#and the one from the shard incident | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunnami · 6 months ago

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❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞

summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.

pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.

word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)

tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.

cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.

note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.

YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.

It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm.

You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.

No.

You can’t have.

You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers.

There is no way you are this unlucky.

Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.

Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.

Bloody hell.

Not again!

Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.

“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside.

Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due.

YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident, Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors.

(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.)

Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head. You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction.

It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.

Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams.

(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.)

Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else.

(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)

You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.

You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.

If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.

(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)

You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes.

(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.)

And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier.

On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.)

Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones.

“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.

(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)

A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback.

As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.

When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling.

There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.

After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did.

Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again.

As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing.

You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else.

After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion.

For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.)

The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.

But for how long could you cheat fate?

Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus.

There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent.

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel.

Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?”

You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.

“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”

You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”

True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace.

“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could.

“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”

Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”

“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.

The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.

An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap.

(Damn it!)

(Damn it all to Hell!)

You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh.

You could not take it anymore.

In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it.

You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.

A family.

A happy ending.

Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two.

You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity.

(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)

Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers.

On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate.

Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear.

Let me die surrounded by my family.

At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.

And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.

TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you.

“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask.

(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?)

There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background?

His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you.

There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall.

“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .”

“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”

“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”

Lily stays silent.

Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.

How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?

But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face?

He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.

“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company.

You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words.

“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!”

From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback.

He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.”

“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?

He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp.

“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave.

The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof.

He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall?

THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that.

Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)

Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek.

You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve.

(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)

“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”

Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes.

You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.”

She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”

A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”

You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)

“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.”

“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.”

“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.”

Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?”

Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”

(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)

Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.”

(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)

You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.

You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp.

It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.

‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’

This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?)

“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well.

Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head.

“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun.

By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.)

Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?

But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger.

For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done.

“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest.

“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)

Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old.

Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.

You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.

(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’

You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”

“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”

“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”

His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.)

But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”

While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about.

A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.)

But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.

The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned.

An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)

(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.)

Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold.

It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby.

You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.

You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands.

(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.)

You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth.

You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work.

(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”)

They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.)

That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.

“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done.

Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?”

You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”

Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?)

“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.”

“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.”

You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.”

There is no time like the present.

And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)

You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.

No time like the present.

“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.”

Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace.

“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.”

“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?”

“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.”

Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug.

“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”

“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red.

“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”

“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .”

“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”

Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”

“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.”

Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second.

“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”

You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave.

“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes.

No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes.

You freeze in fear.

(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)

The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels.

They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)

“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.”

“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.”

You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”

Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?”

“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.

“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”

“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.”

“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”

“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back.

“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”

“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?”

You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?”

Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”

You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?”

“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly.

“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.”

And so, you choose them.

For there was never any other option from the start.

YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor.

Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.”

You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper.

Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same.

Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more.

When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.

(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)

a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.

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butchkaramazov · 4 months ago

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The RG Kar Incident: DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES TO RAPE

I’m unsure of how many non-Indians or even non-Bengalis know of this. Regardless of whether you do or do not, I would request you to reblog this post & share awareness about this. DON'T LET INJUSTICE GO UNPUNISHED.

On August 9, 2024, the body of 31-year-old post-graduate medical trainee, Dr. Moumita Debnath, was found partially naked in the seminar room of RG Kar, a hospital in Kolkata. She had just finished working a 36-hour night shift before this and, out of exhaustion, had fallen asleep while studying in the nearest seminar room on the fourth floor of the hospital.

Her family was informed beforehand that she had committed suicide, to which her mother emphasized on the fact that her daughter could never carry out such an act. On further investigation, it was found that Dr. Debnath had been raped and murdered in her sleep.

According to the Deccan Herald,

“There was bleeding from both her eyes and mouth, injuries over the face and nail. The victim was also bleeding from her private parts. She also has injuries in her belly, left leg… neck, in her right hand, ring finger and… lips. [...] “Her neck bone was also found broken. It seems that she was first strangulated and then smothered to death.”

According to Medical Dialogues,

“There were multiple hairs on the mattress and blood was soaked on the blue mattress [...]”

Later, it was found that Dr. Debnath’s glasses were shattered and her eyes were pierced with the shards of her glasses themselves.

Although one of the criminals (Sanjoy Roy) has been arrested, I am certain that there are others involved. In fact, it has been found that Sanjoy Roy, despite being an outsider, was granted access to PG Kar via personal relations with senior police officers.

The chief minister of West Bengal (despite being a woman herself) as well as members other political parties are trying, behind the scenes, to let this case fade away. Why? Oh right, it's really the privileged, upper class & upper caste sons and brothers of ministers who are behind this! No major crime can happen in a country without there being the hand of one or more influential persons, often politically involved.

Sisters and brothers, দিদিরা ও দাদারা, it would be a sin to remain silent in the face of such a crime. Our brave brothers & sisters pursuing medical practise have ceased working in their hospitals to protest against this grave crime against women, against humanity. We cannot let this injustice go unpunished! A crime against a single woman is a crime against all of us! We were born from a woman, raised by a woman—and now, when we see the honour, dignity and life of women at stake, won’t we join the andolan? Won’t we fight for what is right?

Requesting all Kolkata residents (who can) to join in at least any one of the protests mentioned below. There are provisions for elderly & disabled people. Men are invited to join us as well.

For those who want to join the Reclaim the Night protest at 11:55 p.m., please refer to this list of contact numbers (according to your region) provided by Miru Didi ( @arachneofthoughts )

Take hold of the night! We have always been told to stay wary of nighttime and the dangers, manifested in the form of cruel men, we may face. Not anymore—we must reclaim the night! How much fear is fear enough? If anyone wants to know further details and the phone numbers regarding this first event, please DM me.

Blowing the conch has always been a signal of strength. In traditional Bengali culture, it is almost always the women who blow the conch, be it in Durga Puja or the everyday pujas carried out at home. It was, and always will remain a sign of victory over evil. At 11:55 p.m., all those who cannot join the midnight assembly (the aforementioned event) can, instead, blow the conch from their own houses! Let them know you're not afraid. Let them know you've had enough. Let them know that once a revolution starts, especially one spearheaded by women, takes a long, long time to end.

[Please Note: These protests are not personally organised by me. I simply am in touch and will be attending the protest tonight.]

If you can, please do take the time to sign this petition below (courtesy of Miru Didi @arachneofthoughts) to aid our efforts:

If nothing, please do take the time to share and reblog this post wherever you can! DON'T LET RAPE GO UNPUNISHED!

#rg kar #rg kar medical college #rg kar rape #rape tw #murder tw

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ew-selfish-art · 1 year ago

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Dp x Dc AU: It’s not the usual suspects trying to summon the undead this time, and it’s proving to be a massive headache for John Constantine. They seem...Competent.

When John sniffed out a new plot to summon a ghost, he kind of laughed it off. Ghosts were not more than shades of the people/creatures they used to be, without all the right resources and enough buy in from the greater spirits of the Infinite Realms, most entities that came thought might scare some kids at a slumber party but that was at most. Plus, kids were scary resilient these days thanks to the internet, so really, John’s not worried.

Then he hears about the gathering of artifacts and he has to care a little more. He learns that one Jasmine Fenton is involved and he’s... Surprised. She’s got a public record of dismissing her parent’s inventions and causing stirs at supernatural conventions (not to mention a great reputation as a research focused psychologist). Jasmine’s credit cards report a great deal of cash (refunded to her account by an unknown off-shore account) being taken out and her location is right next to the last place anyone could find a shard of the Crown.

Yeah, that Crown. The Infinite, ancient blessed and deity cursed one. John had meant to get around to investigating if the shard of obsidian (fire forged) was legit, so he begins to set his sights on Jasmine for a ‘chat’.

Then Sam Manson, a scary ass Heiress, pulls up in a limousine and all but kidnaps him and dumps him outside city limits. She tells him that he’s been cursed for the next 48 hours to stay out of their city- If he comes close, any plant will identify him in a heartbeat and come to life to kill him. (Fun fact: there are a goddamn lot of plants surrounding this stupid town, even the dandelions are forging knives to kill him.)

THEN worse, Red Robin gets on his ass about cybersecurity of all things. Turns out another player, identified by the moniker TooFineTooFurious has been tracking John’s phone and has been rummaging around official JLD documents- How was John supposed to know that keeping his passwords on the notes app could be hackable? Red Robin declares him incompetent and John can only sigh, crush his phone and move on.

That all leads him to the summoning portal in front of him in this weird ghost themed high school gymnasium. It’s far too competent. It gives him goosebumps even before he can read out that they’re summoning the King of the Infinite Realms himself. John clicks the panic alarm on his JL communicator before engaging with the Trio before him.

They’re not wearing any capes, no candles are lit, but this is the scariest cult he’s ever seen. Jasmine Fenton, ghost denier, Sam Manson, Heiress and Plant Witch (?), Some other dude with a beret and fucking DRONES (he considers this might be the man who hacked him). John pleads with them, they don’t know what they’re trying to do. Pariah Dark will kill them all, eat their entire planet for breakfast!! Everyone rolls their eyerolls at him, and he’s taken aback by their nonchalance.

Plant guards grab him and a drone has a laser sight on his forehead. He fights but is subdued- They’re almost done chanting when Superman, Green Lantern, Red Robin and Cyborg all appear. Despite their disruption- the chanting ends with the green illumination of the circle. Despair fills the air.

And then- Poof- a groaning young man appears.

“Dudes you have no idea how unhelpful the Infi-map is sometimes. I was lost for like weeks and CW was being such a bitch ab- What. Wait, who are all- Holy shit did you guys summon the Justice League?” The Ghost King in full Regalia stared back at them in questioning concern. The three summoners start bitching at the monarch and John... isn’t sure if this is going to be an interdimensional incident yet.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dc crossover #dp crossover #danny phantom #red robin #cult summoning but it's just your homies #jazz fenton #john constantine #justice league dark

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evie-sturns · 11 months ago

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𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 - 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘚𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰

summary: you've been pissing chris off all day, accidentally knocking his stuff over, purposely teasing him in public, to the point where he starts to get seriously mad at you to the point where he has to put you in your place.

warnings: smut, rough!chris, use of safe word, argument, swearing.

-----------------●∘◦❀◦∘●●∘◦❀◦∘●----------------

I didn't know that what i was doing was affecting chris this much, I mean, today has just been like any other. I hung out with my boyfriend of 2 months, chris, the whole day with his brothers and friends.

he seem's to be extra on edge today, ever since i broke one of his cologne bottles.

(flashback)

hey chris, im just gonna head downstairs- SMASH

"oh fuck i'm so sorry i'll clean that up now-" i said, getting on my hands and knees and collecting the shards of black glass. "y/n just go downstairs, get out of my room please." chris spoke, glaring down at me. "i'm so sorry chris, i can buy you anothe-" i was cut off by him picking me up and placing me outside of his bedroom.

(present)

me, chris, nathan, nick and matt are sitting on the sturniolos couch as the sun sets through the window to our right, a dim light fills the living room as matt and nick have an argument, god knows what its about.

im cudding up to chris's side, my leg resting over his thigh as he scrolls on his phone aimlessly. ive been sitting here for about an hour, i think chris is still pissed about the cologne bottle incident. i hate to admit it, but chris when hes mad is the hottest version of him.

i move my leg from his thigh up to his lap, using my leg to rub him very softly through his sweatpants. he grabs my leg, pushing it off him "stop that." he whispers, shaking his head at me. "stop what?" i ask, a guilty smile tugging at the corners of my lips as i move my leg back to its original position, applying more pressure on his crotch.

right before he's about to grab my leg again nathan starts - "whos up for top golf!" he says, looking around the room with a smile on his face. "nate its late." matt speaks, leaning back against the couch.

"so you're boring?" nate tuts.

"fine, only if the others go though." nick says, standing up off the couch. "chris, y/n?" he says, looking at us.

im about to agree but chris answers for me "were staying here." he says, his tone angry.

i look at chris with a confused look, but hes back to scrolling on his phone. "well me, matt and nate are going, we'll be a few hours." nick says, grabbing his coat and phone.

matt and nathan follow nick out the door, giving me and chris a small wave before slamming the front door shut.

chris stands up, leaving me on the couch, he faces me "what the fuck is wrong with you!" he yells. "what?" i say defensively, moving back against the couch, my eyes widening from the sudden raise of his voice.

"what!!??" he mocks, before starting

"this whole day you've been on my last nerve, and I'm sick of it. You've ruined half the shit in my room then you start touching up on my dick in front of my brothers?"

my jaw is slack, in pure shock as he flames me, i can't help my attitude start to build up, i scoff "not my fault you've been sensitive and pissy all day, sorry that im clumsy today?" i bite back, rolling my eyes.

chris stares at me "you have no respect for any of my shit, youve gone and shattered my $450 cologne that nick got me and you expect me to be happy? pathetic." he yells.

a few tears drop from my eyes, i don't know why. his words aren't hurting me but he knows i can't deal with people yelling at me. my attitude keeps up though "if you're gonna be so sensitive go cry in your room christopher." i fold my arms.

chris storms out of the living room, slamming the door to the bathroom shut.

i wipe my eyes before standing up, running upstairs into chris's room. its already been decided that im staying the night here by nick, so i decide to get into my pyjamas.

i pull my shirt off over my head, revealing my white lacy bra which i especially wore for chris, i was expecting a different evening with us.

suddenly i hear the bedroom door open behind me, chris storms in before walking up to me, i swing my body around to look at him. he grabs me by my throat, i gasp loudly as he grabs me, throwing me down on the mattress.

i sink my teeth into my bottom lip as i look up at him, before pulling him down into an angry kiss. he pulls away, ripping off his shirt. "built up a bit of an attitude today haven't you?" he mumbles, yanking my shorts and panties off in one motion.

he reaches a hand under me onto my back, flipping me over onto my stomach.

he grabs my ankles, forcing me onto all fours. i whine, desperatly. "so needy aren't you." he says, yanking down his sweatpants. i look over my shoulder at him.

"hand behind your back." he demands, putting his hand out. i put my hands behind my back, chris grabs both of my wrists with one hand. holding them, forcing me to arch.

"chirs.." i groan, squirming slightly, his hand collides with my clit. "fuck!" i yelp, chris shushes me "why do you think you deserve my dick after giving me such an attitude today hm?"

he lines himself up with me, pulling my wrists closer to him, my chest and head are fully off the bed as my back arches more then i knew it ever could.

without warning her slams into me, i let out a loud cry from the sudden stretch. "dont. make. a noise." he says, slamming into me at a brutal pace. i let out pathetic whimpers as i'm held in place by him.

he reaches his spare hand round, shoving two fingers in my mouth.

chris has never been like this in bed, im in total shock as he fucks the attitude out of me.

without warning i clench around him, releasing the knot in my stomach. his thrusts don't slow, i wouldn't be wrong if i said they quickened.

im so sensitive, my vision blurry as he takes what he needs from me.

we've had a safe word established for a while, we made it while we were in a stupid mood, so it has a stupid name. 'dinosaur' , but ive never even thought about using it until now.

