#also when i refresh it seems to pull in 1 or 2 more ? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mareastrorum · 2 months

Text

How to Deceive Enemies and Manipulate Gods: A Bard method to Asmodeus's body-swapping bullshit in Critical Role's Downfall

Of course, SPOILERS for Downfall (C3 E99-101) follow.

In 4 Sided Dive episode 26 (through C3E101), Brennan said that Father Milo Cowst was an illusion the entire time. This is a fun theorycrafting post about how to emulate Asmodeus's ploy to create an illusion of an (un)friendly spellcaster tagging along while impersonating a friendly spellcaster in the same group. Unless someone casts Truesight, at least. All the same, this could make for some fun bullshit in your own game.

As a prelude, this assumes that you have a Bard, any subclass. The exact number of class levels needed will vary depending on the options chosen. Perhaps there is a multiclass combination that could pull this off, but this is a fairly straightforward way of doing it.

This post will go through each of the interactions involving Arcadia Cerenvetorix and Father Milo Cowst that required an explanation. I also tried to include some discussion of alternatives when they were available.

Initial note: At 10th, 14th, and 18th levels, Bards are able to learn 2 spells from other class lists. I will note when that option is necessary to gain access to a particular spell.

Impersonating Arcadia Cerenvetorix

This achievement is fairly straightforward. There are a lot of spells and items that would allow a caster to impersonate the appearance of another person. The strategy, however, would be to choose a method that doesn't use up concentration so that spellcasting isn't limited.

Disguise Self is a good option that doesn't require concentration. A Hat of Disguise would save a spell slot, but it's only a 1st level spell, so that isn't too dire for a Level 20 character. Even a moment to break line of sight would be enough to refresh the illusion.

Alternatively, Seeming would achieve the same effect, also without requiring concentration, and would last 8 hours. This would require fewer spell slots and eliminate the worry of not being able to duck away to refresh the spell.

The Actor feat may have been necessary to impersonate Arcadia. While it seems that most of the others had never previously met Arcadia, it’s unclear whether S.I.L.A.H.A. had in person. He may have recognized her voice. In that case, the ability to mimic voices was mandatory. As a bonus, the feat gives advantage on checks for impersonation.

The Illusion of Father Milo Cowst

This one was fun to reverse engineer. It needed to be some kind of deception that would be revealed when the players gained Truesight in E101, but also accounted for everything the PCs thought they saw Father Milo do:

Talk in a manner that his voice seemed to come from his body.

React to events around him.

Appear to interact with objects in the world.

Appear to cast spells.

At first, I thought, maybe Asmodeus must have done Mislead like Emhira had later in Downfall. However, that spell requires concentration, lasts 1 hour, copies the current appearance, and also adds invisibility to the caster. The illusion would require Asmodeus to reapply the illusion of Arcadia every hour after refreshing Mislead. That gets really expensive for spell slots.

Simulacrum seems like an obvious option, and it would be available via Magical Secrets. However, there is no mechanism by which a Simulacrum is revealed other than killing it or Detect Magic. It's a spell in the school of Illusion, but it's not a visual trick—the simulacrum is an actual creature. So that wouldn't work for the reveal in E101. However, it might be useful for your own game.

Next, I considered Major Image—or, more specifically, the upcast version which is Permanent Image. When cast at 6th level or higher, the spell does not require concentration and lasts until it is dispelled. This spell can also be used to create the illusion of a person capable of carrying on a conversation. The illusion can move with the caster and be adjusted on the fly. However, there is no accounting for situations where the illusion is within range but out of earshot or line of sight.

Project Image would work best for situations where the illusion would be separated from the caster and still need to be convincing. That spell allows the caster to move their consciousness to the illusion, so Asmodeus would be able to have conversation as Arcadia or Milo if they split up. The duration is 1 day with a range of 500 miles, so that's more than enough to last the entire mission without recasting. Unfortunately, it requires concentration, which severely limits other spellcasting options.

There's two decent ways to game this: Glyph of Warding and Wish.

Glyph of Warding is a ridiculous trap spell that is highly customizable. Theoretically, It could be used to upcast for Permanent Image or cast Project Image. Asmodeus could pre-cast it a day earlier, rest to get spell slots, then he wouldn't need to trigger it until the Primes were close. Best of all, when Glyph of Warding is used for a spell, "If the spell requires concentration, it lasts until the end of its full duration." In other words, the caster doesn't have to maintain concentration on the triggered spell. (This is a very broken spell RAW, so discuss with your DM about what limits might apply in your game.)

Alternatively, at level 18, a Bard can gain Wish through Magical Secrets. Wish does a lot of things, but the key text reads:

The basic use of this spell is to duplicate any other spell of 8th level or lower. You don't need to meet any requirements in that spell, including costly components. The spell simply takes effect.

Concentration is a spell requirement. Casting Wish provides an option to replicate Project Image without needing to maintain concentration. Further, since it lasts a day, Asmodeus could have cast it hours earlier, taken a long rest, and gotten his 9th level spell slot back with plenty of time to spare. That does seem rather drastic just to create an illusion, but since he gets the spell slot back anyway, it's basically free, and then Asmodeus also has Wish.

Either Permanent Image or Project Image would be the best options because they would allow Asmodeus (as Arcadia) to control Father Milo so they can participate in the same conversation. I think Project Image is better for reasons discussed further below.

Invisibility

In E100, Arcadia cast "a Sphere of Invisibility" on Zaharzht, Tishar, Asha, and the Emissary when they left on a tram. Since it was just four of them, that may have simply been an upcast Invisibility spell, which requires concentration. There aren't any items that would cast on that many people (plenty cast it on 1), nor can spells cast from items be upcast. There also aren’t any items that would allow a caster to hold concentration on two different spells for an extended period of time. Finally, it’s possible that Asmodeus prepared an upcast Invisibility via Glyph of Warding and triggered it somehow, but that’s such a niche thing to trigger at the tram on exactly 4 people (given the larger group size) that I doubt that was the case.

Unless Brennan homebrewed something, it seems like Asmodeus had to hold concentration on Invisibility. That would eliminate any illusion options that also require concentration, and casting a later concentration spell would break the invisibility. As far as we know, it lasted as long as the other team needed it to, but we don't know how the scenes line up. Just because the scene with that team took place after the hospital scene doesn't mean that they happened sequentially. Brennan also mentioned that the invisibility should last nearly an hour when that team's scene began, so the tram trip didn't take very long.

Still, the best explanations for the hospital scene will involve spells that would not compromise concentration on Invisibility, and those would allow for more flexibility for your own nonsense.

Melting the Hospital Gate Lock

In E100, Father Milo appeared to hold and melt a lock on the gate to the hospital. Ayden, Trist, and Arcadia were there at the time.

Of all the spells that could destroy a lock, I think Heat Metal would be the most applicable. It has a range of 60 feet, so Arcadia could have done it from the back of the group, out of line of sight of the others.

Shatter and Knock make noise, so even if the illusion was adjusted to mask the visual effect, there’s obvious cues. Unless there’s a Silence effect (which requires concentration) in the area, they are both suboptimal.

Opening the Hospital Gate

Next, Father Milo appeared to push the gate open for the others. None of the spell options listed above allow the illusion to interact with objects. That had to be a separate spell or ability.

One good option for this would be the Telekinetic feat. It gives the caster an invisible Mage Hand that can be cast without verbal or somatic components, essentially mimicking telekinetic abilities. Mage hand does not require concentration and can open doors, but without the feat, it wouldn't be invisible, and that wouldn't be easy to hide or disguise in this specific circumstance. An invisible mage hand would also be useful for stealing from party members, so it may have been a contingency if anyone took something that Asmodeus needed to use the Factorum Malleus. However, Ayden also has blindsight, so a mage hand would need to stay out of that range to avoid detection.

Alternatively, 3 levels into Rogue to become an Arcane Trickster would also grant an invisible Mage Hand. Even better: cunning action can be used to control the Mage Hand as a bonus action, eliminating any conflict of using an action to control the illusion. However, the verbal and somatic components would need to be hidden with deception and/or sleight of hand, and that would eliminate the option to use Wish in the strategies outlined above (Bards can’t get Wish without 18 class levels).

Unseen Servant is also a good idea, though it costs a 1st level slot. Because it’s shapeless, it would not be detected by Ayden’s blindsight. Like mage hand, it does not require concentration, but unlike mage hand, it is always commanded with a bonus action, which is better for use in conjunction with a controlled illusion. That said, it can only move 15 feet per round, so it will not keep up with a moving group and will have to be recast on location. Also, it costs an action to cast, so you would need to cast it in advance of the round that you command the illusion and have the servant work in conjunction with it.

Animate Objects and Telekinesis (Magical Secrets at 10th level) are viable options, but both seem like overkill given that they cost 6th and 5th level spell slots, respectively. They are also concentration spells, so they’re not viable if Asmodeus had to maintain invisibility on the other team.

Father Milo and Ayden Chat

In the hospital, Father Milo left the room when Trist was about to heal Hallis. Father Milo walked down the hall, then turned to speak to Ayden, who had followed him. There had to be some way for the illusion to respond to Ayden in conversation.

We don't know how far away they got. It was distant enough that Trist didn't have reason to overhear the conversation. However, with her attention on Hallis and Cassida, Arcadia could have walked to the door and watched/listened from a distance to manipulate the illusion of Father Milo.

Alternatively, Project Image would have allowed Asmodeus to shift his consciousness from Arcadia to the illusion of Father Milo. That would have allowed him to see and hear from that perspective, and no one would have noticed that Arcadia had checked out.

Torturing Dr. Bezel

While speaking to Ayden, Father Milo appeared to touch Dr. Bezel and take control of her body, contorting it and causing her harm. Since we know Milo is an illusion, it couldn't have been a spell requiring touch, and it must have been something Arcadia could cast at a distance. Since she was behind Ayden, there's no concern about sleight of hand.

Dominate Person was my initial favorite. It grants the caster total control over the target, so that seems appropriate for forcing Dr. Bezel to harm herself. However, it requires concentration, so that would have ended the invisibility on the other team of gods. Maybe Asmodeus sensed that they had already dropped invisibility, but that's not confirmed.

If a 14th level Bard used Magical Secrets, Power Word: Pain might also be a viable option, but expensive for spell slots. While the spell doesn't do damage, this is also a RP moment, and it's not that much of a stretch to break a doctor's wrists. It doesn't require concentration.

Telekineses would allow Arcadia to manipulate Dr. Bezel's body. Unfortunately, it requires concentration, so there's a similar issue with invisibility.

It may be possible that Dr. Bezel was an extension of the illusion if Ayden lost sight of her at some point. Because the illusion spells are each adjustable and pretty flexible, it wouldn’t be out of bounds to do this. However, it would have been revealed if Ayden had touched Dr. Bezel, which is a serious risk given his inclination to heal and that they were all in close quarters. There is also the chance that the real Dr. Bezel could have walked in. That said, it would not surprise me in the least that Asmodeus would make an illusion of himself tormenting a mortal and then tell Ayden, “they’re not real.” That would be so incredibly on brand to tell the truth while so layered in deceptive illusions. Regardless, that may be a good option for your own illusion shenanigans: you’re already two people, so you may as well be three! (Discuss with your DM whether it would need to be recast to account for a second person—which can be done by ducking out of sight for a few seconds.)

Ayden cast Protection from Evil and Good... which shouldn't have worked to dispel the effect. There is a separate spell Dispel Evil and Good to do that. That said, since it's an RP moment, I don't think Brennan cared to force Nick to expend a 5th level slot for this. Further, if it really was an illusion, then Asmodeus didn’t have reason to recognize which spell was cast and adjusted the illusion to pretend it fixed everything.

Milo "Teleports" Back Inside

After the chat with Ayden, Father Milo stalked off to sulk by the gate. Once things pop off with the other teams, Ayden communicates over the telepathic bond that everyone needs to meet up. Brennan described that "there's a little smell of brimstone and Milo is standing in the room as well."

Asmodeus would have been able to add smell via Major Image, but not Project Image. However, a cantrip like Prestidigitation could add the smell. Either spell could achieve whatever visual effect was needed.

Cassida Teleports the Team / Arcane Gate Escape

Cassida made a split-second decision to go "full traitor" and teleport the team to the others at the Obtenebrator Engine. If she had been paying attention, maybe she would have noticed that 4 people teleported instead of 5, but it's sensible that it wasn't her focus at the moment.

Neither Father Milo nor Arcadia took any actions or noticeable movement in the subsequent combat. They then escaped the Engine with the others via an Arcane Gate.

If the illusion was broken by the teleport or gate (since it has a range), Asmodeus could have recast it with a sleight of hand check, assuming he was in anyone's line of sight. However, the illusion can follow the caster, so it depends on whether the DM would rule how an illusion mimics traveling or if there’s any interference. In either case, being the last to go through to cover any hiccups or recast unseen would be optimal.

Arcadia and Father Milo Split Up

For the final fight, Arcadia accompanied Trist, Umleta, and Cassida to retrieve the scrolls containing the information on the Factorum Malleus. Meanwhile, Father Milo joined the rest to destroy the weapon.

During the combat, Milo didn't do anything noticeable. He seemed to have to make saving throws against some attacks (Brennan listed him when saying who would be affected), and he spoke during his "turn," but Milo didn't cast anything. That wouldn't necessarily require active, attentive control by Asmodeus from afar. Switching consciousnesses for a few seconds (like when Trist was distracted) would have been feasible as well.

What about Telepathic Bond?

Just to head off a question that I expect some people might have, Ayden's Telepathic Bond would not have given Asmodeus away. It allows telepathic communication, but it's voluntary communication. It's not Detect Thoughts, and it wouldn't do something like detect locations of connected minds.

It also turns out that Arcadia and Milo never communicated over the telepathic bond. They only spoke “in person,” so there was no chance for some indication that would give away either of them for seeming similar.

Improving Your Chances of Success

Bards are great for not only having the spells to pull this off, but having access to the skill set to back them up. Their spellcasting ability is Charisma, which lines up well with necessary skills. Taking proficiency or expertise in Deception, Sleight of Hand, and Stealth would be solid choices, especially given their utility for this build outside of pretending to be two people.

As mentioned above, a 3 level dip into Rogue for Arcane Trickster is a good way to manage action economy (action and bonus action) for simultaneously using Mage Hand and either Major Image or Project Image. Mage hand is also more flexible than Unseen Servant, so it depends on what you anticipate in your game. If you intend to rely heavily on this combination, maybe go 4 levels for another ASI/feat too. Cunning Action is also great for keeping up with the group on the run (the others are using a Dash action) without letting an illusion fall behind (which takes up your action).

Why not a Wizard? Pretty much everything above could be done by a Wizard except Heat Metal. An Illusion specialist also gets some bonuses like being able to adjust illusions or temporarily make them real. However, the primary downsides to trying this with a wizard is the lack of expertise benefits and the need to stack both Intelligence and Charisma instead of only Charisma. Taking the Skilled and Skill Expert feats could compensate for some of that, but a MAD build that is only MAD for this specific purpose seems like a waste of a build, whereas the Bard version has a lot more utility outside of being 2 people.

