#as it felt wholly out of left field

[devosin]

" 𝐈 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 , 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈'𝐕𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 . . "

old account : @ cupids-chamber a/n: gender neutral reader . . personalized advent calendars

Sometimes, he can't really explain how he fell for you . . because you weren't someone he was supposed to fall for, you weren't someone he wanted to love, and yet he did. He ended up tripping and found himself falling into this never-ending pit, this overwhelming field of emotion, that was so fucking foreign—but he loved it, he had never felt, he'd never feel . . the way he felt right now, the varied emotions that consumed him wholly when he was with you, when he was in your presence, it all made him not want to climb out, to salvage the situation, but to only want to fall in further . . to crave that burning ache in his heart.

Some say to love, is to feel, and that love is pain, and he felt that tenfold when he was with you . . because if you left, that would destroy him inside out. You were . . so uniquely you, and that . . and that was a fucking tragedy, because if you were to ever leave, he'd never be able to replace you.

He'd never be able to fill that gap—that wound, you'd leave—You've tainted him, you've ruined him and that hurt. . . He felt everything all at once with you, everything, and perhaps he was a masochist, because he enjoyed it, everything you made him feel, was enjoyable to his sick and plagued mind, because you . . you . . were heaven.

You weren't someone he loved, you were a prayer, an oath he swore by, you governed his thoughts, that was once filled with worries and stress of work and all other mediocre things, oh you . . you . . . were everything. And you'd never understand that, because he'd never explain that to you, because that would scare you away, that would make him seem fucking creepy, would it not?

He wanted to talk to you, day and night, he wanted to hold you—so tightly . . enough to suffocate you—He wanted to embrace you in his warmth, to wrap himself around you, as you've done to his heart, he wanted to breath you in, he wanted his fragile senses to be overloaded with you, he was fucking lovesick.

He was truly pathetic, on his knees, and he can't help but feel happy, even knowing how pathetic he was, because it was for you . . because it was because of you.

Would it scare you? To know that you held his life, in your very hands? The hands he loved. Would it upset you? Knowing how little he thought of himself, because you were his only coherent thought. Would you care? . .

Because you were his sun, and he is the moon, the moon that only shines, only sparkles, and is only lit, because of you.

@ devosin , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[bzurk]

sound

It would be too selfish to have all of you - your thoughts, your body, your mind and soul. Simon doesn't deserve it. But he needs it, craves it. So he'll break you down, bit by bit. Because if he can't have you wholly, he'll settle for the pieces instead.

<- part 1 here

<- part 2 here

part 4 here ->

It was easy enough to push it all aside, to hide it in the back of your head. They were just photos. It had been months without escalation. You kept yourself busy, too drained and weary to pay your growing photo collection much heed. You’d solidified your place with your new team, a position that filled you with pride and made you hold your chin a bit higher. You’d made new friends, comfortable within your cocoon of company, finding safety in numbers. You felt… good.

But you had grown complacent.

One night, after a particularly gruelling double shift, you trudge into your room, exhaustion pulling at every muscle. The quiet hum of the ventilation comforts you as you collapse onto your cot, too tired to even change out of your uniform. As you close your eyes and start drifting off to sleep, your hand brushes over paper.

An envelope.

Your heart sinks, a stone plummeting into a black abyss. You know without even opening it that it’s from him. You rip it open anyway, rough and frantic. Your hands tremble as you pull out the contents; more photos, more vile words. And one photo in particular that makes your blood run cold. It’s you, in your private room, asleep in this very bed, sheets tangled around your legs, face serene and vulnerable. "You look so peaceful. Would hate to ruin it."

Your face contorts in pain and disgust as you rush to the bathroom, eyes wide and tears streaming down your cheeks. In your stomach was a roiling storm, a tempestuous mix of fear, anger, and disgust that threatened to swallow you whole. The sound of retching echoes in the small bathroom, followed by gasps for air. Your hands are shaking as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the ground.

The mirror behind you shows a face you barely recognize—haunted eyes, clenched jaw, skin pale and clammy. The person looking back at you is a shell of their former self.

You turn on the faucet, letting the water run over your hands. You scrub at them vigorously, trying to wash away the feeling of dirt that seems to have seeped into every pore of your skin. But it’s no use. The filth from those photos has tainted you in a way that no amount of soap and water can fix.

With trembling hands, you reach up and splash cold water on your face. It’s like a slap in the face, jolting you out of your thoughts for just a moment. But as soon as the shock wears off, you’re right back where you started - helpless and violated.

You bunked with your fellow sergeants after that, your sleeping bag stolen from your field pack, laid out on their floor and cushioned with spare blankets, completely undignified, pitiable.

You’re caught in a web, strands tightening around you, each day a new knot of fear and loathing. You can’t go to your superiors, can’t risk the fallout. And whoever is doing this knows that, banking on your silence, counting on your fear. They’re unravelling you, bit by bit, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

—

The nightmare hadn't abated. Instead, it had mutated, spreading its tendrils deeper into your life, suffocating every semblance of normalcy.

The photos were replaced by seemingly innocuous gifts. A protein bar you'd mentioned liking, placed on your desk. A book you’d once mentioned wanting to read, found between your medical tomes. Each time, you tried to rationalize it—maybe a well-meaning colleague, someone trying to be kind. You ignored the gnawing feeling that someone was watching, listening, someone who knew more about you than they should.

But the gifts soon turned sinister. A note, stained with something dark and sticky, left in the space your pillow once occupied in your abandoned room. A patch from your uniform that had gone missing weeks ago, now returned, smeared with dirt. Each new item sent shivers down your spine, made you feel violated in a way words couldn't describe. The gifts were a silent message: "I know you."

As the days dragged on, you became hyper-aware of everything. The sounds of the base - the distant hum of machinery, the murmur of voices, the clatter of boots - became a relentless soundtrack to your paranoia. Every face you passed seemed a potential threat, every glance a possible leer, watching, listening. You couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were always on you, stripping you bare, dissecting your every move. A spotlight shone down on you, glaring and blinding, highlighting every move and action, a camera hidden beneath your clothes to document your every moment.

You tried to push it out of your mind, to focus on your work and the soldiers depending on you. But it was getting harder. Every time you entered your quarters or the med-bay, you couldn't help but scan the room, looking for the next twisted gift. Your heart would race, your hands would tremble, and you’d feel that creeping unease settle deeper into your bones. He was under the beds, hiding in a tall cabinet, hidden behind the doors, a sinister boogeyman lingering in every shadow, haunting every inch of your space, your life. You felt possessed, haunted.

The most chilling gift arrived one night when you returned from the gym, muscles sore and mind foggy. As you opened your gym bag, exhaustion turned into cold dread. There, at the bottom of the bag, was an adult toy, pristine and new, packed neatly among your fresh clothes. You froze, the blood draining from your face as you stared at the object, a grotesque reminder that your stalker did not have harmless intent.

You shoved the toy back into the bag, your hands shaking. The violation was complete. You felt dirty, exposed, and utterly helpless. No longer could you convince yourself it was just photos. This was an invasion, a desecration of your very being, reducing you to a bundle of anxiety. You wanted to scream, to tear the base apart looking for the monster who was doing this to you. But you couldn't.

You had to stay composed, had to keep your fear hidden. You couldn't let him win. You were strong, you were composed, unaffected. You were a soldier through and through - trained to withstand physical and emotional torture. You had seen battles, blood, war. But this felt different. This felt personal and twisted in ways you never thought possible.

The gifts continued, each one more disturbing than the last. The air around you grew thick with tension, with the whispers of your colleagues. They noticed the change in you, the way you jumped at shadows, the way you avoided being alone. Gossip spread like wildfire, and you became the subject of hushed conversations.

Your decision to share a bunk with Johnny and Kyle was the latest topic of gossip among the soldiers. As you walked through the hallways, their knowing looks and hushed whispers followed you. You could hear the snide comments and speculations: "She must be sleeping with both of them," some said. "She's just using them," others whispered.

But the truth was much more complicated and painful. You had opened up to Johnny and confided in him about everything, and he had no complaints when you moved yourself in. Kyle, too, had been a supportive presence during all the chaos. But the rumours still hurt, making you feel dirty and betrayed by the very people you were supposed to trust and protect, the very people you had stitched back together and fought amongst.

You tried to ignore it all and keep your head held high, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. The gifts, photos, and gossip were chipping away at your armour, slowly breaking you down. You felt like you were losing yourself, your tough exterior crumbling away piece by piece.

Every night, as you lay in the dark on the cold floor of Johnny and Kyle’s room, you could feel the weight of the silence pressing down on you. You could hear the steady breathing of your friends, a reminder that you weren't entirely alone. But even their presence couldn't chase away the nightmares that haunted your sleep. You were trapped in a never-ending cycle of fear and paranoia, and you couldn't see a way out. The walls of the base seemed to close in around you, the shadows growing longer and more menacing with each passing day. You were a prisoner in your own mind, tormented by an unseen enemy who took pleasure in your suffering.

Your stalker manifested himself only in your dreams - nightmares - as a shapeless, formless terror that defied comprehension. Its presence was palpable, a malevolent force that permeated the air with dread. It moved with fluid grace, slipping through the darkness behind your eyes like a spectre. It haunted every part of you.

The nightmares were always vague, a cryptic dance of shadows, whispers, and taunts. They flowed into one another like watercolors, vivid and terrifying before bleeding into an indistinguishable blur when you woke. But you knew they were always some variation of your dissection, taking you apart incrementally.

The tearing of an arm, releasing stitching and stuffing and tugging fabric apart as if you were nothing but a doll. A beast tearing apart your skin, flaying back muscle and tissue to peer at your vulnerable insides.

The worst nightmares of them all was when your stalker took the form of something distinctly masculine, breaking you apart from the inside, bludgeoning and forcing your body to accommodate to his - carving out a space inside of you, breaking you, moulding you. Taking apart all your pieces to build you into something else. He played with you, sending pangs of discomfort and pain down to your very core, striking with surgical precision at your most sensitive places. Every inch of you was violated, every boundary crossed.

You couldn't even find refuge in sleep anymore. Fear followed you, taking hold and refusing to let go, festering inside of your soul.

Your world narrowed to survival - surviving the next day, the next hour, the next minute. The descending madness came in waves, crashing over you with each new gift, each new photo. The world became a blur of camouflage uniforms and concrete walls, punctuated by the sound of gunfire and explosions during drills. Your mind was a battleground, and you were losing.

—

You're on edge, constantly looking over your shoulder in the barracks or the mess hall, your thoughts consumed by the horrors that haunt your dreams. You can almost taste the fear in the back of your throat every morning as you wake up, dry and chalky like old concrete. Your eyes dart around swiftly, scanning for any sign of movement or unusual behaviour from your fellow soldiers. But they go about their duties with the same quiet determination you've grown accustomed to; their muscular, trained physiques moving with precision as they run drills and clean their weapons. Some of them give you a nod or a grunt of acknowledgment, but mostly they keep to themselves, lost in their own thoughts or joking around like it's just another day. It feels like a trap sometimes—this forced normalcy when everything feels so twisted and off-kilter underneath.

During downtime, you try to find solace in conversation with Soap, sharing cigarettes and stories from home between drags on your smoke. He listens intently, his brow furrowed in concern as he takes long drags himself, but there's always something distracted about him now, a shadow haunting his usually bright blue eyes. You know he feels it too; something's not right among Task Force 141 these days. The whispers around the base are getting louder, more insistent as night falls and the lights are dimmed—rumours about your work, your prior proclivities, your health.

As you meticulously stitch up a soldier's wound—an accident during drills, he'd claimed—your focus is solely on the task at hand. The sterile scent of antiseptic fills the small med bay, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. Soap stands a few feet behind you, his presence a silent reassurance, but his attention elsewhere.

Without warning, the soldier speaks up, his words cutting through the sterile silence like a jagged knife. "So, all three 141 sergeants," he sneers, mockery dripping from his voice. "Must be cozy, huh? Three's a crowd, if you ask me."

Anger simmers beneath the surface, all of your emotions on a hairpin trigger, but you force yourself to remain calm and focused as you continue your work. "It’s nothing like that," you reply evenly, trying to keep your voice steady.

The soldier smirks, clearly enjoying getting under your skin. "Oh, come on, Stitches," he taunts. "Don't play innocent with me. We all know what's going on. You open your legs for the whole task force?”

Soap's presence behind you is a silent anchor, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. You know he's listening, but you also know he trusts you to handle the situation.

Taking a deep breath, you try to suppress the surge of anger threatening to consume you. “Open your mouth one more time, and I’ll have you written up for insubordination,” you say through gritted teeth, maintaining a facade of calm professionalism. "Need I remind you I outrank you, corporal?"

But the soldier isn't done yet, his words like poison arrows aimed straight at your heart. "There’s no need for that," he purrs with a sneer. Cold fingers trail up your arm, dancing along the sleeves of your coat, sending shivers down your spine. "You can come to my quarters tonight and I'll make sure to properly thank you.”

The words hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating and heavy. Your mind was a chaotic storm of violence and anger, urging you to take action. Put your scissors into his thigh. Dig the scalpel deeper into his flesh. Pluck at his veins with the tweezers. Force a camera to his face and document every second of his pain.

The snap of your gloves being removed breaks through the tense silence, shattering the eerie atmosphere. With calculated calmness, you discard the nitrile gloves into a nearby bin before turning to wash your hands. Then, with a nonchalant hum, you search through drawers and cupboards until you retrieve a suture kit and gauze, offering it to the soldier.

"You're right," you smile sweetly, ignoring the twitch in your cheek. "I slept my way to the top." You extend the sterile suture pack towards him once again. "So you'll have to find someone else to stitch you up, because the only thing I'm good for is my cunt."

The smirk on the soldier's face falters as he stares at the suture kit in your outstretched hand. Soap chuckles behind you, releasing some of the tension in the room.

"Och, laddie, I dinnae think ye want ta push yer luck with Stitches here," he drawls in his thick Scottish accent. "She's not one to be messin' with.”

"Wrap it up tight before you leave. I don’t want your blood on my floor,” you gestured to the gauze, “Then you have to cut off the lifted skin and stitch it up, corporal. It should only need three or four stitches. Easy, really. Now, if you don't mind," you say coolly, "I have more important things to do.” Like keeping down the bile threatening to erupt from your throat.

The soldier reluctantly takes the suture kit and gauze roll from your hands and begins wrapping up his wound. You purposely ignore his struggle to sit up from the bed and his wince as he presses against the bandage on his thigh.

"Aye, Sergeant," he grumbles. "Sorry for causing any trouble."

You purposely disregarded his struggle to get up from the bed, the pained expression on his face, and how he kept a hand pressed against the wrapping on his thigh. The weight of your emotions were too heavy to bear as you turned your back on the soldier, acutely aware of the pain he was still in. The sound of the doors closing was a final release, allowing you to finally let go and surrender to the tears that had been threatening to consume you the entire time.

You sank down onto the nearest stool, head in your hands, and let the sobs wrack your body. Soap was there in an instant, a hand on your shoulder.

You couldn’t keep doing this. Someone was taking a chisel to your psyche, chipping away piece after piece, uncaring for the spiderwebbing cracks splitting your skin. You’d lost your privacy, your sanity, your friends and colleagues and your morals.

You couldn’t afford to lose any more parts of yourself.                            

[midnightsapphire]

here’s a small snippet of my Hades x Persephone au with Aemond! I’m having so much fun writing this but I need help coming up with a title :c any help would be appreciated! 

-----

Aemond Targaryen, first of his name, rider of the largest war beast in all of Westeros, Vhagar, Prince Regent, Kinslayer. The list was growing endless as Aemond cast his single eye along the burning castles of Harrenhal, the orange flames that cast a glow against the blue sapphire he no longer felt ashamed of hiding away behind the leather eyepatches. He let out a victorious laugh atop his beast as his arms spread as wide as the wing’s of his dragon, relishing on the victory he had achieved for the crown, for his family, for his king. 

He watched as the people screamed, pleading with him to show mercy as they watched their homes, their fields, their livelihoods be swallowed in a gust of orange as Vhagar swept low enough to breath her hellflame along their borders. Aemond made note of their fear-stricken faces, the curses thrown at him, the bodies falling with every moment. 

Dare he say he relished in the destruction that followed his shadow. 

It had been long after the death of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realm’s Delight, the Half-Queen no longer. The entirety of the Black’s reign whipped off the face of Westeros, a shell of an alliance that was never to be spoken in the King’s presence should they wish to keep their tongues, generously speaking on their part. The rule of Aegon the Second was rocky, but wholly accepted as the reign of the “true king” rose with Aemond’s assistance in allying themselves with the most powerful houses, keeping their own close and ridding the world of those that opposed them. 

“My brother, you’ve graciously returned!” Aegon slurred, his hefty cups of wine spilling with every word as he waved his hands graciously at the sight of his armor cladded brother, covered with soot and grime from the grueling fires that once again found itself on the ground of the Riverlands. Aemond bent the knee to his brother, casting his winged helmet at his side as he bestowed a sealed paper to his brother, that unceremoniously pushed the whore off his lap as he snatched the paper, lilac eyes skimming over it’s words as he felt a sickly smile grow on his face. 

“The fools had finally bent the knee.”

“They had no knees left to bend when I had stepped foot on their lands.” Aemond confirmed as he stood tall once again at the foot of the throne, his head held high as he glared at the whore that laid at Aegon’s feet, letting out a soft gasp and diverting her gaze away from the glimmering sapphire that ordained his face. 

“Perfect, they should remember with fire and blood who is truly meant to rule the seven kingdoms.” Aegon snickered as he stumbled upon the throne again, leaning his cheek along the top of his fist as he swallowed more swigs from his chalice, narrowing them at Aemond’s from above the rim. 

“Take it. Harrenhal.” Aegon spoke seriously, his head tilting as he eyed his brother. The ever dutiful son, the golden child, the one their mother clearly favored when he had bestowed the head of Daemon Targaryen after their fitful fight above God’s Eye, effectively ridding the world of the Rogue Prince and his blood worm, Caraxes. “You.. always had a knack for ruling, a taste for duty. Take it as it is, the barren wasteland. A gift from one brother to another.” He said with a brush of his hand. 

“It is no longer of any service to me when you have stripped the land bare of its forests and homes. Consider it.. your very own little underworld.” 

Thus he had become Aemond Targaryen, first of his name, rider of the largest war beast in all of Westeros, Vhagar, Prince Regent, Kinslayer, Ruler of the Underworld.

[auroreliis]

Romantic yandere

Summary: You're sick of him (romantic!!).

CW: no warnings

(I literally wrote this at 3am so not proofread I fear)

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The sound of the clock had been driving you insane for—wait, how long had you been chained to this bed? Your memory escapes you. You really did not want to be here mentally, so you tried hard to lose yourself in your thoughts. Right as you were about to zone out again into the comfort of the void in the back of your consciousness, the lock clicked.

Despite how long you had been here, you couldn’t help but flinch. For a split second, you felt hope, freedom, the wind on your face as you ran through a field. But that would never happen—not anymore, at least.

Oddly enough, you did not feel the urge to turn toward the door anymore, yet you awaited the unavoidable hug and warmth that was about to cover you wholly.

The bed shifted as he sat down behind you. His hand made its way to your face, caressing your cheek.

“Dear, please, say something”, he pleaded, his voice quivering.

That’s right. You had refused to talk to him as of late. He had been whining about it for a bit before leaving you alone for a while. The only sign you had of him for at least a week was the tray of food he left every time you awoke.

It was incredibly ironic. To think that you felt so powerless in the presence of someone who would do almost anything for you. It almost made you laugh. Almost.

His hands caged you in as his head drew near, stopping mere inches from your own.

“Please. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything, please.”, he barely choked out.

…How pathetic. He had whisked you away and was currently keeping you in a room that felt bland. And yet it certainly wasn’t bland, it was rather colourful. The walls were painted in your favourite colour and there was plenty of merchandise from all of your favourite fandoms. However, there were no windows, no people other than him, and quite frankly, you had gotten sick of his voice, his face and his touch.

His getting even closer to you made you suppress a groan. The clinginess had also started getting on your nerves. Currently, his forehead was pressed against your shoulder.

Unintelligible muttering filled your ears and his tears stained your clothes. Ew. He was getting even more desperate now. You didn’t understand what he was saying, but you were convinced that he was pleading to you, begging you for a compromise, as long as you talk to him. You felt something for a moment. Remorse? Consideration? You didn’t stop to think about it before firmly, though reluctantly, speaking to him.

“Unchain me”, your voice was hollow. Even if you had felt remorse, through the tone of your voice it was not heard.

His head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours. His mouth hung open, forming a smile. For a moment, he seemed frozen, not moving. The tears streaming down his face made him almost look angelic, despite how disgusting he was deep down.

“…Darling”, he spoke, barely keeping his composure. He was about to burst from excitement. Cringe filled your body as you tried to conceal your regret for having spoken.

He all but jumped onto you, wrapping his arms around your cold figure.

