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ichorai · 5 months ago

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i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one.

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind.

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?”

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground.

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along.

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend.

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed.

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children.

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose.

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance.

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb.

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother.

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything.

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you.

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror.

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell.

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end.

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys.

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak.

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them.

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd.

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them.

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod.

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once.

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story.

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you.

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril.

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods.

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder.

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow.

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak.

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon.

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them.

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off.

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted.

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm.

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied.

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look.

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters.

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.”

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror.

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done?

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more.

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances.

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs.

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.”

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.”

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage?

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected.

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air.

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me.

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants.

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father.

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little.

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that.

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever.

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye.

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago.

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well.

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered.

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally.

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words.

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper.

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

#jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister fanfiction #jaime lannister fluff #jaime lannister angst #jaime lannister fic #jaime lannister x you #jaime lannister x stark!reader #asoiaf fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #jaime lannister

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slowd1ving · 5 months ago

Text

FANTASMAS ゜・BLADE NSFW

"solo miro fantasmas están dentro de ti." - fantasmas (twin tribes) continuation of roommate au kind of part 2 to both ain't shit see here for some basic designs for them male reader warnings: male reader, amab reader, porn with plot, bottom reader, band au, blade's kinda obsessive, he's also in denial for like half the fic wc: 6.9k (unintentional)

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

With the piercing light of day shining upon this nondescript building, it resembles every other office in the vicinity: cold grey facade, nauseatingly plain decor, and workers that look like they’d rather be anywhere but here. But as the sun kisses the horizon and the stars scatter across the fabric blanketing the world, the infamous ‘underground’ opens—a venue beloved by local bands and those looking to drink until dawn.

It’s no surprise that Kafka’s there tonight; she’s lounging at the back with her magenta irises fixed right on the stage while her maraschino pout sips at her cocktail. The dim hall hosts dozens of people, if not about a hundred—all eagerly waiting for the arrival of the Trailblazers, bodies pressed against bodies and barely anyone sitting at the pushed-back tables near the walls. That’s why it’s perfect that she’s here and not at the front—otherwise, she’s sure the pretty flame-haired Trailblazer’s manager will notice her and give her that glare. She doesn’t want to get on her bad side, not today.

She’s mildly astonished that Blade tagged along to scout them out of his own volition; the only member he knows for sure is Dan Heng, and anyone and everyone with a brain knows how tense things are between them. Well, it’s not entirely accurate to say he knows only one of the members behind their varied masks—there’s still you, but she doubts he’s figured it out for himself that you’re the guitarist in particular.

The man next to her might appear relaxed—body pressed against the back of the cherry-red seating, legs spread with fingers tapping languidly on his thighs—but Kafka likes to think she can read people a lot better than that. He’s as… naive, she’d like to put it, as ever—thinking he can hide his feelings as though he doesn’t wear his pulsating, visceral heart on his sleeve for everyone to look at.

There’s a simmering anger lying beneath his milky dermis; like his eyes, it is red-hot and coils his body inwards with a thick tension. She doesn’t know what happened these past few days, but she knows for sure he’s gotten worse—pupils honed in right on the platform in the front and not a swill taken from the liquor on the table.

(Wine flows—the man who does not partake will sorely regret what he sees sober, she later comments in her journal.)

It’s not like you’re any better; a good mood stretched your lips into a smile as bright and messy as yolk when you saw her a few days ago. Still, any explanation for Blade’s bad mood was encapsulated in one neat, cruel word: payback.

Several meanings can be attached to this—and these have been duly noted in the journal she keeps on the side.

The clearest red thread she can find in this investigation is that this has something to do with you, and maybe the bassist currently setting up on stage with a delicate, draconic mask perched across his features—judging by the way Blade’s fingers dig right into the plush of his thighs.

Oh, her mouth suppresses a bloodied smile—this is interesting.

She doesn’t watch you in your Venetian mask—a fragile one that spans three-quarters of your face, a Phantom of the Opera style she does appreciate.

No, actually, she glances at the revealing top you’re wearing and makes out several bite marks and bruises in the strobe lighting—putting two and two together quite quickly. Ah. No wonder he’s pissed.

She then, very efficiently, decides it will be far more amusing to watch Blade’s expression surreptitiously as he slowly figures it out.

Just who exactly is that guitarist?

It weighs on his mind—heavy, uncomfortable. He loathes Dan Heng, and the rest of the Trailblazers by proxy; even without the ongoing feud, he’d hate them regardless. While he did come to the performance to clear his head and remind him of exactly who he’s up against, he can’t help but gaze at the person currently plugging in his guitar.

Stop.

Pungent copper warmth spills into his mouth as he bites hard into his cheek; bleeding sanguine replaces the lingering caress of whiskey on his taste buds.

Yet still—as the strobe dies down and a haunting, ghostly incandescence shimmers over the band—his eyes continue to trace his figure.

His flimsy shirt rides up his stomach as he loops the guitar around his neck, and Blade can feel his mouth go dry. Damn you—he can’t stop thinking about that scene he almost walked in a few days ago, and now that small patch of skin is making him imagine what it would be like with a guy.

This venue is for the amateurish bands—ones that won’t ever make it big but still have a loyal base of dedicated followers. Very technically speaking, the Trailblazers are popular and rightfully so: skill macerates itself into their songs. Yet, he can’t help the dislike that taints his perception of their music.

The vocalist’s voice is well suited to this genre—long grey hair framing a golden mask while she sings, but he’s more focused on the melody accompanying it. There’s several embellishments on the guitar chords accompanying it that his ears pick up: too used to your irritating playing to ignore them. Nothing too wild, just some flair he begrudgingly appreciates.

He can only focus on the guitarist, not even sparing a glare at the bassist close to them.

It’s in the second song you finally have a solo: a long riff that appears to be a crowd favourite, stirring a hitched breath from him.

Familiar, it somehow seems—something along your style but he’d be damned if he ever heard this from you.

He loses track of the minutes that turn into well over an hour.

The atmosphere in the club has shifted significantly—expectant. It appears to be one of the last songs; and Blade’s ashamed that the time passed quickly for him.

Too busy staring at the guitarist, he can hear future Kafka tease, and he clenches his fists in his lap.

“Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips,”

You’ve done nothing but play the electric guitar, which is why he widens his eyes in surprise as your mouth opens and you lean into the vocalist’s mic. A melancholy synth accompanies the bittersweet song—with a deeper voice that makes your face flash in his mind.

Can’t be.

“Arsenic on your tongue.”

Involuntarily, that scene of you with Dan Heng’s lips against yours takes up the space in his mind—all-consuming, fury-inducing.

“Frankly, dear, you could send me to the tomb,”

He downs the hard liquor that’s been sitting on the table for the past hour. God, he sounds perfect: making his dick twitch in his pants as he imagines this voice in his headphones.

“Pressing your hands to my frigid cadaver,”

His breathing becomes slightly more shallow as he notices how the flimsy shirt finally sticks in a way that half-exposes the guitarist’s chest—a prominent bite-mark just peeking out from the side.

“One live pulse and the other lifeless,”

The lighting shifts to illuminate you more, and he can suddenly see the slight discolouration against his slicked collarbone and sweat-soaked neck—bruises which feel slightly off, in the sense that Blade’s stomach grows tight and his heart pounds fast and hard against his lungs.

“And still I’d wait, Styx cradling me in its miasma—”

His eyes sweep across the room and land directly on Blade’s, and there’s something so familiar in that gaze that he can’t look away.

“Is my apostasy enough for you?”

It’s past one in the morning when he leaves the venue—cold air nipping at his arms as Kafka waves him goodbye and he drives home with the icy street lamps lighting his way. In the privacy of his car, he finds the specific song online—letting the guitarist’s honey-rich voice sweep over him, before his heart begins thrumming uncontrollably.

He’s onto something—a specific line of thinking that feels so ludicrous he can’t help but scoff at himself as he parks.

Ridiculous, he thinks. Perhaps it’s simply human nature to deny that which brings discomfort.

Cognitive dissonance.

But there’s no one at the apartment. Not a dim slit of light on the wall opposite your door—where it’s almost a daily occurrence at the young hours of the night. In fact, your slightly open door (and here his heart pangs at the thought of that day) indicates not a soul currently inhabits the empty room. He stands there for a long time, staring.

You can’t…

Tongue leaden, he makes his way to the living room: sinking into the couch while his rubine eyes fix themselves on the door. He loosens the buttons of his shirt, running his tired hands through his inky spills of hair. He’s good at the waiting game; the minutes may drag out infinitely, but he wills himself to sit in silence.

It’s far past two when you finally stumble in—a long coat bundled over casual clothes that make the tension in his shoulders dissipate slightly. There’s a bag clutched in your hands but no signs of a guitar case.

Why does he feel so relieved?

You finally notice him: locking eyes, yet not saying anything. His lips press together, then part suddenly.

“Where were you?” It sounds accusatory, and he supposes it is. Don’t tell me what I’m thinking is true.

“Out,” you reply shortly. His fingers clench around one of the pillows next to him.

You won’t answer. There’s no point in asking anymore; with gritted teeth, he knows the taste of futility. It seeps bitter in his mouth as he lights the small amber lamp on the coffee table—attempting to numb his mind through the tried-and-true method of reading upon the principles of cement and composites.

As he hears the steady stream of the shower, his plans go awry. Those same words he’s memorised blur in his vision when his mind conjures you.

Don’t.

Where were you?

He’s sliding his book back onto the shelf as your soft footsteps pad out of the bathroom. When his head turns, you’re wearing only a towel: steam still rising from your warm body as you don’t spare him a glance.

Perhaps it’s fate.

Perhaps it’s his own fault for getting his hopes up.

You pass by him—too close, he thinks, you’re much too close—and your bare torso is right there.

As is the bite-mark that caught his eye earlier.

When those chromatic eyes trace the expanse of your trapezius muscles, each and every bruise matches the practical constellation he saw littering the guitarist’s body. The dips in your arms, the specific shade of tinted lips you’d sported, each valley and plane of the guitarist’s body—all pointed to the two being one and the same.

His chest is impossibly taut; only when you clear your throat does he realise he’s standing in the doorway. A fitting Cerebus to this household—if he could, he’d keep you here forever and not let anyone else in.

“Do you have a problem?” you ask, and it’s the perfect, tired pitch that just about stirs his inky spills of hair and makes his eyes heavy with lust.

“Maybe,” he accedes in his own low voice, too busy wondering how your songs would taste to notice you getting slightly closer.

No, that’s a lie. He notices—feeling and seeing the small wisps of vapour still cling to you from your shower (and now him). He inhales, slowly savouring the unique flavour of you: burnt sugar curling honey-sweet from your lips, the shower gel he knows you just randomly grabbed—it’s the one he uses too, the faint tendrils of sweat and steam and lotion that each have their own distinct tang.

His nose is level with yours: he can feel the faint fan of particles that brush across him. It’s not that which causes his nails to dig into his palms, but rather the quirk of your brow as you ever-so-slightly raise it.

“What—no girls to warm up your bed and cure your boredom?”

It’s a question that could insinuate two meanings. First, that you’re simply mocking him and his previous activities. The second implies that he’s desperate enough to seek you out.

“No fellow Trailblazer to warm yours?” he bites out. Question for a question—and perhaps he’s slightly sick for enjoying how your eyes widen in abrupt shock.

“Does that matter?” It’s almost like a game at this point—defences and hackles raised, inching to total annihilation by inquiry. Maybe you’ve realised it’s futile to deny it; a frown settles on your face with a matching glare. After all, for the average student, coming across a member of the bands—Knights of Beauty, Galaxy Rangers, the Family (to name a few)—isn’t a big deal.

But he’s not the average student.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “It really does.”

Oh. Oh.

He watches as you piece it together—noting his connection to Kafka, the drumkit in his room, and his clear hostility towards Dan Heng. He watches as you accidentally take a step back into the large shelf, watches as you furrow your brows in the way he spots when you’re solving a particularly difficult problem.

“You’re a damn headache, you know that.”

There’s no malice in your eyes, but he can feel you slipping from his fingers; he can hear the cogs in your brain turn with certainty as you look away with resolve. He’s going to move out—Blade realises, and it’s perhaps the second time in his life that he regrets letting his heart seep through his lips with that sort of confession. Suddenly, he’s stepping forward: hand wrapping tightly around your wrist, with less-than-bruising strength.

Fuck. The back-and-forth from earlier reminds him exactly of the position he’s in: practically caging you against the wooden frame while you’re still warm and damp from the shower. He’s lucky he wore loose trousers out—and you’re too busy glancing at him in surprise to notice him straining against them.

“Blade—”

“Yingxing.” He’s not quite sure why he interrupts. Like a gaping wound, he’s ripped past the scab and hit tender flesh.

He can’t define where the firm line between you and him is.

And maybe he’s your roommate and there’s a messy boundary constructed by both parties, but there’s something pressing his lungs tight against bone.

“—Yingxing,” you taste carefully: sampling the two characters in your poisonous mouth. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

The normally-collected engineering student has abandoned his wits—gazing at you like a man half-starved.

“Making you stay,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to move out—don’t we work well together?”

I can treat you so right. His thigh cants against your legs, and he hears you inhale sharply. Fuck.

Bringing your wrist to his face, he presses his lips to the skin—burning, as some would say, so utterly contrasting with his colder image that it brings about an effect of cognitive dissonance. What’s so good about Dan Heng?

“You’re such a prick,” you hiss, and he feels the words pierce right through him. He is. Objectively, he knows he’s a bastard—unapologetically, wholeheartedly—but you don’t make an effort to pull away.

“I am,” he admits in a tired, low voice. He doesn’t know if it’s the steely look in your eyes, or the firm set of your mouth—yet he thinks you’ve rooted him in place instead of the opposite.

Why? If he gets involved with his roommate of all people, it would turn blurry boundaries into cacophonous messes—and it’s not like he wants you to leave. It would be far simpler to let you move out; slice away the relationship cleanly before his heart tightens any further.

“Do you find it fun fucking with people like this?”

He looks at you. Really, he does.

Guitarist. Physics student. Capable scholar. Then there’s that—Trailblazer.

But there’s also that.

My roommate.

So many concepts to consider, when that’s only surface level. He’s never had to think so hard about someone before: preferring to not know them at all.

“Hah.” You sound incredulous. “Are you this fucking indecisive with everyone?”

“No,” he finally replies. “Just you.”

It’s then that he releases your wrist. You’ll walk away. In line with his own predictions, he already knows you’ll barge past him—perhaps knocking a book or two off his shelf.

But, no—

“Do you ever shut up?”

—you seem to defy his expectations each time.

His eyes flicker to your mouth, and this time you take notice.

Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips. How fitting.

His eyes widen as you roughly grasp the front of his shirt: creasing the smooth fabric in your fist as you yank his face forward. It’s as if you’re about to punch him square in the jaw, yet for some reason his heart pounds faster and his cheeks flush ever so slightly. Delicately, yet he is anything but that.

“Seriously, you’re so—”

The heat consuming him is sweltering and omnipotent. One that controls his limbs like a marionette; he’s already reaching to grasp your chin with his rough hand. You’re warm: exhaling in surprise as his mouth meets yours.

“Mmh–” Hands worn from playing chords tonight slip from the front of his shirt and slide around his nape. He can feel your fingers entangle themselves in his inky hair, and for once he closes his eyes. You taste like the sweetest poison: traces of cherry syrup and the faint spice of liqueur.

He should’ve done this sooner.

Canting his head to the side, he deepens the kiss—tongue spilling into your mouth, twining with your gasps. He presses you against the shelf; his shirt’s becoming damp from the drops of water still clinging to you, but surprisingly, he’s not irritated. If it were anyone else—if it were anyone but you—he would be disgusted. But maybe because it’s you, he just wants to meld his body against yours.

Perhaps that’s the first sign.

Arsenic on your tongue.

Something colourless, without taste. He certainly feels poisoned: heart racing uncontrollably, skin rosy with flush, pupils dilated until the sanguine in his eyes is just a sliver. He pulls back with breaths heavy against the still air. You’re wrapped around his neck, unmoving, and he can’t help but taste victory on his taste buds instead.