"chris.. chris chris." i groan, tears streaming down my face from the intensity. "fuck- d-dinosaur" i cry out, chris stops thrusting instantly, checking to see if he heard right.

"dinosaur.." i whisper.

chris pulls out instantly, he gently releases the painful grip on my wrists, as he collapses down next to me, sitting on the bed, pulling me onto his lap in a cradling me.

"hey hey.. don't cry sweetheart." he whispers into my hair, grabbing his shirt and pulling it onto me. "are you alright baby? too much?" he coos, rubbing my arms. "please speak to me gorgeous."

i nod into his chest, "im fine, just sensitive.." i stammer.

"oh okay i'm so sorry" he says, pure guilt in his voice as he stands up, holding me like a bride.

suddenly i let out a small laugh, he looks down, confusion painted across his face.

"wait.. whats funny?" he questions

"what were we thinking when we came up with that safeword." i laugh into his chest.

——-----------●∘◦❀◦∘●●∘◦❀◦∘●--------------———

this might be my last fic for a few days cause school is starting up tomorrow.

#sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo fluff

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inbabylontheywept · 3 months ago

Note

Realizing in hindsight that the only reason I was so skeptical about your camp story is that being covered in a combination of crusty, sticky pink residue and rotten fish oil for days on end while sleeping on a wooden floor in the Arizona heat sounded like such unbearable sensory agony that I wanted to convince myself it was fake, because I didn't want to believe that anybody had genuinely been through that. I'd have walked out of that place with a rucksack of pink ooze and either find my way back to civilization or become crispy pink buzzard chow after day 2.

Like, legitimately, I think about my reaction to that post a lot. The imagery was so deeply unpleasant that I was desperately scrambling to convince myself it wasn't true like I'd just found out my spouse was a serial killer. There was no torture, no death, no hunger or disease, just a bunch of sweaty guys being covered in sticky fruit-flavored slime, subjected to unpleasant smells, and sleeping blanketless on the floor. And you can't even smell! You were spared a good third of it! Yet your experience still horrified me worse than any war story, medieval torture device or horror movie for reasons I cannot hope to fathom.

idk, I've had this ask stewing in my head for months, but I keep forgetting to actually write and send it. In my heart of hearts, I knew your story was perfectly plausible. I was just grasping at straws, praying for you to admit that no, nobody has ever showered in off-brand Gatorade and then not slept for 3 days while being expected to attend uni lectures. It's all untrue, a ruse, a trick, and such things could never happen outside of the cruelest depths of hell. Santa Claus is real, teachers live in the school, babies are delivered by storks, and the pink sauce incident never happened.

My mom pulls me into a warm hug after I scrape my knee. The plastic egg I found under the couch opens to reveal a piece of chocolate. A dollar magically appears under the pillow where I'd put my tooth. All is well. I am safe. The universe is kind, and whoever's running it loves me.

It's a sunny August day and I'm holding a popsicle on the swingset. I'm using my plastic dinosaurs to act out an improvised battle between good guys and bad guys as I sit on the carpeted floor. I'm playing Fossil Fighters on my dinged-up Nintendo DS in the plush brown armchair by the window.

I add the carrot nose to my snowman. Candy plops into my Halloween bag. The speaker on the classroom wall announces that school's out for summer, and we all bound out the door with wild glee, free at last.

Panting, wheezing, I drag my battered form back into the cobbled-together wreckage of my innocence, only one arm remaining with which to drag myself, blood and intestines trailing behind me as the storm rages overhead, washing my entrails downstream. I huddle underneath what remains of my once-pristine shelter from the cold and wet, pulling the shards back together as best I can as the wind howls angrily, hatefully. It's no use. It's broken. It's gone. It cannot be repaired. My innocence will never return to me. The rain seeps through the cracks and lands upon my face.

The rain is pink, I realize, and I cry.

First off: I haven’t actually been on the receiving end of this before and I have to say, it's an almost literally gripping experience. I felt this rat for the last three paragraphs.

Incredibly well done. Second: If you just didnt' want to believe, that's fine, I barely have room in me for medium fries - a grudge would just pour out the top, too much tea for my cup. But you don't have to like, gaslight yourself into thinking the story is totally normal and believable (I always stretch my stories out a little) or beat yourself up over it for months. I meant it when I said we're good, you and I. It still makes me happy to see a comment or a like or, rarely, a question like this from you.

If it's just something that pops into your mind every now and again, I dunno, don't sweat it. I'd hate to give you a complex. Did I mention that I loved that writing for this? Incredible experience.

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slytherinslut0 · 1 year ago

Text

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Nine-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theós fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviours, Manipulation, Gagging, Choking, Fingering, Denied Orgasm, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Slight FreeUse Kink, Sexual Aggression, CNC, DubCon.

***FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"What's it like tutoring him twice a bloody week?" Emily said, her wide eyes pinned on the rowdy ruckus emanating from the Slytherin table, where Mattheo Riddle was of course reigned at the very center. "I'm surprised you even have any hair left. I'd probably pull mine out within the first two seconds of being alone with him."

You chuckled at her words, seemingly brushing her off, but your mind couldn't help to race with the thoughts of how fast everything escalated. In just a matter of weeks you'd gone from absolutely despising eachother, Mattheo seemingly not giving two shits about you or your tutoring sessions--to being unable to keep your fucking hands off each other every chance you got, while Mattheo somehow manages to get grades higher than he's ever gotten in his entire life.

Yeah, the guy was bloody fucking insufferable, and you still couldn't stand him on a day to day basis, but Gods you loved the way he touched you. You loved the way he made you feel.

"Believe me, every moment I manage to keep myself from throttling him is a miracle," you muttered under your breath, shifting your gaze back to your own table, silently praying the blush creeping up your cheeks went unnoticed. "He's beyond insufferable."

"I heard he fought someone for you," Emily's gaze fixated on you, her curiosity palpable as she leaned over the table toward you. "And not just someone...Berkshire, of all people? What on earth happened there? I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

Your stomach twisted into knots. You had managed to evade Emily's inquiries about Friday's incident by stealthily steering the conversation toward her favorite book, immersing yourself in studies, and strategically avoiding her whenever possible. Yet, you knew this conversation was inevitable. You had just honestly hoped it wouldn't come today, especially not when you were mere minutes away from your first reoccurring Tuesday meeting with Mattheo's brother.

Navigating this topic was like stepping on shards of glass, the memory of Mattheo's fierce defense cutting through your thoughts. Each recollection was a visceral experience, the clench of his fist, the predatory glint in his eyes, all etched into your mind like a painting of unrestrained intensity. The mere thought of his protective stance sent a shiver down your spine, leaving your skin electrified with the memory of his presence. Discussing the incident meant confronting the pulsating heat between your thighs, a tangible reminder of the way his concern wrapped around you like a cocoon.

"Mattheo skipped our tutoring session, so I ventured into the Slytherin common room to find him," you explained, your voice steady but your hands trembling slightly. "The entire Quidditch team was there, and Berkshire, well, he got upset over something I said and things escalated quickly."

Her eyes widened in anticipation, the unspoken question hanging in the air. "So Mattheo stepped in to save you? Defend you?"

"Both, technically," you responded, your voice laced with a mix of frustration and resignation. "But it was his fault to begin with. If he had just shown up for our session, none of that would have happened."

Emily's eyes widened in concern, her brows furrowing. "At least he had the audacity to step up for you," she said, her tone torn between disapproval and understanding. "He's been unhinged lately, picking fights with anyone who glances at him the wrong way. I even heard he got into it with his own brother...have you seen Tom's face? It looks like a bloody war zone."

Dread coiled tightly in the pit of your stomach, a sinking realization seeping into your veins. You'd taken nothing but a small, fleeting glance at Tom yesterday in class, avoiding eye contact in a desperate attempt to avoid any type of conversation--but anyone from a twenty mile radius could notice the blackened skin around his eyes, the split in his perfect plush lips.

The thought of facing him tonight clawed at your insides--the pretense you'd have to maintain, acting as though you were oblivious to the reason behind his battered face, felt like a weight pressing down on your chest. You knew the truth, you knew all too fucking well why he looked the way he did, and the knowledge hung between you like a fragile web, waiting to shatter at the slightest touch.

"I haven't," you said, steeling your shoulders to seem convincing. "But I heard that as well...nothing about that boy surprises me anymore."

You lied not out of malice, but out of self-preservation. Admitting that you knew the real reason behind Tom's injuries wasn't even in the question, wasn't even a thought to be had. Your lie was a desperate attempt to shield yourself from the storm you could see brewing on the horizon, a storm that threatened to consume everything in its path. So, you played your part, hoping that your facade would hold long enough to keep you out of the fray.

"Well, it should. He's mad, that one. I'd avoid him at all costs. Tutor him and run," she said bluntly, her words carrying a weight of caution as she packed up her books. "What are you doing tonight? We should study for Herbology."

Your stomach twisted again, tying into a tight knot as her words echoed in your ears. If only she knew the truth behind you and Mattheo's situation, if only she knew how bloody deep you were ensnared in his web. Desperate to change the subject, you cleared your throat, realizing you hadn't even told her about the fact that Tom had asked you to meet with him on Tuesdays.

"I...I can't...I'm meeting Tom tonight." You said, tentatively, pausing briefly in order to choose your next words carefully--knowing that regardless of how you explained it, she was bound to absolutely freak. "He asked we meet one-on-one each Tuesday, in addition to the Thursday guild meetings..."

Your words hung in the air, a heavy revelation that seemed to catch Emily off guard. She blinked, her previous endorsement of Tom Riddle echoing in her mind, seemingly frozen for a moment until her eyes widened with a spark of excitement.

"Woah, woah, woah..." she practically threw herself across the table at you, unable to control herself. "Why? What exactly did he say?!"

You hesitated, unsure of how to explain the complexity of the situation without divulging too much. "I don't know," you replied, your voice low. "He just...requested it, and I didn't feel like I could refuse."

"Oh my stars! I must be a fortune teller!" She giggled, revelling in her previous comment from last week. "Do you know what this means?! Do you know the opportunities this can open up for you if it turns into something more?! Imagine the scholarly collaborations, the doors to advanced research, and prestigious circles you could access...your academic reputation would soar, paving the way for extraordinary opportunities in the future-"

"Yeah, Emily, it's all very...exciting," you cut her off, your voice laced with a grumble, your mind racing with thoughts of Mattheo and the impossibility of being with someone like Tom, no matter how perfect he seemed on the surface. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, please."

"But, this is a golden opportunity!" Emily exclaimed, her brows furrowing in confusion. "I mean, it's Tom Riddle we're talking about. The doors he could open for you, the knowledge you could gain from him--it's practically a scholar's dream! Why aren't you more excited about this? Don't you see the incredible possibilities waiting for you?"

Your internal irritation churned like a storm, each pushy comment from Emily adding fuel to the fire. Mattheo's face, his touch, his words claiming you as his echoed in your mind, reminding you of the complexity he brought into your life. Despite the impossibility of a relationship with Mattheo, the mere thought of Tom felt like a betrayal, a path you couldn't tread because of fear of Mattheo's reaction.

"Gods, I get it, Emily," you snapped, your tone sharper than you intended, the pressure of your conflicting emotions bubbling over. "But not every connection is a ticket to social or academic advancement...sometimes it's about...something deeper." Your voice softened as you attempted to mend the sudden rift, regret colouring your words. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound so harsh...it's just...complicated, and I don't really want to rely on someone else for career or academic opportunities, it just...feels like cheating, you know?"

Emily nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so pushy...it's just, you've never had a boyfriend...and Tom, well, I just think he'd be perfect for you." There was a warmth in her words, a sincerity that softened the edges of the conversation. "I have to meet Michael in the courtyard, we're going to study...I'll see you later tonight then, yeah?"

You managed a small smile, appreciating Emily's concern despite the frustrating conversation. "Thanks, Emily," you said, your voice softer now. "I'll see you later."

As Emily got up and left the table, a mix of relief and lingering irritation settled within you. You couldn't shake the internal turmoil, the conflicting emotions that came with both the budding relationship with Tom and the unrelenting thoughts of Mattheo. It was as if you were caught between two worlds, neither of which felt entirely right.

The tension in the air was almost tangible as Emily's footsteps faded away, leaving you alone at the table. The flickering candlelight danced on the polished wood, casting intricate shadows that seemed to mirror the complexity of your emotions. You felt like a character in one of the many novels you'd read, entangled in a plotline far more intricate than any you'd ever encountered.

As you rose from the table, your eyes met Mattheo's from across the room, his gaze piercing into your soul with a knowing intensity that sent shivers down your spine. There was something in his eyes, a depth of insight that left you feeling exposed, as if he could see through the layers you desperately tried to conceal. The unspoken connection between you both hung in the air, an invisible thread that refused to be severed.

Making your way to your dormitory, you couldn't shake the memory of Mattheo's gaze. It followed you like a ghost, haunting the corners of your mind as you picked out an outfit for your meeting with Tom. The anticipation hummed in the air, the atmosphere crackling with a strange energy. You opted for a slightly revealing top but still professional, a conscious choice to make an impression, to assert control over a situation that seemed increasingly beyond your grasp.

Walking down the dimly lit corridors of the castle, you felt a knot of apprehension tighten in your stomach. The library loomed ahead like a sanctuary of secrets, its ancient walls holding the wisdom of centuries. As you pushed open the heavy oak doors, your eyes met Tom's bruised face, seated in a secluded corner of the room, the evidence of Mattheo's anger etched into his skin. It was a stark reminder of the forces at play, the dangerous dance you found yourself entangled in.

You moved toward Tom cautiously, your footsteps echoing in the hushed silence of the library. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw the reflection of your own turmoil mirrored back at you, a depth of intensity in his stare that seemed to pierce through your very soul. As you approached, he rose from his seat with a fluid motion, his tall, commanding figure casting a confident shadow.

With a faint, enigmatic smile, he extended his hand in a gesture of greeting. "Top of the evening, darling," he said, his voice velvety and composed, the words hanging in the air with a subtle weight. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

As he spoke, his eyes never left yours, his unwavering gaze drawing you in further. "Evening, Tom..." you replied, your voice catching slightly as you took his hand, a rush of warmth spreading through you at his touch. "Pleasure to see you, as well."

