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lazy-ahh · 11 days ago

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ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variant #mark grayson #viltrum invincible #viltrum mark grayson #male reader #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variant x reader #invincible variant x male reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x male reader #viltrum invincible x male reader #viltrum mark grayson x male reader #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?

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hs-is-loml · 2 months ago

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Secret Never Meant To Be Told. (s.w)

Pairing: Sensei Wolf/Feng Xiao x Fem!Reader

Summary: A former Cobra Kai/Miyagi-Do student joins the Iron Dragons, intent on uncovering more about Terry Silver. But along the way, she finds herself drawn to someone she never expected. Her new sensei. Fast forward to the Sekai Taikai, and her carefully balanced double life begins to crack. When Wolf catches her speaking to someone she shouldn’t, suspicion flares, forcing a confrontation she isn’t ready for.

Type: one-shot

Warnings: READER IS LEGAL AGE, age-gap, minor slow burn for a one-shot, everyone knows except for them, forbidden kiss, friendship with Axel because he needs a friend, UNEDITED.

a/n: i'm back with my latest hyper-fixation. i also didn’t expect this to be this long, but i hope you all enjoy!

Word Count: 5.4k

masterlist

Your phone buzzes in your hand while you’re waiting to board the plane to Barcelona, and you notice Robby’s contact pop up on the screen. You hesitantly look around to see if anyone who would get you in trouble is around but find no one aside from Axel near, you decide to answer the call. “Cover for me for a few?” you whisper to Axel while standing up from your seat.

“Yeah, be quick.” Axel nods reassuringly to you.

“Y/n? You there?” Robby’s concerned voice comes through the phone. You hear in the background, “Dude, I told you it wouldn’t be a good time to call!” sounding like Miguel.

“Yes. Sorry, just making sure I won’t get caught,” you mutter in a low voice, finding an empty spot near the gate. “I can’t talk for long. I board in 15 mins.”

“I’m with Miguel right now, and we just wanted to check in on you. How are you holding up?”

You let out a sigh before a small smile settles on your lips, “As good as I can be. Sore as hell, though Wolf’s no joke with training. He has Axel and me up by 5 a.m. every day to train for the past two week since he’s named us captains.” You look over your shoulder to see Axel signaling to you to hurry up. “Silver hasn’t shown up in the dojo lately, but he keeps in contact with me for updates on the tournament. He’s meeting us in Barcelona on the first day of full events.”

“I wish we could do something to help you, Y/n. They’ve been keeping you on this too long,” Robby says, frustrated with his dad and Mr. LaRusso. “Be safe, okay? We’ll see you soon,” and the line goes dead.

When you turn around to start heading back, you’re met with Wolf’s hard stare piercing into you as he approaches Axel and your seats. You see him say something to Axel but can’t make out the words.

“Personal call?” Wolf questioned you in a dry, unimpressed voice as you sat back down. “I thought I said no distractions,” he leaned down to coldly mutter close to your ear while placing a firm grip on your shoulder, causing you to lean back and meet his eyes again.

“It wasn’t one, Sensei,” you answered through the loud announcements to tell passengers that boarding would start soon, causing him to release his tight grip and sneer while walking away from you.

Axel let out a breath of relief next to you, “Always lucky. If that were me, I would’ve paid the price by now.”

“Axel-” You warn.

“I am just saying no one could get away with the things you do,” he remarked while grabbing both your bags and leading the way to the plane entrance. “I mean, come on. He let it go, just like that? No way. Not to mention he doesn’t even like it when we’re too close together.”

While we were waiting for the people in front of us to find their seats, my neck snapped to turn to him taken aback by what he just said, “Now, you’re going too far-” I scoffed.

“Am I?” Axel breathed down by your ear pressing closer to your back with his front. “Look up.”

Sparked by curiosity, you tilt your chin up and look around the plane and find Wolf’s icy glare already on you and Axel. You look long enough to see him clench his jaw. “I’m still not getting your point...”

“You will soon enough. He’ll snap sooner rather than later,” he let out a deep chuckle.

You stand next to Axel and Zara, waiting for your bags to come out. Zara points out her luggage to Axel, asking if he can help her get it, leaving you alone waiting for your suitcase. You see it finally drop down to the conveyor belt and you wait for it to come around to your side. You lean down to reach for the handle, but you see a tattooed hand grab it for you. “I could’ve taken it.”

“I’m sure you could,” Wolf smirked, setting your bag down beside you before walking off.

Before you can think too much about what just happened, your phone screen lights up with a new message from Miguel saying landing in 3 hours! sensei larusso said that he’ll text you our room numbers later if you find a moment to get away from the team

You hear your name being called, so you begin walking over to the team and like Miguel’s message before putting your phone away. “Texting a boyfriend?” Zara teased, raising her eyebrow to you in curiosity.

You turn to glare at her before replying, “Wouldn’t you love to know.”

“Can’t have our captain distracted with a long-distance boyfriend, now can we?” she questioned back as the team started to make their way to the bus that was taking everyone to the hotel.

“Enough, Zara, keep your voice down,” you warned, giving her a pointed look.

“I don’t know how you got the captain’s spot after suddenly showing up a few months ago, but I won’t have you embarrassing us during the tournament.”

“If I remember it correctly, I beat you for this spot,” you reminded her before making your way to sit next to Axel, who saved you a spot near the front of the bus.

“Do you always have to argue? Is it an American thing?” Axel shook his head at you in amusement as you settled in your seat. “You know I think you would be happier if you just ignored her.”

You scoffed lightly. “I need some type of entertainment, and it just so happens that arguing is the most interesting thing that happens around here.”

The speakers boom as Gunther begins his introduction for the Sekai Taikai, “Welcome, competitors, senseis, sponsors, and esteemed guests to Barcelona, this year's home of the world's greatest karate tournament, the Sekai Taikai.” He pauses as loud cheering erupts in the arena room. “The Sekai Taikai boasts a rich and proud history. And if you are here, it's because you embody all that the Sekai Taikai stands for. Leadership, respect, sportsmanship. Captains, step forward and tie on your headbands.”

The room tensed the moment the captains stepped forward onto the mat. Conversations stuttered, eyes narrowing as teammates straightened their shoulders. You glanced at Axel before he gave you a nod of reassurance. You center the headband in your hands then raising to your forehead to tie it back.

“Captains, you will have the honor and privilege to compete in our televised tournament of champions. But that is only if your dojo does well enough in our team competitions to make it to the final four. Once the tournament is over, we will then tally all the points your dojos have earned. The dojo with the most points wins the Sekai Taikai. Team events begin tomorrow,” Gunther adds to his speech. “Each event counts. They will all be a surprise. But today, it's about enjoying our host city and making new friends.”

You break your focus away from Gunther speaking and catch Tory’s stare. You felt your pulse jump. It takes you aback for a moment, realizing what gi she has on. Even more so when you look behind her to see John Kreese smirking back at you.

“We have a field trip arranged for our competitors. And for our senseis, a cocktail mixer with our distinguished sponsors, some of the world's finest martial arts brands. It's a beautiful day to make a first impression. And I suggest you enjoy it, because tomorrow, your lives will change forever. Good luck, and welcome to the Sekai Taikai!” Gunther finished sending everyone off to figure out where to go next.

You planned not to go on the stupid field trip and instead find some solace in your hotel room, but by the looks of it, Wolf knew what you were thinking to do. “I’m not going.”

“You will go,” you could tell in his voice that there wasn’t any room for you to argue. “You will represent the team and show you are better than every single one of them. I saw that girl who surprised you from the Cobra Kai dojo. I will not have you show any weaknesses. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sensei,” you hissed out in reply.

“Good girl. Now go make sure the team comes back in time for last-minute training after dinner tonight,” he murmured, his voice dipping slightly.

“Y/n!” you glance behind you to see who called your name, to find Tory alone in by the aquarium with you.

“Tory-” you breathed out in ease. You quickly approach the girl and pull her into a quick embrace. “I heard what happened. I’m so sorry about your mom.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, Tory. Don’t do that to yourself. It’s okay to not be okay,” you leaned back to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

“You couldn’t have known,” she shook her head and looked down before telling you, “I think I made a mistake coming here. I’ve ruined every relationship I have by coming here with Cobra Kai.”

“I understand why you did it, and I don’t blame you for it. You deserve the spot of being captain. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

“They hate me-”

“No. They just need to get over themselves and realize this isn’t about them.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, Tory. It’s been hell being in Hong Kong these past few months, but I don’t regret it,” you admitted to her. “The training they have us do is on another level. Not to mention, Silver trusts me more now, away from everyone.”

“I’m sure it helps that your other sensei likes you,” she told you jokingly.

You let out a small snort, “No.”

“Oh, I saw the way he pulled you to the side earlier after we were dismissed from the introduction ceremony…” she revealed, but before she could continue, you heard a loud commotion, causing you to dart away from Tory to see what was going on.

You come to find people crowded together and see Robby talking to a guy from Cobra Kai, “What, I gotta kick above that line?” you heard Robby ask.

“Oh, what have you gotten yourself into,” you muttered under your breath. “Robby,” you called out in warning, catching people's attention in the room.

You felt a nudge at your side, “You know him?” Zara points to Robby with a smirk, “Wanna introduce me?” Axel stood next to her and gave you a look of disapproval. You ignored

At first, Robby didn’t really notice her. But then, his eyes flicked back. For a second, it was enough to make him forget what he was about to say. The others behind him let their gaze flicker over their old teammate with careful neutrality, lingering just long enough for a silent exchange. Miguel looked over like he wanted to say something but knew it wasn’t the right time. “Y/n,” Robby muttered lowly, but the silence in the room allowed for many to hear, confirming any suspicions of us knowing each other. “I got this,” he said before taking a step back to focus on his kick. He landed higher than the rest, but as you side-glanced to the Cobra Kai guys, you could tell they weren’t worried.

Before Kwon goes up to make his kick, you blurt out, “Care to make things interesting and let me go after you? I get the rooms if you lose, and you get two if I do.”

“For you, princess, sure,” he smirked at you doubting your abilities. He chalked his shoe and kicked, which landed higher than Robby’s. You knew this was a risky call, given the circumstances. “All you, now.”

Axel exhaled sharply, shaking his head just enough to make a point. Next to him, Zara had muscle twitched in her jaw with her expression screaming, ‘Are you serious?’ You just hoped deep down no one would tell Wolf about this once you guys got back, but you knew better than to hope for such things. You took a running start and grunted, “Ais!” as you kicked the board. You let out a heavy breath as you land back on your feet.

“No way…” you heard someone say.

“Unbelievable,” Zara let out in disbelief.

“Who is she?” “Did you see that??” “I didn’t know someone could kick that high.” “What dojo is she from?” murmurs filled the room, causing you to look at your mark that was just above Kwon’s kick. You let out a laugh and smirked at the Cobra Kai guys while holding out your hand for their cards.

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave your bags in the hallway,” you grinned, taking the hotel cards.

People started to flow out of the space, and you let out a yelp of surprise as Miguel and Hawk took you in their arms in cheers. “Oh, thank god you were here.”

“Had to make sure you idiots didn’t get yourselves in trouble,” you laughed. “It seems I was cutting it a bit close on timing. Anyway, here are their hotel cards. I don’t need it.”

“You don’t want your own room?” Demetri questioned while Robby took the cards from your hand.

“No. I have my own room already,” you told them.

They raise their eyebrows at you skeptically, and Miguel asks you, “How’d you manage that?”

“Silver is to thank for my room,” you revealed. “He wanted to make sure I had no distractions while I’m here.”

“Of course, he did,” Robby scoffed at the mention of Silver. “What else does that maniac have you do lately?”

“Train until I feel like my legs are going to fall off,” you joked, trying to lighten up the tension. “I know he has people watching me to make sure I’m 'on track' with progress. He reminds me every time that if I lose here, that won’t be the worst thing I experience-”

“You’ve got to tell Sensei LaRusso and Lawerence about this,” Miguel butts in concern.

“I can handle this, Miguel. I’m already too far in. Anyway, I got to go and make sure my team is back in time for training. I’ll see you guys out on the mat, okay?” I turn walking away from them.

It was late. Too late for training, but no one dared to complain. Tomorrow was the first of team events, and every second counted. “Just wait until Sensei Wolf hears about what you pulled earlier,” Zara sneered at you loudly as the team filled the space.

Wolf entered the room looking directly at you, “Hear about what?”

“Nothing. I did what you said to do earlier. I showed them I’m better,” you said, voice firm and unwavering while crossing your arms in front of you.

“And how did you do that?” he walked up until he was close enough to stare down at you.

“I won. Doesn’t matter how.”

“Fine,” he backed off before turning back to face everyone in the room. “Tomorrow will be the first day of team events. You will all show them we do not lose. That we are invincible.”

“Yes, Sensei,” people responded around the room. The team dropped into fighting stances, getting ready as they launched into synchronized movements, their punches and kicks slicing through the air. You’re faced against Zara, who lunges at you. Managing to block her attempt, you, in a blur of motion, struck back with a controlled sweep to her legs. Zara barely had time to react before she hit the mat, hard.

Sensei Wolf circled them like a predator, his sharp eyes scanning for weakness. When someone faltered, he noticed. He always noticed. He tsked in disappointment as Zara pushed herself off the mat.

“You’re going to pay for that one, bitch,” she spat out at you.

“I don’t think I will.” your eyes met Sensei’s, and he gave a sharp nod.

Wolf studied you for a long moment before speaking. “Again. All of you. Faster. No hesitation.”

We stood stone-faced as Gunther introduced the round of events. “Welcome to our first event. I hope you’re all well-rested and ready for a new and unique competition. We call it the “Captain’s War.” We told you how important your captains will be, So let’s see how well you protect them.” From the corner of your eye, you see Miyagi-Do look at each other nervously. “Four dojos will take the mat. Only one will be left standing. If you hit the mat, you’re out. If one of your captains hits the mat, your entire team is out for this round. Check the boards to see your group, decided by random draw. Group A, you’re up.”

“You know what to do,” Wolf growled as he gripped onto mine and Axel’s arms. He let go of Axel, pulled me back for a moment, and leaned down to my ear, “Let them come to you. Then, take them out. Don’t let them get back up.”

You listen for the other dojos' plans for attack and take note of Kwon’s as he tells his team, “We take Miyagi-Do first. They're weakest. Let them come to us. Then we fight the other dojos.” You already know that won’t work, and Tory knows it too.

You switched your attention to Miyagi-Do and saw the words “Protect the egg” fall from Miguel’s mouth. “Ready? Begin!” Gunther booms from the speakers.

You stay back with your team as you watch the others take each other out one by one. You can tell that Miyagi-Do won’t last long when Tory breaks straight through their front line. Everyone can see the team arguing with each other, unable to agree on their next move. The other Cobra Kai members went after another opposing team. None of them seemed to notice us as we stood tall, waiting for our moment.

“Falchi Della Notte captain down. They are out. Only Cobra Kai and the Iron Dragons remain alive,” came through the announcers.

“All six are still standing,” Tory mumbled in disbelief.

“What is your strategy now?”

“Same as before. We’re outnumbered two to one. Pierce the front line, go straight for the captain,” you hear her say to the two guys while she looks directly at you.

“Okay.”

No words were needed between you and Tory but the tight line of your mouth said enough. Your teammates break their form as Tory, Kwon, and Yoon begin to charge, halting them mid-in their tracks. “What are they doing?” Sensei Kim questions from the side. You keep eye contact with Tory as your teammates begin to walk around you and Axel.

“I’ll take the girl. You two get the big guy.”

The fight erupted between the guys. Cobra Kai spread out trying to divide and conquer, but they realized it didn’t matter that they outnumbered us. Axel sidestepped Kwon’s punch with ease, his counterstrike landing hard against the guy’s ribs. A sharp exhale of pain followed, but Axel didn’t give him a second to recover. Then, he switched with a quick sweep to Yoon, and he hit the mat with a solid thud. Tory looked away from you to notice her teammate down. You take a moment to glance at Axel but don’t dare to spare another second looking.

Axel’s expression was calm but calculating. He shot forward like lightning, closing the gap before Kwon could reset. A quick one-two punch to Kwon’s stomach doubled him over, allowing Axel to make the quick grab to push him, and Kwon’s back crashed down, hitting the mat.

Tory knew she had to play this smart. You were faster, sharper, and you had the skill of waiting for the right moment before attacking. Tory tested the waters first. She sent a quick jab, a feint, then a real strike.

You didn’t even flinch. You weaved between the attacks, your footwork crisp, light as air. Then, you struck. A snap kick that Tory barely blocked in time, stumbling back from the impact. Tory grunted, adjusting her stance. She needed a better approach. She stepped in again, faster, aiming for your ribs, then your head.

Blocked. Blocked.

Tory’s stomach twisted, she could tell you were reading her like a book. Before she could rethink her approach, you made your move. A fake low kick then a switch-up. Tory reacted to the low feint, but you were already airborne. A spinning roundhouse.

The heel of your foot crashed against Tory’s temple. Tory’s vision blurred and her balance wavered. She barely had time to react before you swept her feet out from under her. Tory landed on the mat hard. Hitting it in frustration.

The crowd’s cheers were distant, muffled beneath the pounding in your ears. The referee’s hand rose to signal the victory, but none of that mattered. Not yet. “Both Cobra Kai captains go down. The Iron Dragons win.”

You turn to look for Wolf and realize he’s already watching you. He smirks at you, giving you a nod of approval. Your stomach flipped, and your breath hitched, your heart slamming against your ribs. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, more intense than the fight itself.

You make your way to the elevators to head back to your hotel room for a quick shower before the next event. When you were close to reaching the doors, a hand grabbed you from behind you, causing you to yelp before you could realize that it was Miguel pulling you to a private room.

“Miguel! You can’t do that here!” you screeched, hitting his arms. “I was this close to punching you,” you huffed out while pinching your fingers close together as an example.

Miguel let out a laugh, watching you get worked up. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I just didn’t know when I would get another chance to see you alone. You are either always with the giant brute or your killer sensei. Who, by the way, I think is completely into you.”

“Who? Axel? He’s like the big friendly giant.”

“No, pendeja!” he flicked you on the forehead. “Your sensei! That man never takes his eyes off you. Like, ever.”

“Wolf? No, he’s just like that,” you played off.

“So he looks at everyone like he wants to devour them?”

“Miguel!”

“What? I’m just stating the obvious here. Which you want to pretend isn’t true.” Your cheeks flush with heat as you think about Wolf. “See, you’re blushing!”

“No, I’m not,” your hand flew to cover your cheeks.

“Whatever. Enough about them. I want to talk about the captain’s war from earlier. I need advice.”

“Like the fact you should’ve been captain and it’s super obvious that Robby isn’t focused because of Tory being Cobra Kai?”

Miguel shook his head in amusement, “Yes, exactly that.”

“I think you guys need to all sort your shit out before you come back onto the mat because it’s ruining you guys from actually having a chance here. Everyone can tell that you’re not together as a team, and they will use that to their advantage every single time.”

“What, like how the Iron Dragons are a team?” he scoffed, remembering how you and Axel took the fight.

“No, that’s different. Axel and I are enough as captains alone. But you guys have Robby whose head is so far away from the tournament and Sam barely even looks like she wants to be here,” you tried to explain to him. “The rest of you need to work together to make sure they don’t bring you down, unlike how the captain’s war went for you guys today.”

“Bring us down?”

“Miguel, I saw what happened earlier. Everyone did. You took two guys from Cobra Kai at once today, but Robby couldn’t even get past Kwon. I just don’t want to see you fail. I know how much this tournament means to you,” your voice came out sharp, exasperated like you’ve been holding it in for too long. “Forget about Stanford. Forget about the team issues. Forget about everything. Just fight and do it for yourself. Prove to them the leader you are.”

“Okay,” his voice was hesitant, as if unsure of the words. You took it as a sign to pull him back in for another hug, leaning your head on his shoulder, “You should take some of your own advice and do something for yourself,” you heard him murmur into your hair.

“If only it were that easy,” you sighed while pulling away.

“It could be.”

“Not with him. Not with Silver whispering into his ear,” you scoffed at the thought.

“Maybe after all of this then?”

“Maybe,” you said wistfully.

Miguel walked out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You let them linger in your mind, thinking about the what you were risking by starting something with Wolf. You had a mission while being here. To prove you have what it takes to be a champion, and you weren’t going to let anyone take that away from you. This could risk you everything you worked for these past few months and ruin your cover to learn more about Silver. If Wolf found out, you wouldn’t just be losing your spot in the tournament. You’d lose him before you even had a chance to have him.

But maybe he was worth the risk.

You stepped out of the room and looked around carefully to see if anyone you knew was around. Just your luck, you saw Sensei Wolf talking to a group of what looked like other senseis in the lobby. His eyes flickered to the side, catching you. His head tilted like he was confused or more like processing something.

You beelined for the elevator in hopes of avoiding him. You were close to making it alone in the elevator, but a foot stopped the doors from closing. To only reveal Wolf with a sinister look written across his face. He stepped in, and the doors closed behind him. He continued to close the gap between you until you were trapped leaning against the wall with your face turned away from him.