“You’re still not forgiven,” you mutter callously.

“That’s fine.” A thin, sharp smile appears on his face as he leans his face into the crook between your neck and shoulder—practically branding you with the sear of his words against the expanse of your dermis. He’s smiling—grinning—ecstasy racing through his veins as he hears your groans when he presses his open mouth against the flesh. Bruises upon bruises will blossom later on your body; his pants strain at the very thought.

You’re staying, and his mind goes hazy and numb when he thinks of how you’ll look in his arms come morning—all pretty and fucked-out just for him.

It’s not like he likes you in that way—it’s simply the most opportune moment to steal you away from Dan Heng’s filthy hands. He saw how the bassist stared at you throughout your parts: heard how that bastard’s hands fumbled on the strings with the lines streaming from your lips.

No, he doesn’t like his roommate like that.

Frankly, dear, you could send me to the tomb.

Why is his heart beating so fast then? When his hand trails to land on your scalding waist, pressing your almost-naked body against his—why does his own body burn?

(Why did he give you his name?)

“Fuck—” you groan as his mouth latches onto your chest: rebranding it on his own terms. He laps up the salt and sweat on your skin—too hazed out to fully take into consideration the effort he’s putting into this. Rather than a rough fuck with his peers, he wants you to enjoy yourself—wants to be acknowledged as better than his nemesis.

His fingers dig into the plush and muscle corded between the planes of hip and rib cage, wrapping until the tips of his hands reach the cobbled path of your spine. You’re so warm: so much so that he can’t stop clutching your body like a lifeline.

“Wanna go further?” he murmurs against the fat of your chest, feeling the heavy thump–thump of your heart against his lips.

He pulls back with the sheen of saliva on his lips, gazing up at you with a spoken and unspoken question. Aeons—when you stare back at him with those lowered eyelids and that grin on your lips; when you slither your hands so they entwine against his scalp in his murky locks; when you bring his mouth back to yours in a scorching, open-mouthed kiss—he can feel his body and soul crumble around him into an ashen heap.

“Thought you didn’t like me.” You catch his lip with your canines, and the sour tang of blood fills his mouth and pools on his tongue.

Pressing your hands against my frigid cadaver.

“I don’t,” he answers as he pushes you up against his bed—shucking the shirt worn over his tight top onto his floor—and letting your steaming flesh warm up his frigid muscles.

“Yeah, I don’t like you either,” you reply exasperatedly, raking your nails against the contours of his back while he looks up at you: mouth still latched over where that man left those impressions as if to erase them.

“So what the fuck are we doing?” you comment in wonder. He doesn’t reply—too busy stripping himself of his top so he can finally feel your bare skin on his like this, flesh squishing against flesh as he kisses you over and over.

It’s like he’s laving your lips clean with his own, and there’s a trickling understanding somewhere in his subconscious.

Why is he doing this? Why have you agreed to this?

The two questions ingrain themselves deeply in his troubled mind.

But when he looks down on the sweat on your face, lips bitten to muffle the noises slipping from your lips, he doesn’t ever want to stop this.

“Wouldn’t you have hurried up by now?” He doesn’t know what you’re referring to until he recalls how you heard him—and it bothers him how relaxed you sound, how nonplussed you seem, when he’s filled with a seething anger everytime he recalls what he saw when he stumbled on you with Dan Heng splayed bare over you.

“Why? Want me to recreate the experience?” He won’t ever admit that those sorts of rough fucks aren’t suited for you—he wants to take it slow for once, wants to make you feel good until you completely lose yourself and forget all about that bastard.

“No—ah,” you grip his hair as his tongue trails down the dips of your stomach, stopping only above the towel still tied above your waist. The hasty tug on his hair elicits a groan out of him; slowly, he can feel his face grow flushed once more at the knowledge that he’s making you lose control. There’s that strain against the fabric of the towel, one that definitely mirrors his own.

Aeons.

“Fuck— fuck—” you whine as he slips his hand under the towel, wrapping around your dick with a deftness that doesn’t belie his inexperience with men. He’s a quick study—watching every minute twitch in your expression as he strokes you to full hardness.

Soft—you’re so pliable as you moan under him, eyes squeezed shut as he observes your face with his smile stretched taut on his face.

He’s never felt this affectionate towards anyone, and perhaps that’s what he should focus his attention on. He wants to rob you of your breath with his lips, he wants to listen to you forever as he draws out pleasure upon pleasure from you.

“Ngh–” you whimper as his thumb brushes over your leaking slit, crudely pressing it and letting the precum drip onto his fingers. The rough motions cause the towel to finally drop past your hips, and his breath hitches at the sight of you beneath him—finally, finally. This is the first time that he’s taken his mind off his own pleasure: practically entranced by how you squirm and bite down on your sounds.

Aeons. Aeons. Aeons. His mind goes numb as you cant your hips into his hand, and his head dips down to capture your noisy mouth with his own.

Fuck. He doesn’t think he can let you go like this.

Your nails claw at his back—it only makes him more determined to wrack you with pleasure, to leave you glassy-eyed and mindless to anything but him.

Forget about the Trailblazers, he wants to say as you arch your back to press yourself more fully against him. Think only about me, he conveys as he twists his hand—and you keen against him.

He’s in far too deep.

As you cry out, as thick rivulets of cum paint his skin and yours, as he continues pumping his hand so he can see those pretty tears leak from the sides of your eyes—he’s drunk on the scent of you, drunk on the taste of your moans and the salt of your skin. He laps up each cry you give him eagerly: tasting the complex emotions of blood, tears and that lingering taste of cherry liquor weakly underpinning it all.

One live pulse and the other lifeless.

“Ah— mmh—” you choke out, and his face blossoms into such a profound shade of crimson that he buries his face in your neck. He kisses the rhythmic echo of your heartbeat, right where the pulsepoint is situated and thrumming with desperation.

He’s never felt this urge with any of his other hookups—this stupid willingness to hold your body close to his like this.

His lips surge to yours once more as his finger slips in you, drinking in the gasp you let out: how your body freezes beneath his, how your body nestles into his closer as your spine reacts to the sudden intrusion.

“Fuck, fuck,” he breathes as you practically suck him in. “You’re so tight.”

“Don’t do this—ah—often,” you answer through your wavering mouth. Good, he wants to say—but there’s something about commenting on what you just said that prickles him with ominous foreboding. Was it Dan Heng too? Like this, between your legs—drinking in each small mewl that leaves those swollen, bitten lips.

Your abdomen tenses and relaxes in short bursts, and he can feel himself stiffen even more against his bed.

Fuck.

Impulsively, he dips his head lower so he can suckle right on your mushroom tip. And immediately, your hands move from where they were still scratching up his back to his head—tugging on his hair in a futile attempt to keep yourself grounded.

He groans around you, and it’s clear you won’t last much longer—not when he’s added another finger, not when he’s carefully taking you deeper down his throat.

He’s never done this before—never considered doing this—but there’s something about you that makes him want to never think of anyone else but him.

You’re salty on his tongue—slightly bitter from the residue of cum still dripping from the slit. He licks a long strip from base to tip: trying to accustom himself before he fully commits. It’s clear he’s doing something right; there’s a panting, needy quality to your moans. With his free hand, he strokes your balls to add more hellish stimulation—and suddenly you’re locking your legs around his head.

His eyelids flutter slightly: busy suppressing the long whine that’s about to emerge from his larynx. Aeons, he should’ve done this sooner. If he could taste you, if he could feel the slick smell of sweat and cum still plastered on your inner thighs earlier like this, if he could be like this sooner—it would’ve been worth asking Kafka for a favour.

“Ah—” your voice shakes as he slips yet another finger inside while finally taking you fully down his throat: even with you losing control, it’s clear you don’t want to hurt him as you don’t push his head down to deepthroat you. It’s strangely sweet—something caring that just makes him want you to be rougher instead.

He moans lowly as you pull on his hair desperately again; this is the vibration that finally pushes you over the brink. You spill into his mouth, warm and salty and slightly metallic—and stupid wanting wracks his body.

Blade swallows it all, continuing to suck you off until he can feel your body tremble beneath him—feel the crushing pressure of your thighs around his head.

“Want you, fuck,” he murmurs after he pulls away; thin strings of cum still connect him from your tip, and he doesn’t think he’s ever unbuckled his belt so fast. He kisses you as though he’s a man starving: teeth clashing slightly against teeth as he tugs his trousers off.

“Care— careful,” you breathe unsteadily as he lines himself up, sinking his sharp teeth into your shoulder lightly. “You wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression that you actually like me now.”

And there’s something vulnerable in your tone: a small self-deprecation. He tries ignoring it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, grasping your warm hand in his own calloused, frigid one. “Wouldn’t want that.”

But his tone is insincere, and he thinks you can tell.

Somehow.

Maybe it’s futile to believe you understand him, yet your piercing eyes and annoyed glare as you look at him are always surface-level: angry but still not resolving to actually move out. You were the one who figured out his intentions from the beginning—irritating you until you simply left—while the other roommates just shivered and slammed the door behind them.

You stayed.

He’s been kissing you over and over and over—and he kisses you again now as he slowly sinks into the tight heat of your hole. Fuck. Perhaps if his head was clearer, he’d think about the implications of kissing you in particular when he hasn’t touched lips with anyone else for years.

He whines lowly as he pushes in deeper. You’re so damn warm—so gorgeous like this: palms splayed against his shoulders, expression all hazy and fucked-out, lips so inviting he has to put his mouth on yours yet again.

“Fuck,” you hiss into his lips as he bottoms out. It takes all his self-restraint to not cum immediately, adjusting to just how good you feel.

You cant your hips so you’re rocking back onto him with a satisfied hum. The motion wrangles a moan out of him, but he desperately grips your waist with his strong fingers so you quit moving.

“Hold on,” he slurs, rubbing small circles on the flesh with his thumbs. He’s throbbing, teeth caught on his lips to keep his mind clear. Shit. To be so close already makes him feel like a virgin again: sensitive at the slightest touch. You seem to be so damn full of surprises.

“What, surprised it feels like this?” You sound amused, and he looks at you irritably.

“Yeah,” he leans down and practically moans into your ear, rolling his hips against your plush ass. You shiver slightly, and his lips split wide in a mocking grin at the effect the sound had.

“You feel so good,” he whines, deliberately dragging out the noise. “Taste so good too.”

“Mmh–” you cover your mouth as he begins moving properly now—yet still so teasingly slow.

He catches your wrist with a firm hand, gripping it tightly against the bed so he can hear you properly.

“What’s wrong? Surprised—hah—it feels like this?” He throws your words back at you, but it’s not like he’s doing much better. It’s taking everything within him to not just fill you up: letting his cum drip out of you while he stuffs it back in. The thought darkens his red face even further.

You don’t answer. It’s only natural that he moves agonisingly slow—probing for an answer while his fingers busy themselves by wrapping around your weeping cock, achingly rubbing from shaft to base with a sticky shick-shick noise.

“I gave you an answer,” he mocks, ignoring the tightness in his stomach when gazing at your teary eyes. So pretty.

Wordlessly, your free hand that isn’t pinned by Blade trails from his scalp to his nape—and you pull him into you so your lips meet his, scorchingly so.

“Ngh–” he groans into the kiss, practically feeling his climax build up. He forces it down—too preoccupied in filling you up at the right time, not now.

“Aeons,” he mutters as he pulls away, and there’s a grin on your lips he wants to wipe off.

“Does that count?”

He lost this time, but the sight is worth it.

With a greedy pang of his heart, he pulls his pelvis back until just his shaft remains hooked in your walls—your eyes widen, and this time it’s his turn to smile.

He slams back in, and the long moan you let out is almost angelic.

“Fuck, fuck,” you sob out as he drills into you over and over; tacky skin meets tacky skin with a perverted plap-plap, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so euphoric.

He can feel it on his face: an adoring, almost fanatic look hazing his once-clear red eyes.

And still I’d wait, Styx cradling me in its miasma.

He wants you.

The man twines his fingers with yours tightly. Possessively.

“Blade—” you gasp out brokenly as he hits your prostate, kissing the tip right into the nerves with each thrust. His grip on your hand tightens, and you wince at the sudden pressure.

“Yingxing,” he corrects, speeding up the jerking motions of his other hand.

Why? Why does he so readily reveal to you what he hides for everyone else?

Fuck. He needs you, so so so badly.

Your abdomen is taut and quivering, and he knows you’re not far off from climaxing again. Like this, with teary eyes and the impression of petrichor on your rainy lips, he thinks you’ve never looked more captivating.

Perhaps it’s a fleeting attraction, but in his very bones he can feel his entire existence enrapture himself by you and only you.

And just like that, your expression changes minutely and he already knows just how close you are to that haunting precipice.

He twists his hand just so. As expected, you pliantly move your body against his with broken moans: arching into his touch while you tighten around him. You’re shaking—and he’s so close too, just like you. You’ve brought him to the brink so easily, but it’s not the sopping heat of your walls that finally catalyses his sweet downfall.

“Yingxing,” you breathe. He almost doesn’t catch it, but then you say it again.

“Yingxing.” And this time the sound is so light, so affectionate as you spill all over his abdomen and your own—so airy. It’s enough to push him to that brink; hot ropes of cum spurt deep inside you, and you gasp almost immediately at the intense feeling.

“Ah—fuck,” you moan out as he rocks into you to ride out his orgasm, something so intense he bites down into your trapezius muscle to keep himself sane.

It’s indescribable—mind finally going blank as he litters his bites everywhere, prolonging the movement of his hips against yours for as long as he can. And you milk him for all he’s worth; he’s already feeling that relief and exhaustion wash over him even though it’s only been one round.

He finally lets himself go: practically smothering you with his body as he lies on top of you, still nestled deep within you.

“I should go,” you say awkwardly, but there’s that tiniest trace of hesitation he can read in your voice that makes him wrap his arms tight around you instead.

“No.” His own voice is muffled from where his mouth is connected to the bitten flesh of the juncture between shoulder and neck.

“Fuck do you mean no?” you grumble, but the way you thread a lazy finger through his hair and work through the tangles in his locks makes his heart beat in a way it hadn’t just now.

What the hell?

That damn flush on his face is still there—and still, that lovelorn look in his eyes hasn’t faded either.

“Just stay with me tonight,” he presses kiss after kiss to your shoulder as if to convince you.

“Hah,” you sigh. There’s a glare trained on the crown of his head—he can feel it without even looking at you. Is that not proof he knows you this well? Can’t you see that? He furrows his brow.

Is my apostasy enough for you?

“Yingxing—” His heart beats wildly at his name leaving your lips, and he knows he’s screwed. “—you don’t need to keep it up after we’ve already fucked.”

There’s a distraught hesitation in his pulse—it takes him far too long to clock just how he feels about you.

“Keep what up?” His tone is neutral. Perfectly polite. Ironic, considering his naked form covering yours currently—bathed in a mess of sweat, scratch marks, and cum.

Who is he not to indulge in you?

“This act of affection.” Jet hair flutters back to fan out on his back when you let the strands go. Much like sand in an hourglass, he can feel you slipping away as though you were time itself. “I don’t need it, and I’d prefer you save it for someone you actually like.”

His heart skips a beat, and he sits up, startled.

“Hit a nerve there, didn’t I,” you mutter, but he barely hears you. Those senseless thoughts—the constant stream of panic and anger and despair—are beginning to emerge from their lairs. In your presence, they always seem to recede: as though you were the salvation he’s been trying to reach in his own myth of Sisyphus.

You’re leaving after all.

All because of him and his incompetence.

His fingers clasp your own in a softer mirror of before. Whatever you might’ve said lies forever discarded—words resting just within your mouth, not a single syllable crossing the threshold of your lips. You don’t leave, simply gazing at him from where you lie: bare skin of your side pressing against his own naked thigh.

Don’t you know he sees you and only you?

“Look at me.” For once, the arrogant cadence he wears like a second skin fades as he pleads. “Look at me.”

In the dim amber lighting that sweeps over his cluttered room, it seeps into all four corners and lands on his drum kit sequestered in the corner: the very thing that got him into this mess in the first place. There’s stacks upon stacks of engineering manuals and textbooks organised neatly on his shelves—a passion that you understand, one that you live and breathe with in the same way he does.