As stated above, the Actor feat is practically a necessity for impersonating people your targets have met before because you can perfectly mimic voices. DMs would probably set higher DCs otherwise. The feat also grants advantage for related checks, making your ploy much easier to achieve.

As a final thought, it might be worth taking the Metamagic Adept feat for Subtle Spell. It can help you pull off spell casts when all eyes are on you or you’re occupied/restrained. It’s a very situational option, but you also get to pick a second Metamagic as well, so it’s not too niche.

And that's about it! It's a rather cumbersome thing to orchestrate, and there were a lot of ways to detect Asmodeus's scheme—with proactive investigation. If you suspect this bullshit is being used against you, go poke them in the face. Really, that would have been enough to expose the illusions.

Maybe this will inspire someone to try some shenanigans in your own game. :D

#critical role #downfall #father milo downfall #asmodeus lord of the nine hells #brennan lee mulligan #such a devious villain #love this bullshit

36 notes · View notes

stormz369 · 7 months

Text

The King of Hell and Me: Ch 4 - The Contract

Chapter Guide Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4

Summary: A witch summons Lucifer to earth to make a deal. Warnings: none I can think of? This is a generally sweet, fluffy chapter Word Count: 2.3k

Summoning the devil wasn't part of the plan. A demonic creature, yes, but the actual devil? The book didn't say anything about him. I was expecting to be dealing with an imp or some other kind of lower level Hellion. Someone with the power to do what I wanted, but not to completely fuck me over. Someone who'd take something I could spare. Not my soul.

The devil was also far less intimidating than I expected. He was a little on the short side, and far more human than I might have thought. Aside from the six glorious wings at his back, the least human things about him were his teeth and eyes; red and yellow, swirling with confusion and housing an ancient sorrow that seemed buried just below the surface. An unamused, but surprised look finally landed on me, knelt by the edge of the summoning circle. He made to move toward me, but was held in place by the ring of black salt. With a huff, he leaned back against the barrier, crossing his arms and observing me.

“... No one's summoned me to the mortal world in a long time. … You must be desperate.”

“I … I'll be honest, that wasn't supposed to happen, Sir … the book doesn't say anything about …” I fumbled through the book, rereading the spell. There was nothing to indicate who it called upon.

“Sir?” He chuckled, “well, that’s refreshing. Last time I was pulled into a summoning circle, the wretch had the nerve to call me ‘Dark Prince’ the whole time.”

I chuckled a bit awkwardly. “... Well, that's kind of a mouthful. If you don't mind, I think I'll stick with Mr. Morningstar?”

“Lucifer, please … but how did you know?”

“Aside from the snake and apple motifs you've got going on? You have six, very large, feathered wings. I might not be Christian, but I do know what angels are supposed to look like. … Sir.”

After a moment he let out a bark of a laugh, holding his sides. “Oh golly, you're entertaining! Alright, little witch. Whoever you were trying to summon, you've got me. So what deal were you trying to make?”

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. Now or never, I guess. “My best friend is ill, and the doctors have given up hope. …”

“You want to trade your soul for your friend's life?” He smiled gently.

“... Does it have to be my soul?”

A strange look passed over his beautiful face, and he considered me for a moment. “... Maybe we can come to another arrangement. … There is something I can't get in Hell, and you did bring me here.”

I nodded slowly, curious what Lucifer himself could possibly want from earth. “Yes?”

“... Only sinners end up in hell. I … I gave Eve that apple for her own benefit. To help her, and her children. So they could be better, be more … more. Not just animals, consumed by their instincts. But I’ve never seen any good come of it …”

“Oh … well that's not at all fair …” I frowned, looking up at him. “Especially considering how much good there is …’’

He cleared his throat, nodding a bit. “Right, so … if you show me some of that good, I'll heal your friend. Do we have a deal?”

“Huh? N- no, I don't just want my friend healed. I want a cure.”

“... Same thing?”

“No, Sir,-”

“Lucifer.”

“... Lucifer, … the doctors don't know how to help her. Which means they don't know how to help anyone else with this illness either. I want my friend healed, but I also want there to be a cure for everyone else.”

A small smile slid across his lips. “... That amount of power will cost quite a bit more … but something tells me you're more than capable of paying the price.”

A crisp white scroll unfurled from his hand, gold ink scrawling across it before my eyes. I carefully took the paper in my hands, reading it carefully.

“... This says you decide when I've held up my side of the deal. How do I know you'll ever decide to pay up?”

He smirked a bit, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “You're a clever one. … Alright, as a show of good faith, I will heal your friend up front. … You earned that much at least.”

With a wave of his hand, the text changed. I reread the document and nodded. “... Thank you. Ok, where do I sign?”

A white feather quill appeared, and Lucifer took it. He tapped the end to his finger, and pulled away a trail of … liquid gold? He signed the bottom with a flourish, then offered me the quill.

“Touch it to the ring finger of your non-dominant hand, it will draw up a small amount of your blood to sign with.” He tapped the paper where I was to sign.

I nodded, taking the quill, and placed it against my finger like he said. There was a brief, sharp, pain and when I pulled the quill away a trail of red followed. My finger appeared uninjured, but hurt like I had pricked it with a sewing needle. I signed where he indicated, and the summoning circle went up in flames, leaving no trace.

Lucifer smiled brightly, rolling up the scroll before he handed it to me. “Your contract, my lady.”

I took it, standing slowly. “... Thank you …”

He snapped his fingers, creating a crackle of energy throughout the room, and grinned. “There’s my side done, for now. So, how shall we start?”

///////////////

It took me all afternoon to think on what to start with. While I made tea and thought about it, he entertained himself by looking through my books and movies. His wings disappeared as he sat on my couch, reading the back cover of a book.

“... Is this for entertainment, or documentation?” He held the book up to show me the cover.

“That’s historical fiction, so entertainment based loosely on fact. It's about the wives of Henry the Eighth. … Do you know about them? How much do you know about human history?”

He chuckled. “I do keep apprised of the major headlines up here, but I don't typically bother with anything more. … You derive entertainment out of the suffering of those women?”

I chuckled a bit, setting a teacup in front of him, and sitting on the other side of the couch. “I think most people who read stories about horrible events do so because they don't understand how such things happen. We have a certain … morbid fascination with cruelty. … But I think it's usually also about honoring the dead. … They suffered so horribly, but we remember them. We don't let the bad things that happened to them get swept under the rug.”

He took the tea, watching me. “... I see …. Well, what good is there in that?”

“Ever heard the phrase ‘those who don't learn history are doomed to repeat it'?”

“You think remembering their pain will keep it at bay?”

“Something like that … can't avoid pain if you don't know what you're looking out for. Can't protect your loved ones unless you know what you're defending them against.”

He chuckled, sipping his tea. “I see…” He watched me, a curious look on his face. “So, any ideas yet?”

“Well, I was thinking we could start around town. You said it's been a while since you've been on earth?” He nodded, giving me a curious expression. “Then I think we ought to start with a little tour around town, so you can get acclimated. Maybe something will strike your fancy, yeah?”

“... You don't have to do that, you know.” A small frown slid across his face.

“Do what?”

“The tea, taking me on a tour … it's cute, but unnecessary.”

I set my teacup down, raising an eyebrow. “... Cute?”

“Trying to curry favor.” He frowned more.

A sharp laugh ripped out of me, and I covered my mouth. “... I'm sorry. … I'm not trying to ‘curry favor' with you, Lucifer. You're a guest in my home, you should be able to expect some basic hospitality. My grandma always said we should be hospitable to others, cause you never know when it'll make all the difference in their lives.”

He watched me for a moment and chuckled softly. “I don't think your grandmother meant you to be hospitable to the devil, little witch.”

“If my grandma were here right now, she would ask why I haven't set out any cookies. Sadly, I have none to offer you. But I was thinking we could stop for ice cream on our tour. There's a really cute local ice cream parlor, I'd say it definitely counts as something good people have done with free will.”

He blinked slowly. “... You are … not at all what I expected.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

After a brief moment he smirked, standing up. “Where's this ice cream parlor?”

//////////////

So I showed Lucifer around my little town. I took him to a playground where he could see happy families together. To a riverbank where my coven picked up litter and people went tubing and swimming. The ice cream parlor, and some other local businesses I liked. I bought him an ice cream cone, and a duck plushie he seemed particularly drawn to. He was hesitant to accept it, but once it was in his hands he held it to his chest, periodically stroking the tuft of fur on its head.

We walked in the sunshine, past schools and libraries. We watched a guitar player in a park, and got tacos from a food truck. And all day, I told him stories of kindness and generosity, big and small. Everything I could think of, from the Christmas truce in World War 1 to my brother's boss giving me free coffees when I pick him up from work. Any act of kindness I had experienced, seen, or heard of became an example of good things that happen because people have free will.

When it started to get late I took him to my favorite place to watch the sunset. He sat beside me, still hugging the duck plushie, and watched the sun dip lower and lower, the sky turning brilliant shades of purple and red.

“So? Any thoughts?” I watched him think for a minute.

“... They're good stories. But there's one problem.”

“What's that?”

“... Most of it wouldn't be necessary if evil weren't so prevalent in the world.”

“... Well, … you can't have good without bad.”

“What?” He frowned, turning to me.

“Without knowing about bad, you wouldn't know about good either. You'd just have … middle. In order to know you like something you have to be able to compare it to something you don't like. Otherwise it would all just be. … Plus, when everything’s going worst is when we notice good things the most. Smaller kindnesses mean more when we're hurting.”

Lucifer looked back at the sunset, thinking. “... Why did you give me the duck?”

I chuckled softly. “You seemed to like it, and I could afford to get it for you. Everyone should get a souvenir when they take a trip.”

“So you weren't trying to get in good with the boss of Hell?”

“Nope.”

“... Even though, by making a deal with me, you have condemned your soul to my realm when you die?”

“Anyone who thinks a duck plushie is going to buy them preferential treatment in hell is an idiot.” He gave me a skeptical look at that. “Lucifer, I swear, I only bought it for you because you seemed to like it.”

He thought for a minute, petting it absentmindedly again. “... You've held up your end of the bargain…”

“... But?”

“... When I finish my end, I go home. I can only be on earth for the time it takes to complete a deal. … I … I really enjoyed today.” As it got dark, his body started to glow with faint gold light. He looked up at the silver stars, and in that moment he seemed so sad, so delicate.

“... You know, I am asking for quite a lot … a cure for everyone with this disease, and all you get in return is some examples of kindness and an afternoon running around my town? … Maybe we could rework the contract.”

His eyes went wide as he turned to look at me. “... What did you have in mind?”

“... Well, you're not bad company. And I had a good day today too. We could do it again, if you wanted.”

Lucifer slowly grinned, and the contract was suddenly floating in front of me. An addendum was added to the bottom. Lucifer would send the necessary information to a doctor for the cure tonight, and once a month for the rest of my life, Lucifer would visit me wherever I was on earth. I would tell him more stories that showed what good has come of free will, and show him the good parts of life on earth.

I grinned, taking the quill that floated next to the scroll, and held it to my ring finger. A sharp pain later, I was signing at the bottom. Lucifer signed next to my name, his hand slightly shaking. “Alright … I'll see you again in one month then.”

I nodded. “I'm free on the third, if that works for you?”

He nodded. “The third. It's a date.”

With a snap of his fingers he was gone, and I knew some medical researcher somewhere was having the epiphany that would lead to the cure. In the meantime, I had a date with the devil to plan.

#ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfic #fanfiction #hazbin #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lucifer #lucifer hazbin #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer magne #witches #lucifer x reader #lucifer magne x reader #lucifer morningstar #witch reader #summoning circle #dating the devil

68 notes · View notes

rootedinrevisions · 14 days

Text

Twisted Fate: Part 2

SUMMARY: As she navigates the aftermath of the storm, Lexi must confront the lingering emotions and unspoken words that have haunted her since their breakup. Bound by the twist of fate that brought them together again, they must decide if their reunion is merely a consequence of circumstance or the universe's way of telling them something else.

WARNINGS: Angst. Violence/Blood (Storm Damage & Injuries)

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

PART 1

The first aid tent was bustling with activity, a haven of controlled chaos in the aftermath of the storm. Medics moved swiftly, tending to the injured, offering comfort and care. I sat on a cot as a medic carefully bandaged the cut on my head. The pain was dull but persistent, a reminder of the ordeal I had just survived.

"There we go," the medic said, securing the bandage. "That should hold for now. You'll want to change it at least once a day until it's healed. You've got a mild concussion, but otherwise, you're in good shape considering everything. Take it easy for the next few days, okay?"

You nodded, offering a small smile of gratitude. "Thank you."

"You're all clear to leave. If you need any supplies or a place to stay there's a red tent next to us that has blankets, clothing, food, and water. They're also helping get people a place to stay for the night if you need it," the medic continued before she moved on to the next person.

As I gathered my things and prepared to leave the tent, my eyes wandered, taking in the scene around me. That's when I saw him - Tyler - on the other side of the tent. He was talking to a girl with blonde hair pulled up with a claw clip. Her face was streaked with dried blood. She looked pretty banged up, her clothes torn and dirty.

I watched as Tyler reached down and gently brushed a piece of hair from the woman's face, tucking it behind her ear with a familiarity that sent a pang through my chest. My mind immediately flashed back to the days when he used to do that for me, a simple gesture that had always made me felt cared for.

Who is she? I wondered. Clearly, he knows her, but to what extent? Is this just someone he helped out of their destroyed home earlier? Probably not, I reasoned. It's a small town, and I know just about everyone. And a hair tuck behind the ear seemed a little personal for someone he would have just met.

My mind spiraled further. Was she a new fling? That month's flavor? Or maybe she was something more serious - a girlfriend? The thought gnawed at me, a mix of curiosity and jealousy twisted in my gut. I looked away, trying to push the thoughts from my mind.

As I stepped out of the tent, the late evening air hit me. The devastation around me was immense, but the resilience of the people here was palpable. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the fact that I had survived and that I was safe, at least for now.

Later that night I sat in a hotel room. It was modest but clean, a temporary refuge arranged by the volunteers. They had set me up in a hotel the next town over, giving me a place to stay while I figured things out. The American Red Cross had provided me with a change of clean clothes and some toiletries, small comforts after the harrowing day I'd endured.

I stood under the hot spray of the shower, letting the water wash away the grime and stress of the day. The heat soothed my sore muscles, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to relax. But the relief was short-lived. My mind kept drifting back to Phoebe, my beloved cat, and the worry gnawed at me. Where was she? Was she safe?

After the shower, I dressed in the clean clothes provided, feeling somewhat refreshed but still weighed down by the enormity of my situation. I sat on the edge of the bed, the unfamiliar surroundings making everything feel more surreal.

