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rachalixie · 1 year ago

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can’t get you off my mind

all good love stories start with a drunk stranger, don’t they?

warnings: mentions of alcohol, fem!reader

genre: fluff, comfort

word count: 4k

it starts at a bar.

or really, it starts with a man at a bar. one that you’ve seen before in passing, a familiar face in a sea of more familiar faces. someone who you’ll later learn is one third of your best friend changbin’s production team, someone who you should have met years ago probably, someone who you would find is the perfect puzzle piece that fits into your jagged edges.

but right now, he is just a man at a bar with a beer in hand and a ridiculously dopey smile on his face.

“marry me, please,” he says, absolutely serious but it’s a bit diluted from the way his words were slurred around the edges. “or i’ll have to kidnap you.”

“excuse me?” you raise a brow at him, his image swimming a bit as you turn your head to fully take him in. you’re not drunk, but youre a couple glasses of wine deep and you’re not known for being fully articulate whilst sober anyways.

“i swear i’m going to marry you,” he says, eyes wide as he looks at you. “you might be the most perfect person i’ve ever seen.”

you’re not overly fond of men you haven’t met hitting on you, but this one seems a bit harmless. if you ignored the part where he said he would kidnap you. at least he wasn’t grabbing onto you or trying to touch you - that would have sent your fist flying towards his face and probably a swift exit from the bar. it was a little weird that you didn’t find him weird, but in retrospect you must have known, even then.

“okay, listen,” you put your hands on your hips, giving him an unimpressed look. “if you find me when you’re sober, ask me again and maybe i’ll reconsider.”

“okay,” he nods, hair moving along with his movement like a puppy’s ears. “i can do that. i’ll find you, i promise. i’m gonna marry you, did you know?”

“so i’ve heard,” you roll your eyes, already feeling a bit fond about him. you didn’t think you’d meet him again, but you were sure that you’d look at this night with a fond smile later.

he sends you the brightest smile you think you’ve ever seen on a person and scampers off, and you stand rooted to that one sticky spot in the bar for longer than you want to admit.

–

he’s in the back of your mind when you wake up the next morning, in a better mood than most - you never liked waking up early, it always took you a good hour and some coffee to be able to stand without grimacing. this morning though, you float around your apartment as you get dressed with a small smile on your face.

a cute stranger who kept his boundaries and called you perfect? that wasn’t something that happened often, at least not to you.

the floatiness followed you all the way through your morning routine until you found your feet stopping outside the coffee shop that you and changbin all but owned. you had no stock in it, but you’re sure that you supply them at least half of their revenue, you probably sit on their rickety chairs more often than your actual couch at home. this place has nursed you through every college class and job interview preparations and beyond, and if it ever closed you might lose time off of your life span.

your movements from the door to the counter to your usual seat were robotic, muscle memory taking over while your head did somersaults through the clouds. it’s only when you take the first sip of coffee, the bitterness and heat hitting your tongue in a delightful dance, that you notice it.

another man is sitting next to changbin. a man that looks awfully familiar, and it takes you a moment to realize why. it’s the man from the bar.

“changbin?” you keep your eyes on the other man as you direct your question at changbin, trying hard to keep your face neutral. “explain?”

“i’m chan,” the man interjects before changbin can answer, reaching his hand across the table for you to shake. it’s warm, his grip somewhere perfectly in the middle of too hard and too soft, and he lets go after an appropriate amount of seconds. despite the neutral passivity of the gesture, you feel something ignite within you, and it threatens to sputter out when you catch no spark of recognition in his eyes. was he that drunk last night that he doesn’t remember you? do his sober eyes not find you as perfect?

“he crashed at my place last night,” changbin’s voice filters through your turmoil, and you finally break away from chan’s gaze to level him with a look. “and he needed coffee, so i brought him along. chan, this is y/n, my best friend.”

the conversation that followed flowed more freely than the coffee dripping from the machines behind the counter, and you almost hate how much you like it. chan is a little goofy, the man from the previous night shining through moments of seriousness and rapt attention.

by the time you had to leave to go to work you felt like you knew him. you learned where he lived (close to you!), that he worked with changbin (he’s a producer!), and that he loved all animals but he adored dogs (he has one named berry!). just an hour of casual conversation had led to you needing more of him in every aspect of your life, but still in the back of your head lived the thought of him not remembering you from the night before.

changbin leaves first, citing some meeting he had to run to in the middle of a yawn, and when you were left with chan the embarrassment began to set in.

“i’m going to marry you,” he blurts out, startling you so much you almost jump out of your seat.

“what?” you ask, a mixture of surprise and disbelief combining into a confusing vortex within your head - was he going to go through this again? you didn’t know if your heart could take it.

“i mean, i remember you,” he says before you could awkwardly excuse yourself and commit to getting to work early for the first time in a year just to escape being in a room alone with him for much longer. “i’m sorry, i was just embarrassed. i didn’t want to make a fool out of myself in front of changbin.”

“oh,” your breath leaves you all at once and you slump into your chair, understanding hitting you like a train. “that makes sense? i think?”

“i’m going to marry you,” he repeats, a mischievous glint in his eyes, the boy from last night shining through. “one day. i’m going to do it.”

“take me on a date first,” you tease back, a genuine smile stretching across your lips when he laughs, a full bodied thing that drew in eyes from the patrons across the room. for once, you didn’t seem to care that others’ eyes were on you. he made you feel comfortable.

“what are you doing tomorrow?” his mouth turns upwards into a beautiful smile that you can’t help but return.

“eager, are we?” you open your phone, sliding it across the table with the new contact page open on it. “i’m free.”

“you’re the most perfect person i’ve ever laid eyes on,” he says, as serious and genuine as the way he had proposed to you last night as he taps his number into your phone. “sorry if i’m a bit desperate.”

“don’t apologize,” you take your phone back, making a mental note to text him later. “i like it, for some unearthly reason. you’re cute, chan.”

the sound of his delighted laugh follows your footsteps all the way to work.

—

he picks you up for your first date at noon, right on the dot. he wasn’t a minute late, a polite knock sounding through your apartment just as the hour turned, as if he had been waiting and watching the time outside the door.

god, is everything about this man endearing?

he’s wearing shorts and a light sweater, looking like something out of a posh magazine. his hair is curly and swept off his forehead and he’s wearing a smile with the most adorable dimples shining through.

he leads you to his car and you have to hold back an impressed whistle. you knew changbin and his team did well for themselves, the name 3racha all over the credits of songs on the radio, but this car was nice. you were going to have a talk with changbin about why he still drove the same beat up sedan he’s had since college but that was a thought for later. right now all you wanted to think about was the man who held the door open for you to slide into the passenger seat and was now holding your hand over the middle console.

“do i get to know where we’re going?” you ask, peering at the map open on his phone but it tells you nothing more than that your destination was 15 minutes away and that he had to make a right turn in one mile.

“it’s a surprise,” he says, voice a little nervous but it was masked with excitement. wherever he was taking you, you would be happy to be there if he was this happy the whole time.

four songs on the radio later, one of which you teased him for when he revealed that he wrote it, he was pulling into a parking lot illuminated by flashing colorful lights. he had brought you to the fair.

“i’ve never been to the fair!” you bounced a little in your seat, wriggling in excitement. “i’ve always wanted to go, how did you know?”

“lucky guess?” he shrugs, avoiding your gaze as he cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“changbin told you, didn’t he,” you smile at the thought of chan asking his friend about what you’d like. it was cute, a word that you were probably exhausting when thinking about him even after a day of knowing him.

“yes, but,” he flushes, the tips of his ears burning red. “i asked him after i had decided to come here, just to make sure it was a good idea. i didn’t steal it from him.”

“hey, it’s okay,” you squeeze his hand in yours that he had yet to let go of in what you hoped was a comforting gesture. you didn’t know what brought him calmness yet, but you wanted to learn. you wanted to learn everything about him. “now, take me to the fair, bang chan. i was promised a date.”

he finally meets your eyes again and he’s grinning so happily that you feel like you had just won a prize. who needed a fair when you had your very own carnival game right here?

it turns out, you did. by the time the sun was beginning to set, your arms were full of various plushies that chan had won for you, each one earning him a hug and a kiss to his cheek. you treasured every single one, the fluttering in your chest when he stepped up to the booths to throw and shoot various things never ceasing.

“let’s go to the ferris wheel,” you tug at him with your free hand, thanking the skies when you see no queue there. “i bet the sunset looks beautiful from the top.”

he’s quiet when he follows you there and into the carriage, his thigh pressing against yours as he slides in next to you, but you don’t notice in your excitement. it isn’t until the wheel ticks to the top and stops that he grabs your hand again, trembling a little.

“chan? are you okay?” you ask, concern warping your voice as you turn towards him. your movement rocks the carriage a bit and he turns pale, ducking his head into your neck to hide.

“yeah, ‘m okay,” he murmurs, his eyelashes ticking your skin when he blinks his eyes shut. “just don’t like heights very much.”

“oh my god, why didn’t you tell me?” you cry out, jumping a bit and regretting it when you rock the carriage again. “nevermind that, what can i do? it’ll go down soon, you’ll be alright.”

“just keep holding my hand?” he squeezes your fingers lightly and your heart melts. you may have made a joke that he was just trying to trick you into holding his hand any other time, but the fear in his shaking body was real and you’d never tease him for that.

“of course,” you press a kiss to his hair, moving your other hand slowly to wrap around your intertwined fingers. the wheel begins to turn again, swaying the carriage as it descends. you keep your grip on his hand tight the entire time, all the way until you’re on your feet again on steady ground.

“i’m so sorry,” you begin to say, the horror of subjecting him to his fear creeping up now that the crisis has passed.

“i’m going to marry you,” he says, cutting off your apology and lifting your hands to his mouth so he could press a kiss to the back of yours. “no one’s ever been able to keep me that calm. thank you.”

you were left speechless after that and all you could do was smile at him, the ghost of it not leaving your face for the rest of the night.

–

your thirty first date with chan ends with you crying into changbin’s arms, utterly confused and the feeling of despair creeping up your veins. you had met him your cafe as you had done several times since the fair, but when you arrived he wasn’t there. he came late, dark storms in his eyes and a hard set to his jaw and you didn’t understand what had made him like that. the usual smile and twinkle in his eyes were missing, and when you and asked him about what was wrong he had snapped at you in a way you hadn’t been talked to in years.

you had left after that, brushing him off when his eyes had widened and he reached for you while calling out your name. you know that you should have given him a chance to explain, but at the time you were too hurt to consider it.

you made your way to changbin’s apartment without thinking, your feet taking you to safety before your head could catch up. changbin had taken one look at your face before wrapping you up in his arm, walking you to his couch so he could cuddle you properly while words spilled out of you like a leaky faucet. you felt like you were back in college, crying and blubbering over a boy who had rejected you at a party, and you hated it.

you didn’t notice changbin sending an angry text to chan, but the sound of changbin’s door opening with a bang startled you out of your tears. chan bursts in like a whirlwind, his hair sticking up at weird angles and a look of panic on his face as he takes you in. he reaches the couch in a few strides and falls to his knees in front of you, holding a crumpled bag from the cafe in his hand and taking your cheek gently into his other. his thumb wipes at the tear tracks there and you could practically taste the guilt emanating off of him.

“love, i am so sorry,” he starts, ignoring changbin when he scoffs at the apology. “i shouldn’t have snapped at you, i had no right to do that. i got some bad news this morning and i wasn’t feeling my best, and i should have been honest with you. i’ll never do anything like that again, please forgive me? i’ll do anything.”

it was more his voice than his words that did it - he sounded so desperate, like he was trying to hold

onto a ledge that was crumbling, threatening to hurl his body into eternal nothingness. you knew him, you knew he was sorry, and against your first instinct you trusted him when he said he wouldn’t do it again.

“is that an almond croissant?” you eye the bag in his hand.

“it’s two almond croissants,” he nods fervently, his hair swishing back and forth with the movement. you sit up, sliding out of changbin’s arms and onto the floor in front of chan. chan’s arms replace changbin’s easily when you lean into him, and it feels like coming home.

“it’s not like i have a nice couch you could be sitting on,” changbin mutters as he leaves, shaking his head fondly at the two of you before making himself scarce.

chan kisses you, cradling your head gently into his hands, and they’re so warm. he slides his lips against yours, slowly like he’s taking his time memorizing the planes of your mouth to commit to memory. even after kissing him dozens of times you still find new things to learn about each other.

“i swear,” he says, pulling away to meet your eyes. “i’m going to marry you, someday.”

“keep getting me croissants as apologies and we’ll see,” you say, sniffling into his neck.

—

your eighty seventh date was spent in your bed, your head spinning like both hands on a clock simultaneously and your body exuding more sweat than you ever have.

chan is wringing out a cool cloth to place on your forehead and it feels so nice that you moan.

“i’m sorry,” you mutter, and chan has lost count of the amount of times you’ve said it at this point. “we had a date and i ruined it.”

“we were going to see a movie,” he says, running a hand up and down your spine. “and we will. we don’t need a movie theater when we have a screen right here, hmm?”

“but the popcorn,” you complain, closing your eyes in bliss when he runs a hand through your hair, scratching gently at your scalp. an apology for being so sweaty was at the tip of your tongue but you hold it back in favor of enjoying the feeling of his touch.

“i’ll make you all the popcorn you want when you’re feeling better,” he promises, dropping a kiss to the side of your head. “for now, how does soup sound?”

“popcorn soup?“ you ask, a wave of dizziness taking over your body; if you weren’t lying down already, you’re sure that too would be falling over.