Do you see him?

Do you see him as he sees you?

And finally, the incandescence traces the outlines of him and you. You, peering up at him—eyes lucid and clear despite it being the young hours of the night. Him, gazing down at you—eyes so desperate that he’s reverted back to Yingxing. No longer Blade, but the man beneath the frigid exoshell.

He raises your joined hands, pressing fragile kiss upon kiss to your fingers and the slight raise of veins on the back of yours. All the while, his eyes don’t waver from yours.

Your brows twitch; judging by the press of your lips, you’re holding back something along the lines of wow, Yingxing, never took you for a romantic.

He’s not.

“Oh,” you breathe. You’re smart; connecting the dots isn’t particularly difficult with a mind as sharply analytical as yours. Constantly questioning, constantly evaluating everything (not limited to the domain of your physics major only) including the human psyche.

He raises your hand even further, and presses it against his cheek. Scalding skin against boreal dermis.

You sit up. Expectantly, he waits for you to twist out of his grasp and leave. You’re still naked after all, and he’s talking about feelings right after a hookup. If it was anyone he’d bought home, he’d have kicked them out right there and then.

But before he can process it, your lips are gently touching his own: about as tender as a flesh wound, raw and throbbing. He makes a surprised sound into your mouth—something between a gasp and a hum, two very conflicting actions that make you smile against his lips. And then you’re kissing him properly, nothing like the lust-driven actions of earlier.

“Yingxing,” you murmur into his mouth.

“Yes,” he answers instantaneously.

“You’re still a prick for those stunts you pulled with those drums.”

It’s nighttime, but he’s never felt so at ease as he does tonight. He’s got his head planted firmly on your chest listening to the steady beat of your heart, as you finally slumber in his arms.

And when the day finally dawns, you will have stayed.

198 notes · View notes

noira-l · 5 months ago

Text

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

⋆ ★ '𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞' - 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

chapter summary: you wake up in the middle of the night to think, today is a special day, but Satoru wants you to sleep.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader

warnings: comfort, spoilers (manga, anime, movie).

author's note: reader's thoughts on Geto situation, she kinda blames herself for it. Also Satoru hugs you to sleep :3

Anniversary.

What anniversary?

Ah yes, the 3rd anniversary.

Why do you even call it an anniversary. He's not dead, he's alive. Although not quite true for you, right?

Your Suguru doesn't exist. Does that count as death?

What should you call him now?

You associate his name with a warm summer night, full of stars and nostalgic memories.

With a warm blanket passed down from generation to generation by the tenants of the school dormitory.

With every moral, deep conversation or thought that has improved your life, shaped you.

You don't know how to let go, do you?

If so, then, it should be Geto.

Curse user.

The one who decided to burn everything to the ground.

How can he be the same person?

You got out of bed. The warm duvet wrapped around your body was deposited across the bed. Your feet on the ground, welcoming the soft carpet, and the moon blinding your face perfectly with the light streaming into your room.

Perhaps he was always the same person? And you didn't see it?

No… you knew his soul all too well.

What had happened? What has changed?

You know very well what happened. You just don't know what changed. Or rather, when it changed.

Were you expecting one stupid moment? Some clear signal that would be like an alarm, letting you know when something was wrong? How foolish.

He probably didn't want to worry you.

He should worry you, you were there for him.

Maybe he didn't know what to say?

He always knew what to say.

Maybe he was afraid you wouldn't understand?

How would you not understand?

Maybe he didn't want help from you.

This thought struck you. You stopped at that moment. You turned to glance over your shoulder, his white hair seemed to shine in the moonlight. His figure was covered, he was lying there, spread out on the bed, you had just escaped from his embrace.

He wanted help from him.

Could you blame him for that? They were the strongest together, until eventually he became the strongest alone. You knew very well that one of them never stopped believing in it, for the other fell into the abyss because of it, making the distance separating them, even greater.

Are you surprised? You never grew up to match them. Even now you can't tell if you would have managed to hurt them, let alone defeat them.

Probably…

You looked at the man next to you. His uncovered face resembled that of an angel, sent from heaven. His skin emanated a pearly glow under the moonlight.

It was always about him wasn't it?

About his strength, about his cleverness, about his uniqueness. He was capable of being his rival. You at most could have stood by and cheered him on, supported him. You never had the chance to be an equal with him.

Is that what he needed then?

You wish you could have had your strength back then. You could have proved to him then that he could rely on you, that he had someone to match. You could have shown him that there is something to support in you.

You didn't manage to do that.

This will probably be your biggest failure.

You looked back, the sight of the sleeping neighbourhood gave you a certain peace of mind.

Or perhaps you are completely wrong. You don't know anymore.

You would like to know the answers to all these questions. You would like to talk to him. To shout all these thoughts straight into his face. You'd have wanted him to answer you. To explain. You'd wanted him to showed you, that you were capable of understanding.

You are capable of understanding. You just don't allow it.

You hid your face in your hands.

Of course you can't afford to do that.

You sighed quietly.

You looked at the window, not a single light on. The gentle sound of the city and the peace and quiet that is only available now.

You wondered if he was thinking of you now.

NO.

You ran away in your mind from that thought, shook your head. NO. You spent too much time chained to those thoughts. Stop. You were already just fine.

Enough.

You're tired of ruining your life with this.

The longer you think about it, the more you feel that everything inside you is withering, dying, rotting. You've had enough. It's not coming back. He's not coming back. Your life looks different.

It is different with him.

He has given you a reason, he has given you something to look after, to redeem your faults and to grow up with. As ridiculous as it sounds to describe him, he gave you hope for a better tomorrow. Even if that tomorrow is strewn with his overwhelming persona, bills, worries about the kids and…. everything else.

Better than rotting and killing yourself from the inside out.

A long, very long moment passed in which you stared at the dead spot outside the window. Your thoughts fell silent, leaving a void that was not at all unpleasant. You needed it. Moment of tranquil.

You felt the bed knead behind you. Strong hands hugged your waist, the touch of warm skin against yours made you shiver.

"it's late" he muttered, his hair tickling your neck. He pulled you back to him, gently. You let him. He cover you with the duvet and lay down, pressing your face against his chest. You felt his chin find its place on the top of your head. "don't think so much… sleep~" He kept you warm, you didn't even know you were so cold. Warmth soothingly spread over your body, warming every bit, from head to toe.

You didn't have the strength to struggle with him to let you go.

Your eyes closed of their own accord, you snuggled closer to him, and his hands on your waist only helped with that. His scent was soothing, and the material of his t-shirt against the layer of his muscles was so welcoming. You were so cosy.

It was so nice and sleepy...

You woke up cuddled into his torso. He was lying on his back with your head on his chest, your hand against his heart and his arms still wrapped around you.

It was the first morning you finally accept it.

You came to terms with his body next to yours in the morning. You didn't run away from him, you didn't wake him, you weren't going to move.

It felt so pleasant.

You had consciously, without an alarm clock or worry, snuggled more into him. A lazy smile appeared on your sleepy face. You were so cosy and warm. You needed this. Your thoughts fled in the only direction possible now, which could only be summed up by one name.

"Satoru…" you muttered before falling back asleep again.

tl: @kalopsia-flaneur

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sunshine-theseus · 1 year ago

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Bia | Kyra Cooney-Cross x Reader

Words: 2.8k Summary: you create your own boots and meet the most beautiful girl - sorry I also used this to info dump about the necessity for boots designed specifically for women to lower injury risks Warnings: none i think. lemme know if there are any requested by - @hottiedogs375 i hope you enjoy, it's probably not my best :( definitely not as good as pequeña i think

My family was more of a cricket family than a football one. I wasn’t really fond of either, the shouting was always too much, and the food was somehow sloppy yet rock hard at the same time. Even when we watched at home. The living room would be full of sweaty angry men, sometimes my mum and sister would join if our team was actually doing well. Meanwhile you’d find me in my room at the very back corner of the attic, my room, with headphones on to block out the noise, usually designing something.

Despite the cricket background, I found myself intrigued by the design of women’s football kits. In my design and technology class in year 13, I fell down a research rabbit hole on football boots for women. It was then I discovered the lack of adaptation for the shoe. Women often just wear smaller sizes of boots designed for men, which has been one of the factors in the increase in injuries in the women’s game and I’d decided I wanted to fix that.

That’s how I found myself in front of a crowd, made up of possible brand ambassadors and sponsors, as well as a range of women’s athletes from across the world, pitching my idea.

“And that’s why brands like Bia are important to the growth of women’s football. The shape of the boot, the length of studs, the sole support, they’re all contributing factors to how players perform. When women footballers use the men’s boots, which is basically the only option, they aren’t going to grow used to the details designed for male anatomy. It’s causing stress on not only their feet but every ligament, every bone, every piece of them is suffering because they have to try and adapt to things they can’t possibly adapt to.” I felt like the closing of my speech was rather strong, especially as I watched players and possible sponsors stand to clap. The noise echoes throughout the auditorium and a happiness bubbles within me.

“Thank you for providing me this opportunity. Please, if anyone has any questions.” I gesture to the stand-up microphone in the middle aisle, and people rush to line up.

“What made you intent on creating a boot specifically for women, risking money and time on something people have tried to do before? Something you knew wasn’t guaranteed to work?”

“I know it’s funny, but my family was not a football one, so I didn’t grow up knowing much about the game. But in my a-levels design and technology class, we had to research an issue prevalent in an existing design, and I for some reason was just drawn to the idea that women don’t even get the choice of having a boot made for them. I found it unfair and uncaring. Everyone expects women to play at the same level as men yet won’t provide them with the necessary equipment to do so without them having to risk, quite possibly their career. And I couldn’t just move on after the class, I knew that I had to do something about it. So I’ve spent the past 3 years perfecting the design and building the brand, to be here in front of you all today.” Another round of applause is heard throughout the room before the next person steps up.

She’s a footballer, that I know. Young, no older than 21, my age. And very very pretty.

“This question probably isn’t quite as important as that one but, what made you pick the name Bia? It just seems like an interesting name.” people chuckle at the question, and the (newly discovered) Australian shyly looks around.

“No, I love this question. Bia is the Greek goddess of force and raw energy. She’s actually Nike’s sister, the goddess of victory and very obviously the brand. I think Bia resembles a lot of things within female athletes. They have this driving force and unbelieve power that they bring, and it just felt so right.”

“That’s sick. Can I also quickly ask, sorry, are these boots made for every female athlete? Like can someone in track and field use these or are they just for footballers?” the girl smiles brightly after her question, and I have to remember not to lose focus.

“While the primary focus is obviously footballers, I have researched the compatibility of boots between sports and yes, a professional sprinter like Sharika Jackson can use them just as well as you or Alexia Putellas could. And of course as the brand grows we’ll be able to develop even further and broaden our research further in creating boots fit for anyone.”

Questions carry on for a while, then I disappear behind the curtain that’s suspended behind me, rushing to remove my microphone. Eventually I slide out the side door and reach the separate room booked for ‘mingling’ after the panel.

Between talking to rich people desperate to make it seem like they care about others, and athletes who are very eager to know everything they can about the shoe, I try to keep an eye out for the nameless Australian. Every time I think I’ve spotted her; it seems she disappears. Bodies keep moving and she seems to be one of them.

Then I bump into someone. We both go stumbling but she catches me just before I head for the floor.

“I am so sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going.” And there she was, the girl I’d been looking for.

“No, no need to apologise. I’m Y/n.” I give her a hand to shake.

“Kyra.” There’s a pause before she continues.

“I’m a big fan of your boot. It’s truly incredible.” It’s hard not to blush and sputter out random sounds at her praise.

“Thank you. I’m really hoping this function works out.”

“Well I was thinking, when it does, if you need ‘a face of Bia’…”

“Oh my god yes that would be amazing. Seriously you have no idea how cool that would be.”

We talk for quite some time, and she sticks by my side when someone else comes to talk and ask question. When it’s time to go home we exchange numbers and that’s the first and last time I see her for a while.

5 months later is the next time I see Kyra in person. We’d both been travelling a lot, me for sponsors, ambassadors, and athletes, her for work. I’d expected to meet with her a few more times before we kick started the ‘face of Bia’ photoshoots, but as the fates had it, we found ourselves in a large warehouse, photo equipment, and many boxes of my shoes filling the space.

It suddenly all started to feel very real, and that made me nervous. So I packed myself into a small room in the corner as I tried to calm down, hoping the isolation and quiet would help me feel better.

Not even 2 minutes in, someone is following and taking a seat next to me.

“You right?” the voice is familiar and smooth.

“Yeah, yeah of course I am. It’s not like the biggest thing I’ve ever worked for in my life is basically in its final stage of release in the next room and I’m freaking out about it. What if they aren’t actually good? What if th-”

“I’m going to stop you right there. You sent me a pair 2 months ago, and I told you I would test them before saying anything, and I did just that. I took them to training. Ran on the pitch, walked, kicked the ball, passed, made risky moves. And what did I tell you after that?”

“‘These are the best fucking shoes ever.’ But what if they aren’t?”

“Listen Y/n, how many other athletes, not just me or footballers, did you send a pair to for testing?”

“Like 43. Basically every one that came to the panel plus some more.”

“How many told you they were good?”

“43.”

“Exactly. So we’re going to go out there together, you’re gonna tell the photographer what you want to see, every opinion, every change, anything, and we’re going to finalise your fucking dream.” Kyra picks me up without me even agreeing, and basically carries me out to the set up.

Ali Kreiger, despite her recent retirement, was currently being photographed. She’d been the one to reach out to me when she heard from, someone, and wanted to be an ambassador. I probably screamed so loud my neighbours thought I was getting murdered that day.

“They’re going to want a couple photos of you too probably. Either with the shoes or with one or all of us. Okay?” Kyra rubs a hand up and down my back as I take it all in.

I nod vigorously and try to shake my hands to get rid of the remaining nerves, eventually taking a seat next to the photographer, Eve. She asks for my input on every shot and manages to carry out my vision without fail every single time. As players filter in and out, I begin to truly relax and allow myself to take in the moment.

Zimmorlei Farquharson and Poppy Boltz, two AFLW players for the Brisbane Lions, were being photographed together when Kyra slid into the spare chair next to me. She didn’t say anything but when I looked over, I had to quickly look away again. Her outfit wasn’t something out of the ordinary, a loose cropped top and bike shorts, plus the sage green boots she was promoting. But the strip of skin that was exposed between her shirt and shorts was enticing and it was hard not to stare at the way her muscles contracted every time she moved in the seat.

I’m certain she caught me staring.

As she stands to take over the Australian Football players, Kyra leans over and whispers in my ear. It takes me a moment to process her words and by then she’s already under the lights.

“Good thing we’re taking some pictures. They’ll last longer.” To say I was stumped was a rather big understatement. Was she flirting with me?

I don’t get to think about it too much, Kyra looking my way every time she changed position or began to play around with the ball provided.

Not long after, I’m asked to join all the girls in front of the camera for a few shots. I knew it was coming but my heart still dropped into my stomach, and I choked on my breath. As expected, it’s Kyra who grabs my hand and instructs me to breathe slowly. Her thumb runs over the back of my hand and the motion begins to sooth me.

I take a place in front of the camera and the group of athletes. I’m not quite sure how to stand, but Kyra takes the space behind me, resting an arm over my shoulder and the other around my waist. It forces me to lean back naturally and as the girls around us take a stance, Eve continues to shoot.

“You and Kyra have a lot of chemistry by the looks of it, and she’s who you’re most comfortable with. Use that. Make it natural. The girls around you will adapt.” I expect the comment from Eve, but it’s Ali who puts a hand on my shoulder and reassures me.

With that instruction, and a nod from Eve, Kyra jumps on my back. It’s a pose that helps with showing off the boot and making me laugh. She then jumps off and takes my hands, turning me to face her as she dips. I rush to catch her as she falls, our faces a hair width apart.

Before I can think, I close the gap. My lips press hard against her’s as the camera shutter repeatedly goes off, but I don’t think anything of it. Until I pull away.