How do I even begin to pick up the pieces of my life after something like this? I didn't have any family. My parents were gone and I was an only child. I suppose I could try to reach out to my aunts or uncles. See if they could provide any sort of help.

The loss of my home, the uncertainty of the future - it all felt overwhelming.

And then there was Tyler. I couldn't stop thinking about him and the blonde woman I'd seen him with at the first aid tent. The image of him tucking her hair behind her ear played on a loop in my mind. Who was she to him? Why did it matter so much to me?

I sighed, lying back on the bed and staring at the ceiling. Everything felt tangled and confused. The day's events had left me emotionally and physically drained, yet sleep seemed a distant possibility with my mind racing like this.

As I lay there, the worries and questions swirled around me. Phoebe, Tyler, the future - everything felt so uncertain. The only thing I knew for sure was that I had to keep going, one step at a time, and somehow had to find a way to start again.

Later that night, I lay in my hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything kept sleep at bay. The clock on the nightstand showed just after 10 PM, and I couldn't shake the thoughts swirling in my mind - Phoebe's whereabouts, the uncertainty of my future, and the lingering image of Tyler with the blonde woman.

A knock on the door interrupted my restless thoughts. I rolled out of bed, immediately assuming it was probably some kid running up and down the hallway, knocking on random doors. However, when I opened the door I was surprised to see Tyler standing there.

He held a cardboard box in his hands, and beside him on the ground was something I couldn't quite make out in the dim hallway light. I opened the door wider, curiosity piqued.

"Hey," Tyler said, his voice soft. "I've got something for you." I could see the grin forming on his face as he motioned to the thing on the ground beside him. Then a soft meow emerged from within.

"Phoebe!" I said excitedly as I knelt to look into the pet carrier.

"I found her," Tyler explained, setting the box down and opening the carrier. Phoebe stepped out cautiously, looking around the unfamiliar room before rubbing up against me. Relief washed over me as I scooped her up, holding her close.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice choked with emotion.

Tyler nodded, his eyes warm. "Someone found her and turned her into the animal tent. I claimed her after the veterinarians assured me she was okay.

He then gestured to the box. "I also managed to get a few things from your home before they declared it unsafe to enter. Just some photos and sentimental items I thought you might want. There wasn't a lot that I found, but it's better than nothing, right?"

Tears began to well up in my eyes, gratitude mixing with the sadness of everything I'd lost. One box. That's all that I had left of my life.

"And," Tyler continued. "I stopped by Walmart and got you a new litter box and food bowl for Phoebe. There's some food and litter in there too for you. Thought she might need them while you're here."

I couldn't find the words to express how much this meant to me. Tyler's kindness, his thoughtfulness - it was almost overwhelming. I managed a shaky smile, looking up at him. "Thank you, Tyler. Really."

He smiled back at me, his gaze softening. "It's the least I could do. I'm just glad you're both safe."

There was a short pause after he spoke. A moment of silence heavy with unspoken emotions. Tyler shifted slightly, breaking the stillness "I'm going to go get the cat supplies from my truck. I'll be right back."

Before he could move a woman's voice interrupted. "I have them."

I turned to see the blond woman from the first aid tent stopping in front of my door, holding the items Tyler had mentioned. I went to thank her, only to realize I didn't know her name.

"Thank you-" I began, hesitating.

"Kate," she replied with a warm smile. "I'm Kate."

"Thank you, Kate," I said sincerely, taking the supplies from her.

"No problem," she responded. She then turned to Tyler. "Javi and I are heading for the hotel for the night. Do you want us to wait in the car for you?"

Tyler thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No, I'll catch up with you later."

Kate nodded a hint of concern in her eyes. "Alright. Just don't stay up too late. There's another storm system rolling in north of here tomorrow. We'll want to get up early to start chasing."

So she was a storm chaser. I began to wonder if she was part of Tyler's crew or just someone he had come to know working in the field.

Kate left, and as the door closed behind her, I turned to Tyler, curiosity gnawing at me.

"She seems great," I said, trying to sound casual.

Tyler grinned, and I noticed a certain look in his eye. I knew that look. It was clear he had feelings for her, even if she wasn't his girlfriend. "Yeah, she's great," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that told me everything I needed to know.

He didn't offer any additional information, and I didn't ask. It wasn't my place, and there were more pressing matters to focus on. Still, a small pang of something - jealousy, maybe - twisted in my chest.

It then began to dawn on me. This would probably be the last time I saw Tyler. Tomorrow, he would go back to storm chasing and being a YouTube star with his one million fans. The realization stung, knowing that the brief reconnection we had was just that. Brief.

I turned back to Tyler, who was looking at me with a mix of emotions in his eyes. "Well, I should get going," he said softly.

I nodded, trying to muster a smile. "Thank you again, for everything. And good luck with that storm tomorrow."

Tyler hesitated, then reached out and gave your should a gentle squeeze. "Take care of yourself, Lex. And Phoebe too."

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving me standing there, the weight of everything pressing down on me once more. I closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed, Phoebe curling up next to me. As I stroked her fur, I couldn't help but feel a mix of gratitude and sadness. The future was uncertain, but at least for tonight, I had a roof over my head and my beloved cat by my side.

TAG LIST: @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87

#Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens Fic #Tyler Owens Fanfic #Tyler Owens Fanfiction

39 notes · View notes

rixsjwb · 7 months

Text

ೋ◦❀◦ BIKER AUೋ◦❀◦

gojo x reader

summary: the 3 times you've met gojo as an unknown biker and 1 time you finally see his face.

inspired by this tiktok

reader wears prescribed glasses

also, might have grammar errors. I just didn't care to reread this and go over it, so make sense of it😋

FIRST TIME:

the first time you met gojo satoru was when you were in a nightly run to the convience story, grabbing a couple of food like instant ramen, your energy favorite drink to keep you up while studying for a big upcoming exam for your nursing course and many other items.

making your way up to the counter to pay you notice a biker boy, 2 of them one with a hint of blue to his viser and the other completely black.

they seem to follow behind you also making there way to the counter to pay for there stuff.

"next costumer!" the cashier says, you walk up to the counter gently placing your items on the counter as she grabbed them, scanned them, and put them in a small bag.

"your total is 8.50$" as your pulling out cash you relise your a dollar short, now in a dilemma you think on which item to put back till one of the biker boys from behind you walks in front gesturing to pay with card. you were quick to tell the biker boy he didn't have to pay but he worldly tapped his card and the machine accepts it.

she hands you your items thanking you for coming then asking for the next costumer to come up.

you were left there awkwardly, it didn't seem right to just leave after a random just payed for your food, but you knew if you stayed back and offered him your money there's a high chance he's rejecting it. you rap his friend that was behind him giving him the remainder of your money and pointing towards his friend oaying at the front, he also attempts to reject the money but you forcefully not enough to hurt him grab his hand and stuff the money in his hand and make a quick break to the exit.

as your passing the big window still getting a video of the biker boys the one who payed for your food sent you a heart sign with his fingers before blowing a kiss to you, you smile softly sending one back to match the energy.

it was a small interaction but it made your day and took all the stress away.

SECOND MEET:

your second meet was mid day.

it was a nice Summer day, you wore something causal and simple.

tight fitted top that sat snuggly at your waist and low-rise pants that matched your grey top, hugging your hips perfectly.

you held a sweater in your hand and your bag sagged behind your back with a couple school supplies as you just went to a Cafe after a class.

as you drank a refreshing beverage, some chunks of dragonflies and mango in the drink with a nice cold lemonade mixed was cooling face down.

on your way to the intersection as you waited for the lights to switch, loud noises erupt from behind you, catching your attention. as you look back a familiar viser comes into view the same one from a couple of weeks ago. you don't mindnit too much probably think they wouldn't rememeber you, but when you hear the loud reving of their bikes your pretty sure their trying to get your attention.

you turn to look behind you finding that same black and blue viser helmet looking in your direction, more of looking at you.

they eagerly wave at you almost like a little child wanting to rev a bike when they see one, you ajust your glasses sliding of the bridge of your nose waving back at the biker with a timid smile.

he bickers you to come closer to him, with a come closer motion of his hand.

when you got closer he sticks his hand out to caresses it his gloved hands playing with your fingers, it was a little weird because you've only met him very few times but he stops and he's quick to eat to play rock paper scissors with you.

"you want to play rock paper scissors?" you ask, seeing his head nod up and down, you don't notice how his near by friend was watching the entire interaction take place.

after playing 2 rounds of rock paper scissors, you winning them. the lights turn green signaling you can walk while the mysterious biker boy and his buddie can drive. causing him to get settled back on his bike as he's about to drive off he looks back at you waving a goodbye.

when you got near campus you notice familiar bikes parked just outside campus. could these boys possibility go to your university?

who knows.

THIRD MEET:

was when you were personally getting driven by a friend.

you guys decided to treat yourself to a fancy restaurant as a celebration for finishing your exam, now the worrying to hadto do was think whether you passed or not.

you were just scrolling on social media, answering a couple of messages you haven't open in 2 weeks as you highly dedicate your learning over slacking.

you got a text from acouple friends like shoko, utahime, maki, yuta and inumaki.

shoko sent you the most recent message, but aside from that, you'd gotten an unknown message from an account named gojo_sato.

shokoirieri: girl it's been awhile answer ur dam phone🙄🙄

shokoirieri: omgg your online answer my message!!

y/npopo: Yes, I am!!! whats good gang😋

shokoirieri: everything great, I have some friends who'd like to meet you come to campus asap!!!

y/npopo: whattttt who are these buddies you'd like me to meet, also do you know who jojo sato is they randomly followed me

shokoirieri: that's one of my friends, but not the one who's meeting you yet, come to campus asap meet at the entrance we waiting okay🤞

y/npopo: why do they wanna meet me

shokoirieiri: because you4 such a angel

shokoirieiri: who wouldn't wanna be friends with a gentle soul like you💋 now I'm waiting!

byebye!!

as your at a intersection you look up from your phone powering it off " omg look hot biker boys!!" your friend driving squeals keeping her eyes on them "where?" you turn to look out the window sticking your head out.

you feel your friend slaps your thigh jokingly in a way for you to not embraress her by poking your head out like that.

but when the same blue black viser starts to come closer to the car, your friend freaks out more, but you gently wave to them as this wasn't your first rodeo meeting them.

as they're now beside the car you reach your hand out pointing to the handle motioning to rev it, he leans forward starting to rev the engine then leaning back you stretch out your hand to reach the handle giving it a twist and her the loud sounds of the engine roaring.

you laugh a little at how the little turn made such a loud noise, but something about this traffic. light made the lights switch quicker, your friend stepped on the gas pedal, moving with the flow of cars. the bikers attempting to catch up to you, but you eventually take a different path, losing sight of each other.

an unknowing smile on your face, seeing both always seem to make your day.

FOURTH MEET:

the first time you actually saw his face was when you had a second hangout session with shoko. She said her friend "satoru" and his bestie surguru were arriving pretty late, but you didn't mind.

you and shoko were in the middle of a nice conversation when you heard reving from just outside the nice restaurant.

as you looked through the window, you saw 2 familiar bikes park just I the side of the sidewalk. they looked familiar. " hey shoko those bikers look familiar. Did I ever tell you about these same bikers I kept seeing around the area?" " ya that's gojo satoru and the fully black one is suguru the reason we're hanging out was because satoru forced me to make you both meet, he's very annoying so I was against you both meeting but he wouldn't stop bitching and whining about it, not sure why he didn't just get your number the day you met." she rolled her eyes, eyes still on them making thereway to the entrance visers still on.

when they get near you look up making eye contact with cerulean eyes that seem to crinkle under hiw viser probably hum smiling under the mask, you were quick to greet them and be polite as there both getting settled down in there seats. as they take off there visers your met with the gojo satoru, messy whipe mop of hair on his head, face sculpted like a God, and overall features of his face complementing his entire face along with his nicely toned body. along with his other God looking friend with long black wolf cut couple of pericings and a small tattoo located just behind the thick lushous hair he had.

" So, your gojo satoru?" You look at the mysterious bikers' face who was now identified. "iam indeed!" he said with confidence you move to greet his other friend." im y/n l-" "everyone knows you silly your an angel who wouldn't know you?" satoru, cut you off before you can get another word in.

" whatttt???" you say confused "your pretty famous around campus y/n I thought you knew?" shoko said

but after that, you guys got along pretty well. Having a good laugh eating great food, you get a notification from shoko who tagged you satoru and suguru in her post.

when it was time to go back to campus, shoko said she needed to make a stop somewhere else, while suguru had to also go somewhere else, leaving just you and satoru.

" you'wanna get a ride home on m'bike?"

"sure" you smile

to say he took a couple of wrong turns, even going on the highway speeding it made you feel great.

putting his hand on your thighs to check up on you, readjusting your hand placement on him to make sure you're on securely, it gave you butterflies.

when you finally got home, you had a big smile on your face.

#jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #aesthetic dividers

57 notes · View notes

avissapiens · 9 months

Text

Jockbull Summer Week 6 Set A (18/12/23-24/12/23)

Model used is Tsonghan Wu

Man push ups this week were rough in terms of actually being consistent with them. Too many fucking distractions and bad days and just overall misscheduling. It's not too bad tho because on the 1 day it turned out perfect i managed to crank out 50. And even writing that is such a fucking thrill. We got halfway to the goal in 1 month. Its so euphoric.

I am just gonna have to start competing against myself aren’t I? I guess its just a bad time of year for it. Everyones tired and tuckered out and in fairness so am I. New year means a mental refresh and reset, so i’ll be more structured in this one in january. Which sounds like the kind of New years res bs you normally hear. But i’m serious (famous last words)

Nothing to throw out this week but I did FINALLY get that rawgear drop. Its actually very nice and is a good set of replacements for what I’m planning to discontinue as well as some new styles that i wanna try out, like this sleeveless hoodie.

Fewer opportunities to do this one but the times that I did were super fun. I tried to give brah Jockrs a lesson on it and he got some of it down, but only a few aspects at a time. Truly he just ended up breaking down giggling at the way Americans say Cock lol.

Baki was also a bit shaky this week ngl. i just had several days where the cut was taking its toll and my energy levels were stuck. And then some of the days i had some other more pressing matters to deal with which will be elaborated in Set C

Big gains on this one. New Gym contact acquired

There’s this dude i’ve seen around occasionally since I started. He’s not a super regular but he looks amazing. Shredded, lean, cut. Calisthenics type build. Gorgeous blond bro with a beard, almost stereotypically good looking. I’ve seen him sorta training other folks. He’s always had this super cocky aura whenever I saw him. Would always be smirking and chatting up a bunch of girls he randomly seemed to know. And when I was more insecure it did also feel like he was showing off and being a bit of a douche on purpose around my former fatass self. Which is kinda hot. But it didn't make me feel good.

Well on a really nice heavy pull day i was sitting waiting for a machine to free up and HE came up to ME and started chatting. He told me that I was looking so much better than I was a year ago. We talked a bit and he said he wants to be a PT but is kinda just doing it unofficially. Got his name, Liam. Very golden retriever.