“yeah, baby,” and even in your delirium the fondness in his voice was prominent. he couldn’t hide it even if he tried. “i’ll make you some popcorn soup. get some rest okay?”

you’re asleep before he leaves the room, and you only wake up when he shakes your shoulder a bit and helps you into an upright position. he feeds you bites of what is definitely not popcorn soup after putting a movie on your laptop, the screen sitting at the foot of your bed. the both of you fall asleep before the movie finishes, but you don’t mind.

he stays with you for days, making you soup and tea and toast and feeding you medicine and being an all-around angel as he nurses you back to health. by the time you’re better you think you’ve fallen back in love with him several times.

as you had expected and warned him about, he catches your sickness the next week, and now it’s your turn to be his nurse. you try and do the same job he did, but his delirium seems worse. the silver lining is that his fever isn’t as bad, so you’re babysitting a babbling boyfriend more than a sick one.

the night before his fever breaks is the worst, since he doesn’t even recognize you. you shake your head at his silliness when he asks who you are and calls you pretty. you smile when he takes your hand in his and asks you to come closer.

you tear up when he tells you that he has a girlfriend that he loves very much and so even though you’re pretty he can’t do anything else because his girlfriend is the prettiest one in the whole world. you let a tear slip when he tells you that he can’t wait to propose to his girlfriend and that he’s going to marry her someday.

you tell him that you have a boyfriend that you're going to marry someday, trusting that he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

—

your hundredth and fifth date was not unlike your fifth, or your tenth, or your ninetieth. two and a half years later, you were just as endeared by him and he was just as obsessed with you - even more so, if it were possible.

he takes the time to tell you how gorgeous you look when he picks you up just like he does on every date, and you hide your disgustingly fond smile for him behind his back like you do every time you see him.

he parks and runs around the car to let you out like he does every time you habit this restaurant, a little fancier than your usual best but it was a favorite of the both of yours - across the street from the bar the two of you had met at.

you start walking before he does, letting him jog to meet you and complain about how you left him, just like you do every time. before him. you might have thought the monotony would have gotten tiring, but he had a fantastical ability to make every moment feel like the first despite their practiced nature.

he calls your name from behind you right on schedule and you hum in acknowledgement, turning towards him absentmindedly. the second you lay eyes on him you’re completely alert, though; he isn’t jogging after you, but rather he’s kneeling on the sidewalk, a small box in his hands as he smiles up at you.

“i’ve told you that i’m going to marry you more times than i can count,” he starts, eyes shining like the stars twinkling in the night sky above you. “but this time i’m asking you.”

“chan,” you choke out, hands coming up to cover your mouth as it quivers. tears spring to your eyes and you silently curse yourself - you always thought you’d be level headed when you got proposed to, but nothing could have prepared you for this, not even the thousands of declarations he had made to you prior.

“i love you. you’re the only one in the entire universe that i need more than blood or breath, you’re the song that runs through my heart and the fire that leads my path when i’m lost,” his voice is thick, like he’s trying to hold back his emotions long enough to get his words out. “i never thought that i would feel so strongly for someone, i never thought that i deserved a love like this until i met you.”

he pauses as you walk closer to him, letting you approach him before he continues.

“my love, my eternal light,” he’s tearing up now, blinking fast to keep the salty water at bay. “will you marry me?”

“chan,” you start, kneeling down next to him and taking his wrists in your hands. “i never told you this, but ever since that first day i knew. i knew that the drunk idiot that was hitting on me would be my husband.”

he chuckles, smiling delightedly as the tears finally spring from both of your eyes in unison.

“so?” he trails off, searching your face with his eyes, waiting.

“oh!” you tighten your grip on him in an apology. “of course i’ll marry you, gosh i love you so much.”

#stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids #skz fluff #bang chan imagines #bang chan fluff #bang chan x reader

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traddmoore · 4 months ago

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Bitter Root: The Next Movement variant cover by Tradd Moore (2024)

Bitter Root is by Sanford Greene, Chuck Brown, and David F. Walker Published by Image Comics

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sixeyesonathiel · 1 month ago

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a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH06 – scientific breakthrough : gojo satoru actually cares. terrifying.

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step six in ditching the world's most persistent nerd: do not let him see you unravel. do not let him wrap his jacket around your shoulders. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, ask him why he cares.

a/n : if you've ever thought 'being seen and understood is my worst nightmare,' congratulations, this chapter was made for you. warning: daddy issues, trust issues, emotional repression, and an overwhelming amount of unhealthy coping mechanism. please prepare for a descent into emotional instability, an aggressive refusal to acknowledge feelings, and the psychological horror of realizing that someone actually cares and perceives you. if you cry, just know i cried first. enjoy the suffering.

tuesday morning arrives with a weight that refuses to leave, pressing against your skin like a phantom touch. the air in your bedroom is thick, unmoving, the blackout curtains shielding you from the sharpness of daylight, but the world outside doesn’t wait for you to wake up. your phone vibrates relentlessly on the silk sheets beside you, each buzz stacking over the last—shoko and the others, no doubt demanding the details of your spectacularly underwhelming night.

you don’t need to read their messages to know what’s waiting for you—the sharp demands, the thinly veiled disbelief, the inevitable outrage the moment they find out. after everything, after all the effort, after every calculated move designed to have gojo satoru unraveling in your hands, he had remained untouchable. he hadn’t faltered, hadn’t stumbled, hadn’t even tried to resist—because there was nothing to resist. it hadn’t been a struggle for him.

your fingers hover over the keyboard before you scoff, throwing the device aside, silk rustling beneath it as you stare at the ceiling. what the hell is there to even say? no matter how you replay the night, the outcome remains the same: he had been amused, entertained, not once slipping from the effortless control that made your blood boil. there had been no hesitation in his gaze, no faltering in his movements, just that insufferable confidence, that detached curiosity, as if you were an interesting puzzle rather than a woman he should be losing himself to. it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, sharp and lingering, an unfamiliar frustration curling up your throat. you’ve never had to work for this before.

the thought alone is enough to send another wave of irritation through you, hot and unrelenting. it claws at your skin, prickles at the edges of your composure, demanding release, but before you can bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend the morning doesn’t exist, your phone rings. the sound is unmistakable—soft, elegant, demanding attention in a way that sends a slow dread curling through your stomach. your father. you stare at the name flashing on the screen, willing yourself to ignore it, but the moment stretches too long, the hesitation already an answer in itself. so you school your voice into something light, something detached, and press accept.

“morning.”

“good morning, angel.” his voice is smooth, warm, rich with indulgence, every syllable dipped in something sweet enough to rot. the way he says sweetheart makes your skin prickle, saccharine and too much, like a candy coating over something rancid. he is never this affectionate without reason. “did you sleep well?”

your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles paling beneath the pressure. why is he being like this? your mind flickers through possibilities, but none of them settle right. instead, you exhale, tilting your head back against the pillows, eyes tracing the crystal lines of the chandelier above you. “i guess.”

there’s a pause—long enough for you to hear the faint scratch of his pen against paper, the quiet clink of a glass being set down. then, almost absently, he says, “yesterday, you spent fifty million yen in one store.”

you don’t blink. “and?”

his laughter is easy, effortless, like you’re a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. “fifty million yen—in a luxury mall.” he exhales, bemused. “my dear, you could have spent billions somewhere more exclusive. i didn't gift you a private jet for nothing.”

of course.

the implication settles like lead in your stomach. he doesn’t care that you spent. he cares where.

you almost laugh. almost. but it isn’t funny—it never is. because of course, it isn’t about the number, not about excess, not about waste. you were raised to believe that money was meant to be spent, that the act of spending was as natural as breathing. but there was a right way to do it, a way that upheld status, that reinforced power. the idea that you’d throw only fifty million yen at some glorified shopping center rather than invest in something truly worthy of your name is what bothers him. not the price tag, but the principle.

your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting them between tense knuckles. “it was an impulse buy.” you say, forcing lightness into your tone, feigning nonchalance.

“hmm.” another pause, long and measured, and you can already hear the faint smile curling at the edges of his words. “impulse is good. instinct is good. but you deserve the best, angel. never forget that.”

never forget that.

your jaw tightens, something sharp coiling beneath your ribs. you want to say something defiant, something that cuts, but there’s no point. he won’t listen, won’t argue—he never argues. he only corrects, like you’re a child who needs gentle redirection, a daughter whose worst flaw is an occasional lapse in judgment, a little girl playing pretend in a world run by men like him.

and then, just as you’re about to change the subject, he does it for you.

“by the way.” his tone is casual, smooth as a well-aged whiskey, but you know better. “i heard you’ve been spending time with gojo satoru.”

your breath catches before you can stop it, fingers twitching against the silk sheets.

you knew this was coming. you knew the second you stepped into satoru’s car last night that there would be eyes, that there would be whispers, that nothing you did would ever escape your father’s notice. it doesn’t matter how careful you are, how many shadows you slip through��his reach is longer, his influence deeper. he has always seen everything, and worse, he has always been waiting. waiting for you to slip, waiting for an opportunity, waiting for something he can use.

you school your expression, steady your voice, make sure nothing betrays the way your pulse thrums just a little too fast. “and?”

there’s a pause, deliberate, weighted just enough to remind you who controls the conversation. then, smoothly, indulgently, he says, “if you need help with anything—if there’s something you want—just let your daddy take care of it, hmm?”

your stomach twists so hard it nearly makes you sick.

you hate this part the most. the way he drapes affection over his words like a velvet sheath, disguising the edge beneath. the way he dotes on you, voice honeyed and rich, a father adoring his perfect daughter—his only daughter, his greatest investment. the way he makes you feel small, makes you feel precious, makes you feel like something to be protected rather than a woman who could destroy men if she wanted to. and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that there is still a tiny, pathetic part of you that wants it.

that still craves it.

that remembers being seven years old, running to him in the halls of some grand, foreign estate, giggling, calling him daddy with all the love in the world before you were old enough to understand what he really was.

but you are old enough now. and you know exactly what he’s offering.

it has nothing to do with you. it never has. it’s not about protecting you, not about caring for you, not about making sure you’re safe, or happy, or even content. it’s about control. about power. about winning. he doesn’t just want you to have satoru—he wants you to own him.

because the gojo name is the only one that could ever stand next to yours without being eclipsed.

your grip on the phone is white-knuckled, nails digging into your palm. “i can handle it.” you say, and you hate how defensive it sounds, how it betrays you.

his chuckle is low, indulgent, a sound that makes something cold crawl down your spine. like you’re adorable. like you’re a child. like you don’t already know the game he’s playing. “of course you can.”

he won’t push. he never does. he’ll let the thought linger, let it fester, let you think it was your idea when you eventually cave. he has built empires on the backs of men who thought they were free. and maybe, if he were anyone else, you would admire it.

but he’s not. and you don’t.

he doesn’t scold you for partying. doesn’t call to ask if you’re safe, if you’re okay, if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you miss him. he doesn’t care that you spend your nights in the arms of men you don’t love, drinking yourself into a numb haze just to get through the week. the only thing that ever warrants a call is money. or business. or power.

you swallow the bitterness rising in your throat. “is that all?”

“that’s all, angel.” his voice is warm, pleased, dripping with effortless affection. like he loves you. like he’s proud. like he didn’t just remind you exactly what you are to him. “have a good day.”

the line clicks dead before you can answer.

for a long time, you just stare at your phone. the screen has long gone dark, but the weight of his words lingers, curling around your ribs like a vice, pressing down until your breath feels thin, shallow, insufficient. your pulse thrums in your ears, steady but too loud, drowning out everything else, leaving you with nothing but the sharp, bitter taste of control disguised as affection.

you already know how this plays out. shoko will take one look at you and see everything, utahime will start running her mouth before you even sit down, mei mei will hum like she’s already placing bets on your next move. you won’t let them see it. won’t let them see the way your chest feels tight, the way your thoughts are tangled, ugly, impossible to smooth out.

so you do what you always do. you overcompensate.

you drag yourself out of bed, tossing your phone aside, silk sheets shifting as you push to your feet. the room is dim, the air heavy with the scent of perfume lingering from the night before, a reminder of everything that should have gone differently. your bare feet press against the cold marble as you move, slow, deliberate, toward the walk-in closet that holds everything—every identity you’ve ever crafted, every version of yourself the world has demanded. rows of couture line the space, silk and lace and luxury draped on gold hangers, waiting. your fingers trail over the delicate fabrics, smooth and cool beneath your touch, before they stop on exactly what you’re looking for. before you even pull it from the hanger, you know how it will feel against your skin.

delicate lace, dangerously sheer, thin straps that barely cling to your shoulders. the kind of dress that invites attention, that commands it, that turns eyes whether you want them to or not. it’s impractical, inappropriate, something designed for dimly lit lounges and whispered promises, not for morning. but you don’t think about that. don’t think about the way the fabric shifts when you move, how it will ride up too easily, how it was made to be touched. you don’t consider the risks, don’t let the thought settle long enough to matter. you just want to feel different. anything but what you felt on that phone call.

your father’s voice is still there, thick with honeyed condescension, wrapping around your thoughts like a silk ribbon, too tight, too smooth. his words echo, threading beneath your skin, settling in places you can’t reach. never forget that. the indulgence in his tone, the amusement, the way he speaks to you like you’re a little girl playing dress-up in a world too big for you to ever truly hold. your fingers tighten around the fabric, the lace crumpling between your knuckles as you yank it from the hanger, careless. the dress is fragile, expensive, a masterpiece of design, but right now, it’s nothing more than a response. an instinct.

not a conscious rebellion—just something to drown out the sound of him in your head.

you slip it over your frame, the fabric whispering against bare skin, cool and weightless. thin lace straps sit precariously on your shoulders, barely there, teasing the line between elegance and something sharper, something that asks for trouble. the bodice dips lower than it should, the hemline threatens to ride up with every movement, but you don’t adjust it. don’t fidget, don’t fix, don’t care. you just let it be.

your fingers brush over the lace as you step in front of the mirror, taking in the reflection that meets you. bare skin, intricate patterns, sharp lines where softness should be. you don’t smile, don’t smirk, don’t pose. just look. at the way the fabric clings, at the way the dress was made to frame a body that is untouchable, untamed. at the girl who looks back at you, poised, effortless, unreadable.

not a child. certainly not an angel either.

you run a hand through your hair, exhaling slowly, releasing the tension in your jaw, in your shoulders, in the places his voice tried to settle.

you won’t see satoru today. won’t deal with any of it today.

you just need to get through the morning.

the moment your heels touch the pristine pavement outside the campus, the air shifts. conversations slow, falter, rearrange themselves around your presence like a ripple in still water. admiration thickens in the atmosphere, inevitable, predictable, a force of nature as certain as the pull of gravity. heads turn, necks crane, eyes drag over you in ways both deliberate and stolen, some lingering too long, some snapping away the second you meet their gaze. it’s an attention you know, an attention you’ve earned, an attention that normally fills something hollow inside you. but today, it barely registers. today, it’s just another weight pressing down on a mind already heavy with the residue of the morning.

they look. they always look. it’s the curse of beauty, the burden of being something designed to be admired, something that demands to be consumed whether you want it or not.

you can feel their eyes. the hushed murmurs, the split-second hesitations, the too-loud silence of those who don’t know whether they should stare or look away.

too short. too sheer. too much.

someone nearly walks into a pillar. another audibly gulps. one poor soul stares too long and gets smacked upside the head by his friend.

it’s nothing new. it should amuse you—the way people react like they’ve never seen a woman before, the way admiration tilts so easily into something flustered, something desperate, something stupid. you should bask in it, revel in the power that comes with turning heads without trying. but today, it barely scrapes against your consciousness. today, your mind is still tangled in the remnants of your father’s voice, in the slow-dripping venom of his words, in the way he made your entire existence feel like a carefully managed portfolio.

you don’t want to think today.

which is unfortunate, because the second you step past the gates, you are immediately ambushed.