“Oh dear, I’m so relieved that you’ve spoken. I was so worried about you! I’ll go make you your favourite meal after I’m done hugging you!”, he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He didn’t care if you noticed his inhaling your scent, he was just that happy to hear your voice. You did, however, take notice of his ignoring your order to be freed.

Perhaps you were different once upon a time, but you really cannot find it in yourself to really even care at this point.

[kirkwall-tourism-department]

Extra Reading

Some very short emmrook fluff, with hopefully more to come!

I feel like most people's emmrook dynamics fall into either student/professor or idiot/smart. I have a lot more fun with the latter.

The smell of incense drifted out of her new companion's hallway, a warm glow peeking out from beneath his door, a stark contrast to the otherworldly purple haze that hung in the Lighthouse's library. They had returned from their trip to the Necropolis earlier in the day, the professor and his skeletal assistant settling in quickly. Rook prepared herself for a conversation that had become routine at this point- introductions, explanations, questions. Every one had gone differently. Bellara had been beside herself, the history she had searched her entire life for coming back in a blighted, twisted form hitting her like a punch to the gut. Davrin, on the other hand, had responded to the news with the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Based on her limited interactions with the man when they had retrieved him from the Necropolis, Rook was preparing herself to field a deluge of questions she was wholly unequipped to answer. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door, and it flew open in response a few moments later, Manfred standing in the doorway, hissing happily. 

“Come in!” The professor greeted her from the other side of the room, still filing the mountains of books he had brought into his new home. After organizing up the shelf he was working on to his standards, he turned to face her. When Bellara had suggested adding a master necromancer to the team, the image Rook had conjured in her head certainly wasn’t what stood in front of her now.  Initially, she had pictured a dour, silent figure robed exclusively in black and with a permanent scowl carved into their face. Instead, they got a sharply dressed, uncomfortably polite man who always wore a whisper of a smile. “How may I help you, Rook?”

“Just wanted to see how you were settling in, talk to you about what’s going on.” Rook responded as she took in the room that had seemingly apparated when Emmrich entered the Lighthouse. Two stories tall, lined with oak bookcases and centered around a spiraling staircase. Rook was unsure if the stone autopsy table in front of her was something Emmrich brought from the Necropolis or if the Lighthouse was able to sense the needs of its inhabitants. Emmrich went to sit at his desk, and motioned for Rook to sit in the chair opposite him. Manfred moved up the staircase, taking a pile of books with him.

“You did begin to explain the situation at the Necropolis, but any further elucidation you could provide would be welcome.” He answered, his hands motioning throughout the sentence to add emphasis. The various bracelets and rings that banded his arms softly jingled as his hands moved, creating a gentle chorus that underscored his voice. 

“Well,” Rook took a breath, preparing her speech. “The Elven gods are real. I disrupted the Dread Wolf’s ritual to tear down the Veil. The imprisoned elven gods escaped, and he got stuck in the Fade. Now the two that escaped are out there, blighted, and planning to conquer the world.” She had never had a way with words. The professor blinked at her, processing the information she had dumped onto his lap.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“You have a surprising amount of levity, given the situation.”

“I don’t really see much benefit in being a pessimist.” Rook shrugged, unsure how to explain how her apparent optimism belied the ironic detachment she felt from the world around her. Forged in the nihilism of the alienage and honed by the Warden’s flippancy towards their own mortality, her separation from the world around her was an effective armor, even if it often left her envying those who walked though the world unprotected, but feeling.

A loud crash rang out above them.

“Manfred.” Emmrich’s eyes widened with concern and exasperation. “I apologize, but I must excuse myself for a moment. I need to make sure he’s okay.” She watched as the professor walked up the staircase, disappearing as it spiraled higher. After a few moments, the itch that appeared underneath her skin whenever she had to sit still for too long surfaced, prompting her to stand and pace the room. The bookcases that lined the room drew her to them, rows and rows of books of mismatched sizes organized as neatly as possible. Trailing her finger on the spines, she read the titles as they passed by. A History of Necromantic Tradition in the Storm Age. In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar. Metaphysical Fade Theory and Practical Applications. Her finger stopped on the massive tome when she noticed the name of the author listed beneath it. Professor Emmrich Volkarin. 

Shit.

It was difficult to not feel intimidated by him. Despite his kind demeanor, she felt out of her depth when she spoke with him. More than once, he had used words she had never heard before and couldn’t guess the meaning of. She had only become literate a few years ago, and even then, it was by the most generous of definitions. Growing up in an alienage didn’t offer many educational opportunities, and after joining the Wardens, she had been taught the bare minimum necessary to finish her training. Despite her literacy struggles, she had always harbored a desire to learn more about the world around her, about the world outside the towering walls of the alienage. Originally, it was driven by spite and jealousy from her childhood- seeing the human children going to lessons in the Chantry, overhearing their conversations about what they had learned that day. Nonetheless, the desire had clung onto her into adulthood.

“Find something interesting?”

“Sorry, just getting distracted.” Rook snapped out of her thoughts, bringing herself back to the conversation at hand. 

“You’re welcome to borrow anything that interests you.” he offered as he sat back down in his chair. Rook tried to stifle the laugh that came out of her. The thought that she would be able to understand any of the texts that surrounded them was completely absurd. The Professor raised a questioning eyebrow in response to her outburst.

“I appreciate the offer, I just…” she trailed off before finishing her explanation, a hot tide of shame beginning to wash over her. Did she really want to admit to him that she would struggle to read even the simplest book in his collection? Her borderline illiteracy usually wasn’t a point of embarrassment for her, given the wide array of other skills she had. Fighting darkspawn rarely challenged one’s academic abilities. In this setting, though, without a sword and shield to demonstrate her other competencies, the deficiencies she did have felt glaringly obvious.  “I’m not much of a reader.”

“A pity.” Emmrich sighed, a slight air of disappointment gracing his dignified features. “Though, I often find those who don’t enjoy reading simply haven’t found the right book yet.” The slight waves of embarrassment that had been lapping at her feet began to rise, threatening to drown her. She had hoped her refusal would have been enough to drop the topic, and she wouldn’t have to make an ass of herself in front of 

Then, Rook reminded herself of who she was. Why was she embarrassed? Who cared if she could barely read? She could kill hordes of darkspawn with her eyes closed- how many literate people could say that about themselves?

“When I say I’m not much of a reader,” Rook explained, “I mean I can’t read very well. So, despite how interesting I’m sure many of these books are, I wouldn’t get much from them.” Emmrich’s expression softened, but instead of the pity she was expecting, he seemed to be embarrassed himself. Suddenly, a light appeared in his eyes.

“Would you like someone to teach you?”

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized 5/9 Rebound Effect

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He left after that.

And what was more, he left without saying goodbye, he just sneaked out in the morning and left her with a bunch of money on the table. At some level, it made her feel like a prostitute, even when she knew that was not what Simon had meant.

She didn’t harass him for leaving like a thief in the night because the man had obviously freaked out. It would do no good at this point to try and have a therapy session about it. But what she did comment on was the money roll he had left her with.

She wasn't bitter, only bereft. She had thought Simon would stay at least a few nights if he was on leave. Truth be told, she had thought he'd stay for a week like he used to when he came to watch her at the club. But he was running away from guilt, not her; protecting her by pulling back the potential threat that was him. As soon as she realized he only did what a soldier would do, all confusion left her. It was admirable, but she feared it also meant that the silk gloves were back on.

You forgot something on the table.

A gift. Don't take it the wrong way.

If you say so.

Thank you.

Anytime.

The gratitude came mainly from remembering her manners. But it got under her skin, so much so that she felt like there was more to this than just Simon wanting to help her out or play the provider.

In a furious decision of not submitting to the role of someone who just waited for their man to come home from work or war, she tried to concentrate on her studies. But the next time she visited the library, she walked straight to the psychology shelf and loaned books about PTSD and war-related trauma.

She read about the major symptoms of torture victims, the PTSD treatment for combat veterans, she read how to screen for impulse and control issues. Whatever had happened during Simon's career as a soldier had left more than just scars. Combined with a traumatic childhood, it was a marvel he was doing as well as he was. If she were to continue down this path with him, she would have to take it slow.

Slow and steady would win the race. Creating an atmosphere of safety would win the poker game. Again, she could hear the alarm bells ringing but did nothing about it.

Simon had left but wasn’t wholly unavailable this time. He wasn’t working in the field and had more time for her. He even called, and not just once, but nearly every night. For the first few times, it was only a brief session, just an exchange of how are you’s and how’s it been’s. It was a change and a welcome change at that. The calls soon turned into hour-long marathons.

He shared more details about his life in the base of the unnamed military organization he was working for and revealed that he was the commanding officer of his team. The person she had taken for a shady ladies man and a simple soldier turned out to be a warm-hearted, level-headed leader who was fiercely protective of his subordinates.

The way he and his team found humour, even in the most grim situations, was hilarious, and she spent most of the calls laughing with tears in her eyes. Simon seemed especially vexed with a certain Scottish teammate who was the exact opposite of him: extroverted, silly, and cheerful. So lovably childish that it was clear that Simon was more like a father figure than a superior officer to this man. And it was also clear that he wasn’t actually vexed at all: he loved this particular person, who was codenamed after being good at "cleaning", more than anyone.

"What do they call you? Skeletor?"

"Very funny."

"Why is your alias a secret but Soap’s isn’t?"

He finally told her, and another door into his soul opened. It was labeled with one simple word.

"Ghost."

And of course it would be something memorable and ominous.

"What’s the story behind that one?"

There was a short silence on the other end.

"I was buried alive once but came back."

At her end, the silence was much longer, much more palpable. It sounded like a stupid joke, but she knew better. The men she had previously dated were definitely not in the same league as Simon.

This was fucking crazy. She tried to sound casual as she made a quip about another horrible trauma this man had suffered.

"So you’re the Kill Bill Bride instead of 007."

"I used the jawbone of the dead man I was buried with to get out."

Jesus Christ on a motherfucking surfboard.

"Oh, or a MacGyver."

There was a husky laugh at that, but she was fucking horrified.

That stuff followed her even to her dreams. In them, he was the undertaker, and she had to get out of a coffin by using a skull he gave her. Another test… not assigned by Simon, but by Ghost and those eyes that wanted her dead.

In other dreams, she was there with him in the field, invisible to everyone but him, helping him find a way through bombarded buildings like Ariadne escorting Theseus in a labyrinth. She liked those dreams more because in them, Simon needed her and not the other way around.

He seemed hellbent on his protocol of not updating her on where he was, what he was doing, and when they would be able to see each other again. She kept her apartment always tidy in case he would stop by, she put on makeup, even when she went to grab something from the store. Her eyes roamed the campus in search of a tall man dressed in black, and the smell of cigarette smoke made her stomach pinch with excitement. If Simon was even half as into her as she was into him, he would have serious trouble concentrating on his work.

She was tired of being the one always waiting for him. In that department, slow and steady started to feel like an absolute torment. Appearing calm and collected, playing hard to get had worked for a while, but what would happen if she went all in and made him want and wait? What if there was a hidden jackpot in being a tease?

She sent him photos in various states of nudity, cuteness and temptation: when she was chilling on her bed, or about to walk on the stage, once even when she was at school — always with the enticing words Wish you were here or Thinking of you. It was raunchier than the first time, highly uncharacteristic of her, and so much fun that she didn't even have to fake a smile in those photos. It was a pure attempt to seduce him.

And it worked: after only a few days of sending such pictures, Simon came back. As always, there was no warning, unless the radio silence after the fourth photo could be considered a warning that a storm was coming.

She was at the club, and her gaze had turned inwards when Simon had walked into her life. She didn’t choose a guy from the audience anymore. She only danced for herself and him, wherever he was.

She noticed him only in the middle of her show and started smiling, something she never did while on the pole, at least not here. The second she saw him in that familiar setting with a scotch in front of him and those eyes burning, the whole world shifted. Had he taken a day or two off just to come here and make her pay for her little come-hithering? The rest of the dance was energetic and wild, and that beaming smile gave her a roar of applause she had never experienced before. The whistles followed her even to the bar as she went straight to his table and all but radiated delight.

"I've forgotten how bloody good you are on that thing," he said with a thicker voice than usual.

"Nice to see you too, honey."

He looked at her with a full-blown smirk then and was, all in all, completely different from the guarded stranger she had first met at this very same place.

"I've been promoted to honey?"

"Don't take this new position lightly."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He downed that scotch, and she went to get her things, and when they walked to her apartment, he took her in a gentlemanly arm-in-arm escort. It felt good, the kind of possessive that said he was committed, that they were in a relationship. An established couple.

But as soon as the front door of her home was closed, the gentleman turned into a ravenous mercenary who pinned her against the wall, much in the same way he had done nearly three months ago. The shared kiss was starved and desperate, and she had no trouble whatsoever getting wet for him anymore.

"You're the most infuriating man I have ever met, did you know that?"

They were both panting at that point, and she was feeling high and wild, especially when Simon seemed suddenly more serious than ever.

"I'll take that as another promotion."

"Of course you will," she whispered out of breath as he devoured her neck and pressed her even more fervently against the wall of her hallway. Her heart was racing, and she had never, ever had a feeling that a man could merely lift her skirt and pull her panties aside and slip inside with no effort. Right now, she did, and right now, she would go mad if he wouldn’t do it.

"Ya missed me?"

"Every day."

The whispers were like long-held secrets finally uttered out into the open air. The lights were off, the city was sleeping, her ghost was here, and she wasn’t afraid at all. She was ready for everything, to conquer the whole world with him.

"How about you?"

"I'll show you just how much," he answered and suddenly detached from her, then grabbed her by the shoulder to spin her around and pin her against the wall again. It was a rough treatment that briefly reminded her of The Incident… But she was so drunk on him that even that didn’t spoil this moment that only felt good and right.

"This too much for you?" A slight trepidation in his voice told her that they were both walking on the brink of something new, but his cautiousness only made her feel more sure about letting him do whatever he wanted before they set the world aflame together. The silk gloves and normal dudes could go to hell; she wanted bare, calloused skin and a revenant, she yearned for the shared suffering that was only a kin to passion.

"No."

That steel of muscle kept her in place as the other hand went under her skirt. The garment was loose enough again and made the plundering far too easy. And of course he commented on it.

"I like the skirts you wear."

The arm from her back disappeared, only to descend down her back and grab hold of the lifted clothing. There was a soft rustle and a poignant click, and then her underwear was stretched away from her skin.

"They're convenient."

She didn’t feel the blade as it cut the fabric, but she could feel the sudden snap as the soft material yielded under a sharp edge. The rest of the ruined clothing was torn down from between her legs, and he didn’t even put the knife away, didn’t fold it with another precise flick and tuck it back to wherever it had been hidden.

He drove it to the wall. Next to her face, not close, but close enough for her to draw a panicked gasp. It wasn’t a classic stiletto or a pocket knife; it was sturdy and tactical, something she would never even have guessed was foldable. The silk gloves were nowhere to be seen, and she was overjoyed about it.

"You know what's infuriating?" The next thing she heard was a zipper opening as he got himself out of his jeans, then pressed his whole body against her.

"Watchin' all those fucking blokes drool after you in that joint."

It was that kinky talk again, but something told her there was more than a few months worth of frustration here too, gushing out like a flash flood. The thickness was guided to her opening in an almost blunderous manner, but he wasn't a brute. He only seemed to be in a hurry to get inside her and chuckled when he found her completely ready for him.

"Makes me wanna shoot everyone." And then he did push inside, with one measured but steady thrust, letting out a shaky sigh as he did it. She was watching the blade jutting out from the wall and didn’t give a single fuck what her landlord would say about the dent left on his property. Her ghost slid in and out of her, finally content. Tender, but thoroughly passionate, like he had missed her far more than mere words could express. He didn’t need his hands to keep her steady anymore; his chest did all that, but a hand found its way to her hair and pulled gently, lovingly, as he nuzzled close to whisper in her ear.

"Would ya like that?"

She tightened around him — she didn’t know whether it was his voice or his words that made her so unhinged. But another huff of silent laughter hit her at the response she gave him without uttering a single word.

"Yeah… That's wha' I thought."

His other hand reached for her thigh, slid down under the knee, and lifted, granting him better access to hit even deeper, and she finally moaned. She could almost hear the good girl talk, even when it never came. He didn’t have time for that, for there were more important matters at hand.

The longing of entire months came undone, and the knife on the wall was evidence enough that Simon was very much dedicated. Somehow that ferocious gesture was a vow, a whole pledge from the man who didn’t fuck anyone else after all. And if that didn’t make her wet, then nothing would.

"Dripping all over me here…" He stated the obvious as he continued the pillage she surrendered to — gladly and with an orgasm that came almost without a warning as the mercenary drove deep and grunted his desperation on her skin. She had to bolt her lips tight to not whisper something stupid that would only ruin the moment that was her first experience of a quickie, first experience of a fierce, intense rutting perfectly capable of having a godly amount of affection in it.

She broke against that wall and knew that she was lost: lost in Simon, in Ghost, or whoever he was. From this day forward, he would be forever inside her. Even if and when he pulled out, she would never get him out again.

Simon was a full package, and she had to accept all of it rather than try and fix him. If he would leave her only with his ghost, she would be forever bound in that frozen state of the engraving, the woman who dropped everything for the sake of sulking and only remembered beauty and meaning from a distant past. It was better to take the risk and die one way or another with this man.

"Simon," she sighed, whispered, because she was afraid that the three words that must not be said would come out if she wasn't careful. His hand found hers and entwined their fingers together, a surprisingly gentle lapse in the middle of a rough fuck.

"You're the one who's infuriating," he grunted. It was his way of telling her that he was nearing the point of loving too, and her only answer was another broken sigh as she came down from the overwhelming realization and the stunning, sinful orgasm that felt more like a love confession.

She was being pressed into pieces between that hard wall and an even harder chest, spread open for his taking, but it only felt safe to be trapped there like this. She was crying inwards by the time he came inside her while having all the earmarks of emotional turmoil as well. The controlled, rigid manners were gone, and he didn’t pull out for a good long time, only panted together with her against that wall that she paid rent for, which had a knife on it, a knife he had probably used to end human lives. How could the same man kill someone one day and bring someone back to life the next?

The desperate clutch that had curled both their hands into a fist loosened its hold, and the chest that had heaved her up pulled away just enough for her to catch some air. He pulled out reluctantly, and the seed gushed forth, making a magnificent mess. A gentle hand ran down her back, another released her leg just to slide up her hip like she was the most precious work of art a bloodied man like him had ever looted. She reached a hand behind his neck to tell him that she was his if he wanted her.

"Love," she whispered the most important one of those three words, and he lowered his head to rest on her shoulder. His was a heavy weight to carry, but she didn’t feel like she was Atlas holding the world. This burden was something she shouldered with joy.

---

The next morning was laced with drowsy tenderness and lazy lovemaking, and she couldn’t hold the question in any longer.

"Simon… are we in a situationship or a relationship?"

"You tell me."

She turned in the loose hold of his arms and admired how comfortable he looked under the mundane, flower-patterned linens. Simon still couldn’t be described as someone joyous or carefree, but he did appear calmer than ever. She liked to think that at least some of it was her influence.

"I like you. I like this."

"Yeah... You're okay, I guess," he muttered with a sleepy smile. She laughed and got up with the intention of making some coffee. And tea.

He soon followed in her trail, and the mood in her apartment was heavenly. He sat on her couch with nothing but his boxers and t-shirt on, the sunlight got in, and the coffee machine made cozy sounds and filled the air with the smell she loved. Simon didn’t even go outside for a smoke: it looked like he was in no hurry at all to get anywhere from that little piece of furniture.

She knew that love was a drug. Would Simon find it amusing if she told him he was the only drug she was on? If she confessed that she was an addict who never wanted to go to rehab...

"Why do you wanna be with me of all people?"

She had already asked the question once before, but today, she was feeling unusually confident. Some of his cockiness was contagious, and something had shifted last night, some fragile power, and she felt wild and optimistic again.

"You're a hot school girl."

"Simon…"

"You remind me of… I dunno. Something from back home."

Again, she didn't quite know what to make of him. Did he mean that he liked the girl from next door look? Was she a nice holiday from his exciting, death-defying work, a small slice of wholesome dullness? It wouldn’t bother her if she was. But something in that remark screeched in her head like nails on a blackboard.

"Something from back home? Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

The sunlight didn’t only fill the room with light; it exposed dust and long-forgotten clutter.

"Tell me about your childhood in Manchester."

"No thanks."

Her confidence this morning was more than enough to move whole mountains and seas. She wanted to know, even if it would hurt to know. If this was supposed to last, she needed to know.

"Was your father a beater?"

"Yeah, and a serial cheater."

He didn’t run away; he didn’t escape this conversation in any way. She had braced herself for resistance, but she was met with none, which caused her to mentally tumble all over the place that was Simon’s past.

And suddenly, she didn't like where this was going. Even if she was the one who had dragged them on this path.

"Only with paid women, though," Simon continued without any filter on.

Hold on…

That didn't sound right.

"Could you please tell me what I remind you of from back home.”

He finally stirred, a torturer who realized he was the one being questioned.

"Sarah…"

"I remind you of a hooker and you're trying to save me?"

