son Hephaestus whom I bare was weakly among all the blessed gods and shrivelled of foot, a shame and disgrace to me in heaven, whom I myself took in my hands and cast out so that he fell in the great sea. But silver-shod Thetis the daughter of Nereus took and cared for him with her sisters: would that she had done other service to the blessed gods! O wicked one and crafty! What else will you now devise? How dared you by yourself give birth to bright-eyed Athena? Would not I have borne you a child -- I, who was at least called your wife among the undying gods who hold wide heaven. Beware now lest I devise some evil thing for you hereafter: yes, now I will contrive that a son be born me to be foremost among the undying gods -- and that without casting shame on the holy bond of wedlock between you and me. And I will not come to your bed, but will consort with the blessed gods far off from you."

[331] When she had so spoken, she went apart from the gods, being very angry. Then straightway large-eyed queenly Hera prayed, striking the ground flatwise with her hand, and speaking thus: "Hear now, I pray, Earth and wide Heaven above, and you Titan gods who dwell beneath the earth about great Tartarus, and from whom are sprung both gods and men! Harken you now to me, one and all, and grant that I may bear a child apart from Zeus, no wit lesser than him in strength -- nay, let him be as much stronger than Zeus as all-seeing Zeus than Cronos."

[340] Thus she cried and lashed the earth with her strong hand. Then the life-giving earth was moved: and when Hera saw it she was glad in heart, for she thought her prayer would be fulfilled. And thereafter she never came to the bed of wise Zeus for a full year, not to sit in her carved chair as aforetime to plan wise counsel for him, but stayed in her temples where many pray, and delighted in her offerings, large-eyed queenly Hera. But when the months and days were fulfilled and the seasons duly came on as the earth moved round, she bare one neither like the gods nor mortal men, fell, cruel Typhaon, to be a plague to men. Straightway large-eyed queenly Hera took him and bringing one evil thing to another such, gave him to the dragoness; and she received him. And this Typhaon used to work great mischief among the famous tribes of men. Whosoever met the dragoness, the day of doom would sweep him away, until the lord Apollo, who deals death from afar, shot a strong arrow at her. Then she, rent with bitter pangs, lay drawing great gasps for breath and rolling about that place. An awful noise swelled up unspeakable as she writhed continually this way and that amid the wood: and so she left her life, breathing it forth in blood.

[362] Then Phoebus Apollo boasted over her: "Now rot here upon the soil that feeds man! You at least shall live no more to be a fell bane to men who eat the fruit of the all-nourishing earth, and who will bring hither perfect hecatombs. Against cruel death neither Typhoeus shall avail you nor ill-famed Chimera, but here shall the Earth and shining Hyperion make you rot."

[370] Thus said Phoebus, exulting over her: and darkness covered her eyes. And the holy strength of Helios made her rot away there; wherefore the place is now called Pytho, and men call the lord Apollo by another name, Pythian; because on that spot the power of piercing Helios made the monster rot away.

[375] Then Phoebus Apollo saw that the sweet-flowing spring had beguiled him, and he started out in anger against Telphusa; and soon coming to her, he stood close by and spoke to her: "Telphusa, you were not, after all, to keep to yourself this lovely place by deceiving my mind, and pour forth your clear flowing water: here my renown shall also be and not yours alone?"

[382] Thus spoke the lord, far-working Apollo, and pushed over upon her a crag with a shower of rocks, hiding her streams: and he made himself an altar in a wooded grove very near the clear-flowing stream. In that place all men pray to the great one by the name Telphusian, because he humbled the stream of holy Telphusa.

[388] Then Phoebus Apollo pondered in his heart what men he should bring in to be his ministers in sacrifice and to serve him in rocky Pytho. And while he considered this, he became aware of a swift ship upon the wine-like sea in which were many men and goodly, Cretans from Cnossos,10 the city of Minos, they who do sacrifice to the prince and announce his decrees, whatsoever Phoebus Apollo, bearer of the golden blade, speaks in answer from his laurel tree below the dells of Parnassus. These men were sailing in their black ship for traffic and for profit to sandy Pylos and to the men of Pylos. But Phoebus Apollo met them: in the open sea he sprang upon their swift ship, like a dolphin in shape, and lay there, a great and awesome monster, and none of them gave heed so as to understand11; but they sought to cast the dolphin overboard. But he kept shaking the black ship every way and make the timbers quiver. So they sat silent in their craft for fear, and did not loose the sheets throughout the black, hollow ship, nor lowered the sail of their dark-prowed vessel, but as they had set it first of all with oxhide ropes, so they kept sailing on; for a rushing south wind hurried on the swift ship from behind. First they passed by Malea, and then along the Laconian coast they came to Taenarum, sea-garlanded town and country of Helios who gladdens men, where the thick- fleeced sheep of the lord Helios feed continually and occupy a glad-some country. There they wished to put their ship to shore, and land and comprehend the great marvel and see with their eyes whether the monster would remain upon the deck of the hollow ship, or spring back into the briny deep where fishes shoal. But the well-built ship would not obey the helm, but went on its way all along Peloponnesus: and the lord, far-working Apollo, guided it easily with the breath of the breeze. So the ship ran on its course and came to Arena and lovely Argyphea and Thryon, the ford of Alpheus, and well-placed Aepy and sandy Pylos and the men of Pylos; past Cruni it went and Chalcis and past Dyme and fair Elis, where the Epei rule. And at the time when she was making for Pherae, exulting in the breeze from Zeus, there appeared to them below the clouds the steep mountain of Ithaca, and Dulichium and Same and wooded Zacynthus. But when they were passed by all the coast of Peloponnesus, then, towards Crisa, that vast gulf began to heave in sight which through all its length cuts off the rich isle of Pelops. There came on them a strong, clear west-wind by ordinance of Zeus and blew from heaven vehemently, that with all speed the ship might finish coursing over the briny water of the sea. So they began again to voyage back towards the dawn and the sun: and the lord Apollo, son of Zeus, led them on until they reached far-seen Crisa, land of vines, and into haven: there the sea-coursing ship grounded on the sands.

[440] Then, like a star at noonday, the lord, far-working Apollo, leaped from the ship: flashes of fire flew from him thick and their brightness reached to heaven. He entered into his shrine between priceless tripods, and there made a flame to flare up bright, showing forth the splendour of his shafts, so that their radiance filled all Crisa, and the wives and well-girded daughters of the Crisaeans raised a cry at that outburst of Phoebus; for he cast great fear upon them all. From his shrine he sprang forth again, swift as a thought, to speed again to the ship, bearing the form of a man, brisk and sturdy, in the prime of his youth, while his broad shoulders were covered with his hair: and he spoke to the Cretans, uttering winged words:

[452] "Strangers, who are you? Whence come you sailing along the paths of the sea? Are you for traffic, or do you wander at random over the sea as pirates do who put their own lives to hazard and bring mischief to men of foreign parts as they roam? Why rest you so and are afraid, and do not go ashore nor stow the gear of your black ship? For that is the custom of men who live by bread, whenever they come to land in their dark ships from the main, spent with toil; at once desire for sweet food catches them about the heart."

[462] So speaking, he put courage in their hearts, and the master of the Cretans answered him and said: "Stranger -- though you are nothing like mortal men in shape or stature, but are as the deathless gods -- hail and all happiness to you, and may the gods give you good. Now tell me truly that I may surely know it: what country is this, and what land, and what men live herein? As for us, with thoughts set otherwards, we were sailing over the great sea to Pylos from Crete (for from there we declare that we are sprung), but now are come on shipboard to this place by no means willingly -- another way and other paths -- and gladly would we return. But one of the deathless gods brought us here against our will."