The shitty thing is; despite looking almost 25 i’d say, the fucker is only 17. That was a little heartbreaking. Obviously we’re training for different goals and different ideals and there’s no real competition between us. But come on, that's catfishing at that point lol.

An additional point. Which sounds a little woo woo This was the day that I received some new pheromone cologne. So I like to think that had a little effect in making me more approachable.

#jockbull summer #JBS #Jock #bull

37 notes · View notes

orangeflavoryawp · 10 months

Text

Jonsa - "No More Scars", Part 3 (and final)

I can't believe I never tried my hand at the 'Jon rescues Sansa from King's Landing' trope before this because, damn, this was fun. And refreshing. Hope you enjoy it just as much. :)

(Also, tumblr's formatting has my fuse shorter than a flea's asscrack but hey, at least we out here.)

No More Scars

Chapter Three: Salving the Cut

"This is as far as we go." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing, they have a long, winding road to Riverrun before them.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 fin

* * *

“You never told me what happened,” Sansa begins, as she starts to wrap his wounded arm with one of the last strips of cloth they’d torn from her robe, “After you came back.”

Jon glances up at her from his seat along a fallen log.

“After you died, that is,” she clarifies softly, carefully, eyes fixed on her wrapping.

She changes his bandage every morning now, and he sits patiently as she mends, becoming more and more at ease with the closeness between them now, the unspoken intimacy, the casual touches. It should unnerve him, he knows, were he a proper lord – the way her knees press against his as she stands close to him, wrapping his arm. It should feel shameful, to be bare-chested before a lady, before Sansa . It should be many, many things that simply... aren’t.

Perhaps this distresses him the most – the way he cares less and less for propriety around her.

“What happened to the men that... that did this to you?” she asks, a thrum of anger lining her voice as she knots the bandage closed around his arm. She meets his gaze finally.

Jon blinks at her when he meets her eyes. They’re not apprehensive or cautious. There’s no uncertainty in them.

Only fervency.

“They, uh...” He clears his throat, licks his lips as the memory overtakes him. “They hanged, at my order – for their mutiny.” He swallows thickly, a sigh leaving him. “I swung the sword that cut their ropes myself.” His words are rough in his throat, the image of their swaying feet still etched behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes.

Sansa keeps her mouth pursed closed at his answer, but after a time, she raises a hand, slowly, to the deepest wound, just over his heart.

He startles at the touch, blinking up at her, his hands bunching into fists along his thighs.

She keeps her eyes along his gashes, her fingertips grazing the dead edge of his heart-wound. Wetness dots the corners of her eyes, a quiver of anger bunching her brows together. “I’m glad they hung for it,” she bites out, voice scraping from her.

Jon’s mouth tips open as he watches her.

Sansa presses her hand against his wound, palm over his heart. There’s a ferocity to her features when she raises her gaze to meet his. “What they did to you –” She stops, heaves a single, ragged breath. “I’m glad they’re dead,” she seethes.

A heat spreads through him at the words – a thrill, a dangerous quake.

She seems to recognize the words a moment after they leave her. She blinks away the sudden flash of anger, her hand tearing from his chest, a croak of embarrassment leaving her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that was – that was unladylike of me,” she rambles, pulling from him.

He catches her hand before she can move away fully.

She stills, eyes flicking back to his.

“No, it’s... it’s okay,” he breathes out, a thumb arching over her knuckles in reassurance.

Her shoulders sag a bit with the relief, easing back into their closeness.

Jon looks up at her from his seat, the rest of his words suddenly failing him. And all that makes sense – all he wants to do is –

Sansa sucks a thin breath through her teeth when Jon brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the heel of her palm, her pulse thundering beneath his calloused touch.

Jon never releases her gaze, his eyes still dark on hers, peering up at her through the fringe of his curls as he presses his mouth to her skin. He releases her slowly, his lips still hovering at the edge of her trembling hand. “Thank you, Sansa,” he exhales against her wrist.

She only nods in response, a sound brewing in her throat, and then she pulls her hand away nervously, offering him a reassuring smile.

The taste of her lingers on his lips well until the sun is high that day.

* * *

“How was my mother, when you left her?” Sansa asks him, turning slightly in her seat to glance at him over her shoulder.

Jon keeps their horse trotting along, a furrow lining his brow at her question.

She gives him an imploring look. “Please, Jon.”

“She was not well,” he sighs out.

Sansa frowns, turning back to face the road ahead. “She must be a wreck, separated from all her children but Robb. And then father...”

Jon stays silent at her back.

After a while, Sansa looks down at his hands resting atop her thighs, the reins bunched in his grip. She covers one of his hands with her own. “I’m sure it was a great comfort to her – knowing you set out to bring Arya and I home.”

Jon snorts at her shoulder, but it’s lighthearted enough not to irk her.

(She wonders at how easily she can read his mannerisms now, even when she isn’t even watching him.)

“I doubt anything I do brings your mother comfort.”

Sansa quietly revels in the fact he doesn’t pull his hand from hers. She sighs into the comfort of it. “Still, thank you. I know it has never been easy between you two, but to know that her heart will be more at peace – because of you , Jon, because – ” She catches the crack in her voice before it can surface. “I just, well, thank you, Jon. Thank you not just for me, but for my mother.”

He keeps quiet behind her, his hand turning slightly beneath hers to thread a couple fingers through her own, before he tells her, “I suppose rescuing the firstborn daughter of Lady Catelyn Stark deserves some praise.” He ends the musing with a soft chuckle.

Sansa turns to fix him with a sardonic smile. “A very little, good sir.”

“I’d never expect more,” he mocks in good humor.

She beams at him, before turning her gaze back north.

* * *

It’s washing day, and by the time Jon comes back from the river, wringing the wet tunic in his hands, Sansa is seated before the fire, hands bunched together nervously. She glances up at him upon his arrival, lip pulled between her teeth.

He stops in his stride, shaking his tunic out, brushing the damp curls from his face. “What is it?” he asks.

She stands swiftly, smoothing her skirts out. “There is... an issue.”

He raises a brow at her.

“If I wash my dress – which, yes,” she huffs out in exasperation, “I absolutely should. It’s filthy, after all,” she explains, raising her skirts to show him. “But if I wash my dress, then... well, I’ve only my shift until it dries.”

Jon drops his hand from where it was shaking out his wet curls. He looks dumbly at her. “Oh,” is all he manages, eyes roving up her form.

She presses a nervous thumb to palm, stepping closer toward him. “I don’t... I don’t mean to be... improper.”

“Of course,” he gets out, voice rough.

She peers at him. “Will that make you uncomfortable? It would just be while we slept. My dress should be dry by morning.” Her voice trails off, eyes glancing toward the river.

Jon swallows thickly. “It’s hardly my comfort that would be compromised, Sansa. Are you sure you’d rather not...?” He doesn’t exactly know what alternative to offer her anyway. They tore up her robe to serve as bandages for his wound, and they’d only gotten the one new dress when they’d gone into town before. He’s certainly not keen to repeat such an incident, and they’ve steered clear of the main roads and towns in their trek north. But that means hard living on the road. Sansa’s made no complaints about the food, or the sleeping conditions, but he knows better than to think she’d continue on in filth if it could be helped.

“I trust you,” she says in answer, the words seeming to stem the anxiety in both of them.

Her thumb stops pressing into her palm. His throat stops tightening.

He offers her a faint smile. “Alright, then.”

She nods, giving him a smile of her own, before she makes her way to the river.

Jon busies himself with cooking the rabbit he’d caught as they’d first laid camp, before he lays out on his bedroll the rest of the time she’s gone, arms braced behind his head, ears straining for the signal of her return. The sun dips low beneath the horizon by the time she comes back, and Jon snaps his gaze up at her, rising up on his elbows.

She stops just short of him, holding the bundle of her damp, cleaned dress to her chest. Her washed stockings hang over her elbow and her legs are pale in the firelight.

Jon clears his throat. “There’s dinner,” he says, motioning to the skewered rabbit meat resting off to the side of the fire.

She gives a grateful yet hungry moan in response, setting out her dress to dry beside his tunic and second pair of breeches. She squares her shoulders, pulling in a deep breath, before she turns to join him before the fire.

Jon keeps his gaze averted when she settles along the bedroll beside him, reaching for the meat.

“Thank the gods for fire,” she mutters, tearing a piece of meat from the bone with dainty fingers. She gives a slight tremble at the words. “It’s getting colder. Winter’s slowly coming south.”

“Aye,” he says, glancing at her. They meet eyes momentarily, before Sansa returns to her meal, and Jon means to lay back down, to close his eyes and beckon sleep but something catches his attention.

The faint curve of her breast outlined by the fire’s light through the thin material of her shift.

Jon freezes, watching her.

She’s busy eating, her attention focused, and maybe he should be ashamed for taking the opportunity as he does, but he – he can’t stop his gaze from raking over her form. The discernible curve of her breast, the faint line of her waist as it tapers down, the slight arch of her back, the smooth expanse of her bared calf beneath the hem of her shift.

Jon sucks a slow, tremulous breath in, his eyes flickering up to her face, to the graceful line of her jaw, the pale expanse of her neck, her thick, damp hair brushed over her other shoulder, gleaming blood red in the firelight.

Jon turns his gaze from her swiftly, meeting the fire’s blaze instead.

A woman, he realizes, though he knows he should have recognized it sooner.

Sansa Stark is a woman, now. And a dangerously enticing one, at that.

The kind that can spin a man mad, Jon’s sure of it.

Because it must be madness that has him looking at her like this. It must be madness that has his stomach clenching at the sight of her. It must be madness that has his skin flushing hot, and his throat going dry, and a heat stirring low in his gut.

It must be madness – to have him shifting uncomfortably in his breeches, to have him suddenly aching for his sister.

(And he realizes, belatedly, how very little he’s even used the word ‘sister’ in the last weeks.)

Jon grabs for the blanket covering his legs. “Here,” he mumbles, stuffing it into Sansa’s lap unceremoniously, before turning over and settling along his bedroll with his back to her. “You’ll get sick if you stay cold.”

He tries to shut out any response on her end, tries to bite his tongue, to close his eyes and welcome the dark – to disconnect – from here, from her, from all of it.

It works for a time, at least. Until Sansa sets her cleaned skewer to the side and then shuffles down along her bedroll to lay comfortably. She spreads the blanket out, covering the both of them, before turning into his back, her arms bundled into her chest, pressed against him, her nose brushing his shoulder blade.

She sighs against him. “Goodnight, Jon.”

But he doesn’t sleep.

He doesn’t sleep for hours and hours.

* * *

“Tell me, though, do they really make you take those vows?” Sansa asks.

The day’s conversation is mostly dominated by Sansa’s curiosity about his life at the Wall. He tells her about Jeor Mormont, about Grenn and Pyp and Sam and Ed. He tells her about Alliser Thorne and Qhorin Halfhand.

He tells her about Ygritte.

She lingers on that one for a while, but it’s easier to talk about than he’d expected. Like a release. Like a breath finally taken.

Like coming over the Wall at dawn.

Jon gives her a shrug, but she can’t see his face from where she sits before him on the horse. “Which vows?”

“The ones about not taking a wife, not fathering children.”

It’s not the point of conflict he expects her to have with his history in the Watch.

Sansa twists to eye him more fully. “Surely, you can’t be expected to keep to that?”

The question twists a wry smile from him. “And why not? You think me so weak-willed?” The irony of his response is not lost on him.

“It’s not that, it’s just – " She stops, pursing her lips. “I mean, doesn’t everyone want a family of their own?”

Jon doesn’t answer her immediately, his mouth forming a tight line.

Sansa lowers her gaze. “I guess I just figured... I mean...” She huffs, her brows furrowing. “It’s just cruel, don’t you think?”

He raises a brow at her, his voice low and controlled as it leaves him. “You think it’s cruel?”

She twists in her seat to more fully face him once more. “Don’t you?”

Jon frowns at her words. “For many of them, it’s rather a blessing. I wouldn’t wish progeny on half the men up there,” he quips, a dark look overtaking his features.

Sansa furrows her brows at him. “But you’ve always wanted a family, haven’t you?”

Jon rears back a bit, unable to mask the surprise he feels at her question. “What makes you say that?”

Sansa cocks her head at him, contemplative. “But you have , haven’t you?”

Jon glares at her for her stubbornness. “And you haven’t?” he counters.

“Of course, I have,” she answers simply. “But then, it was expected of me.”

Jon measures her words a moment, glancing out across the horizon, gauging the distance before they need to set camp. “Seems to me that expectation is forfeit now.”

He thinks of the white scar across the nape of her neck. He thinks of all the ways he would kill Joffrey Baratheon, had he only the means.

“Perhaps,” she says gingerly, turning away from him to face ahead. “But Joffrey’s bile couldn’t taint such a dream.”

Jon peers down at her, taken by her words.

She nods to herself, eyes still ahead. “No matter who I marry in the future, I know I’ll be a good mother. I know I’ll love my children with all of myself.”

“No matter who you marry?”

Sansa dips her head. “I haven’t the luxury of choosing a husband in the way that you may choose a wife,” she says simply, no ire to the words, but no cushion either.

They burn all the same.

Jon tightens his hold of the reins, gulping down the unease. “Your lady mother would not choose poorly for you, I’m sure. And with Robb as King now – ”

“With Robb as King, I’m even more an asset for securing alliances, once the annulment of my marriage to Tyrion is put forth.”

Jon bites back his words, the tartness of them smarting along his tongue.

Because nothing she says is untrue.

“Anyway,” she starts again, clearing her throat, “You can evade all you want, but I know you, Jon Snow.”

He raises a brow at her in amusement, unseen. “Is that so?”

“I wasn’t the only one with dreams growing up. And perhaps we weren’t close enough for you to share them with me like you would have Arya, but I also wasn’t simple, Jon. I know you’ve always wanted a family. Who could look at you all those years and not know that?”

Jon steers the horse to a halt.

Sansa glances back at him, surprised.

“Aye, I’ve always wanted it,” he finally answers her after several moments of quiet, a sigh leaving him, the exhale hot along her cheek as she watches him. “A lady wife, children, a lordship. All of it. I’ve wanted it for as long as I can remember. Yes, even since we were children and you corralled me into playing knight for you. Yes, since then. I’ve wanted it.” He swallows back the heated breath that fills his lungs, his gaze flickering from hers, off to the side, his throat clearing when he takes a steadying breath. “But what does any of this matter now?”

They sit in stillness for many moments, with Sansa still partially turned in her seat, with Jon’s hands still gripping the reins.

And then Jon shakes his head, a hand pressed to his temple. “I’m sorry, I just...”

“I think you’d make a great one,” she interrupts him softly, turning back in her seat to face the horizon.

Jon blinks at the back of her head, the breath tight in his chest.