“are you dead? kidnapped? in a coma? because those are the only acceptable reasons for why you didn’t text back—”

utahime’s voice slices through the air, sharp and unrelenting, demanding an answer before you’ve even fully stepped past the gates. her heels click against the pavement in rapid succession, a clear warning that she isn’t letting this go, not until you give her something. shoko is right behind her, exhaling a slow drag from her cigarette, eyes already half-lidded with unimpressed resignation, as if she’s counting down the seconds before this turns into a full-blown interrogation. mei mei lingers just a step to the side, not rushing to join but watching, a sleek predator in a silk blouse, gaze flashing with quiet amusement. she isn’t here to demand answers—she’s here to enjoy them. the longer you hesitate, the more valuable the entertainment becomes.

you barely get a breath in before utahime grabs your arm, manicured nails digging in, eyes widening as she takes you in like she’s seeing you for the first time. her gasp is so dramatic it practically echoes, drawing glances from the students loitering nearby. “oh my god.”

shoko exhales, letting the smoke curl lazily past her lips before finally giving you a once-over, her judgment slow, deliberate. “...you’re actually insane.”

mei mei hums, tilting her head slightly as she appraises your dress with something dangerously close to approval. “hmm. it’s a good look. though i think you’re about five seconds away from an old professor spontaneously combusting.”

utahime, still reeling, vibrates with barely-contained energy, her grip tightening around your wrist. “did you get laid?”

you jerk back, nearly stumbling in your heels. “excuse me?”

“that’s the only explanation,” she insists, gesturing wildly at your attire, nearly smacking shoko in the process. “i mean, this? this? this is an ‘i had amazing sex’ dress.”

shoko coughs out a laugh, nearly losing her cigarette, while mei mei arches a brow, intrigued.

you pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through clenched teeth. “utahime—”

“so did you?”

shoko, ever the voice of reason, lifts a single brow, leveling you with a look that’s far too knowing for your liking. “this is about gojo, isn’t it?”

the air tightens, sharpens, a barely-there pause before—

utahime gasps. loudly.

“you didn’t reply because you were with him?!”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face, barely restraining the urge to physically shove her away. “no. i ignored you because i was sleeping.”

utahime narrows her eyes, leaning in slightly, searching your face for cracks. “suspicious.”

normally, you’d play along, feed into their assumptions, twist the conversation until it worked in your favor, thrive off the attention even as it disgusted you. but today, you just can’t. today, your patience is as thin as the lace on your dress, unraveling thread by thread, fraying at the seams. today, you just want the world to shut up.

“so,” shoko drawls, voice smooth, deliberate, entirely too knowing, “how’d the date go?”

silence.

a long silence.

mei mei smirks, slow and sharp, like she’s already decided this is the most entertaining part of her morning. utahime’s eyes widen, flicking between you and the others like she’s bracing for impact. shoko just stares, waiting, cigarette hanging between two fingers, the ember glowing faintly as if it, too, is holding its breath.

and then—utahime screeches.

“don’t tell me it didn’t work?!?”

you shove past them, making a beeline for the main building, your heels clicking against the pavement with enough force to warn them off. “i’m not talking about this here.”

“so it didn’t work!!”

you ignore her. absolutely not. you are not about to have this conversation in broad daylight, not when half the school is already staring at you like you’ve descended from a different plane of existence. their gazes cling like fabric caught on thorns, admiration and curiosity weaving together into something you should enjoy, something you usually enjoy. but today, it’s just another weight pressing down, another reminder of the eyes you’ll never escape.

unfortunately, your three best friends have never been known for their subtlety.

shoko matches your pace with infuriating ease, hands shoved into her pockets, exhaling smoke as she casually side-eyes you. “he didn’t react at all, did he?”

“not even a little bit?” utahime presses, still vibrating with residual disbelief.

you don’t grind your teeth. don’t scoff, don’t roll your eyes. you just… sigh. a slow, measured thing, precise in its weight, deliberate in its effortlessness.

“no,” you say simply, voice light, untouched, like last night wasn’t a complete failure. like it doesn’t bother you at all. “he wasn’t flustered. wasn’t thrown off. just amused.”

silence. a beat too long.

shoko’s cigarette pauses midair, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward the sky. mei mei’s fingers still mid-adjustment of her bracelet, the silver catching the light. utahime—predictably—is the first to react.

“okay, that’s not normal,” she says flatly, scanning your face like she expects to see a crack forming in your composure.

“definitely not normal,” shoko agrees, brow twitching upward, cigarette lowering just slightly.

mei mei hums, a thoughtful sound, gaze sharp beneath the weight of amusement. her nails tap idly against the gold clasp of her bag, rhythmic, unhurried, like she’s already dissecting you piece by piece. “and you’re… fine with that?” she doesn’t say interesting, but it lingers between the words, stretching the silence thin. she’s studying you, the way a predator studies a wounded animal—not out of pity, but curiosity, waiting to see if you’ll limp.

you shrug, careless, effortless, the picture of someone with nothing to prove. “why wouldn’t i be?”

the air shifts, subtle but undeniable, a quiet current of unease threading between you. your nonchalance is wrong, off, just enough to make them hesitate. they expected frustration, irritation, something dramatic—a sharp scoff, an exasperated eye roll, a low, venomous rant about how no one ignores you, least of all gojo satoru. but instead, you are calm. unbothered. untouchable.

except, they know you too well. they know the difference between control and detachment.

shoko exhales, flicking ash onto the pavement, watching you through the thin veil of smoke curling between you. “you’re taking this too well.” her voice is even, measured, but there’s something else beneath it—something wary, something bordering on concern.

“i am?” you tilt your head slightly, amusement threading through your tone, light and dismissive.

utahime folds her arms, gaze narrowing, the skeptical weight of her stare pressing down on you. “yes. you are. which is why i don’t believe you.”

your smile is easy, smooth, the kind that gleams like polished glass—pristine, impenetrable, impossible to crack. “then don’t.”

you turn without waiting for a response, stepping through the entrance, letting the doors swing shut behind you. the warmth of the building presses against your skin, heavy and familiar, but it doesn’t chase away the cold curling in your chest. their voices follow, softer now, hushed under the weight of what isn’t being said.

you’re fine.

really.

you step into the classroom, the cool air of the lecture hall settling against your skin like an unwelcome touch, sharp and grounding. the fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow over the rows of seats, the faint hum of the projector filling the silence as students murmur, shuffle, settle. you move through it with ease, slipping into your usual seat with the practiced grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before. nothing is out of place, nothing is unfamiliar, nothing is wrong. you are here, in your seat, in your body, in control.

you are not thinking about him.

but he is impossible to ignore.

he’s seated one row above you, posture as effortless as ever, one arm draped over the back of his chair like he owns the space around him. today, his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, wire-rimmed and deceptively delicate, a sharp contrast to the well-fitted knit jacket layered over his crisp button-up. the fabric is expensive, subtly rich, draping over him in a way that suggests wealth without ever having to announce it. everything about him is composed, curated, intentional—right down to the way he doesn’t even look in your direction.

you don’t look at him either. not directly.

the lecture begins, numbers and strategies flickering across the screen, the professor’s voice a steady drone that fills the space without quite reaching you. you keep your eyes on your notes, let the pen move in smooth, precise strokes, let the rhythm of ink against paper give you something to anchor yourself to. satoru doesn’t move. doesn’t turn. doesn’t acknowledge you in any way.

the class drones on. you take notes. you listen. you exist.

you are fine.

and then, the lecture ends.

you push out of your seat immediately, movements smooth, efficient, calculated to leave. you don’t need to linger. don’t need to hesitate. the room is still filled with students filtering out, conversations overlapping, laughter cutting through the air in bursts of sound. you navigate through them with ease, heels clicking against the polished floor, your focus singular—get out, move forward, keep going.

and then—a grip on your wrist. the touch is firm, insistent, enough to halt you before you even see who it is. your stomach twists. you already know.

when you turn, it’s exactly who you expected—son of a major media company, charming in a way that feels practiced, manufactured, honed like a well-worn script. his smile is easy, his confidence effortless, the kind of man who has never been told no in a way that mattered. he’s been circling you for weeks, persistent in ways that should be flattering but aren’t, his interest another thing that clings like cigarette smoke—lingering, unpleasant, impossible to scrub off.

any other day you would've entertain his bullshit but not today—your patience is nonexistent.

you tug your wrist back, sharp and immediate, fingers curling into a fist to stop yourself from doing more. “not in the mood.”

he laughs, casual, dismissive, the sound curling around your spine like something rotting. “come on, don’t be like that.”

your eyes narrow, voice cold, cutting. “don’t touch me.”

he ignores you, reaching out again—too fast, too careless. his fingers brush against your arm, the movement not forceful, not aggressive, but clumsy, entitled, as if he is allowed. as if he is owed. you move to pull away, sharp and immediate, but it’s already too late. his hand catches, just barely, on the delicate lace of your dress—

and suddenly, the air shifts.

the sound is soft, almost insignificant, a quiet snap of thread, a whisper of fabric giving way. but the effect is immediate, mortifying. the thin strap of your dress slips off your shoulder, dragging the delicate fabric dangerously low—not enough to bare everything, but enough to make heads turn, enough to freeze the air around you, enough to make your breath catch in horror. gasps ripple through the lecture hall, sharp inhales, the rustling of movement as heads turn, attention crashing down on you in waves, heavy and suffocating. whispers start, too fast to track, words you don’t hear but know, voices curling through the air like the inevitable hum of scandal.

your breath catches, muscles locking—before anything else can happen, before you can even react, there is a presence.

him.

a shadow at your side, movement swift, seamless, a barrier forming between you and the world before you can so much as blink. fabric sweeps over your shoulders in one fluid motion, warm from body heat, enveloping you completely, drowning you in the scent of clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him. the shift in the atmosphere is instant, electric, the weight of his presence settling into the space like a hand closing around the throat of the moment.

gojo satoru.

he doesn’t just step in—he claims the space, effortlessly shifting the power dynamic, erasing everything else.

and for the first time in a long time since your group project with him started, satoru doesn’t look amused.

his voice, when it comes, is sharp, smoothed to a perfect edge, all the usual lightness carved away into something colder. “you should know better.”

it isn’t a suggestion.

it isn’t a threat.

it’s a simple, cutting truth, his tone even, satoru's words deceptively light, but carrying something weightier, something that lands with a finality that is felt. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t acknowledge the way your body has gone rigid beneath the weight of his jacket, doesn’t give you even a second of respite before the next blow lands. “especially considering how much your father’s company relies on mine.”

the words sink deep, as intended.

the shift in the room is palpable, the media heir’s confidence cracking, realization dawning too late. satoru doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to—his name alone is enough, the weight of his position, his power, the gojo name rendering any resistance futile before it even forms.

your heartbeat is uneven, erratic, skin prickling under the lingering warmth of his jacket, the weight of it heavy against your shoulders, suffocating in ways it shouldn’t be. the scent of him clings to the fabric, clean linen and something faintly sweet, something distinctly his, something you refuse to acknowledge. it’s too much—too close, too consuming, too much like protection, like care, like something you never asked for. the last thing you want is to owe him for this, to let him think for even a second that you needed him. the humiliation coils in your gut, sharp and sickly, burning through your veins until you can’t stand it anymore.

you shove the fabric off immediately, movements sharp, rejecting it as fast as it was given, letting it fall from your shoulders like it burns. “i don’t need your help.” the words snap through the space between you, forceful, deliberate, a clear line drawn. you refuse to be saved. refuse to be something fragile, something handled, something pitiful. you don’t owe him for stepping in, and you won’t let him think you do.

satoru doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge, doesn’t react. “you really should stop punishing yourself.” satoru's voice is quiet, almost conversational, but it lands like a stone in your chest, rippling outward, impossible to ignore.

you glare, something clawing up your throat, something raw, something humiliating. “why do you even care?” the question lands like a challenge, sharp and biting, daring him to dismiss it, to laugh, to reduce it to nothing more than circumstance. because that would be easier, wouldn’t it? easier if this was just him being annoying, just another one of his games, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

because you don’t want him to want to. you don’t want him to care. but he doesn’t answer. and that’s the worst part.