With practiced elegance, he pulled out the chair for you, his movements precise and deliberate, a testament to his controlled demeanor. You allowed him to guide you into the chair, feeling the subtle brush of his fingers against your skin--once seated, Tom resumed his own place, his posture impeccable, exuding an air of sophistication and confidence.

"You're looking particularly lovely tonight," he said, his tone low and smooth, his dark eyes dipping over your chest. "I've been looking forward to meeting with you again more than I'd like to admit..."

Blush flooded your face, warmth spreading through you. "You are much too sweet, Tom...I'm not sure what I've done to deserve such compliments."

"I appreciate your modesty," Tom leaned back in his chair, smirking subtly. "Perhaps that's precisely what makes you so deserving."

As you engaged in conversation with Tom, your mind raced with thoughts of Mattheo, his presence lingering in your mind like a ghost in the room. Your gaze flickered involuntarily to the fading bruises on Tom's cheek, the scabbing split in his lip, and you simply couldn't ignore the discomfort in your throat. Despite your efforts to suppress it, an uneasy feeling settled in your stomach.

Tom's flirting, though subtle, only intensified your discomfort. You knew all too well how possessive Mattheo could be, and the mere thought of him overhearing even a hint of this conversation made you squirm internally. With a subtle shift in your tone, you ventured to inquire about an answer you already knew; hoping to solidify your innocence, your voice laced with nothing but concern.

"I couldn't help but notice the bruises," you murmured gently, your eyes flickering toward Tom's face. "If it's not too personal, may I ask what happened?"

"It was my brother," Tom admitted, his tone carrying a hint of exasperation. "He can be quite...stubborn, and tends to resort to physicality when he feels strongly about something. But it's nothing I can't handle. Sibling disagreements, I suppose. We've had worse."

He offered a small, dismissive smile, downplaying the severity of the situation, although his eyes betrayed a glimmer of frustration.

In response, you nodded, smiling softly. "Makes me glad I'm an only child."

"I imagine it has its perks," Tom replied, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. His gaze lingered on your face for a moment before he shifted the conversation. "By the way, how has your tutoring been going with my brother? I know he's quite the handful...I imagine your sessions are quite...intellectually stimulating."

Your lungs stalled, pulse quickening in your throat. There was something in the way he said it, a flicker of curiosity mingled with a hint of something else that made your stomach twist with unease.

"Oh, intellectually stimulating is one way to put it," you replied, trying to keep your tone light. "He's certainly...unique to work with, but we manage."

The room seemed to constrict around you, the air thick with tension as Tom's gaze bored into your soul, searching for hidden truths. His eyes, sharp and discerning, followed a deliberate path across your face, lingering on every contour as if trying to decipher the secrets etched in your skin. His fingers played with the pages of his book, tracing the edges with a calculated precision, a tangible unease settling between you.

His scrutiny intensified, his eyes dipping lower, skimming over your lips, then your chest, before locking onto yours with an unwavering intensity.

"You know, I've heard what you've done for my brother..." he continued, his voice a mere whisper, yet it echoed with a resonance that sent shivers down your spine. "Improving his grades in just a few short months...it seems you have a talent for reaching him in ways others couldn't, considering how resistant to tutoring he's been..." his tone darkened, a challenge flickering in his eyes. "I can't help but wonder what methods you employ to achieve such...drastic results."

In the charged silence that followed, you shifted slightly in your seat, feeling the weight of Tom's scrutiny like a physical presence. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with tension and unspoken questions--you could tell he was pushing for something, but you refused to even give an inch.

You held your ground, meeting Tom's intense gaze with a steely resolve. "Teaching is about understanding individual needs and tailoring the approach accordingly," you replied, your voice firm. "Every student has their unique way of grasping concepts, and it's my job as a tutor to find that approach. It's not about methods; it's about recognizing potential and fostering it. Mattheo has the intellect; he just needed the right guidance to unlock it. That's what tutoring is all about; guidance, patience, and a genuine belief in the student's abilities."

Tom's lips curled into a knowing smile, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned closer. "A unique approach indeed," he murmured, his voice laced with intrigue. "Understanding someone like Mattheo requires more than just conventional tutoring methods, I suspect."

You felt a flush creep up your neck at his insinuation, his words hanging in the air like a tantalizing threat. There was an unspoken challenge in his gaze, as if he dared you to reveal the depths of your connection with Mattheo, and you were growing increasingly more uncomfortable with each passing second.

"I find your insinuations rather perturbing, Mr. Riddle," your voice dropped to a near-whisper, laced with firmness and defiance, your eyes narrowing in challenge as you leaned in closer, the tension between you palpable. "Mattheo may have a reputation, but he's a student here, just like the rest of us...he deserves a fair chance to succeed, without unnecessary assumptions clouding his progress. Don't you agree?"

The intensity in your gaze dared him to challenge your statement, refusing to back down in the face of his probing scrutiny. His lips curved into a sly smile, his eyes dancing with intrigue.

"Indeed, darling," he replied, his tone smooth like silk. "A commendable dedication to your students. It's a quality not often found in tutors."

The glint in his eyes hinted at a deeper curiosity, leaving you with the sense that he was far from convinced by your response, but when he changed the subject, seemingly dismissing it as though nothing even happened, you found yourself expelling a long breath of relief. You engaged in conversation with Tom for a while longer, the topics ranging from academics to shared interests in literature and the intricacies of magical theory. Despite the undercurrent of tension, you found yourself drawn into the conversation, momentarily forgetting the complexities of your situation.

As the night grew darker, Tom glanced at the time and offered to walk you back to your dorm room. You accepted his offer, and together, you strolled through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts. Emily's words from early bounced around in your mind, reminding you of how good for you Tom could be, if you let him--but despite the intellectual conversations and the surface-level connection, something fundamental was missing, a spark that failed to ignite the depths of your soul.

In the silent moments between words, you couldn't help but compare the encounter with the electrifying energy that Mattheo stirred within you. With Mattheo, every glance, every touch felt charged with a raw intensity, a potent magnetism that left you breathless, angry, and alive. His presence had a way of awakening something dormant inside you, a flame that burned brighter in his proximity.

You could light fires with the feelings you felt for Mattheo--a passionate hate, one inexplicable by words.

When you arrived at the hall leading to your dormitory, Tom turned to face you, his demeanor exuding a dark, enigmatic energy that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a lingering hesitation in the air, a palpable tension that neither of you acknowledged, yet it clung to the atmosphere like a ghost. With a smile that held secrets you dared not explore, he leaned in, his gesture carrying a weight that made your stomach twist with unease.

"I enjoyed myself tonight." His lips brushed your cheek in a touch that was both gentle and possessive, leaving a cold trail in its wake, his hand curling around your waist. "Until next time, little witch."

His voice a mere whisper against your skin, his words sending an aggressive chill down your spine. His stature remained stoic and composed, his eyes holding a darkness that seemed to mirror the shadows lurking within the castle walls as he pulled back--in an attempt to hide your discomfort, you shot him a small smile.

"Goodnight, Tom." Keeping your voice steady was impossible. "Thanks for walking me back."

With one last knowing glance and a chilling smirk, Tom spun around, his footsteps echoing off the cold, empty corridor as he made his way back into the shadows, disappearing from your view. The silence that settled in his wake was thick with unspoken words, leaving you standing there, heart racing and mind clouded with a sense of foreboding.

You spun around, eager to continue your path down the hall, only managing to make it a few strides when the hushed whispers of the night were abruptly drowned out by a sudden rush of footsteps, too swift and too silent to be anything ordinary. Before you could react, a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into the shadows.

A door to a small closet was whipped open, and you were abruptly pulled inside, a gasp catching in your throat as you were abruptly slammed against the door as it shut behind you, your eyes widening as you found yourself face to face with Mattheo. His dark, stormy eyes bore into yours, a dangerous glint flickering within their depths. His hand pressed firmly against your mouth, silencing any protest that threatened to escape. The contrast of his icy touch against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and a strange mix of fear and something else, something inexplicably alluring, tightened its grip on your chest.

Trapped in the narrow space between the unforgiving wooden door and Mattheo's overwhelming presence, your entire body roared to life, sparking dormant nerves. It was as though he had uncovered a realm of feelings you never knew existed, leaving you in awe and fear of the power he held over your senses. The memories of a time before his stifling dominance became elusive, fading like distant echoes as you grappled with the reality of his suffocating control.

His influence was a dense, intricate web that ensnared you effortlessly, making it difficult to discern where he ended and you began.

"You're a filthy little slut," he hissed, his words laced with dangerous venom, the lingering scent of cigarettes filling your nostrils. You tried to shake your head, but his hand kept your skull pressed firm to the wood behind it. "God, you're fucking filthy, Raven...look at you, dressed like this to meet with my fucking brother..."

You squealed into his palm as his free hand travelled down your stomach, wasting absolutely no time before slipping between your thighs and grazing over your sex--a low, deep growl reverberating through his chest as he pressed you against the door, suffocating you in a whirlwind of barely-restrained sadistic rage.

"You're so fucking lucky I didn't kill him...you're so fucking lucky I didn't rearrange his face until he was begging me for mercy just for fucking looking at you the way he was..." his grip over your mouth tightened, his words a demonized growl in your ear, your body reacting in inexplicable ways as he slipped his hand under the band of your leggings. "Fuck...I think you need to be reminded of your fucking place..."

You mewled, melting against his body and fusing with the wood of the door as he circled two fingers over your clit, teasing you with a quick swirl before he slid lower, slicking his fingers through your rapidly increasing wetness. When he pulled his palm off your lips, he didn't give you a mere second to gasp for air before he gripped your face and forced your jaw open with his thumb.

"So fucking wet for me already." His thumb pressed on your tongue, eliciting a gag, long fingers stretching over your cheek and entangling in your hair. His voice was a growl against your flesh, teeth grazing your jawline. "Tell me who the fuck you belong to."

"Fuck-" you gasped, crying out against him as he slipped a finger inside your cunt without warning, the blissful stretch inspiring a world of sensations you'd never known to exist--your pussy feeling full beyond comprehension with just one of his fucking fingers, every inch of your body trembling in response. "-you!"

"Shut the fuck up," he hissed, shoving his thumb deeper, hand shifting to grip the bottom of your jaw now, nails digging deep into your skin. "Fucking hell...you're so fucking tight, Raven...you can barely take my goddamn finger..."

A whimper escaped your lips, your hands clenching onto the fabric of his shirt as if it were your lifeline, your legs trembling uncontrollably beneath the weight of his touch, slowing finger fucking you while his thumb twirled over your clit, your entire body spasming with pleasure against him, your chest heaving for air, and your eyes rolling back in sheer ecstasy. You couldn't comprehend the overwhelming waves of pleasure consuming you, leaving you in a state of blissful delirium.

"Yeah, that's fucking right...feel that tight little cunt stretch for me..." his voice flowed like molasses, his curls tickling your cheek. "Fuck...how the fuck do you ever plan on taking my cock, hm?"

"Gods..." A haze of pleasure was clouding your vision, drool spilling from your mouth as he massaged your tongue with his thumb. "Oh, fuck...."

"Tell me who you belong to, Raven..." he ordered, voice a deep growl in your ear. "Tell me who this tight little cunt belongs to."

"You-" you choked, voice hiccuped through your moans and squeals of pleasure, words distorted with his thumb still planted between your teeth. "I-it belongs to y-you..."

"Yeah?" He pushed against you harder, lips attacking your neck, his aggressive erection pressing against your thigh, his body heat swarming you, suffocating you whole. "And who am I, princess...say my fucking name."

His fingers quickened their pace, sending jolts of electricity through your entire body. You convulsed in response, beads of sweat soaking the fabric on your back, the intensity of the moment leaving you breathless. He withdrew his hand from your mouth, leaving you gasping for air, and shifted it to your chest, groping and squeezing your tits like his life depended on it. His chest was rising and falling against you as he fingered you, brushing his thumb past your swollen clit, rocking his hand against you. Your pulse picked up, your breath coming faster, head spinning with the rapidly approaching climax on the horizon.

"Matt-" you choked, hardly able to string a cognitive sentence. "Mattheo...oh..."

Mattheo groaned, yanking down your shirt until your tits were fully exposed, his hungry eyes burning wounds into the soft flesh, his fingers working your cunt faster, bringing you directly to the edge of pleasure, ready to explode in his fucking hands.

"Mhm...dirty fucking whore..." his free hand toyed with your tits, his chest rumbled with a deep growl, echoing the intensity of the moment, while you struggled to stifle your cries, attempting to maintain some semblance of control over your escalating noises.

Despite your best efforts, your attempts at silence proved futile, shattering into desperate gasps as Mattheo sank his teeth into your neck.

"You want to cum for me, pretty girl? You want to cum on my fucking fingers?" You bobbed your head frantically, throat more arid than the desert. "Use your words, Raven..."

"Please," you whispered into the fabric covering his shoulder, hands clasping his arms. You couldn't get out much else as he grazed your clit again, bolts of ecstasy halting your ability to make words. "Please, please..."

"Please what?" he said, driving his finger deeper into your cunt.

"Let me cum," you said, voice torn with your irregular breath. "Please let me cum!"

At your words, Mattheo exhaled sharply, his fingers retreating from your cunt, leaving you stranded on the precipice of euphoria. The abrupt cessation of his touch left you in a tormenting state, teetering on the edge of an elusive climax, aching for fulfillment. Your frustrated moan of despair reverberated through the room, a raw manifestation of your desire. But before the sound could fully escape, Mattheo silenced you, his fingers forcibly invading your parted lips, triggering an involuntary gag reflex while his other hand closed around your throat, exerting a firm, possessive grip, ensuring your gasps and cries were swallowed in the stifling air of the closet.

"No," he hissed, voice a dangerous growl against your ear. "Only good girls get to cum...and you...you've been a bad little slut...remember when I said bad girls get fucking punished, Raven?"

A soft whimper escaped your lips, a harmonious blend of need and vulnerability as Mattheo's hand constricted around your throat, cutting off your oxygen supply. The exquisite agony of air deprivation was intertwined with a delightful buzz, amplifying the tingling sensation from your cunt to encompass your entire body. You felt every nuance intensely: the synchronized rhythm of your heaving chests, the pulsating restraint of his touch, and the restrained anger emanating from him like a tangible force.

"Wait until I get you alone tomorrow, Raven..." he murmured, voice laced with a promise of punishment. "You just fucking wait."

With a sudden, abrupt motion, he let you go, his grip loosening as he reached past you to pull open the door. The rush of cool air brushed against your skin as he swiftly exited through the door, leaving you in the aftermath of the intense encounter, your senses still tingling with the lingering traces of his touch.

———————————-

Chapter ten here->

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blackmosscupcakes · 7 months ago

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One of the aspects of the fallout from this last episode I'm most interested in seeing is Imogen's reaction, and that's for a very out of character reason.