She fingers the edge of the saddle horn absentmindedly, a tender smile touching her lips. “A father, that is. And a husband.” She glances at him over her shoulder again, barely meeting his eyes. “I think you’d make a great one,” she repeats, voice sound, the words sure.

Jon has no answer for her.

She pats his thigh reassuringly, turning back from him, ready to continue on. “I’m glad those vows can’t keep you from that anymore.”

Something inside him clicks into place at the words, like a latch coming undone, a door swinging open.

(A door he never truly learns how to close again.)

* * *

“Ah! It’s slimy!” Sansa shrieks, laughing, the fish in her hands splashing water over them.

Jon keeps her grip closed tight around the fish with his own large hands covering hers. “Here! Now toss it!” They throw the fish up onto the shore together, where Ghost gives it a vicious bite, and the thing twitches a moment before falling still.

“Ghost, no, that’s dinner!” Jon scolds him, hands on his hips as he stands calf deep in the freezing river water, his breeches rolled up.

Sansa giggles at the display, standing beside him with her stockingless feet scrunching in the riverbed, her skirts pinned up at her thighs. She puts her hand to her mouth to smother the laugh, before coughing at the smell. “Oh gods, Jon, I’m all fishy now!” she groans, shaking her hands out.

Jon laughs at her. “Some Tully, you are. You’re the one that wanted me to show you how to fish.”

“I didn’t think we’d be catching them with our hands.” She scrunches her nose up at her hands.

“Well, I didn’t exactly pack a fishing pole, Sansa.”

She gives him a playful glare.

Jon shakes his head, laughing again. “Alright, come here. One more time. And then I’m getting you out of this water. It’s getting too cold to fish.” He settles next to her, their sides pressing together, as his hands go around hers, and they lean down, ducking their hands beneath the surface to feel for fish.

“Easy. Wait for it. Just wait for it.” Jon’s voice is warm and steady at Sansa’s ear.

She finds she could stay like this for hours, feeling the river flow beneath her hands, with Jon’s warmth pressed into her side.

She could stay like this for days, for months, years even. Just like this.

With him.

Sansa catches herself, shaking the thought from her head.

She returns to the task at hand.

* * *

“I don’t see how this is supposed to help me,” Jon bemoans, turning the strands of her hair over in his hands.

Sansa turns from the fire to look back at him from where she sits between his knees. “You said it yourself. You want a lady wife. And what if that lady wife needs help braiding her hair?”

Jon gives her an incredulous look. “I highly doubt th – ”

“Don’t you want to be able to help her?” she asks him primly.

He only frowns at her.

“Exactly.” She turns back, smiling to herself. “I’m helping you, Jon, believe me. You’ll thank me for it later.” She hears him huff behind her and it makes her smile widen, her cheeks tinging pink. She clears her throat. “Now, do you have the three strands?”

“Yes?”

She purses her lips at his uncertain answer. “That’s not a very confident yes, coming from a former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Sansa,” he warns.

She turns back just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. “Oh, come now, Jon, I’m just teasing.”

He turns her head back with a stern hand. “I’ve got them.”

Sansa settles more comfortably between his knees now, her smile returning. “Alright, then remember what I said. Over, not under.”

“Over, not under,” he repeats dutifully.

Sansa beams.

* * *

“It looks like it’ll rain,” Sansa says cautiously, watching the horizon.

Jon hums his agreement, urging their horse faster. “We need to find shelter before the storm comes.”

A flash of white appears before them in the fading light of sunset. A pair of red eyes gleam between the trees.

“Ghost has found a cave,” Jon sighs behind her. He sets them to a trot, careful not to rush the horse through the forest in low light, watching the forest floor as they proceed.

Thunder crashes sharply above them, and Sansa flinches, glancing up. “It’s closer than I thought.”

Jon only grunts in agreement, continuing the trek.

The first drops of rain are cold and gentle on her head, before a torrent comes down on them, sudden and vengeful. The sky opens up and howls at them.

“Jon, I can’t see!” Sansa yells through the rainstorm, a hand going to shield her vision, a useless attempt.

“Almost there,” he hollers behind her.

The thunder booms high above the trees. A flash of lightning illuminates Ghost waiting patiently a short distance away. The hollow darkness of a cave stands behind him.

“There!” Jon calls through the rain. And then their horse missteps, a hoof coming down along the edge of a fallen log, splinters crackling beneath its step. The stumble jostles them in their seats, Sansa gripping at Jon’s arms as she glances back at him. “”It’s not far. Help me down.” The horse whinnies in anxiety beneath them as Jon tries to settle her.

“Alright.” He glances to either side of the saddle, taking in the muddy terrain beneath the downpour, before swinging himself off and settling on his feet with only the slightest waver. He glances back up at Sansa, finds her grimacing beneath the rain, her hair and dress completely soaked. He can already feel the rain soaking past his own tunic and breeches, water trickling down his spine. His hands go for her waist. “Come on.”

Her hands slip along the saddle horn with her shivering, but she swings herself down easily enough, the toe of her boot touching ground, and she sighs out her relief, just before her other boot slips along the stirrup and she topples over. Jon catches her before she hits the mud, but her ankle buckles beneath the weight of the fall, twisting painfully, and she cries out, gripping at his arms as he hauls her back up.

“What? What is it?” He shakes his drenched curls out, trying to focus on her in the storm.

“My ankle,” she groans, reaching for something, a stone, a fallen log, anywhere to sit.

Jon recognizes the motion, lowering her down to a nearby log as gently as he can. He crouches before her, rucking her skirts up to her knees to see the injury, tearing off her boot as she lifts the sprained ankle for him to inspect, but her stockings are in the way, and night is slowly falling, and the rain is hampering any vision he might have had otherwise.

Jon curses beneath his breath. “I don’t see blood. Probably just a sprain.”

“A sprain is good, right?”

“It’s manageable, at least.” Jon glances around, finds Ghost standing stalwart at the entrance of the cave, not far off. “What’ll be worse is staying in this downpour. Can you walk?”

Sansa nods, gritting her teeth as she grabs her loose boot. “If you can help.”

Jon throws her arm over his shoulder, hoisting her up with his own arm around her waist.

Slowly, they make their way to shelter.

* * *

Jon manages to get Sansa into the cave without issue, setting her on her feet once they enter. He goes back for the horse immediately, dragging it further in after he’s sure Sansa can stand on her own, and then he’s rifling through their packs, throwing the contents across the floor, cursing when he finds their bedrolls soaked through as well.

“Is there – is there nothing dry?” Sansa asks through chattering teeth, her arms wrapped around herself in an attempt at keeping warm. Ghost pads into the cave, trotting past them as he shakes out his fur, settling down along the far wall.

Jon frowns at the beast, before glancing back up at Sansa, his mouth a grimace when he sees the way she’s shivering in her wet clothes.

“Fire,” he says, looking around for anything to help. “Let me build a fire.”

He’s shaking, too, Sansa can tell, but he doesn’t complain when he takes her by the arms and settles her on the floor close to Ghost for warmth, before rifling through their pack once more to find the only semi-dry piece of fabric and laying out said bedroll beside the direwolf. Then Jon gets to work on the fire, and Sansa cups her hands in front of her mouth, blowing hot air into them, alternating between that and rubbing up and down along her arms. She rocks back and forth along the ground until the fire’s built up and Jon turns to her, a worried expression lining his face.

“We have to get you out of these soaked clothes,” he says, singularly focused, ushering her up from the floor, mindful of her injury, and dragging her toward the fire. He stops them just at the edge of it, the flames spitting at their calves, and she’s freezing, shivering, her teeth clattering in her skull when he turns her to him. She draws her arms into her chest for warmth, but Jon pulls them away, tugging at her sleeves, dragging the dress down her form. She follows his direction mindlessly, helping him push the rest of her dress down the length of her body before she kicks it away, leaving her in her shift. It’s soaked through as well, and she instinctively wraps her arms around herself for warmth, pressing into him, seeking the heat of his chest, her face pushing into his neck with a pained moan.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he mumbles absentmindedly, running his hands up and down her arms, and then across her back. He warms her like this for many moments, his chest heaving against hers, still in his own soaked tunic, the chilling tickle of his wet hair at her ear. And then his hands bunch in her shift, moving to lift that, too, but he stills, breath hitching in his throat, suddenly frozen against her.

She turns her face further into his neck, trying to burrow deeper into his warmth. She moans her confusion at his inaction, shivering against him. “I’m cold, Jon,” she breathes into his shoulder, urging him to continue.

The tremble that racks him ricochets through her, his hands fisting in the material of her shift, held just above her hips, and the ragged expel of his breath against her cheek brings her mind sharply back into focus.

Her eyes fly open, suddenly aware of the intimacy of their position.

She can feel the steady gulp in his throat, before she pulls back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Sansa,” he breathes lowly, eyes shifting between hers, his touch never leaving her.

She stands there, pressed against him, their clothes soaked through and their bodies trembling – every breath of space between them swallowed up by a desperate need for warmth, for heat . Sansa licks her lips, her chest rising anxiously, and her legs grow weak, her ankle giving out without warning. She sags against him with a wince, a bitten off gasp of pain, her hands splaying over his chest, grasping for purchase, and he grips at her waist with strong hands, dragging her firmly to him, their hips pinned together tightly.

Her mouth parts at their closeness, her breath splashing against his own lips. She stares at his mouth for far longer than she knows is proper, her throat going dry, before she meets his gaze once more.

He’s staring at her heatedly through a fringe of wet curls, his jaw clenched tight. His fingers curl along the small of her back, possessively almost, even as he shakes his head, his gaze finally dropping with a look of shame. “I... I shouldn’t...”

“Jon,” she says, her voice finding air before she’s even aware of it.

He stops, his tongue brushing out to wet his lips, his gaze still lowered, still fixed on her collar bone. His hand stays pressed at her back, his chest still heaving against hers.

Sansa pushes everything away.

The things she knows she should say, the things she knows she should feel.

The things she knows she should want.

(Or rather – shouldn’t want.)

Her hands spread up his chest, anchoring at his shoulders with a surety that surprises even her.

He blinks wide eyes up at her, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth.

She swallows tightly, the cold stripping away all fear, all doubt, her hands steady on his shoulders now, her breath coming slow and even, until there is only this:

“Please, Jon,” she whispers, eyes never leaving his. “I’m cold.”

He stays staring at her for long moments, eyes dark on hers.

The flames flicker threateningly at their feet, the cold slowly giving way.

She gives him a nod of reassurance.

He heaves a single, quaking breath, his fingers bunching in her shift once more. “Alright, then,” he says, a last look of warning passing over his features, a last intake of breath stealing past his lips.

She only nods.

Jon lifts the shift from her in a single, fluid motion, tugging it over her arms and tossing it aside, leaving her in only her smallclothes.

The world rushes at her instantly – an unexpected whip of cold followed by the fire’s blaze of warmth, the sudden heaviness of her wet hair against her back, droplets of rainwater beading down her spine, the icy shock of her own palms pressed to her breasts in some modicum of decency , and his eyes – gods , his eyes – still fixed to hers, still dark and steady and halting.

The hesitant brush of his fingertips along her bare hips before his hands wind more surely around her waist, instantly urging her toward the curled form of Ghost around the other side of the fire, near the cave wall.

Jon clears his throat, averting his gaze. “Here. Ghost will keep you warm.”

Her throat feels tight, her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth, as she follows his direction, eyes never leaving his face, even as he takes pains not to look at her. She stumbles over to Ghost, her ankle throbbing, Jon’s hands at her elbow and around her waist. He helps lower her to the floor, and then brushes the wet hair from her face as she pulls her legs up to her chest.

“Ghost,” Jon calls, motioning him closer to Sansa. The direwolf curls more securely around her back, nestling his great head just past her shoulder.

Sansa sighs at the sudden warmth, the relief fluttering through her, even as the cold still racks her bones. She shivers suddenly, legs curled up, before she pushes up to a shoulder and glances over to her feet. “My... my stockings,” she says unsurely, frowning down at them, her hands still covering her chest, protecting her modesty.

Jon drops to a knee beside her, one hand going to her foot, the other to her thigh, just at the top of her stocking. He stops suddenly, glancing back at her face. “May I?” he asks, voice rough.

She nods once more, still unable to trust her voice.

It’s a whole new tremble that racks her when the heat of his knuckles brush against her thigh, calloused fingers slipping under the hem of her stocking, his other hand curling securely over her ankle before he drags the length of the stocking down her leg.

She bites her lip to stifle the unexpected moan that brews in her throat, eyes squeezing shut as he does the same along her other leg. There’s a tight coil in her gut, a hammering low in her stomach, and she shakes her head, tries to drown it out, eyes still squeezed shut. She hears him shift along the ground and opens her eyes to watch him. He takes her dress, her shift, her stockings, and lays them out along the ground on the other side of the fire, hoping to dry them through the night, but he’s trembling, obviously frigid himself, his own drenched clothes still sticking to him.

“Jon, your clothes...”

He stills with his back to her, crouched, his hands spread out over her dress.

She swallows tightly, still curled into a ball, pressed back against Ghost. She huffs. “I know you’re just as cold.”

“Sansa – ”

“Come here, Jon.”

He shoots a look back at her, almost a glare, his shoulders bunching tight.

Her features soften. She keeps her arms pressed against her chest, still. “There’s nothing to be done for it. Just... please, come here, Jon.”

He stands, turning to face her.

She raises a brow at him in challenge.

He squares his jaw, hands going for his belt, before stopping. He closes his eyes, a deep breath rattling from him. His shoulders shake, but Sansa can’t tell anymore whether it’s simply from the cold. “Sansa...” he gets out roughly – a pained exhale. As though just the utterance of her name could undo this moment. As though anything he could say could take them back from this path.

As though it wasn’t always where they were headed.

A calmness overtakes her then, unexplainably. “Jon,” she calls, voice firm.

When he opens his eyes to finally look down at her, she feels vulnerable beyond imagining. But it isn’t the sort of vulnerability that used to have her shrinking in fear.

No.

It’s a thrilling sort of vulnerability.

The kind that has her skin flushing, and her breath quaking, and her heart hammering. The kind that has her meeting his gaze with unblinking eyes when she parts her mouth and tells him, in no uncertain terms, for the last time, “Jon, I’m cold.”

Something flickers through his gaze at the words, at the even thrum of them, the veiled demand. He licks his lips as he watches her, a single, uneven breath flooding his chest, and then his shaking fingers start unlatching the belt at his waist, tugging the tunic up from his breeches. He turns his gaze from her when he lifts the material over his head, baring his chest to her once more, and his hands only hesitate briefly at his breeches before he tugs those down as well, kicking off his boots, and setting his clothes alongside hers by the fire.

Something warms in her at the way he still tries to keep propriety between them, never letting his gaze linger on her naked form, turning to keep her shielded from his own indecency as best he could in his smallclothes.

“Come,” she calls to him, a nod of assurance sent his way when he turns back to her after laying out his breeches.