"That's not… No."

She saw in his eyes that it was a blatant yes. At least for some part. The jealousy, the offering of money… All made perfect sense now. She felt like a project, not a love interest. She was a nut to be cracked, even if he did it gently and with a tenderness that left her writhing with pleasure. The need to set some things straight suddenly chose to override everything else.

"I’m a dancer, not a sex worker. And just for the record, I've had like three men before you. Plus the relative who abused me when I was… almost of age."

She never said "as a child" because that sounded too fucked up. She had been 16, so it wasn't the same as 6. It fucking wasn't.

She immediately got an excellent reminder of why she didn't share this stuff with people; because that pity stare was even worse than the fact that shit like that had happened. It reduced her back to a helpless victim.

"I don't want your money," she declared.

"Got it."

She turned, feeling guilty and idiotic for having ruined the most beautiful morning they could ever have had. The coffee was ready, but she felt like throwing up. She put the kettle on — would he want milk and sugar with his tea? Perhaps another slice of trauma dump served with it?

Whatever happened to slow and steady, to creating that calm atmosphere…

She hadn’t meant to share that. It simply flew out of her mouth. Not because she wanted pity, but because she wanted him to know that in some way, there were things that needed to be saved, ruins that needed to be haunted by different ghosts…

And hadn't he been her project as well?

She wanted more than this, more than tests and strategies and projects. Raw, naked flesh was what she wanted, not a treatment plan. He had disarmed her last night, and apparently, it was time for the final surrender. She waited for the bullet of mercy, but it never came.

She heard him rise and walk behind her, then felt Simon place his hands on her shoulders. He was here amidst her ruins, and her eyes stung, even after all these years.

"Are we gonna have a pity party?" She squeezed the ear of her favourite Don’t make me use my art historian voice mug. She wondered why the hell she had voiced anything at all.

"No."

"I don't want your money."

"You already said that."

The hands wouldn’t draw away, they stayed and felt soothing. At least as comforting as her snug little home and the familiar smell of coffee in the morning. The nausea had left her shaky, but he held her, just with his hands, making it known that he was here and wouldn’t leave her with her shattered self.

"I only want you," she finally said to the coffee machine and the empty mug and waited for a second or two to see if that warmth would leave her.

It didn't. If anything, the sun seemed to shine on whole new parts of her.

"You have me."

She felt bold enough to finally turn, and he immediately closed her into a hug and pressed her against his chest.

He breathed more life into her, day by day. All the goodness in the world returned, the water reached a boiling point in the kettle, and an exceptionally loud magpie made a racket outside.

"Ok," she whispered and let herself soften against his warmth.

Simon wasn’t a phantom or a cold, emotionless soldier. He was a man and very much alive. There was coffee and tea, and even if they strangled each other occasionally with ghosts that weren’t invited, it wasn’t enough to choke the mass of beautiful things that came from having found something as pure as this.

"You have me too," she announced in his shirt.

"I was hoping you would say that."

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

Haven’t seen any Malice!Link so I figured I’d deliver! Can be interrupted with any Link but written with BOTW loosely in mind

Tw: Yandere, Murder, Link is kinda stalkery

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Heroes aren’t supposed to be happy. It's a principle. Every single one in every single book of old parchment is struck down— and often by the very gods that once hailed them. When the weight of his position began to mount on him, Link realised why it was that those heroes fell. In the Hubris from the cheers lining the streets of every village he travelled through and the awe in the eyes of civilians as he passed- it was easy to forget that he was the same as them. At his story’s end, his blood would be split along the earth and his bones would mingle among the dirt. He understood those heroes felled by their wrath, sword in hand he could cut down any opposition, and he’d be enabled. “More” they’d say. And like a puppet, they’d yank his stings and suffocate him out of any other option. When the sun left, dust settled and that burning fire in his chest gave way to empty ribs, he’d have no other option than to look at the cracks in his calloused hands and question if it was really worth it. He understood now why it was that the heroes in the stories -the true stories that was- never got their happy ending. It was because of that realness, that humanity they held, that they would eventually be hindered. No mortal man could walk throughout life as a paragon of perfection. It was simply impossible.

Or, so he’d thought for many years. You, wits as sharp as his blade, kinder to the world than any true god has been in a long while, beauty it’d be criminal to suggest a comparison. You. You who he’d happily lay down lives for. You who, when he’d bare his teeth and lash out, you’d soothe with gentle words and gentler hands. You were a god walking among mortals, that much he was sure. In fact, he had no care for what anyone had to say. Hylia herself could debate it with him, but the longer he lives, the more Link is sure that her words are lies. She herself told him he was ready. He’d done everything right and yet he could feel the *otherness* pulsing within his cranium, begging to crack bone and be free. He himself could never get the malice that festered in his blood to behave. It bounded like a rabid dog, demanding the destruction of whatever lay between him and his goal. But where the gloom bit at him beneath his skin, it keened under your fingertips. That feral animal was tame for you. Where his goal used to lie within those fields of war, it now lies in you. Having you, wholly, unrivalled by anyone else in his pursuit. No one could love you as much as him. That much was certain.

He’d been watching you more often now. Sure, being travel ‘buddies��� —on your name he detested the word, he’d far rather be your lover— meant near every second was spent side by side, but there were moments you were led astray. Moments you insisted on being left alone, something he simply couldn’t allow if his dearest. Afterall, you couldn’t properly defend yourself while bathing, so it was only right that he watched. When the curse on his blood made it difficult to sleep, you made it better, clearer. Of course he should stay with you! There was no one else in Hyrule that would accept him now the malice showed in his scars. He was the very monster he once fought. He’d become the very thing he sought to once destroy. You must understand that he loves you, more than one man should even be allowed to love, can’t he cuddle you for at least the night? Can’t you help heal his aching bones?

Looking at the corpse, he felt no semblance of guilt. That once person had tried chatting you up while you’d been separated. All sorts of disgusting things, Link was sure. The man orchestrated it, he must’ve. There was simply no other way he could have possibly been led away from such divinity as yourself. No matter, the rat was dead now. All he had to do next morning was whine about the rude townsfolk, and you’d be on your merry way, you fussing over him all the while. He loved your attention. He waited on you hand and foot, back and call. Much like a loyal dog he supposed, but it didn’t matter if it were you. To be yours was to be happy, to achieve the goal no hero could. You were love itself and how lucky of a man he was to bask in it, to hold it to his chest, to breathe in its scent. How lucky he was to love you.

[gofishygo]

I think I might have a good request. Ghost or Gaz with a gentle wife who rambles a lot and just talks to herself, like she’s stuck in her own world. Thanks <3

whoever anon is , u cooked so so hard on this !! reader is literally me 哈哈哈哈 ^^ im not too sure whether u want headcannons or fanfic, but I feel like hcs would be great 4 this :3

kyle ‘gaz’ garrick w/ gentle absentminded reader (wc: 

notes: not proofread, reader is intended 2 be fem but can be anything, somewhat protective gaz?, brief mentions of violence (blood + death [no specified character])

reader, i hope you know that you're this man's achilles heel. The most precious thing in his life, the heart that he so fiercely protects underneath the tac vest he wears in his deployments.

you're such a fragile presence in this world, no blood staining your feet as you tread on blood soaked grounds, eyes fixed on whatever scene was in your head instead of the carnage and bloodshed that would usually manage to bleed behind anyone's eyes. You're a precious soul, and kyle worries because of it.

never because of you, of course. Kyle thinks you’re the best thing he'd laid his eyes upon; soft yet sparkling eyes, soft voice a soothing hand on his shoulder, the crinkle in the skin near the corner of your eyes when you gave a whole, sweet smile a remedy to the heaving ache left in his heart after months of ivory in his nose and the head-splitting ring of alarms in his ears. He's so glad that you're always there after deployment, a teary yet relieved smile on your face, how you nuzzled your head in the crook of his neck for the first time since deployment. He always held you so tightly in those moments, with one of his hands brandishing the silver band on your fourth finger. 

absentmindedness is something that’s dangerous, deadly in his field- a missed shot from a sniper or wrong turn of the head could result in a unit being wiped, something that Kyle had seen happen too many times to fellow teammates and old allies. But with you, it felt less like a danger and more of a somewhat amusing trait. your pretty head resting against his chest, gaze wandering across the room at their own pace- except of the papers you were meant to fill out hours ago.

he helps coax you out of your zoney episodes when necessary, gently taking your hand into his and muttering a soft inquiry of your name.

 your rambles soothe him, voice so soft and gentle, with that distinct tone that soothes rabid dogs and a soft melody to his ears. It's white noise to him, and during long, bloodstained nights on missions, his world feels disturbingly silent without it.

but he doesn’t let your little tangents go into one ear and out the other. He remembers the things that you mention no matter how insignificant or foolish it is. When you had mentioned a trinket that you liked during a (mostly one sided [in a good way]) conversation, Kyle immediately seared it's description into his mind, slipping a reminder to search for it into his head.

needless to say, the closed-eyed, joyful grin and the way your eyes lit up was absolutely worth the hell of filtering through images for hours when you took the gift into your hands.  

he loves you wholly and truly. From the slightly distracted tiny smiles to the quiet spillings through your lips. He'll make sure both of you know that every single day for the rest of your lives.

[dyaz-stories]

okay so i fucking hated the airport scene and i need to exorcise it by explaining why and making it everyone else's problem

jujutsu kaisen spoilers up until chapter 236

Okay, so to preface this, my main issue is that this part of the chapter strongly clashed with my interpretation of Gojo's character and, in my opinion, isn't a suitable farewell to him. I know that some people will read this and think "Oh, so you're just mad that things didn't go the way you wanted" and... yeah. You know, I didn't like that something I didn't like happened. That's not unexpected, but if you're not interested in reading that, I totally get it! I just want to go into more detail about why I wasn't happy with the way this went.

I also want to add that I have no qualms with Gojo dying. I'm not thrilled by the way it happened, but this happening is fully expected within shonen codes. I get the significance of it and why it needed to happen for the story Gege wanted to tell. That's fine by me.

Now, to the airport scene.

We'll start with the first panel, mostly as an illustration. This panel shows, from the uniforms to Gojo's glasses and his expression, that we are in the presence of "high-school Gojo". This is reinforced by the presence of Geto, particularly because the only time when we've seen the two of them interact normally was during the Hidden Inventory Arc.

On top of that, Gojo, throughout the airport scene, acts more 'naturally' than he does in the manga, Hidden Inventory Arc excepted. I'd argue that with his students and with everyone following Geto's defection, he tends to have this 'wall' up (both literally and metaphorically). He doesn't talk to them with this kind of ease.

My issue with this is that it very much reads like character regression. It's been a decade since high-school for Gojo, give or take, and for his farewell I don't find it interesting to portay him not as he was, but as he had been.

The obvious answer to that is that this depicts Gojo in the time period during which he was the happiest. I don't wholly disagree with that — especially considering the emphasis in this arc about 'the loneliness of the strongest' and the fact that this was likely the only time when he didn't feel lonely.

I just regret the lack of distance with this idea. Even if it was the time when he felt happiest, he wasn't his teenage self anymore. I wish this had been reflected more. Like I said — this, to me, doesn't feel like a farewell to who he was at the moment of his death, because I'm not seeing the Gojo I'd seen throughout the manga.

Another, less obvious counter-argument could be that this emphasises that Gojo was stuck in the past and couldn't move on from his years in high school. I don't think this is particularly proven as true through the manga. The importance he gives to training his students and his belief that they can become stronger than him seems to show an interest in the future, not the past.

This is the next one. My issue isn't with Sukuna being stronger than Gojo (I don't care about that). Considering the central part Mahoraga plays in Gojo's demise (as Sukuna states right after)

the line about the Ten Shadows feels icky to me, but whatever on that front as well. No, what annoys me about all of that is that considering all of Gojo's confidence up until the end, it... makes him look like a cocky idiot? Which, okay, isn't that far off when it comes to his characterization, I'll give Gege that, but it was always warranted up until that point. Being unable to see danger coming to that degree, especially with the Six Eyes, is kind of ridiculous.

It also lessens the importance of Sukuna's supposed admiration for him, imo.

It cheapens both his death and his character to me.

I'm fully aware that people have used this as proof of Gojo's selfishness and essentially as showcasing his adrenaline addiction, and I get that it would make sense if that was your read on his character, but it came out of left field for me.

Another answer to that argument could be that this is Gojo's perception and doesn't reflect the reality — maybe he thought that but Sukuna didn't — however considering the timing I can't help but feel that we, as readers, are at least supposed to receive it as fact.

This one is less of a criticism and more of a note. It's not uninteresting as far as characterization goes. I think it doesn't come as a huge surprise that Gojo would feel that way but I do regret that this was never explored before. I'm not convinced it was hinted at all that well either, and it doesn't help that the one example we have of him being 'adored' is Miwa being a fangirl. Once again, I regret that we don't see anything about his students here. I think it would have been warranted.

This is probably my favorite panel out of the bunch, which I don't think is going to come as a surprise. This feels like a callback to him being a teacher. I like it.

Okay, this is probably my least favorite part of this. Nanami has said things of this nature before, he's called Gojo egotiscal,

so it's not new that he believes that. However, that is echoed by Haibara (and other people apparently, hence "we all thought that") and also by Geto, since he's the one who concludes "was just proven right by your actions a second ago". I have to assume Geto, in saying that, is referring to Gojo's fight against Sukuna.

I kind of fucking hate that. First of all, what Nanami says is something that I considered to be blatantly untrue in the manga. As far as I'm concerned, Gojo was constantly portrayed as caring deeply for his students, wanting to leave them a better world, and while I don't think he wanted to protect people the same way Itadori does, it's not like it's absent from his motivations either.

(The second panel is him asking about the people that got trapped in his domain expansion, while in Shibuya. This showed he was worried for their well-being. His decisions in Shibuya were also motivated by his decision to limit human losses.)

Geto essentially agrees with what Nanami is saying, which I think is intended to tell the audience that Nanami is right. That's who Gojo is, the person who knows him best even tells you that. Again, this feels very high school Gojo, without the decade of character development and of caring for kids that he has necessarily done since then. It's also telling us that Gojo fought Sukuna because he thought he would enjoy it, not for any sort of higher purpose (I do also hate the "I had fun" panel that comes earlier, in case you were wondering lol).

I also think that this removes any notion of responsibility which Gojo would have shouldered by choice, which I think contradicts other parts of the manga. Honestly, to me, Nanami's take here is so far removed from what I had received from the manga up until that point that it's kind of jarring.

As mentioned before, due to Geto's intervention, I don't think this can be interpreted as "just Nanami's opinion". Due to Gojo's lack of disagreeing and the fact that this chapter is his last, I do think it's intended as the 'true interpretation' for Gojo's character, by the author that is (is it going to stop me? No, but I think authorial intention is interesting to look at/try to find).

This one I'm going to give the benefit of the doubt to, because considering Gojo's conversation with Nanami at this point, he could be talking about Nanami. If he is talking about himself (and I do think that is the case), I want to put it on the record that I also hate it! Again, Gojo not caring about the students he's leaving behind, to me, does not feel 'right' or in character, and they're not mentioned once save for that one throw-away line about Megumi.

I'll discuss this real quick before concluding: is it a dream? I don't think it's that important here. Regardless of whether that's Gojo's hallucination in his final moments or truly the afterlife/the antechamber before reincarnation, considering the position this half-chapter occupies in the story, I don't think it alters my reading of it.

With that being said, I'm leaning towards it not being a dream in part due to Nanami's line about Haibara, which echoes exactly what we saw when Nanami dies.

This line is for the audience in my opinion, not for Gojo.

So where does that leave us? Well, to me, the heart of it is what I said earlier: this feels like a goodbye to high school Gojo, not the one we see through most of the manga, and that was who I wanted to see, and the one who I believe deserved this farewell.

On top of that, for the most part, the characterization of Gojo as done by other characters borders on character assassination, in my completely personal and admittedly biased opinion. It's not at all what I would have wanted him to go out on. Leaves a very bad taste in my mouth and makes me feel silly for caring.

What a sad way to go.

I typically conclude these kinds of posts by saying that I'm happy to discuss what I've said if you disagree, however for this one, I hope I've made it clear that my issues lies with the disparity between my interpretation of Gojo and this scene, as well as just what I would have liked to see, and it's therefore very personal. I do think that if Gege wanted me to have this interpretation of Gojo he didn't do a good job of getting me there, but if you disagree and you liked this scene, you know, more power to you. I don't think that means you're wrong. I just had a bad time reading it and I wanted to talk about it. With all that said you can 100% disagree obviously, but I'm not looking for a debate.

[painted-bees]

>>part i and ii<<

iii)

 Cold, dark, and vacuous as space; the environment was unaccommodating to a flesh like this. Blissfully, it could not feel what there was to be felt. It did not experience the depths to which it sank. It could no longer survive the womb from whence it came.

  It could no longer survive. 

  But it was so tenderly embraced. Admired. Loved.

  This flesh, warm and beating, required exposure to the rose and violet hues of morning, and to convalesce beneath the heat of charitable blood. Only then could it feel again. Only then could it survive. 

  When it felt again, it felt discomfort. Ache roused it; sharp and dull, tender and tingling, stiff and burning. It sweated and shivered beneath that which compressed it; a warm, knobby mass. Flesh, but unlike itself; covered in fields of tawny bristles. Fur.

  A rush of hot, moist air preceded an explosion of movement that jostled it painfully. The weight was lifted, the fur, and so too was its warmth. All was carried away on percussive beating; cloven hooves against packed earth. All that remained was aching flesh, slowly cooling atop a bed of needling bister reeds. It could not stay here long. And so, gingerly, it rose and walked.

  Its shadow, tarry and black over reeds, stone, and into the sea–

  Did not immediately follow.

iv)

  Raf was unable to sleep while anxiety gnawed holes through him.

  Hearing his own voice as he described Margie over the phone, and explained the details surrounding the last time he had seen her, made the whole thing feel like an overreaction on his part. It didn’t make sense that she was just–gone, much less that she had been swallowed by some kind of freak tsunami. What’s more, the woman on the other end of the line assured him that no other reports had been made matching his description of the tidal flooding. She suggested that he search around the island, in case Magritte had simply gotten lost and wandered down the wrong road. And then she gave him a reference number. 

  It had left him feeling…unassured. Though she had done her best to sound patient and courteous with him, the nature of her suggestions and the unnecessary detail of “there’ve been no other reports of flooding” bode poorly for him. He wanted to have someone looking for Margie at sea, but now he was unsure that anyone would be dispatched at all. If the lady on the other end of the line hadn’t taken him seriously, would she have even bothered to forward the report through to the appropriate channels?

  No, probably not.

  Why did she have to say anything disparaging about his concerns regarding the water? He knew what he saw. He walked through it. Anger twisted alongside anxiety in his gut.

  By the time he had gotten into his old, little sedan and drove back down to the beach, the ocean had receded beneath the bluffs. Even so, the stony shoreline remained wholly submerged beneath the tide. It might have been easy to convince himself that he had imagined what he saw before. However, though the road was above water now, the tide could never have been able to reach the bluffs under normal conditions.

  He pulled to the side of the road, held his phone out the window of his car, and took a photo. Looking at the picture on his screen, the tide was evident even despite the low-lighting gamma noise that obscured the shot. The entire visible length of the stony shoreline was under water. It wasn’t normal, and he wasn’t crazy.

  It made the landscape look so dramatically different, in honesty, that it wasn’t unreasonable to think Magritte might have easily gotten turned around by it. It was entirely likely that, with certain landmarks missing, she’d have headed in the wrong direction and gotten lost. And, knowing how averse she was to bothering strangers, she likely wouldn’t have been able to gather the courage to knock on anyone’s door so late at night. As Raf drove his car at a crawling pace over the vacant, silent roads, he allowed himself the comfort of believing he could find her sooner rather than later. 

  His certainty waned as one hour bled into another, and then into another. It was in Squirrel Cove, on the other side of the island, where Raf had to contend with the fact that Magritte might actually, really, be missing. And, at 4:30 in the morning, he finally felt fully justified in making the missing person report.

  To be certain, though, he took advantage of Squirrel Cove’s cellular signal and gave the cottage a call. He’d been out looking for over three hours. Perhaps she had found her way back home while he was out.

  No. She didn’t pick up the phone.

  On the doleful drive back, Raf continued searching for her, taking every hopeful detour he came across. And then, he turned around and scoured the same streets again.

  He couldn’t go back to the cottage. Not without her. If he returned to the empty house and sat down, the reality–the true reality–of the situation would paralyse him. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to consider if it were a malevolent stranger or some natural catastrophe that had taken Magritte from him. He didn’t want to contend with the overwhelming suspicion that the strange tide was no coincidence; that she had been swept to sea. She had walked to the beach and, when he went to find her, both she and the beach were gone.

  She would have drowned hours ago and, if that were true, it was unlikely that Raf would ever receive the closure of knowing for sure. He tried not to think of how cold the water was, and he tried not to deliberate whether or not she’d have fallen asleep before the exhaustion made her sink. He tried not to imagine how frightening it must have been, nor how heavily the dread would have weighed. He tried not to. 