One of Laura's self-admitted player quirks is avoidance of inter-party conflict. She's good at smoothing things over and tends to play characters on a spectrum from forgiving to avoidant. You can see this going back to campaign one, most notably after Scanlan returned and, while most characters were furious and slow to forgive him, Vex was instantly on his side, delighted to see him, and ready to forget everything. Jester, of course, was very committed to the power of friendship in general. Imogen tends more towards burying or distracting from feelings and events that might lead to conflict.

In 4 Sided Dive episode 20, they have the following conversation from about 1 hour 3 minutes in:

Marisha: Of course diving into the relationship is always fun, but then relationship tension is also fun.

Laura: Yeah I feel like you guys really like relationship conflict too like you guys talk about that a lot. I'm terrified of conflict--that translates to the game as well. I don't like conflict.

Sam: You don't like conflict? Even in the game?

Laura: No! I don't like fighting. Like if we're having a fight I will be like "it's okay FCG, I'm not mad at you." If you do something wrong I'll be like "that's okay."

However, her character is now in a relationship with Marisha's character, and as seen in the quote above, Marisha LOVES conflict. She eats it up! From Keyleth and Percy in C1 to Beau and Caleb in C2, she's been great at diving into tensions that further character development and make for great storytelling.

So we've reached a point now where Marisha keeps making choices with Laudna that are basically dropping an invitation to a WHOLE bunch of tension and conflict on Laura's doorstep, and up until this point, aside from a little dust up over the gnarlrock incident (a big one for Laura, but small compared to, say, Beau and Caleb's arguments!), Laura as Imogen has been broadly side-stepping these in order to do exactly what she said in the 4sd quote--tell Laudna that it's all okay.

But we've reached a point now where that's not going to cut it in avoiding tension any more! If Laudna continues down this path, lines are going to be drawn within the party, and Imogen is likely to have to pick between conflict with Laudna OR conflict with other members of the party. It's very likely there will come a point where anger and arguments can't be entirely avoided for Imogen no matter what choice she makes. And that's going to be REALLY fascinating to watch.

Sometimes these players nudge one another out of their comfort zones. Laura did it to Travis with romance. Several of them did it to Ashley with the titan shard. I think we can trust them not to push their friends to a point where they REALLY don't want to go (and I'm sure that sort of thing is negotiated between them off camera), so bearing that in mind a little tiptoe out of the comfort zone can be really interesting--for example, Travis did really well with romance in the end. It might well be a bit uncomfortable for Laura at first! But as long as she's okay trying it, I think it could lead to REALLY excellent storytelling and fantastic performance. I'm excited to see where it goes .

#critical role #cr spoilers #marisha ray #laura bailey #imogen temult #laudna

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messenger-of-babel · 3 months ago

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Shattered

Summary: Bruce isn't sure how to stop breaking things, or how to stop breaking in the process. (Bruce Wayne x reader)

Word Count: 2.0K

Notes: mention of character death.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You wished you could put the pieces back together; you really did.

You wanted nothing more to be able to put the pieces of his heart back together as easily as putting back his mother's vase, which had been the latest victim to his rage. Alfred came to your side, silent but face apologetic as he helped you dust the shards into the pan.

"I really must apologise for Master Bruce's behaviour-" he had started, but you raised a hand to stop him.

"Its fine, Alfred." you smile softly. "I know he's not mad at me, I just got a little spooked is all."

Alfred crinkles his nose at that. "It still doesn't give him the right. I raised him better, to be a gentleman. I know he'd tear himself to pieces if he hurt you too." he sighs. You can only offer a slight smile to the older man, standing with the pan full of shards in your hand. "And to dear Mistress Martha's vase…" he trails off, eyes softening as he looks at the old Wayne heirloom.

"I'll fix it." you say softly, holding the pieces to your chest. Alfred takes it from you, having to pry your fingers off the handle.

"I will," he says softly, wrestling it from your grip. "Just…there's someone else that needs fixing around here, and he surely won't listen to me. Not since I advocated for master Dick when he left."

You squeeze the old man's shoulder comfortingly. "I'll handle it the best I can." You say softly.

“It’d be much appreciated.” The old butler says, relief flickering in his eyes. “He’ll burn himself to nothing at this rate.” He murmurs in concern before taking his leave, and your mournfully gaze at the vase pieces in his hands. If only it could be that easy.

You knew you could only find him in one of the three spots, places that he seemed to frequent the past few months. The first place you could find him if you were looking was his training area down in the cave, covered in sweat and scars, circling a training dummy until he dropped. Before the incident, you would wolf whistle at him with a smile, calling for him to come eat lunch or take you out on a date. Your eyes could freely roam across his body before jumping up to meet the blue of his gaze and the superstar smile he'd send your way, proving his title as the Prince of Gotham. Back when the soul of Bruce Wayne was easier to pry out from under that cowl.

Now he was always circling, round and round like a shark. His feet placed firmly, and muscles tensed before he struck. Struck with more force than you normally saw him hit even outside of training, striking with cold indifference in his eyes, striking until his knuckles bled. He'd be out of breath and a half step away from collapsing, insisting it wasn’t enough despite your soft, kind calling and attempts at ushering him away from the training mats. He'd brush you off, dripping sweat as he got into stance before the poor training dummy again. You could only look onto him sadly, watching him circle it as if it would come to life and jump him any second. You could see past that though. The dummy was just a human torso, grey and plain, but unbeknownst to him you could also see the shadowy ears and cape that hung off the figure, the black mask that leered at him. You didn't need to be a medium to see the way he fought the ghost of himself. The way he was eating himself from the inside.

Even though he may not be wearing his cowl, you didn’t recognise him. The man staring down the dummy with a raging, cold fire in his eyes and lips quirked downwards with pure vitriol, was definitely not your Bruce.

Neither was he when he poured over the film footage from his suit, head in his hands when he thought no one was watching. The few times you did approach him he had tried to be indifferent, meeting you with angry quips and sarcastic comments. You told him he shouldn't watch; it was only traumatising him over and over again. Watching him be too late, reliving the moment of fear in an endless loop wasn’t healthy. He had snapped at you then, telling you that you didn't understand with his jaw clenched so tightly that you thought it was going to snap. "I need to be better." He had told you, tone firm and heavy. "I will be better."

There was very little you could say in response to that, not when you saw the pain burning brightly behind his eyes. The way their faces were scared into his retinas like ghosts, Thomas and Martha Wayne through the lens of young Bruce now joined by the freshly etched visage of poor Jason Todd. The same face riddled with fear in the grainy playback footage, freezing his last moments in place.

Poor, poor, Jason.

You still remembered the night that Bruce came back, with a bundle held in his arms. You hadn't been one to go into the cave normally, but when Alfred came to solemnly collect you and bring you there, you thought your heart had already thudded to your feet. That was nothing to the shock and horror of seeing Jason all torn up, colourful Robin costume barely clinging to the young boy. Alfred had turned your face into his shoulder as you cried, unaware that the echoing scream in the cave was your own. You were inconsolable, unable to even touch the burnt and beaten skin for fear of him falling apart. The fact that both Alfred and Bruce withheld what he had endured prior to the explosion brought bile to your mouth, head reeling with the worst possible ideas, mind imagining the poor teen in scenarios so sick it stung your eyes and made you dizzy. Alfred had told you that it was horrid to repeat, and it’d only bring more pain. Still, you weren’t sure if the truth could be any worse than your nightmares.

Sure, Jason hadn't been your son, but he felt like it. You had chided him like a mother despite not even being married to Bruce, patching up his scrapes and cuts when he came back from patrol with your partner. He’d just laugh it off and give you a boyish smile while he regaled you with his adventure with Batman that night.

"Thanks, Ma." he'd say, flexing whatever part of him you had patched up.

He isn't blood, but he is your son too.

or was.

When you didn't find him in his usual haunts down in the cave, you found him night in your shared bedroom, only the faint moonlight filtering in to the strewn sheets and the sight of him sitting on the bed. "Bruce?" you call softly, but he doesn’t react as you slip into the room. You knew he hadn't meant to thrown things; mind clouded in grief. He hadn't even registered that you were there, evident by the way he was holing himself up in the room away from everyone and the haze that covered his normally bright sclera. He'd become more frequent to these bouts of grief and rage in the latest week, volatile and pushing everyone away to punish himself. You place a hand on his shoulder, and he visibly flinches, making you retract it instantly. For a full tense second, you aren't sure if you should fill the silence, but he beats you to it.

"Leave."

you shake your head. "I'm not leaving, Bruce. I want to help-"

"No, Leave." he stresses, and you can faintly catch onto the hint in his words. Your eyebrows draw together and your mouth goes dry.

"You don't really mean that, you're just-"

"I'm just what?" he snaps back, standing to his full height, coming around in front of you. His glare makes your voice shrivel in your throat as he stares you down. "You shouldn't be around me." he snaps. "When will you learn? That people around me-" he swallows thickly, blinking harshly as his jaw ticks and he turns away. You can fill in the blanks though.

People around me die. People like Jason.

"Bruce," you say gently but firmly. "I'm fine, you're not- and don't even argue." you huff, frustrated as he goes to open his mouth again. "Bruce please, it hurts me to see you like this." you murmur. "You need to talk to me, to Alfred, please-"

"I'll deal with it myself," he hisses out. "I need to stop the Joker. I need to catch him."

I need to make him pay.

"Bruce-"

"No." he says firmly, and there’s a swirl of madness clouded in his eyes when he looks at you. A kaleidoscope of pain that feels like murky waters as you trawl through them for the Bruce Wayne you know. "You don't understand," he says breath ragged. That sends a pang of hurt through you, and you take step back.

"Jason was my son too." you defend painfully. "Don't you dare-"

"He wasn't my son."

that makes you freeze, breath slowing in your chest. "What?"

"He wasn't my son." Bruce grits out again, eyes screwed up almost as tight as his fists by his sides. "He wasn't my son, he was just a Robin, he was just-" he struggles to get the words out, as if they're choking him from the inside. You aren't sure what is worse, the words he's saying or the way you can seem him breaking down in front of you. Like a shattered mirror, unsure whether to reflect back your Bruce or the broken hero.

"You don't mean that-" you say, trying to stop the way your own voice breaks, hating the tears that burn the back of your eyes. "I know you're hurting Bruce. We all are, but don't say that. don't say that he wasn't your son. He thought of you as a father whether you wanted him to or not."

His eyes seem to burn darker every word you say, the way he's on fire from the inside.

"You're hurting," you try to keep your voice steady. "Let me help."

Your hands ached to hold the pieces of his heart like the smashed vase, but this wasn't something you could fix with a little attention to detail and glue. He shook his head at your plea, sighing through his nose. "Leave." he chokes out again.

"I won't." you say firmly.

"Then I will." he snaps back, he turns to grab his coat from the funeral, thrown over the chair by the vanity. "And you better be gone from this manor by the time I'm back."

The burning in your eyes spills over as he brushes past you like he'd never known you, shoulder cold and biting. "I'll call Alfred to help you collect your things. He'll take you back to your old apartment, I bought it so the deed will be transferred back to your name in the next few days." and then he's gone.

You could only watch the retreating form of his back, lip wobbling as you try to keep it steady. He left so quickly you hadn’t even gotten a chance to properly react, to fight with your relationship. He’d cut it in a single blow, actions swift and efficient.

Not like Bruce. Like Batman.

His words to you cut, but you could sense the pain behind those words. You had known him long enough after all, enough to watch his rise and now his downfall as Batman.

I'll leave you before you leave me.

I'll leave before you get hurt.

Before you end up like Jason.

Because I know you will.

As you sit on the bed, shock settling into your bones, you can’t help but wonder who really was caught in the destruction of the bomb back there, and if you had just watched those last pieces of his heart shatter into dust.

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hidden-snow · 10 months ago

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✦┈⋆┈ ⋞ 〈ＲｕｎｎｉｎｇＨｏｍｅｔｏＹｏｕ〉 ⋟ ┈⋆┈✦

Summary // You thought your relationship was as special to him as it was to you. You thought he loved and cherished you as much as you loved and cherished him. But when his family leaves the Omatikaya and all he has to offer is ‘I’m sorry’ when you beg and plead for him to stay with you, you realize that you were so, so wrong about him. Heartbroken and defeated, a girl barely seventeen years old, you decide that you will never love again. After all, it hadn’t meant anything to him. Years later and you are the best of the best. A strong warrior and an even better hunter, you provide for your people in every way except for a child to add to the next generation of Omatikaya people. They respect your wishes but you can hear the whispers. You can feel the concerned gazes from your parents, too old to conceive a sibling to make up for your lack of children. When he comes back, it throws you through a loop. Handsome, mighty, and different, he comes to you right away. But you promised yourself.

Warnings // Angst, a bit of stalker Neteyam, some fluff, mentions of drinking, heartbreak

Word count // 1,694

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

You know the soul-shattering feeling of your heart physically breaking?

That’s what was happening at this very moment. Acid tears, so hot that you’re convinced that your face is melting off, slid down your cheeks in rivers and burned your eyes as they spilled out. Your ears are ringing so loud and high-pitched, you can’t really even hear his words.

You’re pretty sure you’re pleading for him to stay by the fact that your lips are moving. His face pinches slightly in guilt as he listens to your pleas, though you know, as he squeezes your hands, your words are falling upon deaf ears. You grip his hands tightly to keep him here, with you, just a little bit longer, trying to make this moment stretch out as much as you could make it.

All you know is that your heart is breaking rapidly, you’re a sobbing, sweating, shaking mess in front of your yawne, and there’s a rapidly growing lump in the back of your throat that you can’t seem to swallow down, no matter how hard you try.

He looks at you quietly, searching your face, before squeezing your hands once more, gently. He leans down, lips to your ears, and he whispers out a quick “I’m sorry” before pulling out of your grasp.

And then, he was gone, leaving you to pick up the shattered, splintered shards of your glass heart all alone.

»»——⍟——««

That was three years ago. Three years ago, you were left to learn how to live a life without Neteyam to light your path and your world. Three years to find a new center of gravity for your world to revolve around. And you did.

You threw yourself into your training, working hard to become the best hunter and warrior the Omaticaya had ever seen. It kept your mind busy and your heart intact.

The clan expected you to move on from the unexpected incident that would forever leave you wondering what you could’ve done wrong, but you hadn’t.

Not yet.

Three years and the pain of his betrayal was still just as raw and bitter as the day he’d chosen to leave you behind. You used to dream of him, dream of the moments you’d had with him. Over time, they’d turned to nightmares of him never coming back, leaving you to grow old by yourself. After that, your nightmares worsened, showing your worst fears to you at night; Neteyam coming back different. Different appearance, different personality, different everything. Those ones always left you curled up in a fetal position, sobbing into your hands in the morning.