He swallows thickly, lowering himself to the ground beside her along the partly damp blanket, his arm halting in its reach around her waist, before he commits fully, sighing as he settles finally, dragging her up against his chest.

She releases a shaky breath as she feels his warmth envelop her, her face pressed back into his neck, but this time, there’s not the heavy, wet barrier of their clothes between them. There’s the cool press of his skin on hers, before their shared heat suffuses them. There’s the firm line of his muscled thigh braced along her own, and the thick fur of Ghost at her back. There’s the steady rhythm of his heart against the back of her hand, still curled protectively around her breast. There’s the brush of his beard at her cheek, and the firm anchor of his arm around her waist, and the uneven lull of his breath at her temple, as heated and dizzying and untempered as her own.

She knows she should feel abhorrent of their closeness, embarrassed at the inappropriateness of their embrace. She knows she should feel disgusted and scared and ashamed.

She knows she should feel a thousand other things than what she does feel.

But oh, what she does feel...

Sansa swallows thickly, steeling herself, before she peels one arm from her breast and moves to wrap it around Jon.

He stiffens at her motion, and she presses closer, sure that there’s no way for him to mistake the feel of her breast against him now, but he doesn’t pull from her. She grows bold, lets that boldness fill her, lets herself reach for more – lets herself reach for what she wants.

She wraps both arms around him now, gripping at his back, sighing into his shoulder as her body becomes molded with his, a single line forming between them.

He gulps nearly audibly, a hand going to her shoulder as though to pull her from him, halting there on a surprised inhale of her name. “Sansa,” he begins, but never gets to finish.

“Shhh,” she says into his shoulder, her lips planting there firmly, the heat of him branching through her, the frost finally weaned from her bones.

He shudders beneath the press of her mouth to his skin.

“I’m not cold anymore,” she says simply, her breath fanning over his throat, her hands grasping him more firmly to her.

And that’s all she has to say on the matter.

She nuzzles into him, unrelenting, and after a few moments, a surprised exhale leaves him, a broken off chuckle, the hesitant start of a laugh – fragile and new and tender.

It warms her through and through.

Until she’s sure it’s spring she feels.

Until she thinks she may never be cold again.

* * *

When he wakes, he finds she’s already watching him.

“Good morning,” Sansa tells him, voice hesitant and thin.

He takes in their forms, their huddle against Ghost, still in the same position as when they’d fallen asleep the night before.

Jon swallows thickly. “Good morning.” His voice is rough, gravelly. He clears his throat. “Sansa, we should – ”

“Shh,” she tells him, a hand raised up to trace his brow. Her eyes flicker over his face, searching.

He’s acutely aware of her warm body still pressed to his, and his eyes flutter closed as he tries to push away the sensations her heat flares in him. “Sansa,” he tries again, voice still rough.

She slides impossibly closer, her breath fanning his lips, and he stills at her proximity, eyes opening back up to hers.

Her hand spreads over his cheek, her eyes shifting between his. “Just...” She takes a breath, licks her lips, and then her eyes dip to his mouth, and everything shifts.

He sees it coming. He really does. But he doesn’t stop it.

Sansa kisses him.

And it tastes like salt. Like salt and rainwater, and he’s – he’s kissing her back, gripping her shoulders, and then his eyes snap open and he pulls from her, gasping.

“Sansa, no, no we can’t – ”

“Please, just – ” Her words die out, her eyes riveted to his, their breath mingling between them, and her hand stays braced to his cheek, like an anchor, like safe harbor in the storm.

His words falter in his throat, his eyes shifting between hers.

“Please, just...don’t say anything,” she whispers against his lips.

He swallows tightly, his muscles bunching, the pit of his stomach dropping out. “Sansa.” Her name comes out more a plea than anything.

He doesn’t think he meant to do that.

Sansa licks her lips, taking a steadying breath. “If you don’t say anything,” she murmurs, fingers flexing over his cheek, “Then maybe this... maybe this...”

Maybe this dream won’t have to end.

Jon sighs at her mouth, unable to speak, even though he knows he should.

Her hand curls over the back of his neck, bracing him to her, her forehead settling against his. “Please, Jon.”

“Sansa,” he croaks out, swallowing back the rest. His eyes flutter closed and he breathes her in.

Like salt and rainwater.

Like a thunderclap beneath his skin.

His hand loosens over her shoulder, spreading shakily over her neck, up her jaw, framing her face. “Sansa,” he breathes out, his chest heaving with it.

(As though her name were the anchor. As though he could stem the tide.

But he knows now, how foolish he’s been.)

“Just...” she whispers.

Don’t speak.

So, he doesn’t.

* * *

They’re silent for the next two days, journeying on in quiet unease. Riverrun is only days away now, and the nearness of it feels like coming up against a wall.

Still, they don’t speak. Even when Jon hugs her from behind when she goes to unpack the horse, staying there with his nose in her hair for long moments. Even when she curls up between his legs as he leans back against the tree, watching the fire. Even when she wakes him with kisses, before burying her nose in his shoulder.

Even when he winds his fingers through hers as they ride, their joined hands resting comfortably atop her thighs while she leans back against him.

Even when he knows this cannot last.

Even when he knows she knows it, too.

They don’t speak.

And somehow, that is both easier, and worse.

* * *

“I know we shouldn’t,” she says on the third day, without warning or preamble. She’s staring down at their joined hands as they ride.

Jon stays resolutely silent behind her.

“I know we shouldn’t, and yet – ” She huffs, frustrated, a hand going up to wipe the tears from her eyes.

Jon sits up straighter, brushing the hair from her shoulder to touch her cheek gently.

She dips toward the touch, before shaking it off, grabbing for the reins and stopping them. She twists back to face him. “I don’t want to go home.”

Jon stares at her, the breath raking from him.

She looks at him imploringly. “Please, Jon.”

“You don’t mean that,” he clips out.

She squares her jaw. “I do, if it means going back to being your sister.”

“You’re still my – ” He bites off the words, his teeth aching with them. He tears the reins from her hands. “This isn’t up for discussion.”

“Jon!”

“I’m taking you back to Robb and Lady Catelyn.” He steers the horse back on track, even when she struggles against his chest, trying to get him to stop.

“They would never accept us!”

“Then they don’t accept us!” he bellows at her, yanking the horse to a sharp halt. He stares down at her, finally noticing the tears in her eyes.

She pulls her lip back, chin jutting high. “I was married off for political gain once before. Are you comfortable with it happening again?”

Jon bites his tongue, his knuckles white where he grips the reins. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” she clips out, a scathing note to her voice. “But that’s what’s going to happen, regardless. You understand, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer her immediately.

“Don’t you?” she presses, the tears brimming at the edges of her eyes.

“I understand,” he seethes out, his throat tight with the words, his own eyes stinging with the wetness.

She stares at him for many long moments, before she turns away, facing that red-lit horizon once more. “Fine. Then take me home,” she grinds out, wiping at her eyes one last time.

She never turns back. And Jon cannot ask her to.

So, he leads on.

So, he leads them home.

* * *

The night before they make it to Riverrun, Jon lays staring at Sansa’s back. Her outline is a haunting visage, a sharp line in the night, the flicker of firelight slowly dimming over her form.

His eyes grow weak after a time, dawn slowly creeping over the hill behind them.

And then he sees it.

The slight shudder that racks her shoulders.

Jon stays deadly still, watching her. A minute passes. Another minute.

The fog comes in over the hill.

But then – there, again. Her shoulders quake, her body curling in on itself.

The realization hits him like a hammer to the heart.

Jon reaches for her. “Sansa,” he breathes out achingly, dragging her back into his chest.

She doesn’t smother her sobs now, crying freely beneath his hold.

Jon presses his cheek to hers. “Sansa, please, I can’t stand your tears.”

“Then don’t cause them,” she hiccups at him.

He almost laughs, but the sound stops in his chest, rattling there with his pain. He hugs her tighter. “I only want to do right by you.”

She grips at his arms, sniffling back her tears. “I know,” she says reluctantly.

He holds her like this until the sun has well and truly risen, until its warmth blankets their forms. He would hold her for longer, if only she wished.

If only he could .

(He would promise so, so , much more – if only he could.)

If only.

If only .

* * *

Riverrun sits along the horizon like a jewel, like a shining promise.

And Jon keeps his promises.

Sansa sighs at the sight, the air filling her lungs, the tears sudden at the corners of her eyes. She pulls a hand to her chest, her heart beating wildly beneath it.

It seems so simple, suddenly.

Jon releases his hold of her other hand, drawing back with a resigned sigh, settling a perfectly appropriate distance behind her in the saddle. “This is as far as we go,” he says, and she knows exactly what he means.

“No,” she bites out immediately.

Jon peers at her.

Sansa takes a steadying breath, her spine straightening when she looks out over the hills. “No, it’s not.”

Jon almost shrinks beneath the weight of his pain, his regret. “Sansa,” he gets out roughly, a hand going to his eyes.

She turns in her seat, meeting his gaze.

It stops him short.

“I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I promise you, Jon, this isn’t as far as we go,” she says evenly, a finality to her voice that steadies her.

The look that passes over Jon’s face sets a pang to her heart, but she continues on, her hand settling back over his, surely. “You will not be another one of my scars, Jon, nor will I be yours.”

He blinks at her, his shoulders going slack.

She gives him an honest smile – the most honest she’s ever given him. “Because we deserve better than that,” she tells him.

Jon hangs his head, a heavy breath leaving him. He pinches the bridge of his nose before looking back up at her. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

He heaves a disbelieving breath.

“No more scars, right?” she asks him, her hand gripping his tightly.

She doesn’t let herself think about the hope she’s strung to those words, like a long-awaited salve. The thin, weak hope of a girl.

Just a girl.

Just the vestige of a once-hostage.

Just a lonesome, needful girl .

(A girl who once knew what kind of love she longed for, and knows it now, even more clearly.)

Sansa shuts her eyes, the breath shuddering from her, ready for the break, ready for the letdown, but hoping, hoping, hoping – still –

Jon’s hand grips at hers tightly, and her eyes fly open.

And then he laughs.

And then he shakes his head, a tight swallow stalling the words. “No more scars,” he agrees finally, voice cracking as he presses a kiss to her temple.

Sansa very nearly crumbles beneath the affirmation. She sucks a tight breath in, a hand to her chest. “I told you I wouldn’t make it without you,” she gets out shakily, the tears hot along her lids. Her mouth is a trembling line, her sob swallowed back down. “I meant it,” she exhales on a breathless gasp, the smile finally breaking free.

Jon brings their joined hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles with a fervency she’s never seen in him.

The intimacy of it makes her laugh – light and teary and hopeful.

When they finally start down the hill, Sansa knows for sure now:

There is far, far more to go.

#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #no more scars #my writing #got fanfic #jon x sansa

45 notes · View notes

stonesparrow · 22 days

Text

Dr. Pebble pt. 2

I'm probably gonna leave this as a two-shot for now, though this au is a ton of fun so I'd totally welcome people sending me asks about it!

Part 1

Time passes by in a daze. Senku fades in and out of consciousness erratically, the sharp pain in his leg making sleep all the more comforting. When he’s awake, he can just barely hear muffled sounds around him that somehow seem both close and far away.

A few times he feels his head being gently tilted up and something cloth-like brushing against his face. He opens his lips, and water drips into his parched mouth, cool and refreshing.

When he finally wakes up with a clear mind and manages to sit up, he realizes he’s lying on an incredibly soft gray pelt that’s much larger than his whole body, and he’s been covered by another, thinner piece of material that seems like it could be deerskin.

When Senku pulls away the blanket, he sees that his leg has been delicately wrapped up in a ribbon of the same material, and there’s something herbal smelling that’s been smeared on underneath.

He’s also naked from the waist down, which would be rather mortifying if he wasn’t already resigned to his situation. It makes sense, the wound would be hard to get at otherwise. At least his savior was decent enough to cover him up, and left Senku’s mouse fur top as it was.

Speaking of which. Senku takes a moment to look around. He’s in some sort of large room, surrounded by tall ceramic jars at least twice his height. There’s a huge round door on the far side of the room, and Senku spots a pile of enormous pelts nearby that’s roughly ten times his body length.

This is someone’s home. And not just any someone, a normal-human-sized someone.

This raises a lot of questions. Was the boy who saved Senku unpetrified and then grew back to normal size over time? Was he descended from someone who was unpetrified and over the generations humans gained their size back slowly? Or were his ancestors never petrified at all?

Either way, Senku can’t move very far without a ton of pain, so he’s stuck waiting for the boy to return before he can get any more answers.

There’s a bowl of clean water with a rag next to it near Senku’s bedding. He slowly crawls over to it and drinks some of the water. The mouse pelt he was using as a loincloth has been neatly folded and set to the side, and with some pain and effort he manages to get it back around his waist.

Eventually, the big round door opens, and the house’s owner quietly steps in. His eyes meet Senku’s, and he freezes.

Senku glances over him. He’s got brown hair with a rope headband and is wearing animal-skin clothes that have been dyed blue, indicating a somewhat sophisticated crafting culture. Interestingly, he doesn’t look very Japanese—maybe he’s part immigrant.

“Oh!” The boy gasps, rushing over to Senku. “You’re awake!!”

Senku winces at the booming sounds, and the boy blinks, then lowers his voice. “Oops, sorry. How are you feeling?” He frowns. “Wait, wait. Can you understand me?”

“I sure can,” Senku says after a moment. “And I’m doing surprisingly well, thanks to you.”

The boy’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Wow, so you can talk! Just like a human!”

“I am a human,” Senku says, “just like you.”

The boy gasps. “Whaaaat?! But you’re so small!”

“I wasn’t always this small,” Senku scoffs. “I was born normal sized like everyone else! This is a recent development, one that has its ups and downs for certain.”

“Really?” The boy kneels in front of Senku, clearly fascinated. “How did this happen to you, then?”

As Senku tells his tale, the boy looks more and more amazed. He doesn’t have an explanation for why he isn’t tiny himself—as far as he knows his people have always been normal sized.

Suddenly, Senku’s stomach growls audibly, and Chrome blinks. “Oh! Hold on—“

He goes out the door and then returns a minute later with a roasted fish on a stick. It smells really good, and Senku finds himself leaning forward as Chrome sits cross-legged in front of him and carefully picks off a chunk to hand to Senku.

With no thoughts to propriety, Senku devours the fish hungrily—it’s a much more familiar taste than the mouse meat, and he’s been craving salt. Chrome meanwhile eats his share of the fish casually, observing Senku with a curious eye.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” he says. “That leg will take some time to heal, and this hut is elevated so you won’t have to worry about predators.”

Senku wipes his mouth and stares up at Chrome. “You’re awfully nice to strangers,” he says. “Not that I’m not grateful, but I’m not sure that I have anything I can offer in return, unless you’ve been looking for a good source of walnuts.”

Chrome shrugs. “You were hurt,” he says. “And you’re the most interesting thing I’ve seen in the forest since I started exploring on my own. I’m sure we can work something out between us. Besides, it’s not like you take up a lot of space.”