[474] Then far-working Apollo answered then and said: "Strangers who once dwelt about wooded Cnossos but now shall return no more each to his loved city and fair house and dear wife; here shall you keep my rich temple that is honoured by many men. I am the son of Zeus; Apollo is my name: but you I brought here over the wide gulf of the sea, meaning you no hurt; nay, here you shall keep my rich temple that is greatly honoured among men, and you shall know the plans of the deathless gods, and by their will you shall be honoured continually for all time. And now come, make haste and do as I say. First loose the sheets and lower the sail, and then draw the swift ship up upon the land. Take out your goods and the gear of the straight ship, and make an altar upon the beach of the sea: light fire upon it and make an offering of white meal. Next, stand side by side around the altar and pray: and in as much as at the first on the hazy sea I sprang upon the swift ship in the form of a dolphin, pray to me as Apollo Delphinius; also the altar itself shall be called Delphinius and overlooking12 for ever. Afterwards, sup beside your dark ship and pour an offering to the blessed gods who dwell on Olympus. But when you have put away craving for sweet food, come with me singing the hymn Ie Paean (Hail, Healer!), until you come to the place where you shall keep my rich temple."

[502] So said Apollo. And they readily harkened to him and obeyed him. First they unfastened the sheets and let down the sail and lowered the mast by the forestays upon the mast-rest. Then, landing upon the beach of the sea, they hauled up the ship from the water to dry land and fixed long stays under it. Also they made an altar upon the beach of the sea, and when they had lit a fire, made an offering of white meal, and prayed standing around the altar as Apollo had bidden them. Then they took their meal by the swift, black ship, and poured an offering to the blessed gods who dwell on Olympus. And when they had put away craving for drink and food, they started out with the lord Apollo, the son of Zeus, to lead them, holding a lyre in his hands, and playing sweetly as he stepped high and featly. So the Cretans followed him to Pytho, marching in time as they chanted the Ie Paean after the manner of the Cretan paean-singers and of those in whose hearts the heavenly Muse has put sweet-voiced song. With tireless feet they approached the ridge and straightway came to Parnassus and the lovely place where they were to dwell honoured by many men. There Apollo brought them and showed them his most holy sanctuary and rich temple.

[524] But their spirit was stirred in their dear breasts, and the master of the Cretans asked him, saying: "Lord, since you have brought us here far from our dear ones and our fatherland, -- for so it seemed good to your heart, -- tell us now how we shall live. That we would know of you. This land is not to be desired either for vineyards or for pastures so that we can live well thereon and also minister to men."

[531] Then Apollo, the son of Zeus, smiled upon them and said: "Foolish mortals and poor drudges are you, that you seek cares and hard toils and straits! Easily will I tell you a word and set it in your hearts. Though each one of you with knife in hand should slaughter sheep continually, yet would you always have abundant store, even all that the glorious tribes of men bring here for me. But guard you my temple and receive the tribes of men that gather to this place, and especially show mortal men my will, and do you keep righteousness in your heart. But if any shall be disobedient and pay no heed to my warning, of if there shall be any idle word or deed and outrage as is common among mortal men, then other men shall be your masters and with a strong hand shall make you subject for ever. All has been told you: do you keep it in your heart."

[545] And so, farewell, son of Zeus and Leto; but I will remember you and another hymn also.

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katsukikitten · 7 months ago

Text

After patching him up one fateful night, Sakura finds himself lost in thoughts of you that quickly turn perverse all because you smell nice.

Sakura has had you pressed up against him more times than he can count. Either from the cafe or trains being too crowded or from the times he's had to push you up against the wall to protect you from the swing of a bat or blade.

With that motion and proximity always brought the flutter of your body wash or perfume to his nose making him want to hit harder. To sink his teeth in and never let go like the dog everyone said he was.

It happened again today, you pressing against him, soft breasts to his chest making his shoulders hunch upward and throat flush. Someone pushed you into him in their drunken stupor celebrating the win of a huge terf war that had just ended. He didn't know where to place his hands but you seemed to. Grabbing at his ribs to steady yourself makes him hiss. His sides are tender and bruised he knows it by feel alone but didn't bother to check, too busy being pulled into your little cafe since turned bar.

"So you do need medical attention." You're glaring up at him, the intensity of your eyes makes him gulp audibly and he knows he can't say no. Especially not how you man handle him past the counter and into the office near the back exit.

As soon as you shut the door the loud jeers and laugher dies down to a soft murmur.

You shove him towards the office chair, making him sit before you rummage around the first aid kit mounted to the cinder block by the door.

It smells good in here, clean and pretty. Probably because you were so meticulous and never let anyone beyond your counter, making the room steeped in your scent. At least Sakura hadn't seen anyone in the five years since he's moved here venture beyond your counter. Not without getting their ass handed to them anyway. He thinks about how you snarl your lip, how you've got a mean right hook, and how you could knock a guy flat on his ass. He smiles to himself over the thought.

"Take it off." Your voice anchors him back into the present, black and white lashes fluttering as he looks up at you. Shit when did you get so close?

He feels his face heating up again, even at twenty he still gets so blushy around you.

"Wha-whaddya say?" He scoots back a bit more, hands coming from his lap to try to put some semblance of space between you two only for it to fail.

"Take. It. Off. Your shirt." You mistake his confusion for combative behavior, pinching at the hem of his bloodied white tee giving it a harsh tug. When he stays petrified you growl his name, "Sakura."

His stomach twists in knots at the sound, worsening still when your manicured fingers grab at his leather jacket Shoving it off of broad shoulders before your fingers graze against the skin of his flexing abs. Yanking his tee shirt over his head just to toss both items onto the desk by the haphazardly stacked binders.

"There. That's better." You coo, fixing your hair as if your temper showing put it out of place and when you notice you've tousled his black and white hair your nails scrape his scalp. Fixing the strands gently, the action makes him look down only to be met face to face with your low cut shirt.

He squeezes his eyes shut as an alternative.

"O-oi!" He stammers, grabbing at your hips and gently pushing you away before he removes his hands from your body as if you've burned him.

He's always done that to you, you should be used to it by now! As if he doesn't mind the touch until he looks down and realizes it's you, only then does he recoil. The thought makes you bite the inside of your cheek gritting through it as you hope the pain helps you focus. Eyes widening when you find yet another thing he was hiding that or, he just hadn't crashed from his adrenaline rush yet.

"Sakura, why do you lie about how injured you are?" You frown, from this vantage point you can see some of his white locks turning red from a small gash. He expected you to sound angry, to have that grit to your voice but instead it's soft.

No words collect on his tongue only saliva that he swallows thickly.

You figure his head injury trumps checking his bruised ribs, there wasn't much you could do for possible broken ribs anyway aside from wrapping his chest to keep them roughly in place.

Taking a cotton swab and gently dabbing up the excess blood before soaking one in alcohol.

"'ts gonna sting." You announce, applying the slightest pressure, you're right it does sting but he doesn't hiss. The smell of rubbing alcohol and your perfume mask his other senses, he fists his dark jeans to ground himself.

"Ya won't need stitches." You glare down at him and he gives you a sheepish smile before you're back to your work, "Thank God. Just keep it clean kay?"

"I will, shit, just stop touching it."

"Gotta make sure it's clean." You push his wandering hand away from his head as you give it one final dab before pushing his shoulders back so you can assess his torso better.

He freezes as you hunch closer to him. Throat in his face as you tilt your head to see better and if he looks down your tits he can see your starting to spill from your shirt. He can't help himself and looks for a moment longer than he should before he feels how warm his chest and stomach gets. Two toned eyes darting away to land anywhere but you.

"Damn it Sakura, they got you here too." You growl, wondering who brought the knife this time as you reach for the supplies to clean the wound. Gently wiping away the blood that clotted against his skin explaining the stain on his white shirt that clung to him earlier. Thankfully it seems he won't need stitches here either.

Cleaning it as best you can as your hair falls around him, your throat and tits still on display, bloomed sakura and ripe peaches meld together with your natural pheromones making you irresistible.