At first, men tried to sway your stone cold heart, convinced that they had a chance with you now that the olo’eyktan’s son and your best friend was gone. Eventually, though, the attempts slowed, trickling down to a dry riverbed of looks and whispers pointed your way.

You watched as people your age, the people who grew up alongside you, settled down and began to have families of their own. That life looked nice, peaceful and comfortable, but it wasn’t the life for you.

Your parents tried to talk to you, to find a suitable mate that could mend your heart in ways that only Neteyam could. There were times you’d lay awake at night, listening to their hushed whispers as they tried to figure out a way to help you move on from your tragic breakup.

It was a pity they didn’t have any other children to provide them the grandchildren they longed for.

And then, in a blaze of glory and fancy, excitement-filled celebrations, he was back. After three years, he was back.

Taller, with broad shoulders and a grin that could melt hearts, Neteyam looked different and familiar all at the same time. Tattoos covered one side of chest and his shoulder as well as some of his face. His hair was the same, thin small braids, but some of the braids were pulled back into a bun at the back of his skull.

The moment he’d seen you, he tried to approach and you’d fled, unable to face the one person who could destroy everything you’d built in his absence.

You’d found a place that was private, safe from the eyes as well as the ears of others, offering you the safety to shed the tears that had been burning at the corners of your eyes.

You couldn’t help the burning suspicion that the village had planned this, that they had known he was coming back and they’d purposefully hid this revelation from you. As if they were expecting you to be wooed off your feet if you’d been taken by surprise. Their own planned romantic story.

It was a turmoil of emotions to try and process and, in order to address your emotions, you did the one thing that usually helped you focus and calm down; hunting.

By the time you got back to the path leading towards the village, the sun had already set in the sky, night taking over the forest, bioluminescent flora and fauna lighting your path as you walked.

You couldn’t help but slow your steady pace, despite the heavy yerik resting over your shoulders, as you marveled at the beauty of your home. Neon blues, greens, purples, and pinks glowed all around you, surrounding you, and it further built up the peace that had settled in your mind.

“You look beautiful right now, Y/n. I’d forgotten how perfect you looked when you were at peace.”

At the sound of the masculine voice, you spin around, dropping the yerik in the process in order to swap it out for the blade that sat at your waist.

Your eyes meet gentle, adoring golden eyes, and a smile pulls at his perfect lips. Despite the smile, the raise of his non-existent eyebrow pulls at his face, making him look more questioning than anything.

“What do you want, Neteyam?” you ask, trying to force yourself to be civil. Just because he broke your heart into a million tiny places, trampling on it and spitting on it by leaving you, it didn’t mean your parents hadn’t raised you to be polite.

Even to assholes like him.

“Mawey yawne,” he hums softly, moving closer, and you instinctively step back, keeping the same amount of space between him and yourself. Your hand continued to grip the handle of your knife tightly, prepared to stab and run if you needed to.

A perplexed expression crosses his face and, for just a split second, his smile dropped into a curious look.

“I am not your yawne. You lost that nickname when you left me,” you spat back at him and he let out a long sigh, deep and tired, as if he was dealing with a fussy, stubborn child, rather than a fellow adult.

You cross your arms, tapping your foot slightly. You have no patience for him. When, once before, you’d enjoy dancing around topics, swapping playful banter and loving nicknames, you just want to be left alone now.

“Alright. What would you prefer I call you, if not yawne?”

“Just address me as you have. My name is perfectly fine for the likes of you. Now, why do you harass me? It’s not like you cared much before.”

He turns his head away, looking towards the village, before meeting your eyes again.

“I didn’t see you at supper. I got worried, so I came to wait for your return.”

“How thoughtful,” you bit back, gathering up your yerik. When he moved to help, you slap his hands away and shove past him to continue up the trail towards home.

How ironic that he worried about your safety now, considering how little he cared before. It was almost as if Eywa had a twisted sense of humor, putting him in situations that mirrored the one before and guiding him to react in a different way. As if trying to make your dreams come back to life.

This time, though, you weren’t going to fall for the act. After all, it was just an act. Nothing more and nothing less. You hadn’t meant enough to him then. You certainly mean nothing to him now.

»»——⍟——««

He hadn’t meant to scare you off. Watching you disappear along the path with your game slung over your shoulders, his gaze traveled down your spine, towards your rounded ass that bounced with step in your elegant stride.

A lot had changed, he realized, with you. Three years had not only seen you out of your awkwardly adorable childhood and into the elegance of a fully blossomed woman, but also had seen the change of your personality.

Whereas before, you’d been sweet, bouncy, and optimistic, you now carried yourself with a calmness that spoke of just how proud you were of yourself. Nothing could throw you off, nor could it stop you from being so damn independent. Had it really changed you that much when he’d chosen to go with his family to the reef people?

Where had that sweet girl gone?

Poking his tongue out, he licked at his lips before following after you, keeping enough distance between you and himself that you wouldn’t realize he was following you. Try as he might, he could never forget you and, convinced that you would immediately allow him to sweep you off of your feet, he’d come back.

Was he obsessed with you?

Definitely.

Had he always been obsessed with you? There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he had been.

There was never a day that he didn’t think about you, about the way you looked up at him with such large, adoring eyes. The way your voice seemed to float like the clouds, soft like a song just waiting to be sung.

Before, you were smaller, just hitting puberty, with a thin waist and small frame. Now, you were a full fledged woman, curves in all the right places, with thick black hair that tumbled down your back and over your shoulders in curly waves.

You were beautiful then and now. And he was never going to let you go again.

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2 #avatar #avatar fandom #avatar fics #neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #neteyam smut #neteyam x reader #atwow #atwow neteyam #neteyam x you #neteyam x y/n #neteyam fic #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam fluff #neteyam angst #running home to you series

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ravenna-reid · 11 months ago

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Battle Scars

Reader is from a planet of warriors. A planet where each scar is seen as honourable rather than ugly. When she accidentally sees Jason's scars, she can't help but look at them in amazement, much to Jason's surprise...

I really hope ya'll like this one...lmk!!

"Come on, lift you arms."

With an agitated sigh, Jason did as Dick asked and raised his muscled arms. Dick quickly pulled Jason's bloodied and torn shirt from his body and threw it to the floor, analysing the gash that sat across Jason's chest.

"What, did you get into a with Catwoman or something?" Tim asked, grimacing as he looked at the gruesome scene.

""I'll break your nose replacement." Venom coated his words, and Jason's expression read that he wasn't joking, so with that, Tim shook his head and left the room.

Just outside wandering the empty halls of Wayne manor was the girl Batman had found just a month prrior. Tall and toned, carved muscles on your arms and legs. A slick scar the colour of pearls ran down the side of your jaw to the top of your neck. A few more decorated your back and arms. A stern expression and soft eyes. You were a warrior from another planet Bruce had told everyone. He wasn't sure what planet though, seeming as whenever you told him the name, no records of it could be found. Not even those on the Justice League could find the unusual planet you were calling home. .

You weren't Kryptonian and you weren't an Amazon, even though your ideals and principles aligned with theirs. Nor were you a Martian, or an Atlantean or a Tamaranean. So what the hell were you?

Well, you kept telling them over and over. You were Idorian, from Idoria, but your home planet was apparently non-existent. 'A part of another timeline' was the theory.

"Non-existent as far as you're concerned." You had muttered with the roll of your eyes.

All they knew was that you'd accidentally been dragged to Earth when an incident a few months back involving portals and timelines threw you down from the sky into Bruce Wayne's garden. They also learnt that you had immense strength and durability. You could fly. You almost bested Wonder Woman in melee combat, almost. And electricity didn't affect you one bit. Other than that, you were a complete mystery.

And a certain seemingly uninterested vigilante seemed to liked that.

Tim watched as you looked out the grand windows lining the hallway, still amazed by the fact that Earth only had one sun.

A warm smile grew on his face. "Hey y/n, what are you doing?"

"Nothing much. You?"

Tim shrugged. "I was helping Dick mend Jason until I was threatened." He scoffed, trying to mask it with a bitter laugh.

A warmth grew in your cheeks at the mention of his name. Why? You had no idea.

"Why, what happened to him -?"

"Tim! You took the antiseptic with you!" Dick suddenly called out from the room, Jason's annoyed mumbles following.

Tim let out a huff, much to your confusion, "I don't wanna go back in there with that son of a bitch."

"It's alright, I can if you want." You offered, holding out your hand and questioning what a son of a bitch was. Humans were easily injured compared to your people, so it would be interesting to see the healing process.

"Are you sure?" Tim asked, his brow raising, "He can be a real ass, especially when people are trying to help him."

"Yeah, I'm sure." You replied, so Tim placed the odd looking bottle in your hands before you walked into the room.

Your footsteps echoed through the atmosphere. Instantly, Jason's eyes snapped up to meet yours, his cheeks burning a subtle red before he quickly looked away. A wince escaped him as he tried to subtly cover up his body. Too bad my shirt is on the damn floor he thought to himself. Picking up on Jason's change in demeanour, Dick turned to look at you, a charming grin appearing on his face immediately.

"Y/n! I haven't seen you in ages, how are you?" Dick had just finished pulling out the last shard of glass from Jason's slash and dropped the bloody tweezers on the tray beside him.

"I'm fine thank-you. Here is...well, this." You said, holding the bottle out to him. "Tim gave it to me."

"Thanks, y/n." He grabbed the bottle from you then looked back at the array of medical supplies sprawled across the table beside him. Hands cupped together in his lap, Jason stole glances of you here and there, glad that you were more interested in the odd looking tools Dick was focusing on rather than him.

"Shit, I just realised I forgot the stuff for the stitches," Dick turned to you and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, "I'm just gonna run and grab some things. Can you watch him for me real quick?"

"I don't need a babysitter Dick." Jason quipped, his eyes trained on his brother. Please just let her leave.

"I don't mind." You responded, and that usual glint of joy passed through Dick's eyes.

"Thanks, I'll be back in a sec."

With that, Dick left the room, leaving you two alone.

"Why did you do that?"

You looked over at Jason with a puzzled look, "What do you mean?"

"You don't have to watch me. You can go if you like." Jason swallowed hard, doing his best to act unfazed by the fact that you were standing right there.

"It's alright, I'm kind of curious to see how this all works on your planet."

His gaze averted back onto the floor, his body instinctively turned from you. You, however, were watching him. The wound had stopped bleeding, and it didn't look too deep, but it stretched across one side of his chest and onto his bicep. Looking at his arms, you couldn't help but think about how he looked like those perfect sculptures back home.

"Does it hurt?"

"No." So curt. So closed off. You were going to remain quiet until you did a double take. Silver streaks painted his chest. His abdomen and arms. There were even some on his back that caught your eye.

"Wow." The words fell from your lips, and Jason's eyes cut back to you.

"What?" He asked, meaning to sound more curious than defensive.

You walked over to where he sat, eyes trained on all of his scars. All of his accomplishments. Back at home, whenever someone attained a scar, it meant they had cheated death. They had been lucky and strong enough to survive. It was why you never hid yours. A scar is a victory. A glorious one too. And Jason had many victories.

A sickening tightening sensation began in Jason's throat as you neared, still obviously oblivious to personal space, especially Jason's. He watched as you stared at his biggest insecurities, the things that would taint his body forever and remind him of the horrors he was forced to endure. Immediately, he grew even more self-conscious. Sick. Angry.

"What the hell are you doing?" He snapped, but you ignored it.

"If the elders back home saw this, they'd call you a war hero." You let a light laugh.

His frown faltered a little, his glistening eyes watching you intensely. It was as though your eyes were tracing each and every tarnished bit of his skin. "You have so many."

His frown was back, a shot of anger burning through his chest at your comment. Why did you of all people have to say that? Jason drew in a deep, shaky breath, but before he could speak you told him how impressive it all was, and now the frown was even deeper than before. "What?"

You looked up at him, and suddenly his head was reeling. Jason found that some part of him, a hidden away part that was deep deep down, wanted you to look at him like that for the rest of his life. A look that said he was worth something. That he wasn't this ugly, scarred monster. Skin crawling and muscles tensed, he managed to ignore it. Just for now. Just this once. He quickly cleared his throat as he waited for your explanation.

"Your scars...they- you have so many victories." You repeated, "Many more than me." You pulled the sleeve of your shirt back to show him. Jason's eyes ran along the silver lines on your arms before his attention turned to your skin. The muscles on your arms. The glossy hair that ran over your shoulder. His eyes drew up your neck to your lips...

He quickly looked away, shame and bashfulness so blatantly evident on his face.

"What do you mean..." His tone was distant, until he paused. "Victories?" Now he was curious.

You frowned. "What do you mean? Scars are honourable. They show strength. Tell stories. You must be a valiant fighter. A survivor." You smiled at him gently, pointing your finger at them. And it was like something got caught in his throat.

Silence washed over the room like a soft wave. Jason kept to himself as his big, bright eyes watched you. He turned your words in his head, amazed at how you viewed this topic. He almost waited for you to correct yourself or take the compliment back. Because there was no way. No way you were truly being honest about how you viewed the ugliest parts of himself. Everyone had always looked at his scars that same way, with pity and aversion. And yet you...

"You really think like that?" He asked, looking up at you through his dishevelled, raven hair.

"Doesn't everyone?"

A soft, subtle smile tugged at Jason's lips, and suddenly your heart was hammering in your chest, faster than a hiccup. Jason watched you attentively now, still shy, but not as ashamed or ill at ease. Since when was he so comfortable around others, especially a stranger? Especially about the things that kept him up at night? Especially with someone that was on his mind 24/7....

Dick suddenly bursted back into the room, a needle and bobbin of nylon string in his hand. "Sorry Jace, had to get Alfred to look for it."

Jason shook his head at Dick as he got started on stitching him back up. "I can do it myself you know -"

"Shut it." Dick responded.

Jason's gaze fell back onto you and he almost felt like collapsing when you said you'd leave them be and see them later. You realised the longer you stood with him, the lighter your head was becoming. So with that, you left the room, and all Jason could think about for the rest of the day was you.

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cressidagrey · 18 days ago

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You are the best thing that's ever been mine - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Ariel Cane (Original Character)

Summary: Sao Paulo 2024. The Dutchman delivered a defining drive…but maybe there is a relationship that could also use some defining.

Warnings: Jos Verstappen, angst, crying, mention of pregnancy, mention of sex and sexual acts, physical confrontation

Author Notes: Hi, hey, hello! Apparently I write F1 Fanfiction now?! Also this is the first time I am trying a social media au so my Canva Skills were put to the test. (Disclaimer: I kinda put legibility over authencity, so twitter doesn't look like twitter and messages looks like...something).