I almost drop her once my thoughts catch up to me.

“I am so sorry. What the fuck did I just do?” the rest of the girls had already walked away, so it was just us.

“Nothing you should regret or feel bad for.” Kyra stands right in front of me, our lips basically touching again.

“And maybe you should do it again.” I pause for a moment before leaning back down, kissing her again.

~~~~~

It takes three more weeks for the official brand release. After years of designing, making, spending every cent I had on these boots, Bia was officially the first woman specific sports boot.

Kyra’s first Arsenal game wearing them was the day of the release. She ended up talking about them in post-match interview after being asked “how were you excelling so well in the midfield today?” Not only was Bia’s sale numbers skyrocketing and the media account blowing up, so was my own.

I’d of course attended the match, excited to see them as an officially released boot. Someone had spotted me in the crowd and tweeted about it, talking about ‘the creator of that new boot brand is watching Kyra rep them for the first time live’. Someone else had caught me hugging Kyra on the pitch after the game and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

The rumours could only be expected. They also couldn’t be denied. Not without lying.

“I’m so proud of you.” The smooth Australian accent almost lulls me to sleep as we rest in Kyra’s bed, the sheets hiding our bare skin.

Her fingers trace shapes on my hip as she holds me, and I kiss along her collar bones and neck.

“And also very, very grateful for your genius brain creating those boots. Not only for helping my game play, but for bringing you to me.”

“I’m also grateful for my genius brain bringing us together.” I tease before softly kissing her.

It’d been impossible to escape her charm after our kiss at the photoshoot, so naturally we went on a date. And another, before she asked me to be her girlfriend. Eve sent me those photos just in case we wanted them in the brand release post. They currently sat in my hard drive, but it was very tempting to post a couple.

Kyra wanted a moment of privacy before the world knew, but I knew it didn’t matter whether it was out or a secret, as long as I had her.

A new power couple is on the rise in the world of Women’s Football. Creator of new women’s sports boots brand Bia, Y/n L/n, spotted with girlfriend, Arsenal and Matildas midfielder Kyra Cooney-Cross at a café in North London this morning before the London Derby. The couple confirmed their relationship mere days ago with photos of the lovebirds kissing from L/n’s brand shoot.

I laugh at the article as Kyra pulls into the Emirates parking, hand in mine. I’d become rather acquainted with her teammates and they begged me to come to the London Derby on the weekend. I couldn’t refuse when my girlfriend pulled out the puppy dog eyes and promised to ban me from any sort of affection, specifically kisses, for the week.

“You better win. I have a bet going with Niamh that you’ll beat her and I cannot lose a bet against her again.” Kyra chuckles and leaves with a kiss, sending me into the friends and family section of the stands.

It was nerve wracking going alone, but it was for Kyra and that was all I cared about. Supporting her like she supported me.

Kyra doesn’t start, which had been expected. Despite it, the girls were playing well and were up 3-1 at half-time. No yellow cards for either team had most people shocked though. The derby was known to be rough and physical, yet it seemed things were rather calm for the situation at hand.

There’s a substitute at half-time that puts Kyra back on the pitch. I blow a kiss when she looks my way as she jogs out and she pretends to catch it and place it on her cheek. Both of us are unaware of the interaction being caught on the big screen while people wait for the countdown.

It’s when extra time is announced that everyone in the stadium knows Arsenal have won the game. The Chelsea players look tired and defeated and the Arsenal girls don’t look much different, apart from the massive smiles that grace each one of their faces. The final whistle blows, and the crowd erupts in deafening cheers for the gunners, and I can’t help joining in.

After congratulating the blues on their performance and huddling with her own teammates, Kyra comes running for me. The guard on the other side of the barrier grows wary when I stand, clearly about to jump it, but Kyra gives him the okay and grabs me by the waist, helping me join her on the pitch.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” I whisper as she stands on her tippy toes.

Her arms wrap tightly around my neck and mine go around her waist as she pulls me in for a kiss. It’s deep and passionate and the crowd around us cheers, some of the girls joining in.

“We’re both kinda killing it aren’t we?” I let out a laugh as she hops on my back, pointing me in the direction of her Matilda’s teammates, even Sam, who are grouped in the middle of the field.

She sprinkles kisses around my face as they talk between each other and I’ve never felt more content.

Fuck cricket, football is the sport for me.

#woso x reader #woso #womens soccer #wsl #woso fanfics #the matildas x reader #the matildas #kyra cooney cross x reader #kyra cooney cross #kyra cooney-cross #kyra cooney-cross x reader

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sideysvault · 9 days ago

Text

𓍼ོ Ad Astra Per Aspera 𓍼ོ (PT. X)

Ice and snow

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (Bonus Chapter, dated in the near vicinity of the series events)

WC: 4,310k

Tags: [sfw] Arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, mentions of dead, mature themes, panic attack, enemies to lovers, extreme hurt, comfort.

full series masterlist.

────────

No matter the circumstance, the wins, or the land conquered, they never seemed to be able to leave. Perpetually stuck inside the corner in which the blacks had forced them to hide in. The Princess spent her days studying, reading, desperately grasping for any piece of information that might help lose the collar on their necks. She tried hard to ignore the desperation that was boiling inside of her; Animals always make mistakes when they are scared. But it had become harder and harder to ignore, and it became harder and harder to stay on the sidelines, pretending it did not matter to her.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had come out of his peaceful hiding place and began to fly to every corner in the entirety of the west, trying to convince disfavored houses to join his suicide cause. Most of the men in power still had some resemblance of honor and an almost instinctive respect for the traditions of the old Valyria. In her opinion, that was one of the biggest threats to the legitimacy of King Aegon's rule. After all, haven’t they all bent the knee to a young Rhaynera Targaryen? Wasn’t her father, still mighty and publically present, right there to conduct the affair? And wasn’t Aegon proclaimed king in the privacy of the chamber of a dying man? A weak man? One poisoned and made compliant by milk of the poppy? Aegon´s behavior and the people's hunger were not exactly helping their cause, either. Something had to change drastically, as even she felt the desire to see someone else sit on The Iron Throne.

But what was one to do? Her husband was bent upon the Green’s right to rule, partially because of the wound that was inflicted upon him at youth, and partly because he was still convinced that Aegon could be conducted in the right direction. And the skilled sailor who was to tame the uncontrollable waves that Aegon had for judgement? Prince Aemond’s brilliant mind, of course.

A childish fantasy, yes. But she had become quite fond of her husband, and she deeply desired to help Heleana’s family.

What occupied the Princess’s mind was a rather simple task; To predict where the bastard Prince was going next.

She had begged her husband to give her details of whatever relevant information he heard on the Council, arguing that she was getting particularly bored and unstimulated with domestic life. When he had unexpectedly agreed, she, for a moment, had dreamed of a future in which she could serve the Kingdom as an adviser of sorts, perhaps even one with the common folk's well-being in mind. Such were the thoughts that powered her body through the nights of research. The Princess had spent every waking hour trying to trace the path the enemy was to take. She wanted to be absolutely certain before telling Aemond about her discovery.

What she did not know was that Prince Aemond knew of his wife's critically inclined mind, and he had always felt a strong desire for them to become partners, sharing information with one another, and assisting each other intellectually. But, knowing The Princess's need for control and secrecy, he figured she would much prefer it if he waited for her to confess to him her intentions.

That is why she did not expect that her husband would insist that she came along with him. Surprised, she realized that he wanted her company on this trip.

“Oh! Don’t be ridiculous, Aemond. I do not enjoy snow, it is at odds with my nature. You don’t need me to chaperone you”.

Her husband waved her hand dismissively, apparently unconcerned with her weather preferences.

“You crafted the prediction, it is only fair you get to travel alongside me on this diplomatic effort”. He stopped for a second, before cheekily adding “Besides, I thought you had grown bored by the domesticity of the castle”.

Aemond was right, and despite her discomfort with the scenery, being so close to the efforts of peace -or at the very least, resolution-Was what her heart desired. But the Princess knew that her ego would not be able to take the blow if she was to accompany him as a mere visual attraction.

“I do not wish to serve wine and smile to the northerners”

Prince Aemond laughed at her as if she had said something amusingly stupid. Dumbfounded, she slowly blinked at him, confused.

“Dear wife, I would not be taking you as a prop. I value your tact, I thought I had made that clear to you”

Even if she despised flattery, she still had a growing sensation that he was being truthful. So there it was. It had been decided.

——

The man in front of her looked like the northerner he was. It went beyond the provincial way in which he carried himself. While Ser Cregan Stark's youth of his time in this realm still adorned his round face, his recently developed manhood was made evident by the undoubtedly brash air to his presence. Even if he was similar in age to her, he portrayed a certain confidence in his gaze that she immediately felt both drawn to, and jealous of. The Princess had heard stories, of course. Boys in the North aged like metal: Tempered and shaped by the bludgeoning hammer of the winter; Forced to be strong, animalistic.

A smile formed on her lips. In a sense, they were much like the wolves they so dearly kept by their side. Loyal like lap dogs, partially astute, superstitious and dangerous when provoked.

How was it? That old saying? There is no King but the one in the North?

“Does it amuse you?” He was getting irritated at her, but more than feeling personally offended by the Princess’s incredulity, the man felt an exasperating disillusionment: she wasn’t as easily swayed as he had thought. She had a hard head on her shoulders, just like her unyielding husband.

“I am deeply sorry, My Lord” the breath of her laughter still echoed in her voice as she continued, “You meant for me to tell my husband, who is pragmatic to the extreme, a tail of monsters and snow?”

As she smiled at him, amused, her mind brought her to think of the Prince himself, who had a beautifully angular face, but his characteristics gave away his birthright. Targaryen features; Delicate, elegant, sincerely blue and with the character of an elusive dragon flying gracefully through the skies. There was power in their lineage, yes. But it had been given. A gift from the gods, or, more feasible than the later, a stroke of luck. However, since the Jaehaerys tragedy, she was now inclined to believe that the technicality escaped her area of expertise.

The Northern Prince, however, had common features. Handsome, strong, rough, and all different from the one before him in the familial tree. A look much more suited for a republican, a man that was given power by his own merit and capability. It was a trustworthy look, and even if she knew better than to judge people on their presentation alone, it was easy to see why the North people followed the Stark line, and why everyone always flinched around the Targaryen's homogeneity.

She felt kin to Cregan Stark, and she was certain of the North’s key role in putting an end to the war, so she felt inclined to go through the trouble of trying to put sensible thoughts on her stubborn husband’s head. Besides, it had been her idea to come this far, she owed it to the both of them.

“It is imperative for you to try to speak some sense to your husband. We are people of honor, and we bent the knee to Rhaenyra Targaryen. But it is certainly true that protecting our people is our primary duty and responsibility. Above all else. Do you honestly believe that my ancestors spent blood, sweat, and centuries building The Wall because of a troublesome tale?”

The Princess sighed and decided that the best path forward was to be honest with him.

“Since I came into the region I have experienced things that have changed the way I see reality. But this-, well, with all the respect your House deserves, Lord Cregan-” The look on his face made her choose her words with caution “A lot has changed since the era where we were afraid of fire and thirsty for blood. However, I-”

“I have heard stories of your people being pedantically elitist. But I’ve never thought it would be in a more insidious manner than the Targaryen's”.

She winced in embarrassment, reprimanding herself with murmured words. Her harsh manners were getting the best of her. She could not even refute the comment that she knew to be true. “I was trying to say that I agree with you, Ser Cregan”.

A look of surprise washed over her as the unthinkable happened; He laughed. Loudly and unapologetically. The sound of his strong palm hitting on the wooden table and his laughter continued had startled you. But the absurdity of his unceremoniously joviality made you laugh as well. She was grateful for the opportunity to get out of the oppressive tightness of the walls on the Red Keep.

A sudden change in the Wind caught The Princess's attention. She had been wrong about the North, despite the numbing sensation on the tip of her fingers, the snow had captured her heart and made it malleable, filled with hospitality and reverence for the beauty of the Natural World. It was very different from where she had come from, that was perhaps the culprit of her distraction. The sound of the wind against the window and the contrast of the castle against the pristine confines of the land had taken her far away from the room she was in. Far away from the horrors of war.

Realizing she might be being rude yet again, she tried to explain herself to Lord Stark.

“I bet there is nothing that burns like the cold of Winterfell, but, God. It is a marvel to experience”.

“You don't go out often. Do you, My Lady?”.

A burst of laughter emerged out of her, and her teeth and gums were happily exposed for a second, before she covered her face with her hands, embarrassed one again. But suddenly unconcerned with her manners, at ease.

“Is it terribly obvious?”

Ser Cregan looked at her for a moment, before smiling.

“Yes, very much so”.

They smiled at each other. The Princess thought of what her life might have been had she been forced to spend it with a person who could be a friend to her. For a moment, just for a moment, their eyes lingered on each other. It was cut short by a sudden remembrance of the state of affairs. They were both in that room for a reason. It was like a curtain was abruptly raised on a stage, and they were back to the insipid negotiations, however honest they may have been.

“I made a great error once, and it cost someone’s future. I do not wish for my pride to blind me ever again. I will speak with my husband, Ser. But I doubt it will make any difference”.

Cregan Stark knew at that moment that she was making a vow to him, that she sincerely wished for the war to stop, to move forward.

“I did not take Prince Aemond to be a man willing to ask for loyalty, much less to be as diplomatic as he has poorly tried to be. I can clearly infer that it was by your design, Princess.”

She did not answer to him, unsure of how safe it would be for it to be known that she sometimes had a voice in her marriage.

“He listens to you”. He uttered those words as if they were gospel, something obvious to the most ignorant of onlookers. Lord Cregan took a breath as he looked into her eyes, one again “I do appreciate your efforts, even if they turn out to be futile.”

——

The Princess did not take into account that her husband was in the room next to her, and that he might have heard their laughter. The shred of hope she had felt while talking to Ser Cregan was violently taken away by The Prince.

He was being unreasonably stubborn, and she had felt disappointed, for she was not property, and did not believe her husband to think of her that way.

“Please, Aemond”.

“I did not take you for a fool, wife. Did he charm his way into your heart with his stories of honor from the Old World?”.

She felt an exasperating fix of rage. The Princess had spent endless nights without sleep, reading interminable, useless files, papers, books, maps, trying to work hard to alleviate the weight of her husband's sins and pressures, and it was all ruined by a misplaced fit of jealousy? Did Aemond not realize all the work she had put into this prognosis? How much she had hoped it would be able to help him? In some way, any way, really? Was he lying about valuing her insight, did he consider her as just a prop and a hand to hold when he was sorrowful?.

The intoxication of patriotic feelings and lineage royalties had always been something alien to her. But she did profoundly believe in one's duty to struggle against the forces that threaten to hurt your family. The Greens had given her a home, and Aemond had been an agreeable husband, and Gods, they killed sweet Heleana´s babe. Furthermore, if she could do something to alleviate the people's hunger, and to shorten the sorrow of war, was it not her duty?. Faith had given her a husband who she thought saw her as an equal. And, despite her best efforts, sometimes, late at night, her husband's teary eyes whispered tales of affection to her, and his hands, always blessed with decisiveness, kept her mind strong and far away from the dreaded terrors of the past.

Prince Aemond, on the other hand, realized the moment he heard his wife's laughter, that he had never made her happy like so; That in their marriage, the strange moments of tenderness and mutual support had only come from sadness or despair. Never, never from a place of innocent happiness or joviality. For even his cardinal sin had been a way to protect her. The whispers of court were not foreign to him, and he had heard the pitiful remarks made to the Princess when the news of their betrothal were made public. How could he call himself better than his brother, if he were to force upon his newly-wed wife the same pain that was inflicted upon him in infancy? How could he truly know if her advances were sincere, or if it was due to a resigned fearfulness? And even if they were, how could he, inept as he was on those matters, fulfill the expectations of a Targaryen Prince?. He had not lied to his wife. In these troubling times, especially with his Uncle, it was dangerous to so recklessly conceive a child. He had, after all, been mutilated in infancy, in the very walls of his home, and war had not been unleashed just yet. What type of father could he be, if he were to expose his child to a similar, or worse, fate than him?.