His hand flew to your neck, applying a firm but gentle pressure, guiding your gaze back onto him. “What were you doing in that room?” Wolf hummed, eyes scanning your face.

“Needed a moment alone,” you let out quietly.

“Alone?” he drawled. His grip on your throat tightened for a second, and you noticed his jaw clenched with tension.

“Yes.”

“Do you think I am a fool?” he jeered, making no effort to hide his disdain.

“No, sensei,” you replied in a breathy tone as you tried to push yourself more into the wall to gain some distance between you two.

The elevator rang and opened its doors to your floor, and Wolf dragged you into the hallway. His grip now fell onto your wrist, leading you to your hotel room. “Open the door.”

You fumbled around your bag for your keycard. You quickly unlock the door and walk in, setting your bag on the bed. He comes in, slamming the door behind him shut. You stay silent, not knowing what to say that won’t anger him more. You already knew you got caught, but you didn’t know how much he knew.

“I am going to give you one more chance. What were you doing in that room?” his voice ringed with steel behind each word. “Do not lie to me again.” he sounded low but forceful, voice tight with suppressed anger.

You let out a breathe you were holding, rubbing your temples when you answered him with, “Why does it matter? I give you the results you want. So why does it matter what I do?” You were pushing your luck, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of giving in.

Wolf let out a single, humorless chuckle, “It matters when I think you’re not here to win.”

“This tournament is everything. I will not fail.”

He closed the distance in two sharp steps, stopping just short of colliding. His breath was warm against your face as he growled, “Then tell me what were you doing in that room.”

“I was talking to a friend-” your voice failing you at the end as your breath hitched at the close proximity between you two.

“Friend. Is that why you looked so guilty walking out?” he spat out.

You broke your gaze from him and turned your face away, “Nothing happened.”

“Say that again,” Wolf used his finger to redirect your face to meet his eyes.

“We only talked. Nothing happened.” you were hesitant, paused between words, voice softer than usual.

“Then what are you hiding.”

“Nothing.”

“I SAID DO NOT LIE TO ME AGAIN,” he yelled into your face, making you take a step back until your legs hit against the end of the bed.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you tensed.

“And you don’t get to lie to me. So tell me what you were doing with that boy from the pathetic Miyagi-Do,” he sneered. “Wouldn’t want him to get hurt now?”

“He’s nothing, Wolf. He’s just a means to an end,” you explained cautiously, lying through your teeth.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the secret looks and phone calls and the constant hiding of your phone from anyone who could see,” Wolf pointed out. “I know you’re hiding something.”

“If you knew then, why do you care now?” your voice was tight, wondering if you really want to the answer to this or not.

“You’re my champion,” he stated slow and deliberately.

“Yet, I don’t know what you want from me anymore,” you sighed.

“Everything.” Wolf pulled you to him by your hips, making you gulp at the action. You’re holding on by a thread to your self-restraint. His lips broke out in a small smirk that was close enough to brush against your lips, mumbling, “Give in.”

Your breath was uneven, hot against his skin as you whispered, “I shouldn’t.”

“But you can.” and neither of you moved away.

Instead, he raised one hand to brush his fingers against your jaw, featherlight, as if memorizing the shape of you, as if giving you one last chance to walk away. Your lips parted slightly, a breath caught between want and restraint.

Then it snapped.

He crashed into you, his lips searing against yours. You gasped into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. His grip tightened at your hip, anchoring you to him.

You knew you were being reckless, but at the moment you couldn’t care anymore. You were doing this for yourself. You move your hands to go around his neck to try and pull yourself up to him. The kiss was fast and feverish, making you gasp slightly and allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth. You kissed until all the breath left your lungs and even then you never wanted him to stop.

His teeth grazed your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine. Your hands found his hair, pulling it with need. The world blurred around you. The way you fit together like a secret never meant to be told.

Then a noise. A knock against your hotel door.

A reminder of reality.

You tore apart, chests heaving, eyes wild. His lips were red, swollen, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you, something raw and untamed in his gaze.

Heavy silence stretched between you.

“We shouldn’t have-” you started, voice barely a whisper.

His thumb brushed your lip, tracing where his kiss had just been. Claiming.

“I know.” His voice was low, rough. And yet, neither of you held any regret.

#cobra kai #cobra kai season 6 #sensei wolf #sensei wolf x reader #sensei wolf x you #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai x you #lewis tan #iron dragons #fanfic #cobra kai fic #cobra kai fanfiction #reader insert #feng xiao #feng xiao x reader #sensei wolf cobra kai

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chaaistained · 30 days ago

Note

what’s your internship like? (in your better cr)

page turners

you can’t blame me for wanting to live in a world where society doesn’t reserve value and recognition to only be rewarded if you follow the standard, left brained, logical mindset of stem and maths and science and technology — and this is coming from someone who loves those very subjects and excels in them — i’m very much a maths lover, i enjoy solving logical problems, it brings a satisfaction that cannot be described, and yet . i don’t feel as alive as when i’m writing, when i’m reading, when i’m analysing, pulling apart, breaking down the intricate threads of thought that make up a story, or an essay, or a poem

my mind may find satisfaction in solving page after page of algebra, but my soul will only find its spark when i give in to emotion and empathetic analysis, and for that very reason, i scripted a different degree for my dr-self, and with that came a different internship in a publishing company that does not exist in this reality — Page Turners

in my dr at the midpoint of my first year in uni, i had gotten into a year long internship at a government office, hired because of my degree in entertainment law majoring in copywriting

but i have a double degree, my second being a degree in arts majoring in literature and creative writing, and i always knew i wanted a more creative job, rather than the technical, legal side of the publishing industry (no matter how well it pays)

so at the end of my first internship, i started exploring different avenues, and Page Turners was brought to my attention (ironically, by my english tutor from high school)

they advertise mainly to young writers, they have an open submission for a monthly online magazine, curated by a theme (think dakota warren’s nowhere girl collective but only focused on writing — whereas dakota includes submissions for art and music too)

Page Turners wasn’t hiring anyone who hadn’t gotten a full degree but with the help of my ex-tutor (and ex-boss bcs i used to mark papers for her every now and then) i was able to make a case for an internship position

it took a while, a whole year in fact, but Page Turners thought that a way to reach the youth would be to start as early as possible and the best way to do so is by implementing internship programs into their business plan — essentially, my drive to work in the creative field (and mostly due to my connections bcs networking sucks but it is everything) i was able to convince an up and coming publishing house to start hiring students, who may be exactly like me, just waiting for the opportunity to do something creative

i haven’t scripted much on the actual internship program and what it entails but i get accepted and start working at the beginning of my third year (honestly year 3 of uni has a lot of firsts for me — first longterm internship, first boyfriend who i can actually see a future with, first new car, first youtube play button for my anonymous cover channel w two of my high school friends — theres probably more but i don’t wanna sound cocky T^T)

anyway, back to the point — my internship essentially allows me to explore the workings of a publishing house, and with my background in copy write law and creative writing, i’m able to dabble in many different divisions and subdivisions, getting a chance to see how the writers, lawyers, agents and editors work — it’s where i find my passion for developmental editing : the profession of assisting with the creative process of a book, primarily a novel, where you go through a synopsis, a story board, and the overall themes and acts of the story, it’s less about the in-debt typo-prevention of editing and more about the overall narrative — stuff like helping to pivot the story or guide the plot in a certain direction to achieve everything the writer hopes for, or, my personal favourite and my special skill if i do say so myself which is patching up plot holes to be seamless and make sense

finally, this internship, the people i worked with, they are the reason i felt confident enough to go back to uni and do a postgrad degree for a masters in creative writing and a specialisation in editing, so i could officially work full time as a developmental editor

meaning i could read and write and help create stories for a living

if i ever script more or after i’ve properly experienced this internship, i will definitely update this post, or just make another one!! but for now, this is all i’ve got <333

cuppa queries; order in — ask responses

2025 © chaaistained

#by chaaistained #teacup anons !!#better cr #better cr dr #desired reality #dr self #shifting realities #reality shifting #shifting script #shifting ideas #dr ideas #shifting thoughts #shiftblr #loa #loablr #loassumption #law of assumption #manifestation

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frostedclock-writes · 5 months ago

Text

Crimson Magnolias

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Alastor x F! Reader

Warnings: one-sided love, Hanahaki disease, R rated as mature themes mentioned, eventual flashbacks to Human life, Ace Alastor,

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Part 1 (Part 2)

Whistling filled the air like a scream.

" Shit the tea!" You get off the couch and rush to the stove, though it took you a moment to tear your eyes from the T.V. screen.

You flip the dial on your gas stove and it clicked off, the whistling slowly faded. You spun and look back at the 666 News, but it barely fazed you. You could have sworn. Right before it interrupted with the 'breaking news' , a commercial. Something in the corner. A distortion.

You tasted ginger in the back of your throat.

Seven years.

It had been seven years in hell since you last saw him. No word, no explanation.

Alastor.

Your heart fluttered at the thought. He was alive. Maybe. You wished the commercial would have been let to play after the news faded away. You run your fingers through your hair as you try to recall what the commercial had been for. It had been so quick, and your attention was immediately drawn to the corner of the screen.

You took a small breath.

Some hotel....

Wasn't there some hotel that cropped up a few months ago? Happy Hotel? No that's a stupid name. Hazbin?

You pour tea into the prepared porcelain cup, it mixed the sugar and lemon juice together with the over steeped black tea. You lifted the cup up to your lips and blew softly, thoughts swirled around your head. Your throat tickled a little.

You should be pissed. He left without a word to you. Made you and most of hell believe he had been killed. Double dead. Fucking toast. You should hate him.

An image of him laughing over a cup of rye whisky was brought to mind. Back when you both were still....

He was so handsome, and knew exactly how to make you laugh. His silly puns that made you smile. The way he glided across the dancefloor and would bring you along for the ride.

You set the cup down quickly. A floating white petal with bits of crimson stained in it floated on the top.

You cover your mouth and shake your head, swallowing down the taste of iron mixing with ginger. The taste of the sweet tea long gone.

It shouldn't matter. Doesn't matter. Matters.

Fuck.

You walked into your bedroom and grabbed at the coat hanging up. You slipped it on, it covering the simple ankle length dress and button up blouse you had worn for the days errands. You sinched the tie around your waist as you stepped into your slip on flats. You moved quickly out of your house, not even nothing to lock the door behind you as you traveled down the sidewalk. You dodged sinners and imps alike on the streets, moving beneath a few swings of fists and weapons.

The streets were crazier then normal. But to be expected.

You knew this part of the Pentagram like the back of your hand, so it made it at least marginally easier to get to that strange broken down hotel. The flickering neon became visible by the time your lungs stung a little from the walk and your feet ached a little from the thin flats. You let out breaths in quick succession as you gaze up at the tall building behind walls that were tall enough to block off the view of the yard surrounding the dilapidated hotel.

Hazbin Hotel.

You stopped at the open archway that was the gate to what might look more like an old cinema building on the outside with the old ticket booth and the illuminated board that could hold the plastic letters. A little tower attachment on the side seemed haphazardly attached and like it didn't quite belong. A sign flashed in the window. It made your stomach clench.

On Air.

You slowly walked up the cobblestone path up the the doors of the hotel. You hold your breath as you reach for the handle. Maybe this was a mistake. Fuck, your already here. If he wanted to see you wouldn't he have come found you? Told you he was back?

Your throat tickled a little.

Just do it! Go!

The door opened, and came swinging out. The sting of your nose was quick, and painful as the gold painted metal trim of the door hit you square in the face. You reeled back and gripped your nose, warmth touched your lips. Great.

" Oh shit! Whatcha doin' out here, just standin' behind that door? Fuck, ya bleedin' and everythin'. "

You blink to clear the tears pricking hour eyes and you see a tall spider... Man? Very feminine man. Pretty. Was the word that came to mind. Tall, pink and dressed to the nines with heart shaped sunglasses resting above their mismatched eyes. He was digging around in a sparkly purse, he held out a wadded up napkin.

" It's .. it's fine I'm fine. Sorry. " You took the napkin and brought it up to your nose. " Ugh, gross, " you pulled it away and looked at the clotted blood. You look back up at the spider person. " I came looking for someone..."

" Oh?" He wiggled his shoulders and put one set of his hands on his hips. " Who are ya lookin' for, doll? A booty call maybe? " He cooed the last words.

You brought the napkin back up to your nose. You hoped it covered up the heat rising up to your cheeks. " No, no, nothing like that," you cough a few times, covering it up by blowing your nose shortly after. " I know this must seem odd, but I'm looking for Alastor."

He laughed. Gaffawed even. " No, really. Who ya lookin' for? Husk? He seems like he had a bad past love or two in his books, if ya know what I mean."

Husk, you remembered the gruff ex-overlord. He was kind behind that bottle of whiskey. If he was here, then Alastor...

The spider looked down at his phone as it began to go off several times in a row. He cursed under his breath and then shoved his phone back into his purse. " Look, if ya are looking for tall, dark and red flags, he was in tha parlor room last I saw him. I gotta get ta work. " He put his sunglasses down. " See ya. "

You watch him stride off, you blink and look back at the door. You step inside and the door slowly slid closed behind you. The inside was a little nicer looking then you expected, but some of the wallpaper was peeling and the carpet held stains that made you question what caused them to take such unique shapes. The faint glow of green drew your attention over towards a part of the hotel that was clearly an addition like the broadcast tower.

A bar. Neon lights flashed Jackpot and Beezlejuice on the dark wooden walls. A familiar face cleaned glasses behind the bar countertop and placed them in the shelf. His ear twitched as your footsteps approached. He looked up and at first his face held a look of irritation, then it melted into half of a smirk. A laugh escaped under his breath and he put the rag back down on the table.

" Y/N, what in the fuck are you doing here?" Husk asked.

You crack a smile. " Would you believe me if I said I came to get a drink?" You joked.

He made a scoff and rolled his eyes. The smirk faded to his usual expression. A near scowl. " I know for damn sure you didn't come here for me. " He picked up a glass and put it down hard on the counter. " You came for him."

You took a seat at the bar as the glass began to fill with a dark amber liquor. Whiskey you assumed. Or maybe a dark rum. " He's my best friend, what can I say? Though, I should be mad at him. Leaving me in the lurch like he did. Even sweet Rosie had no clue where he had gone off to."

Even the bite of the liquor didn't help with the swallowing of the lump in your throat.

Husk rolled his eyes and slid the glass over to you. " Who the hell knows, and someone like you should just stay away from him or you'll end up used like everyone else. He didn't even notice that-"

" Husk. " You snapped a little at him. Husk was always so observant.

" Look. " He set the bottle down then growled. " You know what, whatever. Why should I care if you like to torture yourself? Just shouldn't make your friends watch you do it. "

" I.... It's nothing. " You put on a smile and take another drink. " Nothing I can't handle and haven't been dealing with...."

" Heh, yeah, well someone like ya deserves better then a -"

" Y/N?"

You felt goosebumps rise to your skin at the sound of a voice you hadn't heard in seven years.

Alastor.

You spun on the stool and looked over to the source of the voice. He looked just as he always had. He strode over and you rose to your feet. You met him halfway and he put his arms around you in a warm embrace. You return it with your face planted firmly in his chest. He smelled of a mix of iron and damp wood.

"Alastor!"

You heard a gruff huff behind you and you assumed Husk was watching with that disapproving gaze you had come to expect from the winged cat sinner. Alastor's hand rubbed the small of your back before he placed both hands on your shoulders and pulled you away just enough to look down at you.

You silently begged for him to stop looking at you like that. It made your stomach flutter and your throat clench.

" It is a pleasure to see your smiling face again, my dear, quite a pleasure. " His gaze shot over towards husk, his eye twitched a moment. " How long have you been waiting down here?"

" What? Don't look at me, I'm not your fuckin' secretary. " Husk snarled and you kinda felt sorry for the glass he was cleaning. It was getting thoroughly cleaned.

" I haven't been here long! " You tell him quickly, bringing the Radio Demons attention back down to you. " Only a couple of minutes."

His body language changed and he spun on his heels, one arm around your shoulders and leading you off in the direction of the large staircase. " Ah! In that case! Let me show you this fun little project I've been working on! I think you will find the notion as amusing as I do. "

" You work at this hotel now? Didn't peg you for the hospitality type. " You tease.

His chuckles were like a radio flipping through stations. " Oh, dear, this project is mainly for my own amusement! The Princess of Hell is the one who is encouraging this notion of redemption for sinners. "

You cock an eyebrow. " Redemption like... Do well and get let out for good behavior?"

Seemed silly.

You followed him up the staircase and watched your hand as it slid up the railing for splinters from the chipped wood of the banisters. Alastor thew one hand out in a grand gesture at the lobby, his microphone materialized and landed in his hand and he smoothly used it to point.

" Exactly! But what better way to amuse myself then to watch her struggle to have sinners ditch their ways?" He tapped a finger on your shoulder.

He lead the way down one of the hallways, gold and red covered most of the hotel it seemed. Though you could tell where Alastor had began to leave his own touch behind. The hotel was grand, although from years of neglect before the current owner, there was things that would have made you cringe when you were alive. Mildew in the flooring and walls, roaches crawled out every once in a while and then sprinted off under another table in the long hallways, creaking steps going up, and bulbs that flickered in a way that hurt your eyes at times.

" Are you still working as a singer?"

You look at Alastor out of the corner of your eyes. " From time to time, Mimzy hires me most nights when I need money. Otherwise, I pick up whatever jobs I can find nowadays. " You admit. " What have you been doing these past seven years?"

Alastor seemed to grip his microphone a little tighter, though he put a laugh in the air. " Oh, I just took a small vacation. A well deserved one. "

A vacation. You didn't believe that for a moment.

" Ah, well... You could have told me some of us. I thought someone might have finally gotten he upper hand on you." You joke.

" Ahahah! Don't be silly, " Alastor shook his head and a smirk grew on his lips. " A simple sinner couldn't get the best of me. " His steps paused in front of a door, he tapped his microphone cane's end on the ground. His hand left your space and he opened the door up.

Alastor turned with the door and let you inside the room. The smell of swamp was in the air. A dank wetness with the soft smell of pines and cattails. The room turned from a study to a swamp, though you were unsurprised - Alastor knew how to manipulate a lot of things. And spaces were no different. A green fire burned in the fireplace near the two armchairs within the space of the study, it made the shadows dance on the wall as it flickered.

Alastor walked across the wooden floor towards the chair, he turned in a swift motion and leaned his hand and held his weight on the back of one of the armchairs. That smile. Does he even know what he does to you? He went to offer you a seat when his shadow grew across the ground and then swirled up. The cracked smile in the shadow brought a laugh to your lips.

Like a mist, Alastor's Shadow swirled around you. Then shifted into mostly solidness. "Shade. " You cooed the petname for the creature and reached out, it felt like cupping thick smoke, " Are you watching after Alastor for me? Such a sweet thing..."

Crackles like a dead station full the air.

You felt safer showing this part of Alastor affection. The being made of shadows and magic seemed to be something of its own and yet part of its master. You sometimes wished, just for a moment, that perhaps you wouldn't ruin the friendship between you and Alastor by just touching his cheek like this.

" Well I missed you too."

Alastor made a sigh and rolled his eyes, though the soft smile that graces his lips lead you to believe he was amused. He cleared his throat abd Shade sank back against the floorboards and rejoined his master. He gestured for you to sit in the chair he leaned against and you make your way to the plush armchair.

" Now, you have to tell me what Ive missed these past years. " He took his own seat across from you, waving his hand and two coffee appeared. His own red cup and yours a black one.

'Oh, deer!'

' Doe- re- mi '

You coughed a little and covered your mouth up. You clear your throat and bring your cup up to your lips to cover up the bitter ginger with dark black coffee.

This was going to be a lot harder than before. You thought the years apart would have lessoned the feeling you held in your soul.

He hates it. You remember him going on and on about ladies throwing themselves at his feet when the both of you were alive. You saw the disgust on his face when he mentioned it. He would hate you too. Would throw you away if you did.

You swallowed the hot liquid down hard with the lump in your throat.

He can't know. Won't know.

Ever.

Tag list: @boldlyenchantingfox22 @sirens-and-moonflowers

#hazbin hotel #hazbin x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x you #hazbin hotel x reader #hanahaki disease #one sided love #crimson magnolias

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sehaedazokla · 6 months ago

Text

he that dares

part eight

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: adult content

word count: 12.0k

a/n: the pinterest board and playlist for this series have been added to the series masterlist! i am a little nervous to post this chapter because i've never written anything like this but here it is –

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The day prior to the trials held at King’s Landing, the young prince Aegon makes his first public appearance before the nobles at court. Scarcely has the sun peaked its way above the edges of the world when the lords and ladies are summoned to gather in the throne room, half-covered yawns and bleary eyes waiting impatiently for the presentation of their future king. Hazy morning light wanders in pale rays through the arching windows, illuminating flecks of iron upon the weapons composing the throne. Lady Tyrell has not even the energy to glare ferociously at it, barely having slept the night before. Her satins and feather pillows do little to assuage her troubled mind, roiling with concern over the arrival of her lady mother – perhaps on the morrow, more likely that very morning. She pictured all sorts of disastrous matches, weighing the probability of each one in her mind and finding that if she thought long enough, it is almost as if she can read her mother’s mind. This only served to agitate her further, for if she is indeed correct then her fate is rather sealed after all, as well as that of her sister.

