#Twisted Forget-me-nots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

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Just Friends (König x F!Reader)

How to Get Her Back 4/4 (Word count 7.3 k)

Summary: König is a horny, creepy killing machine obsessed with a shy, kind reader who has a raging knife kink.

Tags/warnings: 🔞 Eventual smut, eventual violence, angst, dark romance, canon divergence. Crack treated seriously. Yandere undertones, implied stalking, panty stealing, major character death, size kink, voyeurism, possessive sex, twisted, fluffy feelings. Loner boy/gentle girl dynamic. Protective!Obsessive!Top!König. Reader works as a cleaner at the base. She is described to have hair and prefers to wear dresses off work. Not safe or sane but mostly consensual.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The knife still juts from the table.

She touches it often, fondles the handle like it's her lover.

Days pass, and König escapes her stare with raised shoulders and poorly disguised hurt in his eyes. She feels his eyes on her every single time she's not looking.

He breaks into her room every night, but she never wakes up to his presence. The only thing that tells her the man's been there are the fresh flowers on her table next to the knife.

He brings her flowers every morning, just like he promised, and she keeps the blade there to remind him that he's still in her heart. It's like a silent conversation, and it stabs her stomach full of pain.

On the fourth day, he returns her panties. They're covered in dried cum, and at first, it makes her feel disgusted. Then her heart flutters, a warm feeling settles deep inside her stomach when she imagines him jerking himself off to her underwear amidst his knives, with despair and longing coating the air.

For anyone else, it might be a chilling thing to wake up to: to open eyes to the sight of a brutal tactical knife, freshly picked forget-me-nots and some cum-stained lace. But for her, it's a loving attempt to remind her who she belongs to. It's also a sign that the man is trying to let her go and finally obey her wishes to be left alone.

And she doesn't want to be left alone.

He promised she would never be alone.

On the fifth day, there's no flowers, there's nothing. She starts her day with a horrible, awful bawl. Then she puts on a black dress. It makes her look odd, like she's in mourning, but it also gives her… power, somehow. Even if it's another cute kind of cotton babydoll dress, it makes her look more austere.

“König, wait.”

She chases him down this time: runs to his retreating form that stops the instant she calls his name. He’s tense when she walks the last steps to him and hugs him from behind. The familiar scent of tea tree and gasoline and sweat and guns bring a visceral memory of madness to her mind. It’s an ambrosia of crude virility, and she's missed him, God, that she's missed him.

It's also safety. Because no matter what anyone says, he is the only one who knows her, sees her, sees right into her core, her very soul.

He slowly places a hand on hers, the arms that embrace his narrow, treelike middle.

"Engel…"

The voice comes out tight and strained. He caresses her hand with hesitation and swallows.

"I'm confused.. I don't know what you want me to do."

"Come with me," she whispers in his back. He has no gear on, and she can feel his abs through the black shirt, the way his shoulder blades flare against her cheek with shallow breaths. "If you want…?"

"Ganz sicher."

She takes him by the hand and guides him to her room. People look at them with pity and dread, and she feels like they’re in high school where people were divided into groups of popular and unpopular.

She knows where she and König would’ve belonged. Where they belonged now…

And she just doesn't care anymore.

When the door to her room shuts behind him, she feels a little tug near her heart. She had nearly forgotten how big König looks inside her little room, the space she has tried to turn into a cozy home even though she doesn't view the base as her home like the soldiers do. It's just a place for her to reside in when she's working.

But he does not fit into a normal society like she does. The base must be the closest thing to a home for him. Not every elite soldier is a lunatic perhaps, but König certainly couldn't find any other job in the modern world that would cater to his needs without sending him behind bars.

But he was supposed to kill only in the field. Only somewhere far, far away.

Why did you do it?

Why…?!

That's what she meant to ask when they're behind closed doors, but something quite different comes out instead.

"Did you miss me…?"

She stands before him, holding her hands in front of her, looking probably quite silly clad in black.

"I've been in hell ever since I left, Engel."

Christ have mercy…

Normal men just didn't talk like that.

"Will you forgive me?" He looks her up and down, but the calm, proud posture, the way he holds his chin high behind that dark shroud tells her he's not used to begging. She has a feeling that this question is asked only because Soap suggested it would be a good idea to apologize for making her so upset.

"It's not me you should be–" She sighs. "Look… That man had a wife. König, I think he had a kid and everything."

His eyes are covered in a veil of disinterest only she can pierce. There's actually so much going on behind that odd, distanced stare. But what’s horrifying is that he clearly doesn’t agree with her on this matter.

"I kill people every week," he declares. "Just not in the break room."

His logic leaves her wordless for a moment. The officer was not an enemy, he was not part of some foreign military, his only crime was that he was in a hurry…

She has barely even opened her mouth to speak before he finally defends himself.

"How do you know his wife is not secretly happy with the news?"

The question is like a bucket of ice dipped in her head. She had prepared herself for almost anything but this. König only tilts his head and narrows his stare.

"Would you want to be wife to that kind of man?"

Her mouth opens on its own; her jaw would fall to the floor if it could do such a thing. His worldview unfolds before her in full, and it should disgust her: but all she feels is an odd thrill in her stomach from realizing this man is not only possessive; he's also fiercely traditional.

"He just spilled some coffee on me," she whispers in soft, tender horror. "He just happened to have a bad day."

"How many times a week did he have a bad day?"

The defense is solid, even if it's preposterous. The man was rude and disrespectful, yes. To everyone, every day, probably continued the abuse at home, too. But he didn't deserve to be killed for it. Still, König doesn't seem to find any fault in his way of thinking.

"I can tell when people are evil," he crosses his arms over his chest as a final note.

Evil…

Evil.

She's left blinking, then she finds her tongue again.

"You can't just… deal punishment like that," she huffs.

"Why not?"

Jesus Christ…

His arms are still over his chest, and he looks… so big, so powerful, like an omnipotent being.

Probably thinks he is.

"Will you go to jail?" She changes the subject because arguing with this kind of man seems futile. Downright hopeless.

"No," he says with perpetual calm. "Would you want to see me in jail?"

"...No."

He finally unravels his arms and takes a few steps toward her. That swaying lounge is intoxicating and seductive, even when he doesn't mean it as such. It's just the way he walks, but it makes her woozy.

"Engel. You are too… kind for this world."

More odd arguments are laid out before her, more confusion and love and pain. He raises a hand to touch her arm and make his point clear. The weight of him is heavy and adult, his military clothing is in blaring contrast to her tiny, childish dress.

"You don't understand it now, but perhaps someday you will."

The man looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with her. She's a child in his eyes, but something in this lunacy tells her she's dealing with a child, too: a boy who no one ever loved.

"My little angel. Always wearing pretty dresses," he says more softly now.

"I'm not an angel."

"Yes you are," he rules without effort. "And you look good in everything. But you shouldn't wear black."

"Why not…?"

"Because you belong with flowers."

Her heart aches, her eyes prick with burning tears. He's self-aware, that's for sure. He knows what he has done to her, what he is doing to her. And he wishes to spare her from him.

"I thought you liked black," she peeps, her mind and will and defense breaking.

He doesn't say anything, but his hand brushes down her cheek, then cups her chin softly. That same hand must be ironclad when it grips his enemies and brings them to his blade.

"I like this dress," she tries to quarrel, voice shaking.

"And I know a knife that would go perfectly with it."

His eyes are warm. There's even a passing sadness in them. She's relatively sure that he's not talking about butterfly knives any longer – she's almost certain that König hasn't gifted his weapons to any other human being on this earth.

“How about we take off that pretty little dress now, hmm?”

The time for the compulsory explanations is over in his mind, and it’s time for sex. He knows that his exile has ended, that whatever liminal space they walked in for a few days wasn’t enough to rid herself of him. There’s no turning back anymore, and he looks at her with amused hunger when she obeys his suggestion which is, in truth, a command.

Her fingers do not shake anymore as she undresses for him, but a shiver goes through her guts: that stare is a look from beyond. He’s a madman, and falling more in love with her every day, even if the only way he knows how to love is by stabbing people with his cock or his knife.

“Lie down,” he gives her more orders when she stands before him with nothing on.

It’s futile, completely futile to pretend that she doesn’t want this. It’s almost like an act, the way she slowly and demurely obeys his command. In reality, she wants nothing more than to be devoured by him.

He takes his clothes off while she waits for him on the bed like an injured bird. He rips, then throws his gloves off like they have done something naughty, all the while his gaze is fixed on her. She has missed the sight of that faint hair on his abs, missed that broad chest, missed how his muscles bunch even when he gets out of a shirt that weighs practically nothing in his hands.

The long, veined cock flies out from his pants with a demanding bounce that makes her swallow. They form an odd pair on the floor: her little dress and his huge woodland camos. His eyes are surrounded in black paint under the eternal mask, but otherwise, he's the palest man she has ever seen.

Her breasts rise and fall with aroused breaths as he settles himself beside her, naked and blazing. His cock is pure fire when it gets trapped between them, and he's already drooling hot precum on her thigh.

He's gentle, kind of. Slides a hand over her shivering stomach, palms one breast, then takes a nipple between his fingertips and gives her a pinch.

“Did you miss me too?”

The hood makes him look like a hangman, and he’s infuriatingly patient now. She expected him to rail her like a sex toy right after the door was closed.

"Yes."

He releases her, and the callous descends with a gentle, deliberate caress to her waist.

"Then you're the first who ever did."

She just might be the first woman he's gentle with, too, and she cannot help but think if it's because of what she said just before he killed that poor man. If the last piece of the puzzle locked in place when he realized how much she admired him. If her confession also made him stake his claim in the loudest possible way, announcing everyone that he's her protector.

It's not her fault that the man's dead, but she should be ashamed: she's wet already when the murderer's fingers delve further down to meet her folds. He disappears somewhere in her wetness, and her thighs rise and drift apart to give him full access.

And it's always like this: she spreads legs for him with a helpless, longing stare, he takes in what belongs to him with dark, pleased hunger.

He finds her clit in no time, drags his thumb over it, and she gasps. Her breaths come quick now, her nipples are shot to the sky and her back is already arching when he delves down and slides one finger inside. It's long and lean, and her cunt grips him like they have been apart for four weeks instead of four days.

He sighs under the mask, just from her greedy response. She wants to touch him too, but doesn't dare to move when he's looking at her like that. He starts to finger her gently, first with one, then two digits while attending to the tight nub on top. And he's good with a knife, quick with his hands, so what did she expect?

But she’s also sad and mad. Because he definitely knows what he’s doing. And it makes her think…

"Have you had a lot of women..?"

Her question is a mouse's whisper. His fingers halt inside her; they spread her with delicious torture.

"A few," he says. "Back in Austria."

He buries his face in her neck and nuzzles his way to her ear. The bag of darkness is soft and hot, but nothing compared to his heated whisper.

"But they were nothing like you."

He punctuates the declaration by curling the fingers inside her. She bites her lip to stifle a filthy, needy moan. He even grinds his hips against her: that cock is like a heated spear against her soft thigh, and more cum oozes out to trickle down her leg.

"How many men have had you, Engel?"

He doesn't ask: how many men has she had. She may not be his plaything, but she is his possession. In his mind, she belongs to him and only him, no matter who has come before. But the murderous passion with which he waits for her answer makes her flustered, and she bolts her mouth tight in an indication that she will not disclose this information.

"Gut. Don't tell. I would kill them all."

Oh.

Oh…

"Would you like that…?"

"No," she whimpers.

"Yes you would."

“I don’t–I don't want you to–”

“Shh.”

He’s working those fingers smooth and quick, and she’s already leaking on his hand, probably on the bed, too… The room is filled with sighs and whimpers and sobs as he fucks her with slick, wet sounds. She's close the edge in mere minutes, but he won’t let her finish.

Instead, he pulls out just when she's about to tighten around him.

"Why-why did you stop?"

"Angel... Take me in your mouth," he rasps, breathless too despite trying to disguise it. She briefly wonders if this is some sort of a punishment. That perhaps she’s ordered to give him a blowjob just when she’s about to come – after all, she has dared to keep him waiting for days.

But that’s not the case, it seems, as she moves with heavy limbs to fulfill his wish.

"Nein… Other way around. I want to taste you."

The perverse suggestion in the break room turns into a reality as she realizes what he wants to do. Her heart is pounding when she crawls on top of him to meet that leaking cock. How exactly is that thing even going to fit inside her mouth?

A sudden shyness takes her as her thighs are forced into a wide-legged spread from straddling the broadest man on earth. She's exposed to the cold air only for a second before his breath hits her. The shortest shadow of a stubble on that usually clean-shaven chin meets her soaked cunt with hunger.

“Ah… Take it– in your mouth,” he moans orders to her folds, and her cunt clenches immediately, just from hearing that accent and that voice.

She moves to give him a shy lick, sweeps a tongue over that tip to clean him from all that precum. He goes tense under her and breathes heavily when she wraps her hand around him, wraps her mouth around the weeping slit.

He tastes of salt and sin, and the minute she tries to take more of him in, he groans with a dry throat. It's a hot, broken breath that travels straight inside her. It’s too much – the position is far too stimulating, it’s over the top wicked.

And then he starts to lick her. It messes up the blowjob that has barely even started. She knows his hood must be almost completely off, otherwise he wouldn't be able to breathe.

"Take a bit more, Engel," he urges between the long slathers that already sound lewd. There's simply no way to take it fully in, he’s far too long for that. The last thing she wants to do is gag on him. But she does a good enough job, tries to concentrate on breathing through her nose as she goes as deep as she can.

"That's…more like it…"

It’s a relieved notion somewhere behind her before he continues with the agonizingly slow licks. Fat and flat-tongued, the work of a famished man. For someone who's so clumsy with social interaction, he’s infuriatingly good at giving pleasure to women. The tip of his tongue grazes her clit, and causes a muffled moan – her mouth is full of him but she just cannot help herself.

And arms of steel close around her middle the minute she whimpers on his cock. They pull her closer to his face – he wants to hear her make noise, then, and her will to compete arises. She wants to make him moan too. She ups the pace, flattens her tongue on him every time she retreats…

"Where did you learn to–nnh…"

She nearly laughs at his surprise, at their silly little competition. He's shocked, probably jealous too, of her past and the imagined cavalcade of men who may or may not have been inside her mouth before him. She swirls a tongue around the tip every now and then, wraps her lips tight around him, and goes even deeper.

"Verdammte Scheiße.. I'm not going to last long…"

Strong thighs around her power up, and he has stopped licking her altogether: he's just panting in her pussy and holding on to her hips while waiting for the upcoming wave.

"You know what to do, ja?" He pants that question like she doesn't know he's about to shoot a load on her tongue soon.