He did not expect for their laughter to hurt as much as it did. Aemond knew that it was most likely due to his own inadequacies. What other reason could there be, for his wife to laugh and be happily sweet with every person she encounters? Everyone but him?. Was the mistake made on that night she wanted to consummate the marriage, utterly unforgivable? Had he not made it clear that he values her beyond the marital arrangement? Or was it something inside of him, something rotten, poisoned, that repelled her? Is that what made his wife treat him with the usual defensiveness? Was she scared of him, as everyone else seemed to be?. Or had he embarrassed her beyond any reparations, when his brother had told the entirety of the Red Keep about his submissiveness to Sylvie? Perhaps, there would have been a time when none of it would matter much to him. But he found her fascinating, and on occasion, sincerely kind. He had grown painfully fond of her.

His thoughts were promptly interrupted by his wife's pleading “There may be some truth to what he is saying”

Aemond sighed, and grabbed the bridge of his nose. This conceit mannerism further exasperated The Princess. It reminded her of her parents, dismissing her yet again.

“I can’t promise him my-, our family's army. And if he is so concerned with honor, what guarantees us that he won’t later support the usurper?”.

“He is desperate enough to forsake the honor of his clan. I believe that he is profoundly concerned with the white walkers. It is inconsequential, whether we believe it or not. What matters is that he believes them to be a pressing threat to the kingdom”.

Aemond was convinced by the North's importance in the War, and he could not help but smile at his wife's vehement trust in his political influence. A mere misconception, he feared.

“I would never be able to convince Aegon, or the council. The Northern's are prideful superstitious people; malleable, a liability”.

“A liability is losing territory and alliances every day” She took a deep breath as she paced around the room, “Aemond, I’m not a believer, but how can you explain Heleana’s gift?”

“That’s different. Peculiarities of pure Targaryen blood. Unlike the bastard sons of Rhaenyra”.

She laughs in exasperation. There it was, again. She truly believed that her husband could be a good leader, if he was somehow able to release the bonds that made him a servant to the power of his own vanity and lineage. Yes, the Targaryen's were said to be of pure Valyrian blood, dragon lords of ancient lineage. Will he ever be able to let go of such a tyrannical tale? From her point of view, it was one of the few things that kept him far away from greatness. The only one he could control and change, at least.

“Is something funny, My Dear?”

She felt like crying out of pure spite. The Princess was the one who convinced him of coming to The North, and it had been all for nothing. He had failed her, and she had failed him as well. She tried strenuously hard to not take her husband's negation personally, but she failed to do so. The mind of the Princess was simple that way, goal-oriented. And tragically prideful, as she usually was.

“Dear Gods! You cannot be this blinded by hate. Your own resentments are clouding your judgement, husband. This is the best decision available to us” She tried to take a hold of her emotions, as this was not at all how she planned to present her case, "Given the northerner's attitude towards the Wall, the only natural step is that we consider exploiting their needs in the interest of our Kingdom”.

Aemond did not know why he could not say it. He agreed with his wife, this was the best possible route. Even if the plan had its flaws, in their precarious condition, it was as good as they could strive for. But he, in his insensate state, could not bring himself to admit in front of her, -In front of himself, really - that he truly held no power. All of it. His futile plans, it was a delusion of his. And he was deeply embarrassed by it. As much as he had tried to turn the odds in his favor, it never seemed to work. The Prince could not stand to even imagine the look she would have when his wife realized that he was as powerless as she was. So, he said something else.

“It is a bargain. What do you always say? A cry of desperation? Furthermore, I doubt that the usurpers are able to make such abiding promises, even in a stage of crisis”.

Even as those words left his mouth, he could feel that for the first time since the attempted consummation, he had truly hurt her. It went beyond not getting her way, and it went far beyond the matters of war. It was something more personal, far more domestic. He knew that this discussion, as many in their marriage, were a mere result of that something, -What it was, he could not say - that did not quite fit.

Crying was not at all alien to her, as a matter of fact, for someone who took such satisfaction in their strength, she cried rather easily. Of course, she didn't when Aemond was there, or anybody else, but still, this night, The Princess did not have the energy to hide it. It all came together, convulsing and hitting her like a swell. She suddenly felt like no air was left in the chamber, and, warning to grasp for anything solid, she fell to the cold floor. Such hysterical episodes happened to her, on rare occasions, how much less than when she was an infant. The woman felt an indescribable shame infect her throat, further obstructing the air to enter her lungs.

“Aemond, besides Helena, I have no one. Besides you, I have no one on the Red Keep. Those Walls are my whole life now. Do not reprimand me for having cordial interactions with others. Especially when you won't ever talk to me”. She crawled -how pitiful-, to the nearest wall, in an attempt to further anchor herself to the material surroundings, before she continued, “I worked every fucking night to help you on this, and, and this is how you react?”

She knew that it was hard to talk to her husband about her case, because he is oh so wise, and he loves himself so. But there she went and promised it anyway to Ser cregan Stark. And she did not make out a very good case for herself, for she was crying before she had finished.

Aemond was not as unfeeling as she had thought, because as soon as she saw her drop to the ground, and crawl to the wall, it did not take him very long to hit the ground, and move on hands and knees to sit beside her. She laughed through the tears. Oh, the great Royal Couple, dragging themselves on the floor like babes. Unsure of how much she would like being touched, Aemond opted for grabbing only her index finger, and slowly, trying to synchronize it to his breath pattern as much as he could, he began to draw circles on it.

“I am sorry, but it seems like you are in a constant war with me. Saving grace and being charitable to everyone else. Do I scare you? Did the incident in Silver Street disgust you to that extent?”

The Princess got inexplicably angry when he felt ashamed about that, and perhaps being rather insensible, she spat out “Do not be stupid, Aemond. Or think that ill of myself. Of course not”.

He laughed. And said her name in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible. And then he said her name again, softly, sweetly. Soon enough, you were resting your head on his extended legs, hugging them tightly, as he stroked your hair. Breathing became an unconscious action after some time, and your eyes and heart began to feel tired after the crying.

“I wished to do nothing more than to help”.

“I know, Darling. And it was a brilliant move.” He took a breath before continuing his confession, having finally decided to be honest to her, despite how much he loved her respect “But the truth is, despite your high opinion of me, is that I have no real power on the council. It is a smart move, but it is not doable, Love. I cannot do it. I do not have the political capability, or my brother the sense to listen”.

As soon as he said it, he felt like a whole month of fog and rain finally had cleared. The Prince did not know why it had been so hard. And the fact of the matter was that she already knew that. And yet they had both traveled to the North, as an act of Faith for one another, and as an attempt to escape the horrors of their incapacities. They were full of magnificent illusions. What the Princess might not have been aware of, is that the situation had made evident to her husband that change was necessary. Not only for him, but for his wife as well.

“Sometimes I forget that we are at the mercy of others”. He laughed, after all, he often forgot too.

“The Blacks are most likely to support his fantastical crusade. But at least we can now know for certain that we will lose the North. That must give us some time for preparation”.

“Thank you for coming with me, Aemond. I really am grateful”. Her husband wasn’t sure if she meant it for listening to her, for coming to the North, or for the conversation they just had, but by the time the conversation was over, she was sitting straight again, but with her head now resting on his shoulder.

That morning, at breakfast, he heard her laugh again, only this time, it was with him. She smiled at him for the first time, without any irony or jabs, it seemed like a burden was lifted from her chest, from their marriage.

────────

Notes: This is it folks! This is the first chapter (and my favorite) i ever wrote on this series. I got the idea while i was bored watching gladiator 2 (Ik). It has been plaguing my head ever since. This is a long one but I hope you can enjoy it!

-Sidey xxo

#prince aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #aemond x you #hotd s2 #hotd spoilers #hotd fanfic #hotd season 2 #hotd #one eyed aemond #ewan mitchell

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kurishiri · 1 month ago

Text

02┊Dark If —Alfons Sylvatica—

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— cw: implied dub-con, implied alcohol consumption, invasion of personal space.

(I-I-I...I...)

Alfons the Mirror: You’re rather quick to wake up, aren’t you. Well? Were you able to have a good dream last night?

(Why did I do such a thing... it was like Alfons was my lover...)

(Wait, like one...?)

Kate: Y-you did something to me, didn’t you?

Alfons the Mirror: Why indeed I did. We did a greaaat many things under consent.

A: That said, though, you ended up falling asleep, so we didn’t go all the way.

Kate: That’s not the point...!

Alfons the Mirror: Were you aware of my ability then? Because, yes, I did use it.

A: I am a mirror that reflects wishes and desires. I simply did what you wished for.

Kate: Wh—why would I ever wish for something so dirty...

Alfons the Mirror: Well I’ll be... is that really so?

Though I was intoxicated, I could still remember how I ended up wanting to lean into Alfons’ warmth.

Kate: Y-you’re the utter worst!

Alfons the Mirror: Aha, I do take a fancy to that reaction of yours. I prefer this loads over how you resembled a lost child last night.

Kate: Well, I won’t be seeking any more help from you.

Alfons the Mirror: Well then, how about I make a prediction? You will come to see me... I’m more than sure.

I straightened out my disheveled clothes and stood up as Alfons said while sprawled on the bed...

Alfons the Mirror: Ah, and...

(...?)

Alfons the Mirror: The first cocktail you drank last night is applejack. Despite all appearances, it’s quite some strong liquor.

A: A poisoned apple may not necessarily take the form of an apple itself. Do be careful from now on.

Perhaps out of frustration, or something else entirely, my cheeks grew hot.

Kate: Thanks for the warning! And you take care of that liver of yours too, mister Alfons the Mirror!

Alfons the Mirror: ......... (O_O)

A: ...pfft, ahahaha!

Leaving that shameless parting remark, I burst out of that shady room.

(That guy’s the worst of the worst, I swear to god——!!)

Pub master: Look at you, lady-killer. Did you have a fun time yet again? I’m almost envious.

Alfons the Mirror: Too much fun, in fact. Though she ran away like a cat would in the end.

??? (Harry): ...Hey, don’t go teasing her too much.

Alfons the Mirror: ...?

Sitting in the corner of the pub was a man, and that was all he said before disappearing into the darkness.

Pub master: So, are you gonna have a drink to wake yourself up, Alfons?

Alfons the Mirror: Yes, perhaps I will, with an applejack.

The day after I was played by the mirror, I went around on my own to find the missing thing.

But it seemed the favorite phrase of the people I asked boiled down to ‘maybe you’ll know if you ask Alfons?’

So in the end, I couldn’t get my hands on any information, leaving me to go back to that person, much to my displeasure.

Said person was at the castle, playing on a whim with a black cat.

Alfons the Mirror: Elbie was going to add this cat to his collection, you see... but it’s a relief indeed that you won’t be subject to a taxidermy, isn’t it?

Black cat: Meow...

Alfons the Mirror: And so, what brings you here?

Kate: .........ease.

Alfons the Mirror: I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that. Speak up a little more, why don’t you.

Kate: ...Help me...please...

Alfons the Mirror: With what, might I ask?

(I-I swear, this man——!)

Kate: I need your insights, so please help me...!

Alfons the Mirror: Very well. I must say you looked quite darling just now.

While I threw him a resentful look, Alfons brought his fingers to his chin in a dramatic gesture.

Alfons the Mirror: For the record, everything I am about to say is mere speculation on my end.

A: But you are Snow White, Elbie is the Queen, Roger the Hunter, and I the Mirror.

A: Don’t you think there is a missing cast member here in the story of Snow White?

(Ah...)

Kate: The prince?

Alfons the Mirror: Indeed, if you find that prince who is somewhere in this world, you may be able to return from whence you came!

Kate: Thank you so much, Alfons! I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel!

Alfons the Mirror: Hardly. Then, I say we head off to search for this prince and whatnot posthaste.

Kate: Wait, you’re going to help?

Alfons the Mirror: Did I not say? I happen to very much enjoy sticking my nose into other people’s business without the need to take an ounce of responsibility.

And so, with Alfons, we started our search for the prince.

Alfons the Mirror: To all the candidates to be Snow White’s prince, over here! Yes, that’s it, line up in a single file.

A: Now, entry number 1. You can come up.

Candidate No.1: I-I would like to take Snow White’s hand in marriage, so I can get close to Queen Elbert——

Queen Elbert: ...Dismissed.

Alfons the Mirror: Thank you for your time. Ah, and over there are some souvenirs, so do take some with you.

Kate: Thank you for helping out so much.

K: ...But, what in the world is this!?

Alfons the Mirror: Thinking it was the most efficient way, I invited candidates from within the country. I am quite good at my job, aren’t I.

Kate: I won’t deny that, but you could’ve confided in me before it happened...

K: Besides, why is Queen Elbert helping as well?

Queen Elbert: ...? Because, I was worried about you?

Alfons the Mirror: Alright then, entry number 2. You may come up.

Candidate No.2: I want to marry Snow White, and every night... hehehe...

Queen Elbert: ...Take him out of the castle grounds.

Alfons the Mirror: Yes yes, right away. Guards, if you please, throw him right out of the castle.

—— Time skip ——

(...That must’ve been close to 300 people, but we couldn’t find even one remotely like a prince.)

The fatigue piling up on me, I started to feel more down.

(At this rate, I won’t be able to find the missing thing, and I probably won’t be able to return back to reality.)

Alfons the Mirror: Kate? Kate.

Kate: Yes... ngh, mn...

Alfons kissed me with a wet sound before he finally parted from my lips.

Kate: W-why a kiss so suddenly?

Alfons the Mirror: I was starting to grow tired of all these worthless men, so call this a cleansing of palate, if you will.

A: Oh, or are you perhaps in need of a more intensely pleasurable ‘cleansing’?

Kate: Ah… no, we can’t…

I remembered the heat from when he fondled me before, and for a moment I recalled the pleasure from that.

(But that… all of that…)

Alfons the Mirror: You can put all the blame on me. I simply had unfulfilled desires, and so I laid my hands upon you.

Kate: In between an audience… that’s bad manners.

Alfons the Mirror: Oh dear, did you truly take me for someone who tries to uphold manners, by any chance?

A: And besides that, with that sort of phrasing, are you meaning to say doing things like this is alright if it’s in a different place?

Kate: Wh—ah…

Alfons the Mirror: We can leave the prince hunt for tomorrow and enjoy ourselves today. How about it?

(That it would make me happy if that smile of his was not apathetic, but rather one that came from his heart…)

(…It’s not like I’m thinking that or anything.)

And then, a few days later, in order to invite real princes, a banquet was held at the castle.

(Urgh, if it’s real princes, that would mean they’re nobility, right? Of course I’d be nervous…)

Alfons the Mirror: Are you finished with preparations? Well, I’ll be, don’t you look wonderful.

A: That is one shameless slit, to be sure. You’ll have the princes on their knees in no time flat, I say.

Kate: H-hold on, don’t touch me.

Alfons the Mirror: Goodness, what’s there to be so stingy about?

At this point, such interactions with Alfons like this had long become a part of my every day.

I had initially felt so anxious, but now such feelings have dissipated more…

Kate: …You know, recently I’ve had times when I’ve thought about what I’m really searching for.

Alfons the Mirror: And that is to say?

Kate: I had thought finding that missing thing and correcting what made this world twisted would be the right thing to do.

K: But it’s just… I can’t help but wonder if that’s really the case.

The people living in this country had gone twisted and mad somewhere along the way.

After all, Queen Elbert was still searching for the most beautiful thing in this world,

and Alfons… he would sometimes have this severely lonely or icy look in his eyes.

But… there wasn’t any person here that was living an entirely proper life.

And I couldn’t help but feel more or less everyone was living at least a little mad.

While thinking that, I felt the sensation of fingertips tickling my back.

Kate: Eek!

Alfons the Mirror: So you no longer wish to return to reality, instead wanting to stay with me?

Kate: No way!

Alfons the Mirror: Hehe, that’s unfortunate. Oh, and would you look at that. It’s almost time, Snow White.

In the dance hall, princes from many different countries were gathered.

Green-eyed prince: Snow White, this dish is delectable.

Kate: Ah, thank you. I’ll partake in some.

(If it was Alfons, I imagine he wouldn’t eat this sort of luxurious dish.)

——How rude. I’ll have you know purposefully eating crudely is what makes a noble.

Blue-eyed prince: Snow White, uhm, could we talk over there later?

Kate: Yes, of course.