Her hands skim down the front of her dress in a nervous habit, aching to appear as presentable as humanly possible. The fabric is a dark blue, inky and soft beneath her fingers, decorated with the golden embroidery of flowers that grow within the gardens of the castle she was raised in. A gift from her mother, sent for her most recent birthday with an assortment of teardrop pearls and letters adorned with curved words imploring her to hold out against the tumultuous wartime tide and wait for an advantageous time to act. The roses blooming upon her body, spun in shining silk, bind her and remind her poignantly of her where her loyalties ought to lie. During the war, her attention had been given solely to surviving and attending to Helaena and the children – there was little time to devote to any sort of scheming, save for what her mother deemed absolutely necessary to protect their House.

As of late, her heart has been swayed to those of House Stark and House Targaryen. Her eyes close as she imagines what her mother might say, finding the daughter she raised to be ambitious and cutthroat behind deceptively fluttery lashes instead harboring love and affection for those of other houses. Fingers dig tightly into the soft fabric of her heavy skirts, a sudden wave of suffocation washing across her body as the weighty dress seems to grow heavier. With a soft breath, she returns her attention to the head of the throne room. Many Northern guards are present, alongside what remains of the Kingsguard. Despite the exhaustion and ruffled expressions throughout the room at the early hour of the gathering, there is a hum of expectation about the hall. The coveted and damned chair of swords shall not be claimed by Rhaenyra nor Aegon II. A child shall sit it instead, only ten years of age.

Lady Tyrell does not much care who is cursed by the crown of the Realm any longer. She has seen firsthand what unimaginable horrors and suffering it brings about. Let the nobles squabble for it like crows over a poisoned carcass.

Yet as she looks upon the child at last, all eyes within the room locking upon the boy hungrily or with poorly concealed interest, a sense of resigned sorrow fills her chest. Doomed is he, through the blood of both mother and father and chained to a skeletal and haunted existence within these walls. It is already apparent in his face, the hollowness of his eyes as they rest sunken into his youthful countenance. With all of the division sowed during the war, she has almost forgotten that this child is not a stranger of some unknown lineage, but Helaena’s own nephew, Jaehaera’s cousin. The resemblance nearly frightens her, when her eyes meet Aegon’s across the room. Has Helaena not looked upon her with those same violet eyes, that same sense of dread, of finality?

Her gaze is violently torn away, a sharp breath clawing its way past her tongue and teeth and lips. She shall never know peace so long as she remains here within this castle. Ghosts haunt her every breath, and while one of them is always welcomed with open arms and a gentle falling to her knees, others she does not wish to see. The amount of Targaryen spirits lingering about, wide eyes still cast to the throne and the child sacrificed to it, is far too many for the Lady Tyrell. All she can hope to do is take Jaehaera away from here and ask the dead for forgiveness or at least to be ignored. But the soon-to-be boy king breathes still. Is it haunting if the figure’s blood thrums beneath taut skin, veins as purple as the eyes that unknowingly condemn? Is it haunting if the guilt from turning away rips her internal organs out with bone hands, wrapping her intestines around her neck and forcing her to look at the child whose fate she is feigning ignorance to?

By the prince’s side stand his two elder half-sisters, whom Lady Tyrell quietly hopes are supporting the child during this impossible time. As with Jaehaera, the prince has primarily been confined to his chambers whilst the North has held power at Court. She has never had the chance to converse at length with either Baela or Rhaena, given that she had been betrothed to Daeron and decidedly upon the other side of the war despite her own House’s neutrality. Cregan remains a few feet away, but his presence is far more commanding than anyone else’s upon the stairs. Remembering what he had told her of his own past, she watches quietly as Aegon begins to speak.

“The trials for those who betrayed the crown and forsook their honor will be held on the morrow,” The prince’s voice rings out clear and solemn, echoing the dullness of his amethyst eyes. It is clear that someone his elder has written the words for him to speak, and Lady Tyrell wonders if the presence of the princesses at Aegon’s side indicates that Cregan has made some sort of agreement with them. If they truly care for Aegon, the lady does not imagine it will be hard for the three to come to an arrangement that suits all of their desires for the betterment of the Realm and for the future of boy. “Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, shall preside over the trials as Hand of the King.”

If Lady Tyrell is shocked by this announcement, she is joined by nearly every noble within the throne room. The young prince is quick to depart following the brief words, the guards following him closely as he exits through one of the arched hallways at the sides of the staircase by the head of the hall. Rhaena and Baela linger within the hall of a moment to speak to Lady Blackwood, as the rest of the lords and ladies turn to each other to whisper their opinions upon this appointing quite fiercely, everyone seemingly eager to get their thoughts out at once. Many of them still regard Cregan with obvious distrust, seeing him as a foreign presence unfamiliar to their Southern customs and traditions. She need not cast him long looks, wondering upon whether he might plunge the capital into chaos or refuse to leave. The skirts of her gown brush delicately against the grey stone flooring as she nears the steps, caring little for the eyes that are drawn to her boldness.

It matters not when he is already searching the room for her, storm cloud eyes sparking as he catches sight of her approaching. The slight softening of his gaze does not go unnoticed by her, although it shall not be dwelled upon when she is sure her own eyes melt slightly as he crosses the space between them to meet her. Hushed voices murmur around them, the raising of brows at the pair of them. What might have been excused as courtesy before is now blatantly seen as it is – favoring. For formality’s sake, despite what little good it will truly do given how her public closeness with the Lord of Winterfell shall surely spread in wild rumor throughout the castle halls that night, she scoops fabric of her gown into her hands and gives Cregan a low curtsy.

“I wish to offer you my congratulations, Lord Stark,” Her chin remains tucked towards her chest, her eyes modestly lowered as she slowly rises up, shoulders pulling back gently. There is a light flutter to her lashes as she blinks up at Cregan, gazing into his eyes for a moment before a soft amusement tugs at the corners of her lips with the knowledge that many of the nobles present shall fret over how long the Warden of the North will remain and power and what anarchy he might cause. The volume of her speech decreases with a twinkle in her eyes, her head tilting slightly as she holds his gaze. “It is only a temporary position, I am sure, but I offer you felicitations nonetheless.”

Only the glimmer in her stare, scarcely more visible than a lighthouse in a midnight tempest, gives any hint at the teasing quality to her words. Cregan seems to find amusement in them, reflected in shrouded subtlety within his own eyes as he looks down at her. “So eager to be rid of me, my lady?”

The tilt of her head deepens at this, a soft breath through her nose escaping as her eyes briefly cast their gaze sideways in an attempt to conceal the delight dancing across her countenance at his low and rolling timbre and the peaking of his Northern humor. While the other nobles at court might view her as bashful and shy in the presence of the imposing lord, Cregan alone catches the humor within their exchange, the affection in her expression that softens her lips and her stance. It is exhilarating, reading her as one might a tome in the restricted section of a vast library. Giving another quiet breath, her voice adopts a sweeter quality reminiscent of their earliest conversations. “Oh, but how dreadfully boring it should be without you here, my lord.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow in almost playful scorn at this, only a fraction of an inch but enough that she can sense a teasing retort sharp on his tongue. Yet no time is spared for further conversation, as one of the Northern lords is standing so close to the Lord of Winterfell that he is practically breathing down Cregan’s neck and clearly has a pressing matter to discuss. Lady Tyrell dips her head in a demure excusing of herself, her attention drawn to the twin princesses once more as Cregan’s deep voice is heard softly behind her. Perhaps it is far past time she makes an attempt to speak to them, regardless of her hatred of their father. It is hardly their fault, nor should she allow personal feelings to interfere with a potential alliance. Her mother might have her head if she did so.

The conversation goes as well as she might hope, given the initial uncomfortable tension that stems from lingering feelings from the war. Both Baela and Rhaena seem weary from their efforts to reason with Cregan over the imprisonment of their grandfather Corlys. It appears that the Sea Snake has indeed been in contact with the lady’s mother, for the princesses mention that their families now share similar goals of bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Yet at the remarking upon the favor she has gained with the Lord of Winterfell, all Lady Tyrell can do is merely nod and brush the inquisitive questions aside, not wishing to speak upon the matter at length when Lady Blackwood is rather close. She still cannot pinpoint the nature of Alysanne Blackwood’s relationship with Cregan, but her spies brought rather comforting rumors of a romance with Lady Sabitha Frey, who additionally fought in the battles during the war. If she truly wishes to be amiable, she might invite the ladies all to tea in the gardens prior to their imminent departure, but she cannot surmise if Lady Blackwood would find it worth her time and does not wish to offend.

A page hovering rather obviously to her right catches her attention, the young boy’s eyes widening in order to alert her of a message over which he fidgets with an anxious need to deliver. A caving pit begins to form in her stomach, sinking as if grains of sand in an hourglass that has run out of minutes, has her quite certain she is already aware of what it is he has come to tell her. Offering the princesses a soft smile and an apologetic excuse for taking her leave of the conversation, she straightens her posture and attempts to forge a steady peace within her mind before addressing the boy. Giving her a deep yet clumsy bow, the messenger looks up at her with brown eyes, straw-colored hair turning golden in the morning light streaming in from the windows.

“The Tyrell traveling party has entered the city, my lady.” The page’s voice is rather high-pitched, echoing the sharp twinge of her heart that rings in her ears like the plucking of a poorly tuned lute. Rather than allow this to show upon her face, she pinches her lips together in a tight smile, eyes lackluster as she nods in measured acknowledgement.

“I see. Thank you for informing me.” It is all she can force herself to say, her mind racing too hurriedly through the realization that her family has finally returned to King’s Landing after three long years. The boy is already scrambling to convey the news to others it is pertinent to, leaving her to clench her fists tightly as she begins to make her way towards the doors. The lords and ladies still lingering within the throne room are occupied with conversation over the trials, and the sudden appointment of a new Hand of the King, but she has banished every thought from her mind rather than how she might handle the impending betrothals her mother is certain to bring upon her today. For her sake, for her sister’s sake – she must have her wits all about her. Everything else in the throne room becomes a muffled, distant blur and murmur.

The sharp echoes of her steps are snuffed out by the ruffle of her skirts overtop, her attention solely focused on her worry and not at all upon Cregan, who takes notice of her rapid exit and draws out of his conversation quietly. His arm reaches forth to catch her softly as she passes him, the touch startling her out of her thoughts. After a brief flash of panic, unsure of who has grabbed her, she exhales a sharp breath that has the lord furrowing his brows deeply over his concerned eyes.

There is no need for him to speak his worry aloud upon his tongue, it reads as clear as a voice within his grey eyes. The depth of his frown, a tightening jaw, the soft brush of his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve. Her own expression, guarded yet yielding only to him, only at his waiting gaze, is undoubtedly legible to him as well. Lips part with practiced ease, the habit of brushing her worry aside to prevent any from seeing and weaponizing her own fear against her a hard one to break. It bends for Lord of Winterfell. The soft dip of her brow as she allows a flicker of concern to dance across her visage indicates all she wishes to convey. And hardly is there need to explain with further words when he knows her troubles already.

“My mother is arriving.” Her chin lifts defiantly as she speaks, yet she knows well her tendency to yield to the Lady of Highgarden. Cregan does not release her arm from his hold as she might have expected, but instead tightens his fingers around her slightly. As if he does not wish to let her go. After a moment of silence, the lord nods heavily, taking a slow breath.

“Let us greet her, then.”

The Tyrell banners fluttering delicately within the salty sea breeze from the bay embeds a compelling nostalgia like a polished stone into her chest. Olive fabric decorated with roses of the purest gold, the same flags that used to fly high above the whimsical days of garden girlhood, a dreamlike haze of giggles and flowers in her hair. When she had emerged from her carriage three years ago, the very one currently wobbling up the cobblestone streets to the gates of the castle, she had still retained the wide-eyed innocence of her youth. It had ended then, so she had thought, when the soft satin slippers of a baby blue shade had touched the rocks in the gated courtyard. And her days had been filled with challenge after challenge, shaping and molding her into the woman she has now become, not out of a desire to ascend the power chain of the capital but out of a primal need to survive. But it was not strife that had turned her into a woman; it was death. The loss of Helaena was the end of innocence and childhood and dreams.

Survival is intertwined in all of House Tyrell, binding ancestral words that are less about power and more about permanence. Incessant and persistent, tangled in the history of the soil as much as the roots of ancient trees. The growth is everlasting, ever-changing, weathering the various seasons as the woods do. While many Houses suffered great losses during the war, House Tyrell remained as they were before, watching and waiting until the ideal time to involve themselves would be. As the carriage draws near, the white horses tossing their golden manes in the brilliant sunlight beaming down upon the courtyard, the Lady Tyrell straightens her shoulders with poise and intention, a slow breath inhaled like syrup into her lungs. So tightly clasped together are her hands atop her gown, she wonders if she might break a nail off accidentally.

At her side stands the Lord of Winterfell, ever the sturdy presence she might rely upon. He had offered his arm for her to steady herself upon, but she cannot accept for fear that her mother might see the genuineness with which the lady attends to Cregan. It would be a poor start to what shall likely be a stressful few days even with the absence of any additional issues. The lord does not press the matter further, eyes lingering heavily upon her visage. Even in the earliest days of their knowing each other, when he had only seen the glass figurine of a lady she had presented to him, never has Cregan seen her so uncertain. Every muscle of her body seems to be drawn tight and strained, her eyes as sharp and watchful as a bird of prey. All of this appears to leave her figure in a sudden melting as the carriage door opens and a young lady can be seen stepping out gently, a footman by the open door to hold the girl’s hand as she descends the stairs.

Any concept of rigidity abandons her, the shimmering skirts of her dress bunched up in her fists as she all but runs to the carriage. As the girl finally steps solidly onto the ground, Lady Tyrell’ skirts are released hurriedly to fall about her feet as she throws her arms around the young lady, who gasps in soft excitement and returns the hug just as tightly.

“Sister,” It is a bright squeal, girlish and sweet with sincere delight. Cregan could have surmised as such without the word being spoken – the younger lady looks so much like the Lady Tyrell that he finds it almost amusing. The same hair, arranged in a similar manner, the same color of her eyes. A dress in a soft shade of pastel green that the lord knows he has seen Lady Tyrell wear upon at least one occasion. The lord watches with gentle patience, eyes soft as he witnesses the loving reunion.

“Oh, Cassia,” The breath Lady Tyrell responds with is one of complete relief and gladness, her eyes closing as she holds her sister tightly in her arms. After a moment she pulls away, her gaze pleased and mirthful as she beholds her sister’s face. In the three years since they last saw each other, Cassia has indeed grown into her beauty as their mother spoke of in her letters. The little girl who would race after her, always trying her utmost to keep up in the flowering fields outside the castle walls, has become quite the comely young lady. This reminds Lady Tyrell pointedly about the unavoidable fate of an upcoming marriage for both of them, a thorny reminder that nestles itself into her troubled chest.

“I had not known if you would meet us right away,” Cassia begins, her smile brilliant and delighted as she gives her sister another tight hug. A soft laugh escapes her lips, the excitement of being reunited after such long years apart evident upon her pleased visage. Lady Tyrell gives a soft hum at this, unable to prevent the easy way that her younger sister brings out the gentler side of her which she normally hides behind parapets of threatening briars.

“How could I not be here to greet you? I have missed you so.” The reply is a breeze of spring air, as Lady Tyrell smiles in a warm manner she rarely bestows upon others. She reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, her mind instantly eased by the girl’s voice and presence. No more at home could she have felt if she had returned back to Highgarden, amidst the roses and fountains and string quartets playing elegant songs about the terraces. Cassia gives a nod at this, her eyes briefly wandering to the courtyard. Cregan seems to catch her attention first, and the girl hesitates, her gaze lingering upon the Lord of Winterfell with a soft worry. But the girl shall not stare – it is unbecoming of a lady to do so – and quickly returns her attention to her elder sister.

“I know,” Cassia speaks with a sweet cadence, reminiscent of Lady Tyrell’s when she is presenting herself to others, but with a twinge of hesitation. “It is only that mother was unsure of…”

As the girl trails off softly, her eyes once again flickering to gaze at the Warden of the North in silent concern, Lady Tyrell cannot help but smile knowingly. She is certain her mother has retained her belief of the Northerners, deeming a majority of them as violent savages who have brutally seized the castle and intend to behead all of those imprisoned. Cassia has never met anyone from the North, and likely deferred to their mother’s opinions. Her heart aches at the thought of her sister worrying over her, evident by the way Cassia takes her hand and squeezes it softly, unsure if the lady is treated poorly by the Northern forces.

If only she could tell Cassia that cannot be further from the truth.

Her attention is quickly drawn to their mother, the sunlight glittering off the pearls woven into Elinor Tyrell’s hair and the golden circlet that adorns her brow as she descends the steps of the carriage. A soft undulation of edelweiss and hyacinth swirls delicately about the air, catching like dew droplets amongst the salty gusts of wind from the Blackwater. The Lady Tyrell releases her younger sister’s hand gently, instead taking her gown into her own hands and dipping her head low as her body sinks into a practiced curtsy of the utmost grace. Her eyes remain cast to the pebbles that are scattered haphazardly throughout the courtyard, her lower lashes brushing demurely against the curve of her cheeks. The slight squeaking of the carriage steps, the light creaking of wood, and the soft rustling of pebbles all inform her that her mother is standing before her.

“Rise, and allow me to see my eldest child’s face.” Her mother’s voice is a lullaby from a distant memory, the comfort of stories told when tucked into a feathered bed, the remnants of a midnight dessert sweet upon her tongue. For all her fear over the fate of her betrothal, nothing can surmount the nostalgia over days when her mother was her entire world and the lady who stood guard between her and the monsters curling in shadowy tendrils beneath her bedframe. And who is the lady besides a mirrored reflection of the light from her mother’s shining glow, bound by blood and womanhood, made evident beneath the brightness of each full moon.

Her eyes are raised slowly, alongside her body, fluttering lashes indicating a hesitation and vulnerability in Lady Tyrell’s countenance. The sight of her mother’s face invokes a soft yearning in her bruised and broken heart, the organ giving a weak fluttering at the familiarity that trickles like a cooling stream through tired veins. How exhausted the lady has become, putting up each fight so fiercely for her survival over the duration of the past three years. A desire for a simpler time, for suns under which she would run with sparkling teardrops to her mother’s skirts and have all her pains and fears soothed, nestles its way beneath her skin. Her voice lodges itself into the sides of her throat before she is able to compel it out of her mouth quietly. “I am pleased to welcome you to the Red Keep again after so long, mother.”

Elinor Tyrell beholds her daughter’s visage with eyes that betray nothing of her thoughts, a soft ambiguity resting upon her high cheekbones and daintily arched brows. The Lady of Highgarden is a vision herself in a gown of a delicate shade of gold that reflects within her eyes. There is a youthful beauty to her despite her age, perhaps from the graceful manner in which she carries herself. “You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you.”

At the soft murmur Lady Tyrell gives another dip of her head, pleased to at least have presented herself in a manner deserving of her mother’s praise. Any further thought is skillfully hidden at the approach of the Lord of Winterfell, Elinor Tyrell’s attention turning subtlety to the man as he makes his way across the courtyard. He gives a respectful nod, standing by the lady as Cassia regards him with slight worry and her mother with quiet intrigue. Cregan’s presence at her side is that of a beacon upon a moonlit hill, ever-grounding and drawing her towards him as if they belong in each other’s orbit.

“I am honored to welcome you to the Red Keep, Lady Elinor, Lady Cassia,” His rumbling voice retains a noble quality as he extends his formal greeting, met with a gentle nod from the lady’s mother and a soft curtsy from her sister. The sun has begun to shift towards the height of the sky, illuminating rays descending from the clear blue expanse. Lady Tyrell’s attention is intentionally kept away from Cregan, not wishing her mother to catch a glimpse of the warmth he extends to her reflected in her own eyes. “I am Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. If there is anything I might do to assist during your stay, do inform me at once.”

“That is quite kind of you, Lord Stark.” A voice as fresh and lovely as field grown flowers, yet Cregan cannot say he underestimates the Lady of Highgarden to any degree. The drifting of voices from the courtyard as the remainder of the traveling party dismounts their tired horses and begins to stretch after the long journey distracts the Lady Tyrell momentarily, before she brings a soft and saccharine smile to her lips and gazes up at Cregan pointedly.

“Perhaps you might accompany my sister about the halls whilst I show my mother to her chambers?” It is a delicate question, referencing an earlier conversation they had in which the lady had asked for a quiet moment alone with her mother prior to anything else that is to occur that day. Cregan holds her gaze, seemingly searching for the truth upon her state of mind, but readily accepts her request. His arm is extended to Cassia, who blinks in soft concern and casts her eyes to her elder sister.

“Lord Stark shall be a perfect host, I assure you.” Lady Tyrell consoles the girl in a hushed tone, her hand reaching forth to take Cassia’s comfortingly. “You must be aching to stretch your legs after so long in the confines of the carriage. Go ahead.”