"Don't make a mess," he shares advice with a sly tone to his voice. "Unless you want to clean after…"

He gives a short laugh as if the joke is funny. As if that's a clever thing to say to a cleaning lady. It makes her grip him harder, and he's close, so close: he's not even moving anymore, everything's just completely rigid under her body and inside her mouth.

"I'm fucking–cumming…"

He spills with a long groan, moans against her cunt, cries inside her with pain. The seed is hot and heavy, it shoots right down her throat even in this position. She does the best she can to not make that mess, but it's hard work when a giant cock pulses in her mouth.

"You're perfect, angel," he sighs behind her, tries to feed more of himself inside her mouth by rolling his hips.

The praise makes her pump and suck him even more, get every last drop out, and a tremble goes through her lover. She has to take support from the bed until the earthquakes recede. His cock is a clean mess after, and she's a mess too: overworked, and shy, and victorious.

They're both left panting: she tries to catch some breath there between his thighs after everything, but she's not allowed to rest and recover. The grip around her middle pulls her back, and a breathless man trying to lick her like it's the end of the world is not only far too much, it's unbearable. She's already overly sensitive and needy from the four days of barren grief.

"It's too much…" She tries to tell him, but he won't listen. If anything, it only spurs him on.

"König, I can't," she wails softly while resting her head on his thigh.

"Yes you can."

A feverish tongue dips inside her as deep as it goes. It forces her legs apart, she spreads herself all over his face completely unwillingly. There's no mercy for her as he flicks a tongue over her clit, plunges a tongue inside her as deep as it goes, returns to the nub again – does it again and again and again like it's some secret code meant to break her.

"You like that, huh?" His rough voice is muffled by her cunt, he sounds both parched and wet.

"Hm? Talk to me," he demands an answer although it should be obvious that she's losing her mind from his treatment.

"Yes," she mewls while being spread so crudely wide for him. "I… I love it…"

"Hah. You sound like a little cat," he laughs, pleased, then gets to it again. She's so close now that she can feel the growing waves. Her thighs are not just shaking, they're trembling.

"So pretty and so wet," he comments between the licking and dipping, voice covered with smoke from all the lust. And he's hard again, too: right next to her face, and she could cry actual tears – what if he plans on fucking her too after this? It's too much, she can't even take this, she can't…

But she does.

Her back starts to arch just before the orgasm. She's not weeping yet, but every noise she makes sounds like she's crying her heart out.

"Slow down, slow–down, please…"

She's a one-woman choir of tight pleas. She tries to muffle them by burying her face somewhere in his thighs and musk. The tongue dips in and out like he's a machine and not a man, and the first wave hits unexpectedly, like a searing, white-hot blade.

"A–ah!"

The climax swallows her, she starts grinding against that face without meaning to. He only laughs and buries his nose and tongue deeper into her slickness. The arms around her hold her like iron bars, his breaths hit her along with his tongue like she's strapped to a torture device.

Her cunt is sloppy, and throbbing, and he is a torturer, licks her even when she's lying on top of him in ruin: a devastated, trembling heap of a woman who's lost everything.

"Stop–König, you need to stop…"

Her weak whispers do nothing. His tongue sweeps her from front to back until she's crying on top of him. Frail fingers try to claw his thighs but grasp nothingness.

When he finally relents, he does it with another laugh. Then he gives her a last lick: a total bully, snorts a chuckle when a tremble goes through her entire body from just that single, fat sweep.

"Mmm. That was good. Right?"

"M–mh…"

There are tears in her eyes, but not one comes out. Her pussy throbs and winks with the aftershocks, and his hand moves up and down her back like she's that little cat.

"You're mean," she sobs. Complains.

"Heh… you didn't like it?"

"I did," she sniffs, and his hand moves to caress her thigh.

"I know you did. I know you. Everything about you."

He sounds merciful at last, pats her leg softly.

"Come here. I'll take care of you."

When she turns and crawls back to him, his mask is fully in place. He receives her with open arms and speaks more softly than ever.

"I have to take care of you after. Isn't that so?"

"Yes…"

She holds onto him, because he's the only thing that's solid in her world at this point. His aftercare is the most tender thing she has ever known: her hair is being caressed gently, the tension in her neck and back is soothed with long, loving strokes. He buries his mask in her hair and inhales her after-sex scent like it's a whole offering of incense.

"Angel. You feel like… like it's my birthday."

His statement brings another round of tears to her eyes. Instinct tells her that birthdays might've been the only happy days of the year for this man.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He sounds worried when she's so quiet and timid again. Her heart settles slowly into a warm pool of love, she presses herself against him with fervor, and he squeezes her in turn like she's the most perfect birthday present ever.

"No."

I really needed that.

I need you…

"I will never let you go again," he promises. "Never. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers. "I don't– I don't want you to go."

"Little one. I'm so glad I found you."

He takes her palm and uses it to brush away the hood from his lips. The violent edge is always taken away after sex, and the devouring is gentle, the passion is blunt. His kiss is soft; sweet.

"König…" She's raw and bare in his arms, her adoration reflects back to her from his blues. "Why did you pick me?"

"You're the one who picked me, Engel. I just answered your call."

He takes in the effect this truth has on her, then takes her breath away with another kiss. A small giggle erupts in the lazy afternoon as he threatens to crush her with a bear hug. Her hand steals its way further under the mask: she meets smooth skin and a collection of even smoother bumps.

"Why can't I see your face..?"

"It's not a pretty sight," he sighs. "Father liked to cut me when I was little."

The laziness leaves her body that very instant. The man is detached, distant: as if he's sharing something trivial, the city he grew up in or his favorite subject in school.

She doesn't know whether to feel pity or terror, but what he says next sends even more ice down her spine.

"Now I cut those who are evil."

Everything starts to make perfect sense.

Why he was bullied at school, why people fear him. Why disrespectful, cruel men deserve to be knifed and why women and wives are angels. Why he wears a mask.

It's not sound reasoning, but it is a strategy, perhaps. Survival… A defense mechanism.

And offense is the best defense…

She had been right: this man is incurable, only in ways she could never have guessed.

Afterwards, he shows her his knives.

His room is full of them: combat knives, throwing knives, bowie knives, daggers, bayonets, balisongs, two machetes, a kukri, knives she doesn't even have a name for… There's swords and sticks and a riot shield. There's only one bed, nothing more, not even a nightstand.

And the room is also full of guns.

Assault rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns, handguns; there's scopes, tripods, gloves, gas masks, a ghillie suit, pouches, plate carrier vests, magazines, grenades, even a launcher.

The room is filled with violence.

And she didn't know what she expected.

Some "Hot Gun Babes" wall calendar and a few pocket knives? That he would play by the rules and keep weapons and gear where they were stored instead of in his fucking room?

He gives her his third gift that pairs well with her black dress, or any dress, for that matter. Another knife, but not the kind he kills people with, nor the flimsy kind used for entertainment purposes.

She receives an automatic switchblade, simple but pretty. The double-edged blade looks almost feminine, the way it curves into a sharp, dainty tip. The handle is made of sturdy, polished wood; it's incredibly beautiful and so dark it's nearly black. The knife is only a threat when it's flicked open: all in all a piece that isn’t what it seems.

"Hier. Good little blade. Would take it wherever I go."

"Thank you."

"Anything for you, Engel."

She kisses him after his gift. She kisses the white scar on his jaw, lifts the mask a bit more, and he doesn't stop her. He doesn't stop her, not even when she finds more keloid cuts and kisses them too.

And he's… simply a man.

There's a human under all that darkness.

It's not a pretty sight, perhaps, but for those scars, she couldn't love him more.

"You're not afraid of me," he sounds surprised when she takes in the violence done to his face with tenderness in her gaze.

"No."

He's speechless. The barricade covering his eyes is permanently broken, and she can see him, all of him.

She falls to her knees and opens his pants, gives the man another round of love. He looks at her with pain and pleasure; a pale, adoring god. Strokes her hair gently while she gets drunk on him like a succubus, wants him to spill that white on her face and all over her pretty black dress.

"Cum on my face, König."

She looks at him with angel eyes while saliva and drool make a rope from her mouth to his throbbing cock. But there is nothing left of the celestial, nothing more than a sweet, fallen angel, and a safe space just for her and him.

"Please…?"

Ruin me.

He hesitates a few seconds, then grabs his cock in an iron fist like it's heavy artillery.

"Whatever my angel wants, she shall have."

. . . . . .

He brings her flowers every morning and fucks her every night.

Sometimes he catches her when she's outside in the sun, reading a book or watching the clouds. He carries her off to the woods and takes her against a tree like they're the first man and woman on the earth after tasting the forbidden apple. They share a few hushed laughs and more than a few desperate kisses under the hood, then he brings her back to earth, straightens her dress like a gentleman before leaving to have a date with death.

He takes her out to eat sometimes, takes her to the shooting range. Calls her his little Wildkatze when she takes a liking to one of his shotguns. He takes her hand when they stroll through the grass and sings an old love song from his homeland. He has a beautiful voice, especially when he forgets he's in company. Or perhaps she's just special like that…

They share a secret language in the base. Whenever he sees her, he draws his knife and throws it in the air ("I miss you") or twirls it around ("The things I will do to you tonight…"). Sometimes, he just places a hand on the handle of the cruel blade. That stands for 'You're mine'.

It's the closest thing to I love you before either of them have spoken the actual words. Or then it's the closest thing to I love you he's capable of.

She gives him a small smile in return, puts a hand in her pocket and fondles the gift she carries everywhere she goes. He knows it's a nod to his secret messages. It stands for 'You're my everything'.

She keeps the switchblade with her even when she's wearing a dress after work. Red this time, the color of passion.

She wants to surprise him: König always comes to her before nightfall, but this time, she wants to go and visit him. She wants him to take her in the middle of black steel and acrid gunpowder while she's dressed in blood.

"Be a darling and fix me a cup of coffee, will you?"

She's stopped by Phillip Graves of all people. Another man who has never paid her any attention. Apparently, red cloth is the same thing for evil men as it is for the enraged animals in bullfighting shows.

She does stop, but she doesn't obey his wishes. She just stares him down like he's filth: another thing she thought she could never do.

I'm not your coffee girl.

"C'mon honey. I've had a bad day." The man only seems to feed off from her silent scorn: like it's some dark game they're playing now. "You could make it so much better."

For fuck's sake…

Here is a man who disrespects everything about her: her position as a cleaner, her value as a woman, her rank as a shy being who is too kind for this world. She's simply a doll who doesn't know how to kill, who doesn't know how to say no. This man however, won't take no for an answer.

"I'm not here to serve coffee," she says with pure ice.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. And I'm off duty, too."

"Thought we could have a little chat, you and I."

"Why?"

"You seem like an interesting woman."

He seems pleased with the fact that for some reason, she's still here, that he has her attention. Thinks he's winning her over with some yucky flirting.

"And wearing a red dress like that…" He tsks, as if it's a crime for a woman to wear red. "Red can drive a man crazy, darling."

She understands why she has been invisible to everyone except König up until this point.

Because deep down, she knows if she would carry herself in full, show herself to the world as the woman she truly is, she would instantly attract love, and power, and hunger, and lust.

"I'm going to go now, sir."

"Tell you what. You serve me that coffee and I'll let you go."

She catches sadism in that stare. And to think she had always found Graves to be somewhat… arrogant, perhaps, but not cruel. The man obviously has a Napoleon complex, but he was not supposed to be sadistic.

How wrong she has been.

She knows she could just get out of the situation by filling that mug the bastard can't fill himself because of some stupid need to have a powerplay moment with an innocent little girl who happens to wear red.

But she doesn't want to. König would have ripped this guy's head off by now.

"I'm off duty," she repeats.

Fuck these men who are always looking for a plaything.

Graves rises from the chair. She's both cold and sweaty by the time he has taken a step, two, three.

But men are a bit stupid sometimes.

They think dresses don't have pockets.

When he takes the fourth and last step, with joy-tinged cruelty in his eyes, she flicks the knife out and open, and simply stabs him in the supposed direction of the organ called heart.

It feels thrilling, pure power: to sink that knife there and catch a man – a soldier of all people – unawares.

So this is what it feels like…

The hurt in his stare doesn't necessarily come from pain, but from the realization that he has made a huge miscalculation.

He looks down at the small knife that will be the end of him, then at her, the woman he thought was just a simple, shy cleaner he could bully into submission.

"You fucking–bitch," he gasps. Weakly.

By the time she pulls the knife out and stabs him again, she's somewhere far away. It hits him in the stomach, and he still doesn't do anything about it, and that's the moment she finds pity, and mercy, and horror.

She turns and stumbles, then runs from the room, unsure if the thump on the floor behind her is real or imagined.

"You fucking whore…!"

The shout is real enough though, and she runs, runs, with a sharp little knife in her hand for what seems like an eternity. That flight is a prolonged medieval torture moment that ends in front of König's door.

Her titan is as calm as ever when he opens the door, and tilts his head when he sees she's breathing fast.

"I think I killed Phillip Graves," she informs with eyes wide.

He blinks, then immediately looks at her hand, the knife, the blood. She goes to him, lifts a hand to his shirt in a desperate attempt to find support. There's not even that much blood. She thought killing would be much messier.

König said it would be messy.

"I… He…"

Her hands won't even shake. All her senses are blown wide and sharp, she sees everything, hears everything, but her hands won't shake.

Is she a psychopath?

"I killed Phillip Graves," she repeats, looks at his chest, clutches at the knife, clutches at his shirt.

The door behind her closes, and König takes hold of her shoulders with warm, warm hands.

"Well done, Engel," he says with such joy, such unbound pride that it snaps her back into reality.

Her jaw starts to tremble, her teeth clatter, she raises her eyes to him…

"He… He wanted coffee, and to talk, and he liked my dress, and–"

"Did he touch you?"

He asks it like it's far more important than what she has just done. She has to shuffle through her memory, but she finds no recalling of Graves laying a single finger on her.

"No."

He was about to. Right?

He was. He threatened me–

"Don't shed tears for him," König says as he looks down at her with mesmerized awe and infatuation. "I can promise you he doesn't deserve them."

Then he hugs her, squeezes her and just holds her, and she's still holding on to the murder weapon.

What will everyone say? What will my friends say?

"My little angel is good with a knife," the titan laughs proudly somewhere high above her.

People have killed each other since the dawn of time.

These things happen.

I'm not the first murderer on this planet.

"My poor little… He was a bad man, Engel. I promise you that."

It's not a big deal. He was a killer too.

He could've died in the field…

"I'm going to jail," she whispers on his shirt. She wants to let go of the knife, but fears it might hurt him or her when it falls.

And she remembers she's not dealing with normal people.

"They will kill me for this," she says with distant realization.

"No they won't," he strokes her hair like she's the best pet he has ever had. "I will take the blame. It was my knife, ja?"