(If it were Alfons, he would probably drag me off somewhere without asking first.)

——After all, you don’t dislike this kind of force, do you?

(…W-wait, what…?)

(For a while now, why was I…)

Why was I trying to find Alfons in other people?

Kate: ——!

(I… to Alfons——)

to be continued…

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fool-tarnished · 9 days ago

Text

"Remember me" - Chapter 4 - Kakashi Hatake x F!Reader

Pairing : Kakashi Hatake x Female!Reader

List : Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

If you want to read Yamato's version, you can find it here.

Warnings : Memory loss, mind control (mk ultra inspired), fluff

Inspiration : Where did she go - Saleka

Words : ~ 2500

A/N : Hello there ! Yes I posted this one faster than the previous ones, uhu. I mean, I wrote it already so why not ? I hope you will enjoy it. And sorry for the mistakes, I'm not a native english speaker. Thank you again for the likes, reblogs and comments ♡

"Yo, [Y/N]."

Upon hearing that familiar voice, you turned around with a smile, placing your book on the bed where you were sitting.

"Kakashi? You always come in through the window, but you do know doors exist, right?"

He was crouched on the edge of the window frame in the room you were in. The words left your mouth without you feeling like you’d even spoken them, and it felt as though you were living this moment while also not living it at the same time. Something strange, yet not necessarily unpleasant.

"Hmm."

As you continued watching him, the ninja tilted his head slightly to one side.

"I heard you left the ANBU."

"Ah, that."

"Is it because of Naruto?"

A brief silence fell as your gaze landed on a photo sitting on the window ledge. It showed you, along with a blond boy who resembled the description Kakashi had given you during your conversations. Your eyes softened, tinged with a hint of sadness and worry.

"I want to try my best to look after him, you know. It’s... complicated." You sighed before continuing. "I’m not sure staying in the special forces is the right thing. He needs someone to be there for him, especially right now... You know, with the exam coming up."

The silver-haired ninja followed your gaze, letting his own linger on the photo of you and Naruto. Right next to it was another photo, this time of you standing beside Kakashi. His eyes hovered over the picture of the two of you for a few seconds before resting on you again.

"It wasn’t just Naruto who convinced me to make this decision."

Curious, he watched as you looked back at him. This time, the expression in your gaze was different.

"Hmm, who else?"

Smiling softly, you stood up and approached him.

"You can come inside if you want. That window doesn’t look very comfortable."

He smiled before stepping in and lowering himself slightly so that your faces were at the same level.

"Nice attempt to dodge, but I haven’t forgotten my question."

Sitting back down on your bed and patting the spot next to you for him to join, you crossed your legs and stared at him.

He closed the window and moved to sit at the edge of the bed.

"If you want your answer, Hatake, you’re going to have to come and get it."

His cheeks tinged with a light pink as he shuffled closer to you, sitting cross-legged as well. He cleared his throat, looking away toward other parts of the room.

"Hmm... So?"

"Don’t you know a certain grey-haired Sensei? I heard he’s pretty strict, too."

His cheeks turned from pink to a deeper red as he tilted his head to the side.

"What?"

The visible part of his face made it clear that he didn’t quite know what to say—that he was still processing what you’d just said, and it left him slightly flustered.

"You know, Naruto and you... You’re the people who mean the most to me. And what I’ve seen over the years in the special forces... I think it took me a long time to realize this, but if I’m going to risk my life, I’d rather do it closer to you two. With the ANBU, I was always so far away... And if something were to happen, I want to make the most of the time I have with you."

The Copy Ninja was left speechless, unable to say anything more. Laughing softly, you leaned toward him, gently pressing your finger to his cheek. He didn’t react, continuing to look at you.

"Oh, Kakashi?"

He finally moved after a few seconds, blinking once before catching the hand you’d poked him with, holding it gently in his own.

"I’d rather you not think about the worst, [Y/N]," he said more seriously, his cheeks fading from bright red to a soft pink.

"You’re too serious. Why can’t you just try to—"

"I don’t like it when you talk as if you’re not going to come back from a mission, you know that."

He turned his head to the side before reaching into one of his pockets with his other hand. Pulling out a closed fist, he gently opened your palm and placed something in it. Holding your hand between both of his, he locked eyes with you again.

"It’s for your kunai... It’s to protect you when you’re on missions. Promise me you’ll always come back safe and sound, okay?"

You remained silent, unable to find any words. Though you couldn’t see yourself, this time it was you who had turned as red as a tomato. Lowering your gaze slightly to your joined hands, you noticed a finely braided red cord with two small grey beads. His thumb softly traced circles on the back of your hand as he held it, and his other hand gently tilted your head back up.

"Always, hmm?"

Another voice broke the sweet dream you had been immersed in—a voice much more energetic and, above all, angry.

"When did she come back?! Why didn’t anyone tell me?!"

It seemed to grow clearer and closer.

"Kakashi-Sensei?!"

Finally opening your eyes, you found yourself face-to-face with Kakashi’s silver hair. You must have fallen asleep, and he had probably laid you down before dozing off himself. He was sitting on the chair right next to you, his head resting on one arm and his other hand still holding yours. You felt him start to stir as well when a blond-haired boy appeared at the foot of your bed.

The Copy Ninja sat up but didn’t seem to notice your hands, something Naruto did not miss.

"And what’s that?!" he questioned, pointing directly at your intertwined hands, eyes wide—a mixture of surprise and slight irritation.

"Naruto, that’s enough!" yelled a feminine voice before a sharp thud echoed, likely an attempt to calm him down.

"Sakura! What’s your problem?!" the boy grumbled, clutching the top of his head.

After exchanging a quick glance, you and Kakashi pulled your hands apart, and you sat up in bed. Kakashi, for his part, stood up and scratched the back of his head, his expression showing slight embarrassment.

"Hmm, Naruto, Sakura, what a surprise…"

"We’ve been waiting for over two hours, but it seems you’ve gotten ‘lost’ again," the pink-haired girl said with an expression difficult to decipher.

"When did you come back?!" Naruto shouted, this time pointing a finger directly at you, one hand still clutching his skull.

"Uh, I—"

"Naruto, can I speak to you for a moment?" the Copy Ninja interrupted, regaining his composure.

"[Y/N]? Why didn’t you come see me?!" Naruto growled again, but his Sensei grabbed his arm and tried to pull him out of the room.

"Sakura, come too. I need to talk to both of you."

Sakura gave you a questioning look before following her Sensei and her friend, leaving the room silent once the door closed.

Sighing, you dropped your head into your hands, rubbing your eyes. You couldn’t hear the conversation clearly from the hallway, but fragments of it reached your ears. Of course, you could only make out one voice.

"This is a joke, right?!" "You’ve been hiding it from me this whole time? Why do you get to see her and not me?!" "Why, Kakashi-Sensei?!"

The voices began to quiet down, and soon you couldn’t hear anything at all. Starting to get up to see what was happening, you were stopped when the door opened again. Sakura, who stood behind Naruto, looked a little sad as she gazed at the blond boy now standing before you. Staring at the floor, he looked desperate and said nothing.

Casting a quick glance at the silver-haired ninja, who gave you a subtle nod, you slowly approached Naruto. He didn’t move an inch, murmuring something you could only make out once you were closer.

"Why, huh? Did you forget everything, then?"

Choosing not to answer his question for the moment, you simply wrapped your arms around him and held him tightly, as if your life depended on it. You hadn’t even thought about it; it just felt perfectly natural. After everything Kakashi had told you about him and your connection, you hoped this action might comfort him, even just a little.

Naruto’s eyes widened when he felt you so close, and tears began streaming down his cheeks as he shakily brought his arms up to hold you in return. His head came to rest on one of your shoulders as he let himself cry for a while.

"I don’t remember everything, Naruto, only fragments. But I promise I’ll do everything I can to remember you… and I won’t leave again."

Still sobbing, his voice trembling, the blond boy raised his head slightly.

"Another promise, huh?"

You remained silent for a few seconds, thinking about how you could answer. Yes, another promise. But this time, you would do everything you could to keep it.

"I plan to remember this one."

He stayed quiet for a moment before pulling back slightly and wiping the tears from his cheeks.

"If Lady Tsunade agrees… I can already fulfill one of my promises."

He looked up, intrigued.

"Someone whispered to me that I should take you to a certain Ichiraku. Does that ring a bell?"

At those words, his eyes lit up, and you thought you saw a spark of hope within them. A smile spread across his face, followed by soft laughter.

________________________________________

Getting Tsunade’s approval for this outing hadn’t been an easy feat. In truth, she hadn’t expected things to move so quickly, and even though the Copy Ninja hadn’t gone into details about why he had stayed by your side that night, she figured that these surprise reunions were bound to happen. Her only concern was the idea of Naruto spending time alone with you after what she had witnessed, and the only condition that made her agree was that Kakashi would watch over you both from afar.

The day had passed rather quickly, and you could finally put faces and places to the elements the silver-haired ninja had described to you. Beyond that, you were starting to recognize certain locations from your dreams more clearly. The pieces were slowly beginning to come together, and while you didn’t have all the information you needed, you were now certain that your place was here.

Naruto had gradually relaxed throughout the day, his expression growing more cheerful as he relished the time spent with you. As for you, you savored every moment as though it were the first time. After enjoying a bowl of ramen with him, you both returned to the hospital. Following a few last exchanges, the young ninja went home. He had insisted on sleeping in the second bed in your room to stay near you, but the Hokage had firmly rejected this request.

After taking a well-deserved shower and settling onto your bed, you smiled as you thought back on everything you had learned, seen, and experienced since your return. Aside from the fight with Genma, you were still happy to discover that the dark void which had haunted you for so many months was merely a book whose pages you hadn’t yet turned—and that the story they contained was more beautiful than you had imagined. The only pages that seemed to stain the entire book were soaked with the voice, mask, and silhouette of the man who appeared in your nightmares.

Sighing, you pushed the thought aside and lay down, finally surrendering to the sleep that gently began to cradle you.

________________________________________

"So, Naruto knows about it?" The question finally came as Kakashi was savoring the sushi laid out on the table.

"Hmm, he barged in this morning. Naruto being Naruto…" Asuma let out a small laugh and smiled.

"I see." He grabbed the drink in front of him and took a sip. "And you? How are you handling all this?"

The silver-haired ninja suddenly stopped eating, setting his empty plate on the large pile that had accumulated to his right.

"I’m handling it," was all he replied, reaching for another plate.

"Kakashi." He paused briefly, noticing that the Copy Ninja was staring at the sushi instead of him. "No one’s fooled. You two were pretty close before—"

"Things have changed since then, Asuma. She doesn’t remember any of that."

"But you seem pretty determined to help her, am I wrong? After spending the night at her bedside."

Kakashi froze, now looking directly at Asuma without saying a word.

"I really hope you can manage. But after what happened during the test… Be careful."

He resumed eating his sushi, his gaze shifting again to the large pile of food in front of him. Asuma, on his end, took another sip of his drink.

"Anyway, since her return, you seem… different. In a good way, of course."

"Hmm."

Sighing, he set his drink back on the table.

"Deep down, she hasn’t changed. Even if it takes time, I want her to recover her memories. I don’t want to lose her again."

At these words, his friend remained silent, watching him eat as if he had just admitted something mundane.

"Even if she doesn’t see me the same way as before… I want to do everything I can to help her."

Asuma smirked.

"And what if she saw you the same way as before? Would you push her away this time?"

A faint pink flush crept onto the Copy Ninja’s cheeks, and he placed yet another empty plate on the pile.

"How’s Kurenai doing?" he asked, clearly looking for an escape route from the conversation.

Caught off guard, the dark-haired ninja turned red himself, stammering as he fumbled to answer his friend.

________________________________________

Lying still, you tried to look around and make out your surroundings as best you could. Everything was blurry, and once again, you noticed the silhouette of that masked man. He seemed to be sitting, holding a kunai in his hands, twirling it idly.

"Well, I think we’ve finished the bulk of the work. With the little gift I just gave you… we should be able to move on to the next part."

His voice was as dark as ever, though you were starting to grow accustomed to it, even if it still sent chills down your spine.

"Now… the signal."

Your body still refused to move, no words would come out of your mouth, and your eyes remained wide open, fixed on him.

"Everything we’ve prepared up until now will take effect starting from this exact moment."

He stopped playing with the weapon in his hand, stabbing it into the ground. Straightening up, the man leaned closer to bring his face— or rather, his mask— nearer to yours. All you could see was a massive spiral. It felt as though your head had begun to spin, and the black hole on the side of the mask was pulling you in.

"The last ………. where ……. abandon everything ……. "

Parts of the sentence seemed to disappear. Or had his voice simply turned into a whisper on certain words? He paused briefly, his laughter resurfacing, but this time, the sound reaching your ears seemed tortured, distorted.

"It is then …… left ..... "

The last words, too, failed to reach your ears. Or perhaps you just couldn’t make them out. The feeling of unease grew stronger as his mask seemed to shift, consuming your entire field of vision until everything went completely black.

♡ Tag List : @strflp @sayumiht

#naruto #naruto reader insert #reader insert #kakashi x you #kakashi x reader #kakashi sensei #kakashi hatake x reader #kakashi hatake

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riinkun-art-stuff · 1 year ago

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Howdy ho! I'm very excited to finally be able to share this illustration I worked on as part of this year's @bumblebybigbang for @tahnex's lovely and super fun fic (with no pain attached whatsoever), "Of Dragons and Panthers," which you can read here! As soon as I read the original notes on it this scene captured me so much I had to do something dramatic for it. It's been such a pleasure watching the whole collab come together, tysm for having me!

First time joining an event like this, and I'd love to again if the opportunity comes around hehe. Still a few postings to go on this one, the pieces before us this year have knocked it out of the park and I'm super excited to see the rest once they come around!

Made a few process cuts just for fun, which I left under the cut!

I did do a few sketches roughly before I started out, especially based on other parts of the chapter, but this particular composition was so fixed in my mind that I ended up just sticking with it. In retrospect, I would've loved to go back and do some more thorough exploration for it. Here are a few of the sketches I managed to fish back up:

I also was thinking of trying a few other doodles/another big piece, but ended up not really having the time between other obligations :')

And the sketch I finally settled on:

Inking was SUCH a fun process on this piece in particular. I'm a huge fan of how dragon!Yang's mane turned out, especially, and all the detailing on the head and around Blake's fur and such. Feel like I'm really satisfied w the particular way the line weight variations came out, and it's where the piece shines the most imo.

Panther!Blake, too. Oh gosh. I feel like it took me a lot of reworking to get her structure to a point where she felt very leopard-like, rather than any other type of big cat- especially around the head.

Colours were such a challenging part. There was a big feeling I had for that glow coming off dragon!Yang in the middle of the heavy rain- I love seeing that sort of effect in real life so that's something I'm really hoping to work to capture better as I practice. Trying to get dragon!Yang's slight iridescence in there and to balance out the lighting on panther!Blake's fur each took a long time, too- I'm only a pinch sad that a good chunk of it is covered by other lighting effects XD

Blake's rosettes were SO fun. Augguhugg.

In terms of backgrounds. HOO boy I was going through a strange patch in life while working on the background and final polish for this piece, which is why (at least I feel like) it looks kinda rushed. I have been practicing natural landscapes and doing some observational studies but still struggling to get those rock shapes quite right, which I think is a big make or break point of something like this. I did really enjoy toying around with inking on the foliage and foreground layers of the ground, though! And in the end, lighting and effects ended up masking a lot of the big weak spots :D

I think natural effects like smoke/steam, and rain, are big things that I got to practice more of in this piece, but also really would like to get better at in future. Esp since I feel like it's been a great opportunity to mess around with different colours and brushes that I use way less, which I'm always grateful for w painting. I think just layering the rain on its own ended up being about 10 odd layers?

I think the only other thing I would have loved to improve is to just help the piece feel more Bumbleby™ in the final look. I think I like the cool colours of the lighting for this particular outcome, but I also would have probably tried to have made things much clearer (ahem at the very least switch to yellow/purple) in the long run in terms of representation and resemblance. Ik that at least for me it is fairly easy to associate the two characters with dragons and panthers since I'm more familiar w the fandom lingo around these two, but esp for outsiders I feel like it's probably not great at conveying who they are, and why they are potentially in this situation.