After a moment of gentle hesitation, Cassia agrees with a delicate nod. Her hand wavers slightly in the air but she takes Cregan’s arm as gingerly as she can and offers him a wary yet grateful smile. Both the lady and her mother watch Cregan lead Cassia towards the archways of the inner doors, his deep voice floating through the air behind them as they walk.

“There is someone I wish to introduce you to, my lady…” Attempting to not smile softly at Cregan’s leading of her sister over to the young Lord Blackwood, whose face has gone quite red at the sight of the girl approaching, the Lady Tyrell returns her attention to her mother who is staring after Cregan with a thoughtful look upon her face. With a soft breath, she looks down and does her best to conceal any traces of true affection from her mother’s watchful observation. Yet there is no need to hide physical indicators of the truth of her feelings, not when she has written the depth of her trust for Cregan all over the rocks and pillars of the courtyard in messy script by entrusting him with her sister.

The exchange of words between the two women during their walk to the guest chambers of the castle is pleasant and easy, most of it revolving around the young Lyonel Hightower who will soon be turning four years old. The lady is filled with a soft melancholy to hear of the milestones her brother has been meeting in her absence, a flickering of regret over missing nearly all of his young life burning tightly in her chest. There had been no way to escape to Highgarden during the war, not when it meant abandoning Helaena and her children, and thus she had been unable to return to her younger siblings. Only once has she seen the little boy – with a sickening sadness she realizes that the child will likely not recognize her the next time they meet.

As they enter the guest chambers, the door closing behind them with the softest clicking of the metal latch, Lady Tyrell lets out a slow breath. Her back remains pressed to the deep oak of the door as she watches her mother survey the chambers with a neutral expression, the woman’s hands folded delicately at her front in the very same manner that Lady Tyrell always does. Waiting eyes track each step her mother takes, studying the way she carries herself as if the lady has not done so more than a thousand times in her life. Her shoulders instinctively lower to mimic the Lady of Highgarden as the woman stops to select a single white rose from a porcelain vase, twisting the stem elegantly within her hands. Each thorn is skillfully avoided.

“You have tamed the Northern wolf rather well.” Any sweetness from Elinor Tyrell’s voice has faded away, slipping from her mouth like dripping honey down the bark of a tree. Instead, the lady is met with low and quiet observation, certain and deliberate. As her mother’s eyes remain cast to the rose, the lady lets out a quiet huff of breath. There is an understanding of necessary practicality between them, yet the lady cannot say she has been nearly as practical as she ought to be given the precariousness of the power balance at court.

“I would hardly say so.” She breathes back in response, her gaze dropping to stare at the wooden floorboards that had been polished that morning for the arrival of guests. They shine with such pristineness that the lady finds them almost mocking as her own distorted reflection is whispered back to her. Her plan to manipulate Cregan had all but imploded, leaving in her a vulnerable situation with the Lord of Winterfell that her mother will certainly have an opinion upon. While she trusts him, the Lady of Highgarden will want insurance regarding this trust being rightfully placed and the lady cannot offer much save for his kindness to her and her own instinct.

“Nonsense, child,” Elinor Tyrell muses coolly, setting the rose down gently among the others in the pearl vase. The woman’s gaze returns to assessing the room she shall be residing in during her stay at the castle. “I must admit I am surprised at your success in the matter. I had read your reports and yet the situation appears far better than I could have imagined.”

It is a compliment, as clear as she might hope to receive from her mother regarding the issue. Elaboration does not need to be made upon the failing of her initial plan, and so she merely taps her fingers in soft rhythm against the wood of the door she rests her back upon. While she wishes to seek after Elinor Tyrell’s opinion upon Cregan Stark, it is a matter that holds little importance when the setting sun of her maidenhood draws lower in the sky. If only her mother held more hope for Cregan, perhaps she might set her attention to a marriage pact that the lady would genuinely wish for herself. But she knows well where the Lady of Highgarden has set her sights.

Sea rather than snow.

“But that is not what you wish for me, is it mother?” A quiet phrase, spoken through heavy lips and accompanied with gloomy eyes. Her mother turns at this, a spark of amusement in her gaze at the sharpness retained in her daughter’s mind over the larger game at play. The woman observes Lady Tyrell calmly, taking careful note of the dullness of the lady’s expression regarding the line of questioning. It is no surprise to Elinor – while most young ladies would have been ecstatic to be engaged to a prince, her child had never seemed to care much for her match to Daeron Targaryen. Another Targaryen had long ensnared the innocence of her young heart, but Elinor had hoped the revelation of the boy’s true character had woken her daughter from childish notions of romance and love within a marriage.

“You wish to know of my plans for your betrothal then.” The Lady of Highgarden purses her lips softly before she lets out a long sigh, shaking her head at her daughter. It is marginally more difficult to convince a daughter who has since reached twenty years of age to marry as her parents see fit – Elinor had been considerably annoyed when Prince Daeron had died and broken off a sixteen-year-long engagement.

“It has been on my mind as of late.” The lady does not need to possess any fantastical ability to know her mother finds her having an opinion upon the matter of her own marriage rather tiresome. It is tradition, longstanding and binding, for ladies to have their husbands selected by their parents. The intense glare her mother fixes her with only serves to agitate her further, and she remains drawn against the door.

“If you must know,” Her mother begins with another shake of her head, exasperation written as if in stone upon her face. “I believe you shall marry Lord Corlys Velaryon’s heir. A bastard, in truth, but he has been legitimized and will be the next Lord of the Tides. Being the Lady of Driftmark would suit you, and Lord Alyn’s fleet would be an excellent ally to possess.”

Repressing a sardonic breath that threatens to escape her lips at the confirmation of her suspicions, the lady feels her nails digging into the wooden door. After a moment of composing herself, gaze remaining downcast to the floor, she speaks in a measured tone. “Have you arranged it already?”

“The matter has been proposed to Lord Corlys, but the betrothal will be solidified once he is freed.” It is said with such certainty that a heaviness pools about her stomach, her eyes closing briefly as she attempts to reason with herself over the marriage. It could be far worse – she had briefly wondered if her mother mind demand she marry Lord Corlys himself, despite the man being over seventy years of age. She knows little of Lord Alyn, save him not being a trueborn son of the Sea Snake nor a dragon rider. And while she is frustrated at this decision, her true worry is for another.

“And Cassia?” Her eyes finally meet her mother’s with a stubborn glint as the question leaves her lips, searching to find if yet another of her hunches shall prove true.

“Lord Lyonel Hightower is in need of a wife, so it would seem.” Upon this matter, the lady cannot prevent the disapproving click that bounces from her tongue, fixing her mother with a glare of equal ferocity. She is nothing if not Elinor’s daughter after all. As she crosses the room towards the other woman, the reasoning she has spent many long nights sorting out is finally given voice.

“The Hightowers are already your bannermen. You need not vie for more power in their House, not when you have reminded them of the true strength of Highgarden,” After the realization that Garmund Hightower’s position as a ward of the Tyrells places the Hightowers in a delicate situation, the lady doubts any rebellions shall be happening in the coming years. Not when Lord Lyonel is still quite young and wholly inexperienced in battle. Additionally occupied with seducing his stepmother, whom he is rumored to be terribly obsessed with, and being altogether horrid to his serving staff. Surely, her mother cannot be eager to send Cassia to such a horrendous fate. Not when there might be more to be gained elsewhere. “If you use this rare opportunity to secure an alliance with a Northern House, it will extend our influence.”

Elinor gives a scoff at this, her stare hardening as her daughter’s stubbornness is presented to her once again. While the lady has rarely argued upon orders given directly to her, she is so very insistent regarding her sister. As it has always been, the Lady of Highgarden is both impressed and annoyed by the fierceness with which her eldest child is devoted to her siblings. “Cassia does not possess the skill needed to manipulate influence so far from Highgarden.”

“She is young, she will learn.” The lady reasons with a soft shrugging of her shoulders, her frown deepening as she attempts to persuade her mother against such a decision. As they had taken their leave of the courtyard, the lady had noticed the gentle way Lord Blackwood had lifted her sister’s hand to his lips, and the soft delight upon Cassia’s face at the meeting. After years of searching for an acceptable match for the girl, the lady will be damned if her mother sentences her only sister to life at the mercy of an ill-tempered and spoiled lordling.

“You were fully prepared to manipulate those in court at her age.” With a look of disbelief cast coldly to her daughter, the Lady of Highgarden squares her shoulders and tilts her head in a manner the implies she does not mean to be argued with upon the topic. Given usual circumstances, Lady Tyrell would then have lowered her eyes and her voice and deferred to her mother’s wishes. But after witnessing Helaena’s marriage, and the marriages of other ladies within the castle, she knows all too well that it is not only Cassia’s heart that is in danger. The physical suffering resulting from matches made with cruel and violent men shall last the entirety of the union. Still, blatant attitude will not convince her mother of anything. The lady’s voice simmers to a softer note.

“Cassia is…she is less like you and I, mother.” There is a fondness in her voice she cannot hide, but fear decorates the edges of her words like lace stitching. The lady cannot lose another. It would surely kill her, if she is not already dying slowly from the grief that snaps heartstring after heartstring, plucking her damaged heart like a harp. Let her bear the burden of being born a daughter, so that her sister shall not.

“She is naive.” Elinor dismisses with a wave of her hand, eyes closing with weary ache as she thinks after her more tenderhearted daughter. How she birthed two girls who are so very different from herself, she could never understand.

“I will speak to her.” Lady Tyrell’s brows have drawn together, her lips pressed together tightly as her hands are folded in front of her skirts with elegant poise. Yet her gaze remains stubbornly set, insistent and certain as carved marble. “I simply believe it to be in the best interest of our House.”

“Of our House, or of your beloved sister?” The question is wielded as sharply as a dagger, burrowing up to the hilt in the lady’s mind as her mother regards her with thinly veiled disappointment. There is a heavy silence that falls within the air of the room as the women regard each other with equally intense stares. Long gone are the days when she would hide at the sight of her mother’s cold glare, her heart plummeting at the very thought of letting down the only parent who paid her any mind. For so long has she obeyed every order to the utmost, earning her place as her mother’s darling and trusted spy at court. But the war has shown the lady what is truly frightening in this world, and no amount of lingering childhood guilt can convince her to abandon her sister to the hands of a senselessly violent man.

“Both can be true, can they not?” She speaks finally, a quiet reaffirming of her stance. Elinor’s shrouded gaze remains cast to her daughter, repressing the urge to remind the lady that their House only remains standing because of the effort she has put in to keep it from falling. Instead, she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly.

“Do not forget what a crucial time this is. I would hate to see your emotions stand in the way of our ambition.” Elinor’s voice is reminiscent of the rattle of a snake slipping through tall grasses, fangs withdrawn but always present. Venom that has been used before, to keep House Tyrell alive and strong.

“…Yes, mother.”

The warning is as clear as any.

The matter of an imminent betrothal weighs as heavily upon Cregan’s mind as it does on the Lady Tyrell’s. Despite the flurry of tasks he is swept up in as the newly appointed Hand, the concern lingering in the corners of his thoughts does not cease nor waver. It is with no surprise that after he has finally concluded the last issue of the day, his steps carry him with a heavy quickness to her chamber door. So familiar has he become with the carvings of the wood upon it, with the cool touch of the metal latch. With the way his knocks resound in hollow bursts through the thickness of it, and the soft adjusting of metal as she pulls the door inwards to herself. Each time she gazes upon him with such soft surprise, even if she should not expect anyone else when the crescent moon is so high in the inky darkness of the night sky.

But as she opens the door to greet him, she is given momentary pause by the intensity of his eyes, gazing down into hers with such needing questioning that she is left silent for a second after she catches sight of his stoic visage. Unsure of what has him in such an agitated state, the lady blinks up at him with a quiet wondering. Cregan could give a breath of relief at the sight of her, not already swept up into the arms of some lord who might not take note of the way she adds three sugars to her morning tea or the glimmer in her eyes when she finds something amusing yet does not wish to show it. It burns within his chest like a raging wildfire then, the crux of weeks of learning her person and finding himself taken by each detail he has seen.

“I apologize for the lateness of the hour,” Cregan murmurs, the depth of his voice sending her stomach rolling about softly. There is a certain hum to the manner he speaks when it is only them alone that she cannot quite place, but the physical effects of it have only grown stronger in the hours spent in only each other’s company. “I had wished to come earlier but there were a number of pressing matters and time soon slipped away from me.”

Lingering in the torchlit hallway, she cannot help but allow her eyes to soften at the way the edges of his noble silhouette turn gentle and golden in the warm glow. Her lips melt into the smallest ghost of a smile, her lids lowering as she gazes up at him with knowing eyes. She too has been hoping for his company, having grown used to receiving it several times a day.

“You need not worry. Being Hand of the King is an involved position, I am sure.” Easy does the speech flow from her lips, rich and sweet as dessert wine when she presses one hand to her doorframe. Her lithe fingers curl about the wood delicately, and the crackling of the hearth can be heard from inside her ambiently lit chambers. A nightgown of ivory coloring adorns her body once again, scarcely obscuring anything from Cregan’s wandering eyes. She does little to hide herself, the hauntings of a smile widening in delighted amusement when a thick swallow is forced down his throat at the sight of her chest draped in such delicate silks. When his eyes flick up to hers again, she casts her gaze down so he might not see.

“It is,” He acquiesces, seeming rather weary from such a long day. But no amount of exhaustion or concern over the trials occurring tomorrow can keep Cregan from her doorstep, not when she might be betrothed at any moment. “And yet I still wished to see you, my lady.”

Her heart is sticky candle wax beneath a wick that has been set aflame, dripping into the cavity of her chest warmly. The Northern practicality that others might view as brashly straightforward heats her body as no other words can. There is little she can do to stop her smile from blooming fully upon her face as she steps back slowly, her eyes holding his with a quiet reflection of his own desires that she is sure he does not miss.

“You may come in, Lord Stark.” It is a hushed murmur, spoken to him before her back is turned and he is left to stare after her retreating figure once more. Taking a slow breath, Cregan finds himself closing the door as he has before. But this evening, there is a crackling of electricity in the air as there has not been during other evening meetings. An understanding seems to be on the precipice of being reached, yet Cregan cannot help but wonder if she knows the depth of his affection.

Slowly, he makes his way into her chambers. She has returned to the task she was attending to before Cregan had arrived – fixing her hair for bed in front of a full mirror the shape of an oval. With some hesitation, he follows her to the far side of the room and sinks slowly into the edge of her bed, watching the gentle movements she makes with half-lidded eyes. His gaze meet hers within the mirror, and he lowers his chin quietly as he speaks.

“Has your mother arranged a match for you yet, my lady?” It is as direct as she expects him to be, and yet an amused breath is taken through her nose as she breaks her eyes away from his. Her hands make their way through her hair as a soft, tired smile finds its way to her mouth. The firelight from across her chambers casts the room in a warm yet dim glow.

“She has her sights on Lord Alyn Velaryon,” The lady informs Cregan with a pointed resignation, attempting not to sound too annoyed or frustrated by her mother’s decision. Her fingers slow in their movements as she attempts to imagine a life at Driftmark, by the sea and sand. She has sent her spies out to learn more about Alyn, yet she does not imagine she shall receive information about his character until far later in the week. Whether for Cregan’s sake or her own, she attempts to reason out the circumstance. “It could be far worse. He – is of my age and has a good title.”

“Do you wish to marry him?” The quickness of the serious reply has her closing her eyes for a moment. She has half a mind to turn upon Cregan and ask if he imagines she wishes to marry a stranger she has never met nor has any concept of at her age, but it is not his fault nor is it fair of her to take out such frustrations upon him, he who is so very kind to her and has enchanted her so.

“Not particularly, no,” She begins truthfully, unable to stop the honest words from fleeing her chest. Cregan has a way of rendering her all but incapable of lying when he has gotten her alone, which is both refreshing and concerning. “But I have evaded my fate for far too long. I must fulfill my duty to my family.”

Cregan cannot tear his attention from her, his heart striving with sharp pull in his chest as he watches her quietly accept that which she herself has said she does not wish for. Her chin tilts down, her hands running softly through her hair to arrange it delicately atop the silk of her evening slip. Gazing at herself softly, she cannot help but smooth down a portion of the fabric, her hand running across the silks that cascade over her breasts and down to her stomach, fingers embedding a slow trail down the map of her body. His jaw tightens, his lips twitching slightly as he stares at her figure, her back turned to him as she busies herself with her hair. The fierce spirit he has seen her wield to fight for Cassia and Jaehaera – will she truly not utilize it for herself? Cregan Stark is sure in this instance he is not a fool. Surely, she must know as well.

“And your duty to your heart?” His eyes do not waver. There is not need to elaborate further, not when he is sat there upon the edge of her bed, not when he has been allowed into her chambers at this hour before. As he has been allowed past the thorny towers of her heart, as he has been allowed the soft trust she has placed in him. He shall ignore it no longer. The lady’s body goes rigid, her lips parting dryly as she stares down at the curved foot of the mirror with wide, unblinking eyes. While she too has grown keenly aware of this fire they share, she had not imagined he would speak so brazenly of it. But Cregan is of Northern blood and custom, to his last.

Cursed heart, flickering to life only to be put to the sword once again.

“It is but a dream.” The edges of her voice break upon her lips, glass and a ghostly whisper that lingers in the space in front of her as it falls from her tongue. Her heartbeat has become a steady thrumming in her ears, pulsing wildly beneath the skin of her wrists and beneath her collarbone. Her chin is softly lifted to meet Cregan’s stare through the mirror, and her breath is taken from her lungs by the intensity of his eyes. He shakes his head slowly, never breaking their shared gaze. An almost painful need to speak has lodged its way into his chest.

“If it is a dream then I do not wish to be woken from it. I cannot no longer hide what your discerning mind surely already knows when you look upon me.” The last word is spoken as a deep breath, as if he cannot fight with his own self-control for a moment longer. His brows draw lower, furrowing to show the weight of the longing and aching within his body that he cannot rid himself of. She can do little but stare at him, lips parted, a sweet wariness melting in desperate uncertainty upon her face as he continues.

“Your being consumes my every thought, my every breath. It is your eyes I search for in every room, your presence I long for at my side, you who has captured my heart and my soul wholly and without question. I came to this castle as a conqueror and instead find myself subdued completely by you, at your mercy and willingly upon my knees,” His eyes are anchored to her visage as a ship in a storm seeks a lighthouse, every word spoken with careful intent and heavy honesty. There is nowhere else he can look to, not even in a hall of thousands. It cannot be undone. “For but the chance that you consider another for your husband.”

A soft exhale of breath puffs through her parted lips, the flicker of firelight tracing the curves of her hips and thighs, nearly visible through the sheer gown. Burning fear and want has pooled in her eyes like golden starlight as a timid whisper is barely heard in the silence of the room. “Please do not jest.”

“I am not.” The words are low and instantaneous, rolling off his tongue like thunder from a long-brewing storm, clouds low and grey as the hues of his lidded eyes. Heat has spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, settling warm and aching between his thighs as his intense gaze tracks her every movement, her every breath. Each rise of her chest is watched hungrily, earning him an expression similar to that of a wolf who can no longer hide its raw and heady desire. One of his tightly closed fists is flexed slowly, fingers extending by the digit as he attempts to maintain what little control he has left. It is not enough to prevent him from rising from her bed, the plush feathered mattress indented in his wake, his steps heavy and intentional as he crosses to stand at her back. She can see his reflection in the mirror, his chin lowered as his eyes rake across her figure with such evident need that a soft heat pools between the curves of her thighs. A large hand finds its place upon her lower back, sliding itself into the slot where her hips begin to curve as she turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide and waiting.

Cregan’s fingers curl softly into the silk, bunching up the pearl fabric within his hold as he presses his hand more firmly into her back, drawing her attention completely. Heat rises to her cheeks at the possessiveness of the action, despite the clear manner in which he is giving her room to draw away. His presence is imposing behind her, broad shoulders looming over her frame, but he does not corner her. The gesture is an asking, a sacred offering, a holy promise of the reverence he will use if he continues to hold her body beneath his hands. So hot is his touch, she expects to see a burn like a brand when he pulls his hand away next. But she does not wish him to. Caution curls in hesitant tendrils within her hollow chest, but they are waved away as mere wisps of smoke. If he gazes down at her with any more softness, his expression might melt beside the flames flickering in the fireplace. It is then that she realizes she has never been looked upon with such obvious love and devotion, by someone whose every action serves to reinforce this certainty. His voice breaks upon the whispered repetition of his own words, as if he is almost afraid of the need he betrays by speaking once more. “I am not.”

Her own palms are hesitant as they reach forth cautiously, wanting yet wary, head against heart. Curling into the softness of his clothing, she presses her hands to the swell of his chest as she turns, her back to the mirror as she faces him fully. Fear has been dissipated, scattered to the delicate night breeze slipping in through the crack in her window. Cool and fresh, laced with the salt from the sea. No sooner than when her fingers bend to take tentative hold of the fabric of his shirt, her eyes flooding with approval as she dips her head – yes, I want this, I want you – does he kiss her.