She pushes herself away to look at him, then nods slowly. Her jaw just won't stop trembling.

"Good girl," he pulls her against him again, so fondly that it forces out a whimper.

"Mh."

"Come here," he coos while already holding her so impossibly close. He's surprisingly good at this: at comforting her. Or then it simply feels uncommonly good to have someone sturdy to hang on to while her life and identity are falling apart.

"I'm not sure if he's dead," she whispers when the embrace lingers on. König breaks the hug immediately.

"You didn't confirm the kill?"

She must look like a shy cleaner again, because his resolve is stone cold and solid.

"Engel, I will go and finish it. Where is he?"

She tells, because he would find out anyway. He would start a manhunt and cause even more ruckus.

But when his hand reaches the doorknob, when he's already about to go and finish her crime on top of taking the full blame for it, he turns.

"Do I have your permission?"

Her jaw slowly stops trembling, and a soft sweetness spreads through her heart. The elite soldier, the mass murderer, asks for her permission.

She is more than just special…

"Yes," she whispers, and he gives her a curt nod before storming out the door.

And he's not living in the 21st century.

Instead, he walks in the world of gladiators, rages in a blood-drunk arena, lives in a time where killing was the norm. He solves problems with physical force: it's just that simple. There is no complex society, there are no rules other than the rules of the heart and the loins.

Anyone who disrespects her will get the blade, anyone who might take her away from him will make him do whatever is in his power to prevent it.

And he has the ultimate power: the power of violence.

He comes back surprisingly clean: only a tiny speckle of blood on his camos and some vivid-colored grime on his hands.

"Done."

She nods with solemn silence. She's done, too. Done with everything, because everything's gone. No matter how high the sun is, she will walk in darkness from now on.

"I believe you Engel. He swore he didn't touch you."

And God.

She might be special, but a dying enemy's, a man's word is more worth to him than hers. As if she would try to protect Graves from his wrath by lying.

And Graves wasn't even dead…

But he is now. Probably tortured too to get the truth out about not soiling her with his paws.

"Did anyone see you..?"

"No. But they will know it was me."

It's another gift to her. Another murder. And her purity, intact, in exchange for a compliment, a testimony of his character during a lazy coffee break. For a few kisses on his scars of abuse. For letting him fuck her like a beast.

Her gifts are burning tears, soft flesh and tight little cries…

His gifts are cold, black steel, hot, white cum and a stream of crimson blood.

"Thank you…"

"I would do anything for you." He bows his head, a little nod to inform her that he is hers to command. "Anything you want, just ask."

She's at home in hell, filled with guns and knives and a fallen god. She knows he will take her again tonight, just like he has done every night in the past weeks. In every position imaginable, grunting, howling, panting, laughing how sweet she is, asking if she likes what he is doing to her. She has always whispered yes through tears of hot joy.

Sometimes, they come together and their gazes lock, and it feels like drifting into a starless space with him. He strokes her hair and coats her with whispers of love before they fall asleep. They always curl up together in the cover of womblike darkness, with soft little smiles on their faces, safe from all evil.

"Can you keep me safe…?"

It's a sad little question, but she doesn't feel weak. She knows he is lost in her too: especially when she's wearing a dress the color of blood, especially when she looks at him like he's her God.

"Please keep me safe."

He comes to her carefully, answers her summons. She's pulled into a familiar embrace, and she doesn't even think about Graves anymore: she thinks about whether König will take her on the bed that smells of acid sweat or on the wall next to the gun rack.

"Always, Engel. I promise."

She holds the most powerful weapon in her tiny little hand. A dark, fallen titan who has risen from the depths of the earth to pledge himself to her, body and soul, while her innocent little dresses flutter in the wind and make everyone believe she's a victim. But she doesn't feel sorry.

Because it's just like he said.

They belong together, she and him.

🖤 🖤 🖤

Taglist:

@ghostinvenus @konigsleftkidney @stillinracooncity @valenspuppy @koionthewalls

#könig x reader #könig x female reader #könig x you #könig smut #könig fanfiction #könig #mw2 smut #mw2 fanfic #konig x reader #könig mw2 #call of duty #mw2 x reader #yandere könig #könig imagine #just friends #just friends fic

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tgmsunmontue · 10 days ago

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Wild fields of forget-me-nots - 1/? WIP

During the training for the mission Jake has an accident which results in him losing 10 years of memories.

A lot has happened in ten years. Bradley broke up with him. DADT was repealed. He got and air-to-air kill and a new callsign. And he doesn't remember any of it.

The amnesia fic that the-ace-with-spades is letting me abscond with...

PART ONE

PROLOGUE – 2009

Bradley knows Jake will get tired of him.

Bradley knows Jake is too good for him.

Bradley knows Jake doesn’t love him as much as Bradley loves him.

Bradley knows Jake will be upset when he breaks up with him.

Bradley knows Jake will be angrier.

Bradley knows Jake will move on and find someone better.

… … …

PART ONE – 2017

Javy hasn’t been so fucking scared for someone else in a long time, and the fact that his loud and larger-than-life best friend had been fine one second and then simply slumped to the ground the next had scared everyone shitless. Then he’d been on a medivac to the base hospital and Javy had been there beside him. Now he’s waiting for Jake to regain consciousness, and it’s been a few hours and they have dragged like days. There’s swelling on Jake’s brain, but they’re hoping it won’t require an operation to relieve the pressure. Just the thought of it had Javy pacing the corridor despite the order he’s received to rest. Not like he’d actually be able to sleep right now anyway.

And right now he is resting, sitting beside Jake’s beside, both hands clasping Jake’s, mindful of the various sensors and bits that are attached, fixed to the machine that is quietly beeping and flashing his friend’s heartbeat. Oxygen saturation. Blood pressure. The basics for now. He’s already had one CAT scan, but that was almost eight hours ago. It’s a long time and he wonders if he’s actually dozed off at some point, definitely feels like he could rest his head on the edge of the bed and simply sleep. Then Jake is groaning and Javy is on his feet, heart pounding, wonders if he should call for a nurse.

“Jake… hey man. Just… don’t try and move okay? You’re like… connected to a whole lot of stuff.”

“Javy?”

“Yeah. I’m here…”

“… what the fuck happened? I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck…”

“Uh. You did hit the ground pretty hard. Rough ejection.”

“Oh. Ow…”

“Are you okay? Like… I can call a nurse. Talk about pain meds…”

“Fuck. Yeah. My head. And ribs. Holy shit… what did I ever do to the ground for it to hit me this hard?”

Javy shakes his head, so relieved that Jake is alive, breathing, joking. He reaches for the button, cord twisted around the side rail of Jake’s bed and presses it.

“I don’t know man, you do walk all over it every day…”

“Fuck you. Thought you were going to call me a nurse…”

“I pressed the call button. They’ve probably already got you on some pretty decent drugs, you almost had to have an operation…”

“Holy shit, if this is how I feel with drugs already I hate to think how bad it is… fuck…” Jake murmurs, and his eyes are shifting to the door, like he’s waiting, or looking for something. “No Bradley with you? Or is he… fuck. I… was he there?”

“Yeah… Rooster was there,” Javy says, mind racing to try and remember the last time Jake called Bradshaw by his first name.

It’s been years.

“Ugh. I guess he can’t come what with the whole… DADT thing.”

“Uh. What?” Javy asks, because there’s something else he hasn’t heard in years.

“I said I guess Bradley can’t be here because of DADT… but you’re here… so…”

“Um. Uh. What year do you think it is?”

It’s Jake’s turn to look at him like he’s loosing it but Javy knows, his stomach sinking, that Jake is about to rip his heart out and stomp on it. He makes himself brace for it, knows it’s going to hit like a physical blow.

“2007 right?”

Fuck. Even worse than he thought.

“Shit…”

“What? What’s happened? What year is it? How much time have I lost? What the fuck happened for me to lose time?”

“Shh shh shh… shit Jake. Calm down a little. You’re fine. It’s… uh. Well. It’s not 2007.”

“Yeah genius, I got that much from your reaction. What’s the year?”

“Um. It’s 2017.”

“Oh thank fuck…”

“What?”

“Well, if you were going to say one or two years I was going to say you’ve aged really badly…”

“Fuck you…”

Jake just laughs and it’s a little bit of a relief that Jake is still so himself despite everything, still dishing out shit and grinning the whole time. So happy.

“Okay. So it’s been ten years. What else has happened?”

“Uh… DADT got repealed. You can’t get discharged for being gay.”

“Are you serious?” Jake asks, and he’s beginning to grin, eyes going wide and god, he looks so fucking happy. He’d kind of forgotten just how much freer and happier Jake had been when they were younger, despite the fact that he’d been serving under DADT and hiding his relationship, he’d still been happy.

“Yep,” Javy says, giving him an answering grin just as wide.

“Oh my god… oh my god. Bradley. When did we get married? Where is he? Fuck. Is he okay?”

“Uh. Um… yeah… He’s fine. Completely fine. Fuck. I should really go and let a nurse know you’ve got some amnesia going on. Ten years is kind of… a lot to be dealing with right now.”

“Javy! What aren’t you… hey! Asshole! Come back here…”

Javy flees.

PART TWO

#Wild fields of forget-me-nots #Hangster #top gun maverick #Top Gun Maverick AU #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin

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actual-changeling · 1 year ago

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An angel and a demon walk into a bar.

It sounds like the beginning of a joke, one that would have annoyed Crowley greatly before- before. Maybe it would have been mildly amusing, were it not for the fact that it is a pub, not a bar (a mere technicality that somehow still mattered), and it is the first time in seven months that he is looking Aziraphale right in the face.

He chose the place, walked right out of the bookshop and across the street the second Aziraphale looked at him with his stupid purple eyes and opened his mouth. Same table, same drinks. New silence.

A demon leads an angel into a pub so he does not kiss him again.

Less of a joke, more like the beginning of a nightmare he has had every single time he tried to sleep, woken by whispered words either confirming his worst fears or greatest desires; both incite fear, one way or another.

The low table between them is enough of a barrier to prevent a repeat of their last interaction, it has to be, although this time Aziraphale is looking at him with violet-coloured longing and an apology on his lips, no longer pleading, no longer angry. He is asking for forgiveness, and if that isn't a deeply ironic twist of fate.

Before either of them says a single word, Crowley finishes his drink and raises his hand to order another one, clinging to the familiar sting of alcohol in his throat to burn away the questions lingering on his tongue.

An angel followed a demon into a pub because he loves him.

Aziraphale wishes he could tell himself Crowley looks like he did seven months ago, that he hasn't changed, but he is done lying to himself, to either of them. Behind his shades, dark, darker if that is even possible, he can feel his golden gaze heavy on his face, familiar and the answer to an empty longing in his chest.

His drink goes untouched as Crowley downs one, then another, and it is after the third that he finally begins to talk.

"What do you want?"

Bitter, sharp, spit at his feet with an anger he expected and yet doesn't know how to react to. Underneath it is pain—more pain than any being should ever have to experience—and instead of trying to carry some of it for him, he only added to it.

"I want to apologise."

"Fine." Crowley shoves his empty glass away and gets up. "I don't forgive you."

Reflexively, Aziraphale reaches out and curls his fingers around his wrist when Crowley tries to walk past him, blinking up at him with eyes the colour of dying Myosotis.

Forget-me-nots.

They both freeze, the point of contact a crack in the walls they have spent centuries building and seven months rebuilding, and he knows he has made a mistake immediately.

Crowley stares at him, still as stone, until he suddenly rips his arm out of his grasp, almost cradling it against his chest. With dawning horror, Aziraphale realises he is shaking, tremors running through him like waves breaking apart on a rocky shore.

"Don't you dare touch me." Panic, not anger. Pure, unfiltered panic blooming beside a mountain of fear that could outlast an eternity.

"I-" He doesn't know what he wants to say, what he is trying to say, what he needs to say to make him stay. Oh, the irony of it all.

Crowley leaves the pub, and the Supreme Archangel stays behind.

Not a demon anymore, not technically, he is done with sides, and deeds, and choices; he never makes the right ones anyway. His wrist hurts with the ghost of a kiss, and he cannot get the glint of purple where summer sky blue should be out of his head.

The Bentley is waiting for him, providing an escape from the noise, the people, him.

Apologies instead of I'm coming back.

A sickening aura of holiness tinged with the burn of ozone instead of books and dust and soft, silly angel.

Seven months of waiting, of pleading with God, of cursing Her, cursing him, cursing the entire fucking world for taking and taking and taking from him without pause, without even a fragment of mercy.

For this.

An angel returns to heaven. Crowley curses the stars and cries.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #emptying out my tumblr drafts which are usually full of posts that weren't worth posting #but this one was actually fun to finish #sorry no more fluff back to the angst #this is 700 words long my god i have issues #one short tumblr post and i end up with a fic #anyway #shoutout to the people that get the bojack horseman reference

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eyes-that-decieve · 13 days ago

Note

Whelp there's now the world's worst beyblade over there. Hopefully Ringo doesn't run into her.

"Bet. Thanks mystery voice."

Good enough for her. Fuck it we ball. She steps back from Ringo, slowly easing the spider out like one would remove a tick. A very large tick.

Faye is simply minding her own business outside, maybe making her way to a shop or something. Suddenly, a child falls out of the sky and lands in front of them. She looks to be about 14, with short blueish-black hair pulled into a low ponytail. The kid is wearing a brown bomber jacket and thick looking jeans, as well as hiking boots. She just... lays face down, not moving much.

"Ack-"

She squawks, stepping back from the kid. What the? They crouch, nudging her shoulder. Oh no, is she having the same thing happen to her? Damn the Vast.

"Hello? Are you alright?"

(( @dont-tell-lucy

#tma rp #oc rp #oc: faye #plummet #A Poppet Named Ringo...#Cameo from Twisted forget-me-nots

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cyclorose · 18 days ago

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[ Le Fils du Téléphone - 'Son of the Telephone' ]

MILTON ART WHO CHEERED!!!

Below cut is the explanation behind the painting and the symbolism/details I added, if you're curious :)

LALALA!!

Ok firstly, I chose 'The Son of Man' by Magritte bc he was a surrealist artist, and I feel it fits with the aesthetic of Dialtown. I chose Milt for this one because in the original, we can't see the man's face, and if we look it from the perspective of a person who has been dialup-ed, they are curious about a flesh head; a strange, distant and familiar concept.

I wanted to give a personal twist to the original painting and use pngs and make a collage, as if it were a man-made world, the world that Callum himself shaped. Milton is not part of it because he didn't fully agree with his ideas, hence that's why he's the only one drawn.