I'd also love to try and find a shading style that still has a painterly quality but compliments the inking a bit better, rather than overpowering it.

I think that, on the whole, I am pretty satisfied with the piece and had a great time working with Tahnex on the whole collab! And I've also has a fun time reading his work and notes in return, and thank you so much for being so so patient with me even as my updates were slow n rocky at points :'D

That's about all I got, have a great day y'all! Still a few big bang postings to go, so very excited for those once they come around!

#riinkun art stuff #my art #digital art #bumbleby big bang #bbb2023 #rwby #YIPPEEEE #very very happy to finally be able to show this off aaaaahugghh!!!!#it's been v cool working on this collab- tysm for having me again! :'D

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silmarillaure · 4 months ago

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House of Finwe ranked by how much they look like Finwe

Uncanny resemblance tier:

Lalwen - Literally just her dad but genderbent. Same facial structure and blue-grey eyes and gorgeous raven black hair. Only difference is that her hair is wavy rather than pin straight like Finwe’s.

Fingolfin & Argon - Exact same facial structure and eye color, Fingolfin is almost as tall as Finwe but not quite, Argon is taller than Finwe (& the same exact height as Maedhros). They have a very dark brown shade of hair instead of black however.

Aredhel - 60:40 blend of Fingolfin & Anaire but looks more like Fingolfin and therefore looks a good deal like Finwe. She gets her black hair from Anaire rather than Fingolfin but it still adds to her resemblance with Finwe.

Gil-Galad - Finwe’s genes may have almost skipped Angrod & Orodreth entirely but somehow he ended up 57% Finwe.

Maeglin - Looks mostly like his gorgeous mother except he has Eol’s eyes and somewhat of a sharper bone structure than Aredhel though.

Very similar but still notably different tier:

Aegnor - Looks the most like Finwe out of all the Arafinweans. He has the same smile, a very similar face shape, & the same nose. He’s around 55% Finwe, 40% Earwen, & 5% Indis.

Maglor - 53% Finwe, 40% Nerdanel, 7% Miriel. His body type, his eye color, & his freckles are from Nerdanel. A lot of his facial features are Finwe’s but he has a heart shaped face like Miriel and a similar eye shape.

Finarfin - Exactly 50% Finwe & 50% Indis. Some of his facial features are a lot like Finwe’s except people (including both Finwe & Indis) focus way more on his Vanyarin coloring to realize it. His hair is also loosely curled along with being gold like Indis’s rather than straight.

Finrod - Looks just like Finarfin with Earwen’s eyes.

Curufin - Read Feanor’s and then come back. Unlike Feanor he does get his eyes from Finwe but his are more silvery & sparkly.

Feanor - Barely behind Finarfin in terms of resemblance to Finwe but several people would dispute this and say he looks more like Finwe between the two. He’s 50% Miriel, 47% Finwe, & 3% something original entirely. Neither Finwe nor Miriel have his radiant shining eyes that look like they have shards of pale jewels within them but some argue his eyes are a variation of Finwe’s grey ones. His silky raven hair is undeniably Finwe’s but his is wavy. His stature & body shape are similar to Finwe’s but like Fingolfin he’s still a little shorter. His face is a mixture of Finwe & Miriel’s most beautiful features, but he has a little more of Miriel’s.

Celebrimbor - Almost looks exactly like Feanor except his eyes don’t burn with quite the same intensity. There’s also a little something of his mother in his smile.

Caranthir - Canonically got his hair from Finwe, but also got his complexion from Nerdanel. I see him as as 45% Finwe, 50% Nerdanel, & 5% Miriel.

Fingon - He looks very similar to Aredhel but he’s 60% Anaire and 40% Fingolfin whereas she’s the opposite. He looks more like Anaire but also eerily resembles Maglor in some angles due to specifically inheriting a very similar set of features from Finwe (not sure if this makes his relationship with Maedhros more or less weird depending on your interpretation).

A fair deal of resemblance but also looks quite different tier:

Turgon - 50% Anaire, 30% Fingolfin, 20% Indis. Looks the most Vanyarin out of his family, no wonder why he’s the closest to them. Still looks very clearly Noldorin at the same time though. His hair is still the lightest brown out of his siblings.

Elrond & Elros - 30% Finwe, 10% Earendil, 60% Luthien. Due to genes skipping generations like with Gil-Galad, they look more like Finwe than Idril & Earendil do. If you look closely they kind of resemble Maglor despite how far apartly they’re related to him. Maedhros sees a lot of Fingon in them though.

They have about 1 notable feature in common with him tier:

Galadriel - Same eyes as Finwe, she gets her smile from him too, which she also shares with Feanor. She’s 55% Earwen & 45% Finarfin, but she got more of her dad’s Indis features than his Finwe features.

Maedhros - His diamond face shape & high bridged nose are Finwe’s.

Amrod & Amras - They have his eyes, both the blue-grey color and the shape. Nothing else though.

Findis - She’s almost entirely Indis but she has grey eyes and caramel hair between brown & gold. Her Noldorin heritage shines through due to those 2 things but she doesn’t look her dad particularly.

They just don’t look like him tier:

Celegorm - 95% Miriel, 5% Nerdanel. Almost the spitting image of his grandmother but he gets his height, eye color, & freckles from Nerdanel. His hair is straight so maybe 0.5% of him is Finwe but does it really count?

Idril - Takes a lot after both Elenwe & Anaire but she didn’t get Finwe or Fingolfin’s features.

Earendil - Around 60% his mom, who doesn’t look like Finwe, & 40% his dad, who isn’t related to Finwe.

Angrod - Olwe with Vanyarin hair.

Orodreth - Has grey eyes, but he probably got them from his mother rather than Finwe.

Finduilas - Looks almost like a female version of her grandfather and a golden haired version of Earwen.

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picturejasper20 · 5 months ago

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So one of the segments that aired today had Hazel and her friends going inside her own mind.

Episodes with this type of premise can be pretty interesting because they can say quite a lot about a character's psyche by showing how their mind operates and how they view themselves and the world around them.

One thing that is pretty clear from the start is that a lot of Hazel's mind seems to be about being great, her doing big accomplishments or things she wishes she could do when she grows up. All these places give the idea that Hazel not only wants to be a good person but she wants to be seen as one, or that she cares about being perceived as one and believe that she is good herself.

Another thing we quickly learn at the start of the episode is that there is a place that has a lock on it and it shouldn't be open and should remain closed. The person who shows the mind around says that is where ¨Hazel's darkest secrets are¨ and asks to the rest to not touch the trapdoor.

This gives the impression that Hazel has been trying to avoid something. Or that there are certain things she would rather not think about and hide them deep down her mind.

A bit later in the mind tour, the group reaches to a part where there is a poem that Hazel wrote around an year ago that she considers embarrassing and doesn't want his friends to read. Jasmine and Winn only express curiosity over it and don't make fun of Hazel but Hazel still takes other poems when they try reading them and throws them inside the trapdoor that the guide warn them to not open.

From the trapdoor a giant worm that resembles Hazel comes out of it. She explains that she represents all negative thoughts that Hazel has about her, grabs Winn and Jasmine and runs away with them. Hazel asks to Cosmo and Wanda if she can wish the worm away but they explain that the worm is part of she is and erasing it could change her whole personality.

As Hazel tries fighting against the mind worm, who only feeds her more and more with her negative thoughts, revealing that Hazel believes things like how her friends are nice to her because ¨they feel sorry for her¨ or that they laugh behind her back.

This makes me wonder if Hazel has had some bad experiences in her past that lead her to think things like this. Whatever it is, these things show that Hazel has a low self-image of herself, going to the point of thinking people wouldn't want to be her friend.

What really gets me is how this worm was trapped under this trap door with chains and locks, like she was trying to suppress all these thoughts in a way. She is scared of thinking that she has this ¨darker¨ parts of her personality and thoughts and would rather pretend that they aren't there.

This explains why most of the mind is surface is about how Hazel is a ¨good person¨: Hazel is scared of being seen as a bad person and having parts of her that could make her ¨unlikable¨ to other people. She would rather supress those ¨bad¨ parts of herself, thinking they aren't part of her.

Hazel then is able to remember something Angela taught her at the start of the episode and repeats it, using it as a way to not let all these negative thoughts control her, making the worm mind very small in size.

By the end Hazel learns to accept these negative thoughts quite better and understand that they are a part of who she is. That while these are thoughts that exist inside of her, she doesn't have to let them define who she is as a person nor her actions.

I'm curious to see if the series ever gets a second season, we could get more of these ¨negative thoughts¨ from Hazel since it was an interesting part of her character to see and i would like to see more of it explored in the future.

#fairly oddparents #fop a new wish #hazel wells

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anghraine · 7 months ago

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I've been moving and navigating further departmental nonsense etc (my pseudo-dissertation got approved for defending, though! l o l). But it was interesting to see the Worst P&P Takes poll I reblogged accumulating more results and the general tenor of responses in the notes.

I mean, the results are definitely to be expected if you're familiar with the side of Austen fandom doing a lot of the reblogging etc. But still, interesting!

Many Tumblr polls specify that they're asking about personal preferences that may be irrational—favorite/least favorite, coolest/most annoying, or something like that. This one, though, asked for the worst interpretation of P&P, not the most annoying one—and the current leader is "Darcy is never really proud, he's just shy and probably has anxiety" against some very steep competition on the Bad Takes front.

I was thinking about why that seemed a kind of tediously predictable choice even though I agree that the take is wrong, and realized that while I do disagree with the shy Darcy interpretation and I particularly disagree with the specific formulation where he is never proud at all, it ultimately feels to me like a failure of nuance rather than just completely wrongheaded like some of the others. And this is probably my fundamental difference with a lot of Darcy takes I see!

In my opinion, a character who is introverted and who feels awkward in various social situations and who doesn't like common social activities and who has to work himself up to talking to his crush and who is repeatedly suggested to behave very differently in contexts where he's more comfortable being interpreted as shy and anxious is not that big of a leap.

Yes, it's important that he is actually fundamentally confident and haughty, that he makes his personal feelings of discomfort other people's problem, and that he thinks he's such a unique and special butterfly that he doesn't need to even put in an effort outside his personal social circle. But it's a misreading that is easy to follow (and long predates the 2005 P&P, as I've mentioned before!).

The additional misreading that a shy and anxious Darcy is also never proud at all is a much more drastic leap, and in my experience, condemnations of shy Darcy interpretations rarely differentiate between "Darcy is shy as well as arrogant" and "Darcy is shy rather than arrogant" as interpretations (although their basic arguments are quite different). But even that as the worst possible misreading of P&P when Darcy is not even the main character is ?????????

I mean, for one alternative (not even the one I voted for!), the idea that Elizabeth is an author avatar Mary Sue seems a far worse misreading of P&P than basically anything to do with Darcy at all. The center piece of the entire novel is Elizabeth's epiphany of self-knowledge about her own shortcomings that do not particularly resemble Austen's at all, but were ethically a concern for her, and she's a complex, interesting character in general whom Austen correctly regarded as a major achievement. Inverting that into Elizabeth as an improbably perfect, reality-warping self-insert is deeply wrong and frankly pretty misogynistic as well.

(ngl though, it's a little funny to see such a blatantly terrible reading of Elizabeth rank so far behind the shy Darcy votes. I've gotten "does anyone actually think/say that?" so many times on my posts about Austen fandom's prioritization of Darcy's character development over Elizabeth's and yet...)

And even just going with the Darcy-centric misreadings, the idea of Darcy as a "bad boy" seems easily the most absolutely wrong take on him. His pride is at least complicated and the finer points can be fairly debated and it's a quality that actually changes somewhat throughout the novel, and you can have discussion over what happened when, whose testimonies should be weighted more, etc. But there is no point at which "bad boy" isn't utterly wrong for him. However, there's definitely a tendency in some wings of the fandom to find the idea of Darcy being misread too favorably more objectionable than him being read too unfavorably, regardless of the particulars, so it's not a surprise.

I suppose you could argue about what "worst" means in the context of variously bad interpretations. Like, is an interpretation that is about a fairly trivial aspect of the book but extremely wrong about it "worse" than an interpretation that is pretty bad but at least comprehensibly so about something very important?

#i remember years ago mentioning that i disagree with the darcy 'shy-ites' but am more opposed to the 'anti-shy-ites'#but was not exactly clear on why apart from their tendency to frame the anti-darcy position as more rigorous and less informed by adaptatio #(this was the case even before the 2005 came out but vastly more so afterwards and deeply annoying as a lesbian fan of the book)#(lesbian is pertinent because many dismissive anti-shy-ite takes assume that more positive interpretations of him #are based on attraction to a particular actor playing on him rather than the text. also it's more acceptable when it's colin firth somehow)#in any case for me it's like ... yeah i think the shy!darcy crowd is wrong but only because it's more complicated than that #not because it's completely baseless #and 'shy rather than proud' is truly wrong but there's enough emphasis on him being different than elizabeth thought all along that i get i #elizabeth as a mary sue or bad boy darcy or actually it's about toxic masculinity etc are just fundamentally wrong in a very basic way #that no amount of nuance or discussion of vocabulary can really address #anghraine babbles #austen blogging #austen fanwank #lady anne blogging #long post #poll nonsense #anghraine rants

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universallydestinytaco · 5 months ago

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The Little Smiling Mermaid (Chapter 6)

🌊 THANK YOU to all my 150 followers! Sorry, I didn’t get to draw an illustration this week BUT the wonderful @oskidontle had blessed me with this lovely fanart of Mer!Pim (thank you again), Please follow them and check out their own awesome Smiling Mermaids AU!✨

Charlie and Mipnessa got along swimmingly enough for two people who just met each other that day…unless, Charlie pondered, if they just-so happen to have already met! Charlie took note of how Mipnessa vaguely resembled the mystery person of whom he recalled rescuing him that morning…and while he wasn’t quite sure at first, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to try and potentially refresh her memory; He also had a string gut feeling that it wouldn’t be wise to potentially out her as one of the elusive merfolk out of politeness….if not being proven wrong and labeled as a silly-hearted daydream-believer. Charlie ran back to his quarters to swipe the green cloak that was left behind to gently fold it up, then he started rummaging through his closet for a perfectly-sized decorative shoebox to place inside of as a grandiose gesture to Mipnessa before running back to bequeath the gift. “Y’know I have a funny hunch that this is something you’d totally look great in.” The flattered Mipnessa giggled in response: “Showering me with gifts already? You must take a fancy to me.” Feeling overwhelmed with butterflies in his stomach, Charlie blushed with a nervous grin. Mipnessa opened the box and held up the cloak, while she admired the deep emerald green shade, she couldn’t exactly pinpoint what fabric was used for it or could she figure out why it smelled like the brine of clam chowder. “It’s beautiful, and it matches my dress way better than the shawl I’m wearing too.” Charlie replied with a fairly obvious double-meaning: “A match made in heaven.” as he held her hand and proposed: “Perfect for an atmospheric afternoon-to-evening stroll, lemme show you to the outskirts of the palace, the sunset views are amazing out there!”

Meanwhile, Alan had just caught up with the rest of the party as an eagerly-lovestruck Pim alongside a curious Glep followed Graham Nelly to the crisp shore nearby Prince Charlie’s castle. “I can’t wait to see his cute face again!” Pim squealed in delight while fidgeting his hands, Alan sternly reminded him with a business-like tone to mask his anxiety: “We’re here to fetch back your cloak, so that nobody could recognize you and drag you back to that toxic, discourse-infested mess of a palace; We also really shouldn’t stay up here for too long lest we want to be some crazed stowaway’s four-course meal.” Pim’s glee briefly turned into annoyance as he was tempted to roll his eyes at his paranoid friend’s repetitive jargon had it not been for the fact that unlike his family, Alan’s “survival mode”-demeanor was out of genuine concern and love rather than blind bigotry over land folk. When the group made it to their destination, they would come to find that much to their surprise, Charlie was indeed out-and-about, bringing an unexpected guest with him for a neat little walk by the sparkling sapphire waves. While the party of sea critters hid behind the conveniently large rock while observing the scene from a far, they all quickly took notice that the lady accompanying Charlie was wearing an accessory all too familiar to Pim, who shook his head in disbelief before taking another look to find that Charlie was clearly flirting with with her as well. While Alan started discussing a plan to swipe the cloak with Graham, Glep took notice how his buddy Pim was doing. “My cloak…” Pim quietly uttered while overwhelmed with a flurry of mixed emotions, flashing between shock, confusion, hurt feelings and jealously all boiling down into unbridled fury. Glep never saw Pim this angry since that time he was just a teenager and his sister Amy tore the lock on his diary and blurted out all his secrets, including who he was crushing on at the time. Something REALLY must have struck a cord with the usually understanding and compassionate mercritter…