It takes everything in him to not lean forward and press his nose to your skin. To place his rough calloused hand at the nape of your neck to bring you closer to him.

While he's lost in his fantasies of pinning you to the wall or desk and huffing you like paint you continue your work of patching him up.

This time you give him no warning of the pain you'd inflict onto him.

Placing gauze flush against the wound before wrapping his chest and by the time you're fully around him and starting the second revolution you pull the binding tighter making two of his ribs on the opposite side scream in agony.

"Watch it." Comes a deadly growl, hands reflexively reaching out and grabbing your hips, squeezing so tightly that you were sure to bruise. His eyes flicker from your face to his hand placement as his mind moves past the ebbing pain and responds to how soft you feel under him.

How his thumbs hook perfectly into the hollows of your pelvis, how his fingers force the fabric to grip you tightly, digging into the fat of your hips making him day dream about you being sat in his lap. His nose and lips honed in on your throat.

This time he can't seem to find embarrassment in his actions, this time he doesn't blush, this time he doesn't move his hands away from you as if you burn his skin.

The two of you lock eyes for a long moment, his lidded and half mast, filled with emotions you've never seen him express before. Never felt his hands grip and regrip your body before, never watched his eyes flicker to your glossy lips and stare.

When you think to lean in and taste the minty lip balm you know he wears no matter how much he denies it a knock comes at the door.

"Hey is it okay if I step into the walk in to replace the keg?"

Sakura removes his hands from your body quickly, as if you revolt him. Something his body thinks he shouldn't touch and won't allow the full thought as it relies strictly on the peripheral response.

Like a hand holding a lit match, heat licking the skin long before the flame, dropping the burning stick and shaking away the feeling.

You come crashing back down to reality. Gritting your teeth as you finish wrapping his bandages quickly and without tender care. Pulling tightly until you're done.

"What the fuck?! I thought I told you boys to never step behind my counter!" Your voice echoes around the small office as you snip the medical fabric, tying it up neatly before you shove the scissors and the left over roll into Sakura's hands. Slamming the door behind you as your voice berates whatever unlucky newbie they sent to deal with your ire.

Leaving him with nothing but the memory of you and the scent of blooming sakura and ripe peaches.

Days later and he's still in your office, behind your counter. The one nestled in the back of your cafe turned bar for the grown Bofurin men who overtook your space more or less.

At least in his mind he's still there.

Physically he's in his small apartment that holds nothing more than his foldable futon and thin blanket. Not even a pillow to lie his head on either too stubborn or too proud or too numb to get any form of comfort.

Not even sleep provides comfort in this small room, just nightmares from his childhood that he can quite shake.

The only solace he finds is when his knuckle connects with tender flesh and even then he feels a hunger for more. Even with the friends he's made along the way Sakura has always felt a sort of emptiness, a loneliness he can't quite shake no matter how hard he tries.

And the only time he doesn't feel alone is when he's sat across from you at your counter. You always gave him something to eat for "his trouble." Some days your food was the only meal he had at all and maybe that's part of the reason he lingered closer to your cafe for patrols back then. Why he made sure that you were safe or that you locked that damn door after a certain hour.

Now he wonders if it was because of how good you smell. That was the one consistent thing about you, you smelled damn good. It had to have been something he could find whether in the form of lotion, perfume or body wash he knew he needed to get his hands on it.

Especially now that you have been closed the past week. Sometimes you did that, closed and locked your doors for reason or another, even more rarely when you were pissed off and well Sakura was worried he was the cause this time.

But for a full week?

He was worried and when you leave him on read it forced him to rise from bed and find that damn scent.

Luckily enough he found it the first night, Sakura and peach body wash that smelled heavenly and yet it missed a note of something. That something was you.

It sat untouched on his counter the first night by the third night it made it's way to his bathroom and by the fourth he would occasionally smell it before washing himself with his own shower gel.

Now as he stares at his ceiling with nothing but darkness and some dim light bleeding in from the street he thinks of you. Of how soft you felt under his rough hands, how your body feels pressed against him the thousands of times he's been close to you. Protected you.

He wonders if you'd shy away if he cornered you just because. If he could tilt your chin like he's seen Kiryu do to a countless string of women and gotten them to blush or fluster under his touch. Somehow you were immune to his Kiryu's charisma, face souring if he flirted too hard or lingered too long. You especially didn't like when anyone touched you but you never did push Sakura away.

Would you be like that for Sakura then? If he tilted your chin or cupped your jaw to move it out of the way so his tongue could dart out and taste your skin. Lick lower and lower until he could nip and bruise the tops of your breasts before he pulled down the cups of your bra.

His cock aches painfully in this boxers now, hand traveling down to palm himself, he thinks now is a good time for a cold shower.

But even with the cold water turning his skin a soft shade of pink from the icy flow cascading down his back it does little to quell the fire in his stomach. The flush at his throat as he spies your body wash and sighs.

Lifting it to smell when he thinks maybe washing himself with it won't be so bad. The idea of bathing himself in your scent brought an odd inkling of comfort to him as he reached for the expensive toiletry. Putting some of the rose golden liquid pool into his palm before he slowly rubbed it along his chest, starting at his collar bones. Working it up his throat for a moment before going down and across his pecs.

Sweeping down his arms and then to his abs and all your body wash does is make him dizzy. Make him feel lightheaded and for the first time in a long time his hands beg to touch his cock. Moving on their own to his twitching length as he tries his best to ignore the ache.

Rubbing at his inner thighs and running along his calves before he makes the mistake of cupping his sac with his sudsy hand.

The groan he lets out is sinful and loud, so loud it echoes in the small space but he can't stop himself from pulling. From his left hand switching with his right, to fondle his fat sac while his other goes to grip his cock at the base.

Even just a gentle squeeze has him screwing his eyes shut. Panting and his left hand abandons his balls to slap against the tile as his knees weaken. God he was acting like such a virgin, barely able to contain himself with just the idea of you.

He wasn't going to mention that he was a virgin. He'd die before he admitted that out loud, especially after being beat red telling Kiryu some elaborate lie about how he really did lose it but he was "drunk." Kiryu laughed and said "Is that why I've never seen you drink? Cause you can't hold your liquor?"

If he ever is lucky enough to lose it he hopes that he's stone cold sober and that it's with you.

You and your fat tits that threaten to spill from low cut shirts, shirts that he loves and hates that you wear. Shirts he's bashed guys head's into brick for looking at you too long.

He just wants to paint them, your tits in his sticky cum. Or be buried in your tight cunt.

Sakura knew you would squeeze him tighter than his hand does now, how you'd flutter around him and the thought makes his hand finally move up.

Fist following his length with ease thanks to your body wash, thumb circling his sensitive tip making him hiss. Ignoring the pain in his ribs as he hunches over even more, fist speeding up as it steals his breath further.

Mind pushing forward a compilation of all the times you've sighed his name just right, breathy and higher than usual. Like you were excited to see him, pretty smile on your face that reaches your eyes and he begs that you only smile that way for him alone.

Breath coming out in strangled hot puffs as he bucks into his own soapy fist, whining from his own embarrassment as the cold water worsened his flushed complexion. Looking at how his base collects white rings from the suds and he wonders if your pretty cunt would do the same.

He was a fucking pervert, a disgusting dog in a rut that only thought of getting his dick wet. Sullying any memory he had of you now as his cum sits hot in his palm mixed with the body wash he used crudely for lube.

He ought to be ashamed of himself, how is he ever going to look you in the face again?

But he brings his sticky palm up to his nose to inhale, once, twice, before his left hand is gripping his sensitive cock bringing tears to his eyes as he pants. Your body wash and his cum smell so good mixed together, imagine how good it would smell with your arousal added to the mix.

Still hunched over, ribs screaming and jerking so hard into his fist that it irritates his mostly closed wound.