Meaning behind the objects I put there: Uranus is the planet of innovation, rebellion, reformation; there's a phone's receiver sinking into the ocean, a new idea that changed the world forever; scissors were used to craft this new world. The frame behind Milt has a couple of pictures of Wisconsin forests. Forget me nots cover the bottom part of the drawing, a remembrance of loyalty and respect, and, covering the protagonist's face, a white lily, a tribute to the deceased

The reason why the title is in French is because Magritte spoke that language, I originally wrote it in Greek just because, but decided to change it

#scared bc idk how well this will perform since it's not the main cast #hello milton fans cometh here i have food 🥪🍞‼️#cyclorose #cyclorose art #dialtown #dialtown phone dating sim #dialtown fanart #dialtown milton #milton r wallace #the son of man #fanart #drawing #art

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afyrian · 8 months ago

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ch. 8 - love, unadulterated love m.list

a small vase rests on your counter, your handiwork written all over it. the slight grooves where your fingers ran alongside it, the small signature in the bottom of the vase. even the colors feel reminiscent of your pieces. the warm oranges and browns swirling around the vase in a peaceful motion.

you hold a bouquet of flowers from calico blooms (exchanged for a couple of plates with flowers carved in them), water droplets covering your fingers. staring at the red tulips within, the yellow roses sprinkled without. even the blue forget-me-nots add a drop of contrast. each flower picked with a special message in mind.

love. unadulterated love. from each petal in the tulips slightly opening to each thorn pulled from the roses. every step of the progress led you to staring at it in the vase. a few seem out of place, your hands moving them around in an attempt to perfect the look of it all together. biting your lip, you shake your head, whispering to yourself, "it's just not right..."

maybe you should be focusing on making sure everything else is ready for his arrival, but your eyes can't seem to leave them. your hand grabbing another flower to move around. in creating them, you wanted to subconsciously tell him that you've felt something. that something must be between the two of you. especially because the words just won't leave your lips.

so, it has to be perfect... everything down to the last drop of water on a petal. setting the last flower in, you can feel the petals brush against your hand, the soft touch only reminding you of osamu. of his kindness.. the softness that he harbors. you smile to yourself, shaking your head slightly. "if kiyoko would see me now..." holding back a smile, you head for the front door.

flipping the sign to closed, the sun still shines brightly into the room. it covers the floor in a fun game of twister, the rack of ceramics twisting and manipulating the light into odd shapes. taking in a deep breath, you take a step towards the counter, hoping to sit for a moment and ground yourself.

however, you don't have much time as a light knock rattles the door, a soft voice on the other side, "y/n?"

turning back around, you can see him through the glass. he's holding a woven basket in one arm, the other resting by his side. you grab a hold of the door's handle, pulling it open so you can fully see him. leaning against the side of the door, foot resting over the other, "hi... again."

"hello, you look beautiful today. well, everyday, of course-" osamu's eyes search between yours, a small smile growing on his face, a genuine rush of heat covering his cheeks, "but, uh, i brought refreshments."

holding up the basket, he shrugs, watching as you smile back. there's always been something about him, even in your sullen grudge and unsure feelings, you've always known there'd be something about him. the way he looks at you, it's nothing like you've ever seen before.

"thank you, and it's nice to see your hair, it suits you," you reach up, instinctively ruffling it up, like you've known him for forever. like it's something that you've always done in an affectionate manner.

stepping back, you look down, mentally cursing yourself for doing such a thing. although, you can’t help but peek at the sunlight waving through the stray hairs. the way it lights up his dark hair in a way that you’ve never quite seen before. it’s beautiful, he’s wonderfully beautiful. “uh, so i already have the clay on the wheel, it’s ready for some molding,” you grab an apron for him, holding it as he sets the basket down.

“i’m very worried about messing this up,” he looks back at you, taking the strap on his apron and resting it on his neck.

taking the back string, he skillfully ties it himself, the way his biceps move under his shirt sends your heart rate soaring. looking away, you head over to the wheel. “you’re going to do great, i honestly don’t think you could do anything wrong,” you joke, grabbing an extra stool and setting it by the one he’ll be working on.

“thank you, y/n, it means a lot,” osamu joins you, sitting down in the stool, his legs spreading outward so he can move closer to the wheel.

joining him, you begin to explain the process. you start by handing him a bucket, the both of you getting your hands wet. grabbing his hands, you guide them around the ball. maneuvering his fingers and palms so that they’re in the perfect position. his hands are rather soft within yours. osamu’s eyes constantly flickering towards you as you explain each step, from the way his thumbs lay on top to pushing it upwards to make a cone shape.

he moves diligently, eyes narrowing as he tries to keep up with your instructions. when he brings it back down, you grab his thumbs, pressing them into the center, “so you’ll push down here to make a divot. wait, here, let me show you.”

standing up, you stand next to him, leaning down slightly. taking his hands in yours, you lay your thumbs over his. pushing his down, he pushes down into the clay, his heart beating quickly against your bicep. you look over at him, wanting to congratulate him on doing so well. however, when you do, he’s already looking at you.

his eyes glow in the sunlight, your gaze unable to stop itself from peering at his lips. the little space between you, the way your heart is beating quicker than you’ve ever experienced. “osamu-”

“yeah?”

“could i kiss you?”

“absolutely…” his head leans towards you, slightly tilted as his lips meet yours.

and you can finally taste the food on his lips. the rice and pork mixture that you wonder is in the picnic basket. but ultimately, you can feel the warmth that you’ve always known he’s had. the way his nose brushes against yours, the softness of his lips matching perfectly with his hands.

it’s habit, but your hands make their way to his face, your thumb running over cheekbone. you feel goosebumps run along your arms. even your feet cross at the ankles, moving slightly as he smiles into the kiss. “wow,” you whisper, leaning back slightly, forehead resting against his.

“wow’s a good word,” he breaths heavily, foot moving off of the pedal, “but did you have to put clay on my face?”

laughing, you lean your head back, moving your hands away from his face. biting your lip, you can see the slip covering his cheeks and chin, even touching his nose. he shakes his head, leaning forward again, “no, no, i do like your hands there.”

a/n: next will be the epilogue :D

taglist: @causenessus @osakis-gf @eggyrocks @brkfclub @marisabel14

@bbybibi @etoiile @miyamoratsumuu @girlokarina @gsyche

@cherrypieyourface @zephestia @acowboykisser @whosmarjj @gumiiiiezzzz

@guitarstringed-scars @19calicos @savemebrazilhinata @phoenix-eclipses @theycallmenanamisgirl

@softpia @certaindreampost

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fic #haikyuu fanfic #hq #hq fanfic #hq x reader #☼༄ my bisque beau #hq osamu #osamu miya x reader #haikyuu osamu #osamu miya #miya osamu #osamu miya fluff #osamu miya x y/n

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casualaruanienjoyer · 5 months ago

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Flowers

"Yes, this one will do..." Armin mutters to himself as a gentle gust of wind ruffles his hair over his face.

It's early morning, the sun is lazily gliding up the horizon and there's no clouds on the sky. It's the perfect day for Armin to be off cadet duty. The perfect day for him to be out in the field.

But being off duty today doesn't mean he's not on a mission.

"This one too, for sure!"

He looks down at the small pile he's been delicately building by his side and adds yet another one on top.

Flowers. Wild flowers.

Bundles of striking colours and intricate shapes. Poppies, bluebells, daisies, buttercups... the list goes on.

He's been out and about for 30 minutes now, scouting the field for anything that catches his eyes. Anything that reminds him of-

"Aha! You, little one, are coming with me!" He reaches out for a bundle of Forget-me-nots.

He gazes at the beautiful blue petals. Blue like the ocean that he dreams of seeing one day. Blue like the sky above on a beautiful sunny day. Blue like her-

"This. She'll love this" he whispers so quietly, as though it was a secret only between him and the flowers he's turning between his fingers.

Armin reaches out for the rest of the blossoms he'd gathered, but his eyes jump to his watch.

He stands abruptly.

"Shoot! I'm going to be late!"

He starts running back towards the camp, flowers in one hand while the other reaches for some loose string in his cardigan pocket.

He tries his best not to trip while he wraps the delicate string around the flower stems, bringing them all together with a small bow.

"Perfect!"

Armin makes a mental note to thank Mikasa for teaching him how to twist, braid and knot string. He never knew it would come in handy one day.

He admires his work, turning the bouquet from side to side to fix any stray leaves, and for a second he forgets to check his steps.

"Whoa-!!"

Armin suddenly slips, losing his footing for just a second. He rapidly slides downhill towards one of the cadet cabins, though his arm stretches out just in time to stop him from running right into the wooden wall. He stops with a light 'thud'.

"That was... too close..."

He's never usually this reckless, but today he's on a mission. And he absolutely cannot be late because-

"Um...?"

Armin freezes.

He'd reached his destination either too late, or too loudly and now-

"What are you doing here... exactly?"

Now, she's here.

"Uhh..." for a moment he doesn't lift his head to meet the presence peeking out through the window above. The window he already knows too well. The same window that he's been visiting early in the morning for some time now. The window that belongs to-

"A-annie! Good morning!" he does his best to hide the flowers behind his back, laughing awkwardly.

But when he finally lifts his eyes to meet hers he can't help but blush. She's... well. A bit of a mess.

Her hair sticks up in several places, her signature tight bun is absent, replaced by waves of hair that reach just past her shoulders. She has dark circles under her eyes, darker than usual. Her gaze is sleepy and she squints her eyes as if to see him better.

Then she yawns. Annie's just woken up.

Shit.

Shit!

He's just a little too late. If only he woke up earlier himself, he wouldn't have ended up in this position. He wouldn't have had to find an excuse to be-

"Snooping around the girl dorms, Armin?"

"What!? No, that's not-!"

There's a pause. Armin's thoughts are racing, trying to find a way out of this.

When she lifts an eyebrow at him, he can't tell if she's annoyed or amused by this encounter.

It certainly doesn't help that she's so... so...close to him.

He's standing at eye level with the window sill, doing his best to look anywhere else but at her slightly open shirt and the blonde locks of hair tickling her neck. He curses his eyes for wandering.

"Well...?"

Armin's eyes land on her lips as she speaks and the redness of his cheeks instantly travels down his neck.

Shit.

There's no way out of this.

"I-I um..." he starts, clearing his throat. "I guess there's no point in hiding it." He straightens his back, taking a deep breath. He gathers all his confidence to steady himself.

"Here"

Armin pulls the bouquet from behind his back, lifting it up in the air. His fingers are a sweaty mess around the stems and his arms are shaking ever so slightly.

But despite his body language, his expression remains determined when he meets Annie's eyes.

Her beautiful blue eyes.

"They reminded me of you."

(The Aruani fic gods were with me tonight, I hope you liked this!! AAAAA. Now up on AO3 as well!)

(Also dedicated to @annawayne who encouraged me to write this fic based on a Cadet Aruani post I made not long ago. Thank you 🥺🙏)

#aot #attack on titan #snk #armin arlert #aot headcanons #annie leonhart #aot scenarios #aruani #shingeki no kyojin #my fic #aot fic #annie x armin #stella writes

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phoenix-downer · 4 months ago

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Love’s First Bloom

Summary: Kairi accidentally falls into a rushing river when she tries to pick a rare paopu flower. Sora and Riku work together to rescue her and realize they both have feelings for her.

Kairi likewise has a few realizations of her own.

~5000 words. Set between BBS and KH1. Love Triangle, Friendship, Romance, Fluff, Angst, Feelings Realization, Crushes, First Love, Introspection, Hurt/Comfort. POV Kairi, Riku, and Sora.

🌸🌼🌺

How quickly life can change. Like a cool breeze picking up or a slight shift in the scenery, suddenly what you took for granted can be gone in an instant.

“C’mon, Kairi, let’s go!” Sora called. Kairi looked up from her current crafts project: a flower crown with purple asters, white chrysanthemums, blue forget-me-nots, and big red hibiscuses. Those colors were all nice together, but a yellow flower would be a nice addition. Maybe she’d find one as they went exploring.

She tucked the flower crown in her pocket, then grabbed her straw hat and put it on. She wasn’t like Sora and Riku—they tanned easily, especially Sora, but her skin turned red so fast. And then the red turned into dozens and dozens of freckles. Redheads weren’t made for the tropical sun, and brief memories of another place flickered through her mind. A place with a big castle and lots of flowers and waterfalls.

“Coming!” she cried as she stumbled after the boys. They were both so much faster than her, and the sand on the beach was always hard to run on. But presently the ground beneath her feet got more solid, and the boys finally slowed down as the three of them passed through the town and started climbing the hills behind it.

“Where are we going this time?” Sora asked, looking at Riku. Riku always decided what they would do.

Riku grinned and swung his play sword. “It’s a surprise. But I think you’ll like it, Kairi.” He looked at her like he wanted her to say something. Come to think of it, he’d been looking at her a lot lately.

“Oh, are there nice flowers?” she asked, her fingers resting on the flower crown in her pocket. She wanted to finish it as soon as she could.

Riku’s grin got bigger, and his eyes had a teasing glint in them. “Maybe.”

“And pretty scenery?” she pressed. Every part of Destiny Islands was pretty, but Riku always knew the best spots.

“Only the best for you,” Riku said, and Kairi felt a funny feeling blooming in her chest.

Sora frowned, his face twisting into a scowl. “I know some pretty spots too, Kairi,” he said.

Riku rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. The stuff I showed you guys last week,” he said, and Kairi giggled into her hand.

Now Sora was pouting. “That’s not true, I know a lot of nice spots Riku doesn’t know!”

“Prove it, then,” Riku said, and Sora muttered something about how he would. At the branch in the mountain path up ahead, he led them to the right. They followed the path for a little longer until Sora took them off the path and through a clump of trees. On the other side was a beautiful clearing full of wildflowers, perfect for sparring. The sound of running water reached Kairi’s ears. There must be a branch of the river nearby.

“Oh, this is really pretty!” Kairi exclaimed, clasping her hands together. She glanced at Sora, and he grinned and rubbed his cheek.

“Hmmph,” Riku said. It was clear this was a place he hadn’t been before. Either that or he had but hadn’t thought to bring them here.

Sora pulled his wooden sword out. “Wanna fight?” he asked Riku, and at this Riku perked up. He loved the chance to spar with Sora. He pulled his sword out too and moved into an attack stance.

Kairi smoothed her skirts and dutifully sat down on the grass nearby. Sora recklessly charged, and Riku carefully evaded him, then caught him in the back. Sora plunged into a roll and then sprung to his feet. He whirled around so quickly that he caught Riku by surprise, knocking Riku over. But Riku still had a trick up his sleeve; he waited a few seconds, then pushed himself up with his arms, using his momentum to kick Sora with both of his feet. Sora flinched and yelped but still clung to his sword. And so the fight continued with neither of them getting the upper hand. Riku was stronger but Sora was faster, so it wasn’t clear who would win.