“Well, I guess I have no choice at this point,” Senku says. “Mind giving me the grand tour then? I’m really curious about what you have stored in all these jars.”

He lets Chrome gently pick him up so he can see the room better. As soon as Chrome brings him near one of the jars, Senku’s heart leaps.

“Wait a second! Malachite, chalcanthite, corundum, and is that…holy shit that’s galena! Chrome, this is amazing!”

“Oh, you like it?” Chrome grins. “I’ve spent years collecting all these things, grinding them up, mixing them together, heating them over the fire. Sometimes some really baaad stuff happens when I hit on the right combination, it’s totally magical!”

“Not magic,” Senku corrects him. “This is science. Chrome, you’re a scientist like me!”

Chrome tilts his head. “A what?”

When Senku explains, Chrome seems intrigued.

“So you’re saying that in your time, scientists were people who discovered what different rocks can do?”

“Not just rocks,” Senku says. “Building, exploring, cooking, medicine, anything and everything uses science and was studied by scientists.”

Chrome blinks. “Medicine?”

Senku nods. “Scientists studied sickness and developed all sorts of medicines for all sorts of things,” he says. “From what it seems, you’ve picked up a bit too, using this herbal poultice on my leg.”

Chrome is staring at Senku strangely. “I think I know how you can pay me back for helping you,” he says.

Apparently, one of Chrome’s friends is very sick, and has been for a long time. That’s why he lives out here alone, experimenting with plants and minerals to find something that might finally ease her pain.

“Let’s make a deal then,” Senku says. “I’ll teach you everything I know about science and how to make antibiotics, and you’ll help me find and wake up my friends.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Chrome nods. He holds out his pinky finger, and Senku shakes it.

“Kukuku, it’s time to get excited!”

#dr stone #dcst #dr. stone #ishigami senku #au #aus #my writing #my fic #dr. pebble

8 notes · View notes

stayteezdreams · 1 month

Note

Hey Hey! Ship request!! For TXT, Box 2, Card 1. And prompt #22 if its still available! Thanks. OH and congrats on 1k!

Thank you! Sorry for the wait, and I hope you are happy with who you got!

Your Fate Ship Is......

Taehyun!~

Prompt #22: "Hasn't there ever been something you wanted so bad it drove you crazy?" "Yes." "What?" "You."

Crazy

Taehyun chuckled and shook his head as you stared intensely at your phone.

"You're gonna make yourself blind staring like that for so long."

You tsked as you refreshed the page, waiting desperately for your favorite bands tickets to go on sale. You WOULD get tickets this time.

"Do you do this when our tickets go on sale?"

You side-eyed Taehyun, "Nope."

He gave you a look of offense as he turned more towards you. You smiled softly, "You always get me tickets idiot."

"Oh yeah" He chuckled as he turned back and looked at his own phone.

He refreshed the page, while keeping the screen hidden from you.

Did he always make fun of you for trying desperately to get tickets to these concerts? Yes. Did he also try his hardest to get tickets for you? Also yes.

You sighed, "Come on! I wanna eat."

"You could always give up."

You glared at him and he smiled teasingly. "You have seen them in concert already."

"I know, but that was so long ago, and this is their anniversary concert. It's supposed to be amazing, and I really wanna go." You pouted softly and Taehyun smiled at the sight.

"You shouldn't raise your expectations too much though, it'll only be more disappointing if you don't get the tickets."

"I know. But-" you sighed softly as you looked over at him, "Is there never something like this for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...hasn't there ever been something you wanted so bad it drove you crazy?"

Taehyun felt his chest clench, his answer coming out without thinking. "Yes."

You turned and gestured at him. "What?"

You waited for his reply, expecting something similar. A concert, a trip, a gift. But what left his mouth left you stunned.

"You."

You blinked a few times before your voice came out in a soft whisper. "What?"

The last thing Taehyun was expecting to do tonight was to confess to you, but now that the opportunity showed itself he felt like there was no point in avoiding it.

Seeing your stunned face he felt a mixture of anxiety and humor. Glancing down at his phone he smiled as he tapped it a few times before turning the screen off.

Turning to face you he repeated what he said. "You."

"Me?"

He nodded, "Are you telling me you never noticed my crush? It's not like I hid it."

You swallowed as you felt your neck growing hot. You did have a feeling he had a crush on you, but you were also one of his closest friends, so you never wanted to assume incorrectly and make things awkward. Especially since you felt the same for him.

You looked down at your lap as you spoke hesitantly. "I- I never wanted to assume...just in case."

He let out a soft laugh, reaching forward he tapped your chin, making you look up at him. He had a soft smile on his face.

"I want to be with you so much it drives me crazy."

Your heart seemed to stop as he spoke and you seemed to forget how to breath. You opened your mouth to speak but seemed unable to find your voice.

Taehyun chuckled as he scooted closer to you, "Do you want to be with me?"

His voice held confidence, but his heart beat only with anxiety. He waited patiently for your reply, but inside he was panicking.

You swallowed before you nodded your head, "Yes."

As a smile crept onto his face, you found you were smiling too. You let out a shy chuckle as you leaned forward and pressed your head into his shoulder out of bashfulness.

He chuckled as he gently ran his hand through your hair, pressing his head into yours as he grinned.

"Hey."

Pulling away you met his eyes and he smiled, "Did you forget your mission?"

You furrowed your brow before realization hit you as you gasped and grabbed your phone. Checking the page and seeing that the tickets were all sold out you groaned and fell backward only to couch as Taehyun laughed.

"You distracted me."

He grinned, "Yes I did." Reaching forward he grabbed your arms and pulled you back up. "But it was a good distraction right?"

You stared art him for a moment before smiling and nodding. "Yeah, it was."

"Good." Pulling out his phone he showed you the screen.

'Ticket's purchased'

Your eyes widened as he chuckled. "We can make it our first date."

Throwing your arms around his neck he fell back as you were now on top of him. He laughed as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. He let out a deep breath as he looked at his phone screen with a grin.

Did he panic click when he saw the tickets were up? Yes. Did he accidentally buy four sets of tickets? Also yes.

When it came to you, crazy was definitley how he felt.

#taehyun #taehyun x reader #taehyun drabble #taehyun imagine #txt/reader #txt imagine #txt drabble #taehyun/reader #fate ship drabble #tomorrow x together/reader #tomorrow x together imagine

11 notes · View notes

luckyricochet · 1 month

Text

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2

Read on AO3

Eilidh learns how terrible the night can be.

A/N: Cèlidh (KAY-lee) - A traditional Scottish or Irish social gathering usually involving dancing and Gaelic music

Eilidh Hamilton’s Diary

Mum and Dad say I need to keep on looking after Granny. They both asked if they could take different shifts now that the attacks are at night, but they’re both needed during the day. I expected as much, so it wasn’t so surprising when they told me but it seems like I won’t be getting much time to myself for the foreseeable future. It’s not as if I was getting much of that in St Andrews, but…I’m not sure how to express what I feel. Maybe because I don’t have any opportunity to actually work it out, all my time it seems is focused on Granny. And maybe instead of writing here in this diary I could think instead, but even that time wouldn’t be enough. I need more.

I keep telling myself everyone has to make sacrifices in war but I can’t help but complain anyway. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do anything anymore, except be by myself. I know it’s a selfish, horrible thought. Mum, Dad, and Granny deserve so much better than me, and I don’t want to give it to them.

I keep hoping one day I’ll wake up and I won’t be such a bitter pill and all of this will go away. But that only happens after some time. And like I said, I don’t have much of it right now.

A hand on her shoulder. Soft, but with a little pressure. Eilidh frowned in her sleep and then turned over, rolling the hand off of her. She opened her eyes and saw in the dimness the shape of her mother, dressed and carrying a bag.

“I’m sorry to wake you so early,” she whispered. “But we’re leaving now, so it’ll be you and Granny until we get back.”

“When?” Eilidh groaned, still half-asleep.

“We’ll try to be back before eight tonight,” her mother answered. “If anything happens, we’ll telephone.”

“Is Granny up?”

Eilidh’s mother glanced out into the hall. “Not yet.”

Eilidh forced herself awake enough to catch a glimpse of her clock. She probably had another hour of rest before she would have to rise.

“Well, okay,” she muttered. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Footsteps padded softly out of the room, followed by a shuttering of the door. London was awake even though it was still early, with the cars passing on the streets and a newspaper boy hawking the headlines on the corner. Eilidh pulled her blanket higher, trying to enjoy the warmth of her bed for as long as she could. When she finally sat up to change, she didn’t feel like she had taken advantage of the extra time.

As refreshed as she could be, Eilidh stopped outside her brother’s room. He hadn’t spent much time here, as she recalled. If he wasn’t at school, he was on the street playing football or riding his bike. He wasn’t someone content to stay at home.

She knocked. “Granny? Do you need help getting dressed?”

Some muffled noises answered her. “No, I don’t think so…”

A minute later, the door opened. Eilidh’s mouth fell open slightly. Her grandmother stood before her, not wearing the type of sensible dress and hose that she normally donned, but Will’s slacks, a woolen jumper, and church jacket. Everything was too large her but also too frumpy to all be layered atop of each other, rendering Granny some bizarre model for Will's school uniform and a Sunday service at the same time.

“Granny, these aren’t your clothes,” Eilidh said. “Do you have your luggage in there? Why don’t you take those off and we’ll pick something that fits you.” She gently pushed Granny back into the room. “What about this?” She pulled out a blue dress, cardigan, and stockings from the suitcase that was at the foot of the bed.

“Hmm…” Her grandmother appraised the outfit Eilidh proposed, skeptical.

“You love this dress,” Eilidh said. “We can’t go out with you dressed in boys’ clothes, can we?”

“Boys’ clothes?”

“Yes. Boys’ clothes,” Eilidh said firmly. She began to take the mismatched garments off. “Don’t these feel more comfortable?” She wrangled her grandmother into her own clothes and then let out a breath. “Isn’t that better?”

Her grandmother examined her arms, like she had never seen what she was now wearing. “I supposed it does.” She laughed a little, as if she was surprised with herself.

Eilidh almost joined her, and then the memory of last night returned. Her smiled faded. “Granny, I’m sorry I was sharp with you yesterday evening.”

Her grandmother also stopped smiling, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“When we arrived, I got frustrated with you. I’m sorry. It wasn’t right for me to yell. It wasn’t your fault.”

A moment passed, while Eilidh wondered if Granny actually remembered what had happened. She shrugged, and then pointed at her, somewhat devilishly. “That’s that temper of yours, isn’t it?”

Eilidh looked down sheepishly. “Yeah, it is. Should we go on a walk?”

“Walk” was a generous label for what they really engaged in, just a brief constitutional down the end of the road and back. But there was plenty out there to keep both Eilidh and her grandmother stimulated, even at the slow pace in which they moved. Blooming flowers, sounds of the street, people to watch, the feeling of the sun. The world continued on. And it had been so many years since Eilidh had appreciated this area, she took her time to take it all in before they returned back to the house—which felt decidedly empty when Eilidh closed and locked the door again.

As the days wore on, Eilidh soon realized that her thought about the empty house was not to be an anomaly. Her parents left for the hospital early in the morning, and didn’t come back usually until after Eilidh had made dinner. In between then, Eilidh wandered the halls of her childhood home, mulling how it no longer seemed as comforting as it once had.

She saw pictures of herself and Will on the mantle and bookshelves. His shoes were still by the door, his coat on the rack. Even in the bathroom, his razor sat unused in the cabinet, his toothbrush in the cup on the sink. He had been buried now for a week but everything about the house seemed to indicate he would come walking through the door any minute, alive and well. Eilidh couldn’t help thinking that he would whenever she heard footsteps.

As different as the house now felt, though, it was still her home. Eilidh made an effort to notice the things that reminded her of this fact. The sheets were still a little scratchy like they had been when she was little. One of the legs of the dining room table sported a few scratches from where Eilidh and Will had dug the tines of a fork over the wood in a moment of foolhardy childishness. Things that her parents could have changed or fixed over the years, and didn’t. Constants that Eilidh now saw as signs that this was indeed her home, and not just another house in London.

She tired to vary her days with other activities she could take advantage of with her grandmother. All of her art supplies from her school days were still here, so Eilidh dug them out of the drawer and they painted for a few afternoons. Eilidh peeked over at Granny’s paper every once in a while, impressed to see that even in its somewhat garbled state, her grandmother’s vase of daffodils was a better attempt than her own botched depiction of the Swilcan Bridge on the Old Course. When they grew tired of painting, they went into the yard and tended to the small garden in which her parents had begun to grow vegetables. They turned on the radio and and danced to whatever was playing, one of Granny’s favorite pastimes from the old days; she had always been able to last the longest at a cèilidh. Glenn Miller wasn’t exactly the same, but it filled the void at least. Anything to keep Granny occupied.

If she wasn’t occupied, her grandmother asked a lot of questions. Why they were in London? Because of Will. Then where was he? Underground, he was killed. When they could leave? Not for a long time. Where were her parents? At the hospital. Would they be attacked? I don’t know.

Within a few days of her arrival, Eilidh’s father had showed her the bomb shelter in the yard. It had been added when Eilidh had been in Scotland, so she never saw how it had been installed—a metal shed-like structure with a domed roof, tucked into four feet of earth. Inside were rough wooden bunks, torches, canned food, bottles of water, and other essential items her parents had stockpiled away. Once Eilidh saw it, she immediately made sure to put some things that would appeal to herself and Granny in it, but it was still a depressing sight. If there was one place where a person could get bored and restless, it would have been in there. She fervently prayed the Germans would soon grow bored of dropping bombs on them.

The high-pitched whine of the air raid siren woke Eilidh with a start. Her disorientation only lasted a minute, though; the sound was unmistakable. “Mum? Dad?” she shouted from her room, struggling to find her coat and shoes in the dark. She abandoned them hopelessly and wrapped herself in a quilt instead.

Her parents were already out of their bed, waking up Granny in the next room. “Mum, we’ve got to go, now!” her father was saying, urging her out of bed and into a jacket. But Granny moved slowly on the best of days and now, with the loud commotion of the bombs and the siren, was obstinate.

“You’re mad, James—you want to go outside—in this?!” she argued. The sentence came out in pieces, barely audible above the din. “I’m staying here.”

Outside, the bombs fell. BOOM. BOOM. The windows trembled from their impact. Flashes of yellow light crept through the curtains that had been drawn for the blackout, illuminating the room with fire for a second. In the brief moment when she could see, Eilidh noted the unmistakable worry in her parents’ faces.

“Mum, this whole house might be flattened!” Eilidh’s father shot back. “Now come on, we’re going! The shelter is right in the back—” As he spoke, the house shuddered violently. Eilidh crouched down instinctively, glancing up at the ceiling with terror, which was now sprinkling dust on them from the force of the blast. She glanced back at her parents and grandmother, biting her lip until it bled so she didn’t panic. Granny wasn’t going to be moving any time soon; they all knew it.