The devil whispers in his ear that he should wear white the next time he sees you, that maybe you'd notice the stain on his shirt and patch him up again so he could drown in your scent.

Feeling his sac tighten one more time before he imagines how you said his name in the confined office, "Sakura"

Making him paint his left fist now.

With that it should be all out of his system, he should be satisfied as pearly tears collect in his lashes, drool starting to drip past plush lips. He should be ready to crank the water all the way up to wash away the pitiful sight of his cum stained hands and go to bed.

Instead he grabs for your bottle of body wash and puts more of that deadly rose gold shimmering liquid into his hands to start again.

Sakura slides on to his usual stool at the counter top, your counter top.

You're busy with Higari, giving him that pretty smile Sakura selfishly wanted for himself, putting his head in his palm as he glares at Higari with a jealousy unmatched.

When you look up and see his handsome features scrunched up in a snarl, you bite back a giggle.

"Haven't seen ya in a while."

"You were closed a full week."

"I've been open a full week now too, smart ass." You roll your eyes, pouring him some tea before you finally get an order out of him so you can make him something to eat.

Higari turns on the fan before he slides back into his booth as he waits for the boss and it brings with it a sweet smell coming from the man with black and white hair. He's pouting, staring into his tea as you try to figure out if he's always smelled so...pretty.

"You smell good, are you using a new body wash?" It's like you've startled him or caught him red handed as he blushes furiously at your question. Acting as if he was going to hide his face in shame before he forced himself to answer. Pushing down the lewd thoughts of you he's had in the long absence before he finally answers gruffly.

"Som-somethin like that."

#Sakura hakura x reader #windbreaker x reader #sakura x reader

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vestaignis · 5 months ago

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Гора Кука (Аораки) - наивысшая точка Новой Зеландии, высота которой составляет 3754 метра над уровнем моря, расположена в западной части Южного острова, в новозеландских Южных Альпах. Гора состоит из трёх пиков - самый низкий из них имеет высоту 3593 метра над уровнем моря, средний - 3717 метров и самый высокий - 3754 метра. Гора Кука сложена из кристаллических пород, имеет форму седла с крутыми склонами, а её вершина покрыта вечными снегами и ледниками. Вдоль восточного фланга горы спускается знаменитый ледник Тасмана - крупнейший ледник в Новой Зеландии, протяжённостью 29 километров и площадью 156,5 квадратных километров. Нижняя часть горных склонов покрыта уникальными дождевыми лесами умеренного климата и живописными альпийскими лугами, в которых произрастают эндемичные виды растений и редкие виды животных, встречающиеся только в Новой Зеландии.

Для маори, коренного населения Новой Зеландии, Аораки является священной горой, на языке племени Нгай Таху название горы означает "большое белое облако". Английское название Mount Cook (Гора Кука) дал горе в 1851 году капитан Джон Лорт Стокс в честь знаменитого мореплавателя Джеймса Кука. С момента открытия горы европейцами, её вершина постоянно манит альпинистов со всего мира. Несмотря на то, что Аораки - далеко не самая высокая гора на планете, она является технически очень сложной для восхождения. Огромную опасность для альпинистов представляют резкая смена погоды, сильные снегопады, высокий уровень обледенения скал, большие трещины ледников и высокая вероятность внезапного схода лавин. Только с начала XX века при восхождении на гору Кука погибло около 80 альпинистов, что делает её самым смертоносным пиком в Новой Зеландии. Не даром в легендарной эпопее Джона Толкина "Хоббит, или Туда и обратно", "Властелин колец" и "Сильмариллион" гора Кука стала прототипом пика Карадрас - одного из высочайших пиков Мглистых гор в Средиземье. Именно под Карадрасом был построен великий город гномов Казад-Дум

В 1953 году на территории вокруг горы Кука был создан Национальный парк Маунт-Кук, в который входят 19 горных пиков высотой более 3000 метров над уровнем моря и 8 (из 12) крупнейших ледников в Новой Зеландии. Парк является частью района Те-Вахипунаму, внесенного в список Всемирного наследия ЮНЕСКО за выдающуюся природную ценность. Помим�� занятий альпинизмом (восхождение на вершину разрешено только опытным альпинистам в сопровождении горных проводников), посетители парка могут заняться скалолазанием, трекингом, горным велосипедом, охотой и насладиться невероятным зрелищем самого "звёздного" ночного неба на Земле. Во время прогулок по горным тропам можно увидеть попугая кеа - единственного в мире попугая, эндемика Новой Зеландии, обитающего на высоте 1500 метров над уровнем моря и выше.

Mount Cook (Aoraki) is the highest point in New Zealand, with an altitude of 3,754 meters above sea level, located in the western part of the South Island, in the New Zealand Southern Alps. The mountain consists of three peaks - the lowest of which is 3,593 meters above sea level, the middle one is 3,717 meters, and the highest is 3,754 meters. Mount Cook is composed of crystalline rocks, has the shape of a saddle with steep slopes, and its summit is covered with eternal snow and glaciers. Along the eastern flank of the mountain descends the famous Tasman Glacier - the largest glacier in New Zealand, with a length of 29 kilometers and an area of 156.5 square kilometers. The lower part of the mountain slopes is covered with unique temperate rainforests and picturesque alpine meadows, in which endemic species of plants and rare species of animals grow, found only in New Zealand.

For the Maori, the indigenous people of New Zealand, Aoraki is a sacred mountain; in the language of the Ngai Tahu tribe, the mountain's name means "large white cloud". The English name Mount Cook was given to the mountain in 1851 by Captain John Lort Stokes in honor of the famous navigator James Cook. Since the discovery of the mountain by Europeans, its summit has constantly attracted climbers from all over the world. Despite the fact that Aoraki is far from the highest mountain on the planet, it is technically very difficult to climb. Extreme weather changes, heavy snowfalls, high levels of icing on the rocks, large glacier cracks and a high probability of sudden avalanches pose a huge danger to climbers. Since the beginning of the 20th century alone, about 80 climbers have died while climbing Mount Cook, making it the deadliest peak in New Zealand. It is not for nothing that in the legendary epics of John Tolkien "The Hobbit, or There and Back Again", "The Lord of the Rings" and "The Silmarillion" Mount Cook became the prototype of the peak of Caradhras - one of the highest peaks of the Misty Mountains in Middle-earth. It was under Caradhras that the great city of the dwarves Khazad-dum was built.

In 1953, Mount Cook National Park was created on the territory around Mount Cook, which includes 19 mountain peaks over 3,000 meters above sea level and 8 (out of 12) of the largest glaciers in New Zealand. The park is part of the Te Wahipounamu area, listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its outstanding natural value. In addition to mountaineering (climbing to the summit is only permitted for experienced climbers accompanied by mountain guides), visitors to the park can go rock climbing, trekking, mountain biking, hunting and enjoy the incredible spectacle of the most "starry" night sky on Earth. While walking along the mountain trails, you can see the kea parrot - the only parrot in the world, endemic to New Zealand, living at an altitude of 1,500 meters above sea level and higher.

Источник://shark-er.livejournal.com/121080.html,/tury.ru/sight/id/ 14721-gora-kuka-aoraki-14721,/www.tripadvisor.ru/Attraction_ Review-g658483-d4080009-Reviews-Aoraki_Mt_Cook- Mt_Cook _Village_Aoraki_Mount_Cook_National_Park_Te_Wahipounamu_Mac.html,/www.nik-m.com/regiony/kenterberi/aoraki-maunt-kuk-samaya-vysokaya-gora-novozelandskikh-ostrovov/,//t.me/ borderlesstravel.

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hamsterclaw · 1 year ago

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Black Ice

Bangtan Christmas drabble 7 - read the rest here.

Min Yoongi only cares about three things. The thrill of drifting, his friends, and cars, in that order. Somehow, you've got under his skin. Part of the Drift Kings AU.