After a while, Kairi got kinda bored watching the boys fight. They sparred so often that she felt like she'd seen every combination of tricks they could pull off, and there were some pretty-looking flowers over by the riverbank that she really wanted to pick. She skipped off in the direction of the river. A quick glance over her shoulder told her the boys didn’t even notice because they were so focused on their fight. Smiling to herself, she continued on. She usually enjoyed hanging out with Sora and Riku, but sometimes they were just such…boys. Lately they’d been constantly sparring and competing with each other, even when she wanted to pick flowers or go swimming or make seashell crafts.

Besides, this way she could give them both flowers no matter who won the fight.

The wildflowers along the riverbank were really pretty. Their petals were small and delicate, like little blue bells hanging off the stems. The river sped along nearby, deceptively calm for having such a fast current. Her parents always warned her about not swimming in the water when it looked like that. One wrong move and she would easily get swept under.

Humming, she picked a few more flowers and tucked them into her pockets. She was always careful not to take more than she needed. Only enough for her crafts—the rest she needed to leave behind so there would still be pretty flowers in the future. That was what her parents had taught her. The flowers she did pick would make nice gifts and supplies for her crafts.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a brilliant yellow blossom. It had five petals, and the rounded shape of the petals made it look like a paopu fruit. Kairi’s breath caught. Was this the paopu flower? She’d only seen it a couple times in the wild before, and never in a place she could reach it. It was supposed to be super rare, and she hadn’t expected to see one today.

Which meant she had to pick it. Who knows when she might find one again? Edging towards the riverbank, she thought about who to give it to: Sora, or Riku. A blush crept up her cheeks. You were supposed to give the flower to someone you loved. But who did she love? She wasn’t really sure.

Just…a little further…there. She plucked the flower and smiled, glancing back towards the boys. But the movement threw her balance off, and she gasped and dropped the flower. A clump of earth crumbled beneath her hands, and a root from a nearby tree broke off when she grabbed it. She clutched at something, anything, to keep herself from falling in, but it was too late. With a scream, she tumbled headlong into the cold, fast-moving waters of the river.

🌸🌼🌺

The moment Riku and Sora heard Kairi’s blood-curdling scream and then a loud splash, the boys dropped their swords and raced to the riverbank. Riku knew Kairi was a strong swimmer thanks to his careful lessons (well, and if he had to, he would admit Sora had helped her too), but the river was cold and the current was fast. And if she’d hit her head on anything when she’d fallen…

Riku reached the riverbank first. He yanked his shirt off and threw it on the ground. “Sora, I’m going in!” he called as Sora arrived, panting hard. “Find a branch I can hold onto and pull us out.” Sora nodded, trusting him completely, and with that Riku dove into the icy water. Man, it was cold, and the current was fast, but he had to find Kairi. She hadn’t fallen into the water much earlier than him, but—

There she was, a little further downstream. Her eyes were half-lidded and she was gripping a tree branch, but as he watched in horror, her hand went limp and she slipped back into the water.

“KAIRI!” he shouted, then swam to her as fast as he could. This couldn't be the end of her. He wouldn't let it be. Ever since she had washed up on the shores of the Destiny Islands eight years ago, his life hadn't been the same. She'd been shy and quiet at first, her eyes always gazing off into the distance like she was searching for someone she couldn't find, but that was before she’d opened up to them. They were all friends now, and the thought of never hearing her giggle or seeing her smile or watching her eyes light up when he surprised her made his stomach churn and drove him to reach her. He had to see the way her eyes danced and her smile got playful when she teased him and Sora again. He just had to.

Faster, he had to go faster. His senses sharpened, and his feelings were as clear as the river rushing to take her away from him: he couldn't bear for her to slip out of his life just as suddenly as she'd entered it. Her head briefly popped out of the water again, and relief flooded him at the side of her familiar red hair. He reached towards her, he was almost there, just a little farther—

“Kairi, grab my hand!” he shouted.

She latched onto his arm with far more strength than he expected, and he knew Sora had to act quickly, or they would both drown. In her desperate state, Kairi wouldn't remember to avoid dragging Riku under the water with her. It was something all parents told their children on Destiny Islands, and the warning rang clear through Riku's mind.

“Riku, grab the stick!”

Never had he been so relieved to hear his best friend's voice. Sora had tied himself to a tree with some spare rope and was holding out a tree branch to him, his eyes filled with panic and worry. Riku grabbed on, and the unwanted thought flashed through his mind that Sora might not be strong enough to pull them both out. He was still pretty scrawny and small. But a determined glint was in his friend’s eyes now, and Sora braced himself and pulled with far more strength than Riku thought he was capable of. The muscles in his arms strained and shook, and he gritted his teeth and groaned loudly, but he refused to let go. For a split second, Riku thought he saw a blond boy several years older than him in Sora's place, but then he was gone and it was just Sora. Slowly, inch by inch, he pulled Riku and Kairi out of the river.

Sheesh. Riku must've been seeing things with how stressed out he was. He turned his attention to Kairi. She gasped and coughed, and at last enough of Riku was on the bank to pull and drag her the rest of the way up. She was shivering, soaking wet, and now covered in mud from the bank, but she was alive. He suddenly felt very, very weak, and as he glanced at Sora, he was shocked to see tears dripping down his cheeks.

“Thank goodness,” Sora said, sniffing and rubbing his red eyes, his voice filled with relief. “I thought I was gonna lose you both.”

Riku was irritated at how much of a crybaby Sora was being. Again. Seriously, he'd been such a crybaby ever since they were kids, and even at twelve years old, he still cried shamelessly in front of other people. Then Riku was annoyed at how little faith Sora had in him. Did Sora really think he wouldn't save Kairi?

But when Sora smiled at them both and knelt to hug them, all of that melted away.

We really matter that much to him, don't we? A pang of guilt shot through Riku at how he'd been treating Sora lately. Putting him down in front of Kairi to try to impress her. Goading him and teasing him when he reacted and got upset. Turning everything into a competition because a tiny, green-eyed voice deep down wondered if Kairi liked Sora more.

Not that Sora noticed. The idiot was still so oblivious to his own feelings, let alone Kairi’s.

But Riku didn't push Sora away or tell him not to hug them. He didn't like how clingy Sora was being, but after what they’d all just been through, he would allow Sora to be clingy. Just this once.

“Kairi, you’re as cold as ice,” Sora said. He pulled away from them and frowned. He was right. When Riku touched her arm, it was way colder than it should've been. She coughed and wouldn't stop shivering, and when Sora said her name again, she didn't respond.

“Kairi, wake up,” Sora begged, but she still wouldn't respond.

“I think she needs to see a doctor,” Riku said. “Hang on, let me grab my shirt so you can put it over her, then I'll go get her parents.”

He found his shirt upriver a little ways away from them, right where he’d left it, and brought it back. He tossed it to Sora and took off running, following the path of the river. He had to make it back to town as quickly as possible. But he was tired, so tired from going after Kairi. Would she really be okay? If only he were stronger, he could carry her all the way back to her parents or to the doctor himself.

Another pang of guilt shot through him. He needed more strength. More strength to protect her. His body was growing every day, but it still wasn't fast enough or strong enough. He still had to rely on adults for help. One day, he would have the strength to protect his friends himself. He had to.

The thought urged him forward even as his legs ached and his lungs burned. Strength, to protect what matters. That was what he wanted, more than anything else.

🌸🌼🌺

Sora didn't know what to do. Even though he’d wrapped Riku’s shirt around Kairi, she kept getting colder and colder. She wasn't responding to him anymore, like she'd fallen into a deep deep sleep. She was still breathing, but her face was as pale as a ghost’s.

His heart was thundering in his chest, and his head swam. His arms ached from lifting Riku and Kairi out of the water, and he felt so useless. What good was it that he'd gotten her out of the water if she died here?

“Riku, hurry," he pleaded, but he knew he had to do something before his friend returned with help. It would still be a while yet before anyone else came. So he pulled Kairi close to his body and held her tight, hoping with all his heart that his warmth would make her body warm up again.

This was the closest he'd ever been to her, but all he could think about was how cold she was, how limp she was, how he wanted nothing more than for her to open her eyes again. Her eyes were so pretty. Blue like the sea with just a hint of purple, her favorite color. How did he not notice how pretty they were before? And now she might never open them again.

“Wake up, please,“ he begged, and the words sounded strangled and choked. “Kairi, you have to open your eyes!”

How could he have been so stupid? The thought of losing her made him realize just how much she meant to him. She was such an important part of his life, woven into so many memories as tightly as she wove her flower crowns and daisy chains together into beautiful creations. He couldn't imagine the future without her. In his mind, he'd arrogantly acted like she would always be there. But today had shown him he couldn't ever take a single moment with her for granted.

So he willed with all his heart that she would live, that his warmth would be enough. If it was, he would be sure to treasure every memory with her from now on.

After what was probably only minutes but felt like hours of agonized waiting, her skin felt ever so slightly warmer. At first he thought it was his overactive imagination, but no, a slight flush had returned to her cheeks. He gripped her even more tightly. A minute passed, and then another, and at last she stirred and opened her eyes.

“Sora?” she said weakly. Her voice sounded more like the croaks of the frogs they liked to catch in the pool on the Play Island, but to him it was the most wonderful sound in the world.

“You're awake!” He smiled, and in that moment he thought his heart would leap out of his chest. A warm, tingly sensation tumbled through him, but it wasn't a bad feeling. Just exciting and new. He would think about it later.

She smiled back. “You saved me. Thank you.”

He couldn't help himself. He hugged her tightly, and a moment later, he felt her arms wrapping around him. This was a very different hug from the quick hug he’d given her and Riku earlier. She was close, closer than she'd ever been, and something stirred deep inside him. His face, no, his entire body felt warm. He’d never been so aware of his body like this before, let alone hers. He was embarrassed by what he was feeling, but at the same time, he didn't want to let go of her either. It was like he couldn't move and didn't want to. She wasn't pulling away either. Did she like hugging him? He sure liked hugging her.

What was all this? He’d never felt like this before. Before he could make heads or tails of it, Riku returned with the grownups.

The look on Riku's face was strange. Like Sora had just said something awful and punched him. Sora felt oddly…guilty. Like he shouldn't be hugging Kairi like this in front of Riku, even though it felt better than he could've imagined. So he pulled away from her even though he could've sat there hugging her for hours.

“Kairi, are you okay?" her mother asked, holding a blanket out to her daughter. The grownups took over from that point, and Sora just sort of watched everything in a daze.

Until Kairi wondered whose T-shirt she was wearing, and Riku shyly said that it was his. Kairi thanked him and tried to give it back to him, her cheeks pink as she avoided looking at his bare chest. Riku shook his head and insisted she keep it, and his cheeks were flushed too.

Sora felt like someone had kicked him in the gut. The breeze that had felt pleasant earlier felt cold now. Like the world was strange and different and off kilter because he knew something he wished he didn't.

He understood now why Riku had given him that strange look. A tiny green-eyed monster reared its ugly head inside him. A creature of shadow that whispered Kairi's mine. Sora pushed the creature deep down to where he couldn't hear it anymore. Kairi wasn't a possession to own, she was a person. She was his friend. How could he even think something like that?

But a part of him didn't want her hugging anyone else the way she'd hugged him. And that part of him did not like the way she had looked at Riku, or the way Riku had looked at her.

Sora had stepped into a storybook he didn't want to be any part of. Riku was his best friend. Kairi was also his friend. He didn't want to hurt Riku, and he couldn't bear to watch Kairi smile at Riku or blush because of something Riku had said or giggle because of something Riku had done. He had the funny sense that the little green-eyed monster would grow bigger and stronger every time she did.

So when the grownups took Kairi back to the town, Sora stayed behind. She looked disappointed but didn't argue, and he promised he'd see her tomorrow. Now he was wandering back and forth by the river and kicking clumps of grass. He didn't think he could be around Riku or Kairi right now. He was relieved she was okay, but he had no idea what was going on with himself. The three of them were friends. They would always be friends. Right?

He wanted everything to go back to the way it was. Things had been fine this morning. Sure, Riku liked to tease him, and Kairi liked to tease him too, but he knew where his place was in that world. This new world, with these confusing new feelings? He had no idea. All he was sure of was that he wanted to hug Kairi again like that, but he didn't want to hurt Riku's feelings. And he knew that if Kairi ever hugged Riku the way she had hugged him, the monster might destroy him from the inside.

Not that he could ever let either of them know that. All of this felt so wrong and so complicated.

He wandered over to the spot where Kairi had fallen in the river. A yellow flower with five petals caught his eye. Huh. The rounded shape of the petals kinda made it look like a paopu fruit. He picked it up and carefully tucked it in his pocket. It was a nice flower, and for some reason, he felt like it should stay with him. Maybe it was a token of good luck that had kept Kairi safe. He would take it home and put it in a vase. That would help it live for a while longer.

As he walked home, the future didn't seem so scary anymore. Those strange thoughts he had had earlier, those weird new feelings…it all felt a little silly now. He and Riku and Kairi would always be friends. He put his hands behind his neck and whistled as he walked the path home.

A tiny part of him, not the little green-eyed monster but something smaller and more delicate and yet harder to kill, hoped that someday, Kairi would hug him again like that, and that Riku wouldn't hate him for it.

🌸🌼🌺

The next day, Kairi was feeling much better. A good night’s sleep, her mother's miso soup, and the day off from school had worked wonders. Still, that had been an awfully close call, and she promised her parents never to do something so foolish again just to try to get a flower.

She sighed sadly. She'd been so close to having a legendary paopu flower of her own. Imagine what she could've done with it! Oh well. It certainly wasn't worth her life, and she knew she would find another one eventually.

The weather was perfect today. She happily skipped down the path to the main part of town, enjoying the beautiful scenery. Her father was the mayor, and her family lived in a big special house on a hill overlooking the town. Sora and Riku's families lived in town, so it was a bit of a walk to reach them, but she didn't mind.

She decided to stop by Sora's house first. It was a little closer, and he'd acted strange after their hug yesterday, and she wanted to know why. He’d gotten all quiet and thoughtful, which wasn't like him at all. She was a little bummed out he hadn't walked her home along with the grownups and Riku. But he’d said he wanted to stay behind a little longer, and she’d been too tired to argue.

She knocked on the door, then rocked up and down on her heels as she waited for him to answer, her hands behind her back. His mom opened the door instead and invited her in, and she greeted her politely and took off her shoes. Then she took the stairs two at a time and burst into his room. He was lying on his bed with his hands behind his neck, and he sat up, surprise written on his features until he realized it was her. His face lit up and then softened into a smile.

“Hey, Kairi! I'm glad you're feeling better.”

She tilted her head and leaned closer, which made his breath catch in an adorable way and a flush creep up his cheeks. “It's all thanks to you and—“

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a brilliant yellow blossom carefully placed in a simple glass vase on his bedside table. It had five round petals, and Kairi’s breath caught. Was this the paopu flower she’d picked yesterday?