because you need one. you need to know why. why does he keep stealing your food just to make you eat something healthier? why did he actually look close to mad? why does he care?

or—much better yet—for your own peace of mind, a denial.

for him to deadpan, to roll his eyes, to shrug it off. for him to tell you it’s just another one of his efficiency bullshit excuses, that you shouldn’t mistake it for anything else. that he just doesn’t want you to become a liability in your group project.

but he doesn’t say that, either.

his jaw simply tenses.

but he doesn’t say that.

his jaw tenses.

a flicker of something passes behind his glasses, quick and unreadable, buried beneath layers of detachment before you can grasp onto it. his expression remains impassive, unreadable, but something lingers, something you can’t quite place. he has an answer—this know–it–all should have an answer—but he doesn’t say it. doesn’t give you anything.

he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand why he stepped in so quickly, why his chest still feels tight, why the sight of you so exposed, so vulnerable, made his blood run hot. he doesn’t understand the flicker of heat that had surged through his veins, the sharp, immediate need to erase the moment before it could settle. he doesn’t know why he acted on instinct, why his body moved before his mind even registered it, why he still hasn’t looked away.

and it infuriates you.

you scoff, stepping back, your voice curling at the edges, something bitter and sharp cutting through. “forget it.” the words leave your lips like an exhale, dismissive, as if the conversation is over, as if it never mattered. but your hands are still curled into fists, nails biting into your palms, and his glasses still catch the light when he tilts his head, watching you too closely.

but the moment you turn to leave, his hand catches yours—not rough, not forceful, but firm. the warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, steady and unyielding, sending a sharp pulse of something worse than humiliation curling down your spine. you expect him to play it off, to let that insufferable smirk creep onto his face, to ruin the moment with some lazy, self-assured remark.

but when you meet his gaze—his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, low enough that you can see over the frames, straight into his eyes.

blue. too blue. too much.

they're not clouded with amusement, not softened with that insufferable glint of teasing. no, they're sharp, bright in a way that makes something inside you bristle—like he's looking through you instead of at you, like he's searching for something beneath your skin, something you're not sure even exists. his expression is unreadable, but the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly against yours, betrays something else. something that shouldn't be there.

before you can rip yourself from his grasp, he moves.

it’s effortless, infuriatingly so, the way he lifts the fabric, the way his hands find yours, guiding them through the sleeves, pulling the jacket over your shoulders in one smooth, practiced motion. the dim light catches on his lenses as he tilts his head, just slightly, shadows flickering across the sharp line of his cheekbone. his eyes remain steady, locked onto you even as he adjusts the fabric, even as he lingers for just a second too long before letting go.

his gaze doesn’t waver. doesn’t flicker with amusement. only scrutiny. doesn’t give you the easy out you need.

it should feel like an afterthought, like he’s barely paying attention, like this isn’t something significant, but it is. the sheer difference in size between you makes it impossible not to notice—the way the hem falls well past your dress, the way the sleeves engulf your hands, the way his warmth still lingers, wrapping around you like something inescapable.

his touch is fleeting, brief, barely there—but it lingers. and worse, so do his eyes. everything about him lingers.

you should pull his stupid jacket off. should throw it in his face.

you should pull it off. should throw it in his face.

but you can’t.

because the ugly, clawing feeling inside you is worse than anything you were prepared for. the overwhelming wrongness of being seen, the raw humiliation of standing in the center of a moment you never wanted to happen, the sickening weight of why does he care? pressing down on your chest like a vice. the warmth of the jacket should be comforting, should be protective, but it only makes your skin burn, only reminds you of how exposed you were, how easily he stepped in, how quickly he moved to fix it. the feeling is unbearable, twisting through you like a blade, and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that this warmth, this action, his hands steadying the fabric around you, makes you feel safe.

and you hate that. you hate him for making you feel that.

the words rip from your throat before you can stop them, sharp and bitter and cruel, cutting through the tension like glass shattering against marble. “you’re so fucking annoying, gojo.”

his hands still for a fraction of a second.

the silence is deafening.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. if you do, you might see something in his expression that you don’t have the strength to acknowledge. so you rip yourself away, storming off, the oversized jacket swallowing you whole as you put as much distance between you as possible. it’s suffocating, drowning you in the scent of him, in the reminder of what just happened, in the unbearable reality that no matter how far you walk, he’s still there.

his fingers linger in the empty air for a second longer before he lets them curl into his palm.

the further you walk, the heavier it feels.

the weight of it—of him—lingers on your shoulders, an unwelcome presence wrapped around you like a second skin. his warmth still clings to the fabric, seeping into your own body heat, settling into you, like something permanent, something that refuses to be shaken off. every step away from the classroom should be enough to erase it, to strip yourself of whatever the hell just happened, to distance yourself from the moment that left you raw and exposed. but it isn’t. it follows you, clings to your skin, presses against your ribs like a hand refusing to let go.

your fingers twitch, clenching into the material, curling into the oversized sleeves that drown your hands. the scent of his cologne—clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him—curls around you like smoke, invisible and inescapable, creeping into your senses no matter how much you try to ignore it. the fabric is soft, expensive, carrying the residual heat of his body, and the knowledge that it smells like him, feels like him, makes something unpleasant coil at the base of your spine. you should take it off. should rip it from your shoulders, should throw it into the nearest trash can, should leave it behind.

but you don’t.

not because you want to keep it. not because you’re grateful. but because you can’t stop thinking about how this is what it feels like to be cared for.

even if it was just for a second.

even if it was just him.

the thought makes your stomach twist, nausea creeping into your ribs, pressing against your lungs, making your breath come too fast, too shallow. your hands grip the fabric tighter, nails biting into the sleeves, the pressure grounding and unbearable all at once. this morning—this entire day—has been a mess of feelings you refuse to name, thoughts tangling together into something suffocating. first, your father. his voice, smooth and honeyed, telling you that you deserve the best while making you feel like nothing more than a business investment.

then him.

stepping in without hesitation, without amusement, without the usual, insufferable smirk that makes your blood boil. there was no teasing, no lazy drawl of your name, no game for him to win—just action, swift and certain, as if he had never considered doing anything else. he moved without thought, without calculation, without the weight of expectation that comes with every single person in your life. like it wasn’t about proving anything. like it wasn’t about power. like it was just—natural.

it makes you want to scream.

because that isn’t how this works. people don’t do things without expecting something in return. every kindness has a cost. every touch carries intent. every moment of protection, of care, of concern is a currency, exchanged for something greater down the line. that is how it has always been—how you were raised to understand it, how you have lived through it.

not your father. never your father. his affection is measured, conditional, something draped over you like silk until the moment it tightens into a leash. not the men who orbit you, their admiration always tainted with hunger, drawn to status, to influence, to power they will never be worthy of but still reach for. not the socialites who call themselves your friends when it suits them, when your presence elevates theirs, when being seen with you is enough to tip the scales in their favor.

so why the hell did gojo satoru—of all people—look at you like that?

why did he help?

why did he care?

your throat tightens, a sharp breath cutting through the mess of emotions clogging your chest. you can’t be here. can’t sit in this damn school, in this damn jacket, with the weight of everything pressing down on you like a vice. the walls feel too tight, the air too heavy, the fabric against your skin an unbearable reminder of something you refuse to name. you need out.

you don’t think about it.

don’t text anyone. don’t call for a car. don’t plan where you’re going, don’t consider what it means to slip away like this, don’t stop to care. you just move, heels clicking against the floor as you weave through the hallways, ignoring the eyes that follow, ignoring the way your hands are still curled into the fabric of his jacket. you keep walking—out the doors, out the gates, out.

the streets of tokyo are busy as always, a blur of high-end cars and polished shoes, businessmen murmuring over calls as they slip past, their conversations blending into the distant hum of the city. the world moves around you, fast and endless, people existing in their own self-contained universes, unaware of the hurricane twisting inside your ribs. you barely register any of it.

when you reach the curb, you don’t hesitate. you lift a hand.

a taxi slows in front of you almost immediately, the driver’s eyes flicking to you in the mirror as you slide into the backseat, as the scent of cigarette smoke and worn leather curls into your senses.

“where to?”

you exhale, a sharp breath, tilting your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past—too fast and too slow all at once. your lips barely part as you murmur, “fujimori lounge.”

the driver raises a brow—because who the hell goes drinking at 9:30 a.m.? precisely a student in tokyo’s most prestigious academy, drowning in an oversized jacket that doesn’t belong to her. but you don’t acknowledge it. just tap your nails against your thigh, eyes distant, thoughts even further.

when the car pulls to a stop, you don’t wait. don’t even look at the meter. just toss a thick stack of bills into the front seat, stepping out like the transaction doesn’t register, like money means nothing—because it doesn’t.

the bar is empty. of course it is.

the air is cool, still untouched by the scent of spilled drinks and bodies pressed too close together, the dim lights casting long shadows over polished marble and expensive leather. no music plays at this hour. no laughter, no hum of conversation. just silence.

perfect.

you make your way to your usual seat, slipping into the plush barstool with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. you’ve done this before. you’ve done this a thousand times before.

the bartender—one of the few staff working this early—gives you a once-over, sharp eyes flicking from your bare legs to the jacket swallowing your frame, but he doesn’t say a word. just reaches for the top-shelf bottles, already knowing better than to ask what you want.

the first glass is poured. you down it without hesitation.

the warmth spreads through your veins, dulling the edges of everything you don’t want to think about, smoothing out the sharp edges of your father’s voice, of the way gojo looked at you, of the unbearable weight of something you don’t understand pressing against your ribs.

the second glass follows.

then the third.

by the fourth, you don’t feel anything at all.

satoru notices immediately.

your seat is empty in every class you should be in, the space where you should be a glaring absence that gnaws at the edges of his thoughts. he finds himself glancing toward the door every time it opens, expecting you to waltz in late with an excuse dripping in charm, a haughty smirk tugging at the corner of your lips like you’re doing the world a favor just by existing. but you don’t. the day stretches on, lecture after lecture, and you remain a no-show. with every hour that passes, something twitches beneath his skin, something that refuses to settle.

his messages go unanswered. his calls ring into oblivion. you haven’t responded to anything about your supposed meeting after school for your project—not even a half-hearted promise to maybe show up, only to flake at the last second. nothing. not a single snide remark, not a single excuse. just silence.

and satoru doesn’t care. he doesn’t.

he tells himself that. repeats it like a mantra, like a fact carved into stone, like if he says it enough, it will become the truth. but his jaw tics when another message goes unread, when another call goes straight to voicemail, when the space where you should be remains empty.

it’s only when he’s making his way through the parking lot, hand already tugging open the door of his car, that he hears it.

“she messaged me earlier.”

shoko’s voice—calm, level, just loud enough to carry in the open air. he wouldn’t have paid it any mind, wouldn’t have listened, if not for what follows.

“she’s at fujimori. don't wanna be bothered she said.”

a pause. then utahime, her voice sharper, laced with disbelief. “alone?”

his stomach twists.

it’s ridiculous, really. this is your scene, your world, the life you slip into without hesitation. he’s dragged you out of luxury bars before, half-exasperated, half-annoyed, when you’ve flaked on your project meetings to waste the evening draped over some rich heir’s arm, drink in hand, laughter spilling from your lips like it means nothing. you are never alone. you surround yourself with people who adore you, worship you, want you, because that is how you keep control.

but something about this—about you being there alone, in the middle of the day—it doesn’t sit right.

because you never drink alone.

he gets in the car and drives.

the city blurs past, neon lights bleeding into one another, an endless stretch of color and motion that barely registers. his hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white against smooth leather, jaw locked as his thoughts loop over themselves, tangled and restless. the expression on your face when you asked him why do you even care?—it won’t leave him. it lingers, sharp and insistent, digging into his ribs like something that demands an answer. and the worst part? he doesn’t know.

the air inside fujimori is warm, perfumed with aged liquor and polished wood, thick with the scent of exclusivity. low, ambient lighting casts shadows against plush velvet booths, a setting designed for discretion, for indulgence, for things meant to be forgotten by morning. voices murmur over the clink of expensive glassware, laughter lilting through the air in practiced, polite intervals. it’s a place for people with power, for men who make decisions that shape the world over drinks that cost more than most salaries.

he finds you easily.

you’re still wearing his jacket. and somehow, somehow, that feels like a relief.

legs crossed, posture languid, head tilted in that way that makes people lean in, drawn by the promise of something fleeting, something they’ll never get to keep. but you’re too relaxed, too detached, laughing at nothing, the haze of alcohol making your gaze unfocused, your movements a little too loose. satoru has seen you like this before—watched you toy with admirers, with suitors, with men who think they are clever enough to hold your attention. but this—this feels wrong.

and then he sees them.

older. sharp smiles. expensive watches gleaming under dim lighting. their laughter is just a little too indulgent, their attention just a little too fixed. and satoru knows them—not personally, but enough. they’ve shaken his father’s hand. sat in the same rooms, exchanged pleasantries at corporate events, discussed numbers and deals over glasses of whiskey worth more than some people’s entire lives. their wives always at their sides, poised, perfect.

they do not look married now.

his jaw locks.

he steps forward, weaving through the lounge with effortless ease, the shift in his presence enough to make bystanders instinctively move. his stride is unhurried, controlled, but there’s something unmistakable in the way he moves—an inevitability, a force that cannot be ignored. the ambient hum of conversation continues, but there’s a subtle ripple in the air, a quiet awareness settling over those who sense that something is about to happen. his eyes are on you, the way your head tilts back, the curve of your mouth as you laugh at something meaningless, the way the men around you lean in, hungry for whatever attention you decide to bestow. he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches you, fingers already reaching for your wrist, already ready to pull you out of there—a hand blocks him.

one of the men steps into his path, movements slow, measured, deliberately casual. posture relaxed, but gaze sharp, the kind of gaze that belongs to men who are used to owning every room they walk into. “this is a private booth,” he says, tone mild, the words carrying the weight of entitlement, of money, of power that has never been questioned.

they don’t recognize him.

they see the glasses, the slightly loosened tie, the academic air about him, and they make their assumptions. he is young. dressed well, but not ostentatious. someone from a good family, maybe, someone privileged, but ultimately unimportant. someone who doesn’t belong in their world.

but he recognizes them.

and when they finally put the pieces together, it’s going to be hilarious.

satoru exhales through his nose, slow, measured, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips—lazy, effortless, mocking. “yeah?” he hums, voice light, almost amused. “you sure you wanna play that game?”

the men hesitate.

because there’s something in the way he says it, something in the ease of his stance, in the weight of his presence, in the way he doesn’t look at them so much as he waits for them to understand. and then—one of them finally really looks at him.

their face drains of color.

because suddenly, the glasses, the academic demeanor—none of it matters anymore. suddenly, they’re not looking at a student—they’re looking at gojo satoru. heir to the same conglomerate these men answer to. the son of the man who can make or break their careers with a single conversation, a single change in investment, a single disapproving glance.

the atmosphere shifts.