Pairing: Yoongi x f! reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Street racer/mechanic! Yoongi, smut

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Sex, swearing

Min Yoongi knows loneliness. He knows the unrelenting ache of it, the way it permeates every aspect of one’s psyche.

He knows what it feels like to look for a connection that isn’t there.

When he was ten his father took him into work for the first time, and it was then, amongst the smells of engine oil and new paint and pinewood air freshener, that Yoongi discovered his first true love.

He pored over engine diagrams, admired the easy simplicity of every tool falling into its destined purpose, got used to his clothes being stained from tuning up cars all day long.

He’d loved every minute of it, and the truth is, he still does.

Then his cousin Yijin had given him a lift down Mount Samo one day, and 14 year old Yoongi had learned that there was more than one way to soar.

He learned to drive navigating the hairpin bends of Mount Samo, and although he’s perfected the art of drifting up and down it, could do it blindfolded a hundred times over, the thrill of it has never really faded.

He’s picked up a collection of friends over the years, all of whom love the adrenaline of street racing – not knowing what’s round the corner, trusting your own reflexes and instincts to save you when you can barely see for the blood rushing in your veins.

Kim Seokjin, his oldest and closest friend, the chaebol prince who can put together a Supra’s turbo-2JZ engine almost as quickly as Yoongi himself. His sister, a corporate princess who makes Yoongi’s heart soften and the opposite happen to his cock. They’re the two people Yoongi would do anything for, not that he’d ever tell them that.

Jung Hoseok, the gifted mechanic with a heart of gold and the sunniest demeanour Yoongi’s ever been able to tolerate, creature of the night that he is.

Jeon Jungkook, the baby fuckboi of the group, a man with the looks of a god and the persona of a baby deer. Yoongi finds it hard to be anything but endeared by his earnest good nature and anything but amused by his swaggering. Maybe one day the kid will grow into the bad man he so badly wants to be, but Yoongi hopes not. He’s great the way he is.

It’s been a while since Yoongi felt lonely, in fact his life’s pretty good right about now.

And at this exact moment? It’s perfect.

Yoongi’s senses are on overdrive as he swings into a hairpin bend on Mount Samo, tires gripping tarmac sideways. His foot taps the throttle, his hand on the handbrake just in case but he doesn’t need it, he knows the terrain so well his body’s reacting on instinct.

Sideways on he can see Seokjin to his right, composed, barely breaking a sweat as his rear wheels scrape the very edge of the path, inches from the steep drop.

Yoongi catches sight of himself in his own rearview mirror, teeth bared in a feral grin as he shoots out onto the final stretch, so fast there’s nothing to see but black.

He’d normally stop, celebrate his win with a cigarette, but he’s got somewhere to be tonight.

Behind him now, Seokjin’s headlamps flicker in lieu of a goodbye.

Yoongi depresses the horn, a sharp short blast, and then he’s gone.

***

Kang Yubin’s been supplying Yoongi’s father’s garage for years, and Yoongi’s been going to him for car parts since before he knew a spark plug from a catalytic converter.

The Kang warehouse has an unassuming front in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Seoul. Yoongi parks outside the familiar glass door, can see the dim lighting filtering through the tinted glass as he approaches.

He pushes open the door, stops, nonplussed.

Instead of Kang Yubin’s steel-rimmed glasses and grey hair, he’s greeted by you.

Half your face is obscured by a black face mask, your hair up under a baseball cap, but you’re definitely not who he expected to see.

He blinks.

Your eyebrows rise.

‘Are you lost?’ you inquire, an edge to your voice that pulls him out of his surprised reaction and reminds him why he’s here.

‘I was expecting Mr Kang,’ Yoongi replies.

Coming closer to the counter he picks up on a guardedness to your posture, a weariness that you don’t bother to hide.

‘I’m his granddaughter,’ you say, brief. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t just come here to stare at me, what do you want?’

‘Spark plugs – I have a —’ Yoongi breaks off as you get up.

‘I know who you are, and I know what car you drive. Stay here and I’ll get you your stuff.’

You disappear behind a door, return in minutes with a cardboard box.

You pull a box-cutter out of a desk drawer, slit the masking tape, pull the flaps up.

‘Feel free to take a look,’ you say, looking at him.

It doesn’t take long for Yoongi to verify that they’re what he needs.

‘How do you know who I am?’ he asks, as he pays.

There’s a faint spark in your eyes, a flicker so quick he wonders if he’s mis-read it.

‘My grandfather said you were due around this time.’

You nudge your shoulder vaguely in the direction of the screen to your left, a view from the camera overlooking the front of the warehouse. ‘Not many people drive a car like that.’

You take his money, nudge the box in his direction.

‘Pleasure doing business, Min Yoongi. I’ll give my grandfather your regards.’

You’re already looking back down at your phone like you’ve dismissed him.

Yoongi picks up the box, casts another glance at you, and leaves.

He’s still thinking about you when he reaches home.

***

Yoongi’s concentrating so hard on the engine in front of him that he barely hears Seokjin approach.

‘Dinner?’ asks Seokjin, eyes flicking over the V configuration of the 8 chrome cylinders in the custom Nissan with interest.

Yoongi leans back, massages the crick in his neck from leaning over.

‘Yeah. Quick though, the client wants a rush on this.’

They exchange a look.

‘More money than sense,’ Seokjin says, critical.

‘Pays the bills,’ Yoongi counters.

They have similar opinions about rich clients who want their supercars tuned up. It’s rare that a client’s got the ability to do justice to the horsepower under the bonnet of the flashy exteriors.

Yoongi shrugs, goes to wash his hands.

‘Is your sister coming?’ he asks.

Seokjin’s still admiring the engine. ‘Not tonight. Jimin’s in town,’ he says. ‘There’s a race later, if you change your mind. I’m meeting Jungkook after dinner.’

‘Is he still sulking over Mijin?’ Yoongi asks, falling into step beside Seokjin.

There’s no need to confirm where they’re going, they always stop at a tiny restaurant run by an elderly woman who seems utterly unimpressed by their good manners but makes the best broth in town.

Seokjin rolls his eyes, but his tone is sympathetic. ‘You know how it is. People never expect him to be as soft as he really is.’

Yoongi nods. ‘Tell him if she can’t appreciate him she’s the one missing out.’

Seokjin snorts. ‘Tell him yourself, he’ll love it. Are you coming to Seulgi’s party?’

It’s rare that Yoongi goes out at night, he’s busy and he does his best work at night time, both in the workshop and on the streets, but he’d promised Seokjin he’d go.

‘Next week?’ he asks.

Seokjin nods, pushes open the door to the restaurant.

‘Yeah, don’t forget.’

***

Seulgi is a friend of Seokjin’s, they’d dated briefly, years back, but it hadn’t worked out.

She greets Seokjin enthusiastically at the door, the pink flush on her cheeks deepening as Seokjin gives her an affectionate hug.

She beams at Yoongi, and he smiles back because he’s not proof against her cheerful nature.

It’s how he became friends with Hoseok, after all.

‘Drinks, let me get you drinks,’ Seulgi cheers, leading them into her kitchen.

Seokjin’s swept away by Seulgi and her friends, he’s always been a popular guy. He shoots Yoongi a look as he’s pulled into the lounge, which Yoongi pretends not to see.

He lifts his cup to his lips, decides to go outside for a bit.

The deck outside has a few scattered people, mostly couples, some groups.

Yoongi leans against the wall, looks around idly. The throbbing bass of the music feels like a heartbeat. The night is cold and crisp, the skies clear, but there aren’t any stars visible in Seulgi’s backyard.

He lets his mind wander to his next project, restoring a classic Toyota for a friend from the circuit. He’ll need parts.

He wonders if you’ll be behind the counter when he next goes to the Kang warehouse. Then he’s straightening up, unsure if he’s manifested you into reality.

He’s never seen your full face, but he’d know your eyes anywhere.