“Sora, where did you find that flower?”

He grinned. “Oh, that? It's pretty, isn't it? I found it on the riverbank yesterday and brought it home because I liked it.” He paused for a moment, studying her face. “Do you want it?”

She just stared at him for a few moments. You were supposed to give the flower to someone you loved. By fate or by chance, the flower had made its way to Sora. And in that moment, her feelings became crystal clear. The flower was a sign, but it hadn’t made up her mind. No, it was simply confirmation of what she already knew, deep down inside her heart.

She was very grateful to Riku for saving her from the river and for his friendship over the years, and like every other girl on the islands, she thought he was attractive, so of course she had blushed at seeing him shirtless yesterday. But she'd also realized something very important, something that had taken her by complete surprise.

Sora was the one she had a crush on. Sora. On paper she should prefer Riku. He was older, he was more mature, he was stronger and faster and good-looking. So why didn't she like him like that?

The answer was Sora. As she gazed at him, her heart grew warm and a blush spread across her cheeks. She couldn't stop thinking about the tender way he’d hugged her yesterday. How safe and gentle his arms were. How he had warmed her cold, shivering body up. The smile on his face that was meant only for her. It had lit up his eyes when she woke up and transformed his entire appearance. And his eyes were so pretty. How had she never noticed before? They were as blue as the sky at midday without a cloud to shroud them. She loved his messy mop of spiky brown hair and his dorky clothes, too.

He was so brave and kind and goodhearted. Finding the strength from deep in his heart to rescue both her and Riku from the river, even though it must've been really difficult to pull them both out of it.

Sora was a good person. And knowing he was a good person, that he would go to any length to save her, painted him in a different light. Or maybe she was finally seeing what had been there all along.

She suddenly felt bad about the look on his face yesterday when she’d tried to give Riku back his T-shirt. He looked so hurt in a way she hadn't ever seen before, but he’d quickly masked it. Was it possible he was jealous? The thought sent a little thrill through her.

He had nothing to be jealous of. The paopu flower was only confirmation of something that had been growing and growing until today it had burst into bloom. Its yellow petals cast everything in a different light, like rays of the sun showing her Sora’s true self.

He tilted his head, a faint smile twitching at his lips. “Kairi? Everything okay?”

“Yes, sorry! I just got lost in thought, that's all.”

He just shook his head and grinned. “And you give me such a hard time about daydreaming,” he teased, putting his hands behind his neck. Then his expression softened and he lowered them. “But seriously, do you want the flower? You can have it.”

“Oh! No, no I want you to keep it. It suits you, and it suits that spot on the window.”

Still…The fact that he’d offered her the flower…was that confirmation he had feelings for her, too?

No, he didn't know what it meant. She wasn't even sure he knew what his feelings were. But maybe one day he would. And then maybe he would tell her.

“Okay!” He glanced out the window looking out over the area in front of the house, where Riku was now waiting for them. “C’mon, Riku’s here.”

“I'll be right down,” she told him. With that he took off and clambered down the stairs while she lingered, staring in awe at the flower. It had found its way to Sora like it was supposed to and had revealed her feelings to her. Her heart.

This was all so strange and sudden and new. She needed time to think, to process her feelings before she went downstairs and joined the boys. A blush crept up her face, and she giggled into her hand. Sora! She liked Sora! Selphie would tease her endlessly about it if she knew.

But she didn't have to know yet. For now, this was Kairi's precious, private secret. She didn't have to tell anyone until she was ready. How this would all unfold was uncertain, but these new feelings were wonderful, and she would treasure them in her heart just like she treasured Sora in her heart.

And, when the time was right, she would tell him. Glancing at the flower one final time, she knew how she would do it. It was all in the flower’s namesake. She descended the stairs with a smile, looking forward to the day her daydreaming would become a reality.

🌸🌼🌺

A/N: Happy birthday to @hollypollly! 🥳 She gave me a very detailed prompt and outline for the story which was a lot of fun to write ❤️ Thank you so much for everything, Holley, and I hope you have a wonderful day and a fantastic year ❤️ I'm really grateful we met, and I'm glad you're a part of my life 🥺❤️

And thank you all for reading ❤️ I really enjoyed exploring how each of the characters felt in this situation because I do think they would all be feeling conflicting emotions, and it was fun to put that Ventus cameo in there too. I also really enjoyed exploring the world of Destiny Islands more and expounding on the paopu flower concept Holley came up with. Hope you all enjoyed!

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 2: Roses and Forget-Me-Nots]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence and murder, bodily injury, Aemond needs comfort, Helaena needs to make a choice, Aegon needs revenge, Red needs stitches.

Word count: 6.4k

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Too much to drink, blood on your teeth; you stumbled going up the Grand Staircase and bit your lip and now all you can taste is warm copper. It’s the past, but the recent past. Viserys isn’t dead yet, but not far from it either, an unquiet ghost who groans from rooms cloudy with incense. Criston oversees Aemond’s training and Grandsire sits the Iron Throne when petitioners come begging for relief from taxes or the requisitioning of their livestock. Helaena plays with her children in the garden. Larys Strong dwells in shadowy corners of rooms, lurking, listening. Mother lights candles for her husband in the sept, tries to forgive herself for being so repulsed by him she shivers when her skin brushes his and comes away damp from the weeping sores.

It’s Criston’s nameday, and the court is celebrating as if it is a prince’s. Mother has ordered the kitchen to prepare his favorite foods—lamb marinated with figs and blood oranges, a myriad of olives, spiced wine, roasted eggplant, dragon peppers stuffed with cheese and onions—and the musicians to play Dornish ballads. In the midst of the festivities in the Great Hall, Aemond has been pulled aside by Grandsire to discuss a pressing concern: an idea, proposed by Master of Ships Tyland Lannister, to split the royal treasury and hide it in several different locations should a war of succession break out after Viserys’ death. No one knows what will happen when Father dies. Everybody is moving invisible pieces on an imaginary board, trying to convince themselves they are prepared.

Now the hour is late and guests are vanishing, and everyone seems to be drunk, the world warm and spinning, and you are going to your chambers to wait for Aemond. What you have together is new and exhilarating, and your pulse is thudding in your ears as you stagger down the hallway. You are going to take off all your clothes and wait for him in bed beneath blankets Helaena has stitched with red bats. If Aemond asked you for everything tonight, you’d give it; but you’re beginning to like his idea to wait. You will never fly a dragon into battle like Aegon the Conqueror’s wives, but this is one war you and Aemond can fight together: thwarting all other matches, at last claiming a victory that the realm must witness. Aemond wants a Valyrian wedding ceremony. He has no fear of your blood.

You are passing Helaena’s chambers when you hear muffled voices inside, things you should not listen to but are too drunk to politely ignore. Helaena is whimpering quietly. Aegon says, sounding like he is close to tears: “I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m almost done…”

You should leave, but you don’t. You are trapped there by the poison that slows your thoughts, by the horror that blooms in you like roses, thorny and maroon. You’ve never had to experience intimacy that feels like a violation. You never will. And you’re the only one of Alicent’s children that’s true for: Aemond’s first experiences were with a middle-aged prostitute on the Street of Silk, something Aegon mistook for a favor; Daeron will have to bed a Baratheon girl he barely knows.

After a few minutes the door opens, and there is Aegon swimming in a white nightshirt stained with red wine. He startles when he sees you, then averts his watery eyes. He is ashamed. He says weakly, his hair hanging in his face: “I try to make it good for her.”

“I know you do.”

“She loves the children,” Aegon explains, although you haven’t asked. “She wants more, and she understands how that happens. Now I only lie with her when she invites me. But that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. I just don’t want you to think that I’m…I’m…that I’m a monster.”

You shake your head, profoundly sad. “No, Aegon.”

“How do you not get…?” He rubs his own soft belly, then makes an arc through the air, miming a pregnancy. “We’re fertile stock. And I can’t imagine Mother allowing Orwyle to ply you with moon tea.”

You smile faintly. “We don’t do that, just everything else.”

A raised eyebrow; Aegon is intrigued. “Really? How adventurous. I’m surprised. About Aemond, not so much you.”

“We’re saving it until after our wedding. Something to look forward to.”

“Unless Grandsire and Mother eventually succeed in marrying you off to a painfully uninteresting, Andal-blooded lord with a formidable army or some nice ships or whatever.”

“And then Aemond will murder him.”

Aegon laughs, recedes again and becomes remote, goes out to sea like low tide. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? My marriage is built on obligation, and yours will be the opposite.”

You say like a confession, something you seek forgiveness for: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

“No, no, I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…I mean…” He sighs, then looks at you, dazed drunk childlike honesty. “You and Aemond being miserable wouldn’t make my life better. I have no wish to disrupt your happiness.”

You don’t know how to respond. Aegon doesn’t expect you to. He gives you a drowsy little smirk, then meanders down the hallway. When he spots a maid, he snaps his fingers at her and orders: “Draw a bath for the queen.”

You retreat to your own chambers, where you walk right past your bed—you now feel no desire at all to creep naked into it—and kneel beside the roost by the open window. Most of the bats you call your babies are out flying, but Kingfisher clings to the dark blue velvet you keep draped over the large wooden box. He peers at you with clever black eyes, his ears perked straight up, and when you offer your palm Kingfisher scrambles into it. You pet him as your thoughts wander, slow, dizzy, morose.

Aemond breezes into the room, first swift and famished, then bewildered as he nears you. “Why are you sad?” And then, because he gets glimpses into your mind as well: “Something with Aegon.”

You shrug, not looking away from Kingfisher. You are trying not to cry. “I just wish the world was different.”

Aemond stares at you for a while. And you’re a little afraid, because if he grabs you and you tell him to stop, you don’t know if he’ll listen. But Aemond doesn’t grab you at all. Instead after a moment he says: “I’ll be right back,” and he leaves your bedchamber. He must go all the way to the kitchen across the courtyard of the Red Keep, because when he reappears he is carrying a small glass jar with a piece of honeycomb inside. He sits down beside you and opens the jar, wets his fingertips with honey, and holds them out to Kingfisher so he can lick them clean.

You smile at Aemond. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he motions for you to dip your fingers in the honey too, and together you feed Kingfisher and watch the others swoop and glide outside, snatching insects from the starlit air like stolen coins.

The only time Aemond touches you that night is to thread your long, silver braid through his hands; and why did you ever begin wearing your hair in a braid at all? Because you heard the reverence in his voice when he told you about Aegon the Conqueror’s wife Visenya.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now you are on the floor of your bedchamber crushing seashells, and the afternoon light cascades in hot and golden, a day that feels more like midsummer than autumn. With each whack of your tiny steel hammer—a gift from Criston on your nameday several years past—a shell breaks into irregular shards to be arranged on the board and then glued down; you have a jar filled with paste made from boiled animal bones and a paintbrush to apply it with. You collect and boil the bones yourself. Helaena and the children went with you to the beach to search for shells this morning, an arduous task as you were on the hunt for rare specimens: blue to mimic Tessarion’s scales. This mosaic is for Mother, a vision of Daeron to hang on her bedroom wall. He was sent away so he might turn out differently from the rest of you, but he will be home again soon. The Hightower army is marching across the Reach to King’s Landing, your youngest brother and his dragon safeguarding it from above.

You don’t have to be in the small council chamber to know that Grandsire rails against Aemond, that Criston struggles to defend him. Killing Luke was a disastrous mistake, no sane person could disagree. Now they debate how to proceed. Grandsire writes his letters: to the Lannisters, to the Baratheons, to the Triarchy. Aemond sees to the gathering of soldiers and supplies, moving tokens around the map laid open on a table in his bedchamber. Aegon wants to fly into battle. Criston tries to negotiate between them, and relays their feuds to Mother. Larys Strong shares the whispers he has heard of the Blacks’ machinations: Rhaenyra sick with grief and struggling to manage her forces from Dragonstone, Daemon abandoning her to take the haunted castle of Harrenhal in the Riverlands. Rhaenyra is a weak queen, and the Rogue Prince cannot stomach bowing to her.

You drop the steel hammer again—whack!—and as the cobalt-colored seashell shatters, Aemond steps into your bedchamber and closes the door behind him. He takes off his sword and his dagger, leaves them on the dresser, then drops to the floor and crawls on his hands and knees to you. He grabs your ankles and drags you under him; you giggle as your hammer tumbles out of your grasp and you wrap your legs around Aemond, pulling him in closer.

Aemond kisses you insatiably, his tongue parting your lips, his long silver hair spilling down to the floor. Then he says: “I have to go away.”

You know this has to happen. He has trained all his life for war, and now it is here. “For how long?”

“A week, maybe. Or a month, or a year. Nobody knows.”

“A year?” You’ve never been away from him for more than a few nights at a time. It is impossible to imagine.

Aemond takes off his eyepatch and flings it aside. His sapphire eye—cold, sharp, glittering fire—unnerves others, but to you it is a talisman of his faithfulness. In the boardgame you played as children, you were always the red bat and Aemond the blue wolf. It was a game of ambition, of cruelty, but sometimes mercy as well, and there were always exactly five players until Mother sent Daeron away to Oldtown. Blue is Aemond’s place in the family. He is cunning, he is arrogant, he is difficult at times…but he knows where he belongs. He would cease to exist without the rest of you. “Rhaenyra is bedbound on Dragonstone,” Aemond says, skating his thumb across your cheek. “Still recovering from childbirth and broken by Luke’s death. Daemon is far away in the Riverlands doing gods know what, there are rumors he’s taken up with some girl there. Now is the time to bring the Crownlands under Green control. House Thorne is already with us, next we will take Massey, Bar Emmon, Rosby, Stokeworth, Byrch, Harte, Hayford, Staunton, and Darklyn. They will bend the knee to Aegon, or they will burn. Rhaenyra will be encircled, and then we can do whatever we want with her.”

“What about the Celtigars of Claw Isle? They are Valyrians, they should honor tradition. The firstborn son always inherits. And Rhaenyra has defiled the bloodline with her Strong boys.”

“They must not see it that way. I’ve heard Bartimos Celtigar is her Master of Coin.”

“Traitors,” you hiss, and Aemond beams and kisses your forehead.

“Don’t worry, I have plans for them. Crabs are delicious when boiled alive.”

So Caraxes is at Harrenhal, Syrax is unable to be ridden and not inclined towards battle anyway, Vermax and Moondancer are both too small to be much of a threat to a dragon as ferocious as Sunfyre, let alone Vhagar… “Where is Meleys?”

Aemond chuckles. “Rhaenys won’t strike on her own. She doesn’t have the courage.”

“She might now that you’ve killed her grandson.” A pause. “Alleged grandson.”