Graham proposed: “We could, like, wrangle a bunch of dolphins together to create a huuuuge wave and splash it right on her so that Prince guy can offer to hang it up for her and when they leave we can snag it from a clothes line, concrete plan!” Alan argued in a snippy-yet-monotone inflection: “Yeah but there’s no clothes line anywhere near water, besides, it would take us all night to achieve that plan anyways.” Graham then got another bright idea: “I know JUST the thing, dude. I have in my collection and it’s this neat tool called a grappling hook! It’s what land folks use to retrieve items from far-away.“ Alan rolled his eyes with an exasperated yawn. “Oh really? Go off I guess.” Graham happily explained: “It’s this long-ass stick with a string attached and at the end of the string it’s a hook! and you toss it far enough and the hook catches-“ he was cut off by a loud, panicked gasp from the horrified Alan, who furiously chided Graham while using his claws as gestures to express his disgust: “You keep a literal weapon used for catching and eating our kind?!! What in Davy Jones’ locker is the matter with you?!” Graham casually shrugged, replying: “I’ve only ever seen something like this being used to catch fish only to throw them back, like they kept catching fish but it’s obvious that she was trying to retrieve something she lost down there.” Alan stood there dumbfounded with his left eye twitching for a few seconds, until he broke silence with a sigh with one claw on his face, “Look, It would just be easier for one of us to sneak up to that lady and quietly snag the cloak away from her.” Graham cheered: “That’s it!” Alan realized exactly what he had in mind and groaned: “Alright, I understand now that I have to put my big-boy shell on.” Glep piped up: “Eskewazebewaboyo!”, Pim’s face perked up at the suggestion. Graham agreed: “Hell yeah! They’ll be too distracted to notice Alan, they’ll be all like: Oh, where is that heavenly sound coming from? Ha! It’ll be a synch!” Alan gulped, “Well, here goes nothing.”

During the conversions Charlie ignited while subtly prying for clues, he had realized that Mipnessa wasn’t the mystery critter. First off, she knew how to swim but preferred to go sailing over swimming. Second she does sing but her voice was rather different from what he had in mind BUT she did play the lute well. Lastly and most glaringly obvious of all was that she had just embarked on Eustace’s ship at the same time the rescue took place and was still miles away from Gremblonia. That being said, Charlie was perfectly content with having Mipnessa as a bride, she may have not been an exotic dream girl but she was a charmingly meek and proper lady whose lute could harmonize well with his ocarina! “You know Mipnessa, I could take you sailing on our ship and go on one of my wild adventures out at sea, maybe we’ll take on a kraken or get into a gang fight with pirates.” Charlie proposed in a suave tone, in response Mipnessa sheepishly loosened up the green cloak ‘round her shoulders, replying: “…y’know, maybe I would like that.” for a brief moment that felt like forever, the two locked eyes and gazed at each other’s presence for what felt like forever. As the sunset started melting into nighttime, the most angelic voice made it’s way to the couple’s eardrums, snapping them out of their trance. Charlie started running around frantically looking for the sound as Mipnessa’s curiosity peaked, joining him as she didn’t pay any mind to Alan’s pincer clinging onto the cloak slipping off of her shoulders. Once the cloak was freed from Mipnessa’s grasp, Alan scurried back fast he could before they’d notice. Meanwhile back behind “home base”, Pim peaking behind as he vocalized his feelings with a warm, sweet a capella with a noticeable tang of seductive amour and just a hint of bitter jealousy; This was Pim’s subtly, classy way of saying out-loud: “That boy is MINE, you got nothing on me you basic bitch!!”. Just as Alan made it to just inches away from water, the lobster tripped on a pebble and got tangled up in the shawl and tried to wriggle his way out. Pim took notice, stopped what he was doing and immediately swam to the scene to finish the job.

Just then Mipnessa realized something was missing. “Oh dear, my cloak!” Charlie blushed upon seeing Mipnessa’s curvy frame accentuated by her sleeveless dress, but quickly snapped out of it. “D-don’t worry, it’s probably back where we left off.” Charlie stumbled back to where he and Mipnessa where viewing the sunset, what he discovered was more than just the cloak itself: it was none other than the mystery critter who rescued him, half-submerged in water while clad in a seashell bra, freeing what looked like a lobster that somehow got trapped inside before taking back what was rightfully theirs. Charlie stood there and froze in shock, asking himself if he was just seeing things or he was trapped in some sort of dream, as he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, the mystery critter already vanished. A tinge of guilt filled Charlie’s heart, as he wished he could have apologized for giving her cloak away, but his thoughts broke as Mipnessa was calling for him to return. Charlie ran back and tried to explain what happened but all that came out was nervous gibberish that Mipnessa initially assumed was Spammish, until he blurted: “Damn lobster made off with the cloak!!” while shaking his fist. Mipnessa giggled: “Duke Eustace was right, you are a washed-up mess of a boy!” Charlie once again froze, embarrassed, until she nudged him a with a smile and reassurance: “At least you’re not some stuck-up old prune.”

~ Damien (and the rest of the search party) spent two days looking for Pim with a nagging conscience, he swore to Neptune if he found his littlest sibling, he’d work hard on being a better brother overall. Ironically, he found a patch of sea flowers to rest upon for the night, just as he was about to lie down he saw a short, cloaked figure picking the flowers, presumably for herbal use. “Pimberly, is that you?!” All he got in response was the laughter belonging to an elderly-sounding sea critter. “Oh deary, I’m afraid I’m not the lost Princess, I’m just an old botanist making medicine.” Damien’s heart sank, his pink skin turning grey at the reveal. “But, I have seen Princess Pimberly ‘round these corners.” Damien’s eyes widened with relief, begging: “Please, tell me where!” The old wisenheimer gave a concerning hint: “I’ve seen the Princess swimming in-and-out of this grotto hauling a satchel full of the most WORTHLESS crap!” Damien pressed for more answers: “So, where is this grotto?”

🐚

Chapter 7 Coming August 9th

#smiling friends #the little smiling mermaid au #charpim #pimlie #pim pimling #charlie dompler #smiling friends mip #alan red #glep #smiling friends pim #smiling friends charlie #smiling friends glep #smiling friends alan #the little mermaid au #fanfic #fanfiction #adult swim

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celestiaras · 7 months ago

Text

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ tangled up in blue ]❜

━━━ .°˖✧ requested by @/iketnos (twt) ˚₊ ⊹

ft. elira pendora, ike eveland x f! reader — lazulight/luxiem, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ elira & ike give their biggest fan the experience of a lifetime after an accidental encounter┊2k words

contains: smut!! dom elira (w drock), ike & sub reader┊idol elira & ike, naive reader who is thrown straight into the plot & wears a skirt, fingering, unprotected piv & blowjobs, dirty talk, getting walked in on & implied foursome with vox

➤ author's note: my very first fic trade... it's such an honor

you could swear on your life that it was a complete accident all you want, but you know that nothing would be a believable explanation of why you were backstage when you shouldn’t be that wasn’t you being a creepy stalker. the two of them looked less than understanding with frowns (maybe even scowls) indicating that they weren’t in a considerate mood when you nervously sputtered that you were following someone who looked like your friend, so focused on tracking them down that you somehow didn’t manage to read all of the signs clearly reading “staff only.” oh, this really was the worst case scenario to meet your idols in, unable to tell them how much you admire them and asking for a picture like a normal fan would, instead insisting on removing yourself from their sight before they call security to do it.

they glanced at each other for a second then smirked as if they read each other’s mind and had agreed on something without needing to speak. “no, don’t worry about it, we understand.” elira’s sudden dazzling smile that exactly resembled the ones you’ve seen in posters caught you off guard, making blood rush to your face and making you feel hot. “so… if this your first wingwriters concert?”

“oh, i’ve actually attended every concert you’ve ever held in this country! it’s just— well, it’s such an honor to meet you guys in person! your performance today was one of my favorites, well, all of them are my favorites really,” you quickly found yourself rambling your admiration to them, telling them about how you bought every single piece of available merchandise that you could get your hands on and how you were in the top point five percent of their listeners on spotify. you weren’t quite sure why they suddenly decided to start a conversation with you, but you certainly weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to tell them how much you admired them. neither of them listened to the details since it was the same old words that they heard from everyone, however, their attention was focused on the rather cute fan who was spilling her heart out about how much she loved them.

elira cut you off mid-sentence, wrapping her arm around you and letting ike lead the both of you somewhere, “that’s so flattering coming from you!” you weren’t sure if her words were genuine or if she was trying to shut you up to steer the conversation elsewhere, now acting friendly like you were already acquainted (not that you minded or anything because, well, the elira pandora had her arm slung over your shoulder and her perfume smelled so good—). “so sorry about us being so rude earlier, by the way, we just some bad news about the next concert.”

you now realize that they were taking you to a trailer, one that was a bit further away from all of the commotion of wrapping up the event. were you allowed to be this deep in an area where outsiders were forbidden? two of the three band members brought you here and didn’t mention the possibility of getting in trouble, so it must be fine, right?

the inside layout was standard, yet it was colorful with a gleaming white and sparkling blue and full of posters of the wingwriters trio covering the walls. they set you down on a little bed and elira got you a drink from the mini-fridge while ike joined. you really tried to follow everything that she was talking about, but she got off-topic a lot and constantly skipped around in her stories— again, not that you minded because your idol who was the prettiest woman you’ve ever been blessed with living in the same timeline as was talking to you like you were a best friend. you were on cloud nine and all giddy inside, practically having hearts floating above your head like a lovesick puppy and holding the can of soda in your hands like it was something worth treasuring instead of consuming it.

seeing how completely unassuming and how smitten you were, she took this opportunity to lean forward and place a little peck on your lips. it was innocent and experimental, to test the waters and see your reaction so that she could estimate how far you’d let her go. she chuckled at your stunned expression and spoke first, “you’re really cute, you know that? what do you think, ike?”

the man who was silent and hidden this entire time made his presence known by sitting behind you, gently caressing your thigh before whispering in your ear, “she’s just adorable.”

they could see you melting in between them like ice cream in the hot summer sun from the attention, speechless from the flirtatious advances. you didn’t resist in any capacity so she kissed you again, more deeply this time while tenderly holding your face in her palm. you gasped as he bit the shell of your ear and began trailing his hand under your skirt, making you shiver under his touch. you weren’t sure how many rules you must have broken within the past ten minutes and the possible repercussions that could happen if you got caught.

although, this is the opportunity of a lifetime! sneaking around with your idol like this was something most could only dream of since it’s only a plot conceivable in fiction, but you were living it out right now with not one, but two of them! you would be stupid to pass this up and reject them! you indulged in their inappropriate behavior instead, reaching out to hold her face in your hands and kissing her back with a bit of tongue while leaning back into him. it took some confidence that you didn’t know you had in you when you were too nervous to even look them in a eyes a few minutes before, but they seemed more than pleased with your reciprocation and took it as unspoken permission to escalate it further.

elira chuckled at your little display of dominance that wasn’t going to last for much longer, quickly hiking up your skirt and hooking a finger around your underwear to pull it down. “god, you’re wet so wet already,” she marveled, looking at the wet patch on the fabric and sticking it in her back pocket as a souvenir. “such a short little skirt that barely even covers your ass, you were probably hoping for something like this to happen, weren’t you?” you didn’t even get to respond, getting cut off by a gasp as she gently rubbed at your clit and pressed in one finger followed by another. she made slow scissoring motions to stretch you out and licked her lips, eagerly prepping you to be able to take her with ease and pushing you over on your back so that she could fuck you properly.

your eyes rolled back to meet with ike’s length already waiting for you, fully erect and nearly dripping with anticipation. obediently, you opened your mouth and let him slip the tip between your lips like it was the only thing you were good for. he tasted bitter due to the poor diet of energy drinks you so often heard of, but it didn’t matter to you since you were being granted the honor to suck him off. he groaned as you ran your tongue along his shaft, sloppy sounds of slurping and his mewls being mixed into a beautiful melody of sin.

you were unable to focus on both of them at once and they had you torn, capturing your attention by doing some action they have yet to do and essentially playing ping-pong with it. feeling elira impatiently reveal her cock from her tight white shorts and sinking it into your warm so quickly make you choke around him, sending vibrations throughout his core and making him grip onto any piece of you he could get his hands on even harder.

her pacing was relentless, pumping in and out of you like you were a mere fleshlight. maybe you were in the moment, a toy just to get them off for the moment instead of a living and breathing fan, but you would be lying if the thought of being used by them so callously didn’t get you excited. you felt completely stuffed and her light blue cock hit your sweet spot so perfectly that it had you seeing stars, tearing up at the sensation while her nails dug into your thighs for her to keep her balance.

with every thrust that pushed you back into the mattress and had your tits bouncing under your top, you choked a little bit more on ike’s cock. you could barely see his crooked glasses that were on the verge of slipping off and felt yourself getting a little lightheaded from the awkward angle. nevertheless, you persisted in your goal to make him cum down your throat, lips slick with bodily fluids as he bucked his hips deeper and hit the back of your throat, “god, how are you able to do this so effortlessly? you must have so much experience sucking dick to get whatever you want, don’t you?” it nearly made him blush at the thought as if whatever he was doing wasn’t worse.

you could only whine in response since you were fully occupied, the only noises coming from you were squelching and gagging from both of your holes getting filled like a common whore. nice, quiet, and compliant, just how they like to fuck their cute little fans like you. it’s truly unfortunate that such an experience can’t be told to others, but it must be kept a secret if they are to continue such activities! they can’t have a scandal breaking out that the wingwriters have a bad habit of bringing unknowing fans who would give them the world backstage and adding their panties to an evergrowing collection, now can they?

“mhm, fuck… i’m close,” he mewled with the soft and gentle voice that you knew held so much power from his metal songs, the type of voice people would listen to as a guilty pleasure. you really wished that you could savor his words properly before you sputtered on the thick ropes of white he shot down your throat without warning, his hand holding your head in place so that you could take every drop of it without wasting and not letting go until you swallowed it all like a good girl.

elira took a bit longer to tap out than he did, absolutely animalistic and flipping you over onto your stomach at some point to rail you even harder. she was feral and had no problem making you scream so loud that everyone else at the concert venue would be able to know that she was the reason behind the noise. ike simply watched the rest of the show amused by it all, even having the kindness of holding your hand when her stamina finally ran out and she painted your insides with her seed before collapsing on top of you.

“what the hell are you two up to? our manager is up my ass about—” vox akuma burst through the door yelling about something of them getting in trouble with perfect comedic timing, stopping in his tracks once he saw the hot and sweaty entanglement of limbs from his fellow band members fucking the brains out of who he could only assume was a fan. he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, holding the position for a few seconds to think it through yet unable to ignore the stir of lust growing within him. have they really done this again? without him? all it took was a look of bedroom eyes from you realizing he was there for him to shut the door and approach the three of you, “fuck, i guess he can wait for a couple more minutes— move over for me.”

#📜. her works #elira pendora #elira pendora x reader #elira pendora smut #ike eveland #ike eveland x reader #ike eveland smut #lazulight #lazulight x reader #lazulight smut #luxiem #luxiem x reader #luxiem smut #nijisanji #nijisanji x reader #nijisanji smut

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