You’re standing across the deck, looking straight at him, coat open over a dress that shows a hell of a lot more than the hoodie and sweats you had on the last time he saw you.

For the first time tonight, Yoongi feels a prickle of interest.

He’d known you’d be beautiful, there’d been something about the way you carried yourself.

You’re still looking at him.

Yoongi walks over.

‘Who’s manning the warehouse?’ he asks, when he gets close enough.

You tilt your head. ‘Are you really so concerned about my family business, Min Yoongi?’

There’s a mocking note in your voice, Yoongi finds he likes it.

‘You have the best quality parts,’ he says.

Your smile blooms over your face, making your eyes bright. ‘I knew there was a reason my grandfather liked you.’

Yoongi nods to your dress. ‘You look pretty.’

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘You look pretty too.’

Yoongi can feel his lips curving. Are you flirting with him? Seems like you are.

He’s all for it.

You’re raising your cup now, taking a sip.

In the night time lighting, your lips glisten with moisture and whatever lipstick you’ve got on, making him wonder what they’d look like around his cock.

You eye him like you know exactly what he’s thinking.

Yoongi says, ‘Do you like cars? Want to see mine?’

***

You’ve got your legs either side of his torso, your ass bouncing in his lap, and Yoongi’s front seat’s reclined all the way to make room for you to ride him.

The lines of your beautiful body are reminiscent of a triumph of masters of Italian design. Long smooth thighs, tightening around him with every rhythmic thrust.

The curves of your breasts, bouncing right in his face.

The long line of your neck, head thrown back, the pulse in your throat fluttering as he holds your hips so he can fuck you back, fuck up into your sweet warmth.

His cock fits inside you like he was made for you, and god fucking damn, you feel so good around him he’s on a hair trigger.

Yoongi cups the back of your head, tugs you down so you’re close. Goosebumps prickle your flesh as he tells you how good you are.

Your eyes close as he kisses your bare neck, flicks his tongue against your skin.

You had been whimpering steadily as your arousal dripped down onto him, soaking his balls, pooling at the base of his cock, and as Yoongi picks up the pace he’s gratified by the hitch in your breathing.

Yoongi’s always been damn good at helping his partners find their pleasure, and he’s sure as hell not going to stop now.

Your breasts are still in his face, half out the low neck of your dress, chest heaving.

Yoongi rubs his thumb over the outline of your hardened nipple, and you cry out, muffled with your mouth against his skin but still loud enough to make his ears ring.

His balls tighten up even more as your walls flutter around him, and Yoongi would know you were coming even if you hadn’t gasped it.

God, you’re so sweet and sexy he’s lost.

He can feel your panting breaths against his neck, the weight of your warm body as it goes lax after your peak, the sweet grip of your cunt taking in everything he has to give you as he releases, a pulse of pleasure so intense it sends shockwaves through his skin.

Yoongi’s floating, and like reaching the summit of Mount Samo, he immediately wants to do it again.

You’re looking at him, lips still so swollen and pretty his spent cock gives a residual throb inside you.

‘Like my car?’ Yoongi asks. It’s stupid, but it makes you laugh and he’ll be as stupid as you like if it makes you sound like that.

Your chin lifts, and you say, ‘It’s all right.’

The flash of merriment in your eyes gives you away.

Yoongi laughs. ‘Maybe next time we can get the car started and I can actually take you somewhere.’

‘I don’t know,’ you tease. ‘Are you a good driver?’

Yoongi reaches out, tucks the lock of hair that’s fallen over your eye behind your ear.

‘Let’s find out,’ he says. ‘Where do you want to go?’

***

Yoongi’s thinking about you the next morning when he wakes up. He’d ended up taking you back to your place, where you’d kissed him sweetly at the door and bid him goodbye like a promise to see him again.

His phone rings and he’s still got you on his mind, so it takes a second for him to regroup.

‘The maknae needs help,’ Seokjin says, no preamble. ‘I’m going to swing by yours, be there in ten.’

Yoongi hangs up, wonders what the hell Jungkook’s got himself into this time.

By the time Seokjin arrives, Yoongi’s had time to bolt coffee and change, but Seokjin still raises a brow as he swings into the passenger seat.

As always, Seokjin’s impeccably dressed, dark hair swept back from his forehead like he’s going to his own fucking wedding instead of about to deal with some shit that’s going down.

Yoongi suppresses a yawn, tugs his beanie down over his brow.

‘What’s going down with JK?’ he asks.

Seokjin cuts off another car so smoothly they’re halfway down the intersection before the irritated horn blares.

‘Remember that race the other day? Jungkook beat Seungho fair and square, I was there.’

Yoongi groans. ‘The fuck. I thought we weren’t going to race that fragile asshole anymore.’

Seokjin glances in the rearview. ‘The maknae was still hurting over Mijin, I thought an easy win might make him feel better.’

‘So what’s Seungho done?’

‘Brought in the big guns,’ Seokjin says grimly. ‘Called in some guys from Hongkong. JK’s with them now.’

Now Yoongi’s fully awake. ‘Should’ve taken my car instead of this piece of shit,’ he says.

Seokjin just laughs. ‘Don’t worry about my car, Yoongi. Maybe think of a way to hide that big–ass hickey on your neck.’

‘Suck my dick,’ Yoongi says, like they’re 16 again.

‘Looks like someone already did,’ Seokjin returns.

***

Yoongi parks up outside the Kang warehouse, pushes open the door.

You look up from your phone. Your face mask is off, so Yoongi has the privilege of seeing the way your lips curve in a smile.

‘There’s been a shipment of fuel injectors,’ you say. ‘Want to take a look?’

Yoongi stops just in front of the wooden half-panel that separates you from him.

He tilts his head.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Also, I took my friend’s Honda for a spin today, I’ve got a list.’

He smooths out the piece of paper he’s got folded in his pocket, places it on the counter.

You pick it up, get up. ‘I’ve got you.’

Yoongi runs a hand over the hickey over his neck. ‘I’ve been taking shit all day, about this,’ he adds.

‘Yeah?’ you ask, but you don’t seem the least bit contrite. ‘You did your share of marking, Min Yoongi.’

Yoongi asks, ‘What time do you get off?’

You’re about to answer when the door opens.

Yoongi turns and tenses immediately.

Fucking Shin Seungho.

‘You following me?’ he asks mildly.

Seungho scoffs, doesn’t deign to reply.

‘I’m collecting an order,’ he says to you.

Your face mask is back on, your face carefully blank. ‘Sure, what’s the name?’

When you go into the back to collect it Seungho turns to Yoongi.

Yoongi concentrates on the silkscreen of a cat on the wall behind the counter.

He can feel Seungho’s eyes on his face.

Just try it, fucker.

The fact was, he’d pushed Seokjin’s Honda to its limits beating Seungho’s friends today, and although the adrenaline’s ebbed, there’s a thin streak still running through his bloodstream, and he’s a spark away from igniting.

Seungho takes a step closer, and Yoongi turns to face him like he’s got all the time in the world.

You return just as Seungho opens his filthy mouth.

‘Looks like you’ve paid,’ you say, passing the box across the counter to Seungho.

You pull out the box cutter, slit the package, open it up for him to check, but don’t put it down.

‘Am I going to have trouble here, boys?’ you ask.

Seungho barely looks your way, Yoongi’s always known the man lacks vision.

‘Nah,’ Seungho says finally. He picks up the box, sneers at Yoongi.

Yoongi blanks his expression. There’s no way he’s going to start shit with Seungho in front of you.

The asshole’s not worth it.

As soon as the door closes behind Seungho you put down the box cutter.

The next words out of your mouth surprise him.

‘Shit, you’re hot when you’re mad, Yoongi.’

Yoongi stares at you, flummoxed, then he laughs.

‘Just when I’m mad?’ he asks.

You shrug. ‘Take me out on a date and I’ll tell you more.’