“Luke wasn’t her blood, but Baela and Rhaena are. I’m sure she wants to live to see them grow up. I can’t imagine her flying to war for Rhaenyra and Daemon, the people who murdered Laenor so they could fuck on his grave.”

“He was buried at sea.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“I wish I could help,” you tell Aemond, feeling small and fragile, feeling worthless. If you had a dragon, you could follow him into battle like Visenya.

“Not everyone is meant to have wings,” Aemond says gently, and you wonder—as you have countless times before—if part of him is glad that he’ll always know that you are exactly where he left you, that you’ll always be defenseless. Then he distracts you. “Do you remember how you chased Vermithor all over Dragonstone?”

Of course you do: a trip to the mist-swept volcanic rock arranged while Rhaenyra and Daemon were travelling elsewhere, Grandsire fervently hoping that one of the wild dragons would bond to you and add to the Greens’ arsenal. None of them did, not even the Bronze Fury, the beast you had dreamed of riding as a girl, whose stories gave you a sensation like flying, like falling. “I wanted him so badly.”

“And to show his appreciation, he almost incinerated you.”

You smile up at Aemond, touching the scar that cuts down the left half of his face. After his maiming on Driftmark, he developed a phobia of needles. If he saw Helaena embroidering, he would become nauseous and unsteady on his feet. So he had the maesters teach him how to stitch wounded flesh, and after months of bloody observation and practice he was cured. He is not a man who lets others break him. He makes himself whole again, one brick at a time. “You saved me.”

“I couldn’t have you reduced to charred bones. I like you warm…and wet…and willful.”

Aemond wrenches you over and onto your belly, presses his hips against yours, crushes you into the floor with his weight. His left hand covers yours, your fingers interweaving; his right hand slides under your waist and stops between your legs, stroking you through your scarlet gown. You move with him, laughing, moaning, feeling the chill of the stone floor bleed into your skin.

Aemond whispers: “I need to be inside you.”

It’s a statement that is actually a question; he’s asking for permission. No, he’s begging for it. But you want the same thing. He’ll be gone soon, for a week or a month or a year. “Then do it.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

He lets you up and as he takes off his tunic and trousers, you crawl into your bed, a crimson canopy, curtains that billow in the wind blowing off the ocean. Now Aemond is here too and he’s tearing off your gown so he can possess you: not the sort of coupling that could result in a child, the other way. It’s a sin, of course, but so is incest, and so is murder, and so are pride and envy and wrath, and so at this point what’s one more transgression tossed onto the heap? You aren’t sure if you believe in the Faith of the Seven anyway. Rhaenyra is one of the most immoral people you can think of, and yet she has been abundantly blessed until now: married to the man of her design, absolved of all wrongdoing by Viserys. Why would the Seven shower gifts upon Rhaenyra while your own mother is so cursed? If they exist, they must be brutal masters.

You are lying on your belly on the soft feather mattress, reaching back to touch Aemond’s face and his hair as his lips claim your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. You lift your hips so he can reach under you more easily, where wetness is pooling for him. His right hand caresses you with rough, insistent motions, making you ravenous and breathless, making you need him. With his left hand, he slips two fingers effortlessly inside; and then, once they are slick and dripping, he pulls them out and travels farther back. There is pressure, resistance, and then: a glorious, forbidden fulness that draws a moan from deep in your throat. Your fingernails bite into your pillows, your body moves in time with Aemond as his fingers thrust into you, first slowly and cautiously and then faster as he feels your muscles relax around him.

“Now,” you plead helplessly.

“Not yet.”

“I’m ready, I promise.”

“No, no, you’re not,” he purrs, and when you turn your face to his, he kisses you in a way that is slovenly, bestial, natural like the dark moist earth or the sea. No one else would understand this. No one else will ever need to.

Aemond’s fingers work on you until there is hardly any tension, then he yanks open the drawer of your nightstand to get the jar of Dornish olive oil he keeps there for exactly this reason. He drenches himself with it—his hardness, his thickness, his length—and spills oil all over the sheets in the process. Then he settles behind you again. It was your idea to try this the first time, one humid sunlit morning when you were desperate for each other, when you had an emptiness inside you his fingers alone could not cure. You needed him closer, just like you do now. And your climax was so intense it felt like it would snap your bones and unspool your muscles like loose threads.

As Aemond’s right hand strokes you—coaxing you closer, flooding your bloodstream with sweltering riptide lust—he positions himself and pushes in slowly, so so slowly, and at first there is a burning like there always is, but the oil eases his entry and your muscles are swift to accommodate him, they are supple and trained, and as he fills you there is an indescribable intensity as his heat melds with yours, and when you are this close to him it’s like you can feel everything he’s feeling, hear every thought that flits through his mind, and he knows exactly when to pause to give you more time, when to begin again, until he is all the way inside and he moans and rests his head between your shoulder blades, drinking you in through his lungs and his pores, his long silver hair whispering over your ribs.

When Aemond is sure he can last, he moves in you carefully, divinely. The fingers of his right hand—still circling, still pressing against you with commanding force—have you panting and powerless. It’s overwhelming, the fullness, the closeness, the warm blossoming euphoria…and if you’re sore tomorrow, you won’t care. Aemond could be gone by then.

“Harder,” you plead.

“No, Red, no, I’ll hurt you.”

Your hips quicken the rhythm, jolting back against him, and as Aemond gasps—taken by surprise, trying not to finish yet—a torrent like a wave of scalding blood rolls through you, and instead of dissipating to a froth like seafoam it keeps going, unraveling you, ruining you, until you can’t stand it anymore, and your spine and ribcage ache, and there is pain where Aemond is thrusting into you as he shudders and cries out in a low rasping voice midway between ecstasy and agony, like someone has buried a blade in him, like maybe he’s dying.

“Enough,” you sigh, and Aemond knows what that means. He withdrawals from you, gingerly and very, very slowly. Then he rolls you onto your back as you gasp for air, staring up at the distorted afternoon shadows on the ceiling. He kisses the side of your face again and again, murmuring through your hair in High Valyrian. Has Aemond ever said that he loves you? Not that you can remember. He acts as if he does, but still…sometimes you wonder.

When your pulse is calm again and the sweat cooling on your belly and your chest, Aemond rises and shuffles to the door, still naked. He opens the door and looks out into the hallway until he spies a maid and beckons her over. You see her silhouette just beyond the threshold.

“Fresh linens for the bed,” he says. “And a bath.”

“Yes, my prince.” The maid peeks in to where you are naked on the oil-stained sheets, and you cannot find it in yourself to act shy or ashamed. You aren’t. You smile wickedly at her and she skitters away, blushing and wide-eyed.

You loll together in a hot bath—Aemond drifting off as he leans against the back of the tub, you dozing with your head on his chest as soap bubbles pop in your hair—then he just barely manages to throw on some nightclothes and stagger back into your bed, not wanting his own room but yours, and he is asleep in just minutes. Outside the sun is setting and the sky is turning from flames to indigo, and the bats are venturing out of their roost to feed. You spend a while with them and then, starving, leave Aemond to rest while you go down to the kitchen to scavenge a plate of dinner, something hearty and satiating: bread, butter, venison pie, an apple tart, a pint of ale. You eat alone in the garden as your bats circle overhead. The members of the small council—with the exception of Aemond, dead to the world—are dining together, and Mother is eating with Helaena. You are avoiding Mother for now; after you and Aemond have sinned, you always feel like she can smell it on you, or see it, or hear the echoes of your moans, and there is such pitiful disappointment on her face you cannot bear to meet her eyes. She deserved a different husband, and children who she could recognize as her own.

When you return to Maegor’s Holdfast, you pass Aegon as he is trotting down the Grand Staircase, a goblet of wine in his hand and escorted by Sir Willis Fell. Aegon grins at you and says: “Aemond is practically comatose. You’ve exhausted him.”

“Well, he does most of the work,” you reply mischievously. “Where are you going?”

“To get my armor fitted. Aemond will have to have his finished tomorrow, I suppose. If he’s recovered by then. Try to keep him off you for a few hours, I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“I’ll let him know about the armor. But I don’t think he’ll want to wear it in the saddle.”

“Try to convince him. It could shield him from dragonfire in combat.”

“Right,” you say, and all at once your mood plummets, because this is real: the war is descending like a storm and your brothers must fight in it, must leave you, must risk their lives. Aegon waves goodbye and strides off to the armory across the courtyard of the Red Keep, Sir Willis Fell in tow and looking disturbed but trying not to show it.

Upstairs, Helaena is in the hallway with her children, and you can tell she’s overwhelmed by them: Maelor is yowling in her arms, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera both shouting and tugging at the skirt of her lemon-colored gown. Helaena is looking around for someone, perhaps a maid; uncharacteristically, she is unable to find one.

“Well hello there!” you say, kneeling and opening your arms so the twins can barrel into you. “What are we playing, huh? Hide and seek? Chase? Tame the dragon?”

“We’re trying to find Aemond!” Jaehaerys answers exuberantly.

“Oh, is that right?” You glance at Helaena, and she smiles awkwardly and shrugs. She must know where he is and is attempting to distract them so he can sleep.

She says, a bit flustered: “Mother went to the small council chamber after dinner, and the maid…I don’t know where she’s disappeared to all the sudden…”

“It’s alright, I’ll help them find Aemond.”

“Really?!” Jaehaera says, overjoyed.

“Of course!” Then you wink at Helaena, and she is relieved. “Let’s go check his bedchamber.”

“But we’re not allowed in there,” Jaehaerys says uncertainly.

And no, they usually aren’t; Aemond has too many relics they might break or maps they could rip or stain or knock his tokens off of. “It’s okay if I go with you. I’ll make sure we don’t touch anything important.”

“Yay!” the twins yell together, and then Maelor joins them between chomps on his own fingers, even though the details of the expedition elude him.

You swish in your gown—a pale drained pink, your wet hair in a fresh braid—towards Aemond’s rooms. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera dash after you, and Helaena trails behind them carrying Maelor. You hold the door open so the children and Helaena can enter, then follow them into Aemond’s bedchamber. The hearth is lit and crackling; papers litter his desks and tables, the wooden shelves are heavy with books. Mosaics you’ve made since childhood freckle the stone walls like birthmarks. You pick up a candle, light it in the fireplace, and begin igniting wicks around the room so the children will have more light. Helaena sets Maelor down so he can wobble after his siblings.

“Aemond, where are you?” Jaehaerys calls with a beaming smile.

You say: “Let’s check in the closets, and under the bed, and behind the curtains—” Then you scream and drop the candle, because there is a man in this room, and he has lunged out from the shadows. He traps you against the wall with a blade at your throat. Another man—huge, broad, towering—has cornered Helaena and the children. He holds a butcher’s cleaver in one monstrous fist. Blood drips from it in dark, viscous threads down to the floor.

He nods to Helaena and tells you: “Scream again and I’ll put this through her windpipe, and we can watch her try to learn how to breathe blood.”

You shake your head franticly. “I won’t scream, I swear I won’t.” You are thinking: Criston and Grandsire and Mother are in the small council chamber, and Aegon is in the armory, and Aemond is sleeping so deeply he can’t be roused…so who is going to save us? Who the fuck is going to walk in and stop this?

“Quiet,” the large man growls at the children. “No noise or Mummy dies.”

“Jewels,” Helaena says, taking off her necklace and earrings. The children cling to her, trembling and sniffling, weeping but trying not to make a sound. “We can give you these.”

“We’re not here for jewels, you dumb bitch,” the smaller man sneers. “We’re here for a boy. A son for a son.”

“No,” you whisper, realizing what he means.

“Aemond killed Lucerys Velaryon,” the large man says. “We’re here to kill Aemond. But Aemond doesn’t seem to be around at the moment, is he? Fortunately, any son of the Greens will do.”

Helaena shoves the children behind her, shielding them with her willowy body. From the Dragonpit, you hear Dreamfyre’s shrill screeches. “You can have me instead.”

“You’re not a son.”

“So which one do you choose?” the small man asks Helaena, raking the point of his blade back and forth across the front of your throat, leaving shallow nicks that glow sharp and searing.

Helaena doesn’t answer—she can’t, of course she can’t—and so the large man reaches around her and drags out Jaehaerys and Maelor. He pushes them to the floor and they cower there, clasping each other and tears streaming down their cheeks. There’s a dead maid over by the bed, you notice, the same one who saw you naked in bed earlier; she must have had the misfortune of stumbling upon the intruders. There is a gaping black hole in the wall on the opposite end of the room, the entrance to a secret passageway to the beach, an escape hatch that almost nobody knows about. But Daemon would.

“Which one?!” the large man demands, glaring hatefully at Helaena. “Choose or we’ll kill them both. We’ll kill all three.”

Helaena covers her ears with her hands and shrinks into herself, trying to disappear. Jaehaera hides behind her mother; Jaehaerys is petrified; Maelor, mercifully, doesn’t fully understand. If he was struck on his tiny blonde head, he would be gone before he had time to comprehend that his short life was over.

The men are assailing Helaena: “Choose or we’ll kill them all, we’ll kill them in front of you, we’ll kill them slow.”

“Helaena, pick one,” you sob.

She shakes her head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Aemond, can’t you feel how afraid I am? Aemond, you have to wake up.

“All three?!” The large man taunts. “Alright, that’s fine, we can do it that way!” He raises his cleaver above the boys’ heads, and Helaena attempts to stop him.

He’s going to murder her too, he’s going to sever her arm or cut her throat.

“Maelor!” you burst out. “Maelor, the little one, she chooses Maelor!”

“What?” Maelor says, gazing up at you with vast shimmering eyes. And instead, the large man seizes Jaehaerys by his hair and hacks his head off his shoulders.

Blood spurts like a fountain, blood flows over the floor, blood soaks Helaena’s gown when she bundles her dead son into her arms. Forgetting the knife at your throat, you try to get to her; the blade drops and slits your flesh from your collarbone down to the top of your left breast. A river of red flows in a sheet down the front of your gown. Everyone is screaming—you, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor—but it doesn’t matter now; the men throw Jaehaerys’ head into a burlap sack and vanish together into the blackness of the passageway.

“They can’t get away,” you say numbly, and then you bolt after them. You grab a flickering candle off Aemond’s writing desk and plunge into the tunnel. There are blooddrops on the dusty floor, a trail of gore. Jaehaerys’ head must have bled through the sack. You aren’t thinking, you don’t know what you’ll do if you catch up to them. But if there is a boat waiting to ferry the men and their grisly trophy to Dragonstone, somebody must prevent them from escaping.

Jaehaerys can’t be dead, he can’t be, be can’t be, he was just here and he was smiling—

Someone catches your wrist and you shriek, but it isn’t the strange men. It’s Aemond, still dressed in his nightclothes, his sapphire gleaming, blood all over him and clutching his dagger in his other hand.