  He kept driving.

  The events of the past year might have destroyed a younger version of himself. His uncle had been the only solid foundation upon which he could stand to rely on. Uncle Bill’s passing had torn the very ground out from beneath Raf’s feet and, in the wake of it all, he clung to Magritte every single night as though she were a liferaft. Her buoyant optimism and unsinkable love granted him the space to wallow in grief-stricken overwhelm without falling into the familiar pits of self-loathing, despair, and deafening loneliness. 

  It hadn’t been a good time. Not for either of them. But it had been survivable. He knew that it would all eventually come to pass, and he looked forward to it. He looked forward to having the energy to enjoy things again, and he looked forward to waking up each morning without dread. He looked forward to getting back on his feet, so that he could make it all up to her. He looked forward to treating her again, and to being a source of joy in her life. She hadn’t merely stuck with him; she helped him carry his burdens. All the while, she had given no indication that she wished for an escape. From their situation, yes–but not from him. 

  And she had done so well to convince him that they’d get through it together; that she’d be there as the one constant he could always fall back on. He believed her.

  Despite everything, he believed her.

  Perhaps it would still be true if he hadn’t neglected her company in favour of underwhelming weed and the same twelve songs he had been listening to for the past three months.

  Oh. Fuck. He hated that.

  She hadn’t lied, he just fucking abandoned her.

  Raf’s eyes had stopped scanning the sides of the road, staring numbly ahead. The stars were fading from the sky as it paled into the indigos of early sunrise. His thoughts turned quiet as the unremarkable hum of the car’s engine filled his brain. For the first time that night, rather suddenly, he felt nothing.

  And so, it was a bit jarring when his arms automatically veered his sedan to the side of the road and his foot slammed hard on the brakes. As he got out of the car, he became aware of the intense, strangling heartbeat in his throat. Raf had reacted before his consciousness registered what his eyes had seen. His legs were already carrying him in long, hasty strides by the time he realised he had driven past–and parked in front of–Magritte.

  “Jesus Christ. Fuck me.” As soon as she was within reach, Raf pulled her into him and closed his arms around her. His vision splotched as an overwhelming wave of relief displaced the blood in his head. The weak laugh that escaped him wobbled with faint delirium. “C…Christ.” 

  Burying his face into her wild, tangled hair, the smell of sea rot and wet animal musk assaulted his senses. He didn’t care--he couldn't care. He smoothed her coarse, salt-crisp curls beneath his palm with heavy strokes, too frenetic to be soothing. It was the sharp pain of burs needling into his fingers that brought him tenuously back to his senses.

  Reluctantly, he pulled back to inspect her. Wisps of her frizzy auburn hair clung wetly to her face. Her cheeks were flushed red and hot. As he held her gently by the shoulders, he became aware of how her body trembled in his grasp. Her shirt was as damp and stained as the rest of her, in mud and grass.

  And blood.

  There was blood.

  Most concerning of all, her stare remained distant and unfocused even as he looked her over.

  Raf gently cupped the back of her head with a caress much more gentle and deliberate. His hand pulled away unstained, and what he thought might have been a clot tangled in her hair turned out only to be a decaying piece of leaf that broke apart between his fingers. 

  "Margie, what the hell happened to you?" The hand that wasn't hooked gingerly around the back of her head closed around one of her wrists and gently coaxed her arm away from her chest. She had been holding both arms tightly to her body, hands curled inward. As Raf turned her palm over to inspect it, he understood why. What met his eye resembled sliced beef.

 He immediately turned her hand back towards her. "Okay."

 The same kind of gashes, though less severe, carved her elbows, knees and shins.

 "Okay, okay. Margie." He smoothed her hair back, out of her face. "Can you look at me, please?"

 There was a moment of delay, but to his relief, her gaze did sluggishly turn up towards him.

  She drew in a small breath. "Sorry I'm late… Can we still play music together?"

  Raf's eyes shut automatically against what felt like a punch to his gut, and he clasped a hand over them reflexively, inhaling sharply. "Y-yeah." A weakly sighed laugh dissolved into a strangled sob. "We can do what ever the fuck you want." Holding himself together with an abrupt, wet sniff through his nose, he reached an arm around Magritte's shoulders, intending to walk her to the car. And then he realized she had no fucking shoes.

 He paused, unsure that his knees could support his own weight, much less hers. His legs had threatened to give out from under him the moment he stepped out of the car. With a steadying breath, he took his chances. Magritte continued to hold her hands protectively to her chest as Raf dropped his other arm down behind her knees and lifted her off the ground.

  "We gotta…take care of you first, alright?" With arms full of Magritte, he fumbled to open the door to the passenger seat before placing her down as carefully as he could manage. "Can–can you tell me if you're okay?"

  Slowly, she turned her head to look up at him before providing a small, uneven nod. "My hands hurt. And my throat…cold." She was trembling visibly, now. Much more than she had been before.

  "Alright." The quiet vapidity of her voice and the vagueness of her response was unencouraging. This wasn't the vibrant, vivacious Magritte that had invited him to walk with her last night. This was a shadow.

  Raf gently closed the car door before walking around to the driver's side and dropping himself into the seat. He cranked the heat up as high as it would go.

  They were on Potlatch already. Without realising it, Raf had been driving himself back to the cottage before he came upon Magritte on the side of the road. Home was scarcely a minute away. Still, it was a minute of concerning silence.

  6:48am.

  The clock on his dash told him that if he wanted to catch the next ferry to Quadra, there wasn't much time to spare. He parked the car in front of the cottage, but left it running.

  "Margie, I'm taking you to the hospital. I just need to grab some things first, alright?"

  She nodded. This time without too much of a delay.

  "Good, good, good." Raf placed a kiss on her forehead and almost recoiled from the heat and sweat that met his lips.

  Despite it, she still curled into herself and shivered. 

  Was it shock? A fever? Both? Would her skin be so hot to the touch if it were hypothermia?

  He smoothed back her hair in one more soothing gesture before leaving the car and darting into the cottage.

v)

  It had been a blur.

  Faintly, Magritte recalled being told something by someone–and nodding. She remembered a warm, dry sweater being fitted over her head, and having her arms carefully–carefully–pulled through the sleeves. When her fingers strained to push past the enclosing fabric, her yelp of pain had been answered by a purr of soothing consolations. That same voice encouraged her to drink water from a bottle held to her lips; as much water as possible. She recalled the feeling of being gently tucked under a blanket–and the feeling of being lovingly kissed, at random intervals, on her forehead, her cheeks, and her nose.

  She hadn’t realised that this had all taken place in the passenger seat of Raf’s car.

  In fact, Margie only became aware of the vehicle some time after it had loaded onto the small ferry, off the docks of Mason’s Landing. Its engine was off and the air inside the car had slowly cooled while the heater was unable to run. Bundled warmly in her blanket and slightly reclined, Margie was finally cognizant enough to recognize the dashboard of Raf’s sedan–as well as the cradling darkness of the ferry’s car deck. And, as she turned her head towards the driver’s seat, she found Raf beside her; fully reclined, his eyes closed, and his lips slightly parted in light slumber. His hand rested limply, palm down, across her knee.

  How did she get here?

  Where were they going?

 As the hardworking boat engine filled her ears with its loud, steady hum, Magritte felt a distinct déjà vu in how the ferry rocked and swayed over the ocean waves.

  Closing her eyes, she recalled the last time she took the ferry. It was just a week ago, on the way to Cortes Island. But it wasn’t spent in darkness like this. She and Raf had both abandoned the car to watch the ocean from the upper deck. The breeze had been salty and chilly, but not freezing.

  She remembered the sound of rushing wind. The sound of a giant’s gasp breaking the surface of the water. She remembered ghostly dorsal fins dancing atop of inky waves.

  Magritte’s eyes snapped open. “I saw the orcas! Raf-!”

  Raf’s eyelids rose with an ease that suggested he hadn’t been fully asleep. Without lifting his head, he let out a groggy, “Huh?”

  “Last night! I was surrounded by them!” Magritte beamed at the memory of it, but as she said it outloud, it sounded a little silly. “...I think?”

  “Orcas?” Blinking tiredly, Raf sat up and searched her eyes with a worried stare. “Do you…remember what happened?”

  Her smile faltered, and then faded entirely as her brain pulled up a string of fragmented images and feelings. The muscles in her arms felt stiff and tired for how they were tucked so tensely against her chest. But more than that, her hands had plagued her with a terrible, consistent burning the entire time.

  She remembered grasping at the rocks.

  Slowly, nervously, Magritte lifted her arms out from under the blanket to assess her aching palms. The moment her vision filled with more red than she had anticipated, she turned her hands quickly away. Oh, it looked worse–way worse–than it felt. And it felt bad. 

  Automatically, she turned her wide eyes to Raf. “I fucked up my hands.” Her voice was a panicked whisper.

  Raf sat up and readjusted the backrest of his seat before carefully enveloping his hands overtop of hers. Gently, he pressed down, lowering them to her lap. “We’re going to the hospital. Your hands are going to be fine–”

  “It was oysters,” she cut him off, “I grabbed a bunch of oysters.” Her attempt to pull up her hands for reinspection was firmly halted by Raf’s steadying grasp.

  “The doctor will look at them, it’ll be fine.” He leaned in closer and assessed her face with an expression of tender concern. “What about the rest of you? How are you feeling?”

  She swallowed back a painful lump in her throat. It went down like blistering lava. “Confused. I feel like I got hit by a bus and the things I remember from last night suck in a weird nightmare kinda way. And it hurts to swallow.” That’s not what concerned her, though. “Raf, how fucked are my hands? Can I still play piano?”

  “Margie.” Raf, who had been watching her from under a tightly knitted brow, diffused his tension with a deep, bodily, exhausted sigh. “Sorry, Margie, I’m not–” He cut himself off by massaging his eyes with his thumb and fingertips. And then he dropped his face into both of his palms, pressing them upward towards his hairline so that his fingers raked through his bangs. “I thought you were fucking dead, man. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I’m sorry, I’m not worried about piano right now. I just–I want to know you’re alright.”

  He didn’t pull his head out of his hands, but from behind his palms, Magritte heard him inhale a wet sniff through his nose; a sob.

  “Oh–what?” Magritte’s fear was bowled over by a sudden wave of guilt. “Wait, what!?”

  “You were gone,” Raf rubbed his eyes once more before removing his hands from his face and allowing his heavy, lethargic stare to fall onto her, “all night.” He swallowed. “I haven’t slept. I spent hours driving across the island looking for you. The tide was up past the road, and so I thought that maybe a tsunami took you out. I don’t fucking know. You’ve been like–catatonic for the past hour and a half. I don’t care about your hands, Margie, I just want you to tell me you’re not gonna pass out and die on me before we get to the hospital. That’s all.”

  Margie wilted as he spoke. She had been reckless and, as always, he suffered unfairly for it. He was pissed off at her, and rightly so. She couldn't even hug him the way she wanted to. Her aching body loathed to move. “Y-yeah! I’m alright, I promise I’m alright! Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Her voice meekly tapered off.

  “I’m not–” Raf groaned. “I’m not mad at you.” He exhaled another deep sigh that ended in a humourless huff of laughter. “It’s just been a stressful night and I just kinda want it to be over. Your hands…are gonna be taken care of, I promise. And whatever happens, we’ll still make music together, yeah?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Are you alright?”

  Magritte nodded, cradling her hands against her chest once again.

  “Actually?”

  She nodded again. “Just sick…and scared.”

  Magritte had broken eye contact to stare dolefully at her feet beneath the dashboard. She’d have curled up into that tiny dark space, if she could. She felt Raf’s gaze hang on her for a moment longer before he reached over to cup her face and press a weighty, lingering kiss against her left temple.

  “I love you,” his voice was soft in her ear, “so fuckin’ much.”

  Buoyed by the gesture, Magritte sat up to look at him again, warm sincerity lighting her guilty features. “I love you too! I really didn’t mean to vanish on you like that.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” There was no sarcasm tainting his affirmation. “But…what actually happened?”

  Margie sunk back under the blanket as she tried to string memories together in her head. “I don’t…really know. I remember being in the water, it was cold…orcas… Oh-!” Her thoughtful frown deepened. “I couldn’t see anything, no islands, no lights, not from boats or houses. Nothing. Just water and stars. I don’t know how I got back to shore.”

  “Did you wake up on the beach?”

  “I can’t remember.” She glanced up at him apologetically. “I don’t even remember getting into the car.” It felt like recalling a vivid dream. No memory of falling asleep, no memory of waking up…just a disorganised cluster of…experiences. They all bled into one another, but at the same time, there were so many missing pieces.

  Raf nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  “The tide was low when I got to the beach. Like–really low. I couldn’t see the waves. So I went looking at starfishies and stuff”

  She watched him shut his eyes as she said this, and he sucked in a tortured breath. “Margie,” he let his breath go, “in the future, if the ocean just…disappears like that–go…get off the beach, alright? That’s–that’s tsunami shit.”

  She turned her eyes forward once again, with a sheepish little, “Oh.” She’d never heard anything of that sort before. “You’d think that’d be common knowledge.”

  Raf paused to cast her a condolatory look before professing, “I’m just so…so glad you’re back.”

 Magritte opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the ferry’s PA system announcing their arrival into Quadra Island’s Heriot Bay. 

  Leaning back in his seat, Raf dropped his hands onto the steering wheel. “A bit behind schedule, but…I’ll bet we can still make the 9:30 ferry to Campbell River before it leaves.”

  Warmth softened his features, but as he stared dully out the windshield of his car Magritte could see the dark circles of fatigue bruising his lower eyelids–and the irritated, dry redness that coloured the corners of his eyes. His whole body slumped as his posture slowly lost the battle against gravity.

  Oh, my poor man needs some proper sleep…

  And so did she.

  As long as she didn’t have to move, she was mostly fine. But her joints ached and the muscles in her legs felt sickly. Magritte dreaded the idea of prying herself out of the car to drag through the fluorescently lit hallways and stairwells of a hospital. Blisters on her feet served as additional discouragement. The blanket Raf had provided her did its job in keeping her cosy and warm–but her hot, sensitive skin was keen to make her shudder and shiver at any manner of change in the air. It was a fever that begged for bedrest.

  “We could just…nap, instead.”

  That won a small, lopsided smile out of him as he let out a bemused snort. Wistfully, he replied, “No.” Maintaining his little smirk, Raf rolled an affectionate gaze towards her.  “When we get back home, though, I’m gonna slam dunk you into bed. And then we’ll sleep for a whole god damn year.”

>>part vi<<

[moonlightspencie]

you’re a cowboy like me

Part 8 of ‘the sweetest con’

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

<- LAST PART

Recovering was a nightmare. I couldn’t be in the field for the case that came after we got home, and even worse, she had become ten times more caring and attentive. 

“I brought tea,” she sang out.

She walked into my office for the sixth time that day, two cups of tea in her hands. 

“Tea?”

“You don’t need coffee right now,” she stated, setting one mug in front of me as she sat. 

I chuckled. “Okay, mom.”

“Ew,” she laughed. “Don’t call me that.”

“You’re the one treating me like a child,” I replied, sipping at the drink. “Is this chamomile?”

She smirked. “I thought maybe if you started getting sleepy you’d go home at an appropriate time.”

“You’re insane,” I laughed. 

“You’re healing. Stop staying all hours of the night.”

“Either way, I’ll just be sitting around. What’s the harm in being productive?”

She quirked a brow, just staring at me for a moment. I sighed, setting down the mug, waiting for her reply with half a smirk on my face. 

“Sitting down and relaxing is very different from sitting down and working,” she said, leaning back in the seat. “How about I come over and make you some dinner again?”

I swallowed. “This feels like a trap.”

“Maybe it is,” she smiled softly. “We still need to talk. But it might be a little better if you get a free meal out of it, huh?”

“I guess so,” I agreed with a smile. “I thought maybe if I really played up how bad the healing process was you’d forget about it.”

She scoffed out a laugh. “And you thought I was the ridiculous one.”

“Can’t blame me for trying.”

“Actually, I think I can.”

I laughed as she sat up straight again, leaning in closer. 

“You’re not escaping this, Hotchner,” she said, hands folded on the desk. 

I breathed out, watching her for a moment. She looked at me expectantly, but that little smile of hers never quite left. 

“Alright. When do you want to leave?” I asked. 

“When can you be ready? Mostly everyone is gone already anyways.”

“Five minutes?” 

She nodded. “Good. I’ll go get my things.”

She stood, heading towards the door. Then, she turned back around. 

“Maybe this time I’ll drive over separately. I think everyone knows too much already,” she said with a light laugh. 

I furrowed my brow. “What exactly do they know?”

She paused for a moment. I could see the gears turning in her head as she looked out over the bullpen, then turned her focus back to me. 

“That’s something we can discuss later,” she said, finally leaving. 

I finished up my work, and before I knew it we were back in my kitchen. I just hoped this time would go over better than the last. It certainly couldn’t get much worse than her getting insulted for something she had no part in. 

I sat at the counter with a glass of scotch, watching her hum to herself as she moved around my kitchen. She’d forced me to stay there no matter how many times I asked to help, and I must admit, I appreciated the view from where I was. She’d changed into more casual clothes on the way to my apartment, donning a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I could hardly think of a time when she looked more radiant. It felt wholly domestic, especially as I wore a similar fashion. It didn’t happen often that I would dress down to that degree in front of the team, but if she was going to be cooking in my house again, I figured this was a good time. She smiled at me as she noticed I was watching her, then went right back to whatever she was working on at the stove. 

“You seem a little distant, Hotchner,” she noted, her back still turned. 

I downed the rest of the drink, then cleared my throat. 

“Just thinking.”

She hummed. “Do you like cinnamon?”

“Yes.”

“I think this week I’ll bring you some pancakes, then,” she said, turning to face me. “I just realized I almost always bring you savory food when I cook. I love baking and making sweet treats, but I never give you any.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, huh?”

She laughed. “Only accidentally.”

“Well, I’d appreciate that,” I nodded. 

She smiled, then turned around again. I watched her for a few minutes. She moved so fluidly, as if she’d been here doing these exact actions a hundred times before. There was a warmth growing steadily in my chest, and I knew it wasn’t just the alcohol kicking in.

I stood abruptly, moving carefully to stand next to her. She turned the heat of the stove off, making some quick comment about me having good timing. The second she looked at me with that little smile of hers, eyes sparkling in the dim kitchen lights, I couldn’t handle it anymore. 

Everything that had happened seemed to pale now. This brief moment I spent looking at her felt like an eternity. Maybe because I knew things would have to change if I didn’t stop myself. Maybe because I’d been wanting it to change for so long, and it finally felt like the right moment for it to happen. 

It all happened in slow motion, my body moving before I could catch up to it. I saw my hands reach for her, cradling her face. She looked at me the same as she always did, despite knowing what was going to happen. I realized she must have known the whole time. She was reading my mind from the start, regardless of my best efforts to hide it all. I moved in closer, closing the gap slowly, unable to take my eyes off of her. To my surprise, I didn’t have to go all the way: she leaned upwards before I could think, pressing her lips to mine. I let out a breath, my body relaxing as her arms circled around me.

“Hotch?” her voice called out. 

I blinked, looking at her from across the kitchen, still sitting at the counter with an empty glass in my hands. 

“I said it’s done,” she said with a smile, holding two plates in her hands. 

“Right. Sorry,” I said, standing to take one of them. 

I led her to the dining table, trying to shake off the daydream, but unable to stop thinking about it. 

“What have you been thinking about?” she asked, sitting down. 

“Not much,” I said quietly, not yet taking a seat. “Do you need a drink?”

“Please,” she nodded. 

I went to the kitchen, getting out two glasses, but realizing too late I didn’t ask what she wanted. 

“You’re being weird,” her voice noted from behind me. 

I turned, seeing her in the doorway. Her arms were crossed, but there was still humor on her face. 

“I am not,” I tried to defend. 

She quirked a brow. “Right. Totally normal behavior right now.”

I chuckled, turning back to the empty glasses. She walked up next to me, sighing softly. 

“Old fashioned?”

I nodded. “That’d be great.”

She smirked, getting the needed ingredients. I watched as she prepared the drinks quietly. 

“Were you a bartender in a past life?” I asked, my arms crossing. 

“Actually, I was a bartender for a few months in college.”

I chuckled. “Really?”

“Really,” she smiled, handing me a drink. “Try it.”

I took a sip, nodding with a raised brow. 

“Good?” she asked. 

“It is.”

We walked back to the dining room, eating without my mind wandering too far again. She laughed and told stories, and I listened with everything in me. It’s a wonder I ate at all. I could’ve sat there all night just watching her talk. 

“You know, I love the team, but they are the nosiest people in the world,” she noted, picking at the last of what was on her plate. 

“That they are,” I agreed. 

“Even Spence and Rossi are in on it, now.”

“In on what, exactly?”

She snorted. “They’ve been watching our every move. To the point of giving me sideways glances if you look at me for a second too long.”

I laughed. “What?”

“They’re crazy, is what,” she said with a laugh. “How have you not noticed that?”