‘How about right now?’ Yoongi asks.

‘Yeah,’ you say. ‘Let’s go.’

***

As your grip on his hair loosens, Yoongi lifts his mouth from your cunt, swipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Helps you tug your panties back up, smooths your skirt back down over your thighs.

He notices you’ve still got his cum in the corner of your lips. As he watches, you flick your tongue out, lick delicately.

His cock stirs with interest, and you act like you know it.

‘More later?’ you ask.

‘Yeah. After I win.’

Yoongi reaches over to help you with your seatbelt, arranging it across your chest, between your breasts, securing it.

You lean forward and kiss him as the belt clicks into place.

Yoongi starts the engine, turns the heating back on because he’s noticed your hands get cold easily.

‘I can drop you off at home before the race,’ he offers. ‘Come see you after.’

‘I want to see you drive,’ you say.

Yoongi wouldn’t say it, but he’s pleased. He knows he’ll keep you safe, it’s a circuit through the city outskirts he’s done a million times, and he’s looking forward to you meeting Seokjin and Hoseok and Jungkook.

He flicks on the lights, rolls into oncoming traffic. Heads North.

By the time he pulls up to the starting line there’s the usual crowd gathered. He parks up next to Seokjin and Hoseok.

In his rearview he can see JK surrounded by people. He’s lost the sad puppy air he had for a few weeks whilst he was pining after Mijin. The kid’s going to be all right, not that Yoongi’s ever had any doubt about that.

Engines all around him are starting up, a deafening series of rumbles.

Beside him, Seokjin waves, and Hoseok smiles so brightly it’s blinding.

The flag waves, and Yoongi accelerates.

Checks on you in the rearview, and you’re as pretty as he remembers.

Min Yoongi’s spent a lot of his life looking for connection, and by his reckoning, he’s doing pretty well right about now.

Lights flash by in a blur.

Yoongi drives.

Author note: And that's a wrap! Thank you for reading, hope you've enjoyed, here's to a brighter 2024. This time last year we were saying goodbye to Kim Seokjin, I can't wait to start welcoming the boys back again. Happy holidays to you all!

#bangtan christmas #bangtan christmas 2023 #yoongi fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #min yoongi fanfic

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osmanthusoolong · 2 months ago

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“The lack of heat was just one of the tenants' many complaints.

Records filed in court by the tenants show that last year, the apartment building's property managers forbade tenants from receiving parcel or food deliveries to their units, sought to evict tenants who refused to take down bird netting protecting their balconies from pigeons and banned Halloween trick-or-treating inside the building. The company also filed eviction notices against 21 tenants who had window-mounted air conditioners, saying the appliances put the building's old electrical wiring at risk of fire.

That November day, the tenants held up cardboard signs and took turns speaking from a megaphone. After about 30 minutes, they dispersed to place flyers on windshields and signposts.

"Tenants will not be pushed out of their homes," read the flyers they were posting. "Tenants… demand that [landlord] Anne DeMelo put an end to the harassment and do the repairs they have requested."

Two months later, they were all served legal papers.”

…

“Tenants in many Canadian cities can face a litany of hardships in dealing with landlords: renovictions, steep rent increases, maintenance requests that go unheeded. But now some landlords have turned to a new tactic — suing their tenants for defamation when disputes hit the boiling point.”

…

“Anoop Majithia's company, Plan A Real Estate, took over a low-rise residential building in the city's West End in the spring. Many existing tenants were on high alert owing to his reputation: Plan A was once fined $10,000 by the provincial housing ministry for violating a law 152 times, was found to have acted in bad faith in trying to evict a tenant and has faced more than one accusation of posting photos in rental ads that don't match the apartments tenants end up getting.”

I wonder, do the landlords realize that this response from tenants is in fact the peaceful negotiation that they’ve forced?

No matter, landlords are scum.

@allthecanadianpolitics

#cdnpoli #long post #landlords get Mao’d challenge

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dandexllions · 22 days ago

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"And last of all the mounting wave...took to its bosom Tar-Míriel the Queen, fairer than silver or ivory or pearls. Too late she strove to ascend the steep ways of the Meneltarma to the holy place; for the waters overtook her, and her cry was lost in the roaring of the wind".

- Akallabêth

#rings of power #the rings of power #silmarillion #fall of numenor #tar miriel #elendil #isildur #ar pharazon #sauron

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insomniac4000 · 1 month ago

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Three Peaks Challenge Part 2

You can read part one here

Two months had passed since the Three Peaks Challenge, but the camaraderie and bonds formed during those gruelling climbs had only grown stronger. Y/n’s ambitious idea to climb Mount Kilimanjaro for her channel had taken root during a post-hike conversation after Snowdon. Chris, despite the daunting prospect of another mountain, had agreed without hesitation. They had spent the last few weeks preparing for the adventure, going on runs together to keep up their general fitness as well as climbing as many hills and mountains as they could. The time they spent together cause a lot of raised eyebrows and wagging tongues.

“You’ve got to stop saying yes to her,” George teased, leaning against the kitchen counter as Chris unpacked his gym bag one evening.

Arthur Hill, sprawled on the sofa with a guitar in hand as he played around with it, chimed in, “He can’t help himself. You’ve seen the way he looks at her.”

Chris rolled his eyes, though a faint blush crept up his neck. “It’s not like that,” he muttered, opening the fridge and grabbing a water bottle.

George smirked. “Sure it’s not. That’s why you’re spending every spare second with her, climbing hills and planning treks halfway across the world.”

Chris tried to focus on unscrewing the cap, but Arthur wasn’t done. “We’re just saying, mate. You two have been dancing around this for months now, we can all see it so why don’t you do something about it?”

“Yeah you keep having a go at me for not talking to women but here you are doing the same!” George added.

Chris didn’t respond, but the thought lingered as he left the kitchen.

Chris stretched his legs after another grueling training session with Y/n. The gym’s cold air prickled his skin, still damp from sweat. Y/n stood nearby, her hair tied in a high ponytail and her cheeks flushed from exertion. She scrolled through her phone, likely checking their training schedule.

"You still alive over there, hobbit?" she teased, glancing at him with a cheeky grin.

“Barely,” Chris replied, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’re going to have me climbing Kilimanjaro on my hands and knees at this rate.”

Y/n laughed, a light, musical sound that always seemed to make his chest feel warm. “You’ll thank me when we’re at the summit. Remember, altitude sickness doesn’t care how fit you are.”

Chris groaned, but he couldn’t deny he enjoyed spending time with her. Their training sessions were tough, but they’d become part of his routine—just like Y/n herself.

“Same time tomorrow?” Y/n asked as she grabbed her bag.

Chris nodded, already dreading and looking forward to it.

Back at home, Chris walked into his flat to find George Clarkeey sprawled across the sofa, eating crisps, and ArthurTV perched at the dining table editing a video.

“Another session with Y/n?” George called without looking up. “How’s the future Mrs. Dixon?”

Chris rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint blush creeping up his neck. “We’re training for her video. That’s it.”

Arthur looked up from his laptop, smirking. “Sure, mate. Spending every other day with her, smiling like a lovesick puppy whenever she texts—it’s definitely just about the video.”

“Alright, alright,” Chris muttered, dropping his gym bag by the door. “I’m going to shower.”

“Don’t forget to daydream about her while you’re at it!” George called after him, earning a laugh from Arthur.

Chris shook his head, but their teasing stuck with him. It wasn’t the first time his flatmates had pointed out how much time he spent with Y/n, and it wasn’t lost on him that he rarely argued with them about it.

The weeks leading up to their departure were filled with relentless preparation. Y/n, ever the meticulous planner, had them training on steep inclines, hiking trails, and even a few altitude simulation sessions.

“You’re a machine,” Chris said one afternoon as they reached the top of a particularly challenging hill. He bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath.

Y/n, barely winded, grinned. “And you’re getting better.”