“we— we didn’t realize—”

“you didn’t,” satoru cuts in smoothly, voice slipping into something sharper, something that lands just beneath the skin. “but you do now.”

none of them stop him this time.

his fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, steady, but not rough—as he pulls you up, out of that suffocating booth, out of that moment before it can cement itself into something worse. you stumble, caught off guard, the weight of your body pressing into his side for just a fraction of a second—and then you laugh.

soft, breathy, almost delighted.

your laughter spills into the space between you, curling at the edges like smoke, laced with something light, something dangerous. your head tilts up, gaze locking onto his with a look that is far too unguarded, far too open, like the alcohol has burned away whatever walls you usually keep so carefully in place. “ohhh,” you purr, voice syrupy sweet, the kind of sweetness that rots, the kind meant to draw people in just before they realize they’ve fallen too deep. “you came all this way for me?”

your voice is a slow drag of something intoxicating, the promise of something just out of reach, but your gaze—your gaze is challenging. you aren’t grateful, aren’t flustered, aren’t even the slightest bit embarrassed that he found you like this. you aren’t the kind of girl who needs saving, who lets herself be rescued, and you want him to prove it. you want him to falter, to hesitate, to take a single misstep in whatever this is.

like you’re daring him to say it.

he doesn’t.

his fingers tighten around your wrist—not enough to hurt, not enough to demand, but enough to make it clear that he isn’t entertaining whatever game you’re trying to play. instead, he just starts walking, dragging you toward the exit, not sparing a glance back, not indulging the way you sway into him with every step. he ignores the way your heels scuff against the floor, the way your body tips unsteadily, forcing you closer to him than you should be. he ignores the heat of you pressed against his side, the weight of your breath so close to his skin, the way his pulse betrays him, thrumming just a little too fast, just a little too loud.

but you don’t fight him.

not until you step outside.

the cold air outside bites against your skin, sharp and unforgiving, but the warmth of his jacket still clings to you, drowning you in a scent you hate. it’s clean, crisp—him. something expensive, something effortless, something that lingers no matter how much distance you put between you. the streetlights cast a soft glow over you both, stretching your shadows long against the pavement, turning the night into something slow, something tense. his grip is still firm around your wrist, his expression unreadable, his presence unwavering.

then—you move. not to fight him. not to shove him away. but to prove a point.

you step closer, pressing into him, the movement slow, deliberate, calculated. your fingers trail over his chest with an ease that feels almost lazy, like you belong there, like this is just another game you’ve played a thousand times before. beneath your touch, you can feel the faint pull of muscle, the subtle warmth of him even through layers of expensive fabric, the steady rhythm of his breath as he watches you. because he is watching.

he always does.

"you dragged me out here," you breathe, voice low, teasing, inviting. your fingers curl into the crisp collar of his shirt, tugging just enough to make the space between you even smaller. his breath is warm against the cold, the scent of him thick in your lungs, the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like something tangible. your lips part, just barely, a soft exhale slipping between them before you murmur, “so tell me, satoru—”

your lashes flutter, head tilting, nails scraping lightly against the fabric beneath your hands, a slow, teasing drag that makes the space between you feel smaller. your voice is low, velvet-soft, curling through the cold night air like something dangerous, something meant to ruin.

"isn’t this what you wanted?"

he freezes. not because he’s flustered. not because he’s caught off guard. but because of you.

because of the way you’re looking at him—your gaze laced with something honeyed, something sharp, something that dares him to take. because of the way your lips part, the faintest inhale dragging against them, the way your fingers curl just a little tighter into his collar, like you know exactly what you’re doing, like you know exactly what you are.

he stares at you through the thin lenses of his reading glasses, a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze, drinking you in like he has all the time in the world. your face is flushed from the alcohol, skin warmed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, and he lets himself look—really look.

your lips, soft and glossed, teasing the line between smug and inviting. your throat, delicate, the slow rise and fall of your breath betraying how hard you’re trying to keep yourself still.

your fingers, still curled in his collar, tension coiling in the space between your knuckles like you don’t realize you’re gripping him so tightly.

and your eyes.

your eyes are still the same.

he had thought they were pretty once. years ago.

when you had stood before him with that small, decorated box of chocolates, your hands had been just the slightest bit unsteady, fingers gripping the edges like you were afraid he might not take it. your cheeks had been warm, lips parting with the kind of anticipation that only a child can carry—pure, unguarded, hopeful. there had been no ulterior motives, no calculations, no layers of intent buried beneath honeyed words. just you, standing in front of him, offering something small but meaningful, something that was supposed to matter.

he had crushed that softness with logic. you shouldn’t eat too much chocolate. it’s bad for your teeth. the words had left his mouth so easily, dismissive, practical—because he had been young, because he hadn’t understood. because he hadn’t known that sometimes, words mattered less than meaning, that rejection wasn’t always about what was being refused but about who was offering it.

but he understands now.

except right now, what you are offering him isn’t something soft. this isn’t something innocent. you aren’t offering him chocolates anymore.

you’re no longer offering him something sweet.

even so your eyes are still as pretty as he remembers.

he doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring into them, how deeply he’s drinking you in, until he sees it. beneath the teasing, beneath the deliberate tilt of your head and the press of your fingers against his collar—there it is. the flicker of quiet desperation curled behind the seduction, the way your body is pressed against him not to invite but to test, the way your lips part not to tempt but to prove a point.

the way you want to make him just another man.

the way you need him to be nothing more than that.

highschool memories come rushing in, your name was always whispered through the halls. not just for the things you did, but for the things you got away with. you were the girl who walked through the world untouchable, draped in the kind of indulgence that made others jealous, that made them watch. dress code violations that should have warranted a suspension. skipped classes that should have landed you on academic probation. detentions that stacked like a house of cards, waiting for the inevitable collapse. but the school never sent notes home. never called. because there was no point.

because no one would answer.

he had watched you sit in detention, week after week. always by the window, chin resting on your palm, eyes fixed on something far away, somewhere else. the tip of your finger would trace shapes into the condensation, movements idle, aimless, as if you were reaching for something just beyond your grasp. the teachers muttered about your wasted potential, voices dipped low like they thought you wouldn’t hear, like they thought you cared. but you never flinched. never reacted. just sat there, quiet and unbothered, like the world outside that window was the only thing worth your time.

he never said anything.

not when your skirts got shorter, your nights got longer, your reputation turned into something sharp-edged and impossible to hold. not when the boys whispered about you with voices dipped in reverence and speculation, when the girls watched you with a mix of admiration and disdain. not when you stopped trying—not in class, not in conversation, not in caring about the things that once might have mattered. you had been a hurricane once, bright and full of want, but slowly, you had quieted. or maybe you had just hardened.

and he had watched. stood on the sidelines. did nothing.

perhaps it’s bystander guilt—that sick, gnawing feeling that he should have said something, done something, been something other than a silent observer while you carved yourself into something unrecognizable. maybe it’s guilt for all the moments he let pass, for the times he saw you staring out the window in detention, your breath fogging up the glass as you traced invisible shapes into the condensation. maybe it’s guilt for hearing the whispers about you and never correcting them, for watching as your name became synonymous with something untouchable, something ruined, something easy to want but impossible to hold.

but something completely illogical tells him it’s more than that.

it’s care.

not the logical kind, the kind dictated by necessity or responsibility. not the required kind, the kind that comes from duty or expectation. not the kind that is owed.

it is simply care.

and that terrifies him.

because if it’s care, then it means this—you, standing in front of him, pressing into his space, testing him, daring him to be just like everyone else—matters. it means you aren’t just another girl he’s known in passing, another classmate, another name in the endless list of people orbiting around his world. it means this isn’t just some passing moment, something insignificant, something he can brush aside and forget by morning. because he’s never done this before. never stood at the center of something so fragile, something so deliberately constructed, something that feels like a trap but is really just a test.

and that terrifies him.

because satoru knows you.

not just the version of you that leans in too close, that lets people get drunk off the warmth of your skin, the tilt of your head, the way you offer yourself without ever giving anything at all. he knows the version of you that sat by the window in detention, tracing patterns into the glass, eyes distant, already somewhere else. the version of you that used to try, that used to push and pull and want things in a way that wasn’t so calculated. the version of you that once held out a box of chocolates with both hands, cheeks warm, voice quiet, waiting for something that never came.

so when your fingers curl into his collar, when your breath ghosts against his skin, when your lips part in something that is neither an invitation nor a plea, he sees it.

anyone else—any other man—would take this moment for what it appears to be.

but satoru sees you.

sees the game, the performance, the careful layers of seduction that don’t ask for something but demand it. sees the way you are begging him—without words, without even realizing—to be just like everyone else.

so you can understand him. so you can predict him. so you can tuck him neatly into the same category as all the men who only ever wanted one thing from you. so you don’t have to question why he is different.

his hands settle on your wrists—gentle, but firm. his touch is steady, grounding, the heat of his palms seeping into your skin like something meant to anchor rather than restrain. for a moment, he just holds you there, letting the weight of the moment settle between you, letting the tension coil and tighten like a drawn bow. then, with an exhale, he pulls you away.

“no.”

your eyes flicker, just for a second. something wavers. your breath hitches, barely audible, but he hears it. and then, just as quickly, the mask falls back into place. you scoff, rolling your eyes, stepping back like none of this mattered, like his rejection is nothing more than an inconvenience.

“coward.” you taunt, sharp and biting.

but your hands are shaking.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t give you anything to grab onto. just watches you, lets the silence stretch between you, thick and suffocating, filled with all the things neither of you are willing to acknowledge. the streetlights flicker overhead, the cold wind curling between you both, but neither of you move. finally, he exhales, slow and measured.

“let’s go.”

you grumble, reluctant but compliant, moving toward the car with the kind of begrudging acceptance that comes when there is no other choice. he opens the door for you, guiding you inside without a word, the warmth of his hand barely brushing against you before he pulls away. you slump into the seat, arms crossed, head tilted toward the window, refusing to look at him.

he gets in the driver’s seat, shifts into gear, and pulls onto the road.

the city hums around you both, neon lights casting fractured reflections against the windshield, the steady rhythm of tires against pavement filling the silence. you don’t speak. don’t glance at him, don’t move, don’t acknowledge his presence. just lean your head against the glass, watching the world blur past, streetlights streaking across your features like ghosts of something unspoken.

he doesn’t speak either.

he grips the wheel a little too tightly as he drives, the tension settling into his knuckles, into the curve of his jaw, into the spaces between his thoughts where your voice still lingers. why do you even care?

the question had landed sharp between you, a challenge thrown like a blade, demanding something from him that neither of you had the words for. he should have laughed. should have dismissed it as easily as he does everything else, let the moment roll off his shoulders with that same lazy ease he wears like armor. that would have been easier, wouldn’t it? if this was just him being annoying, just another game, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

the city lights streak across the windshield, casting fractured reflections against the glass, flashing against your skin where you rest, half-conscious, against the window. you’re quiet now, so different from the sharp-tongued, fire-eyed girl who had glared at him hours ago, demanding an answer he hadn’t been able to give. but he’s had time to think. time to feel the weight of the silence, to sift through the mess of thoughts that refuse to settle.

“i have an answer now.”

your breath stirs, shallow, delayed, like his words are pulling you from somewhere far away. your body barely shifts, movements sluggish with exhaustion, with alcohol, with something that leaves you unguarded in a way you never allow. "what are you talking about?" your voice is quiet, blurred at the edges, stripped of its usual sharpness.

his fingers tighten around the wheel.

he cares because he does.

not because of logic, or obligation, or the neat, efficient reasoning he applies to everything else. not because it’s convenient. not because he’s supposed to. there is no clean-cut explanation, no calculated rationale, no easy justification. just care. the kind that isn’t required, isn’t expected, isn’t supposed to exist.

he has the answer now.

but you’re too drunk to even remember the question you threw at him this morning, eyes burning, voice laced with something sharp and aching. too lost in the haze of exhaustion, the weight of alcohol pressing against your bones, your usual armor stripped away piece by piece. the version of you sitting beside him now—quiet, unguarded, fragile in a way you’d hate—wouldn’t even care to hear it. so what’s the point? what’s the point of saying something you won’t remember, something you’d only deny in the morning, something that shouldn’t matter but somehow does?

he exhales, a slow, measured breath, fingers drumming idly against the leather steering wheel before finally leaning back, gaze shifting toward the dim glow of the dashboard. his glasses slide just slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he absently pushes them up, jaw tight, expression unreadable in the faint flicker of streetlights outside. for a moment, he just looks at you—the way your head tilts against the glass, the way your lashes flutter faintly, the way your lips are slightly parted as if you might say something but never do. his chest feels tight. too tight. like the weight of this realization, of you, is settling into a space he never made room for.