Also huge thanks to @onebigfangirlworld and @leodette for holding my hand with this 😘)

The checkered flag waved and GP was in his ear: "Wow. It’s been a long time coming, mate, but, boy, was that worth the wait. You are the man."

Max pulled in a slow breath. His heart was beating fast with the exhilaration of the race, with the thrill of victory. He had won. The first time since the Spanish Grand Prix. From P17 to P1.

"OOOH YES!! What an unbelievable race, guys! You know what that is? Simply lovely."

"Max, that was amazing. 17th to first. That was a world champion’s drive. You were absolutely a class of your own today, " came Christian's voice over the radio.

There was something in his tone of voice...something that scratched something at the edges of Max's brain.

"We had an...incident at the garage today," Christian said carefully. "I would like to start this with saying that Ariel is fine."

Max didn't like the sound of that. An "incident" at the garage? That didn't sound good. And he didn't like the way Christian's tone was all cautious, as if he was bracing for some kind of reaction.

He swallowed, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. "What happened?" he asked, his hands clenching around the steering wheel.

There was a pause, and Max could almost picture Christian gathering his thoughts. "Jos," Christian finally said. "He said some things, and he..." another pause. “He slapped her."

Max's mind blanked out.

He slapped her.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened so much it made his knuckles white. His heart was suddenly racing again, but not from the race. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, fueled by anger.

"What do you mean, he slapped her?" he asked through gritted teeth.

His father had done what?

"Exactly that," Christian replied, his voice firm. "He was yelling at her for no reason, and he slapped her. It was completely out of line, and it's absolutely unacceptable behavior. I've already dealt with him, sent him away. Max, I didn't tell you earlier because I knew it would only distract you in the race. I didn't want you to worry or get worked up."

He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t bring out the words.

He remembered the commotion he had heard, the wordless screaming that had happened…he hadn’t been able to make out the words…but he could just about imagine how it must have…

And alone the thought of anybody, especially his own father, laying his hands on Ariel in anger…it was making him ready to go to prison for life for outright murder.

Jos had put his hands on Ariel.

On Ariel.

Ariel.

The best thing that had ever happened to him. The one person in his life that he knew was going to have his back in every single way every single day. The one person that had never backed down from his temper, that had never hesitated to call him an asshole… who had been there for him for years.

Who knew him better than he even knew himself sometimes. It was…

It was infuriating.

Ariel was his. Nobody got to lay his hands on her unless they wanted to deal with Max himself.

"How is Ariel?" he bit out sharply.

"She's a bit rattled," Christian replied quickly, and Max could hear the hesitation in his voice. "A bit shaken up understandably, but she's okay. The medic checked her out. She's...she vomited afterwards." That sent a cold shard of worry down Max's spine.

She had already looked pale and green around the gills that morning but he hadn’t quite… Max hadn’t really thought that that was…anything but…

Ariel hated wet races, even when she had never outright said it. Max had thought that it was just her nerves and not that anything had been physically wrong with her… but then she had had seafood for dinner the evening before, maybe that hadn’t been a good choice…

But whatever it was, Max couldn't help the image of her pale, shaky, and vomiting flashing through his mind.

"I'm coming now," he said firmly, his decision made in a heartbeat. "I’m coming to the garage right now."

"Max, you just won a race," Christian protested, his voice concerned. "You're supposed to be celebrating right now."

He didn't care. All he could think about was her. He had to see her, he had to make sure she was okay.

"I'm not celebrating anything until I see her," he retorted, his tone brooking no argument. He didn’t care what he was supposed to do. He needed to see her. He needed to see her now. "Is she still with the medic?”

"No, she is taking a nap in your driver's room," Christian answered after a moment.

The news brought a wave of relief through Max.

At least she was resting, and safe from Jos' reach.

"She's sleeping. She's fine. At least get weighed first, alright?" Christian pushed him. "I'll talk to the FIA, maybe we can sneak you out for a moment before the interviews start?"

To say that he was furious about it was an understatement.

Max had never been so angry in his whole damn life.

The anger was a living thing inside him, an inferno of righteous fury. How dare Jos confront her like that? How dare he put his hands on her? The very thought made him grind his teeth to the point that his jaw ached.

For the first time in his life...that win didn't matter to him. At all.

The win...he had won. That would normally fill him with pride, with satisfaction and the adrenaline of accomplishment.

But it meant nothing right now.

No win in his life mattered if he was going to lose Ariel.

Nothing mattered without Ariel. She was the only thing that mattered.

Nothing compared to the thought of her being hurt, of her being at the receiving end of one of Jos' outbursts.

Max could deal with his father’s poisonous words. His father could say whatever he wanted to him. But Jos hadn’t.

Jos had spit his venom in the direction of the most important person in Max’s life. Had dared to put a hand on her.

And that meant…that the fury that burned in Max’s gut was all-consuming, a fire in his veins that burned away everything else.

When he finally brought the car to the designated stop, he unclipped himself and climbed out...Normally a win after such a long drought...it would have made the Red Bull garage erupt.

This time the usual celebrations after a race were replaced by a somber mood. Everyone was there of course, congratulating him on the win, but the usual cheer and happiness were missing. Everybody's mind was still caught up in the events that had taken place during the race.

Christian was the first to greet him. He patted his back firmly. "Well done, mate," Christian said, his voice quiet. "It's been a long time coming. You deserve this one."

Somehow he mustered a thanks, even when the fury was still coiling deep within him.

The need to be by Ariel’s side, to reassure himself that she was fine, was almost overwhelming.

And instead of doing just that, there was the media waiting for him.

Of course there was.

They were like vultures, circling the winning driver, waiting for their chance to ask questions and take pictures. Max hated them at that moment, hated every single soul of them.

Max had never wanted to strangle the media more. His jaw was tight as he was bombarded with question after question about the incident in the garage.

“Have you heard about what happened?”

“Do you know what it was about?”

"What was said?"

The questions were relentless, and he could feel his anger simmering just under the surface. It took every ounce of his control to keep himself from lashing out. "I just heard about the incident," he said, keeping his tone icily even. "I don't know anything yet. I'll talk to Ariel as soon as I am done here."

One of the reporters, a little more brazen than the others, piped up with a question. "There are rumours that Ms. Cane is...well...expecting. Is there any truth to that? And if yes, are you the father?"

The question stunned Max into a moment of silence.

What was…What the actual fuck?

It took him a moment to process the question, to comprehend what the reporter was insinuating. Pregnant? Ariel? With his baby? The very idea was...it was sending him into a tailspin.

Regardless of whatever everybody else had ever thought...there had never… nothing had ever happened between him and Ariel.

She was his best friend. The person he trusted most in the whole world and he quite simply adored her.

It wasn't that he didn't want her.

He did.

That had never been a question. From the very first time he had ever seen her...he had fallen a little bit in love right then and there, in late 2019...fallen in love with the blue eyed girl with the bright red hair that had smiled at him in that meeting room.

She had never once taken any of his bullshit. Had never once backed down from any challenge he issued… had met him head on, her shoulder squared.

Ariel had grown too important too quickly for him. He was utterly terrified of fucking it up. Of losing her. What if she didn’t return his feelings? What if she did and then they ended up divorced down the line and hating each other?

At least like this… he could have her as his best friend. That would need to be enough.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

But to be asked that question...to be asked if she was carrying his child...it was like pouring gasoline into an open fire. It just made the possessiveness well up inside him like a tidal wave.

He wanted to snap. He wanted not to answer at all. He wanted to tell the media to fuck off and leave him the hell alone. He wanted to answer that question by giving the reporter a bloody nose.

"That's a very personal question," he said, his eyes cold. "The answer is no. To both questions.”

Another reporter, not satisfied with that answer, piped up. "There have been rumors though," he started. "About a possible relationship-"

“My personal life is not up for discussion,” he cut him off sharply. "Ariel Cane is the best thing that has ever happened to me. She has been my best friend for the last 5 years and a vital part of our team. Ariel is..." he trailed off, trying to figure out how to phrase it. How to express the enormity of what she meant to him. And when he finally spoke, he was surprised at how easily the words came. "She's incredibly important to me. Ariel is a remarkable woman, who I respect immensely. And a day doesn't pass, where I don't appreciate having her in my life," he continued. He had to defend her, to make it clear that what was between them was not what the media liked to portray it as.

The reporters looked a little stunned at the outburst. The room fell silent, everyone digesting his words. Max didn't care.

He had said what he needed to say, and had set the record straight. The last thing he wanted was for her to be dragged down because of him.

Someone finally broke the silence. "What about your father?" another reporter asked carefully. "Will you talk with him?"

The mere mention of his father brought the anger back into the forefront of his mind. He ground his teeth, his hands clenched into fists. Max felt the anger flare up inside him again, hotter than before.

“I will. He won’t like what I have to say,” he snapped.

"Don't you think that your father may have had a reason for slapping her?" one reporter piped up.

"No," Max's answer was sharp and immediate. "There is absolutely nothing that would justify what he did. And if my father ever dares to even think about getting close to her again, I will make his life an absolute living hell," he said, his voice quiet but deadly.

The reporter looked like he wanted to press the point, like he wanted to dig further. But Max was done answering questions now.

"That's enough," he said firmly, his voice brooking no further argument. "Now I would like to go and see my friend and beg for her forgiveness."

He didn't wait for a response, the need to see her taking over every other thought.

He didn't fucking care anymore. If the FIA wanted to fine him, they could do that. He had more money than he knew what to do with after all.

He turned away from the reporters, ignoring the last of their shouted questions, and made a beeline for the Red Bull Garage. He didn't stop, didn't slow down even when Team Officials tried to talk to him.

All he cared about was getting to her. Getting to her and making sure she was okay.

Next Part

#max verstappen fanfiction #formula 1 #max verstappen #max verstappen smau #max verstappen fic #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #max verstappen fluff #mv1 fanfiction #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fake instagram #f1 smau #max verstappen social media au

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 1 year ago

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The Winter Formal - Modern! Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Forced to be your annoying, arrogant academic rival’s date for your university’s Christmas Formal was already a nightmare in itself. Getting drunk? Now that was just a recipe for disaster.

Pairing: Modern! Aemond Targaryen x AFAB! Reader

Warnings: profanity, angst, some talks of drunk violence, academic dumb idiot rivals to lovers, lovesick Aemond, p in v sex, degradation, face sitting (f!receiving), tiddy play, use of 'atta girl' (pls let me know if i missed anything)

Word Count: 6.92k words

A/N: hoe hoe hoe! a very merry late Christmas and Happy New Year in advance from me to you :) MAY THE AEMOND NATION PLS ARISE, bcuz this is for you guys ;)

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics !

For as long as you could remember, you had always hated Aemond Targaryen’s guts.

Maybe it was a hatred programmed in you since birth, but it made little sense, since your mother and Aemond’s mother, Alicent Targaryen, had been inseparable companions since high school. It was your mother who supported Alicent throughout her marriage, acting as a close, trusted confidant during her clashes with their old friend and Alicent’s new stepdaughter, Rhaenyra, and throughout her miserable marriage. They had even gotten pregnant at around the same time, your mother with you, and Alicent with Aemond, and they were sure that their children would share the same strong bond as they had.

So, it had been quite unfortunate, and ironic, when you and Aemond ended up being each other’s number 1 enemies.

You disliked plenty of things about him: how he always thought he was the best in the room, and actually had something to show for it - always coming in at the top of the classes you shared. History, geography, mathematics, english…bloody hell. It hurt worse when he always flaunted the results in your face.

Got a 98 for English? Aemond would get a 99, shoot you a taunting sympathetic grin and said: “Better luck next time.” He knew you were always actively seeking a chance to beat him, and he found a certain sort of thrill in it, in taunting you.

That little fuckhead.

It was a nigging thorn in your side, since you always strove to be the best that you could at everything. And you were always so, so, close.

Yet not close enough. As you were made to watch Aemond on stage every year at your school’s academic awards ceremony, a smirk on his face, looking like an overly self-righteous pufferfish as he lifted his first place trophy in the air. Like he had just won some fucking world championship. Meanwhile, you had to stand backstage, gritting your teeth and fisting the fabric of your uniform in your hands as you waited to be called on stage to receive your award as second place in your whole cohort. Not close enough as you were forced to be designated as salutatorian at the end of your senior year in high school, while Aemond shot you the most self-satisfied grin ever as he deliberately brushed past you to give his valedictorian speech.

You swore, if your diploma was not at stake that day, you would’ve pummelled him right in his smug, grinning face.

That year before you were due to start at King’s Landing University, however, Aemond had suffered a horrible accident in a brawl at a bar during Christmas along with his younger nephews, Jacaerys Velaryon and Lucerys Velaryon. He had come out of it with one eye permanently scarred from the glass shard of a broken beer bottle, and a colder, more sullen attitude. Despite the offer of a prosthetic eye by his step sister, Rhaenyra, Aemond had refused, instead putting on an eyepatch to hide his scarred right eye.

When your mother had recounted to you the incident with much solemnity, you had felt a strange sense of turmoil in you. You didn’t want to feel sorry for Aemond Targaryen, of all people, but it was a tragic incident that no one deserves to have befallen on them. So you could only shift uncomfortably in your seat, as your mother made meaningful eyes at you, trying to elicit some sympathy and concern from you.

Because of that incident, Aemond’s admission to university had to be put on hold, as the professors at the university were unsure if Aemond’s plans to double major in law and history would be impeded by the loss of his eye, and he had to take additional exams to prove that his studies would not be affected in any way.

So you were surprised when on the first day of classes, during your first class of the day - Constitutional Law - you caught sight of a familiar figure seated at the front of the class. Dressed in an expensive black cashmere sweater and tailored trousers, his long white hair neatly bunched up at the top of his head in a bun, eyepatch slung over his right eye, Aemond Targaryen sat there with an impassive look on his face, browsing through his lecture notes. Like some dark shadow the Seven sought to inflict upon you. You wanted to groan in frustration when the only seats left at the front were both next to him - clearly no one had summed up enough courage to sit next to the imposing Targaryen. Gripping the strap of your backpack a little tighter, you stalked up to the front, taking a seat at the right of him.

He barely looked up as you slid into your seat - a surprising change. Usually back when you were in high school, he would always greet you with that infuriating smirk on his face, one that screamed superiority at every turn. Gods, how much you had hated that. Yet, you felt a strange sense of emptiness at not being greeted.

Ignoring that, you pulled out your own textbooks and self-made notes, tying your hair up into a neat ponytail as you began reviewing your notes. From the front, you could hear very clearly what the rest of the class were gossiping about, and the whisperings about Aemond were unpleasant. You paused as you listened to them, gripping your highlighter a little tighter as you shot side glances at Aemond - still studying, not letting anything give. Was he truly not bothered by them? When he was younger, he always had something to prove whenever someone gossiped about him, having been bullied in the past. Why was he so silent? Who was this phantom?