“I have, I just didn’t think it had gotten that bad.”

She smiled, then stood. “Let’s go sit down. These chairs are getting a little uncomfortable.”

I nodded. “Movie?”

“Maybe we can just see what’s on TV.”

“Okay.”

We sat, and quickly found reruns of a show we both enjoyed. It was quiet for a few minutes before she started looking at me. 

“I can hear you thinking,” I noted. 

“Because I am.”

“What about?” I asked, looking at her. 

“Can we talk about why you’ve been so spacey lately?”

I sighed. “I’m just a little distracted.”

“Why?”

“That’s a hard question to answer.”

“Is it?”

I looked down. “We’re going to have to talk about everything now, aren’t we?”

“I’d appreciate it,” she admitted. “We can start off easy. Like, why didn’t you want me coming with that day? Why’d I have to stay at the precinct?”

I leaned into the couch, getting more comfortable for what was going to be an uncomfortable conversation. She mirrored my actions, facing me fully with her feet pulled underneath her on the couch. 

“I was afraid that something would happen to you. I had a bad feeling, and didn’t want to be worried about feeling like I needed to protect you.”

“Why would you be worried? That’s never been a problem before.”

“It actually has been,” I admitted to her. “I just hid it much better on those occasions.”

She sat in thought for a moment. “What changed?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Okay, then let’s talk about what you’ve been thinking about that gets you borderline dissociative.”

I chuckled. “Has it been that bad?”

“Yes,” she said with wide eyes, almost laughing. “You never act like that. It kind of freaks me out when it happens.”

“A lot has been on my mind.”

“I’m aware. But why has it gotten to be such a distraction?”

I knew the answer, I just didn’t know how to say it. She stared at me expectantly, but I could only stare back, trying to formulate an answer. She furrowed her brow. 

“Okay, easier question: What had you like that today in the kitchen?”

I chuckled. “That’s actually more difficult to answer.”

“Just tell me,” she said, almost whining. 

I swallowed. “You want the truth?”

“I will literally beg for it.”

“Alright,” I started, unable to stop a small laugh from escaping me. I took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “You were— I was distracted because of you.”

She looked delightfully confused. “What is that supposed to mean?”

I smiled again. “I feel like you already know where this is going. But, to be honest, I was thinking about you. That’s what had me out of my head.”

“If I knew, we wouldn’t be talking about it.”

“Fine. You have suspicions, then, but want them confirmed.”

She tried hiding a smile. “Okay, profiler.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” she nodded. 

“How long have you known?”

She sighed. “I started thinking something was up a few months ago. I can’t pinpoint it, but hearing what you said after Haley came the one day… It definitely made me think a little harder about it.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. She was angry, and that wasn’t your fault.”

“But I’m sorry if what I said made you feel uncomfortable.”

“It didn’t.”

I sat for a moment, not yet responding. She took that as a cue to keep talking. 

“It kind of made me start thinking about my own actions, and why I was treating you the way I was. It started off because I saw that everyone kind of lifted each other up on the team, but you were almost always doing the work without anyone helping you in return,” she paused for a second, then scooted a little closer. “I think it morphed into something different more recently. I didn’t just want to make sure you were taken care of anymore. That was still very important, but honestly, I miss being around you if I didn’t visit a couple times a day.“

“You do?”

“Yeah. I never get sick of hanging out with you.”

I took in a breath. “Every time I’ve spaced out recently is because of you. You’re always on my mind, and the more I try to fight it, the worse it gets. You’ll walk into a room and it’s everything in me not to let all of my focus stay on you.”

“Oh.”

“It honestly never was a problem when I was married. But the moment I realized you still cared for me when I was broken down, I think that’s when I couldn’t pretend you weren’t one of the best things to ever happen to me.” 

“Hotch—“

“Every time I’m with you, especially when we can really be alone like this, I just don’t want it to end. I know the team talks about things and they like to speculate for fun, but they’re right to assume that I have a soft spot for you…”

“Aaron.”

“Dave has been giving me looks, and I try acting like he’s off base, but he couldn’t be more right. And I know that getting involved with me would probably do you more harm than good. It’s selfish for me to want you in any capacity, but it’s hard not to think about you all the time and wonder what would happen if—“

She moved in closer as I spoke, and in my rambling I hadn’t noticed; until her hand was on my neck and her lips were pressed to mine, effectively shutting me up. I reacted quickly, kissing her back with everything in me. I hoped to show her through actions rather than incoherent babbling how much I wanted to be with her. It must have worked. 

She smiled into the kiss, triggering me to do the same, then briefly pulled away. 

“I love hearing you talk, but now really isn’t the time,” she mumbled against my lips. 

“Understood,” I agreed.

She kissed me again, deepening it almost immediately. We stayed that way for far too long, and it was still over way too soon. 

She ran a hand through my hair, pressing one more soft peck to my lips. 

“In the kitchen, I was daydreaming about kissing you,” I said, the words tumbling from me almost involuntarily. 

“Did it live up to your daydream?” she asked with a smile, not hiding the adoration in her eyes as she gazed at me. 

“So much better.”

NEXT PART ->

—————

the sweetest con taglist:

@evee87 @spottedzebrasinpartyhats @rousethemouse @lalalove-56

aaron hotchner taglist:

@mrs-ssa-hotch @hyunjaebaby @ssamorganhotchner @criminalskies @simp4olderm3n

[batsplat]

in the early days of his career, obviously before casey entered motogp, i wonder if he ever lay in bed before falling asleep, imagining scenarios of him and vale on the track…

https://www.tumblr.com/kwisatzworld/768392840044789760/speaking-of-meeting-with-all-the-colleagues

(link) unfortunately this ask only reached me after I'd already answered and scheduled the previous post, feat. embedded video and transcription, so those are 10-15 minutes of my life I'm not getting back. alas, we live and we learn

but actually, y'know what, it's been long enough since I've brought most of this stuff up... let's do a quick round up of the state of play with regards to young!casey's admiration of valentino. we know they shared some pre-2006 pressers (three pixel screenshot on the left is from assen 2004):

and here's casey chatting to valentino's crew chief jb while watching valentino, who's celebrating one of his many victories in 2005:

rocking up to one of valentino's podiums and chatting to his crew chief?? noticing. perceiving. thinking. ofc paddock gossip held that if valentino were to swan off to f1, jb might have looked to link up with the promising young australian kid. it was also rumoured that jb was interested in getting casey to yamaha, though that obviously didn't end up panning out (whether by valentino's hand or not)

and as extra confirmation that valentino and casey had a rapport of some kind during casey's year in 250cc (the phrase 'except maybe for one or two riders' is doing so much heavy lifting it would make atlas wince):

we also know that casey has been following valentino "with admiration" early in his career, from 125cc era onwards - which, well, this is going to leave an impression on him. and of course we can bring in what casey has said in general over the years about his respect/admiration for valentino:

(think it's always key to note with the autobiography that it was written at the lowest possible point of the vale/casey relationship - and some of casey's rhetoric inevitably reflects the immediacy of his emotions at the time)

of particular interest I feel is what he said about 2006 - that his respect had grown, that "at that moment I thought he was someone almost impossible to beat". obviously this is kind of a funny thing to say given that valentino rather memorably did not win the 2006 title, but you know what he means - on merit, valentino was the best rider that year and even getting it to a final round decider would have felt like a crazy accomplishment at certain stages of the season. the whole thing thing made valentino even more impressive in casey's eyes (which may be why casey was watching back the title decider and concluding valentino had been sabotaged by Big America)

as a little bonus, let's also quickly bring in some more documentation of their 2006 on-track encounters (plus a cameo from catalunya 2007):

how much of this is casey retroactively forming this narrative about 2006 vs stuff he already felt strongly at the time - who knows. but to return to casey's early assessment of valentino as a rider... I'll say it, I think it's very theoretically possible to be a fan of valentino ONLY because of what a great rider he is but... casey's only human. "great sportsman" "looked up to and aspired to be" "the sort of people I wanted to become like"... this isn't just about valentino winning a lot of races. I refuse to believe an eleven year old is watching 125cc valentino and only making notes on his corner entry technique, come on. though speaking of - casey saying in 2021 he thinks motogp would be better with valentino at the front of the field!! because at the end of the day, he isn't wholly opposed to valentino's particular brand of fun. he enjoys watching valentino even when he doesn't always like competing with him

and... well. to understand young casey, it's crucial you never forget just how much pressure he was under, how terrified he was of failing, how he had this immense burden on his shoulders. I agree with mr motomatters on this (and also here, plus here) --

-- like it was unfair and it was unbearable. and I think when you're in a situation like that, you have to tell yourself it's going to be worth it. casey feels like this had never been his dream, that it was his parents' dream - but he had been convinced that he wanted this, even if by his late teenage years he was beginning to doubt it (x, x). he had to believe there would be light at the end of the tunnel... that at the end of all of this, the political machinations would stop, the financial insecurity would fade - and everyone would give him the credit he deserved. that everyone would acknowledge how good he was. he had an image of his head of a version of the sport that never existed - that could never exist unless the world was a very different place indeed - but he needed to have that image to keep himself going during all the hardship and toil and turmoil. and in the midst of all that, the most prominent face of the sport (certainly after the retirement of his other hero, doohan) was a bloke who made riding look like so, so much fun. who always looked like he was having a fantastic time racing. if you're a teenager in that situation, don't you think you might start associating valentino with your hope for what the sport might one day do for you? how can you not look at what valentino was doing and hope your life might end up looking a bit more like that? not exactly the same - casey was always clear on how he didn't want to become the next valentino rossi. that's not who he was. but just... just fun. just that

and he arrives at the pinnacle of the sport and he's winning and he's enjoying his success... but he's still not happy. obviously the job security and the financial security will have made a massive difference, of course things are far better now. but you can have a secure job and a stable income and essentially be winning in all the ways that matter... and it still might not be enough to magically dispel your malaise. it probably won't be. you can still be stressed and frustrated and lonely... you won't just be fixed. all the hardship casey has gone through to get to where he was could not suddenly be erased - and he held the sport to a standard it was never going to meet. at the end of the day, if we're being honest with ourselves, valentino's behaviour towards casey ranks well outside of the top ten causes for casey's discontent in 2007. valentino cools off towards casey because he is a title rival - which casey recognises to some degree, but that doesn't mean he could accept it. what valentino does that year falls entirely within the realm of completely normal behaviour of a top level professional competitor (albeit one who indirectly benefited from the entire sport already adoring him)... it takes until laguna 2008 for valentino to meaningfully cross any line with his conduct - and if anything he's still perfectly willing to lay it on thick where the interpersonal charm is concerned in the run-up to that race. no wonder, then, that laguna feels like such a monumental betrayal. valentino might not have been the root cause for casey's relative misery, but he was certainly the most easily identifiable face of it. just like valentino may have once represented casey's hope, so now he symbolised casey's disappointment and disillusionment (further discussed here)

so where does all of this leave us... well, you're right, anon. casey at last got to "share the track with him in an enjoyable way", something he says he "would have wanted to do" in his early career... whether he's talking about competing with him in motogp in a way that could actually be FUN for him, or whether he's thinking of this kind of out-of-paddock leisure time activity... tbh, maybe there even was an element of wanting the latter - hardly unheard of back in the day, cf valentino and sete training together in 1998 at kr sr's ranch. and there's no particular reason why something like qatar 2007 wouldn't have been an enjoyable experience to casey, given he himself gave glowing reviews of valentino's post-race conduct on that particular occasion. (or indeed something like catalunya 2007, for all casey's insistence that he didn't even particularly rate his own performance in that race... it's possible to make yourself miserable even when everyone's praising you and your hero is hailing you as a god - if the voice in your head telling you that you could have done better can never shut up.) in 2007, casey described the early season as 'fantastic' but felt it was no longer so once valentino 'stopped talking' to him... surely it will have been more than valentino's behaviour that could make casey feel so differently. in any casey, whether casey wanted more fun in motogp itself or outside of it - what matters is that he wanted to share something enjoyable on a track with valentino. once upon a time

when casey visits the ranch, a part of him is thinking back to a time when he could have imagined few things sweeter than that sort of recognition and acceptance from his hero. for all of casey's resentment and bitterness towards valentino, for all that he knows how unpleasant life can be as valentino's designated foe, he has always understood the joy that valentino represents within the sport - precisely because that emotion has so often been alien to him. maybe he really did dream of having that kind of fun on the track, imagine it in bed before falling asleep - like valentino, with valentino. when casey goes to the ranch, he is met with unconditional recognition and acceptance on valentino's part. valentino has all in all never been particularly shy in acknowledging casey's talents... it's not just anyone he'd say was 'riding like a god'. still, of course he was a little more careful with casey back in the day, committed first and foremost to figuring out this tricky new puzzle, to besting casey in competition... now, by contrast, valentino can let casey know how much he respects him without any reservation - and casey is ready to listen to what valentino is saying. it's bittersweet because it's what casey always would have wanted. and it's also come too late

[christinescupofcoffee]

Midnight Oil

Chapter Five: Lightning in a Bottle

Alex awaited Christian’s return to the room upon the foot of the bed with his legs wide open and his long black curls sprawled over his shoulders like the long tresses of a lion’s mane. There was a part of him that thought he was about to have a blowjob done while Christian was in his Falk Maria robes, but then again, there was no way he could guess anything out of it, especially when the cafe and this place they had ducked out in came completely out of left field for him. Christian could have an elaborate plot waiting in the wings for him, and especially once he reappeared in his robes; in fact, Alex had no idea if he was even going to reappear in his Falk Maria garb. 

He could return dressed like a robot as far as he knew, with the long silvery antennae jutted out from the crown of his head and silver makeup schmeared across his face.

He rubbed his hands over the top of the duvet, and he bounced up and down on the foot of the bed. The springs creaked ever so slightly, and he leaned back a bit onto his back.

There was a part of him that thought of stripping off his shirt for a round of temptation in the topless sector, but he decided to save it for once things got moving along. He rubbed his hands once more over the top of the duvet, which felt as soft as freshly woven silk. He then turned around and leaned onto his side to take a whiff of the fabric underneath him, which smelled freshly cleaned and then sprayed with some soft cologne.

All the smells, all the feeling around him, and he could wholly understand why Christian came into here and set up a nice little room for them in the meantime. He smirked to himself and returned his attention to the doorway across the floor from him: silence save for a soft rustling sound in the next room over as it flowed into the room. He prepared himself to look on at what Christian had in store for him, but it was rather useless as he simply could not resist the fluttery feeling within him. It could have been because he had had a great deal to eat before showing up, but nothing could deny the silken feeling inside. Indeed, it made him want to recline back on his elbows just so his flat beautiful belly could be on display for Christian once he came into the room.

The rustling sound continued in the next room and he could hardly sit still at that point. It was like waiting for John Scofield to come onstage after waiting in the line for several hours on end in the cold, unforgiving Bay Area winds. Alex shifted his weight on the foot of the bed, and he stretched out his legs before him as if he was preparing to do yoga. When he stretched out, he leaned back more and he could feel the bottom hem of his shirt lifting up a bit.

With one hand, he unbuttoned his pants and let his shirt lift up even more so as to show off his skin. Tendrils of his black curls sprawled down over his chest like a series of vines. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip as well as his top row of teeth, and he could feel the passion pulsing through him. He was ready, and he was growing hungrier with each and every passing minute.

The rustling finally came on closer to the door of the room, and Christian emerged from the hallway. His gray and black robe cascaded down to the floor as if he was about to preach a sermon: he had put on a face full of silver, white, and black makeup as well, to which the black surrounded his eyes to make his face resemble to a skull. He had swept his platinum blond hair back from his face in a light, delicate little wave, and he had put on black leather gloves which extended up to his elbows: he looked ready to experiment on Alex.

Christian barred his teeth as if he was the wolf man, to which he followed it up with a low guttural growl.

“Bark at the moon, my creature,” Alex decreed with a toss of his hair back from his shoulders. He reclined back on his hands and kept his legs wide open to show off the crotch of his pants as well as the inside of his legs.

Christian linked his fingers together and stretched his hands and wrists.

“Bark at the moon as I come for you so good,” he retorted back, and he lunged for Alex’s legs, to which he slid back onto the bed, flat onto his back. Christian missed his legs, but he managed to be an inch over his crotch. Alex lifted himself onto his elbows, and a few stray locks of hair dangled down on the side of his face; Christian cracked him a playful little smile, and he ran his fingers down the tops of Alex’s thighs. He flinched his legs about from the feeling, which only made Christian smirk even more.

“What is the matter? Does that tickle?”

Alex wasn’t going to reply to that. Instead, he slid further back on the duvet towards the pillows at the head of the bed. He sat upright to show off his whole body to the wolf man, including his undone pants and the slight crinkle to the bottom hem of his shirt.

“Very cute,” Christian told him with a flash of an eyebrow.

“What, the splits or the fact that I’ve nearly exposed myself to you here?” Alex teased him, and he ran his hand up the bottom hem of his shirt to show off the soft skin and his slender belly underneath. He held the hem of his shirt up against his chest and bowed his head so his hair dangled down once again.

“Both,” Christian replied with a lick of his lips and a crawling towards him even with the bottom hem of his robes having extended all the way down to his feet and ankles.

Alex leaned back against the pillows behind him, and all the while, he never let go of his shirt. He leaned back while showing off his belly to Christian, who moved in closer to his thighs and the undone button of his jeans. He noticed the makeup was only on his face and not on his lips. He could kiss his belly and not leave a mark.

There was part of Alex that wanted him to leave a mark on his skin, a means of showing off to the world that he had received one hell of a kiss from the wolf man, that they had quite the night alone together.

Christian held still right over his lap and his crotch, while Alex kept his hand steady on the bottom hem of his shirt. Slowly, he fanned out his fingers as if to give himself a gentle little massage in front of him. He had eaten a lot, after all: he could tease him some more with the look of him. Christian crawled in closer with nothing more than his strong lanky arms, down there on his chest and his stomach like that of a slithering snake.

Before he could even so much as pounce unto him like the wolf man he was, Alex lunged off to the side of the bed. When he reached the edge, he nearly fell off the mattress and onto the floor, and his pants nearly fell off all the while as well. He caught himself, however, and he slid his legs off first onto the floor.

“I might have the center of gravity in my guts but I’m nimble and lanky,” he teased Christian, who then stuck out his tongue at him like the snake he was for him. Before he could even so much as lift himself from the bed to chase him, Alex ducked around the edge of the bed for the camera there on the shelf. Christian rolled over onto his back and sat upright on the duvet, now slightly wrinkled from their animalistic movements.

Alex swiped the camera and licked his lips: the bottom hem of his shirt was still lifted up from the undone button of his jeans, but that was the last thing on his mind at the moment.

“I’m gonna sex you up,” he declared as he held the camera before his face. “I’m gonna sex you up so good!”

He aimed and pushed the shutter button, which in turn sent out a bright flash over the room. The camera spat out the photograph at the very front and fell to the floor before Alex’s feet. While Christian rubbed his eyes, he stooped down and scooped up the fresh photograph and waved it about before him to dry it out.

Alex looked on at the photograph and raised an eyebrow at the sight before him: the wolf man perched upon the bed with his legs wide open, his makeup pristine, and his hair still very much in place upon the crown of his head. He set it on the shelf next to him to let it dry out even more.

“Shall I show my teeth?” Christian offered him.

“Please,” Alex coaxed him. “Be my animal. Be the wolf man, big fella.”

Christian slid his legs off to one side so he was laying on his hip. He propped himself up on one hand and cocked out his hip to accentuate the shape of his body. Alex licked his lips again and took another picture, once more with the bright flash of light and the fresh photograph falling to the floor before the toes of his feet. 

Christian puckered his lips and leaned forward. Another picture.

He then bowed his head and curled his upper lip so as to show off his teeth. A third picture.

Christian then held up two fingers before his face as if to bless him prior to his taking his picture for him, which in turn cued Alex into lowering his camera and sinking down to one knee before him. His long hair spread over his shoulder and his upper back like a long lush blanket protecting him from Christian’s prowess.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” he said in a teasing tone of voice. It felt weird for him to say that as he was not a man of god by any means, but he wanted to tempt Christian in a way that he could never tempt before. He held the camera before his face again for another good shot of him, but that time in a way where the light could cast down over him in a different fashion.

Another flash of light and that time, Christian closed his eyes and shook his head about from the sudden brightness. Alex then ran his fingers through his curls again, which in turn made the roots of his gray streak flash out in the open, another little bright flash of light.

“I’m going down so hard…”

“And I am about to make you go down even harder,” Christian told him, and he lowered his voice to where he sounded like an actual wolf man. Alex raised his eyebrows as Christian made a pair of triangles in the air before his face. It took him a second to realize that he was making the Star of David rather than the Latin cross so as to bless him that way instead. He then moved his fingers to his collar and opened it up to show off the top of his chest.

Alex let out a low whistle when he saw that Christian was not wearing a shirt underneath those robes. As far as he knew, he wasn’t wearing anything under there.

“It’s like a war in here,” Christian declared, still with that low gruff voice, to which he adjusted the collar on his robes again. Alex snapped another photograph from down on the floor.