Chris stood upright, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

“Because you secretly love it,” she teased, handing him a water bottle.

Chris laughed, his exhaustion fading under her bright smile. “You might be right.” He gazed into y/n’s eyes.

Landing in Tanzania, the excitement was palpable. Y/n had her camera out from the moment they stepped off the plane, capturing every detail for her channel. Chris, though less focused on filming, couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride watching her work, she put her heart and soul into her videos and it showed, to him she was definitely and underrated content creator.

“You’ve got a way of making everything seem like an adventure,” he told her as they drove to the base of the mountain.

Y/n smiled, adjusting her camera. “And you’ve got a way of making every adventure better.”

The first few days of the trek were challenging but manageable. The group, consisting of Chris, Y/n, their guide, and a small crew for support, moved steadily through the lower slopes, acclimating to the altitude and pushing through the rocky terrain. The mountain wasn’t as steep as ones they had climbed but the altitude an thinner air was something new. hris and Y/n fell into an easy rhythm howevr their banter and shared determination keeping spirits high.

“You know,” Chris said during a rest stop, “this is officially the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Even crazier than getting water boarded during that Sidemen video?”

“Way crazier,” Chris admitted, laughing at the memory.

As Chris and Y/n ascended Kilimanjaro’s rocky slopes, the crisp mountain air made their breath visible. The path was steep, and though their muscles ached, the shared challenge kept them moving. They paused to catch their breath, perched on a boulder overlooking a sea of clouds below.

Chris sipped from his water bottle and glanced at Y/n, her curls peeking out from under her beanie. “So,” he began, breaking the quiet, “when you’re not dragging me up mountains, what’s next for you?”

Y/n smiled, pulling her knees to her chest. “Big picture or small picture?”

“Big,” Chris replied. “The kind of thing you don’t usually share in your videos.”

Y/n considered this, her hazel eyes distant. “I guess I want… balance,” she said finally. “I love the thrill of challenges, but sometimes I think about settling down. You know, having a home base to come back to after the adventures.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Like a house with a white picket fence and a dog kind of settling down?”

Y/n laughed. “Maybe not that cliché. But a place that feels like home. And people who feel like home, too.”

Chris nodded thoughtfully, the words striking a chord. “I get that. I love what I do, but sometimes I wonder if I’m missing something. Like there’s more to life than views and football challenges.”

Y/n tilted her head, studying him. “Do you ever think about the future? Like, where you’ll be in five, ten years?”

Chris shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I try not to plan too much. Life has a way of throwing curveballs.” He hesitated, then added, “But yeah, I think about it. I want to build something meaningful—whether that’s a family, or a project that really makes a difference.”

Y/n’s gaze softened. “I think you’re already doing that, Chris. Your videos bring people joy. And that Three Peaks Challenge—you got so many people talking about mental health. That’s huge.”

Chris’s cheeks flushed, but he smiled. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

They walked in silence for a while, the crunch of their boots on gravel filling the air. The landscape grew sparser as they ascended, the vegetation giving way to jagged rocks and patches of snow.

“What about you?” Chris asked eventually. “You’ve done so much already—South America, these crazy challenges. Is there something you haven’t done yet that you’re itching to try?”

Y/n’s face lit up. “There’s always something. I’d love to do a documentary-style series—telling real stories, maybe in remote places. But also… I think I’d like to work on something closer to home. A series that feels more personal. Like showing people that it’s okay to struggle, to not have it all figured out.”

Chris smiled. “I think you’d be amazing at that. You have this way of making people feel like they’re not alone.”

Y/n’s cheeks pinked, and she looked down at her boots. “Thanks, Chris.”

As they continued climbing, Y/n turned the question back on him. “What about you? Any secret dreams you haven’t told anyone?”

Chris laughed. “I don’t know about secret dreams, but I’ve been thinking a lot about doing more with mental health awareness. It’s something I’ve struggled with, and I feel like I have this platform I could use to help.”

Y/n nodded, her expression serious. “I think that’s incredible. And brave. Talking about mental health isn’t easy, but it’s so important.”

Chris glanced at her, his heart swelling with admiration. “You’ve been pretty open about your struggles, too. It’s inspiring.”

Y/n shrugged modestly. “It’s just part of who I am. And if sharing my story helps someone else, then it’s worth it.”

They reached a flat section of the trail and paused to take in the view. The sun was starting to dip lower, casting a golden glow over the peaks in the distance.

“Do you ever think about how crazy this is?” Chris said, gesturing to the vast expanse around them. “Like, how we’re just tiny specks in this massive world?”

Y/n smiled, her eyes twinkling. “All the time. But I think that’s what makes it special. We’re small, but we still get to experience moments like this.”

Chris nodded, his gaze lingering on her. “Yeah. Moments like this.”

Y/n turned to him, her expression curious. “What?”

“Nothing,” Chris said quickly, though his heart raced. “Just… I’m glad we’re doing this together.”

Y/n’s smile softened. “Me too, Chris.”

As they resumed their climb, Chris felt a sense of clarity he hadn’t experienced in a long time. For once, he wasn’t worried about the next step—or the step after that. All that mattered was the present moment, and the person beside him.

The higher they climbed, the tougher it got. The air grew thinner, the temperature dropped, and the physical toll became evident. Even Y/n, ever the optimist, began to feel the strain.

“Okay, this is officially brutal,” she said, leaning against her trekking poles during a particularly difficult section.

Chris, standing beside her, offered a hand. “We’ve got this.”

Y/n took his hand, their fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary before she let go and nodded. “Yeah. We do.”

Reaching the summit was nothing short of euphoric. The sky stretched endlessly above them, the sun rising in hues of gold and orange, casting a surreal glow over the snowy peak, it was unlike either of them had seen before.

Y/n, overwhelmed by the moment, let out a laugh that turned into a sob as she was overcome with emotion. “We did it,” she whispered, smiling at Chris as she stood almost misty eyed.

Chris stood beside her, his chest heaving from the climb, but his focus was solely on her. “You did it,” he corrected. “This was your dream.”

Y/n turned to him, her hazel eyes shimmering with tears. “Not without you.”

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Chris felt his heart race, the altitude and the emotions swirling together in a dizzying mix.

Before he could overthink it, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss. Y/n froze for a heartbeat, then melted into him, her hands gripping his jacket as the world fell away.

When they pulled back, both breathless, Y/n let out a shaky laugh. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Chris smiled, his forehead resting against hers. “Neither was I.”

They stood there for a moment, the enormity of what had just happened sinking in.

“We should probably join the others,” Y/n said softly, though she made no move to step away.

“Yeah,” Chris agreed, his voice barely above a whisper.

They eventually made their way to the group, the moment left unspoken but etched deeply in their minds.

The climb down was almost harder than the ascent, the fatigue weighing heavily on them. Despite their best efforts to act normal, there was a noticeable shift between Chris and Y/n.

During breaks, their gazes lingered a little too long. Their laughter was softer, more intimate, they held hands even when they didn’t need support.

When Y/n’s Kilimanjaro video went live, it was an instant hit. Her audience was captivated by the breathtaking scenery, the gruelling challenge, and the camaraderie between her and Chris.

But it didn’t take long for the comments to pick up on the subtle dynamics.

“Chris and Y/n are adorable together. Are we going to ignore how he looked at her during that sunrise shot?” “I swear they were holding hands at one point on the descent. Anyone else catch that?” “If these two aren’t dating, I’ll eat my trekking poles.”

George, watching with a smug look on his face texted Chris after reading a particularly bold comment: “When are you announcing your engagement?”

Chris replied with a rolling eyes emoji: “Fuck sake.” Y/N peered over his shoulder as they were both snuggled on her sofa and she let out a soft giggle.

“We’re going to have to tell them sometime you know.”

“I know. But I love just having you all to myself.”

#chris dixon #chrismd

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