“Are you going to keep staring?” Aemond’s cool voice broke through your thoughts, and you felt your cheeks heat up as you realise you’ve been caught. You sniffed haughtily, turning away. “Who said I was staring?” Aemond scoffed, not turning to look at you still, for whatever reason. “You were. Don’t try to deny it.” He paused for a while, eye fixed on a passage.

“I don’t want your pity, you know.” You bristled, startled. “As if I ever would.” You waited for Aemond to retort with a snarky remark, but you were surprised when he kept silent, and responded coldly. “Good. keep it that way.”

You shot him a discerning look, but before you could say anything else, the professor arrived, and all thoughts of Aemond Targaryen’s new unapproachability had vanished into thin air.

You soon came to learn that while Aemond had ceased the taunting of your youthhood, it was like losing an eye had made him even more driven somehow. You found you and him falling into old patterns, restarting your fierce rivalry. Only this time, you managed to succeed in getting the best of him in certain modules, such as for Civil Law modules, much to your delight. It only served to make Aemond more steely, however, and the both of you often found yourself partaking in the same student committees, always competing for the top spots in planning school events.

Like now, in the meeting called to discuss the planning of the school’s Winter Formal.

“I think that that’s a shit idea,” Aemond’s blunt words took everyone aback, but few dared to oppose him, too intimidated by the tall man.

And the few who dared were mostly you, anyway.

You raised your eyebrow, tapping your pen on the planning document in front of you. “It’s a winter formal, Targaryen. And white and gold is the traditional theme used for most formals. Isn’t it nice to spruce things up a bit?”

“You’re proposing to reinvent a winter formal that has been steeped in centuries of tradition,” Aemond remarked sarcastically, glaring at you. “Do you know how many distinguished alumni and guests are on the guest list? I doubt they would find your ‘Christmas Wonderland’ theme proposal charming in any way. Most likely, they’ll think it gaudy and it’ll reflect badly on the school.”

You snorted, wanting to toss the pen in his fucking infuriating face. Him and his know-it-all voice. “Yes, but you forget, Targaryen, that I am the head of this project. Not you.” You turned to the other members of the planning committee, who all look like they would rather be anywhere other than here, in the midst of you and Aemond’s bickering. “All of those in favour of revamping the winter formal theme, please raise your hands.”

Your reputation as a tenacious leader clearly had an effect, as most of the members tentatively raised their hands. Shooting a triumphant grin at Aemond, you smugly noted it down and began drafting up the students in charge of decorations.

One for you, and zero for Aemond. At long last.

Aemond had reluctantly gone along with the Christmas Wonderland theme, and even he had to admit, a little bit of colour certainly didn’t hurt. White and gold were such dreadfully boring colours, and many of the school’s faculty had expressed their praise for the changed theme this year, much to your delight.

However, so busy were you with the planning of the winter formal, that you had neglected to do a few important things for yourself.

Buying a dress and getting a date.

You paced back and forth in your dorm in panic, two days before the night of the Winter Formal, as your roommate, Rosina, looked at you with increasing frustration. “How could I be so stupid to have forgotten about those things?” You groaned, slumping down on an armchair and putting your head in your hands.

“The dress problem can be easily solved,” Rosina said bluntly, leaning back against her pillows. “I’ll just lend you one of mine. And who gives a flying fuck about not having a date? A lot of people don’t.”

“Yes, but I’m the head of the planning committee for this event!” you griped, as Rosina rolled her eyes. “I still don’t see the problem, apart from your stupid fucking dignity getting in the way as usual.” Usually, you loved Rosina’s deadpan, take-no-bullshit nature, but it wasn’t really helpful now.

“Anyway, from what I've heard, Targaryen doesn’t have a date either, so you don’t need to stress. He’s second-in-charge after you, anyway, so if he doesn’t have a date, you should be fine. It won't be that humiliating.” You slowly lifted your face up, looking at Rosina urgently. “Targaryen doesn’t have a date?”

“Yeah,” Rosina wrinkled her nose. “He’s hot, sure. But literally everyone who had the courage to ask got rejec- where the fuck are you going?” You were putting on your bra, and brushing through the tangles of your hair. “This is so fucking stupid, but I’m going to ask him.”

“Are you crazy?” Rosina came to stand next to you, hands on her hips as you roughly used a hairbrush to comb out a tangle. “You know you both hate each other right?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” you bit out. “Wish me luck!” You blew a kiss to Rosina as you left the dorm. “Good luck, you crazy bitch!” You could hear Rosina holler as the dorm room closed behind you.

You took a deep breath, eyes resting on the dorm door before you. Right. You didn’t know what exactly had possessed you to come here. Maybe it was sheer panic, or stupidity, or both. You knocked lightly, but it seemed no one was in, which made you come to your senses a little bit. “This was a stupid idea,” you muttered, retracting your hand, wanting to just scurry back to your dorm.

Turning around, however, you knocked into a hard chest. “Oof! I’m so sorry!” You gasped out, before your eyes met a familiar lilac one, an indifferent expression etched on his face. Fucking hell.

“And what are you doing at my dorm this late, little bookworm?” His voice was raspy, and you couldn’t help but shift your weight from one leg to the other. Was it too late to run?

You were never a quitter though. And like you said, desperate times called for desperate measures.

“The winter formal,” you reluctantly gritted out. “I wanted…to ask you to be my date.” Aemond raised an eyebrow, and for a split second, you could see that self-satisfied boy from your youthood again. “You know, you’re supposed to say please, little bookworm.”

You bit your tongue, wanting to snark him and be done with it. ‘Calm down, calm down, you really do need him. Play nice, Y/N.’ you told yourself sternly, sighing. “Please, will you go to the winter formal with me as my date?” Aemond smirked, looking down at you. Your head was bowed, and he could hear you grinding your teeth a little. You were just too cute sometimes.

“You should look up at someone when making a request of them, you know,” Aemond said blandly, putting his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Your mouth dropped open, was he serious right now? This dickhead-

“You know what, fuck it,” you sniffed, beginning to walk away. “If you’re going to be a dick about it as usual, then there’s no point in continuing this conversation. Good fucking night, Targaryen.”

Aemond watched you walk away, the smirk never leaving his face. You went back to your dorm, immediately burying your face in the pillow, ignoring Rosina’s exasperated sighs of ‘I told you so’. All night, you tossed and turned in frustration, but when morning broke, Rosina shook you awake, ignoring your grumbles.

You got out of bed grumpily to see what the fuss was about, only to find a note sitting on the table, in a familiar scrawl.

“Go to the address written below and pick out a dress for tomorrow. Knowing you, you definitely didn’t have time to find one. I’ve already made payment arrangements, so just find one that you like. See you tomorrow.

Your date,

Aemond Targaryen.”

Rosina snorted, bumping your shoulder as you scanned the note for the third time, trying to make sure he wasn’t pulling your leg. “He so likes you.” You looked askance at her. “That’s bullshit.” Rosina chuckled, “Yeah. it’s not, and you know it too.” The conversation abruptly ended when you snatched up a stray cushion and began hitting her with it, ignoring her squeals as she tried to escape. It was impossible.

And yet?

A warm feeling burrowed into your stomach, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

On the night of the Winter Formal, you were frantically scrabbling around your dorm, affixing the final pins to your hair, putting on your final touches of makeup. Rosina was still in classes, but as the winter formal started at 7:30, you, being your endlessly worrying, perfectionist self, had to go at 6 to make sure everything was in order before the guests poured in.

A knock at the door sounded, and you yelled in response, putting on your lipstick. “Give me a second!” As you swung open the door, your breath momentarily stuttered in your throat.

Oh dear.

Aemond stood outside the door, looking like he had just stepped out of the fucking Met Gala or something. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, black with red lapels, with a few shimmers of silver scattered here and there, like he was coated in a layer of stardust. His suit jacket wasn’t really a normal jacket, but a sharply cut cape coat, which made him look a little imposing, but handsome all the same. It was embroidered with small dragon insignias, and you remembered Aemond’s family’s crest was a dragon or something. Of course he would find a way to incorporate that into his outfit. His family were one of the biggest donors of the university, after all.

You gave him an appraising look, one hand on your hip as you surveyed him. “You…look nice.” Aemond smirked, tossing some of his white-blonde locks over his shoulder haughtily. “I can dress myself, you know. Don’t need to act surprised now.” You rolled your eyes, and Aemond took the chance to scan you from head to toe as well. Dressed in a gorgeous strapless gown of midnight blue, your bodice was streaked with silver as well, shining like starlight among the deep blue of your dress. The skirt flared into elaborate ruffles of tulle and black lace that were almost invisible against the backdrop of the dress, and small silver sparkles twinkled among the ruffles of your gown.

You narrowed your eyes as you realised the both of you were matching, did he do this on purpose? From the way Aemond’s eye was shining in mischief, you were most certain that he did.

“You look…breathtaking,” his next words took you aback, and you regarded him with a look of unease, unsure of how to respond. Was this truly the Aemond Targaryen you knew? The one whose only language was taunting or disagreeing with you? You somehow managed to recover some semblance of sanity, nodding stiffly. “Thanks…I guess.”

A self-satisfied smirk appeared on his lips again, as he offered you his arm. “Shall we get going, then? I’m sure you will want to inspect the venue and get your nose into every single little crook and cranny to make sure that it’s perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, your arm, which were clad in silver silk gloves, slipping into his gingerly. “Spoken like someone who wouldn’t do the same.”

The formal had been progressing smoothly so far, apart from the few drunken incidents here and there, which you discreetly handled and made a note to provide less alcohol at these events. Much to your delight, your professors had introduced you to some attorneys whom you deeply admired, commending you as one of their finest students in the year. You had taken the chance to network and mingle with them, eagerly seeking out internship and shadowing opportunities for your upcoming holidays, particularly in the field of civil litigation, and many of them had given you their contact details for you to contact them should you wish to work with them.

Aemond stood by you like a silent shadow, watching but not saying much, but your professors also praised him, introducing him to many esteemed alumnus. And once they had learnt that Aemond was from the prestigious Targaryen family, many of them immediately took to flocking Aemond, asking him many questions about his family, his plans for studies, and so on. A slight burning sensation of envy rose in your heart as you watched Aemond disinterestedly converse with them. Why wasn’t he taking it seriously? Had it been you, you would be seizing the opportunity to network with them.

‘He's a Targaryen,’ you sighed internally. ‘Of course he wouldn’t. It’s been pretty much handed to him on a silver platter his own life anyway.’

Sullenly, you slipped away, making rounds around the party to ensure that everything was progressing smoothly. Still, it couldn’t curb the irritableness you were feeling, so you snatched up a bottle of whiskey from the drinks table, pouring yourself a glass. Then two. Then three. Then four turned to seven and seven turned to thirteen glasses. Your surroundings blurred as time seemed to slow, and you sighed, feeling a heady pounding in your head.

“Are you serious?” A gruff voice interrupted you in your fifteenth? Twentieth? Glass of whiskey, and you looked up from where you had sunk into a plush armchair, a glazed over, slightly cantankerous expression on your face.

“Well, well,” you hiccuped, lifting the glass to your lips. “If it isn’t Mr Bigshot Targaryen.” Aemond sighed in annoyance, knowing you were picking a fight again. He made a quick assessment of your surroundings, noting two empty whiskey bottles and a third one that was almost drained. Seven fucking Hells, you were drunk.

You let out an indignant yelp as a hand plucked away your whiskey tumbler, setting it down with a definitive clink. “Hey, I was drinking that!”

“You’re fucking drunk out of your mind, little bookworm,” he said quietly, crossing his arms. “I’m taking you back to your dorm.” You hiccuped again. “You’re not my dad, Targaryen. So why don’t you just run along and socialise with those schmoozy lawyer friends of yours, hmm? They were all eager to have a piece of you. Or have you grown tired already?”

Aemond wanted to smack you in the forehead. Oh, this godsforsaken woman. “I may not be your dad, yes,” he rumbled, snatching away the whiskey bottle that you were reaching for and making you curse at him. “But I would be damned if I let you get drunk on your first Christmas Eve spent away from your family.”

You gave him a confused look. “Is it Christmas Eve?” Aemond frowned. He put a hand on your forehead, to check for a fever, which you promptly batted away. “Have you lost all your senses? The winter formal was scheduled on Christmas Eve, remember?”

“Oh.” was all you could say, lamely. “I…I was so busy. I didn’t remember.”

Aemond sighed, taking a seat in the armchair next to you. It was good that it was late and most of the guests had already left, so the both of you had some privacy. The vast hall was empty now, save for a few cleaners. “You know, you have got to take more time for yourself. You take on too many commitments.”

You hiccuped, snorting softly. Perhaps it was the liquid courage, but you felt a strong inclination to vent out all your previous frustrations on Aemond right now. Who the hell did he think he was, criticising you for your decisions?

“Yeah, and it’s all your fucking fault.” Aemond’s eye widened incredulously, his mouth dropping open. “My fault? Pray tell, did I ever tell you to overwork yourself that you forget to keep track of when Christmas was?”

“It’s because of you that I have to overwork myself!” you blustered out, a tidal wave of emotions overtaking you. “Because you’re always so fucking perfect, and smart, and good at every single goddamn thing under the sun. Meanwhile, compared to you, I’ve always had to work twice as hard. And yet, I never come close to beating you. Despite how many fucking extracurriculars I have, how many A’s I get, how much praise I get for being ‘one of the best students in the grade’, it’s never fucking enough! Because you’re always the best! And I’m so sick of it!”

After your tirade, you deflated like a balloon sucked clean of its air, collapsing back against the armchair. You felt hot wet streaks cascading down your face, but you didn’t care anymore. You were just so tired…it wasn’t fair. Why did he have to be so perfect?

The touch of a hand on your shoulder startled you, and the next thing you knew, Aemond Targaryen embraced you, gently stroking your hair as if you were a lost child, and he was consoling you. Despite your mind screaming at him to let go, it didn’t translate to your physical actions. You just…stayed there, sobbing in his arms. “I hate you so much, you know. You’ve always had everything handed to you on a silver platter, and it’s like you don’t even care. You always treat things for granted,” you continued rambling on, the dizzy sensation in your head gradually increasing.