He tells you, taking the candle: “Go back to my bedchamber.”

“Aemond, they…Jaehaerys…he…they…”

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “Go back to where it’s safe.”

Obediently, knowing that he needs you to, you flee; you are passed by several knights of the Kingsguard with torches, their swords drawn, in pursuit of the murderers. In Aemond’s bedchamber is a nightmare you can’t wake up from: Aegon is wailing and collapsed on the blood-soaked floor with the mutilated body of his son in his arms, Helaena is slumped and paralyzed against the wall, Mother is weeping as she embraces Jaehaera and Maelor and takes them out of the room, Criston has just appeared in the doorway and stands there horrorstruck. You go to Aegon and lay a palm on his shoulder, the words impossible. Without looking—he already knows it’s you—he reaches up to grip your hand, so forcefully it feels like he’ll crush your bones.

“What the hell is…?” Grandsire says when arrives. Then he sees the blood, the body, and he sways and his knees buckle. Maester Orwyle sweeps in behind him, carrying a small wooden trunk of remedies. He comes directly to where you are standing.

“Princess, your mother asked me to tend to you.”

“What?” you reply dully, and he gestures to the bone-deep gash on the left side of your chest. Abruptly, agony flares there. “Oh. Of course.”

Orwyle leads you patiently to the chair at Aemond’s writing desk, then begins to clean your wound. He pours a small amount of milk of the poppy into your mouth, and you accept it passively. You are barely aware of it as his needle pierces your flesh and begins to stitch it back together.

“Is this what your letters have bought us?!” Aegon is shouting at Grandsire, who doesn’t know what to say. “Not safety even here in our own castle, but killers who breach our walls and butcher my son?!”

There are echoing footsteps, and Aemond emerges from the darkness, crossing into the rage-colored firelight of his bedchamber. “We got one of them. The guards are still searching for the other. We’ll find him, I swear we will. There was a boat in the sand, but we’ve taken it.”

“It’s your fucking fault!” Aegon screams at him. “They were here, they were looking for you, you killed Luke so they killed my boy, he was only six years old, he…he…” Aegon breaks down in sobs, then he crawls across the room to Helaena and clings to her, his head in her lap. Despite her shock, Helaena’s hands come alive again and she holds him.

“Aegon, it’s my fault too,” you say.

“What are you talking about?! You didn’t kill Luke Strong, you didn’t start this war!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says, almost too quietly to hear. “Aegon, I’m sorry.”

“Enough letters,” Aegon seethes, hatred splitting out of him, bloodlust that can never be satisfied. “You’re done, Grandsire. I relieve you of the burden of being Hand of the King. It never sat right with you anyway, did it? Enacting the plans of a degenerate like me. Well, now you can just watch them happen. Criston, we will go to battle now, no more delays. You will lead the infantry and I’ll be in the sky, and when we drag Rhaenyra from her sickbed I’ll let Sunfyre eat her, one limb at a time.”

“Yes, my king,” Criston says, still stunned, gaping at Jaehaerys’ small, headless body.

“I’m going with you,” Aemond tells his brother.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes you do. And I would never let you fly into battle alone.”

Aegon sniffles and wipes the tears from his face with his bloodied palms, leaving stains of clotting crimson there. Then he stands, touches his forehead to Helaena’s as a goodbye, and stumbles towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands.

“To torture that man to death,” Aegon says, and is gone.

Aemond turns to where you are sitting at his writing desk, Orwyle just beginning your stitches. Your eyes—glazed and drugged, grief-stricken and horrified—meet his, and you know that he is thinking that had the blade hit just a few inches higher, you would have bled to death. Aemond approaches. “Move,” he commands Orwyle.

Maester Orwyle meekly retreats; but first, he hands over the needle. And Aemond finishes mending your flesh, one painstaking, practiced stitch at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond tells you goodbye on a bluff overlooking where Vhagar is waiting for him down on the beach. He keeps you a safe distance away; not only have you no dragon of your own, but the beasts also share an aversion to you, they snarl and slink away like they would in the presence of no other Targaryen. The wind is raging and the sun bright, the sky blue and full of slow-moving clouds. Helaena is curled up in the Dragonpit with Dreamfyre. Alicent is with the surviving children. Maelor shrieks and runs away when he glimpses you.

Under torture, the larger assassin revealed that he was indeed commissioned by a messenger sent by Daemon, and that all he knew of his companion was that he was a ratcatcher. Your brothers paraded every ratcatcher they could find in front of you, but none of them were the man with the knife. Aegon, believing their ranks had nonetheless been perilously infiltrated, ordered all the ratcatchers of King’s Landing to be executed. Now they hang from walls and bridges, attracting crows. Some people weep for the dead men, but many more weep for Queen Helaena, who is known to be gentle and kind. The details have reached every street of the city: beheaded in front of his mother, made to choose between her sons. Rhaenyra has given them yet another reason to hate her. Her mortal enemies grow more numerous by the hour.

“What if something happens here?” you ask Aemond, your hands in his, strands of silver hair raked from your braid by the wind. Under your gown, your bandages loop over your left shoulder and below your right arm; beneath them, your stitches throb and your heart aches. “What if we have to leave the city for some reason? What if when you return you don’t know where I’ve gone?”

“Then I will find you,” Aemond says, as if there is no other possibility. “You belong to me, you always have. That will never change. Here, in Dorne, at the Wall, in Essos or the Summer Isles, anywhere on earth, anywhere you go, you are still mine.”

You smile, and when Aemond kisses you, his long hair trashing in the wind, he is tender and harmless, and you are reminded that he can be this way sometimes. He isn’t always fierce. He isn’t always treacherous. “Take care of Aegon.”

“Of course I will.”

“Don’t come back without him.”

“I’ll carry him the whole way home if I have to,” Aemond says, and then he leaves you, stalking down the hill towards Vhagar.

That night, when you climb into your bed, you find a note there that Aemond has left for you. You unfold the parchment, wincing; each movement pains you, reminds you of the muscles that have been slit by the assassin’s blade. You will carry the scar forever. Aemond’s note reads:

Red,

When you are here…think of me.

Soon we’ll have everything.

In place of a signature, he has finished with a sketch of a forget-me-not in blue ink.

You close the note and hold it to your chest, the parchment scratching against your bandages.

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milliesfishes · 7 months ago

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so yk how there has been a lot of you or your kid getting kidnapped WHAT IF instead, it was Billy or Coryo that got kidnapped and like you want to go out and hunt down those who would even THINK about taking your man away from you but like maybe you can't because you have your daughter to take care of or you have other responsibilites

just didn't know if anyone has thought of this yet but anyways I LOVE YOU SM MILLIE ❤️❤️❤️ !! KEEP UP THE GREAT WORK!!!

omg I love you!!!!! this is so sweet, please rp with your own thoughts on it if you want to! ౨ৎ꣑ৎbilly is kidnapped౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x billy the kid

He was taken.

Those are the words emerging from the mouth of one of Billy's men, the words you're hearing. But they are some of the last ones you've ever wanted to hear.

You nearly drop the baby perched on your hip, stunned into stiffened pose. The man before you appears nervous, and you thank him for delivering the information before retreating inside the house.

In your husband's line of work, danger lurked around every corner, breathed down the necks of everyone he loved. It revealed itself in the form of men with sneers painted on their lips, in anxieties whispered into your ear late in the throes of the night by your lover. Though he was the picture of a fearless protector, he was scared.

Billy's fear never was directed at himself. No, he only sook to protect you, you and your daughter named for his mother. The arrival Kathleen, Kat as he called her, had only heightened his protective instincts, spurring them into action.

Your home was a location of utmost secret, known only by a select few of his gang when it was absolutely necessary. He guarded you and your daughter under lock and key, determined to keep you hidden from any sign of danger even hinting in your direction.

But he hadn't been attentive enough toward himself. And now your stomach was plummeting as you imagined Billy bound and gagged in a dark location, gun removed from his side, blood spattering his face.

Kat babbled, tugging on a strand of your hair, and you looked down at her again, breaths shallow. She had dark hair just the same as Billy's, winding into stubborn curls. And her eyes... the color of forget-me-nots, just like his.

The one desire at the forefront of your mind was one to mount your horse and ride north, where the man had said your husband was being held. Under Billy's tutelage, you were proficient in gunslinging, and your small size was an advantage in a fight, he'd said.

With the amount of pain and passion you felt right now, taking on an army of a thousand men was child's play. For your love, the father of your child, there was hardly a thing you wouldn't do to see him return home safe. To be nestled in his arms soundly as he assured you that everything was okay.

But as you looked down at Kat, you knew you didn't have a prayer of leaving. Billy wouldn't want you to abandon your daughter to come running after him, no matter how much danger he was in. Having to choose between your husband and your daughter was an impossible road you hoped you would never be forced to venture down again.

For the rest of your waking hours, you did your best to stay distracted, entertaining Kat to the best of your ability and hiding any sign of fear or worry from her bright eyes. No need for you to know her beloved father was twisted in the web of fate once again, in a danger you could hardly imagine.

Putting her to bed, you kissed Kat goodnight, watching her sleepy eyes flutter shut, tiny fist clutching the corner of her favorite blanket. Turning around, you shut the door behind you, hand flying to your mouth as your eyes squeezed shut, tears escaping despite the motion. Stifling the awful sob you wanted to release, your chest tightened and horrifying thoughts played before your eyes in the form of images you prayed would never come to life.

Your Billy was strong and steadfast, and he was more than capable of handling himself. He'd done it all those years before settling down with you after all; gotten himself into life-threatening conundrums and emerging virtually unscathed.

What if this is the one time out of a hundred?

Stumbling to your bedroom, you were helpless once the door was shut, closing your own arms around yourself in an attempt at comfort and dissolving into tears. The way your body shuddered crescendoed into a quiet cry, eluding your attempts to keep quiet as not to disturb Kat. The last thing she needed was a desolate mother.

You had the foolish thought that maybe now that your baby was asleep you could make your way in Billy's direction, but it was quickly reasoned with. What if she woke up and needed you? What if you never came back?

Helplessly, you brought yourself over to the bed, collapsing into the warmth of Billy's side. His scent engulfed you, making it nearly plausible to pretend he was there. Beside you, about to sheath you in his arms and mutter that he'd been wanting to hold you all night.

Minutes disguised themselves as hours, tormenting you with the length of them. Every second was like squeezing honey from a bottle, watching the thick golden drops lazily make their way down the side, in no hurry to appear when you wanted them to.

Surely his gang had infiltrated where he was being held. And now they might be cutting his ropes, tossing him a gun and telling him to hurry on home. It was a childish fantasy. The rope of possibility had tendrils that wove into a thousand different destinies. The chances of everything happening your way were slim to none, and you braced yourself for news that he wasn't ever going to come back.

Any minute now the same bearer of bad news from earlier would return, hat both real and proverbially in his hand as he delivered information you could never be ready to hear. A series of thoughts about life without him revealed themselves, and you tried to push them aside. Sleeping alone beside his empty spot, raising Kat without him, telling her about her brave, kindhearted father whom the world misunderstood-

Loss overwhelmed your being, and you muffled your sobs in his pillow, determined only to cry in the darkness where your daughter's eyes would never find you.

You were unsure of how long it had been when you stopped. It was too dark to see the clock on the bedside, and your emotion had weakened you too much to check, anyways. Face sticky and damp with tears, you pulled the sheet up around your body in a gesture you hoped would be comforting. But the only thing that would truly calm you was tied up in a faraway unknown place.

Lost in the cavern of your discouragement, you allowed the cold, hardened fingers of grief drag you deeper into the depths. Though it was springtime, you knew without him life would be forever winter. The ghost of his memory would trail behind you like a second shadow with every one of your breaths. Kat would be the only thing to stop you from crawling beneath the earth to join him, his grave your new lover's bed.

Senses numbed, you were too long gone to hear the door open. But when warm fingers grazed your skin, you leapt up, whipping your head around and preparing yourself to attack whoever had broken in. There was a knife hidden in the bedside table that you were willing to use.

But the silhouette blurred by the night was familiar. You'd lost track of how many times you felt that touch, whether the intention be domestic or passionate. It was always loving.

Reaching over to the bedside, you fumbled for a match, striking it and holding the flame to the melted candle. Lifting the burning light, features revealed themselves as you moved it upwards. A time-worn gun belt, brown leather suspenders, dotted stubble...eyes bluer than the sky on a summer's day.

Lips parting in shock, you set the candle back down, hands moving of their own accord to cup his face. The prickle of his half-beard scratched at your soft palms, and his warmth exuded outward, drawing you in just as it always had.

"Billy..." you breathed, gasping in disbelief. Your fingers grasped at his face, as if checking to see if he wouldn't crumble under your fingers like some cruel vision.

His roughened hands came to your own cheeks, and your lower lip trembled, his next words a catalyst. "Oh, baby...baby 'm here."

You threw yourself into his arms, instantly surrounded by the warmth and love that could only come from being held like this by him. Home. He was home and this was home. All was right with the world.

"You're alive," you croaked into his chest, the sound and feel of his heartbeat a steady song proving he hadn't departed into the next realm yet. It nearly made you hysterical- the knowledge that Billy had been ripped from you and sewn back at your side within a day.

"I'm here my love," he promised, voice cracking barely as he buried his face in your hair. "I'll always come back to you...'m so sorry..."

"I wanted to come after you." Voice hitching at those words, you shuddered, your body's leftover tension from fear of his absence releasing. He was the one person in this life you could let your guard down with. "I wanted...but Kat..."

"Shh," Billy soothed, sitting down on the bed and keeping you right against him. His body began to rock back and forth, an immediate response to your distress. "You did exactly the right thing, darlin'. My brave girl...havin' to go through all this by yourself..."

"You were the one in danger," you whispered, lifting your head from the comfort of his chest. "And you...did you...?"

"Hush now," he murmured, hand petting over your hair in a way that melted you. "I'm here. I'm safe and I've gotcha again. That's all that matters."

There it was again. The protective streak, the curtain of iron that separated his two worlds. You did not press or ask further questions. Whatever his reasoning, it was likely for the best.

Billy gently positioned you to lie down before reaching below and tugging his boots off, kicking them aside. He stripped himself of his work clothes, and you imagined the state of them. Bloody, likely, dusty most definitely. Tomorrow you would scrub the substance from them and ignore the circumstances, merely happy he had come home.

The haven of his arms was yours once again as he crawled in behind you, kisses pressed to the back of your head as he settled. You knotted your hand with his resting on your stomach, filing the worries of tonight away where they wouldn't disturb you until the next morning.

Tucking his chin into the space between your neck and shoulder, Billy nosed a careful kiss into the space, his quiet last assurances echoing in your mind long after the words escaped his mouth.

"You're safe, my love. I'll keep you safe."

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