His mouth parts her wanting lips with a desperate yet constrained hunger, emboldened by the soft gasp against him and the tightening of fingers into his clothing rather than pushing him away. Her brows furrow sweetly as she allows Cregan to press his lips against her own in open-mouthed kisses, deep and messy with the overflowing from weeks of repressed desire, dispelling any sense of propriety and sensibility. As his other arm wraps tightly around her back, he solidifies his hold upon her waist by grabbing firmly at her hips, allowing her figure to melt against his as he holds her upright. As the curves of her breasts meld into his chest, a resonant hum escapes the back of his throat and lowers into a growl when he coaxes her lips further apart, sliding his tongue hotly overtop of them before it slips into the plush softness of her waiting mouth. This earns him another whine, sweet and breathless, that has Cregan hardening faster than he might care to admit. To soothe her, one of his hands pulls her in closer to him, briefly pausing the conquest upon her lips to lift her up into his arms.

It is with utter ease that he raises her from the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing as he leans in to kiss her hungrily once more. Her legs wrap naturally atop his hips as he settles her there, barely preventing them both from stumbling backwards and shattering her mirror, yet still bumping the dark wooden armoire and sending the trinkets atop it shaking. As she begins to meet his eagerness, discovering how she might endeavor to match the passion which with he moves his mouth against her own, neither one seems too occupied with the state of the furniture. His hands have settled into the plush skin of her upper thighs, grasping handfuls of fabric and flesh as he kneads deeply into her warmth. Her hands reach up to tangle in his locks of reddish hair, running through his soft strands and twisting themselves thoroughly. So long has she wished to touch, to brush, to hold. Cregan gives a small groan at the sensation of her fingers pulling his head back, momentarily ceasing his conquest once more to gaze into her eyes, lidded and with pupils blown wide from newly released lust. Her own eyes melt at the sight, at the beauty of him, at the depth of the affection and desire within her heart. One hand trails down to caress his cheek, cupping it tenderly in her hold as their eyes search each other’s for confirmation of the mutual desire for continuation. When Cregan is certain that her need matches his own, he is quick to shift her weight in his arms, crossing back to her bed in a few large strides.

As he bends his knees to kneel upon the end of her mattress, one hand reaches up to cradle her head gently as he lays her down before him, hair spread out beneath her and her cheeks rosy from the exertion of kissing him. Her chest heaves in labored breath, nightgown skewed upon her figure as she gazes up at the Lord of Winterfell with blossoming desire. Never able to deny her, she who blooms within his world as a rose amongst the snowiest peaks, Cregan lowers his body overtop of hers as his lips find her mouth once again.

The glowing fire burns low in the hearth, casting golden light upon their joining bodies in the soft satins of her poster-framed bed. The sheer silk canopy does little to hide the sounds of sweet and aching desire released from her lips as Cregan shifts his weight up onto his arms, trailing his lips and nipping teeth along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. At this, she tilts her head to further expose herself to his ardent kisses. The feeling of a mouth upon her skin is new, yet she feels far less anxiety than she might have expected. So long as it is Cregan Stark whose hands and mouth forge untaken paths onto the expanse of her body, lips pressing against sensitive pressure points as her pulse thrums beneath in hot pools, there shall be no fear in her heart.

Just as it had been before, her given name is a sacrosanct promise birthed upon his reddening lips. She breathes his in return, wholly as sacred, reverent and reminiscent of a vow.

Lady Tyrell’s hands once more find their way into his hair, raking fistfuls of soft locks into her grasp and tugging just so, earning her another delicious groan from his chest and a stuttered rocking of his hips against air. The action spurs him on further, as he pushes himself up by straightening his elbows and shifting back onto his knees. With his now free hands, he curls his fingers into the thin silk of her evening slip. The fabric gives way pliantly in his strong grasp. Another gasp falls from her open lips as the clothing tears, her breasts dipping slightly as they are exposed to the warm air of her bedchamber. Cregan does not give her a moment to consider embarrassment or worry as he immediately lowers his head, capturing one of her nipples with a deep kiss around the peaking bud. His eyes close at the taste of her upon his tongue, the other breast attended to with his hand as he kneads and pulls at the soft flesh with a feeling of near relief.

On many an occasion his eyes have been drawn to the lowness of her neckline, plunging precariously atop her breasts that bounce as she walks and turns to speak to him. Finally, he can lick his tongue across the rounded nipples as he has been desiring to, his cheeks blown as his head lowers and raises from the intensity with which he sucks at her. Her back arches at the feeling of his warm mouth over her sensitive chest, suckling from her as he pulls her body closer. The ache between her thighs is a demanding flutter that grows bolder with each movement of his tongue, echoing in yielding moans and whines.

Cregan rolls his hips against hers tentatively – needing more yet wishing to be tender with her, wishing to treat her as devotedly as he can given the heat that has pulsated into his throbbing cock – as he switches to lavishing attention to her other breast. Lady Tyrell squirms beneath his touch, yet her own waist lifts to meet his as she feels the prominent outline of him straining against the material of his pants. The silks of her nightgown have bunched up about her hips, leaving her cunt covered only by the thin fabric of her small clothes akin to a flower whose petals have curled back to allow the sun to reach its depths. As he continues to map out each plane of her figure with his mouth, descending to the soft skin of her stomach after he rips at her slip further, his fingers slowly reach through the fabric to brush against her wet core. Her head falls back against the satin sheets, a sweet sound filling the air that only serves to encourage Cregan further.

“Cregan please,” Her whine is far more desperate than she wishes it to be, but the neediness causes Cregan’s cock to twitch within the constraints of his clothes. The dampness of his fingers, feeling the physical manifestation of her desire even through cloth, has him leaning back, wrestling to free himself of his pants and breeches. The lady presses her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the aching throbbing that has been caused by him before reaching down to wiggle her hips and slide her small clothes down the smooth expanse of her legs. But he shall not leave her wanting, not when he can alleviate the pressure with his own fingers that resume their ministrations once he gently moves her thighs apart.

“As you wish, my lady.” An instantaneous agreement in a tone that rumbles with burning desire, pulled from his chest with no resistance. If she were his enemy, she would surely render him all but helpless – a knife to his neck at her mercy, if only to keep a tear from ever falling from her eyes, save the ones she sheds from the pleasure he might bring her. Her folds are wet and pliant as he massages his fingers into them softly, spurred on by the lovely sounds dripping from her lips as an ambrosial substance. His mouth returns to eagerly press kisses to each moan, tongue diving past her lips as he rubs small circles into her clit.

With each movement, she is willing to spread her legs further apart for him, hips fluttering to meet the calloused pads of his large fingers. The scent of him is in every breath – heavy musk and sweet pine, hints of leather and the distant memory of fresh fallen snow. As he draws back for air, she lifts her head to his neck, mimicking the hungry kisses he had lavished upon her collarbone. When her teeth sink into the juncture of his throat, his hips jerk sharply and he drops his head, hair falling over his face. Soothing a sweet kiss to his skin immediately after, she presses her mouth repeatedly to the sensitive skin as Cregan slides his thick fingers across her wet pearl. Her hips roll as ocean waves against his touch, her mouth leaving reddening marks akin to bruises upon the skin of fresh fruit, laying claim to the Warden of the North as he has allowed her to. As she begins to feel flush across the entirety of her body, Cregan aligns his hips with hers to lower his cock to rub against the wetness of her cunt, sliding easily across her as she takes a sharp breath. His head hangs above hers, eyes longing to see every expression that flickers across her visage as he rubs himself against her, catching upon her clit and dipping into the pliant folds only just so.

Never has Lady Tyrell been touched in such a way, but she is not ignorant of how the act is performed. Only, she had not believed it to be so pleasant nor so hot, burning as a raging wildfire within the lower realm of her stomach as Cregan groans from the feeling of his cock sliding against her wetness with such ease, a clear indicator of the pleasure she experiences from his touch. It had seemed like a chore, a burden forced upon ladies in order to create heirs. Even if she had not been instructed on the sequence of events during the process, she knows she would instinctively crave Cregan within her at the sensation of him rubbing with such strong and deep strokes against her. But he does not press inside of her, remaining atop her folds as his breathing grows labored.

“Please, I need you,” She breathes, hating the whine that escapes upon the last word, eyes nearly teary from the pulsing ache between her thighs where her body believes his cock should be. Cregan feels his self-control slipping off a precarious cliff at her insistence, struggling to deny her anything when she asks in that lovely voice, coated in such genuine desire and passion. But he is an honorable man, who cares for her far too much to claim her maidenhead before he marries her. Inhaling a sharp breath, he continues to roll his cock against her wet cunt with long strokes. “I need more.”

Cregan might die within her bed. His voice breaks as he rasps over his words.

“I cannot,” It is meant to soothe her, spoken in a deep and gentle voice, but only elicits a soft whine of displeasure from her as she begins to move her hips to match his. Each time he rubs against her clit, or her aching entrance, her mind grows hazy and soft. “I wish to, truly, but I cannot.”

For all his flourishing desire, primal and raw as it may be, the love he has come to harbor for her within his heart and his adamant desire to protect her outweighs his natural instinct to take her, to lay claim to her, to have children by her as he so desires. He cannot besiege her cunt as if some cruel conqueror, not when he has made no promises to earn him that right. Cregan Stark shall do right by her, as soon as he might be able to, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes upon the truth of her soul. One hand reaches down to rest softly over the gentle curve of her stomach, his hips jerking in a sloppier rhythm against her as the idea of her carrying his heirs fills his mind once more. To make her Lady of Winterfell, to give her the family she spoke of wanting, to protect her until the end of his days within his ancestral homeland – the desires he has been harboring in secret can no longer be denied.

Lady Tyrell does not argue further upon the matter, wholly desiring to honor his wishes and make Cregan feel as comfortable as he has made her, but the distress must show upon her face for he leans down. Pressing a loving kiss to her temple, his lips murmur softly against her forehead to calm her tenderly. “I am sorry, my sweet rose. It is only that I wish to have you as my wife.”

Her eyes widen at his voice, at the slight pressure he applies to her stomach as he keeps his hand pressed firmly to her skin. It is not long after the words are spoken that he rocks his hips forward, angling them so that he might rub against her clit in heavier strokes. When he captures her lips once more into his, she feels him groaning into her mouth as liquid heat pools between her thighs with a sudden stutter of his hips, coating her folds in his seed. Her own release is hot as it washes over her, her entrance contracting in rapid flutters as a warm burst of pleasure flutters through her nerves.

As her pleasure simmers beneath her exhausted muscles, she fears briefly that he may simply leave her there alone, as she has heard tale of men doing after seeking pleasure. But the Northern lord slowly rolls off of her body, eyes closing briefly as he presses a soft kiss to her lips and pulls her gently into his arms. His hand brushes hair out of her face, her cheeks shining with sweat from their passion, as he murmurs sweet praises into her hair until she feels sleep claim her.

a/n: i am going on vacation for the next 2.5 weeks so this series is going on a mini-break! perhaps i'll write oneshots while i am in the airport or something similar but i am not sure yet. anyways comments and asks and reblogs are always appreciated and thank you to everyone who has read everything so far!

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generalluxun · 3 months ago

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Revisiting S5 E14 Derision, and Making it Work

It's *easy* to dunk on Derision. I won't rehash all the holes here. What is harder is actually doing better... or so you would think.

What follows is a back-of-the-napkin idea I threw together in about 5 minutes. So I hope it doesn't meet with universal... derision. 🐈‍⬛

Reworking this episode reaches back earlier into S5 and recasts one of the side/new characters... but bear with me it's to good purpose. When you're creating a pivotal pre-canon character moment 5 seasons in, there's going to be a little collateral.

It begins with... Socqueline.

Socqueline was NOT Marinette's savior at FDP. In truth... she was Marinette's bully. She was everyone's bully in fact. She ruled FDP with an iron fist. Teachers were afraid of her, and no not her dad, her. Socqueline is the one who terrorized Marinette and pulled the awful prank. The prank that was bad enough that she was expelled. Marinette meets her unexpectedly at the craft store, and is instantly a yr younger and in shock.

HOWEVER

Socqueline is still the one pretending to be Ladybug. She's still the one trying to help people. She's still kind and helpful and Marinette is so very confused! You see, being expelled, having to be in an entirely new environment, and even just a year of change and reflection has made Socqueline a different person. She has grown and is trying to do good to make up for being bad before. Why is she done up like Marinette? She's not! She's done up like Ladybug. She's emulating her hero and inspiration. (who is of course, Marinette).

This already gives us some really good changes.

1)We have a valid reason for Marinette to not have seen/wanted to see Socqueline until S5. you don't go seeking out your former bully.

2)We have a cover for why Marinette hasn't reacted to stimulus before now. She was 'doing good' until she crossed paths with Socqueline and after that. *bam* right in the Trauma. It doesn't matter that Socqueline has changed, trauma is trauma. Marinette hasn't processed it yet, so it gets stoked.

3)Have Kim think Socqueline's pranks were funny. He's Kim, he's thick as two boards, at least he's not gushing about how hot another girl is right next to poor Ondine. It leans into Dark Humor just fine on it's own. Skip the Adrien/Chloe scene for a Marinette/Socqueline scene where Marinette brings up the event to Socqueline and how much it impacted her. have Socquline apologize(she did back in Jubilation for everything, but have her also for this specific thing) have it end on a hug, how nice.

Already we're doing much better! But wait, there's more!

We cut Chloé out of Derision! What does this mean? If she wasn't Marinette's bully doesn't this mess everything up?

No, not really.

Chloé wasn't Marinette's bully pre-canon in any meaningful way. She didn't rule the roost. She only stepped up once Socqueline was expelled, trying to fill the power vacuum/rule the roost/be the new Queen. She's just really bad at it. This explains why the class and even Marinette react to Chloé even in S1 with a sort of exasperated resignation and Marinette isn't even remotely afraid to snap back at her. It's not 'Oh no she is such a bully' it's 'oh God, Chloé's on her shit again.' She's still a brat, mean, and entitled. We're not rewriting any of that. She'll even be an antagonist in S5, but we're going to lean more heavily into Lila/Gabe/Tomoé actively manipulating her, much like in S3. She's not evil, but she's very easily persuaded to be bad.

you see- What we've done with Socquline is foreshadowing. We've shown someone who WAS a bully, who changed when their environment changed and they found the right motivation/inspiration. So when Chloé is going down in flames in S5 we're going to build organically on the parental abuse into the manipulation by villains. We seek to inspire frustration with her, revulsion with those manipulating her, agony that the manipulation all goes unseen, and of course sympathy for everyone who has to deal with it. However, we've also set up the seeds for a future where her environment changes, where a new motivation/inspiration comes in, and where we get convert her from brat to ... okay maybe not GOOD person but at least a decent little porcupine. 🤣

We've even given Marinette a firsthand experience that change CAN happen. Which is something she didn't have the first time around with Chloé during S2/3.

So, what do y'all think?

#miraculous ladybug #Derision #rewriting Derision #socqueline wang #marinette dupain cheng #chloe bourgeois #writing

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nomie-11 · 9 months ago

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Chapter 1 - Chains of Starlight*

masterlist! | series masterlist | next part ->

Dark, damp, and the smell of mildew. A room, no bigger than 5 feet long and 5 feet wide, a single mattress and a ratty blanket, a sink, a toilet, and a boarded up door with a slit for food. The faucet never stopped dripping, the hollow plop, plop, plop haunting her as it rang out in the room, all day every day, for what felt like an eternity. Stone floors, stone walls, and stone ceilings. The smell of mildew.

There’s no escape from the humidity of this dungeon, not without a compromise Genevieve doesn’t want to make.

For every day of this torture, Genevieve Hale etched stars into her ceiling, one star a day, forming constalations she once mapped in the mountains of Aretia. Her hands grew raw from months of searching the stones for a crack, her body grew wearing from days of practicing her sparring on the door that blocked her from the outside she once loved.

Each kick against the door resonated against her, a cruel reminder of her futile struggle against confinement. She could almost hear the rustle of the leaves, the rush of rivers—it was a cruel juxtaposition of her current situation.

The only solace she found in the darkness was the faint memory of the stars above her grandmother’s manor in Aretia, twinkling above her like the promise of freedom. Every star etched into her sky mirrored the nights her mother would spend in her library, teaching Genevieve the stories of astronomy.

In this damp prison, Genevieve replayed her memories, each in a flickering flame against the encroaching despair. She remembered the warm embrace of the sun on her skin, the thrill of a sparring match under the sprawling sky, the feeling of her grandmother’s weathered hands braiding her hair into Tyrrish knots—moments she clung to as she counted the four hundred and seven stars on her ceiling. One for each day.

But hope, however fragile, flickered within her. As the familiar click of heels descended the stairs to her dungeon, she could see the light filter through the cracks in the bottom of the door. The dull thud of the dripping faucet became a metronome for her determination, but the sound of the heels descending was an omen for the future. General Sorrengail was coming.

Genevieve straightened her spine, feeling the tight pull of the raw skin around her wrists. The iron cuffs, long since rusted, had bitten into her flesh enough times that the pain was now a dull hum in the background of her existence. She wouldn’t flinch, though–not for Lilith Sorrengail. Not for the woman who had put her here.

The footsteps stopped just beyond the door, the shadow of boots barely visible in the narrow slit meant for her meals. A familiar, suffocating silence filled the room as Genevieve’s breath caught in her throat. She had heard this ritual countless times, but each visit, every word from the General, left fresh scars.

The boards covering the door creaked as they were pulled aside, and a sliver of magelight leaked through the opening. A face appeared. Cold eyes, just like she remembered.

“Still alive, I see,” Lilith’s voice cut through the quiet, it’s tone sharp and unforgiving. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

Genevieve didn’t respond. She had learned early on that silence was her only defense. Lilith wanted her to break, to beg for mercy, to plead for release. But Genevieve knew better. Every word would be twisted, every crack in her resolve a victory for Lilith. So, she remained still, her fingers tracing the stone wall behind her.

“You must be wondering why I kept you here,” The general’s voice was almost conversational, as if she were discussing the weather or a new recruit. “Why someone like you–someone with such potential–would be wasting away in this pit?”

Geneveive’s heart pounded in her chest. She hated that part of her that wanted to know the answer. There was no denying the lingering question that had gnawed at her since her imprisonment. Why had she not just killed her? What did she really want?

“Why are you here?” Genevieve prompts, her voice smooth and calm, not betraying the racing of her heart. “Who do you want to protect so badly that you keep me alone down here?”

“I’m not here to spill my life secrets to you, girl,” She practically spat, her resolve shattering. “You’re lucky I kept you down here instead of just killing you.”

The younger girl bites her tongue, but she’s itching to scream.

“I’m here to propose a deal, a compromise of sorts,” General Sorrengail says, her tone evening once more, her mask of power and indifference settling softly onto her face. “I’m going to let you out of here, and you’re going to go to Basgiath and become a rider.”

Genevieve made no moves, no motions to say yes.

“While there, you’ll watch over Xaden Riorson for me. Do you understand? You watch him, and report back to me when you see anything… strange.” She leaned down, her face still as she crooned over Genevieve. “You’re in my hands, either you say yes, or you die.”

The words lingered in the air, thick with threat. You watch him, or you die.

Genevieve’s breath came out slow, controlled. She had learned not to react too quickly, not to betray her thoughts, especially when dealing with someone like Lilith Sorrengail. The General was dangerous–cold, calculating, and capable of twisting any situation to her advantage.

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, yet her face remained impassive. She didn;t need to ask why she was chosen for this task. It was obvious. Xaden Riorson–son of the man who had led the rebellion, the rebellion that had nearly toppled Navarre, the rebellion her own father had supported. And now, General Sorrengail suspected Xaden was the leader of the rebellious remnants of Basgiath. What better way to ensure control than to send someone who had just as much reason to hate him as to ally with him?

But Genevieve wasn’t stupid. She knew this wasn’t just about spying on Riorson. There was always something more to Lilith’s plans. The General didn;t make moves unless the outcome benefited her in more ways than one.

“Why me?” Genevieve asked, her voice low but steady. She could feel Lilith watching her, evaluating, calculating.

“Because you’re nobody,” Lilith replied, her words cutting with brutal honesty. “You have no alliances, no family that matters anymore. No one will miss you if you disappear.”

Genevieve’s chest tightened, but she fought to keep her expression neutral. She wasn’t a nobody. She was a Hale. Even if her family had fallen from grace, even if her father had been branded a traitor, she still had her name, her skills, her strength. She still had something left, even if it was just the fire of her hatred for the woman standing in front of her.

“And what if I refuse?”

Lilith’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “And miss out on seeing the stars from the back of a dragon?”

Genevieve’s fingers tightened against the cold stone behind her. She knew Lilith was right. This isn't a choice. It had never been. If she refused, she’d die in this cell, forgotten and discarded like so many others before her. But if she accepted… if she played along… freedom was hers. She could see the sky, see the sprawling mountains, and watch the eagles fly.

“I’ll do it,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm.

Lilith straightened, satisfied. “Good. You leave tomorrow.”