Christian undid another button and showed off more of his chest. Another photograph.

Another button. Followed by another. He unbuttoned all the way down to his ankles, only for Alex to see that he did in fact have pants on, but he could hardly take his eyes off his bare chest and stomach, both of which were toned and sleek, which in turn made him feel rather self-conscious about his deep chest and soft but slender belly, like that of a boy who fretted about his body but indulged every now and again.

Nevertheless, Alex took another handful of photographs from down on the floor, and then he stood up to his feet for a full view of Christian’s body. Once the photograph fell to the floor again, Alex fanned himself with the side of his hand. He glanced behind him to the line of Polaroids down on the floor behind him, as if they were shooting a music video.

“You know I’m going to jerk off to these now, right?” Alex teased him.

“May I join you?” Christian offered with a raise of his eyebrows, and Alex nibbled on his bottom lip. He wondered where this was going lest the wolf man before him had another ace up his sleeve.

“After lunch.”

[deathisararemercy]

Sacrifice

Death x Reader

The center of town was where the real party was at. A small scaffold was set up in the plaza. White lilies were set in baskets around it in dazzling grandeur. On the scaffold was a grand table, set with a brilliant spread. Only one person was seated at it. Out of all the people in the town, they were the only person dressed head-to-toe in black. Muerte couldn’t see their face as a veil covered it, but he could tell their head was bent as they picked at their final meal. This year’s sacrifice.

A/N: I always write these when I'm sleepy, y'know? Not just the fics but also the author's notes in general. I think writing the notes are my favorite part. Do people even read these? Tweedledee-tweedledum- alright. Let's get into it, shall we? This is actually a lot cuter than what the title would suggest, but it also has such an ending with some different interpretations. This is a tiny tiny bit Halloween-y and out of season, but I swear I'll try to write something for Valentine's Day. That fic will definitely be cute and fluffy, I promise.

The fire was dying out.

Not that it mattered much anyway. He was Death; things like the cold, rain, or snow didn’t affect him. Building this campfire at the edge of the dark wood was wholly unnecessary. It was probably going to attract unwanted attention to himself. But watching the dancing sparks from the campfire was a nice distraction from seeing whatever it was that was going on in the town just down the hill. He could feel it in the air and the way the stars glared down at him. Muerte wrinkled his nose. The air smelled sour like rotten onions and inevitable death. But also lamb. He liked lamb.

He stomped out the dying embers of the fire and checked that the area was all nice and clean. The wind hummed a bit. He whistled in response. Satisfied, the wolf drew his hood and began the walk into town.

For what must have been a century now, the villagers of this village held a festival to “keep Death at bay” every year due to a horrible plague that once passed through the town. It had been an awful year with a poor harvest and horrible disease. Muerte could still remember the exhilarating smell of their constant fear. He never experienced anything like it; it was like walking through an electrifying haze for days that left him in a constant state of adrenaline. Despite that, he felt guilty each time he had to take a life during his stay. And there were many.

He was silent and solemn each time he arrived at someone’s deathbed, trying to be gentle. But the way the families screamed and begged, their wails and sobs as he grimly cut the cord tethering their loved ones’ spirits to the mortal realm, haunted him long after he left the town. The spirits had hated him too, pleading for him to send them back, just so they could live a little longer, just so they could say goodbye, and cursing him when he said he could not.

But Death is a promise, not a bargain to be made.

And the villagers had been terrified of El Lobo Muerte ever since.

Since then, each year, they’d put up torches that would burn all through the night and offer one person as a sacrifice, leaving them in the center of the largest field. One hundred years later, the festival was more of a celebration to keep away illness for the coming year and dress up in costume. Little decorations would be pasted up like wolves and skulls. Sickles would be painted red and hung up next to the fields of crops.

In reality, Muerte couldn't control when people died. He was just there to release the dead from the mortal realm and send them on their way to the spirit world. But it was cute, seeing the little paper skulls they pasted up, the decorated gourds, and- oh that smelled good. They were selling chopped pieces of lamb on skewers this year. His red eyes darted to the stall where they were selling them. A small crowd had gathered there. He’d come back and buy two later.

The center of town was where the real party was at. A small scaffold was set up in the plaza. White lilies were set in baskets around it in dazzling grandeur. On the scaffold was a grand table, set with a brilliant spread. Only one person was seated at it. Out of all the people in the town, they were the only person dressed head-to-toe in black. Muerte couldn’t see their face as a veil covered it, but he could tell their head was bent as they picked at their final meal.

This year’s sacrifice.

Muerte leaned against a stall, watching them try to take another bite of food before pushing away their plate. They grabbed a golden chalice and took a long drink.

“Steeling your nerves. Interesting.’’

“What?”

The wolf looked around. He was leaning right against another lamb stall. This one was selling mini-pies. The cook looked up at him in confusion, not fear. Well, it looked like even after just a century, no one bothered to tell anyone what Death looked like.

The wolf grinned, baring his teeth. “Oh, it’s nothing. Say,’’ he leaned down to take a peek at the wares. “Could I have two of those please?”

==x==x==

The procession began at eleven bells. The town suddenly fell silent and solemn as a committee of hooded figures approached the scaffold. The sacrifice trembled as they rose, whether it be from fear, fatigue, or drink Muerte didn’t know. When they reached the bottom of the scaffold, a bouquet of lilies was procured for them by one of the hooded figures. The figures then surrounded the sacrifice until Death could barely see the top of their head. And then, they began to walk.

The crowd parted silently as the hooded figures led the sacrifice out of the village, closing the gap as the procession left. Their pace was horribly slow, but they did need to fill up an hour of time. Muerte followed the procession from a distance.

When they reached the edge of town, where the crowds were thin, the light grew dim, and the stars seemed a bit brighter, one of the hooded figures spoke. “This is the final time you will step foot in this village. Once you leave the light, you are to be led into the dark. With your back to the light, you walk into the cold embrace of death in order for the light to continue to burn bright for all those you leave behind.”

With that, the sacrifice was blindfolded, their veil covered their face again, and their hands were bound. They linked arms with one of the hooded figures and the small procession continued to the village’s largest field. The moon was full and beautiful, and the winds hummed a little tune. The wolf whistled quietly in response.

Muerte walked softly and silently, undetected by the mortals. His eyes glowed red as he tried to see further in the dark. The figures were just leaving the sacrifice there. No final words, no last requests. The figures led them to the center of the field, cleared away except for a cut tree stump, on which they seated the sacrifice. Then they just…left.

Something in Muerte’s chest twisted, his lip curling in disgust as he watched them leave the poor sacrifice alone. In the distance, the village bell tower rang twelve bells. He could faintly hear the person hold their breath expectantly. That was his cue.

“Well, well,” the wolf smirked as he pushed away the crops and stood in the clearing. “If it isn’t this year’s little lamb.” The person stood up suddenly, hopelessly trying to see the wolf in the dark. “Relax,” he chuckled, “I’m not going to eat you.”

��But-”

“Here.” He swiftly removed their veil and blindfold. The wolf suddenly hesitated. Those terrified eyes were…prettier than he expected. If he looked at them any longer, he just might-

Muerte spun them around, grabbing their shoulder so that they wouldn’t trip and fall. Their body was small and warm beneath his cold paws and firm grip. Could he just think clearly for one-

He drew one of his sickles and slashed the rope binding their wrists together. The villager yelped at the sudden release before righting themself. They turned around, and Death focused on staring at the point just between their eyebrows. Their eyebrows knit together as they examined him in the moonlight. Adorable.

“Are you…Death?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And you are?”

They hesitated before giving their name. “My, my, my. What a beautiful name.”

“It’s the same as any other name,” they scoffed. He could see the faintest flicker of a smile flash across their face.

“Well, it’s the name of the person this town foolishly gave up this year. So I think it’s fairly important. Lamb?”

“Yes?”

The wolf howled in laughter, echoing through the silent night. If there was another villager out there, they’d surely be terrified. Muerte reached under his poncho and pulled out the pies, wrapped up in cloth. “I was asking if you wanted a lamb pie, cordero.”

Their face reddened. They snatched one of the pies away and turned their back towards him. “I- I knew that! I was just saying ‘yes’ as in ‘yes! I’d like a pie!’ you stupid lobo.”

Muerte placed a hand on his chest, gasping. “You dare call Death a stupid wolf! You better watch what you say. You never know what will be your final words.” The villager cast a glance back over their shoulder, gaze meeting Death’s. The two of them laughed.

Muerte sat down on the ground next to the stump. The villager stared at the stump before deciding to sit on the ground next to the wolf. They each ate their pies in silence, chewing thoughtfully. The wolf finished first, licking his lips. “You all outdo yourselves every year. That was delicious.”

The villager smiled, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand. “Thanks. We try to make it nice for you.”

Leaning his head on his hand, the wolf shrugged. “At this point, it’s less about me and just having a nice new year. But you know, I enjoy seeing all the cute costumes. A little kid dressed up like that Puss in Boots, running up to me with a stick sword.” His eyes narrowed suddenly, looking at the villager’s face. “Hang on.” They stiffened. He leaned in closer, close enough to smell them and feel them breathe. “You have something…right…there.” He gently wiped away a stray crumb of pie from their face.

“O-oh. Thank you!”

Was that pushing it? He narrowed his eyes again as he looked between that beautiful face and the crumb stuck to his fur. He licked his paw clean, eyes trained on the villager. Their face reddened again. He could feel them trembling a bit, though Muerte was fairly certain it wasn’t from fear.

“Say,” he began slowly, testing the words out, “Do you think I really eat people?”

They were startled and hurriedly responded, “No, of course not! At least…I hope not.”

“Well your prayers have been answered,” Muerte said, rising to his feet. The villager quickly followed. “I don’t really eat people. Neither does that Big Bad Wolf people tend to confuse me with.”

“But the others,” they said slowly, “the others from the previous years. What happened to them?”

The wolf shrugged. “I always bring food because I know they’ll barely be able to eat anything from the nerves. Then, I take them wherever they want to go, that isn’t this village.”

Their eyes widened. “You can do that?”

“Mm, yes. Granted, not everyone likes the way I travel. And the universe isn’t particularly keen on me doing this. But I don’t kill anyone. And they usually survive the trip.”

“‘Usually’?”

“I’m joking, cordero pequeño.” Muerte grinned. “So what will it be? Where would you like to go?”

The little lamb paused. “I…I don’t know.”

“Come on. You can go anywhere in the world. Just say the word.”

“I think I just want to be able to see you again.”

That took Death aback. He blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Was it weird? Sorry, I just- Listen. I want to see you again.” The mortal gestured around the field, ethereal under the moonlight. “I know I said I don’t think you eat people, but I also didn’t really expect to be alive past midnight. I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to do. But,” they added, stepping slowly towards the wolf, “now I think I want to get to know you more. You’re a pretty funny guy, Lobo Muerte.”

His heart fluttered in his chest. Well, mierda. The moonlight was caught in their hair, and they smelled sweet and full of life. Muerte bent down, reaching behind the stump to pick up the discarded bouquet of lilies. Quickly before it could wilt under his touch, he pressed one flower to the mortal’s chest. He smiled softly, tapping the tip of their nose. “We’ll find a place for you. And I'll be sure to visit before your time comes for real. I’d like to see you again too. Is that alright?”

They grinned. “Yes, of course.”

“Alright then.” The wolf unsheathed his scythes and thrust them upwards, cutting through the air. A shimmering door of light opened in front of the two. He smiled seeing the wonder on their face. “Let’s go.” And he whistled as they went.

[lightweaving]

Can I uhhhhhh have Itachi/Ibiki or Kakashi/Itachi in “We’ll always toe that fine line but never actually, like, cross it, will we?” 🙏

Listen I love kakaita with a passion so obviously it had to be these two ❤️ I just have so many feelings about their senpai/kouhai dynamic and also the fact that they've both suffered so similarly and THEY CAN HEAL EACH OTHER'S EMOTIONAL WOUNDS OK

Wallflower

Length: 1.3k

Summary: Kakashi finds Itachi hiding out in the Uchiha library.

Regency AU, set after a war that's implied to be an analogue to the Napoleonic Wars

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Itachi willed whoever it was to walk past the library, to leave him be. But the stars were not in his favour on that day, for the sound paused before it continued, muffled by the carpet that covered the library.

"One would think," a teasing voice sounded, and Itachi felt himself perk up, "that I would be able to locate Lord Uchiha at the ball thrown by the Uchiha Family. And yet, here you sit, far from the festivities. Where I had planned to hide, in fact."

Itachi pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Has my absence been noticed so quickly?"

Kakashi chuckled as he entered Itachi's field of vision. He cut a dashing figure as he always did, clothed in a navy blue waistcoat. As Itachi's eyes roved down his figure, a familiar warmth sparked to life within him. "You know it has, my lord. The noble Lord Uchiha, awarded a medal of valour for his daring deeds against Orochimaru? The devastatingly handsome heir to the Naka Dukedom, recently returned from the warfront? The debutantes are casting their eyes all about the ballroom to be the first to spot you. Oh, and your mother is looking for you as well."

Itachi sighed once more, and snapped his book shut. He should return to the ballroom. It was the height of rudeness for him to hide in the library at a party hosted by his own family, and yet…

"It just seems so trivial," he admitted quietly, casting his eyes out the window, watching the steady flow of carriages in and out of the Uchiha Manor grounds. "All the social niceties, pretending I have any interest at all in discussing the weather or the races. To watch them, you would never realise how close to ruination we came. We fought as hard as we did in order to preserve this way of life, and yet, I find myself wholly unable to enjoy it."

Kakashi nodded slowly. "I keep hearing Obito's voice," he admitted. "Nagging at me to ask the wallflowers to dance. I almost did. And then I thought of having my back to all those people."

Not much more needed to be said. Both men well knew the horrors of war. It was not a thing of glory as the poets painted it – it was a thing of fear, of wondering if the man you embraced in the morning would live to see another sunrise. Of praying you would still be able to eat, dress and wash without requiring assistance at the close of each day. Kakashi had been fortunate to have only lost an eye in the conflict. And Itachi? The stars had smiled upon him indeed, for all his scars were invisible ones.

"And so, you sought out this wallflower instead," Itachi said, attempting a moment of levity. That was how it had been between them. Kakashi, bereft at losing Obito, and Itachi, still aching from Shisui's death, had found comfort in each other's company. Taking turns to wallow in despondency, and taking turns to lift the other out of the morass of grief. Just being with each other had soothed the sting of the loss, and he had almost believed himself healed.

Thankfully, his remark worked, and Kakashi snorted. "Of course," he mused. "My Lord Uchiha is hiding because he is too shy to dance! The only way to rectify this would be with a dancing lesson."

Itachi felt his lips quirk upwards. Kakashi always had that effect on him. "If my Lord Hatake would be so kind," he murmured. His heart beat faster at the thought of having Kakashi in his arms once more. They had not touched since they had left the warfront.

Two men sharing a tent and even their bedrolls was not looked askance at when female companionship was lacking, but back in polite society? It was utterly unthinkable. It mattered little that his and Kakashi's touches had been entirely innocent ones – holding each other through nightmares, stroking each other's hair. Any hint of the intimacy they had shared would be enough to court scandal.

Kakashi's hand settled around Itachi's waist, scorching even through the layers of cloth that separated it from his skin. "My Lord, if the purpose of this lesson is to restore my confidence in dancing, should I not be the one to lead?" Itachi remarked, desperately attempting to reduce the tension that had manifested the instant they had touched.

"If it was a normal dancing lesson, then of course," Kakashi replied, eyes twinkling in that way which always lightened Itachi's heart. "But you are a wallflower, and so you must be coaxed. And of course, I am taller than you."

By a scant few centimetres, but it was not as if Itachi was keeping track.

They were entirely silent as they twirled around the room, with only the books to bear witness. And then Kakashi dipped Itachi low before lifting him back up, and both men paused. There was an electricity crackling between them that they were both unwilling to extinguish.

"In Icha Icha," Kakashi said finally, "this would be the moment when the two lovers would kiss."

Itachi could barely suppress his smile. Kakashi had carried that noxious orange book everywhere, even breaking it out during column formations to break the tension before they met the Oto forces in battle.

He lifted a hand to Kakashi's face, tracing its hard planes. Looking into the eye that, like Itachi's, had seen far too much.

"Are we lovers, then?" Itachi whispered.

"We could be."

They could be, if Itachi was willing to forsake his duty as the heir to the Naka Dukedom. They could be, if Kakashi was willing to cry off from his engagement with a wealthy heiress, one that had been arranged while Kakashi was still in the cradle. They could be, if they were willing to be condemned by the ton for their unnatural desires.

But could Itachi truly abdicate, casting all responsibility onto his younger brother's shoulders?

Kakashi must have read the conflict in his expression, for he tilted his head and smiled in that way which forced his eye closed. He had once confided to Itachi that he did it when his eye watered, to prevent a show of weakness. Even as he took a small step back, his hand tightened on Itachi's waist.

"We have always toed that fine line, but it appears that we will never cross it," Kakashi said. Anyone else would have thought he was utterly unruffled. But then, anyone else would not have soothed him through the nightmares he had experienced after Obito had taken a bullet meant for him; would not know that precise set of his shoulders which indicated he was a single step away from the complete annihilation of his dignity.

Itachi felt the breath leave his chest. Something told him that if he allowed Kakashi to walk away now, this would be the end of everything. Of late night conversations over a bottle of whiskey they weren't supposed to have, of verbal spars and practice sword fights which ended in one of them getting pinned beneath the other, sweaty and panting.

Of dances set to a funeral dirge which only they could hear.

"No," Itachi whispered. He swallowed, and forced himself to say it once more with greater emphasis, to ensure Kakashi heard his resolve. "No." He had lost Shisui, and had only survived the loss of the man he loved because Kakashi had been there to patch the hole Shisui had left behind.

If he lost Kakashi too, it would end him.

Seizing Kakashi's face in his hands, Itachi pressed his lips against Kakashi's.

The music crescendoed as their hands and lips explored each other, finally allowing themselves the release they had denied themselves for far too long.

They had given enough of themselves. Perhaps now, it was time to allow themselves to take instead.

[under-the-aspen-tree]

A Moth To You (Chapter 10 - Bloodshed and Bounty)

Series Summary: After a year travelling abroad, you have been called home to Kingslanding by your mother, Rhaenyra. Turns out your family has grown in your time apart.

Word Count: 10.4K

Jacaerys' name day celebrations came as a welcome diversion to the dull repetition of the Red Keep, and the gods had blessed the people with clear skies and miraculous weather at the perfect time. There had been some concerns the morning before your leave, as your mother looked upwards with pinched brows, that all the preparations would be for nothing. Thankfully, it seemed, they were not.

The cobblestone streets were still wet when your carriage was pulled, and you could feel the wheels slipping along the ground as you set off through the narrow streets of Kingslanding, but they quickly turned smooth and dry. The downfall had left a luxurious glimmer to every bush and tree as you left the city in favour of the countryside, pottering down the Kingsroad with the taste of pollen on your tongue, and the foliage shone in brilliant shades of evergreen and emerald wherever you looked.

"We couldn't be luckier," The king would remark with a wondrous smile at every stop, beholding the skies.

"The Seven are merciful," Alicent would agree with a courteous nod before leading him to a shaded seat.

Your arrival was no less spectacular. To celebrate Jace's nineteenth name day, the King had declared the necessity for a fresh hunt, as had been done for his own boys several times over the years. A royal hunt was an occasion like no other, commemorated with seven days of feasting, drinking, and killing. Lords and ladies came together from all over Westeros, often travelling for days, to join in the festivities, and a grand week was to be expected.

The Kingswood chosen to host the celebration was a fine one, and well-known for its bountiful hunting grounds. Thick layers of foliage circled a well-sized field and great tents of crimson and black had been erected to house the royal party comfortably. At the centre of the green stood a fresh, wooden podium to sit your family, while lighter tables dotted the grass before it, easily moved to equip for the nights of dancing to come.

Four days had passed since your arrival to the Kingswood, and you had made the most of every one of them. The afternoons in the fresh air with the sun beaming down upon you, drinking cooled wine in the shade of oak trees, and your Septas left far behind in the Keep brought a skip to your step. It helped, of course, that sullen behaviour was not tolerated at such an event. For almost a week, not a single person had so much as grimaced, and you could have sworn that at the end of a morning hunt, you had almost seen Aemond smile at Jace, who bore a small deer over one shoulder. That alone was cause for celebration.

Even Aegon had kept to his own devices, only stumbling out of his tents occasionally to drink or join his brother, who was usually holding his shoulder quite forcefully. You doubted wholly that Aegon particularly enjoyed such affairs, but whether that was due to the festivities being for your brother or simply because he didn't have the patience for hunting, you did not know. It didn't quite seem to be his forte regardless. Aemond had trained extensively in every weapon you knew of, from sword to spear to crossbow, and his aim always ran true. His brother, on the other hand, had bested the basics and done little else. Though you knew Aegon's skill with a blade was as ferocious as any royal knight or guard, he never felt the need to learn the intricacies of archery, and that left him with very little to do while hunting. Regardless, Aemond seemed keen on keeping him involved in the fun, much to Aegon's dismay, and so you were quite gladly rid of him. 