“nevermind.”

his voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the engine, but it carries. settles into the silence between you, lingers in the air as if waiting for a response.

and then, barely above a whisper—“idiot.”

it’s grumbled, half-asleep, but he still hears it, still watches the way your lips barely move as you bury yourself deeper into the seat, breath evening out.

he gasps, the sound exaggerated, scandalized, an instinctive reaction that’s far more him than the heavy, suffocating thoughts he’d been drowning in moments ago. “my iq is higher than yours!”

you don’t respond.

just shift slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at your lips, before sleep finally pulls you under. he scoffs, shaking his head, but there’s something softer in the way he settles into his seat, something almost fond in the way his grip eases around the wheel.

because despite everything—despite the frustration, despite the push and pull, despite the fact that he knows you’ll wake up tomorrow and pretend none of this ever happened—he still cares.

and he still doesn’t know what to do with that.

tag list : @s4ikooo1 @gojoswaterbottle @blubearxy @akeisryna @theclassbookworm @diorzs @nscuit @lolightrealm @rintarawr

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#cross posted on ao3 #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo x female reader #reader insert #gojo fluff #nerd gojo #nerdjo #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk x you #jjk fluff #satoru gojo fluff #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo x reader

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avatarloverfrfr · 24 days ago

Text

DreamWalker Siblings

Jake x Sister! Reader; Omatikaya x Dreamwalker; Tsu’tey x Reader

Chapter III: Training

[pt.1] [pt2] [previous]

Masterlist

Summary: Y/n and Jake Sully. Siblings, shipped off into the depths of space to explore the mysterious world of Pandora.

The warmth of the morning creeps in through the woven leaves of the tsahik's hut, casting rays of sunlight across my face. The gentle hush of the forest outside, the earthly scent of moss and wood, and the rhythmic beat of my new heart reminds me that I'm still an avatar.

I'm still here.

Still trapped.

The dull throb in my temples has lessened overnight, but it's far from gone. Every movement send a ripple to my head, a cruel reminder of my disconnection to my true body. The woven mat underneath me is unfamiliar, the texture coarse and uneven— so different from the sanitised surfaces I'm used to. I blink away the haze and push myself upright, slowly.

"You're awake." A firm voice hums.

Neytiri steps into the light, holding a bowl and a knowing look in her eyes.

I nod, my mouth dry. "Barely."

She hands me the bowl filled with warm, thick liquid. I eye it sceptically.

"It will help," she says, pressing it into my hands.

With no better options, I drink. The taste is foreign— earthly, bitter, tinged with something sweet— probably medicine. Almost instantly I feel a calm settle in my muscles. The pounding behind my eyes softens, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

A silence settles between us as Neytiri looks me up and down, her gaze not judgemental, but calculating.

"You're stuck in this body." she says circling me,.

I nod unsure if it was a question or just a statement she needed to say out loud.

"Tsu'tey will arrive soon," she adds, examining me, "Your training begins."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

Neytiri tilts her head. "Eywa has chosen you. You do not need to be ready. You must be ready."

Before I can respond, the flap of the tent opens again. Tsu'tey enters, posture straight, every step measured. His eyes lock onto mine, unreadable.

"We start now," he says coldly. "Stand."

I rise slowly, the aches in my limbs flaring to life again. Neytiri slips away silently, leaving me alone with the warrior who clearly wants nothing to do with me.

After a moment of his glaring, he gestures toward the forest.

I follow, unsure if I'm walking to a lesson or an execution.

The forest welcomes and rejects me all at once. The colours are brilliant, every leaf and vine pulsing with energy. But the brightness is overwhelming, and my senses— sharpened with this Avatar body— struggle to keep up. Every twig snap, every gust of wind feels amplified, pressing on the edges of my consciousness.

Tsu'tey says nothing for a long time. He moves like he belongs here— silent, precise. I, in contrast, stumble with nearly every step struggling to keep up while adjusting the pieces of cloth Neytiri had dressed me in.

"Balance," he snaps when I trip for the third time on a twisted root. "You are not a child vrrtep."

I grit my teeth and straighten. "I'm trying."

"Trying is not enough." He stops and faces me. "Here, you survive, or you don't. No one will carry you forever." I square my shoulders. "Then teach me. I didn't ask for this body."

He doesn't respond. Just turns and pushes leaves aside, revealing a clearing.

Looking around in awe, I spot what I can only describe as alien horses. Among them, Jake and Neytiri stand next to one of the creatures. I guess this is the first part of training.

"This is a pa'li." Tsu'tey says as he gives the creature a gentle but firm tap on its leg, earning a slight jerk from it. "You must make tsaheylu, so she knows what to do."

"Tsaheylu?" I echo, getting onto the back of the pa'li, adjusting my legs to be either side of the animal.

"Bond. You must feel what she feels, hear what she hears and control what her thoughts successfully so that you do not—"

He's cut off by Jake falling off his pa'li and landing in the mud.

"—fall off," Tsu'tey finishes, looking at Jake.

I grab my queue with unsteady fingers, the tendrils of the pa'li and I pulsing faintly with life. As I bring them to connect, the pa'li shifts from under me, it's flank twitching nervously

Slowly, reverently, I connect the ends of my queue with the tendrils of the creature.

The moment they intertwine, a surge like lightning jolts though my whole body— not pain, not pleasure, but something raw and overwhelming.

My senses, already sharpened with this new body, flare into overdrive. I feel everything. the ground beneath the pali's hooves, soft, damp, alive. The wind rippling across its skin like a whispered prayer. The thunder of its heart, wild and strong echoing against my own chest. We are no longer separate beings. We are one.

Terror crashes into me first— not mine, but the animals. A primal fear, born of instinct and memory. I feel its legs tense with the urge to bolt, muscles coiled like springs. I sense it's confusion, it's vulnerability. But beneath the fear, something else stirs— curiosity.

I steady my breathing, remembering the words Tsu'tey said along with not wanting to face plant like Jake, trying to send a calm message through the link. The pa'li hesitates... then slowly, the tension starts to disappear. The fear doesn't vanish, but it fades into the background replaced by a tentative trust. Our breathing syncs. My limbs feels heavier now, grounded, feeling the weight of the pa'li's legs like they're my own.

"Easy now," I murmur aloud, though the thought is already echoing through our connection. I try to exhale calm, to match it's wild energy with my own.

Tsu'tey watches in silence. "You did not force. You asked, that is the way."

My heart pounds as I guide her forward. She moves— then gallops. My breath catches in joy, laughter slipping from my chest as we charge toward Neytiri and a very muddy Jake.

Looking back at Tsu'tey as he gets on another pa'li, like it was a regular Tuesday catching up to my pa'li and myself. Letting out a little laugh as I near closer to the pair. I've connected with another living being in a way that defies science, logic, even reason. That revelation only makes me more happy that I got it.

"Tsu'tey I'm doing it! Oh fuck," I say stopping by Jake, with Tsu'tey beside me not saying anything but looking at Jake as if he had won a silent battle only they knew was happening.

Tsu'tey starts speaking to Neytiri in Na'vi. She smiles and looks at me.

"Na'vi lesson, soon."

Later that evening, I return to the tsahik's hut, my body aching from more archery and hunting drills and lessons from Tsu'te. Mo'at greets me with a nod, acknowledging my efforts without words. She places a hand briefly on my forehead.

"Still weak. But your spirit is strong."

Jake arrives just as the sun rises, his face lightning up when he sees me sitting with the other Na'vi.

"Look at you," he grins. "Almost like a proper Na'vi."

I chuckle, "Fuck off, where's Neytiri? You've been stuck to here this whole day."

He sits beside me, "She's with Tsu'tey, something about them being future mates," he says with a shrug.

"Hey— I've got something I need to tell you, It's about your body— your human body," he added barely meeting my eyes.

He ran a hand over his face before turning to me. "Your body," he began, slowly, "it's still in the lab. Still alive, but..."

"What Jake? Did something happen—" I say looking at him waiting for him to say something more.

"Your bodies fine Y/n, I just needed to get you away from the people so that I can tell you that" he says but gets cut off by Tsu'tey's booming voice.

"Sully's, time for training."

"You'll tell me later yeah?" I say already running off toward Tsu'tey

Jake tries to stop me— but he doesn't. He doesn't tell me that the RDA is caring for my body now. That their resources— his, Max's, Norm's and Grace's weren't enough. That he had no choice but to accept the looming offer from them.

Months pass.

Sparring with Tsu'tey in a grassy clearing with other Na'vi doing the same. I'm sweaty, bruised and panting after a low blow to my side. He circles me with that ever-annoying scowl tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Again," Tsu'tey would bark— time and time again.

"You are thinking too much. You must feel, you do not think." His voice would be firm, yet each time less sharp than it used to be.

Still , that didn't make the burn in my arms any less painful. The training was brutal. Everyday brought a new muscle I didn't know existed— now sore, aching, screaming for rest. But quitting wasn't an option.

I wasn't fighting for strength, I was fighting to belong.

And despite his constant critiques and wordless grunts of disapproval, Tsu'tey was still there. Every morning, before the sun even rose fully, he waited for me in the same clearing. And after every night, after one too many lectures about "Holding a tstal like a child," he walked me back to the tsahik's hut, silent but present, for my evaluations.

We didn't talk much, but I noticed when his gaze would slightly linger when I stumbled too hard, the slight tilt of his head when I managed to land a strike, the way he no longer called me demon.

Training wasn't just with Tsu'tey. Neytiri and I had become sisters of sort.

"You hold a bow like a stiff-legged yerik," she would giggle, barely holding in her laughter as I struggled to notch an arrow properly.

"Re'o, 'etnaw, kinamtìl, venzek." she would teach me the na'vi language and incourage me to slowly incorporate them into my sentences.

The lessons with here were.. warm. It was the first time in my life I truly felt what sisterhood could be, racing each other through the branches like children, collapsing into the grass and mimicking Tsu'tey's and Jake's voices behind their backs and burst out laughing till our ribcages hurt, our own inside jokes.

Not everything was light.

At night when the training ended and laughter faded into the hush of night creatures, I felt it— the pain of not being in my human body anymore.

The headaches that never truly leave.

And the weight in my chest.

Jake still hadn't told me what he wanted to. He comes close— almost saying it but always stops short.

"Not now."

"We'll talk later."

"You're tired Y/n. Let's not do this tonight."

I want to trust that it isn't something terrible. I need to trust him.

One evening, Tsu'tey and I lay on the grass. The air is warm humming with the low drone of nocturnal insects waking from slumber, and the distant echoing call of creatures settling into night.

We're side to side, both of us catching our breath after sparring— the kind of brutal, sweat drenched match that usually ended with me on my ass.

But tonight, I won.

I actually beat him. Fair and square.

My arms tremble from the effort, my side stings from where he landed a hard blow enough to bruise, but my chest is full— satisfied, victorious and buzzing with something I can't quite name.

Above us, a glowing atokirina blooms across the night living sky. the faint bioluminescent glow of the leaves sway overhead, casting blue green light across Tsu'tey's face, softening the sharp lines of his features.

Neither of us speaks first.

We've fallen into a rhythm. Moments where words feel too heavy. So we let the silence breathe between us. Let it say things we're still too guarded to say out loud.

Tsu'tey's chest rises and falls steadily beside me. His hands, usually tight fists of discipline and precision, now rest open against the grass, fingers brushing the soft fonds.

"You are strong," he says suddenly, his voice soft but firm. "Stronger than you think,"

I blink, caught off guard. Compliments are rare from him— scarce and hard earned. I glance at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"Is that.. a compliment?" I tease, turning my head toward him. "From you?"

His lips twitch into something like a smirk, but his eyes don't leave the sky above.

"I do not give what is not deserved."

He turns his eyes to meet mine,

"You are ready."

[ previous] [NEXT]

sorry this took so long yall, framed for murder then hit by a car lol😞🤘

taglist:

@trainboom @bdhcghjj @ikeyniofthetayrangi @neytirismissingtoe @justcameheretoread @humbug5 @saturnhas82moons @jdbxws @hau-ming-8 @nonamevenus @fatimatabintou @pink-sunrise-56

#avatar 2009 #avatar #omatikaya #avatar x reader #neytiri #jake sully #avatar2022 #angst #avatar angst #tsu'tey te rongloa ateyitan #tsu'tey x reader #tsu'tey avatar #tsu'tey

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feyascorner · 1 year ago

Text

5 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

You realize that, perhaps, the Astarion you knew was nothing but a pretty lie.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks/dreams

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words?!!? 😆 whenever i write for this fic i have the constant urge to make him grovel out of nowhere, and to compensate, i make him even worse

“You were my first, you know.”

You raise both your brows, your eyes still trained on the lake stretching out to what seems like forever. The boulder beneath you feels cool to the touch against your skin. “Really?”

He nods, setting his book down to his lap. “Cazador, that crazy bastard, never let us drink from anything besides rats. We were strictly forbidden from humanoid blood because it would let us become too powerful.”

You squint at him. “...Well, what does it taste like?”

“Your blood?”

“Humanoid blood.”

He looks nowhere, as if he’s in thought, before humming, pleased at the taste that lingers on his tongue. “Exquisite.”

“That’s it?”

“Your blood was sweet, almost. Rat blood is terribly bitter, you see, and I only drank it for survival. But yours,” he grins widely. “I could drink nothing but yours for the rest of my immortal life, and I would never tire of it.”

Your face heats, and of course, him being him, it doesn't go unnoticed. He sets his book aside and shifts so he has one arm propped up next to you, his face dangerously close to yours. “I think you rather like the sound of that, darling.”

“It doesn’t sound…terrible,” you mumble. “Better than turning into a mind flayer, at least.”

His lips are inches from yours, so you instinctively tilt your head, allowing space for him to reach your neck. But his free hand reaches your cheek and tilts your head back, making you meet his eyes. It’s so close. So impossibly intimate that you pray he doesn't hear the way your heart pounds in your chest.“That’s not what I want right now, love.”