The general turned to go, but before she could leave, Genevieve spoke again. “One more thing.”

Lilith paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“When I’m done with your little task… what happens to me?”

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken implications. Finally, she spoke, her voice cold and distant. “Then you’re free.”

And with that, the door slammed shut, leaving Genevieve alone once more. The sound of the dripping faucet resumed, but this time, it didn;t seem as loud. Instead, Genevieve’s thoughts raced. She had a mission now, a purpose, even if it was wrapped in chains.

But she wasn’t a pawn, no matter how much Lilith Sorrengail believed she was.

If Lilith wanted her to spy on Xaden Riorson, she would do it. But it wouldn’t be for the general. It would be for herself, for her freedom.

Genevieve leaned against the cold stone, staring up at the stars she had etched into the ceiling. Tomorrow, she will leave this basement. Tomorrow she will prepare herself for Basgiath.

For today, she will sit in her dungeon, the flicker of hope growing into a flame.

—-------------------------------------

The heavy iron door was ajar the next morning when she woke up, and alone and cold, Genevieve rose to a stand, the iron shackles clattering to the floor without a fight. Her tattered clothes hung loose, her hair grew long, her skin pale, but she was still her after all this time as she crossed the threshold of the doorway. She had been prepared to die in this basement, but now, a world that she had once thought was dead to her was opening right back up, now with a mission she despised and a future she couldn’t predict.

She straightened herself, pushing her shoulders back and forcing herself to stand tall as she would when she was free. As she entered the stairwell, light from the top of the hallway hit her eyes. The walls still surrounded her, and it still smells like mildew, but the climb wasn’t daunting as she ascended the spiral staircase to freedom.

Genevieve ascended the spiral staircase, each step echoing off the stone walls of her former prison. The mildew still clung to the air, but the light at the top was more intoxicating than the stale darkness she had known for months. Every breath she took felt sharper, crisper, like a blade slicing through the haze of captivity.

Her bones feel brittle, her muscles tight, but none of it mattered. Not now. Her skin tingled as the late summer air slowly filtered down towards her. She stepped out into the sun, blinding her with its warm rays, a stark contrast to the cold, damp dungeon below. Her heart pounded as the light engulfed her, squinting against the brightness, but the moment she stepped out into the open air, the scent of earth and grass filled her lungs. For a brief, fleeting second, she almost felt free.

As much as she hated Lilith Sorrengail, she couldn't deny the excitement that flickered and breathed like a candle to a breeze within her. An endless sea of stars, and endless stream of sunrises. The sky, the stars, the dragons, the earth, it was once more hers.

Taking a deep breath, she savored the fresh air, the scent of life around her. The world was wide open before her, and for the first time in one year and forty two days, she felt the hope inside her shine. A small spark of dangerous desire, laced with anger and a need for vengeance. Genevieve Hale was free, but she was not the same girl that was locked away all that long ago. She was harder, colder, and every step forward was a step closer to making Lilith Sorrengail pay for what she had done.

Her fists clenched tightly as she stood there in the sunlight. Basgiath War College would be the battlefield for now, and she would make sure that every player in this twisted game understood one thing: Genevieve Hale was not to be underestimated. Not anymore.

-------------------

Hey guys! attempting to actually write a fanfiction for once after reading so many (cough cough Fear and Flame), so lmk what you think!

*Rewritten!

#fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson #fourth wing xaden #fanfic #liam mairi #the empyrean #violet sorrengail #x reader #reader insert #xaden and sgaeyl #basgiath war college #liam mairi x reader #the wounded healer

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brights-place · 2 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ 【 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞‼ - Ch.5 - 7】 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Read The full book on my wattpad

๋࣭ ⭑ ❝ 【Prologue - Ch.5 -7】❞𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The two walked down the pathway as [Name] seemed to notice how the pathway stone turned into dirt and gravel along with some stones along the path that seemed to start having cracks. dents and part chipped off as the girl glanced to Crowley who was humming happily twirling his staff in his hand before stopping and tapping it against the floor as Crowley beamed towards the girl.

"Here we are" Crowley grinned gesturing a gloved hand towards something on top of a hill as her eyes squinting as she tried to make out the outline of the dorm in the darkness of the night. The dim lanterns seated upon stone columns lining the path did little to show the surroundings.

The sound of creaking was heard causing the girl to tense up for a moment as Crowley paused when he noticed [Name] awkwardly tense up "Well... It has some charm" she said biting her lip as Crowley nodded his head with a smile spreading across his face. "Right, right. I knew you'd agree! Now come on" he said waving a hand for her to follow him once more.

Heading over to a broken and rusted fence. The headmaster placed a gloved hand upon the rusty iron gate before quickly drawing it back a small noise of distaste came from him wiping the small grime on his gloved hand into his pants and using his cane to open the gate.

It let out an ear-splitting metallic screech it's hinges scraping over the other as [Name] winced at the noise "For Ogre's Sake that sounds even worse then duchess swan when she sings.." Crowley didn't seem too affected by the noise though, probably used to things as loud as that. Crowley glanced over to [Name] "Duchess Swan..? is she perchance a duchess you know?" "Oh no uhm she's a girl from my school she's the next swan queen in her fairytale" "So you have connections with...Royals?" "You could say that but from where I'm from there are Royals and Rebels. It's a whole thing" Crowley's lips quirked up "Oh? How interesting" his gloved hand reached to tap against his chin before he spoke "A child of seven... and a school filled with Royals and Rebels.."

Crowley grinned once more as he tapped the bottom of his cane on the ground a few times. Clearing his throat he stepped onto the uneven path that lay beyond "Please, come inside." He suggested, beginning to walk down the path towards the dorm. [Name] stared puzzled at Crowley and his mutterings her hand awkwardly fiddling with the robe she was still wearing lifting it up as her boots hit the pavement following behind Crowley.

Squinting [Name] tried to make out the damage in the darkness before glancing back at Crowley who was in front of the wooden doors opening them with his cane smiling ushering her inside as [Name] peeked through the doors of her new found home where she would have to stay for the next couple of days.

She couldn't help but grimace at the holes in the roofing and chunks missing from the walls, windows boarded up whether there was cracked glass or none at all. One of the stone columns that supported the porch covering had crumbled the walls peeling as She entered first followed by Crowley who was smiling.

"It is a little run down, but I believe it will provide shelter from the wind and rain." Crowley commented, stepping to the side as he continued further into the main room as [Name] glanced at the male as she sighed smiling softly still looking around lifting up her foot when a bug crawled on the floor "It's more than enough, thank you." [Name] gagged at seeing the amounts of cobwebs but she could clean it up easily "Are you sure you don't mind letting me stay in such a... Nice house?" "Not at all." Crowley answered giving the girl with highlights a smile rings glinting slightly.

There were picture frames that' was tilted against the wall. There were holes in the wooden flooring the wallpaper obviously peeling but also shredded. There were big plush seats, but their fabric was all scratched up the stuffing spilling out of holes. The stairs that were suppose to head upstairs was molded and some planks broken cobwebs on the railing.

It was kinda easy to see all the cobwebs that decorated everything and the dust that flew up in the air with every step. "Regarding your soul having been summoned here...since the school owns the mirror of darkness we at the college are partly to blame for the mishap."

"So, for the time being..." Crowley turned his gaze to the ground "...We will provide these lodgings free of charge..." Crowley's hands twitched as if he was gonna do another dramatic monologue about the money being wasted on her for the next few days.

Crowley glanced back up at the girl hands moving to his hips "I'm going back to do more research and gather things. Make yourself at home." "Thank you..." [Name] smiled before pausing when hearing the sound of rattling her eyes snapping up to the chandelier above the two. [Name] quickly moved out of the way standing beside Crowley as a loud snap was heard the chandelier crashing down as the metal and glass chandelier hit the floor her eyes widening "The chandelier broke... it's okay don't panic..." a laugh echoed within the walls of the building she was standing in Crowley un-phased as the laughing continued "Heeheee what a shame! It missed" [Name] couldn't help but stare in shock as her robe was tugged on the girl flinching as she blinked before sighing "Okay let's panic" she muttered at the thought of ghosts. Something soon floated through her body causing her to shiver eyes widening staring down to see a fluffy marshmallow of a body going through her body a plump ghost grinned up to her tipping its top hat as it had a cloak wrapped around it's neck and over it's shoulder. The ghost floating around her "Welcome to our castle" [Name] paused before touching her body "Did you just phase through me?" her e/c eyes widening. "That's what ghosts do" Crowley said un-phased as [Name] deadpanned at him as Crowley smiled "Oh yes I forgot to tell you" "You think?" Crowley waved off her comment "Some mischievous ghosts decided to stay here that is why the place in abandoned" Soon the plump ghost floated above joining two other ghosts the three of them floating in a circle like vultures eyeing it's prey. "It's been awhile since we had visitors" "Make yourselves at home" another ghost said the three of them grinning at the h/c girl with purple highlights who were staring at them. Crowley glanced to the girl trying to pick up on her reaction on the ghosts that soon appeared in front of her face grinning. The large ghost grinned "Oh... It's been awhile since we had new friends" Then ghost on it's right grinned eyes widening leaning closer "OH I know! Wanna try to becoming a ghost?" a laugh came from them their eyes unsettlingly shrinking "The after life's a real blast. There's no death. No suffering" The air was tense around them before a laugh came from the girls lips causing the ghosts eyes to widen "pfft- I'm sorry I'm sorry but this really is such a page turner. I think you'd get along with the other monsters in Ever after high they all try to play into their role as well" The Ghosts blinked at her as if she was some sort of specimen. She smiled hand leaving from covering her smile as she stared at them "So this place has ghosts too? I'm also going to have to become a ghost, but I hope we can get along as some sort of roommates for my stay?" Silence filled the trio but the ghosts blinked before nodding awkwardly "Uhm sure... No sweat" the three ghosts turned to each other whispering in hushed tones "She's not scared?" "And I thought we were finally gonna have some fun... but you know there's this thing around her" "Yeah I can feel it too.. haven't felt that type of energy in years" the ghosts continued to whisper to one another as Crowley placed a hand onto the girls shoulder.

"As I'd expect from someone with your status ahem.. The other students are far to scared to approach this place" [name] blinked at him nodding "Well I can start cleaning" she smiled rolling up the sleeves of her robe before pausing when it rolled back down as she sighed planning on taking it off and putting it to the side so she can use her magic properly.

Crowley spoke interrupting her thoughts "I'm not done talking yet" Crowley raised a finger pointing at the girl smiling "I said that I would let you live here free of charge, but that doesn't mean I can't simply let you mooch of me until you get back to your world. Food and clothing will have to come out of your own pocket" [Name] side eyed Crowley "Payment...?" [Name] side eyed Crowley "Uhm sure" she muttered her hand going into her pockets in her skirt taking out a small wallet that had an engraving on it. A raven bird embroided onto it a poisoned apple in it's mouth.

Crowley's attention took notice of not only the shining gold coin but the wallet and the embroidery "How many gold charms do you need?" the raven masked male quickly snapped his attention to the girl opening his hand out as she placed a gold coin awkwardly so he could see it "Why I've never seen such currency" his fingers playing with the coin checking the sides of it. one side having a crown the other having a golden heart with wings.

His focus turned to the girl who closed her wallet putting it back inside her pockets staring at Crowley who sighed putting the coin inside a pocket of his vest sighing "I'm afraid I can't accept this as payment. If ONLY there was something else you could offer me." A smile reached Crowley's face "You would be useful to be apart of a maintenance team right-" "I'll teach the history of my world, give examples and I can teach and learn the differences the magic here compared to ever after high in return the best I can" Crowley froze "Huh?" "I cannot do maintenance well enough but I can exchange it with my knowledge of my world for you" Crowley blinked pursing his lips and looked down to the floor thinking as [Name] tensed.

Crowley glanced back over to the girl with a slight golden glare before beaming "Why of course! such a great idea!" he clapped his gloved hands together "If so I would also allow you to use the library to gather information about how to get back to your world! For I am so gracious" [Name] sighed in relief "Though I do want one thing in return first! after that I will take you up on your offer about learning about your world! If it interests me more though I would love you to teach our professors to see if we can be able to try some things with your help... if you also exceed past the year level of a first year my... I'd love to see how helpful it will be." For a moment [Name] could feel a shift in Crowley's voice for a moment. Crowley grinned once more "How kind am I to offer and accept such things from you!" Crowley grinned as [Name] sighed in relief unaware of how his eyes squinted at her the gold in his eyes glinting. "Well then for my quick little favor before we start the official deal I'd like you to help clean up just for a moment, since our school is so vast it would take so long to do I'll just ask to you to clean main street, which extends from the entrance gate to the library for now" [Name] blinked nodding slowly "By the way I still haven't gotten your full name" [Name] blinked before smiling awkwardly at the thought of giving her name and his reaction. If her mother may have existed in this world does that mean do they know who she was? would she have to re-build her status again? was she still feared? [Name] smiled "[Name] Raven Queen..." Crowley nodded his head "Very well then Ms. Queen from tomorrow on you will be known as the exchange student and assistant professor in what was it called? ah yes Ever after high now if you excuse me I'll be off!" He beamed as Crowley proceeded to start walking away before stopping and speaking over his shoulder "Don't go wandering around the school! Goodbye!" And with that he left the girl in the ramshackle dorm.

[Name] looked around sighing as she took off the robe and placed it on a box a flurry of dust flew up in the corner, only to slowly fall back down. Her hand reached up to her head when feeling something wet hit her forehead her eyebrows knitting with confusion hand coming to wipe the droplet off her forehead. Barley having time to open her mouth to speak a flurry of patters hit the roof along with the open spaces of it the liquid began to trickle onto the area creating a small puddle [Name] quickly going under a small area that was covered by wood as she sighed rolling up her sleeves raising her hands a purple glowing coming out of it. She cleared her throat before speaking ""From crack and chip, and fractured line, A magic touch, to intertwine." her hands twitched as a waft of purple mist wrapped around some planks her eyes glowing a slight bright purple colour "Like threads of silk, so strong and true, The broken pieces bond-" moving her hands as some planks from the floor on the side went to cover the hole on the roof before she flinched at a noise that echoed throughout the room "Hyiii! It's really coming down!" A familiar voice echoed. A small grey figure pushed out the front half of its body from stretching out in to relax his muscles after being curled up in a tight position.

"Being a pillow is much harder than it seems." He mumbled pushing out his backside as he kneaded the torn seating in the plush seat beside the window. [Names] jaw dropped as she stopped casting her spell the purple fading as Grim leaned back doing a strange backwards stretch while his tail stuck out before hopping off the couch seeing the girls face of shock "Gyahaha! You've got this stupid look on your face like a spider being attacked by a water gun!"

"I'll have no trouble sneaking back into school." Grim grinned entirely sure of himself as he began to march past her as [Name] blinked before speaking "Hold on a moment" her hand grabbing the back of Grim's neck the cat freezing his paws were off the ground once more, Grim batted at the girls hand with his front paws "LET ME GOOOO" Grim flailed around "If you think getting thrown out is gonna make me give up on getting in you've got another thing coming!" He states, tail lashing about below him.

[Name[ stared at the cat raising a brow staring at him "Why do you want to get into this school so badly?" She questioned "That's simple!" Grim stated tilting his face up as he looked down his nose at her once more, despite being at a lower level. "I'm a genius who is destined to be a great magician!" her e/c eyes filled with slight sincerity "I've been waiting for the Ebony Carriage to come pick me up. But...but..." Grim's words trailed off as his ears flattened against his head once more.

"Hmph!" Grim quietly huffed blue eyes becoming lidded as he gave her an unimpressed look almost as if he was disappointed in her "The Dark Mirror just doesn't have an eye for this." He stated gesturing at himself with a paw "So, that's why I came here myself." Grim continued smirking as he crossed his paws over his chest.

A small noise came from the girl Grim not hearing the noise she made "Not letting me in would be a loss for the world. Humans just don't get it." He finished. A sigh came from [Name] "Your really passionate about this" Grim crosses his paws as [Name] sighed before feeling some droplets of water hit her as she paused "oh right" "Nyaa! So Colddd!" Grim complained as he hurriedly shook his body trying to get all the water off his fur. He held his breath for a moment, making the blue flames in his ears flare back to their normal intensity, relighting them with whatever from the small flicker they'd been turned into.

"The roof is leakingggg!" Grim whined looking up at the roof before shaking his head as another droplet fell on his nose "Fgyaaa! It keeps comingggg!" Grim cried hiding in a covered area "My adorable ear flames are gonna go out at this rate!!" He complained.

"Magic should fix this up real quick." Grim whined "Well-" "....Wha, you can't use magic? Pfft! You're useless!" Grim cried out mockingly "Actually I can but you interrupted me with your whining and maybe you should be scolded" she stated picking grim back up once more from the back of his neck hovering him over the water slightly as Grim let out a cry of shock squirming in her hold before hurriedly covering his ears with his paws trying to keep the flames from going out.

"It's colddd! Human stoppp!" He whined desperately trying to keep his ear flames from going out, while also trying to get out of her hold to escape the chilling water. She hummed before placing him back down "You shouldn't judge anybody magic or not" she stated pulling Grim away from the water as the monster wiggled around before being placed down back on the floor "Now will, you let me patch some things up? You have to help too" Grim was about to fuss before flinching at the slight glare shot his way that cat grumbling "you better ave a can of tuna ready" a small laugh came from [Name] "Fine" She looked back to the broken part of the roof as she raised her hands once more as Grim went to scramble and find some cleaning supplies.

[Name] once more raised her hands staring at the broken parts of the roof her hands twitching as a large purple mist wrapped around her fingers glowing slightly "From crack and chip, and fractured line,A magic touch, to intertwine. Like threads of silk, so strong and true, The broken pieces, bond anew!" Agust of purple once more wrapped around the planks that soon curled around the roof the large hole now fixed instead of planks that were covering it. It was changed into bricks that helped block the hole of the roof. A sigh came from [name] her hand twitching for a moment as she reached into her pocket taking out her phone tapping on it's blank screen to see it glowing as her thumb glided through to see if she got any notifications yet was met by nothing the glowing screen reached her face as she sighed shutting it off once more a silence wafted around her in the hallways for a moment eyes focusing on the blank screen of the phone before her attention drifted of to the hallway hearing Grim complaining as a small chuckle came from [Name] as she started to head over to where Grim was unaware of a covered mirror in a room upstairs shining for a moment a woman's figure standing.

⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝ Dictionary !!

Features!!Physical AppearancesS/C: Skin ColourH/C: Hair ColourH/L: Hair LengthE/C: Eye Colour

Other!!Other things that could be mentioned in chapter

None for now!!

Phrases/Sayings/Refrences/QuotesEver after High dictionary/Rooms/ etc. from the show/or game!!

For Ogres sake: A phrase that just means for Goodness/Pete's Sake Page turner: A phrase that also means mind blowing or shocking! a common phrase used in E.A.H along with being used in other ways of something being interesting Duchess Swan: Duchess Swan the next Swan Queen, and a student at Ever After High. In the destiny conflict, Duchess is on the Royal side, even though she doesn’t get a Happily Ever After. Because of her destiny. Ever after high: Fairytales have existed for thousands of years, inspiring imaginations around the world. Certain stories were so spellbinding, they were passed down to new generations. But there was nowhere to teach the teenage sons and daughters of famous fairytales to follow in their parents' fabled footsteps. That is until 1812, when the Grimm brothers opened the doors to Ever After High – a high school where the next generation of fairytales learned to live their legacy. Class schedules specific for each fairytale were handed out – from Princessology for royal legacies to General Villainy for villain legacies. Headmaster Milton Grimm, who currently runs Ever After High, believes the future of fairytales relies on all students fully embracing their prewritten destiny today to become a legend of tomorrow. Royals: The Royals of Ever After High are the future fairytale characters who stand for adherence to tradition and piety to destiny. Not too surprisingly, most of them have a pleasant future laid out for them. Nearly all of them are royalty and most have a Happily Ever After ahead. The Royals oppose the Rebels, who seek to break open the system and inject choice, regardless of the consequences this may have for those who do want their destiny and are dependent on others adhering to theirs to get it. Some of the Royals hold a grudge against the Rebels, after they didn't willingly sign during Legacy Day.On the other hand; some Royals feel like disowning their destinies, facing huge and serious debts, problems, issues with their stories like Briar Beauty and Ashlynn Ella. Rebels: The Rebels of Ever After High are the future fairytale characters who believe the people of their world should be free to choose their own paths in life. The Rebel crowd consists of both people with a future that doesn't fit their identity, people who don't agree with role predetermination, and clearly people who have destinies that would make them criminals and get some of them such as Ramona killed if they went through with it. The Rebels oppose the Royals, who want their destinies to take their courses undisturbed, regardless of the cost others have to pay for it.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 / 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 【Hexes & Hushes — MASTERLIST】 Tag List (if you want to be @ tell me <33 )

@mochiclouds

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yourgentlegirlfriend · 2 years ago

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absolute sucker for older bf leon (vendetta, re6, death island) tbh we need more headcanons 😭😭😭

can you write a older bf leon x shy yet clingy gf (definitely not self inserting) headcanons?, like yn is shy, doesnt talk much but tries to show love through acts of service and words of encouragement etceteceg but at the same time shes always around him, wearing his clothes, trying to copy the way he does things and such,,

nsfw or sfw up to you 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

OLDER LEON YES. this is definitely death island leon idc what anyone wants to say to me.