“Eilidh, get to the shelter,” her mother muttered to her.

“But—”

“We’ll be right behind you, now go!” Eilidh’s mother glared at her so fiercely Eilidh acquiesced without further argument, tripping over her own feet in her haste to fly down the stairs and into the garden.

Even the short sprint from the door to the shelter was exhilarating—the world seemed to be collapsing around her. In the open air, Eilidh felt every bomb dropped through her entire body. They shook the ground she ran on and electrified the air she breathed, sparking her insides with energy and making the hair on back of her neck stand up. The RAF was doing its job and anti-aircraft weaponry answered each Luftwaffe plane with a blast of flak, but it did little to calm the adrenaline that pumped through Eilidh’s blood, so galvanizing that she hardly acknowledged the pricks of pain on the soles of her socked feet from the gravel path leading to the shelter. She kept her eyes trained on it coming closer and closer, not daring to peek to the sky even for a second. She threw the door open finally after fumbling with the latch, ducking and scrambling inside. She turned around, hoping, expecting, to see her parents and grandmother close behind like her mother had promised.

But the yard was empty.

Eilidh froze in disbelief—Surely they couldn’t still be inside?—and then collected herself enough to climb halfway out of the shelter, alarmed. It was dark and she had to strain her eyes between the intermittent flashes of light, but there was no one coming toward her in the gloom, and it was impossible to try and see what was going on through the windows with the blinds shut. Eilidh knelt on the steps of the shelter, half-exposed, her mind racing. What to do. What to do!? As far as she knew, her parents were still in the house, trying to convince Granny to leave its safety and brave the outdoors to reach the shelter. They’ll never convince her, Eilidh thought wildly, She’s as stubborn as a mule, she won’t go, not unless they drag her out kicking and screaming—

Some manic force nearly took over Eilidh then, imagining the scene inside. I’ve got to go help them, she thought. Of course she won’t go with them, but me—I’ve been the one with her all these years, I’m the one who’s been taking care of her—She forced herself to do what she had been too scared to do a minute before and looked up, watching the shadowed aircraft and clouds of smoke in the sky, a futile attempt to guess when would be safest when she knew in reality it was all up to chance, but she readied her feet anyway, steeled her mind—

NOW—!

And the world exploded. The sky seemed to split and a deafening CRACK ripped from the tear in the air, accompanied by a blinding flare somewhere not far from the front of the house. Eilidh cowered and felt herself being thrown by the blazing hot force of a shell back into the shelter. She landed haphazardly on the hard floor but ignored the bruise she felt on her shoulder, and, for a moment, the thought of her family that had just gripped her a moment earlier, scrambling to cover her head and make herself as small as possible. The roof shook and the air was filled with the screaming siren, whirring engines, deep ack ack bursts, noise Eilidh was dimly amazed to register at all now that her ears were ringing so loudly her head ached. She pressed her arms against them and held her eyes shut tight, trying to block the sounds out and not see the fire, but when she tried to ignore the present, her mind drifted, to the past, to Will. Is this the last thing he had heard, the last thing he had felt? The thought tormented her, and she contorted herself into a ball, wishing she was anywhere but here and that her memories were anything but what they were.

#masters of the air #mota #masters of the air fic #mota fic #jack kidd #jack kidd x oc #masters of the air oc #mota oc #my writing #rrr

9 notes · View notes

reccyls · 2 months

Note

Do you have any ideas for why ikepri changed the suitors birthday specials from story sales to party events? Is the latter more profitable for them?

I don't know for sure, but I imagine so.

The past birthday stories + CG go for around 2k-3k diamonds, and party events give a chance for people to get the CG and the story for free. On the face of it, it seems like it would be counterintuitive if Cybird wanted to make money.

However, consider: you will likely need a 5* card of the birthday character to be able to get that for free in the first place. If you have been unlucky with the gacha, it's a pretty strong incentive to:

buy the 10k diamond pack that comes with a special birthday 5* card (the idea of spending 10k yen to get 3k yen worth of stuff for free is questionable, but at least now the special birthday card does have a tangible actual benefit in-game aside from just looking pretty)

pull more on the gacha, or

try to get +99 4* cards from events

All of which will necessitate spending.

Additionally, events naturally add a ranking element in. For events centered focused on certain characters. People get competitive, and when people get competitive, they spend. A lot.

For reference, as of this writing, the #1 position for Silvio's event has ~2 million party points. I have no idea what their point gain is like though they do have a bunch of +99 cards and some +15ish Silvio 5* cards. Making some generous assumptions (250 points per salon, everything done during triple lucky time, and buying only the most efficient sets), that is around 25k diamonds, at a minimum, worth of buying sets & stamina refreshes. For a single person.

The top 1000 (which is as far as the game really tracks) is at 44k points right now. That could be 1-2k diamonds worth of spending, but that will rise tomorrow as that's when the final 3x will start and ooh boy that will likely be a bloodbath. Competition for the top 100 (cutoff for the epilogue story) is also probably going to be very intense (right now the border is hovering at around 270k points)

And that's just people who are trying to get in the rankings. There are probably also a lot of people who aren't, and just want to get Silvio's CG and birthday story, but they don't have a 5* Silvio card so they need to refresh some in order to get it.

Maybe there are also people who are sort of interested in Silvio, but like other characters way more. They would have balked at the 3k price tag for a CG + story, but in this system, maybe they're just a few salons away from getting everything almost for free. Surely, 300 or so diamonds of stamina is worth it then, right?

The party event is really good at incentivizing the really dedicated whale fans, as well as incentivizing more casual fans to spend just a little bit. I imagine that adds up.

7 notes · View notes

deanwanddamons · 2 years

Text

Undercover - Chapter One

Summary: Homicide Detective Dean Winchester and Detective Y/F/N Y/L/N go undercover to solve a spate of murders.

Universe: Detective AU

Pairing: None (yet)

Chapter Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: Dark subject matter. Angst.

A/N 1: As always thank you to my beta @winchest09, who helped me with the idea for this story. You are my cheerleader, my bestie and my constant support. I love you. A/N 2: As you may or may not know, I haven’t written anything in an absolute age. I have been struggling with writer's block and life has simply got in the way. But…I started this series a long time ago and a few chapters were just sitting in my docs. So I thought I would post the prologue in the hope that you guys enjoy it, want to read more and it may give me the inspiration to continue with it. I’m happy to say, most of you seemed to enjoy it so here is Chapter One. Please let me know what you think - comment and reblog if possible ❤️ Tag list is open if you wish to be added.

My Masterlist

Undercover Masterlist

3 weeks before Prologue

Dean walked through the winding streets of Pasadena, Los Angeles, making his way towards the precinct where he would now be working.

After spending a week in the hospital after ‘the incident’, he had been ordered by his Captain, Rufus Turner, to take some time off work to recuperate from his ordeal. Dean wasn’t happy with this command, and had been very resistant to agree. The police force was his life, and the idea of just sitting at home doing nothing was alien to him. But he knew that Rufus was not the kind of man you could argue with.

Rufus had been his chief for several years, and Dean knew that he wouldn't back down once he had made up his mind. He had tried to reason with him, explaining the importance of his job as a police officer, but Rufus had already made up his mind.

Flashback

"Look, I know how you feel," the older man had said, his tone firm. "But you need to take some time off. You've been working non-stop for months. You need to recharge your batteries, spend some time with your family, and just relax."

Dean knew that his Captain was right. He had been putting in long hours, working weekends and holidays, and neglecting his personal life. He had missed important family events, and he could feel the strain on his relationships.

"I understand, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "But what am I supposed to do? I can't just sit at home and do nothing."

Rufus smiled. "I'm not asking you to do that. There are plenty of things you can do. You can take a vacation, travel, catch up on some reading, or do something you've always wanted to do but never had time for. The point is to take a break, clear your head, and come back refreshed."

The officer nodded, silently acknowledging the wisdom in the words he had just heard. He knew he needed a break, and he also knew that his Captain had his best interests at heart. He would take some time off, reconnect with his family, and come back ready to serve and protect.

"Thank you, sir," he said, standing up. "I appreciate your concern, and I'll take your advice."

Rufus nodded, pleased. "Good. Now, go enjoy yourself. That's an order."

When he eventually returned to work, the idea of being given a new identity and to move away from Lawrence, Kansas had been posed to him. He had been furious, but had eventually agreed when he realised if he didn’t, his life could be in danger.

It was going to be strange. A new day, a new station and a new name.

He pulled the badge from his pocket, the one that was mailed to him by his new superior Captain Bobby Singer.

Detective Jon Elliot.

Dean huffed a laugh. He recognised the mixture of names that had been chosen. Jon Bon Jovi and Joe Elliott. He was impressed. Even though he didn’t think he looked anything like a ‘Jon’, the name was something he was going to have to get used to. His life, and many others, were at stake.

Opening the heavy doors of the police station, he walked over to the desk officer.

“Detective Elliot to see Captain Singer,” he announced. The deputy nodded and picked up the phone. Dean turned around, noticing a few chairs to his left and sat down.

He looked around the reception area. It was full of people, coming and going, and was much bigger than the station he had worked in back in Lawrence. It consisted of a large communal area with around twenty desks and three offices. One that belonged to him and his partner Benny, one that had belonged to Captain Turner and one that had been used as a store room. There had been very little crime in the area he had originally worked in.

That was until Michael had come to town.

He shook the memory from his head, determined to not let himself be distracted today.

“Detective Elliott?” A burly, thick set, bearded man in his late 50’s was walking towards him, his hand outstretched.

“Captain Singer.” Dean stood and shook the man's hand.

“Please. Call me Bobby. There’s no formality here,” he said “Come with me if you will,” he continued, gesturing to a corridor on his left.

Dean nodded, and side by side the men walked quietly towards an open door.

Entering the spacious office, Bobby closed the door behind him as Dean took a seat by the large, oak desk. Taking a moment to look around the room, the Detective took a deep breath as he tried to get himself accustomed to the new surroundings. Photo frames filled with smiling faces adorned the wooden space in front of him. He could only assume that it was the family of the older man who he would be reporting into.

"Dean, I was sorry to hear about Benny," the Captain started, taking his place in his plush office chair opposite him before he steepled his fingers. "Terrible situation."

“Thank you,” Dean acquiesced, taking in the grim expression on Bobby’s grizzled features. He appreciated the concern, but was hoping that he wouldn’t be expected to go into too much detail. He wasn’t sure he felt quite ready enough to discuss what happened in depth with a stranger, even if he did mean well.

“Losing one of our own is always a deep blow,” the elder man continued, “And for it to be your partner while you were on a case must make it even harder to bear. I have lost a few colleagues…” Bobby’s words trailed off as he realised Dean was fidgeting in his seat, loosening his tie with his right hand, the fingers of his left hand drumming against the wooden arm of the chair.

“Anyway, I digress,” he went on, mentally kicking himself for making the new Detective feel uncomfortable, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in here. I trust your new accommodation is to your liking?”

Dean was happy that the subject had been changed. As Bobby had been speaking, he could feel his heart rate begin to raise, his palms getting sweaty. He wondered briefly if the Captain had noticed, and that was why he had stopped talking. If that was the case, Dean knew he needed to get himself in check. He could not perform his duties correctly if he couldn’t bring himself to talk about Benny. Even though no one else in the precinct knew his real identity except his superiors, it was enough that Bobby asking him questions had made him react this way for him to realise he may need to take the force up on the offer of a therapist.

“Yes, yes thank you Sir. It’s very nice,” Dean lied. The small apartment he had been supplied was in a rough part of town, above a liquor store, but he was grateful for the relative safety the tiny rooms afforded him.

“Okay so,” his new Captain went on, “I’ll introduce you to the team, using your assumed name of course. They’re a good bunch. A few mavericks that need to be reigned in now and again, but besides that, they behave themselves most of the time.”

Raising from his seat, Bobby buttoned his jacket as he walked past Dean towards the door. He opened it and gestured for the younger man to exit the stuffy office.

He was led through a corridor into a bustling investigation room. Numerous staff were typing away on keyboards, the clack of their fingers creating a cacophony of different rhythms. Desk phones were ringing loudly, most of them being ignored. A large white board containing photographs of suspects in the particular case they were currently investigating stood at the front of the room, words written in different colours of magic marker, some circled, some underlined filling in the gaps between images.

Dean followed his superior as he moved between the desks, the occupants standing up as the Captain passed, nodding at him briefly before taking their seats again and getting on with whatever work they had been doing. Some of them glanced at Dean as he walked closely behind, others ignored his presence.

It was clear that Bobby ran a tight ship and was well respected by his subordinates. The fact that they stood up when he approached their work station was a surprise to Dean, as this was not something anyone did for Rufus back in Lawrence, but he made a mental note to remember this in future.

The duo had reached the desk of an attractive blonde police woman. Her face was open and pleasant, a bright smile on her lips. She rose to her feet, as Bobby introduced her.

“Detective Donna Hanscum, this is Detective Jon Elliott.”

“Pleased to meet ya,” she said, holding her hand out. Dean shook it, warming to her friendly demeanour straight away.

“I’ll leave you in Donna’s capable hands,” the Captain told him, “come by my office before you leave for the evening.”

As Bobby turned away, Donna pulled a chair out and patted it. “Take a seat.”

“Coffee?” she offered, her eyes moving towards a vending machine in the corner of the room. “It’s not gourmet, but it does the job.”

Dean was relieved. He was desperate for some caffeine. “Please. Black, no sugar.”

“You betcha.”

As Donna prepared the beverage, Dean took in more of his surroundings. The staff were a mixture of uniformed and plain clothes officers, male and female, young and old. Some were busy on their desktops, others were leaning back in their seats, cellphones to their ears. Food was being consumed at work stations, papers were being shuffled, names were being yelled.

It was so different to what Dean was used to, but he liked it. It distracted the tumultuous thoughts that haunted him, even in his waking hours.

Donna, returning to her desk, brought him out of his reverie. He took the plastic cup gratefully and gingerly sipped the tepid liquid. She was right. It was far from gourmet, muddy tasting and luke warm, but it provided the caffeine hit he really needed right now.

“Nasty right?” Donna chuckled, obviously noticing Dean’s disdainful expression.

“It’s fine,” he smirked, placing the cup down.

“So, Jon,” Donna said, turning her body towards him, “What brings you here?”

Chapter Two

Tags - @salt-n-burn-em-all / @littlelonewolfgirl/ @krazykelly/ @deans-spinster-witch / @lastcallatrockysbar / @ssimelttilgniht / @123passwort / @winchester-girl67 / @winchestergirl2 / @americasass81 / @jessjad / @akshi8278 / @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior / @waywardbaby / @deanwinchesterswitch / @440mxs-wife / @globetrotter28 / @sexyvixen7 / @hobby27 / @djs8891 / @kickingitwithkirk/ @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden / @kyjey / @lindalouh / @solariklees/ @trektraveler

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #detective!dean #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural au

102 notes · View notes