You nod slowly when his eyes flicker to your lips, and he’s pressed against you in an instant, your lips molding together as if they were made for one another. Even though you know they’re not, his arms feel warm when wrapped around you, and you bury yourself closer as if there’s even any space left between the two of you.

You know this must be a dream. But you’re not sure if you want to wake up at all.

But suddenly, your entire body feels terribly cold. Too cold, as if your very life is being sapped away from its roots, leaving nothing but a husk of a person behind. So you tear away, as much as you don’t want to, and see that you are no longer sitting before your lover. The spawn that nearly killed you in the alleyway is sitting in Astarion’s place, his teeth stained with blood as he smiles at you. Instinctively, you shriek and try to crawl away, but the sharp pain at your throat ceases your movement, making your hand fly up to the puncture wounds you’re sure to find.

Instead, you only find that your neck is sore from the bruises that bloom on your skin.

And as you stare at the spawn in horror, you realize that he’s not a random spawn. He’s covered in so much blood that you can’t even see his snow-white hair beneath the carnage, and all that stares back at you is a man who only resembles your lover. He lifts a hand, reaching sharp, maintained nails toward your face, and all you can do is brace yourself for what’s to come.

You just hope he ends the pain quickly.

The last tenday has been nothing short of hellish.

The walk home from Sharress’ Caress had been a deathly silence—one where you refused to look anywhere but your feet–-and even once you arrived home to the chaos between Shadowheart and Lae’zel unfolding right before your eyes, you only watched Astarion pace up the stairs as if nothing is wrong. Even as they yelled at him, asking what he had to say for himself, he’d only scoffed and shut the door to his room.

‘A man child,’ Shadowheart had called him. Lae’zel said her offer of skewering him with her spear was still available.

You hadn’t corrected her that time.

As you clearly had too many personal emotions, you swallowed your pride and decided to pass the investigation off to one of your companions. You gave the list of spawn killings to Gale, asking him to take charge of the investigation starting that very night. He didn’t ask why.

The days after that were spent in a blur. Aside from the nightmares that only seem to get worse, your life in the daytime is as it was before the bodies started piling up. You spend every waking moment focusing on rebuilding the rest of the city now that you have all the time in the world. Only without the workload did you realize how time-consuming the investigation had been, and without it, your life feels strangely dull. It’s not unwelcome–at least, not now, anyway.

And as another day passes in a state of mind that is not your own, you slump face-first into your mattress.

You only ever seem to return home in the dead of night anymore. Construction runs through the clock, and by the time you’ve managed to say your farewells to the people in the city, the sun’s long past said its own goodbye. Still, you suppose coming home late is better than falling asleep outside.

The handle of your dagger sticks into the side of your stomach, and you fish it out, laying on your back as you examine the bejeweled blade. It’s a pretty little thing, no matter how many sleepless nights you’ve spent staring at the beauty of something that’s taken countless lives. Most of which were his doing, even if you’re racking up quite the number on your own.

You want to hate him, but you’ve come to accept that perhaps you’ve grown soft. Maybe you’ve been surrounded by warmth for too long and now find that the hate you were once so accustomed to has now rendered itself to mush. You’ll learn to hate him—that much you’ve sworn—but you don’t want him dead as he seems to do with you. You have plenty of reason to hate him, and a part of you does, but it’s not enough to rival his distaste for you.

He’s made it clear enough that you cannot hate him the way he hates you.

You pace over to your drawer and place the blade in the deepest corner, where nothing but shadows will know of its existence. As you push the drawer shut, you hope that the next time you see the dagger, you’ll have forgotten it had been there in the first place.

You hear the window in his room slide open and then shut closed again. And if you were anyone else, it would cause an instant panic, but you’ve grown accustomed to the sound of it opening each night. And while the responsible thing should be to let the others know that he’s sneaking out every other night, you can’t find the energy to. Your sentiments toward him may be mixed, but you don’t want the only lead for the spawn case to be taken away just because he was sneaking out like a teenager in their rebellious phase.

There’s a more selfish reason why you’re keeping this secret of his, though you plan on taking it to your grave. It keeps him from approaching you with the request to go hunting. With Gale and Shadowheart busy with the spawn and Lae’zel not to be trusted around Astarion, you’re the only one capable of following him to his weekly supply restock. But you doubt he needs much animal blood when he has others ready for him at the pleasure house, and if this is his only way of getting there, then so be it.

You’re not really sure how to feel about it. It’s not a nice feeling, though.

“There’s someone here for you.”

You look up toward the doorway where Shadowheart leans with crossed arms. She points toward the stairs, and you force your legs up despite their insistent soreness from the past few days. They ache, but you’d rather burst into flames than stand another second longer than you have to in this room. You don’t have the energy to assess the look she’s giving you as you pass by her shoulder.

The man at the door is one your intuition seems to recognize, but your mind comes up empty. The emotions don’t seem mutual, as he straightens his back the second he spots you. “You.”

You glaze your tired eyes over his attire–one with the mark of the Flaming Fist proudly posted on his chest. He shifts, and you notice his short brown hair peeking from under his helmet. “Yes, me. You called for me.”

He clears his throat, blinking wide grey pupils with a hesitant glint. “I apologize for what I said the last time we met. It wasn’t for me to step out of line like that.”

You stare at him quizzically, unsure of who this man even is. He notices. “Wait, don’t you remember me?”

“...No?”

“I was at Roger Highberry’s murder scene! Yevir? I interrogated you for nearly an hour!” his jaw drops, and you somewhat make out his face from the blurry segments of your memories. All of which are not entirely pleasant, from what you can recall. The accusations thrown in your direction for being responsible for the murders were already cruel enough, but you remember how a fight nearly broke out between the two of you, making your lips purse.

You rub the side of your head to soothe whatever headache is sure to follow soon. “What do you want? Are you here to ask if I’ve been murdering people again?”

There’s one you might be so inclined to murder right now, just upstairs. Figuratively. Well, maybe…

“No,” he seems flustered, and you’d feel bad if it were not for your last interaction. “Like I said, I wanted to apologize. I was in no place to accuse you of something so horrid, and I did so without solid proof. I was—desperate and lost my composure.”

At this, your ear perks. An apology after the complete bullshit you’ve been through the past few weeks doesn’t sound bad at all. Still, your caution remains as you lift your chin, eyes lidded. “...You just came to apologize?”

“Yes. Ah, and–” he reaches into his pocket, scrummaging around until he pulls out a scroll wrapped neatly with a red bow. You arch a brow, and he holds it out to you. “My men were attacked last night at the pier next to the Blushing Mermaid. This is the file report I wrote up this morning.”

The Blushing Mermaid. Despite the hopes that had sparked with the conversation with one of Cora’s orphans, Shadowheart had come up completely empty after numerous visits to the tavern. She only mentioned a few brawls, which quickly had Fist rushing in or a couple of drunk smugglers, but that was it. By now, you assumed the tavern itself had no connections to the spawn murder sprees that increased in numbers nearly daily. Perhaps Roger Highberry had just been at the wrong place and the wrong time.

“We tried to talk to them—one, at least,” he continues as you let the scroll unroll on itself. “They seem to be looking for someone. They said they were only willing to listen to the ‘bard’---which I assume is supposed to be you.”

Your face hardens as you scan the report, acknowledging the details scribbled into the sheet in messy handwriting and the bags under his eyes to go along with it. “What were they looking for?”

“Another spawn, we think, judging from what we gathered before they became hostile.”

Despite how your heart sinks into your stomach, you swallow the lump in your throat and tear your eyes away from the report. Who else could it possibly be? And though you want to lie to yourself that perhaps, on some strange chance, this other spawn is someone other than the one residing right beside your room, you know it’s a foolish belief to pray on.

Astarion had tried to sacrifice all 7000 souls of the undead right before their very eyes. The ritual–if you could even call it that–-was mass murder. One he very nearly executed.

You were only unsure if the other spawn sought him out to reconcile or for something much bloodier. You’d likely bet on the latter.

“Have you shown this to the Duke yet?”

“No,” he admits, almost shamefully. “I couldn’t.”

He must be able to tell your shock because his face crumples. “There was someone among them. A friend. I thought she’d gone missing years ago, but…On this small chance that maybe she’s still there, I came here to ask…”

His fists clench, his gaze darting anywhere but your own with a hesitance you’ve become all too accustomed to the past few weeks. Still, they have a glimmer of hope as he swallows hard. “...If you’d be willing to help me.”

You can’t mask the way your eyes widen. He blinks rapidly and immediately reaches to dig around his other pocket, where he hauls out a bag that jingles with the contents inside. The familiar ring of gold. The sack itself is shabby, old enough to split open at any second, and it’s only the size of his palm, but he holds it as if it’s a fragile glass piece. “It’s all I have. I know I’m in no position to ask you for help, especially with how I treated you last time we met…but I’m desperate, and I know the Duke must trust you for a reason.”

“You want me to do what exactly?”

“Let me speak to her. Please.”

Almost instantly, you push the pouch back to his chest, eyes narrowing. “A vampire spawn won’t be the same person you knew.”

“I know. But surely, she would at least recognize me-”

“She’ll be different. She won’t hesitate to kill for blood. Not even yours, if she’s hungry.” This much, you know.

“I know,” he blurts louder. “Please. If I go to the Duke, he’s sure to raid the tavern, and she might get killed in the process. If I was the reason that she died, I don’t know—I can’t even—”

She’s already dead, you think. The words nearly escape your thoughts, but you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, sealing it shut.

“Her heart no longer beats for you.” Just give up, you plead. Understand that she is not the woman she was. You notice the irony of the statement, but it doesn’t stop you, desperate to prevent this man from making the same mistakes as your own.

“My own heart beats enough for the both of us.”

And perhaps it’s because of the glint in his eyes that feels all too familiar to your own. Or maybe it’s because of the way he appears on the brink of tears and the eyebags dragging at his skin. Or perhaps it’s a more selfish reason of your own. But regardless of what the reason is, the report crumples in your fist as you nod stiffly.

“We’ll do what we can.”

You swing the door shut harder than you probably should, but the sun feels too bright on your skin. And his imploring eyes only hinder your resolve to drift away from all that’s happening. You claimed you’d try, not that you’d produce results. It might be a selfish thing to do—ignoring a person in need—but does it matter, really?

Is it so bad for you to be selfish for once?

Gods, who are you kidding? You’ll end up helping anyway, especially after he came to ask you in person.

Thinking too long hurts your head. When you turn to climb back up the stairs, your heart nearly stops as you realize you’re not alone in the room.

Blood-red eyes bore into the side of your head, his presence almost nonexistent with how his chest doesn’t even move to allow him to breathe. He stands across the room, unmoving and still, as if time itself has stopped for the two of you. You suppose for him, it has.

But you know better now. At least, you think so. For him, time may be something irrelevant, but for you, it continues flowing, leaving no chance to catch up if you dare to fall behind. And you no longer want to chase the ticking hand of your own clock to attune yourself to his. He’s made himself clear, and you refuse to waste away precious years of your own life to mourn his. So, instead of gawking at him like a deer in headlights, you lock the door and pace up the stairs, barely brushing past his shoulders. You have half a heart to shove past him, but considering you barely manage what you did, you think better of it.

The entire time, his eyes follow you like a hawk.

“What was that Fist here for?” he asks as you reach the top.

You don’t bother looking back at him. “...Spawns killed a few soldiers last night.”

A pause. “Surely that’s not all.”

“That’s all you need to know unless you plan on helping us,” you snap. You wish you sounded as cold as you would’ve liked, but instead, it comes out like a last-ditch effort, as he barely acknowledges the bite in your tone.

“Are we not discussing the very spawns whom I called my dear siblings for two centuries? It’s very much my business.”

“And you think those spawn—which you tried to kill for a bloody ritual, might I add— still consider you their brother?”

That shuts him up.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you take the opportunity to march straight into your room. Your chest swells in a pitiful pride as you force yourself not to glance behind you, admittedly relieved you were at least able to manage some semblance of a cold shoulder, even if it wasn’t as dramatic as his own. Ignoring him is childish and quite frankly, a bandage on a more significant wound, but even this feels like a small victory after his last words to you.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hate me.”

“Yes. More than anyone.”

You try not to let your face fall by rubbing your temples with your thumbs again, soothing the headache that threatens to wrack your body. He’s drawn his line, and it’s time to draw your own.

Shadowheart, who hasn’t budged from where you last saw her, grins. Judging from her smugness, she must’ve heard you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Me neither.”

She holds out her palm, and you weigh if you should even give her the report before giving in, placing it for her to read. Her eyes skim over the contents as you anxiously shift your weight on both legs. And eventually, she lowers the sheet. “I’ll deal with this.”

“But they’re looking for me. They won’t cooperate unless–”

“I’ll deal with this,” she repeats, folding the report before pocketing it into her pants. “Focus on repairing the city.”

“Shadowheart-”

“You entrusted us with this, and we plan to follow through. You’ve done more than enough for this city already,” she sighs. “And besides, we could use a bard around here.”

She gently shoves you toward your door. Despite your hesitance, she gives you an assuring nod and begins heading for the stairs, giving you no space to insist on offering your aid. You’re left standing idly in the hall, brows knitting together even as you reassure yourself that she and Gale are more than capable of handling themselves.

But then again, you’d thought the same for yourself. Clearly, after the night you nearly died and the nightmares that haunt you of that very same night, you’d been wrong.

You hear footsteps you’ve memorized as ones to avoid, and just as you see the tips of his white curls, you rush into your room, slamming the door shut behind you.

You need a drink.

“Haven’t seen you in days.”

You slump onto one of the wooden stools at the bar, rubbing at the soreness of your own shoulder from hours of hauling rubble and debris from more crowded parts of town where they could pose a danger. The other citizens who had worked alongside you trail in through the tavern door, laughing and cheering at today’s accomplishments as they sit across the tables. In an instant, the relatively calm tavern becomes rowdy and filled with life. Your eyes glaze over their victorious expressions as you respond. “Been busy.”