While Princes, Lords, and knights alike trundled into the heavy foliage every morning to drink and slaughter, you had the pleasure of doing whatever you wished. Your greatest concern with this holiday was the suitors that would grace your presence at every turn and, with the men effectively gone, you had nothing to worry about. So, every morning, you would loop arms with Helaena and simply enjoy the solitude. Even your cousins, Baela and Rhaena, had travelled from Driftmark with your grandparents, and you had delighted in the opportunity to finally reacquaint with them, as well as your grandmother, Rhaenys. It had been a month since you had returned, and after a year with the woman, you had sorely missed her.

Today was one of the quieter afternoons as servants prepared for the feast to come, and the hunt had ended early to allow everyone time to ready themselves. Jace's name day itself had passed on the second day, but the men had finally gathered enough venison to feed the entire gathering, so it would be a party like no other. You had taken the quiet opportunity to walk with Jace through the maze of tents that built up your camp, having found you had spent very little time together with all the mania that spread thickly through the air.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," Your brother remarked as you walked and you looked up suddenly, realising you had lost yourself in thought. The taste of pollen was sweet in the air, and the grass brushed your skirts with fresh dew at every step. It was often difficult not to lose oneself in the tranquillity of it all.

"Just thinking," You shook your head smiling, but Jace missed the action, pulling his arm from yours as an unfamiliar face approached you.

The man must have been barely five-and-twenty, with a hint of youth still painted across his features, yet he had the figure of a man grown. His dark hair was a mane of curls cut to his chin, and a peppering of stubble kissed his jaw from a few days' growth. He looked like a warrior, even in his finery, but his eyes were of a spring pond green that revealed what you could only have considered to be a gentle nature.

"The Tully's drain their cups to you this fine week, Your Grace, and wish you good tidings for the year to come." He smiled, lifting a gloved hand to shake your brothers. You could only watch on, smiling politely. It was often that Jace was interrupted to greet strangers, and came with the territory of so many travelling so far for him. You never quite knew how he handled it so well, always having a smile to give, a hand to shake, a name to remember.

"Thank you, my Lord, that is most kind." He replied with a charming smile.

"And you, Princess. You are as beautiful as my sister described, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance," The man continued, turning to face you with a palm extended. You took it with a smile and tilted your head as he bowed to place a gentle kiss upon your knuckles.

"How courteous of you, my Lord." It was strange how you couldn't keep the warmth from your face as he lifted himself to his full height, easily surpassing both you and your brother. You had gone through the motions of this dance with many a man, and yet you couldn't keep your eyes from his. They reminded you of the forest, of the first leaves that blessed the branches of a tree at winter's end. "You say your sister and I met?"

If he noticed your staring, he ignored it, his smile only widening at your words. "Yes, Your Grace, during your tour last year. I was most sorry to have missed you. I had spent many moons travelling to and from Casterly Rock to represent my father and missed you there as well. My sister, the lady Ceryse, had nothing but kind tales of your visit, as did the rest of the Riverrun, from what I've heard."

You remembered the Lady Ceryse, if only faintly, from the first months of your adventures around Westeros; a kind woman, if not a little shy, who delighted in the sight of your dragon nipping at the fields. "You spoil me with your compliments, my Lord, though I must apologise. I'm not sure I know your name?"

"Colren Tully, if it pleases you." 

"Colren..." You tasted the word on your tongue and it sounded sweet, like the gentle lapping of a stream. "Well, then I am pleased to finally have the chance to speak with you personally. My days spent in Riverrun were beyond comparison."

"How kind of you to say," Colren chuckled, his green eyes glimmering in the afternoon sun, before nodding curtly to the both of you. "Well, I thank you both for your company- and to you, my Prince. I wish you all the best."

You didn't take your eyes from his large figure as he departed, disappearing amongst a sea of red and gold tents, and only began to walk again as Jace slipped his arm through yours. "Well he was very nice," He said knowingly, sparing you a glance that you refused to return.

"Don't start-" 

"What?" He interrupted, grinning. "You would think it was your name day, with how these Lords all fawn over you."

You couldn't keep the mirthful smile from your face as you eyed him, pursing your lips. "Don't work yourself into jealousy, brother, lest they come after you next."

Jace pulled his mouth into a mockery of a frown, glance darting from you in an instant. "I am more than content without."

You threw back your head and cackled at his tone, ignoring the heads that turned your way as you did. Jace had always been your closest ally, an extension of yourself perhaps, and you could never suppress the smile on your face when he was around.

For a while you simply walked, arm in arm, the previous conversation forgotten as you asked him about his time hunting and he asked about your time not. You hadn't realised just how much you had to catch up on after a few days distanced, but it seemed a lot went on in the woods out of your reach. You were thankful, however, that he left out the parts in which he actually killed anything, something you couldn't typically avoid when he came back with a belt full of rabbits.

It wasn't long before you were interrupted again, but it was a welcome face that greeted you from below, with honey-stained hair in the golden sun.

"(Y/N)!" Helaena cried, standing at once from a thick blanket she had laid upon the earth. You hadn't even noticed her there until right beside her, but you laughed as she pulled you into a hug. "Jace," She said much quieter, bowing her head lightly as she brushed off her pale blue skirts. He smiled in return, something small and brief and sweeter than sugar berries. "Would you like to sit? One of the girls brought a tray of lemon cakes."

You turned to Jace expectantly, but his usually light face turned into one of gentle solemnity. "Regrettably I must offer my company to the houses attending the hunt," He said, looking like there was nothing he would have rather done less. Ever dutiful, ever courteous, and ever the one to go without lemon cakes. You knew where you would rather be.

"I would love to join you, Helaena," You grinned, pulling up your skirts to sit beside her on the blanket. She giggled but waited to join you until your brother had nodded his departure. "Enjoy yourself, Jace," You called out, waving your arms as he looked back with a smile.

"Here," Helaena sat delicately beside you as you settled, pulling a bunch of wildflowers into her silken lap. "Do you still remember how to make the crowns?"

Your lips twitched as your beheld the assortment; icy blues and brilliant yellows. She had always possessed a talent for finding the most perfect buds, never wilted or crushed from her grip. She twirled the stem of a small peony as she spoke, her touch as light and graceful as a dancer. "Never as well as you, but yes. Or, at least, I can try."

She smiled as she passed a bundle into your hands and watched you weave, your fingers thick and inexperienced compared to hers. It had been years since you had made crowns together, but the memories came flooding back at the floral smell that greeted you. Helaena had taught you the method in your childhood, helping you perfect the art as best you could, but she had a talent for beauty you hadn't been graced with. All the same, you rejoiced in the soft stroke of petals against your fingertips, the stems still wet with dew.

It was so peaceful here, so calm. Even the passersby seemed to lower their voices as they walked, as though mindful enough to be quiet in your presence. The sun was comfortable and warm against your skin, and you noticed it had brought up the faintest of freckles on the tip of Helen's pale nose and cheekbones.

"It's all a bit much, don't you think?" You hummed as she spoke softly, looking up at the city of tents that surrounded you, and shrugged.

"Well, it's not like they would ever host such a celebration for us," You said, as though you would ever truly wish for such a thing. It was no lie that the crown held its greatest celebrations for the men of the house, but you didn't mind much. It was all a little overwhelming, and you lacked the patience that Jace had for such affairs. "In all honesty, I think I prefer a simple ball. All of this killing that men seem to enjoy is far beyond my understanding."

"Mine as well..." The woman sighed, looking up as her fingers still moved flawlessly. "I suppose it is not such a bad opportunity, though."

Frowning, you tilted your head at her words and saw the barest of grins as she peered downwards at her flawless crown. "Well, I saw you speaking with the young Lord Colren, and the Hightower boy yesterday. Then there was the Redwyne before him, who I think is a little too righteous for his standing, but to each their own..."

"Stop it!" You giggled, pushing her gently and eliciting only a laugh in return. "They're all the same anyways. We are fitting entertainment and an opportunity for them to raise their own bloodlines."

"Hmm," She hummed with a knowing smile. "Well the Tully's already have a good standing at court, and he's not so bad on the eyes..."

Your cheeks burned slightly. How ridiculous it felt, to be brought to such a state when you had barely spoken with the man. You decided to swiftly change the course of the conversation. "What about you, dear aunt? Have any of these 'fine young men' caught your fancy?"

You didn't need to ask, already knowing the answer, but she graced you with one all the same. "None so far."

Thoughts of Jace came to mind, to the way she blushed a gentle pink in his presence, to the way he always held himself a little straighter in hers, and smiled knowingly. It was so bittersweet to think of what they could have been, could still be, had her mother only looked past her predetermined notions of your family. Jacaerys was the kindest soul you had met, and Helaena the gentlest. In your eyes, no man could have ever hoped to take care of her the same way he would, if only given the opportunity.

You sighed as you looked at your flower crown, more tangled than woven, and then at hers. It was a fine bloom of petals and leaves that softly shone in every colour of the rainbow; a diamond, perhaps, if yours was coal.

"How do you do it? Mine looks like children play in comparison," You huffed, breaking the silence between you.

"Here," Helaena smiled, fixing a knot before shifting to face you fully. With surreal precision, she placed it upon your head, twirling locks of hair around your face as she did so. You couldn't fight the image that came to mind. Of your aunt, though much younger, freckled and giggling as she nestled her perfect crown upon your curls. "I crown you princess of the flowers!"

And you, equally small, giving her your own. "And I crown you the finest maiden in the lands." She never once minded that your crafts were far inferior to her own, always letting you have the one she made herself and still wearing yours with pride. The memory warmed you from your bones and it was an effort to break yourself from the childhood that seemed so long ago, enough at least to listen as the musicians began to play. You discarded your work in an instant, tugging her upwards so suddenly she let out a yelp.

"Oh, I know this song! Come dance!" She laughed, bending slightly to pick something up as she fought off your grip.

"I don't know it!"

"I'll teach you, just come!"

It didn't take much effort to drag Helaena into the circle of dancers, arm looped around hers as you began to spin. When you looked up, you saw your pathetic attempt at a crown sitting proudly upon her silver hair and grinned. She had pulled it on without your notice, and her face below it brought a newfound beauty to your pitiful attempt.

"Where did you learn this?" She said after a while, easily picking up the steps you taught her and clapping with the beat of the song.

"It's Pentoshi- the boy I met there taught me," You replied, twirling around her with your best attempt at the moves Illestrio had taught you months ago.

"He must have been a fine dancer."

"He was," You said quietly, but it was lost in the music. Gods, it had been so long since you thought of the boy, of his hand in yours as he guffawed at your awful attempts at a dance. He had worked with you until you landed each turn perfectly, then danced with you for many days after. How much life had changed since those simple days.

The song faded out and your bodies brushed to a halt, interrupted with panted breaths as you noticed the crowd had begun to thicken. It didn't take long to pick out Jacaerys through them, stepping before your aunt with a smile and a hand extended.

"Helaena, would you like a dance?"

She looked at you for a moment as a new song picked up, and you laughed at her wordless question of permission, motioning with your hands to go. The smile upon her lips was one of pure joy, and you didn't mind so much that you were lost a dance partner as you watched your brother spin the woman in a graceful circle, laughing.

You had prepared yourself to sit this dance out when a gentle tap upon your shoulder had you turning, coming upon a figure much larger than yourself. Spring green eyes smiled down at you from beneath a wild wave of curls.

"You looked lonely, Princess."

"Lord Colren," You greeted, fighting the blush you could feel against your cheeks. You were not so far from the steady fire burning, that must have been why your cheeks were suddenly aflame. "One can never be lonely at such an event."

"I could be," He suggested, almost shyly, as he held out a large hand. "Offer me this mercy, Princess. I'll be in my father's favour for weeks if he sees me dancing such a fine lady."

Truly, you didn't need an excuse. "Well, only to save you from your father's wrath should I not."

Perhaps it was the wine that was getting to your head, or maybe the fact that the man before you looked like both a warrior and a poet at once, but you enjoyed the weight of his hand in yours as you took it. You were used to these interactions; the affections of men were never far away for someone of your lineage, and yet he seemed different from the others. His smile was genuine, not sly. He didn't drip honey from his lips, but instead perhaps something fresher, something truer. He spun you around with the nimble grace of a man who had trained in the art of dancing all his life, yet his muscles felt powerful beneath your hands from years of swordplay. 

"I do believe we have somewhat of an audience," He said lowly after a time, motioning his head to the high table upon the podium where you would later sit. You instantly recognised your mother, a chalice of wine in hand, nodding respectfully to a man beside her. He was older than her by a far few years, but with the way he spoke so animatedly, looking down at the dance with every other word, you wouldn't know it. It didn't take long to place him at Colren's lord father, having met him yourself once.

"I told you," Colren continued with a shameful sort of smile. "He gets excited at these sorts of things."

You laughed aloud as he spoke. "Surely you have no difficulty in dancing with women, my Lord. I hardly expect this is a surprise to your father." 

"Aye, but none so beautiful or fair as you, Princess."

Your tongue brushed your lips, your mouth suddenly dry at his words, and you forced yourself to look away from his glimmering eyes for a moment. You feared if you stared upon them too long, you would get lost in that sweet spring pond.

Searching for anything to distract yourself, you came once more upon the table, though it was a different pairing you were drawn to. Your uncles stood to the far end, speaking idly as they looked out upon the dance, seemingly oblivious to you. Yet staring up at them, you met Aegon's gaze in an instant. It couldn't have been more than a second that you looked upon one another before you spun, redirecting your focus, and still it sent a wave through your body, sparking against your fingertips in such a way that your mind reeled. You were thankful, then, that he was lost in a sea of red, black, and gold as Colren twirled you around with one arm.

The feeling was gone as soon as it emerged and the music began to fade into silence as the dancing slowed to a halt. It took a moment to remember yourself, exactly where you were, and you twisted to face the high table again, where King Viserys stood, a cup in one hand and Alicent in the other. The quiet he demanded was penetrating, but his expression was one of warmth as he took in the crowd. 

Helaena's hand brushed your shoulder, and you gave a nod of farewell to Colren as she took your arm, leading you up to the podium to take your place. You realised, with a dull pang, that she had led you to the King's side of the table, not your mothers, and with her stood beside Otto Hightower, her grandsire, the only other seat was beside...

Aegon.

Of course. You stilled a breath as you stood next to him, detangling yourself from the girl as you did your best not to so much as look in his direction. The tension still felt thick and heavy between you two, even despite almost two weeks having passed since your last interaction, and you weren't eager to engage him again.

"What an honour it is to see these houses united for my grandson's name day." The King began, effectively distracting you from your thoughts. "None could be prouder of such an able young man. To Jacaerys Velaryon!"

The crowd raised their cups in unison, standing about the tables that graced the grass, and you joined them, relishing in the bittersweet taste that warmed your throat.

"Let us feast."

The people collapsed at once, chairs pulled and bodies seated as steaming trays of food were brought out in hoards. The table itself was designed with a slight curve so that you could clearly see everyone in attendance. Jace gave you a sympathetic look from the other side, safely tucked between Daemon and Baela, and you raised a brow in return. It was a typical affair for the both of you.

"So you're certain you have no liking to the Lord Tully? I do believe you looked quite sweet together."

Twisting back in your seat, Helaena looked upon you with a wry grin as she helped herself to a serving of venison. The smell was truly divine, but you couldn't help but think back to the small deer slugged over your brother's shoulder, certainly an unwelcome image.

"I'll speak to you about Lord Tully when you speak to me about my brother," You replied quite snootily, grinning when your aunt merely scrunched her nose, going slightly pink as she took a sip of wine. Otto leaned in to say something to her that was lost on you, and you were forced into your own conversation in time.

"A match designed by the gods, don't you agree?"

"Hm?" You questioned as Aegon tilted to face you, a cup at his lips.

"Jace and Helaena."

You had spoken this conversation weeks ago and, quite frankly, you weren't interested in repeating it. Your voice was dry as you replied, almost suspiciously. "I believe they would be a fine pairing."

"Yes, fine indeed," Aegon chuckled lowly, sawing a chunk of meat with careful deliberation. You couldn't be certain as to why you already felt grated. Perhaps it was the fact that the only contact you had shared in days was in the form of cold glares, or perhaps you sensed when he was about to say something rude, like a cat senses rain. 

"Do you intend to speak plainly with me, Aegon, or will we go around in cryptic circles as always?"

You were graced only with that same, low chuckle, and for a moment it seemed he was done with the conversation. A brief relief, if any. He effectively ignored your question. "Did you? Enjoy your dance with the Tully, I mean?"

"Yes, actually, he's a fine gentleman," You hissed with emphasis, a clear contradiction to your thoughts on him. You were letting him under your skin again, and you weren't quite sure why. He hadn't even done anything yet, at least more than leaving your question unanswered, but he left you with an uneasiness that had your guard closely up.

Aegon smiled, but it wasn't one of any kindness. It was cold, calculating, and felt like a pinch to your skin. "Is that the way women are taught to behave nowadays? Publicly fawning over men beneath their station? Your mother must be very proud."

You scoffed, turning to your plate as though you had much of an appetite now. You had danced as any woman would and, quite frankly, it was none of his business regardless. "Why you care so much about who I 'fawn' over is truly a mystery to me, Uncle."

"Do not mistake my actions for caring, Princess. It is of no consequence to me how you conduct yourself."

His words had your hands tightening ever so slightly around your knife and fork and you had to set them down in favour of your cups.

Perhaps mistaking your silence for a cause to continue speaking, Aegon continued.

"That being said, I must agree with my sister for once, you suit each other rather well." He leaned closer to you at that, setting his hand down upon the back of your chair as he did so. It would have looked like a friendly gesture, but it felt suffocating to be so close, to almost feel his breath on your neck. "He's a sort of brutish-looking man, wouldn't you agree? Though even speaking with him must be a step up from the company you usually keep."

Your jaw clenched of its own accord, and you turned to face him only to find he was much closer than anticipated, violet eyes boring into yours with cold passion. His words reminded you of that night in Kingslanding, of the way his hands fell upon Boras with pure savagery. "If you're-"

"Perhaps it runs in the blood." He pursued cruelly, drowning out your voice. "One's taste, I mean. Lord Tully's not a far cry from our beloved ex-Kingsgaurd."

You felt your blood run colder at the mention of Sir Harwin. Most didn't bring up his name, and if they did it was in a whisper, typically far away from your ears. His lips twitched up into the barely of smiles. If he was bringing up Sir Harwin, it was only for one reason. "Perhaps you have more Targaryen blood in you than you look, following so closely in your mother's footsteps."

It took a moment to attempt to breathe, to attempt to think. He was all you saw, he was all you could think of. Smoke and sage felt overwhelming in your lungs, and he seemed to realise he was affecting you because his smile grew into a pearly beam. It took everything in you not to lash out, not to let the fury overcome you at the word he said without speaking. "Are you quite done?" You hissed. "Have you had your fun yet?"

"Not even close, sweet niece," He replied with a wicked grin, but relented, drawing back his hands to return to the table. The relief was sweet, and you relished in the opportunity to look back out upon the crowd at anything but him. It took a moment to find your voice again, but you couldn't hold your anger in. Aegon had plagued your mind more often than not these past weeks, and you were tired of him looming over your head like a storm cloud. 

"If this is about what happened... in Kingslanding then speak the matter plainly or let us leave it in the past," You said curtly, taking a long sip of wine. 

Aegon scoffed, though thankfully didn't turn to face you. "What happened the other night only served to reaffirm what I already thought of you."

"And that would be?" Your voice rang with plain steel.

The grin in Aegon's voice was apparent, even if you weren't looking his way. "What were you doing with that boy, Princess? Simply... enjoying a song?"

The world around you turned to a blur as you peered his way, and the spark in his eyes was one of testing, of cruelty. He was pushing something he ought never to push, and it lit your skin aflame. "You are walking a dangerous line, Aegon. Do not be so bold as to assume we are so alike."

There was an accusation in your words now as well, a thin line of fire that went both ways and your meaning was evident. If Aegon was spending time in Kingslanding, it was for one indulgence, one that you would never dare to step foot towards. Purity and honour were still subjects that mattered in your eyes. "In what way? Our shared enjoyment of the... simple pleasures to be had in the streets?"

"I do believe our ideas of pleasure are vastly different."

"I wouldn't be so certain," His voice lowered to a hum, one of insinuation, of condemnation, and it took Helaena's hand upon yours to bring your senses back to reality.

"Ignore him," She said, quietly. "You're falling straight into their trap."

You finally looked away from the man, taking her in with a frown and relishing the feel of cold air in your chest. "What trap?"

She said nothing more, almost as though she had said nothing at all, before looking upon your plate.

"...Are you not going to finish your meal?"

You grimaced, doing your best to forget her words. She often said the strangest of things, and you weren't in the mood to debate their meaning  tonight. "Meat is less appetising when not a day ago I saw the animal as it was."

"Then shall we dance again?" She smiled softly, giving you a way out if you wished for it. For a second, you spared a glance at Aegon, who had invested his attention once more on his meal.