Aemond was silent for a long time. He never anticipated you to feel this way, and the shock from your revelations sent his head reeling. He sighed, how could he ever tell you that he had a stupid crush on you since you were little kids? That his attempts at teasing you, riling you up, were all so you could just look at him for a second longer, even if it was with a scowl? How could he tell you that none of his A’s or first place trophies could make him feel the same fuzzy way he felt whenever you looked at him? He opened his mouth to speak, debating on whether to comfort you, or tell you all his feelings. “Y/N-”

With a start, he realised you were asleep in his arms as you let out a snore, body slack in his arms. He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. Wonderful. This was just the Christmas Eve he wanted.

The sound of an alarm jolted you from a deep slumber. You flung off the blankets covering you, sitting up in bed and rubbing your eyes. “Ugh…” the pounding in your head was overwhelming, it was like there were a party of elephants having a fiesta in your brain right now. “What time is it…” you reached for the alarm clock to turn it off, only to freeze when a hand reached for it before you did.

You and Aemond Targaryen stared at each other, wide-eyed, in the dim light of the dorm, while the red digits on the clock read, “6a.m.”

You were the first to react, frantically struggling as you scooted to the far end of the bed. “Aaaahhhh!” you screamed, clutching the duvet closer to you for protection. “What the fuck are you doing in my dorm?”

“Wait, we didn’t-” you looked down at yourself, noting with palpable relief that you were still in your winter formal attire, though you stank of alcohol. Thank the Seven.

Aemond rolled his eyes, grumbling as he switched off his alarm clock. “No, we didn’t sleep together. And this isn’t your dorm. It’s mine.”

“Then what in the name of the Seven and all that is holy am I doing here?” You hollered at him, the confusion coupled with the pounding in your head making your surroundings spin. “Ow…my head.”

“Yeah, it’s called a hangover,” Aemond snided, taking a seat on the bedspread. “You know, for drinking nearly three bottles of whiskey last night.”

Your eyes went wide in horror. “Last night…” You weren’t the type to forget what you did while drunk, so your memory quickly raced through last night’s events, where you got drunk, and…fucking shit.

You squeezed your eyes shut, muttering curses under your breath as you remembered what had happened last night. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. An awkward silence had lapsed in the room, as you struggled to find words to acquit you of this predicament. ‘Me and my big mouth while I’m drunk.’

“I’m sorry,” you both blurted out at the same time, before breaking off, staring at each other awkwardly. “Wait, why are you sorry?” you questioned him, looking dumbfounded. Aemond sighed, smiling wistfully. “Isn’t it obvious? For making you feel that way. I…I had no idea you did.”

“It’s fine,” you cut him off brusquely, awkwardly fiddling with your fingers as the duvet slowly slid back down. “It’s all just fucking stupid, anyway. Let’s just let it go-”

Suddenly Aemond seized your hands, holding onto them with some sort of restrained anger. Startled, you stared up at him, as his one eye glazed over with pain and sorrow. “Of course it’s not fine. Don’t brush aside your feelings like that.” you stared at him, stupefied. What had gotten into him?

Aemond inhaled deeply, looking down at your hands. “You know…how I lost my eye over the break last year right?” You nodded warily, not sure where this was headed. Aemond’s voice shook a little as he recounted that incident. “It was because Luke was drunk, really. He wanted to pick a fight with this guy because he had stolen his girlfriend. And then next thing we knew, his goons surrounded us. Then, I think maybe it was the heat of the moment, or adrenaline…but Luke had a glass shard in his hand, and he accidentally attacked me.” You felt your heart plummet to your stomach. “What?”

Aemond smiled, a contortion of pain and feigned impassivity. “He was drunk out of his mind, he probably thought I was one of the goons by accident. By the time Jace pulled him off, it was a little too late.” He sighed. “You know, the drunk part I can forgive, but the worst part was that my father didn’t even care to hear my side of the story. He just said that we should’ve been more careful.” His voice hardened, “I was angry, because he just chose to brush this under the rug, pretend like we were still one big happy family, like Luke didn’t slash out my eye in a drunken rage. He didn’t try to comfort me, or understand my situation. And I just…” he shrugged helplessly.

You bit your bottom lip, looking at his scarred eye. “I’m sorry…that must have hurt. A lot. Your dad is a dick.”

The ghost of a smirk lingered on Aemond’s lips. “Yeah…he is. I’ve made my peace with it though, and Luke has never stopped apologising since that day. So it is what it is.” He hesitated, before reaching up tentatively, taking off his eyepatch. A gasp sounded from you as you took in the sapphire crammed into where his right eye should’ve been. “...does it look scary?” Aemond asked you, his voice small. You shook your head, unable to tear your gaze away. “It’s not. It’s…quite beautiful, actually. Even though it’s a bit macabre.”

Aemond chuckled, gently brushing aside a strand of your messed up hair. “My point is, don’t try to just brush things under the rug, okay? It never did anyone any good, and it won’t for you as well.” You shifted, a faint sense of discomfort prickling your skin. “But why…are you telling me all this?” ‘Why are you being so nice? I hated you.’

Aemond barked out a rough laugh. “Isn’t it obvious? I have a crush on you, little bookworm.”

You blinked. Once. twice. Thrice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I have a crush on you. Since we were kids." Aemond repeated himself, his voice light with amusement, but tender. “Did you know why I always teased you? Why I always wanted to make you frustrated? It was because I wanted your attention. I didn’t care if it was negative or positive, which in hindsight, didn’t seem like a good choice.”

You stared at him, mouth agape. He-he can’t be serious, can he?

“You don’t have to say anything,” Aemond said quickly, releasing your hands. “I just wanted you to know how I felt. No brushing things under the rug, you know.” Still, Aemond could feel his heart breaking a little at your silence. He had shot his shot, even though you made it clear that you disliked him. He shouldn’t expect much. “Little bookworm?” he asked carefully, observing your expression.

“For someone so smart., you’re a real idiot, you know that?” Aemond opened his mouth to answer, but before he knew it, your lips were on his, as you launched yourself at him. Aemond’s eye widened, but then you mumbled, “You’re supposed to kiss me back, you know.”

Then, with a choked laugh, Aemond did, reaching up to cup your cheeks and stroke them with his thumb as he returned the kiss from the girl of his dreams. Your lips moved in perfect tandem to one another, filled with tender, sweet desperation. “I’ll be an idiot, an annoying pest, anything you want.” Aemond murmured, his lips breaking away for a moment. “As long as you keep tormenting me, as long as you’re still here. I would be your anything.”

You laughed, feeling slight tears prickle at the corner of your eyes. “You’re such a doofus, you know that?” Aemond flipped you over, making you land on your back with a yelp, as he hovered over you, smirking. “I know. But I’m your doofus.”

Aemond continued kissing you, his hands roaming across your body sweetly, carefully. “This is probably the best Christmas of my life,” Aemond muttered softly against your lips. Your eyes widened, “Shoot, I completely forgot again.” Aemond laughed, sitting up and looking down at you with a naughty grin on his face. “Well, I actually have a present for you, you know.”

You raised your eyebrows, looking up at him. Even in nothing but an old, faded sweatshirt and some sweatpants, he looked like a vision sculpted by the Seven. “Oh? And what might that be?”

“Me, of course,” he said smugly, leaning down to kiss you again. You let out a few whimpers as you felt his hands slowly sliding up your dress, creeping up your thighs…into your panties.

“Oh!’ you gasped out, as Aemond found the spot between your wet folds. He grinned devilishly, “Already wet for me, hmm?” You rolled your eyes at him, groaning as he teased your wet slit with the pad of his finger. “Just shut up already.’

Aemond wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, “Why don’t you make me?’ You blinked, not quite comprehending his point. “I want you to sit on my face while I eat your wet little cunt,” he delineated bluntly, looking at you hungrily. “It’s a victory for you, no? You get your pussy eaten out, and shut me up at the same time. Hell, if I wasn’t so eager for a taste of your pussy, I would’ve grumbled at the unfairness of it.”

You stared at him incredulously, but you felt the slow rise of arousal in your abdomen as he continued looking at you challengingly whilst teasing your folds, and you decided, why the hell not? “Game on, Targaryen.”

He grinned, putting his finger in his mouth and groaning as he tasted your essence. You clamped your legs a little tighter at the sight. “You taste so fucking good already. I can’t wait to feel your cunt on my mouth.” Deft fingers helped you out of your gown, and you tossed it away carelessly, moving to take off your underwear. Aemond’s eye trailed over your naked form shamelessly, and he planted a soft kiss on your neck. “Beautiful.” he murmured. You felt your cheeks heat up, but decided to sass him a little. “Well, are we going to wait here all day, or?” Aemond grinned, a handsome, wicked expression that made your stomach do flips. “Definitely not. I need to taste you now.”

He laid back on his pillows, gesturing at you. “Come here. Now.” You swallowed, crawling towards him, angling your cunt to his face. “Don’t suffocate or anything, okay?” You quipped as a joke, but Aemond only smirked. “No promises, sweetheart.”

He pulled your hips down towards him, and you let out a pleasured gasp as his tongue flicked across your clit. Moaning, you dug your nails into the wooden headboard of his bed, writhing and shaking slightly as Aemond devoured your pussy. When he pressed the tip of his nose up your slit, you let out a mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

You rode Aemond’s face eagerly, as he pleasured you without much regard for his own safety. A few times, you were so concerned that Aemond had not come up for air in so long that you tried to move your hips off his face, only for him to firmly grip you by the hips and pull you back down again. With Aemond’s insistent licking and sucking, you felt a coil beginning to form in your stomach. “Oh, god, I’m cumming, Aemond-” you moaned, but your moan was cut off when Aemond lifted you off his face, smirking at you smugly with his face coated in your juices. “Why’d you stop?” you whined, pouting.

Aemond chuckled. Oh, you were just so adorable sometimes. “Because I want your first time cumming with me to be on my cock,” Aemond explained, looking eerily calm, like he hadn’t just nearly drove you to climax with his tongue. “On your hands and knees.”

You gave him a scolding look, but Aemond only repeated himself, sterner this time. “Now, princess.” The nickname earned a shiver from you, and you found yourself obeying, shifting on your hands and knees. You heard Aemond dispose of his own clothing, and your legs quivered in anticipation as he came up behind you.

He chuckled darkly, landing a few gentle spanks on your ass. “Gods, this ass is magnificent. I’m going to have to spank it someday.” You had to bite back a moan as he leaned over you, whispering sweetly into your ear. His other hand wandered to your chest, pinching and then rubbing your sensitive, hardened buds, releasing a shaky, shuddering moan from you. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Having my hands all over this perfect ass of yours? Leaving red handprints over it? Hmm?”

You nearly choked on your saliva as you fought to answer, “Yes, daddy.” He groaned, smacking your ass lightly for a few more times. “Good fucking girl,” he punctuated each word with such raw intensity it made your cunt ache for him. Oh, how you craved him.

As if he could read your mind, Aemond began to enter you, groaning as he did. Inch by inch, he sunk in, watching his cock disappear inside your warm, wet folds. “Gods, you are so fucking tight,” he swore, his hands gently going around to pinch your nipples. You yipped, which brought a smile to his face. How could someone be so perfect?

Your legs were quivering at this point, and you were barely hanging on by a thread as Aemond sunk into you slowly, reaching places so deep and so pleasurable. You moaned, just how big was he?

“All in, princess,” he whispered affectionately, stroking your hair gently. “You okay?” “Yeah…” your voice was slightly raspy from the pleasure. “Good.” Aemond kissed down your spine gently, making goosebumps rise up on your skin. “Do you want it hard and fast, or slow and gentle?”

Biting your lip, you managed to stutter out, “Slow, please. Need to get used to you.” Aemond smiled, hands trailing down your abdomen. “Anything you want, princess.”

Then, Aemond began to move, and the world dissolved into a fuzzy nothingness as he did. He was so careful, taking his time with you, thrusting so deep inside you it elicited the most delicious, deep sighs and moans from you. “Oh…that’s the spot,” you murmured as Aemond’s cock hit your g-spot, making you see stars. Aemond chuckled darkly, one hand moving to play with your hardened nipples, watching as you arched your back into him. “I’m going to go faster now, alright, princess?” he murmured, the other hand soothingly trailing down your spine. You barely managed to gasp out the words “yes” before Aemond began to thrust harder and faster in you, hips ramming into yours as his cock stroked the most sensitive spots inside of you.

You moaned, panting needily as he did, feeling your ruined orgasm beginning to creep up again. “Aemond, am gonna come-” A guttural moan torn from Aemond’s throat as he heard that, his hands moving to flip you over as his movements slowed. “No.” He nearly snarled, turning you around to face him. “You come looking at my face, princess. Understood?”

You nodded, too desperate for your orgasm to object, as Aemond wrung moan after moan out of your pliant body, mouth kissing and biting everywhere on your neck and shoulders, leaving his marks all over you. He groaned as he began laving his attention on your perky tits again, mouth sucking at them harshly, teeth grazing over the nub. You shut your eyes, too lost in the pleasure as Aemond continued pounding into you, gripping your hips tightly.

“Eyes open, darling, or I won’t let you come,” Aemond’s rough sounding command made your eyes snap open, and he grinned roguishly as he saw your eyes fixed on his face. “Atta girl. Are you close?”

You nodded, pleading, “Please let me come, Aemond. Can’t last much longer…”

“I know, darling. I know,” Aemond groaned, leaning in to kiss you again. “You’re just a needy little slut for me, aren’t you?” You nodded frantically, anything to make him let you cum. He chuckled, “Thought so. It’s alright though, daddy likes needy little sluts like you, so long as they’re obedient. You’re a good girl, aren’t you, princess?”

“Yes, yes, I am,” you cried out, hands moving to grip at the sheets tightly. “Oh god, I’m going to come, I’m coming-”

Aemond’s fingers moved downwards, and his thumb rubbed over your clit, coaxing you towards your orgasm. With a loud cry, you came all over Aemond, eyes squeezing shut in unadulterated pleasure. Aemond’s thrusts didn’t slow a bit, as he chased his own high, groaning. “Do you want me to come inside, or…”

“I’m on the pill, don’t worry,” you reassured him, looking up at him, smoothing his white-blonde locks back from his forehead. He looked like an angel, all sweaty, his expression filled with pleasure and hunger and affection as he looked down at you. An angel of lust.

Aemond moaned at that, feeling his dick twitch before he spilled inside of you, hands going to grip at the headboard tightly, as he rode out his orgasm.

Aemond collapsed onto the bed next to you, taking you into his arms. “I should probably get you cleaned up,” he murmured softly, “But I just want to be selfish for a while, and cuddle with you a bit. That okay?” You nodded, leaning your head onto his chest. A content sigh burst from your lips. “More than okay. We can just shower together later, anyway.”

Aemond hummed in approval at your proposal, kissing your forehead gently. The both of you stayed in each other’s arms for a while, basking in the afterglow of sex and in each other’s company.

“Hey, princess?”

“Hmm?”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Aemond.”

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