When the two of you first meet it’s through Claire and Chris, Claire rambles on to Leon about how amazing you are and Leon can’t help but stare at you as you poke at the food on your plate. Then when Claire and Chris are screaming over the board game later that night, Leon leans over to you as he watches the two bicker.

“Crazy bond huh?”

Leon felt his heart pounding in his chest as a wide smile spreads across your beautiful face, nodding your head.

He can tell you’re hesitant too so he doesn’t push much, just talks to you about the most random things.

——

And when you guys finally do start dating, you’re always at his flat. Doing his laundry, folding all his shirts perfectly for him and ironing his dress shirts.

You do all his dishes, dust all his furniture, and by the time he comes home from the long list of meetings he had, he’s so stressed out and his head is pounding from an excruciating headache. He looks around his now extremely clean flat, smiling at the sight of you standing in the kitchen making food for him.

—-

Or when he finds out they’re trying to get him to get back in the service when all he wants to do is relax, listening to him argue with people on the phone ALL day long. He finally hangs up, looking out the window of the bedroom and there you are, right by his side. Your hands rubbing his arms as you try and calm him down.

“It’s going to be okay, they call you because you’re the best. That’s all.”

Your words soothe him immediately, his arms wrapping around you pulling you into him tightly. His chin resting on the top of your head before he closes his eyes, kissing at your hair.

——

NSFW WARNING i’m serious don’t read if you’re uncomfy.

Even in bed Leon has always noticed how hesitant you are, how shy you are.

Like when he’s hovering over you, his hair tickling your face as his hips push into yours at a fast pace. Your hand comes up to cover your face as the moans pour from your throat but Leon’s hands are so much stronger and faster, grabbing at your wrist and laying them beside your head.

“Don’t hide from me, let me take care of you..”

Leon mumbles against your ear as his thrusts become more ragged, his pretty lips curling into a smile as he licks his bottom lip as he watches your face twist in pleasure, that familiar blush he loves so much spreading across your face

———-

Leon sitting in the living room the morning after, just watching the news, his eyes shifting to the hallway to see your feet dragging against the floor , his shirt draping over your body.

“Morning, sunshine don’t you look lovely.”

His sarcasm makes you give him a dirty look as you run your fingers through your hair trying to comb it out. Leon’s eyebrows raise as he watches you start brewing coffee for yourself, since when did you drink coffee? Even more shock spreads across his face as you just drink the coffee- black. Just like he does.

“Anything you can do, I can do better.”

You mumble tiredly as you eye him from the kitchen, taking another sip of the coffee.

“Yeah apparently even my attitude too.”

He chuckles, a soft scoff leaving his lips as he changes the channel of the TV.

#leon kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #yourgentlegf #death island #older leon kennedy

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gunsandspaceships · 10 months ago

Text

MCU Timeline: Iron Man. Part 1 (First 36 hours)

I'm starting a new series of posts. Here I will try to create a logical timeline of the Infinity Saga. No promise to do it for every movie though, as I'm focused on Tony.

I find this attempt necessary because of the many conflicting timelines, official and unofficial, that exist on the Internet and in books. Most of them forgot to include logic when determining dates and periods. Including "official" ones. Remember, if the guys at Marvel can't create something that works, that's their problem, and fans shouldn't just buy what they say. Shitty job is shitty job.

Let's start from the beginning - 36 hours before the attack on the convoy in Afghanistan. Or should I say "about 34 hours" because, taking all the factors into account, I couldn't squeeze 36 hours in there. But it's fine, because the number 36 was most likely approximate and meant "a day and a half". The events cover 3 days in the second half of January or the first half of February 2008 (here's why). All times are approximate, except for 7:00 and 11:00, which is clearly stated in the film.

Day 1 - Las Vegas:

5 pm (34 hours before the attack) - Apogee Award ceremony, Tony gambles at the casino.

8 pm (31 hours before the attack) - Christine Everhart catches Tony leaving the casino. They go to his house in Malibu together.

Why 5-8 pm: in the scene with Christine and Tony, we see that it is already dark outside. In February, sunset in Las Vegas occurs at 5:30 p.m., and it takes some time for the sky to turn black. Considering we had to get it done in about 36 hours, I gave Tony 3 hours in Las Vegas. I doubt he spent more time there: the ceremony wouldn't last long, and Tony didn't play in the casino for long after Rhodey came for him.

Day 2 - Malibu, Pepper's birthday:

1 am (26 hours before the attack) - Tony is back in Malibu. Sex with Christine.

Why 1 am: trip from Las Vegas to Malibu by car takes 4.5 hours.

6 am (21 hours before the attack) - scheduled departure from LA to Afghanistan. Tony is late.

7:00 am (20 hours before the attack) - Jarvis wakes up Christine. Tony is not in bed. Looks like he didn't sleep there at all.

7:00-7:30 am - Tony is working in the lab. Christine looks around the mansion. Pepper spends some time with her (about 30 min).

7:30 am (19.5 hours before the attack) - Pepper comes down to the lab and reminds Tony that he is 1.5 hours late for his scheduled flight.

9 am (18 hours before the attack) - 3 hours late, the private jet finally takes off for Afghanistan with Tony and Rhodey on board.

11 am (16 hours before the attack) - boys eat, talk and have fun on board, then Tony is taken to the bedroom on the plane (for sex and sleep). Rhodes is awake and drinking.

Day 3 - Afghanistan:

9 pm (LA)/9:30 am (Afghanistan) (6 hours before the attack) - Tony and Rhodey arrive at Bagram Air Base, Parwan Province, Afghanistan. They spend some time there watching The Air Force Drill Team while waiting for weapons to be loaded for presentation.

Why 9:30 am: a flight from Los Angeles to Afghanistan by private jet can take an average of 13 to 16 hours. Given that Tony was late, the pilot likely sped up and cut the time down to 12 hours to make it on time.

2 am (LA)/2:30 pm (Afghanistan) (1 hour before the attack) - the convoy reaches the proving ground in Kunar province. Presentation of Jericho. Stane can't sleep, waiting for a message from The Ten Rings.

Why 2:30 pm: the trip from Bagram to Kunar province takes at least 4-5 hours. With heavy cargo it should be even longer.

3 am (LA)/3:30 pm (Afghanistan) - the attack.

Mistakes made by Marvel:

Light clothing in Afghanistan in January/February. The daily mean there is 36-40°F during these months.

There is no such thing as 72° at 7am in Malibu in the winter. Perhaps that was the actual temperature on set instead. That it was colder outside is also indicated by Tony wearing a long-sleeve and a jacket on the way to the airport.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

#marvel #mcu #tony stark #iron man #mcu timeline

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starkenobi · 1 month ago

Text

Demonic Domination | chapter two: nuns on cocaine.

masterlist — demonic domination masterlist

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reder; Bucky Barnes x Reader; Matt Murdock x Reader.

Summary: Y/N doesn’t classify herself as a vigilante or, as people on the internet say, an antihero. No, she’s just an occult detective with a fucking amnesia trying to create a new life beyond her secret mutant status. At first, she really tried to keep a normal civilian life, but it’s difficult when you’re rescued from a dark place by a man dressed as a mummy ninja calling himself Moon Knight. So, anyway, working as an occult detective makes her travel around the world, and it’s cool because it gives her a lot of stories… Until her feet touch New York grounds. It’s all downhill from there.

chapter warnings: description of violence, blood, death.

In the eerie silence of the night stood a silhouette, right in front of the abandoned mansion.

No one of the town's people dared to get closer to the property. Cursed family, cursed ground, they whispered. But she knew better. She could see clearly what happened there without summoning.

A broken family, so much despair and hopelessness.

The town did it. Ten years ago. And the younger generations weren't proud of it, and didn't want to keep hiding under the rug. Of course, it wasn't about doing the right thing. Oh no. They were scared because the spirits, after waiting for some type of repentance that never came, were finally collecting the souls that wronged them.

The town's people were receiving their punishments.

“Just sixteen more, Miss Constantine,” a small voice whispered in her ear. “Just the older generation, the adults with blood on their hands.”

“Alright, I can work with that,” she answered, unbothered, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. “Take what you need to take, but make it seem like an accident, though. They'll be all together in one place tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Miss Constantine.”

Without saying a word, she left the mansion and walked the road back to downtown. Reaching the only hotel of the town, she ignored the notice board with the poster announcing the sunday’s great mass. The town’s people were going to pray for protection and injustice against evil spirits. Kind of ironic, or even offensive, when you think about the real victims.

When the cases were some injustice resulting in death… This part of her work was never easy.

But there were cases where she was offered money to solve something that the living considered to be a problem, these were the most fun. They’d spit out nonsense, swearing about being innocente. She always had a blast disturbing their minds.

She worked with the living, but she worked for the dead and the unknown. In the end, she only answered to one being: Death.

Well.

Sometimes.

They haven't been on speaking terms for a while.

Anyway.

Another night in a town in the middle of nowhere in Norway. She hated the cold, at least there was aquavit. The alcohol helped to keep her drunk enough to feel a tad bit warmer.

And to sleep.

She really hated the cold. Even without the white covering the floor, it felt like she was surrounded by snow.

So, after taking a long shower and drinking half a bottle of aquavit, Y/N fell asleep quickly. Only waking up hours later with banging on her hotel room’s door.

“Demologist! The church is burning down!” the voice yelled with a shrill voice, the banging non stop. “Demologist!”

Y/N huffed, getting out of bed a little unsteadily and opening the door roughly. She glanced to the man standing there with panic painting his face. “I’ll be there.”

Closing the door on his face, she quickly put on her boots and grabbed everything she’d need. She sighed heavily, it seemed that she wouldn’t have time for coffee. At least she developed a routine of always sleeping ready for an emergency while she’s working on a case.

“What happened?” Y/N asked to the priest as she approached the burning church, ignoring the people screaming and crying across the lawn.

The priest, an old bald man, sighed in dismay. “Astrid, the matriarch of the Lars family, she locked everyone of her generation in the main hall and set fire to the church.”

“Damn.” she said, observing the civilians trying to help the city's small group of firefighters put out the fire, but it was in vain. “Tell them to stop, there’s no life to save.”

“What?” the priest muttered, eyes wide.

“They’re all dead, sir,” Y/N stated. Noticing that the priest was too stunned to order the crowd, she whistled loudly to get everyone's attention. “Let the fire burn! It will help their souls!”

A young woman with a middle aged man approached aggressively, the woman's face was contorted in a mixture of fury and sadness. “You promised to save them! You’ve lied to us! Their deaths are in your hands!”

“I said that to be saved, they needed to be true to their hearts,” she answered unbothered, wagging a finger. “Truly regret, because there’s no lying to spirits.”

The silence was deafening, the town’s people looked from her to the church still burning. It’d take hours for the fire to burn out. So she gave a prayer written on a piece of paper for the priest, and ordered everyone to repeat the words while kneeling with their foreheads on the ground. They didn't know it, but they’d be praying for the souls of the spirits of the family ruined by the town.

Leaving the people behind, Y/N stalked to the abandoned mansion. Waiting for her on the front porch was the Arud family, the parents and three children. The youngest daughter left her parents and two brothers’ side to run to her. A beautiful smile missing a tooth.

“Thank you, Miss Constantine.” her small voice sounded better than the night before, there was light beaming around her.

“I didn’t do anything, darling.” Y/N said, offering a smile in return.

The little girl shook her head. “You helped us, taught us how to do things. Now we can finally go.”

“So what are you waiting? Go, darling, your parents are calling you.” she couldn't keep the affection out of her voice, kids were one of her weak spots.

“Good-bye, Miss Constantine!” the kid chirped, running back to the porch where the door was wide open. Her brothers long gone, only her parents waiting for her to cross the border. With one last wave of her little hand, they were gone.

Then Y/N burned the mansion to the ground to secure the family's spirits’ peace.

No one else in that town would disturb that family anymore.

Opening the flask she carried in the pocket of her coat, she took a long sip of aquavit. “Cheers for another case getting closed.”

Without waiting any longer, Y/N grabbed her things in the hotel and headed to the nearest big city. She didn’t bother going back to the burned church, her real mission was done. She had a plane to catch.

Some hours later, she decided to take a look at her phone. There was an absurd amount of messages that she ignored, favoring to call the only number that mattered. After three rings, the call was picked.

“Hey, Mummy!” She singsong sarcastically.

“Hello, kid.” Marc huffed in amusement. “How you doin’?”

“Finished here in Norway, I'm going to stop by Italy and then go to Germany… Again.” Y/N answered, taking a long sip of her vodka before sighing. “How are things in the stolen lands?”

“Good, we decided to settle in Brooklyn,” Marc hummed after a moment in silence. She knew he wanted to give his opinion on her travels, but he couldn't criticize her work when he had his own missions. “Steven's still trying to learn how to act like someone with money, Jake got a taxi to call his own.”

“What about you, oldie?”

Ignoring her question, Marc stated softly, “There's a room for you here, we brought your things with us.”

She hesitates for a moment. “Marc, we've already discussed this.”

“It's been four years, kid,” the words hit her hard even though Marc spoke them softly. “There are cases here for you, New York is a huge state.”

“Traveling around the world solving cases and dealing with cryptids isn't that bad, Marc.” Y/N said, trying to keep her voice light. “It’s quite fun actually, maybe I'll even write a book about it.”

Marc sighed defeated, like the others times he tried to persuade her. “Alright, but you know there’s a place where you can call it home.”

“Thank you, Marc.”

And she meant it.

—

Stopping by Lipari was more a spur of the moment than work, a little treat for herself after some months just solving cases without any break for pleasure. The sun tanning her skin was a wonderful feeling after so many days of freezing her poor body.

The sexy bartender kept bringing her delicious drinks and kept her well fed, and at one point during the day he even offered to reapply her sunscreen. Of course she asked him to enjoy the night with her, and then to visit her hotel room.

He was a sweet boy, green eyes and a beautiful smile. Singing praises on her skin and trying to keep up with her. They talked dirty and gossiped about island stories. A delightful welcome party.

Three days later she went to to the other side of Lipari, having fun in her scooter and flirting with beautiful women, indulging in the opportunity to finally know the love of an italian woman.

On the eleventh night she found the sea nymph she was looking for.

A little pretty bluish thing that took her breath away.

And it promptly brought a chill down her spine when their eyes met.

“I came to help.” Y/N said evenly, without looking away. “Name’s Constantine. Occult detective, saving pretty beings in the spare time.”

The nymph opens her mouth, then closes it. Trembling bluish hands reaching for her own neck. There were scarred angry red marks on her skin. Something terrible crossed Y/N’s mind. They took away her voice.

“Got it,” Y/N nodded, coming closer to take a look at the glass cage. She felt the spark of weak dark magic. “Alright, I can work with this shit. Darling, step to the other side and shield your eyes.”

Rolling up the shirt sleeves to the elbows, Y/N rubbed her hands and hummed. Clapping her palms together once, before rubbing them together again and then clapping once more but with force. In a snap, her hands were engulfed in fire. And when she touched the glass, it shattered into several pieces before turning to dust at her feet.

“Well, that was so anti-climatic,” she muttered to herself. Clicking her tongue, she crossed the cage and offered a hand to the nymph that now watched her with interest.

The nymph took a step closer, but was stopped mid second step by Y/N after noticing the bare bluish feet. Without saying a word, she came closer and took the nymph in her arms.

“Let’s get out of here, darling. Your friends are waiting for you at Porticello.”

Y/N walked with no worries, crossing the room slowly towards the bar on the front. The nymph looked surprised at the bodies scattered around the place, all the men that took her and tortured her. There was blood everywhere, evidence that the men initially considered fighting whoever dared to enter there, but then tried to escape when they realized they were going to die.

“Not my finest work,” Y/N said when they finally were out, coming closer to a car with the passenger door open. The nymph settled down and shrugged with a tiny smile on her lips. “Just one second, darling.”

Y/N closed the car door, then jogged back to the bar. She lit up a cigarette, taking a long drag before throwing through the bar's entrance. In seconds the place was engulfed by fire. Returning to the car, Y/N drove in silence and without worries. Soon it wasn't possible to see the burning bar, nor the flames trying to touch the night sky.

The drive ended only when they finally arrived at Porticello.

A small group of nymphs emerged from the darkness of the beach when Y/N’s feet touched the sand with the pretty bluish nymph on her arms.

“Thank you, Constantine.” Rosa, a nymph with long red hair said, coming closer to leave a kiss at the corner of her mouth.

“Always at your disposal, love.” Y/N whispered entranced, a soft smirk on her lips. Letting the nymphs take the rescued one, Y/N took the opportunity to hug Rosa one last time. “Our time was amazing, it was the least I could do.”

The nymph closed the small distance and gave her a long kiss, biting Y/N's bottom lip lightly. “Take care, Constantine.”

“See you around, yeah? You know how to call me.” Y/N said, kissing Rosa one last time before watching her disappear into the waves.

“Well, fuck, Marc will never believe me.”

—

She hated Germany. That’s it.

Not even the northern countries with all the cold and the days that turned into night were in the top ten on her ‘I hate it here’ list. Not that she would say it out loud. She’d never be able to explain it, and would say something stupid like it’s the vibes.

Limburg Abbey. A convent near Bad Dürkheim, at the edge of the Palatinate Forest.

The instructions weren't clear. So at first, she had to act in the shadows, gathering information to know exactly what to do. The convent wasn't only a spiritual place for women that decided to become nuns and dedicate their lives to God.

It was something darker.

Something ville.

Something only men could do.

Experiments.

But, of course, not any simple medical experiment. No. They were fucking with the occult using scientific shit. It never ends well.

She made her presence known on a Wednesday's afternoon. Her important belongings were hidden in the forest, so she could get another time later. Wearing a dress she'd stolen and mascara running down her face, she played the role of a helpless homeless girl in need of God's help. Too well, it seems, or they really needed new flesh.

“Don't worry, my child. You're safe here.” one of the oldest nuns said in german, a benevolent expression on her face. “I'll show you to your room, and give you proper clothes. Tomorrow you'll be officially a servant of God.”

The proper clothes in the end were a skirt that reached the ankle, a long white shirt, a sweater and a headscarf. Everything a mix of shades of black and white. Well, at least she could hide shit with all that fabric, and it was easier to blend in.

Most of the women there wore the same clothes as her, the ones that didn’t were the ones with a position of power. And they were secretly acting for the bad guys on command. The scientists and the rich. All men, of course. It made her skin crawl.

It took two months pretending to be a pathetic and insignificant woman, with no one to look for her and that didn’t understand german well. Fools. Two months passing their tests, pretending she didn’t know what was happening. Doing everything without questions and always saying a broken thank you like they were her salvation.

Pretending she was easy prey like the rest of the women there that were really looking for help.

In the fourth month, the superiors nuns brought her to an examination room with another five women.

After several days undergoing various basic health exams, they were brought to another side of the convent. A place with big and small machines, wires, vials and tubes. Gotcha. But not really yet.

And then, she was with twelve women sitting on shit chairs. Something strange was being injected into the arm. It didn't take long for her to realize it was cocaine. They were being drugged.

That was a surprise right there. She thought about a lot of other substances but not cocaine.

Y/N pretended to have the same reactions the other women were having. The drug couldn't hurt her, she felt the sting and then it was gone. No alcohol or drugs stayed too long in her system. So, faking it until she makes it.

After pumping a lot of cocaine on them, they were dragged to another room and connected to machines. The room was bigger, but darker. She eyed suspiciously at the dark corner.

“Let's start the experiment.” the older nun ordered and everyone got in position.

A bright light made them close their eyes.

A scream.

A splash of something.

A gurgle.

She forced herself to open her eyes, ignoring her retinas burning.

And right there outside the dark corner was a corpse.

Something not dead but not alive either.

Something that resembled a big dog.

With horns.

And wings.

She closed her eyes when she understood what's happening.

They were using humans as sacrifices, trying to wake up a dragon's fossil.

A fucking dragon.

They were extinct for over a millenia.

Their experiment didn't make any sense.

It's just pure cruelty and craziness.

Fucking fucked fuck.

A corpse fell by her side. She closed her eyes again, feeling nauseous because of the light. She was blinded by the lights and needed to wait to get better.

“Still not working.” a man sneered.

“We'll find the right calculation soon, sir.” someone answered quietly.

“Give those nuns more cocaine, clean them and this mess.”

And, then, it was like it never happened. The nuns would never really remember, brain full of cocaine and trauma. The two women that died there, forgotten. Only a month later would they dare to take the group again for another experiment.

For Y/N, all the waiting was torture. She didn’t born to be a nun for sure. Surprisingly, she couldn't see any spirits around the covent. So no gossip ghosts to help her. At least she was prepared and knew what's waiting for them inside that place.

To take down the convent, she needed to understand how deep the system and experiment went. How far their power reached around the world. She'd need to kill everyone who was involved.

Unfortunately, her plans blew up in her face.

Literally.