"Gladly," You breathed, letting her pull you to your feet and then the grass, where a group had already begun to form. The tables had been pushed back slightly to allow for room around the great fire and bodies twisted around one another in a circle that surrounded it. The music had quickly turned jovial and you urged Helaena as far into the crowd as possible, obstructed from your uncle's menacing gaze. It was silly, truly, that you let him get to you the way he did, unnecessary even. Aegon was bitter and you were letting him repeatedly taint you with the same brush already painting him. It was disrespectful, of course, the way he alluded to vile things, but that was simply in his nature. You had to remind yourself of this, that you were above that sort of thing, and yet you pushed yourself as far from him and possible all the same.

For some reason though, with a smile plastered on your face as Helaena jumped in circles about you, you couldn't tear your mind from what he said of Sir Harwin. It was true in a sense, that he bore some resemblance to Lord Colren, but as did half the realm. As did most lords and knights of any strength. 'Perhaps Aegon is jealous,' you thought sourly. 'That he isn't half as fierce or kind as Lord Colren'. Then you had to consider that you were defending the honour of a man you did not even know and that you were acting like an air-headed girl. Seven hells, Kingslanding was messing with your priorities. At what point had you come to care about suitors?

It was as though the gods themselves had been listening to your thoughts, and decided to be mirthful, for it wasn't long before you spun to a stop before the Lord Colren himself, smiling with that awful, lovely smile that captivated you in an instant. All concerns over Aegon disappeared in the blink of an eye as he took your hand in his, almost as if your conversation had never taken place, as though it simply didn't matter.

"Have you come to ask another dance to appease your father?" You said, collecting yourself as he looked down upon you with a gleam in those green eyes.

"Actually, I was hoping to dance for my own pleasure this time, Princess, if you'll accept me?" Colren's voice was low and earthy, with a softness to it that reminded you of fresh soil after rainfall. You couldn't fight the smile from your face.

"Well only because you asked so kindly."

At that, you were away, just faintly catching sight of Helaena looking on with a grin. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, you decided, as Colren lifted and swung you. Not Aegon, not your family, and not your own fears of looking like an air-headed maiden. You had never allowed yourself to care for suitors, never been a simple girl who saw the world through a pearly rose tint. What did it matter to allow yourself one night of caring? Of fun? Of feeling a man's hands upon your shoulder and waist, of clapping in time to music you weren't truly paying attention to, of losing yourself in a pool of spring green and fresh soil? For one night, you deserved not to be a princess, not to be a Velaryon either for that matter. You wanted to be a stupid little girl drunk on summer wine with some hope for love, for a future beyond duty and honour. You did not suppress the smile on your mouth, the laughter on your tongue. It tasted sweet, and you cared little for where your uncle looked, for what he thought of you. Perhaps, if this was a tavern, he would be doing the exact same thing. The thought gave you courage, and you giggled as Colren lifted you entirely into the air for a moment, watching as petals fell from the crown Helaena had nestled onto your head and into his curly hair.

The world felt alive in a chorus of colour and song, the music was heaven upon your ears. Angels sang in a choir of drum and fiddle and the tinkling of bells.

Bells...

The song had come to an end, the musicians were filtering from their spot in place of new ones. A frown came to your brows as you panted, your body still alight, and your eyes shifted from Colren's and towards the small podium the bands played upon.

"Is everything alright, Princess?"

Colren's voice brought you back to the present, and you forced a gentle smile upon your face as he removed his hands from your waist. You felt cold in the summer night as he did so, like a blanket had been pulled from your shoulders.

"I am fine, thank you, my lord. If you'll excuse me?"

He gave a courteous nod, stepping backwards into the crowd, but you granted him not a second thought as you pushed through the bodies surrounding you. You couldn't have imagined it, that tinkling, it reminded you just of-

"Boras!"

The air was stuck in your lungs as you looked upon him, swinging his small guitar over his shoulder by a worn leather strap as he strode from the podium, face flushed from performing. A blue tunic hung loose over his chest, faded with time and wear. His head swung to the side, recognition clouding his eyes in an instant.

"Boras, you're here, you're-"

Your words were cut from your throat as came before him, and the flush on his cheeks dropped in an instant. Boras had already been a sickly boy, but he looked as though he had seen a ghost when his large eyes fell upon you. You had almost forgotten, almost ignored what had happened in Kingslanding days ago, but he looked as he did when Aegon's dagger brushed against his throat.

Your lips started moving in an instant, apologies falling from your mouth faster than you could think them as you beheld the horror on Boras' face. "What happened the other night, with the prince, you must know you have my sincerest apologies. Truly, I had no idea he would be there, or that he would conduct himself in such a way..."

The boy only took a step back, his angular jaw tightening slightly. He looked rugged, as though he hadn't slept in days, and your concern grew even heavier. "If you'll excuse me, princess."

"I'm sorry, Boras, really I am." You pushed forward, blocking his path. "I- I never meant for things to go as they did, and I know I put you in danger by befriending you at all and not telling you who I was. Please, my friend, forgive me," You pleaded. Your previous happiness felt like ashes on your tongue as you stared at him, willing your apologies into the air, into his sickly skin.

But he did not seem to listen. As Boras' lips parted in reply, his gaze flitted to your neck and he turned slightly green. Words seemed caught in his throat as something beyond horror, beyond fear crossed his eyes, and you frowned at the reaction, wondering if you imagined something. Your hand brushed your collarbone, wondering what could have possibly caught his attention, but found nothing.

"I'm sorry, Princess," He said dully, as something set itself heavy across his features. In a second, he had turned away, practically running from you into the maze of tents. You looked around for a moment, taken completely by surprise, but found his bandmates had disappeared themselves long ago. Not even the tinkling of bells remained, and the new musician's song felt dull in your ears as you stared at the spot your old friend had disappeared, a numbness spreading across your skin.

"Disgraceful, isn't it? Running away from a royal woman such as yourself? A shame, that you've lost such a dear friend."

Aegon's dry humour had you whipping around in an instant, shocked that he could have approached without you realising. Was that why Boras had been so desperate to flee? Because the man who attacked him was approaching once again? Your hands shook slightly as you took your in your uncle's appearance. From his combed-back hair to the black finery that had him blending into the shadows if not for his alabaster skin. His eyes were cold and mirthful, and your blood rushed through your veins in a hot wave.

"You!" There were almost tears in your eyes as you stepped towards the man. "This is your fault."

"My fault?" Aegon chuckled, a smile coming upon his face. "You should be thanking me if I'm the cause of this."

"Thanking you?" His words were like pure ice, ice and fire and obsidian when they collided, and it enraged you. "If you hadn't conducted yourself in such a manner, if you hadn't nearly killed him, perhaps he wouldn't feel the need to run from my company."

His eyes narrowed cruelly, that awful smile still upon his face, as though this was but a joke, as though he hadn't terrified one of the few friends you had into running from you. "I've done you a kindness. Spending your nights with him do you no favours. You think your reputation can handle another blow?"

"My reputation?" You spluttered, almost laughing. "You dare speak to me of my reputation? From what I've heard and seen, you are in much greater need of some self-control than I."

"This isn't about me, though, is it?" The grin was wiped from Aegon's face in an instant. His expression was statuesque and as cold and silken as marble. "You think yourself so high and pious? All Westeros knows of you is that you've spent over a year doing whatever you wish with whoever you wish. If they knew you were sneaking into the streets of Kingslanding in the middle of the night?" He laughed then, breaking through that layer of pale rock. "Can you imagine the whispers at court?"

You could feel the muscles of your jaw tightening, a scowl heavy on your face. "Stop implying I would lower myself to the standards of some-" The words were on your tongue, yet you couldn't say them, and that only seemed to bring more joy to the man before you. Taking a heavy stride forward, he lowered his voice to a murmur, barely digestible over the music.

"Some what?" His eyes were like a winter storm. Cold and purple and ferocious. His teeth gleamed white in the firelight. "Go on, say it. I don't know why you shy away from the accusation so much, it is in a bastard's blood is it not? They don't follow the same rules as the better born."

Your blood ran cold in your veins, the word striking through you harder than a slap to the face. Aegon could have lashed out and struck you, and it would have been kinder, less painful. You couldn't speak, couldn't refuse it, you were so shocked that he had spoken so plainly, so close to lords and ladies beginning to tire from their dances. The song had ebbed into the night, the festivities dying down. Aegon only smiled and continued.

"Are you going to deny it, what everybody knows to be true? I mean, your plain features can be dusted away to an extent with the Baratheon blood in your lineage... but do you know what truly sets a bastard apart from the rest?" He leaned in closer, his hair falling forward to brush against your cheek, but he kept his cold eyes upon you. It would have been considered near scandalous should anybody look your way, yet you were frozen. "Their behaviour. They will always resort to anger, to violence, to lies. You can't trust them."

The dull whipping of wood on leather, a flash of silver hair.

He pulled away at that, yet you felt no less cornered in his gaze, no less paralysed. In this moment, you truly wished you were more like Jace, more like your mother, who would have brushed off the insult as though it was nothing, yet his words stung. Tears pricked your eyes and, if he noticed, they did nothing to dissuade his attack.

"The only thing that can follow in a bastard's wake is betrayal and suffering. The men chasing at your heels would do well to remember that."

The tears finally fell and you were too angry, too upset to care, to feel shame at the weakness they showed. You tried to will venom into your tongue as you spoke, but the words came out shaken and pitched as your voice rose. "And you're so noble, so righteous in comparison to myself?"

"I do not pretend to be something I'm not," Aegon replied curtly. "And when I engage in matters unseemly for someone of my station, I keep it to myself. You, on the other hand, well you can't seem to miss the opportunity to flaunt yourself at every opportunity."

You could only stare, trapped in his gaze. From the corner of your eye, you watched as a small daisy finally came loose from its stem and drifted towards the ground.

"So yes, I think you would lower yourself to the standards of a whore," You flinched at the word, the ending to a sentence you had left unspoken. "For you have done nothing to prove otherwise."

His gaze wandered upwards to the flower crown that had wilted upon your head before his eyes met your own once more.

"And those flowers look ridiculous."

The spell was finally broken, and you could say nothing. Aegon was as stoic and cruel as ever, smile gone from his face, purple eyes as grey as mountain stone in the light of the now dying fire. Barely anybody was still outside of their tents. The festivities were over. 

You took a breath and then another, willing some bite to your tongue, wishing to find anything to say in retaliation, but his words had driven you mute. Without another word, you turned on your heel, leaving Aegon where he stood.

Perhaps you were wrong, you thought, as you brushed the tears angrily from your voice, breaking into a run as soon as you were out of his line of sight. Perhaps you were as stupid as those air-headed women who saw the world through that pearly rose tint. 

The maze of tents was constricting, hedging inwards with every step as you barrelled past them, only truly breathing once more when you hit the foliage that surrounded the camp. It was there that you finally cried, truly cried.

It was ridiculous to believe that the week could have honestly been a breath of fresh air, that the taunts and cruelties that plagued you in the city wouldn't follow you away. You had tried for so long, so very long, to build a bubble around yourself that was impenetrable. You had carted yourself out around Westeros, had refused to listen to the insults that lined the tongues of onlookers, and yet you failed. One glare from Aegon, one snide remark, and you were a child again, clinging to her mother's skirts, wondering why people were so cruel.

It was inescapable, you had always known that. You would never be looked at in the same way that your silver haired family were; with respect, with dignity. You would always be seen as a bastard, a mistake. A lying, treacherous, evil thing that plagued the lands of Westeros. Staring into the trees as sobs wracked through your body, you yearned for Pentos. For sun-bleached stone and dry grass beneath your feet, of the smell of sweet berries and cinnamon on the wind and Illestrio's gentle hand upon your own. 

A noise alerted you from your pity and you shuddered a breath, wiping the offending tears from your cheeks with one hand as you looked about you. There was nothing but darkness here, you realised, wedged between an empty tent and the line of thick trees and bushes that marked the entrance to the Kingswood. You frowned into the void, wondering if you were simply being paranoid in your sorry state, and then something caught your eye.

A flash of blue, barely visible between the branches shifted, and your limbs froze as you peered into the foliage. You couldn't move, couldn't think, your mind hazy with wine and misery.

Relief hit you harder a ship against rocks when the person finally emerged, and it almost brought another wave of sobs to your body as you realised who it was. 

"Boras?" Even despite your mood, a smile tugged at your face as you once again wiped your eyes. The boy stood before the treeline, barely a meter from yourself, with his rugged hair and pale skin. Yet it was him, not some rabid animal nor a raged lunatic. Just your sad, scared friend.

Boras didn't seem to share in your solace, looking at you with that same strange look in his eyes as before, and a frown pulling his mouth into a thin line. He shook his head slowly, swallowing. "Why couldn't you have just worn it, (Y/N)?"

"What are you talking about?" You sighed, still reigning control over your breathing. Your sprint to get as far away from Aegon, combined with your pitying cries, had exhausted you somewhat. You felt almost silly now, bearing the appearance of your misery. Boras' bright eyes looked dull, resigned almost.

"They said if you- if you just showed that you cared then you-"

"Boras, my friend, what are you talking about? Are you alright?" He was concerning you now, more so than before. That look on his face, the way he appeared so sad he was almost angry, had you reaching out a hand to place comfortingly on his shoulder. Had Aegon truly gotten to him so badly?

"Don't touch me!" He suddenly cried out, before looking around fearfully. You practically jumped back, your hand flying to your side as though burned.

"Boras I said I'm sorry about what the Prince did. I never meant for it to happen... I- I would never let any harm come to you."

"This ain't about that! Don't you see?" He looked like a madman, his eyes wide and terrified. As your vision adjusted to the darkness, you could see the tracks of tears upon his sunken cheeks. The sight nearly brought fresh tears to your own eyes, that you had hurt him so badly, that you let him feel so alone. "Don't say kind things to me, don't"

 "Boras, let me help you. Whatever it is, I can help." You searched desperately into him, as though you could pull the fear and misery straight from his chest. A part of you wondered how he could possibly be so afraid of Aegon, yet play music at a Targaryen hunt. That part of you remained quiet, however, as you reminded yourself of his station. He was as poor as a man could come, with a desperation to succeed in his music. Of course he would bite back his fear for the opportunity to play for so many nobles. "Is this about Aegon? I won't let him touch you again, I swear it. You're my friend-"

"Stop!" Boras' voice was hushed, but it bore the same weight it would have if he had yelled the word. Something burned in his body, something that had you stumbling backwards in an instant, and you barely saw the flash of steel in the darkness before you threw yourself to the dry, hard ground. For a moment, you could not make sense of anything as your head crashed against the cold floor. Then, his weight was upon you, nearly forcing the air from your lungs. Your vision moved slowly, your eyes fighting to catch up with what was happening around you.

Your first instinct was to scream at the sight, but a calloused hand came upon your mouth with frightening strength. Hot tears fell upon your cheeks, but they were not your own. You were too shocked to cry. Boras' face hovered inches above yours, eyes red and sunken, but you could barely look at him in your terror, in the sick feeling suddenly dawning upon you. Your attention was stolen purely by the gleaming knife in his hand, shaking in his pale knuckled grip.

"Forgive me, (Y/N), please," His voice shook as he said the words and before you had the chance to understand what was happening, the knife came upon you with threatening speed. Your body acted of its own will. With your waist and hips pinned beneath his weight, your arms were still free. You had not the time to debate his actions, to do anything more than shoot out your hands to take hold of the steel, screaming useless cries against his skin. The knife was double-edged, and you cried out even harder as it bit against your flesh, forced to use both of your hands to hold it back. It tore into your palms in seconds, droplets of blood running from the wounds as he pressed ruthlessly at your resistance. 

His hand dug harder into your mouth, your fight bringing a fresh wave of tears to his eyes as his body shook. You felt sick, sick beyond anything you had ever felt in your life.

"Stop resisting! This is hard enough," Boras begged through clenched teeth, forcing his muscles to fight harder against your desperate grip. The blade sliced even deeper into your palms, slipping through your flesh like butter, yet you did not relent. "Why couldn't you have just worn the fucking thing? That's all they wanted, to know you cared. I didn't have to do this!"

The knife was inching ever close to your chest and with every breath it seemed to grow closer. You couldn't take in his words, couldn't begin to understand his meaning as your own blood dripped from your hands and onto your skin. His lips trembled, his eyes lined with agony as he fought against you.

"I'm so sorry," He whispered.

You were going to die. You could feel it as your arms shook and your hands stung. You were going to die with tears on your cheeks and bile rising in your throat. You were going to die by your friend's hand.

You screamed with all your might against his palm, unable to close your eyes for even a second as you felt death wrap its arms around your shoulders, pulling you deep into the earth, yet you did not hear it. The thundering of your heart in your chest was too powerful, the rushing of blood in your skull too strong. Your ears were ringing a church bells song. You couldn't breathe as his hand pushed further against your face, and your heart beat so quickly you wondered if it was trying to fulfil a lifetime of purpose in seconds. Perhaps it was compensating for the years you were to lose.

Boras' weight fell heavier upon your waist, as though he could scarcely hold himself up, and then shuddered. For a second, you wondered if he was relenting, as the blade lost the momentum he had been building, and then you saw it.

It was in his eyes at first, the shock. They had gone from a determined sadness to pure horror and confusion. He spluttered above you and you felt something warm and wet land upon your face, yet you couldn't close your eyes. They had wandered downwards, settling over the flesh of his pale throat, and the dagger that poked out from the tender place.

Boras gurgled something and it was as though you were not existing in your own body, as though you were merely watching from the eyes of another. The tip of the blade vanished from his neck as quickly as it came and the blood that spilt from the wound flooded against your chest in an instant.

'It was supposed to be my blood.'

He was suspended there for a second as the horror left his eyes, pouring his life's blood upon you in thick waves and spurts. It warmed your cold flesh, bathing your skin in a deep red, a glistening red. You could only watch as he shook, as his lips moved wordlessly. He was trying to speak, you realised with a dull pang. 

His eyes didn't leave you as something pushed him from your body. You hadn't realised his knife's blade was still clasped into your hands until he took it with him in the fall.

Boras landed on the ground with a noiseless thump, still spluttering, still staring at you. There was pleading in his eyes, a desperation for forgiveness.

'Forgive me, (Y/N).'

Your chest heaved, but you couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't scream. His hands twitched and shook and you watched at his chest went still, his eyes wide and dull. They bore into you ceaselessly, accusingly. There was so much blood.

 A hand came upon your face, tilting you away from the scene, and it was as though you had been electrified.

Aegon's face was that of pure, unadulterated terror as he looked upon you, crouched in the damp grass. It had not been damp before. The rains had passed days ago. You let out a shuddered gasp as you realised it was blood that he knelt upon, blood that you laid upon. Boras' blood.

'Forgive me, (Y/N).'

Air flooded your lungs as though you had never tasted it before in your life. Aegon's eyes were almost black in the darkness, black and white and purple, like foxgloves. He shook you and you could tell he was trying to say something, trying to urge you to speak, but the church bells were so loud in your ears, so unforgiving. You could only gasp for breath, only cry dry tears as he peeled your body from the ground, holding your shoulders in his arms. His hands were bloody, you realised dully. His dagger was on the ground beside him.

"Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Where are the fucking guards?!"

You couldn't make sense of the words, couldn't make sense of anything. What colour had your dress been? You could only see red. Crimson on your clothes, crimson on your skin. Was it your blood or his? You couldn't feel any pain, couldn't feel anything. Aegon shifted you and you felt his grip close around your palms. His hands were shaking. There was so much blood.

Something caught his attention in the distance but you couldn't see what. When he tore his gaze from yours, you could see only the sky. The moon was almost invisible in the night, barely a slither. A new moon, you realised.

"Call for a maester and Rhaenyra, now!"

"Your Grace, my- Seven Hells."

Aegon's hands clasped harder against your shoulders, waking you from the trance. You blinked as the church bells grew softer in your ears. Was this what dying felt like? You could have sworn Boras' blade hadn't touched your chest.

"NOW!" His voice was a screamed command, a threat if gone unheard. His voice was hoarse.

The sounds of footsteps beat against the earth, of cries and swears and Aegon's body was shaking from where he supported yours. Why was he holding you? The world was a blur.

A pressure came under your knees and you felt the ground fall away from your back. Your clothes were beginning to feel cold against your skin. The moon slipped from your view.

A scream, louder than any of the others, a shudder against the body that held you. Where had the moon gone? You wanted to see the moon again. It was a new moon. You tried to speak, to tell somebody. 'Look at the moon,' You plead, but your voice did not comply. Your hand came up upon someones chest, your fingers brushing their pale neck, leaving a smear of blood in your wake.

"It's okay," Somebody's voice broke through the haze, low and gravelly and shaken to the core. There was a metallic smell in your lungs, fierce and hot and furious, but there was something else. Smoke and sage and leather. You breathed in harder as though you could fill your whole body with the scent and wash away everything else. It was heavy against your flesh, it made you feel clean. A whisper of silver hovered above your line of sight, a dim glow of lavender.

You closed your eyes.