First it was some stupid tremors, but then a blast threw her far enough to reach across the room. A huge flaming hole was torn in the wall of the convent.

Through the hole she was able to see outside, the gardens and the forest.

A fucking battle was happening.

What. The. Fuck.

Looking around herself, she noticed that everyone was dead, including the nuns.

Hell, she should be dead too, taking into account the exposed fracture in her chest and her legs. But it was already healing, so she grabbed a cigar inside her bloody sweater. Making a happy sound when she found one cigar that didn’t get blood. Smoking really helped to pass time, and she's been craving for a week. Who'd thought that it's hard to smoke inside a convent?

When she felt that it was fine to get back on her feet, she was moving quickly.

The battle was still happening outside, but she could hear that something was already happening inside too.

Taking a shortcut, she came closer to another hole -this time on the corridor- and jumped from the third floor. Ignoring the little crack when she landed, Y/N walked down the garden. The convent soldiers didn't even blink in her direction, but the people blowing up the place stopped on their tracks.

“What the fuck you morons think you're doing here?” Y/N yelled, waving her cigarette for emphasis.

And then she saw Captain fucking America and Iron Man.

She wasn't stupid, when she was bored she liked to read gossip and watch funny videos on tiktok.

What. The. Fuck. Were. They. Doing.

“Dammit, you guys fucked up all my case!” Y/N stopped screaming abruptly, her eyes going towards the city after noticing fire and smoke in the distance. She growled. “Stop blowing the fucking place!”

“Who the hell are you?” Tony demanded, palm up with a blaster in her direction.

Taking the last drag of her cigarette, she smiled menacingly, all blood and teeth. “Detective Y/N Constantine. A displeasure to meet ya, idiot.”

“What are you doing here?” Captain America asked, trying to intimidate with his voice and size.

“Well, after the shit you've pulled?” She opened her arms to show around them, the fighting still happening. “None of your damn business.”

“You-” Captain took a step foard.

Y/N smirked. “Fuck you.”

And in the blink of an eye, she was gone.

“What?” Tony screamed, surprised by her sudden disappearance.

Back inside, where she was before the explosion. Y/N searched for the fossil.

The dragon was under the rubble, a little destroyed but still could be used. She closed her eyes, praying for forgiveness. Grabbing an iron bar from the rubble, she hit the dragon again and again, until it was only dust.

To finish, she set fire to what was left of the room. A final touch, so no one could get anything there to keep the experiments. She wouldn't find every fucker as she planned, but she hoped at least to prevent the knowledge to spread.

And no fucking dragon.

She was enjoying the fire consuming everything when she heard the click of a gun behind her.

“Who the hell are you?”

Slowly turning, she came face to face with the former Winter Soldier, if she could take a guess.

Ok, fine, the arm gave it away.

“Well, you're being rude.” Y/N retorted, rolling her eyes. When he didn’t react, she sighed before bowing mockingly. “I'm Constantine, Y/N Constantine. Detective of Unknown.”

“What?” He frowned, still looking at her suspiciously.

“You're cute, but not that dumb, right?” Mirroring his frown, she completely ignored the gun pointing at her and started walking past him. “Gotta go, cutie. Fucking hate Germany and you guys ruined my case.”

“Stop right there, or I'm going to shoot.”

His threat made her laugh.

“No you won't, cause your little friends told you so.” Looking over her shoulder, she winked at him. “Nice to meet ya, cutie. Tell the others I said bye.”

Noticing that she wouldn’t stop when she reached the end of the corridor, Bucky started to run after her.

But there was no one to catch.

She was gone.

Again.

He could swear he heard laughter in the distance. It was like she was a ghost.

Meanwhile in the woods, or at least in a part that seemed to resist the chaos that the Avengers brought with them, Y/N walked slowly with another cigarette - no one needed to know she got it from a dead soldier.

Fuck them.

She discarded the bloody and destroyed nun clothes, sighing in contentment after finally dressing her own. It took some minutes to pass through the forest and when she reached the town, she rolled her eyes with all the destruction left behind.

Idiots.

She could still hear the chaos at the top of the mountain.

She could still see the chaos even after she got a motorcycle and followed the road out of town.

She could still see the convent engulfed in fire miles away.

Well, it was officially the Avengers mess, after ruining her plans. If she knew right, maybe the case involved Hydra. So, yeah, her part of the job was done.

She wasn't a fucking super hero, that's none of her business.

There was no more dragon.

Fuck, how would she tell Mark that she was probably on the Avengers’ naughty list now?

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lov3lybarista · 3 days ago

Text

ᴄʜ. 8 ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ.

Wattpad:lov3lybarista Pairing: Thomas Shelby x OC Warnings: Angst (sorry lol), ptsd, graphic depiction of violence Word Count: 3.5k+ Masterlist. ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Song: Ill Wind by Radiohead May 22nd, 1923, Arrow House, Birmingham, United Kingdom.

The end of May hung over them like a fever.

Oddly this year the June weather had begun to roll into Birmingham like every bad omen before had. It was hot, sticky, and ahead the kind of clouds loomed that promised a storm but never delivered it. It was the type of heat that stuck to your eyesight and made men fidget restlessly without knowing why.

On the estate, the patio was littered with open bottles and smoked cigars. The big French doors had been propped open, curtains billowing sluggishly in the thick breeze that didn't promise redemption from the heat. Somewhere from the parlor, a gramophone spun a tune that warbled into an old waltz—the type of music that seemed sarcastic to the weather.

Thomas Shelby sat low in one of the iron patio chairs, a cigarette dangling between his lips. His cap tilted low against the glare of the gray sunrays covered by the humid clouds. He wasn't drunk or relaxed; he was coiled.

Curly had asked for a meeting to talk about one of the horses for the upcoming Derby, his hat clenched in his hand as he rattled on about some colt with a leg that didn't take well to the new shoes.

"Can't...can't run 'em, Tommy," he rattled out, "not 'til limp goes away, or, or, he might snap that bone clean if he pushes more."

Arthur grumbled, bunching his sleeves up to his elbows, "Fucking hell Curly just tell us the damn horse is fucked and save us the sermon."

John hummed in agreement, kicking his legs up higher on the iron table as he picked at the label on his half-drunk beer bottle, flicking ash onto the ground from his cigar.

"We Shelby's don't bet on any lame horse," he said, half-smirking, "not unless we planning to shoot it first."

Arthur and John laughed, rough and lazy, Curly just smiled as he shifted restlessly on his feet, a drop of sweat dripping down his brow.

Thomas wasn't laughing. He wasn't even listening to Curly. He was thinking about Campbell, about how she was leaving, about how Campbell knew about her and he wanted him to know that. Now she was a piece on a chess board she didn't even know she was playing on.

Thomas's mind churned—on how to protect her, how to keep her out of it all without pulling her deeper. He tapped the ash off of his cigarette, his jaw tight as his eyes drifted to Polly who sat across from him, her eyes already watching him, already guessing the storm behind his gaze.

Arthur leaned forward now, his elbows pressed into his knees as he continued to bitch about the heat.

"That storm is going to break soon," Arthur muttered, his eyes squinting up at the clouds, "you can feel it in your fucking teeth."

But then—the ground began to hum.

At first, it was faint, like the tapping on wood, but then it became more rhythmic. A horse, galloping hard and fast, like a storm from hell rolling in.

Arthur stood slowly, "That ain't right, Tom."

John stood, his eyes squinting against the glare. Curly turned nervously towards the drive. Polly stubbed out her cigarette. But Thomas couldn't move.

Because Dalia had appeared.

And she had appeared on top of a horse so black it shone blue underneath the heavy gray light, its mane whipping like a tattered war flag in the wet breeze.

It wasn't just the horse that froze them. No, it was her. She wasn't dressed for coming outside, she wasn't dressed for riding. She wore a silk navy camisole, lace trimmings along her cleavage, and thin delicate straps barely clinging to her pale shoulders with tight black trousers half tucked into muddied riding boots.

The wind blew her jet-black hair into a rolling storm around her face, flowing like the horse’s mane that brushed against her pale skin. Under the light—her skin almost seemed translucent, like delicate porcelain.

Except nothing about this was delicate at all.

There was blood. Splattered against the thin column of her neck, on the sharp lines of her collarbones.

Thomas's heart had stopped. Because for one savage moment, he almost thought it was hers.

But then he saw the body.

Limp, bloodied, and dead. A man was slung over the back of the horse behind her, his blood dripping with every hoof that struck the dirt.

The men had staggered back instinctively, and Polly had gasped into the air.

"Thomas Shelby!"

He had never heard her voice raise above gentle laughter.

Now—she shouted his name like a curse, sharp and furious.

She barely stopped the horse before she jumped down, her boots hitting the earth hard, strides long as she walked over to him. She was fuming, all serenity and delicacy had been long abandoned, and now all that came was a ferocity that made him stagger in surprise as he stood instantly.

He had met her halfway, about to reach for her when she then shoved a gun into his chest in such a full force that it knocked a second of air out of him.

He caught it without thinking, the barrel still warm and smoking, still smelling of gunpowder and that metallic note of blood.

"This man," she hissed, her lips curling back in a sneer, "had broken into my house while my nephew Adam was there."

The name landed harder than the gun. Polly's hand shot to cover her mouth, his brother's hands hovered by their guns like they were ready for some order—for anything but this.

Thomas could only stare. He could only stand there and watch her unleash her fury, the picture of little Adam and his wide brown eyes fearful underneath the peaky cap Thomas had gifted him seared into his mind like a sin written in blood.

"I killed him," she spat, the truth ugly and cold.

And that killed him because now she had been forced to take a life when she was never supposed to know anything but softness and security.

Thomas tried to reach for her again, his hands grabbing as he went for her arms—to hold, to comfort, to shield, to do anything but she yanked away as if his touch had burned her.

"Don't you dare," her voice was sharp, too low to be recognized, "you think because you sit there in that fucking house and gathered your guns and wear your name like a bloody crown that this all won't catch up to you?"

Her voice echoed in the calm before the storm, like a hunter's rifle firing out into the morning peace.

She took a step closer, her finger jabbing hard into his chest and scattering bloodied fingerprints on his white shirt, "You were wrong."

"I'll allow your demons to follow me," she spoke harshly, her teeth bared in anger, "but I will not let them touch my family."

The silence was stinging.

She grabs his face between both of her hands now, pulling him close enough to feel her sharp breathing on his skin. His hands desperately held onto her arms, feeling the skin and goosebumps that prickle the surface.

"Just because I save lives does not mean I am not capable of taking them."

She lets him go and the thunder rumbles in the distance. He couldn't find his voice, he could barely breathe. But he tried, he tried to open his mouth and speak but she cut him off with a glare as sharp as a slap.

She then moved, stalking back to the horse as her boots part through the gravel. In one brutish motion, she grabbed the dead body by the hem of his shirt and—

ripped him off of the saddle.

The body hit the ground with a disgusting, wet thud. The dead weight echoed in the air around them, blood splattered across the stone.

Dalia doesn't flinch, she doesn't even look away from his eyes as she saddles onto the beast like she is about to ride into war.

"You bury your own demons, Shelby."

Those words bounced off the walls of his mind, sharp and cold, her eyes holding a fire that could burn the world if it was unleashed. Without another word, she rode away.

The hooves blended into the rolling thunder in the distance as drops of thick rain began to scatter the grounds, her blackened silhouette swallowed by the impending storm.

The silence that hung between them settled like the scent of wet stone and thawing dirt, the blood that pooled around the body had reached his shoes now.

Thomas stood there, unmoving as his brothers began to discard the body.

But Polly stayed. She stood behind him like a shadow, a warning sent in the form of short brown hair and sharp eyes.

Then she said it, her voice low and matter-of-fact:

"You'll either marry her or you'll bury yourself trying, Thomas."

It was cruel only because it was true.

Polly stepped closer, the warning now ringing over his head like the clouds that stormed down, "She's not like Grace."

His heart tightened.

"She won't run from the fire."

His throat had dried.

"She will fucking light it herself if she has to."

Thomas finally turned to meet her gaze, not with a stare of rage or sadness.

Acceptance.

Because Dalia Hassan was already leagues ahead of him, and he could only hope to keep up.

May 26th, 1923, Arrow House, Birmingham, United Kingdom.

It had been days since he had last seen her. Thomas had been barely able to think straight. Orders had been passed from every shadowed corner he could find, from every favor he could pull to do something—anything to stop his demons from getting her.

His bathroom felt cool despite the humidity in the air, his clothes long stripped off as his bare feet padded against the tile. He stared down at the waiting tub ahead of him, the steam from the water rising in lazy swirls. His head throbbed for a reason beyond his comprehension—it was deep, aching, the type of sharp stabbing pain that made it hard to blink.

It started small, first a flicker in the corner of his vision, a sharp tremor along the edge of his spine. The storm outside continued, the lightning cracking in the air like some sort of warning.

He was tired, so fucking tired. It held the feel of something ancient under his nerves, an ache so deep it made him groan as he dropped the glass soap bottle that shattered on the floor.

He gripped the edge of the counter near him, inhaling to get any form of oxygen to his brain.

Then it all went quiet.

He had barely any time to register it before the sharp glass of the bottle was now pressed into his back as his body jolted against the tiles floors.

The world tilted and spun, one second he was convulsing there on the ground the next the bathroom walls had folded in on themselves like a deck of shuffled cards, and then—

The tunnels.

The dark soot, the caving walls of dug-out dirt. He had shit and mud piled up to his elbows, deep into a puddle of what was it? Blood? Clay? Water?

There were hands, too many damn hands. Then there was French, loud and sharp, barked out by men who tried to keep his head pushed under the unknown liquid. He could barely fucking breathe.

He struggled, kicked and clawed, and hit with his shovel, a gun was drawn somewhere, the feel of a heavy boot pressed,

pressed,

so hard that the sludge crawled up his nose and shot into his skull like a lobotomy. His mouth had opened to scream but only mud and blood poured in.

In the real world, in his estate of velvet and expensive oak, his body convulsed against his polished marble tiles, his back pressing into the shards deeper, the blood and soap coating the ground beneath him.

But in his mind, it was far from over. Because now there was something else—not the French soldier, the man of flesh and reality that had held him down, not the gun pulled against his ribs.

Something worse.

It started as some shadow, a shadow with no face, with no mouth yet whispered curses he couldn't understand. It moved through the tunnels like it was made out of the very soil that he dug at, and it reached out to him with a limb—was it a hand? Fingers? he didn't know, it was too eerie to be real, too thin, too scraggily, but it reached out and touched his chest.

Right over his heart.

And in the back of his mind echoed the words of what the Gypsy lady had spoken to Dalia.

"Something ancient is following you."

The figure covers his body now.

"It has sharp teeth and a name that no one speaks aloud."

It wraps its limbs around his neck.

"It wants fire, wants to watch it all burn."

It tightens.

"It wants to be remembered."

Thomas can't breathe.

His vision went white around the edges but the figure remained. And somewhere far away—

Arthur's voice appeared. Faint, panicked, crying for help. But Thomas couldn't answer nor could he fight, no, not against this.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

It was Arthur who made the call, Arthur who after kicking the shattered bottle away from the bare and bleeding body of his brother, had staggered to the nearest telephone with shaking hands covered in blood and not a single clear thought except:

Get her.

And now she was here.

Thomas had been laid out on his stomach in the center of the bed, his back bleeding and his body still trembling. Arthur stood by the door with his fists opening and closing, helpless. John paced by the fireplace, lighting a cigarette and throwing it half-smoke into the mantle just to light another. Polly sat stiffly in an armchair, watching Thomas like she was already mourning him.

The crack of thunder rumbled the second the door swung open as Dalia arrived. She stepped inside not dressed for battle or surgery. No. She came dressed as death itself.

Just a long black coat cinched at the waist like it had been sewn to her, her hands already stripping off the leather gloves, she was a figure made of silk and steel and shadows.

Behind her a young blonde male doctor scrambled in as her assistant, carrying a large medical bag and nearly dropping it when he saw the look on Arthur's face, the bed, the blood, Thomas.

Her movements were precise as they always were, she was unblinking, unflinching. She approached mercilessly, silent, pushing past the others, and knelt beside the bed to check him.

His eyelids she pulled back with her fingers, flashing a bright flashlight into them as he groaned. For a moment he thought he was imagining her as his last mercy before death.

She moved with the cold efficiency of a woman who has seen death more times than she could count. His muscles still trembled with the aftershock of his seizure, the small spasms passing through his body involuntarily.

She had rolled a thick clean rag out from the bag, leaning closer to brush the matted hair from his forehead with the tenderness she reserved for him.

"Tommy," she whispered, and his eyes flickered open instantly like her bare voice had healed him, "bite."

He obeyed, that deep spot in his heart and brain recognizing only her even through the fog of pain and the teeter of unconsciousness.

He bit down hard, his face pressing into the mattress as she straddled the back of his hips and began the brutal process of removing the glass. She held him down just enough to keep him from thrashing, her hands cold as they brushed against his back and used the tweezers.

Piece by piece, shard by shard.

She worked without stopping. The assistant hovered nearby, passing things to her with trembling hands.

Arthur turned away and cursed under his breath.

Polly covered a soft sob with her hand.

John tried to breathe as he lit another cigarette with trembling hands.

But she worked until every single piece was taken out of his skin, precise and deadly silent. And as she poured the antiseptic over his skin, his scream muffled by the rag, she leaned down—without caring who was watching—and pressed her forehead down reverently against his back.

She finally allowed herself to breathe, a shudder between a sigh and a whimper.

"You're alright Tommy," she whispered shakily against his skin, "I'm here. I'm here, I've got you."

And Thomas, who was half-conscious, still trembling and spasming underneath her touch, released the rag from his teeth to sputter something broken and hoarse out:

"Dalia..."

The storm outside continued to roar, harsh and unforgiving, but inside that room, he lived. He lived through the thunder, the blood, the curse, the wreckage—

he lived. He had lived because she saved him. She would always save him.

June 2nd, 1923, Arrow House, Birmingham, United Kingdom.

She was fucking gone.

She had come in, like the angel of death, devastating and cruelly efficient as she healed his wounds, and then without a word she left with that bloody chihuaha of an assistant. Thomas was barely conscious, but he felt it, he felt the absence of her deep in his bones.

She had cursed him, loved him, cared for him, and then left him.

She left still angry about what Campbell had done, still mad at him for allowing it to happen.

It had taken him a week.

After a week of threats, bribes whispered, and shouted requests passed through embassies and telegram channels, dark-haired men in three-piece suits who had never heard of the Shelby Company Limited suddenly became very familiar with it.

No one had wanted to help him—not the translators, the officials, not those men in suits who didn't seem to understand why a gangster from Birmingham needed to get through an old woman's house on the outskirts of Baghdad.

But he always found his way.

Eventually, the line was traced, routed through dirty threats and whispered favors. And now he stood alone in the dark study at his home, his hand wrapped tightly around the receiver like it was his only anchor.

It rang three times before she picked up.

"Hello?" Her voice. But it wasn't what he remembered. It was...warmer, almost more free.

Behind her voice, was the hum of something alive and foreign.

The clink of tea glasses on saucers, the echo of live string music played somewhere close, the low murmur of happy conversation in Arabic, the chirp of night insects like background noise to the night sky. He didn't speak right away, and she didn't rush him.

When he did finally speak, his voice was lower than it usually was, like he was trying not to sound like he had been going mad with missing her.

"You didn't say goodbye."

It was silent on her end.

Then, she laughed. Soft, sweet, like honey poured straight from her throat.

"You wouldn't let me leave if I did."

He had to keep himself from groaning because she was right. Because if she had come to say goodbye, if she had looked at him with those pretty brown eyes and that voice in her throat, he would have burned the entire universe before he let her go.

"How did you find this line?" she asked, her tone teasing and sweetly curious.

He saved her the details. "I always get things when I want them bad enough."

Another pause. He could hear her moving, the sound of a distant door closing, more fading in the music, and more life in the nature of the night around her. Now it was just them and the space between.

"You sound tired," she whispered.

"I haven't slept."

"You need to."

"I don't sleep when you aren't here."

The silence between them throbbed. Because across the sea, in a world bathed in golden sunlight and dusted wind, she was somewhere on a rooftop with her long black hair down. Maybe in something light and linen, her feet bare and her ankle adorned with gold. Maybe still twisting that gold ring around her finger the way she did when she was thinking. And she sounded...happy. More alive. More free. Like the ghosts he had seen here didn't follow her there.

And he didn't know if he should be relieved or ruined.

"I just wanted to hear your voice, darling."

"You're always welcome to it, Tommy."

He exhaled, letting that sweet voice wash over the syllables of his name. He didn't say another word and neither did she. They just stayed on the line, him drowned in English silence, her wrapped in the warm wind, both connected by a thread so thin...

...it almost felt like love.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

taglist: @moonbeamott @mrsnms @meadowshelby @chaimaarouaine11 @goblinjnr @lorely788 @outlanderuniverse

authors note: arghhhadjfjfaldf this was a little different from usual chapters but the plot is getting soooo good guys i cant wait for you all to read the next chapters, as always thanks for reading and taglist and dms are open!!

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