“You’re the only customer I don’t want to see, you know?” Alan wipes at one of his glass cups with a cloth. You wonder if he ever tries on his bartending uniform or if it just rots in the back of his closet. “Thought I finally got rid of you.”

“I bring plenty of business, so what’s to dread?” you offer him a lopsided smile, watching him as he pours your favorite beverage into a cup, almost routine-like. “I brought in plenty of customers when I performed here, too. If anything, I’d think you’d be grateful to see me.”

“I said I don’t like you as a customer, not an employee. I’d rather not watch the so-called hero of Baldur’s Gate passing out on my tavern floor.”

“Business is business,” you shrug, sipping at the drink. You reach for your gold pouch, but he shakes his head.

“You know you don’t have to.”

You toss him a gold coin anyway. “I want to.”

As you drink, you gaze blankly at the bard playing at the corner of the room, a crowd of half-drunken patrons surrounding him as they toss gold, hats, and even a shoe at them in applause. This only prompts the bard to sing louder, their fingers plucking at the strings of their lute. Of course, with the nature of the tavern, the song is rather ambitious rather than soothing, but it’s nice to listen to nonetheless. You watch as another bard, this one with a drum, perches next to them and begins playing in unison. The patrons clap louder to the beat.

A man sits next to you, ordering himself a booze before turning to watch the bards. You’ve never seen him around, but he seems comfortable enough, thanking Alan when he receives the drink. He gives it a sniff, then sets it down. “Nice song, no?”

Your eyes never leave the gleeful expressions of those listening, only recognizing moments later that he’s speaking to you. “Yes, pretty nice.”

“My daughter loved this song when she was younger. Even wanted to learn it herself on her flute,” he says, and a part of you wants to ask why he’s initiating conversation, but you bite your tongue. Surely most people come here to drink, not to talk with strangers? There’s a strange familiarity to him that you can’t put your finger on, and it’s enough to keep you intrigued. “She even wanted to be a bard at one point.”

“I’m assuming she didn’t become one?” you indulge him.

“She died before she could, unfortunately.”

You finally look away from the crowd and turn to him, face falling. And while you should console him, your instinct tells you that’s not what he needs. His face is solemn. Dull as if he’s become accustomed to the death of his own child, and it reminds you of the hopelessness of yearning. Any kind, really, whether it be yearning to love and yearning to care. “Was she any good at playing?”

He stifles a laugh. “Oh, she was the best. Could play better than half the bards at the circus a couple of months after I got her that flute.”

You sip at your drink again. “Being a bard isn’t the most stable of career choices when you’re alive and have a stomach to feed. Wherever she is now, I’m sure she’ll be free to sing all the songs she wants in this world.”

Perhaps your words may be insensitive, but he doesn’t look to take it that way, keenly listening to the song while you wager if you can afford one more drink.

“You know,” he says again. “Most people tell me that they’re sorry for my loss—or something along those lines.”

“Do you want me to say that?”

“No, I prefer that you be honest,” he shakes his head. “It’s refreshing.”

You return to watching the bards, who seem nearing their piece's end. The man lifts his booze to his lips and takes a large swig. “You seem acquainted with loss. Have you lost someone recently?”

“To death?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

You’re not sure why, but you feel that confiding in this stranger comes easier than confiding in your companions. The guilt eats away at you for being unable to trust the people who care for you most, but a stranger cannot judge you. A stranger does not know you, so they cannot see you differently for your thoughts. And most importantly, a stranger cannot pity you. “I almost lost them. But I didn’t.”

He hums, telling you he’s listening.

“I saved him, I think. Well, to be honest, I’m not so sure anymore. I like to think I did, but I don’t think he thinks the same.”

“Why’s that?”

“I…” you trail off, looking into the half-empty cup reflecting your face. Gods, you’re a mess. “I took something from him to save him.”

“Money?”

“No, nothing like that,” you mumble, swirling your cup mindlessly. “I took his choice away.”

“I see. He must’ve not wanted to be saved, then, is that right?”

You don’t answer him. The air becomes silent again, but the soft tune of the lute, and even the bartender is no longer paying attention to anyone in the tavern, only watching how the bard’s fingers file through the strings. The only person who doesn’t seem distracted is the man beside you.

“Do you regret it?”

“Saving him?” you pause, and maybe it’s the drink getting to your head, or perhaps it’s the way the music seems to fade out, but the words stumble out of your mouth before you can even process them. “I want to regret it.”

From the corner of your vision, you finally notice that his booze is still filled to the top, untouched.

“Does Astarion regret it too?”

Realization dawns on you.

You can see them now—the fangs that peek out from the smile stretching across his lips. And yet, it is not a malicious smile that confuses you even more. It would almost feel genuine if you weren’t in such a vulnerable position, and immediately, you’re thinking of ways to defeat him with just a bottle of wine with your head still spinning.

The door to the tavern swings open.

Lae’zel almost looks out of breath as she sprints to you, a sight you don’t see every day. “Come! They were ambushed.”

When you turn back to the man sitting at the bar, you only see a gold coin beside a full cup.

You don't have time to delay, as Lae'zel yanks out of the tavern.

You've never run faster in your life. But your mind remains elsewhere, unable to keep up with the speed of your body because it's too busy being stuck in the past. Do you regret it? Does he? Until now, before Astarion’s arrival, you'd been sure it had been the right thing to do to stop the ritual. And now, after hearing all the resentment he harbored toward you as a result, you wonder if it was worth it at all. If losing him was worth the ache you endure now. Before you can snap yourself straight, the memories flood in like a dam breaking open.

“Do you love me?”

“I do. I do love you.”

You don’t expect him to say it back. Not when he looks taken aback at how quickly you’d answered him, his eyes flickering with something you can only describe as a false sense of confidence overwhelmed with a glimmer of fear that means so much more. You know love is hard for someone who hasn’t felt it in 200 years. You know this and, therefore, cannot expect it from him right now.

He cares for you, and that’s enough.

He presses his lips to your temple, and you ignore the restless aching in your chest.

Did he regret being with you then? What did he regret? There's so much you want to know, but nobody willing to answer them.

Shame floods you as you realize you’re distracted, even in such a dire situation for your companion. One more reason to hate him, you suppose—not that you’re keeping count. There’s too much blood drenching your hands, sticky and weighing on you like a pile of bricks as you burst into your shared home in the dead of night, the unconscious body of Shadowheart slumped over your back. Gale rushes to the kitchen immediately for supplies while Lae’zel slams the door shut, shoving her sword against the wall.

“Give her to me,” the githyanki demands as she picks up Shadowheart like a sack of potatoes. The half-elf groans loudly, and you hiss.

“She’s bleeding, Lae’zel, be careful!”

“I’m always careful,” she snaps back and lays your companion across the dining room table. And finally, in the light of a few flickering candles, you can see the damage that’s been done.

A large slash runs through her pelvis to just below her chest, and you can hear Gale swallow the lump in his throat before desperately resuming his rummage through the cabinets for a healing potion. Even if he’s injured too, he doesn’t seem to notice. She’s bleeding—too much for you to handle but enough for you to keep your eyes glued to her pained expression. Even unconscious, the pain seems to seep into her dream as she grunts, gasping for her breath.

It was a mistake. You should have gone in the morning. You should have been with them.

“We used all our healing potions in the battle. We need to make more,” he reaches for the cabinet where he keeps most of his ingredients. However, as he begins grinding them together, he stops and whips around to Lae’zel. “Victims outside the Blushing Mermaid. They might come back for them.”

“For corpses?” you answer for her.

“For their blood, dammit! Their children were there, alive and afraid,” he hisses at the pain of his own injuries. “Please, go check on them in my stead.”

She glares. “Tchk. What a stupid suggestion. In this pathetic state that all of you are in-”

You push her toward the door with all that remains of your strength. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Her brows furrow, but she scoffs, relenting. “Fine. This is the last time I clean up your messes.”

You know she doesn’t mean it.

Once she leaves, you’re hunched over Shadowheart, dabbling in your less-than-effective means of soothing her. You can only hear Gale, who keeps feeding her healing potions, but it’s not nearly enough if her groans tell you anything. She needs a potion of greater healing at best, and those haven’t been exactly plentiful in supply after most of the city’s potion shops were destroyed in the war against the illithids. Another thing you should have done is stock up on potions. But you’d thought your group had had enough—at least, sufficient for a few more battles.

He rushes into the other room, mumbling about making a potion from scratch.

You clutch at Shadowheart’s hand, praying Gale would hurry up to cease the way she writhes under the candlelight. All you see is the red staining her clothes.

When you think things can’t possibly get worse, you hear the top stair creak under someone’s weight.

You must be cursed by at least one god. You’re sure of it.

He looks nearly starved. Almost as if he hadn’t drunk in days—but surely he hadn’t been this bad just this morning? His face is pale, though it’s always been white as a sheet, and his crimson glare is glued to the blood dripping off the edges of the table like a harpy with their luring songs. You feel your stomach drop as you recall you hadn’t even had the guts to stare at him in the face, and perhaps he had looked this bad. Maybe that’s why he’d approached you in the first place and asked about the Fist—not to spite you in a taunting manner, but simply because he was starving.

Whatever happened to drinking from the ladies at Sharess’ Caress?

You don’t have time to ask; honestly, you don’t want to know the answer either.

You’re convinced he might have fed off of nothing but the rats he loathes with how sunken his eyes appear from the bags forming beneath them. The overwhelming scent of blood must have lured him out. Even you would have plugged your nose if you weren’t so concerned over your friend's wellbeing, and it’s then that you realize what he’s truly here for.

Almost instinctively, you step in front of Shadowheart, hand going to reach for your dagger. You grasp at nothing but the air.

Shit.

His lips stretch into a dangerous smile. One that is not welcome right now. “Why the hostility, darling?”

“Go back upstairs. I’m warning you.” It’s just you, Gale, and an unconscious Shadowheart in the room at the hands of the hungry vampire, practically ravenous for blood. While you’re sure Gale could handle himself as long as he doesn’t succumb to his injuries, you have nothing in your possession but Shadowheart’s hand and a candle on the table. And on top of this, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to protect Shadowheart in the crossfire if a fight breaks out.

Your mouth feels dry. You can taste blood in your mouth, but you only realize moments later that it’s your own.

Your mind flashes back to the spawn who nearly killed you mere weeks ago. They’d had the same simmering hunger in their eyes, keen to kill in favor of satiating the endless longing for blood. The same spawn managed to overpower you with such a drastic difference in strength, making you wonder what Astarion himself is capable of. He’s had decades more experience and killing—perhaps he’s even stronger.

No, he’s definitely stronger.

When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

“Oh, poor Shadowheart,” he taunts. “She’s already lost so much blood…”

“And she’s not losing anymore.” You don’t dare to lift your eyes from Astarion.

The hammering of your chest, the quickening of your breath—they are all things that he does not feel. You wonder if he feels anything at all. You’re sure he’s capable of hatred, he’s capable of reveling in the blood of his enemies, and he’s capable of laughing as he stabs a blade into a man’s eye.

But you wonder if that cold, dead heart of his can feel anything but for himself.

“You look unsettled,” he mocks. “Shall I drink from her? She certainly wouldn’t survive in the state she’s in, though…it would be a bit of a waste, don’t you think?”

You taste blood again from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not sure if it’s just the booze driving insanity to your head or the encounter with a spawn just minutes ago, but the look in his eyes makes your chest tighten. The hunger, the bloodthirst, and the sheer drive to satiate his vampiric needs are enough to make you feel like prey cornered by a starved owlbear. He doesn’t look himself. He seems more like the spawn who’d nearly killed you. And for the first time since you awoke to his fangs bared at your neck during a night at the camp, you see him for what he is.

A vampire spawn—a monster.

This is not your Astarion. In fact, he’d never existed. He’d never loved you, and while you believed his care was enough at the time, you think that might’ve not existed either. This is not the same man who reassured you in your times of need, praised your very being, and gazed at you with nothing but love as you excitedly showed him your new pieces of music. This is not someone who had looked utterly confused when you confessed you wanted more with him because he could not imagine being a priority to someone else. This is not the same man who you once called your lover.

Your lover would not choke you to the brink of death, with nothing but malice urging him on. Perhaps you stopped the ritual from taking his soul, but maybe something else had taken it anyway. And you’re finished making a fool of yourself, hoping he reciprocates a love he cannot give.

When he steps down the stairs, the butter knife that sat on the table seconds before, flies through the air.

Whoever this is, you decide you do you hate him. You’ll force yourself to forget what he was to you if you have to, the same way he did to you. And this time, there is no hesitance or lingering feelings behind your words that represent the weak, naive part of you that can’t help but hold onto memories that no longer matter.

You truly, utterly hate him.

The knife barely flies past his skin, piercing itself into the wall, and it relieves you of the tension that’s weighed on you for the past few months, like plucking a thread from a poorly sewn piece of cloth.

“I won’t miss next time,” you snarl, your words laced with poison and your glare filled with daggers. It's a tone you rarely use on enemies, much less your allies, but all you can think about is your unconscious companion lying behind you.

For once, he looks almost surprised. His eyes are wide, unblinkingly staring at the bloody butter knife that nearly sliced off the tip of his nose before drifting over to you. You heave, your chest rising up and down as you try to catch the breath that doesn’t seem to exist, and he raises both his brows.

“Threatening me with a butter knife? Really?”

You've never threatened him at all, really. Not even when he first asked you for your blood. But now, even that seems like an afterthought.

“Go,” you spit.

He looks at the blood dripping wastefully on the floor, then at you. His face finally falls, but he wets his lips with his tongue glazing over his fangs, and it boils your blood enough to make you lightheaded. And though the breath you’d been grasping at comes back to you when he turns to disappear back upstairs, his parting words do little to ease the squeamish feeling in your stomach.

“I prefer this spiteful part of you far more, darling.”

You fight the urge to use the candle as a weapon next.

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@bitterrenegade@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst #angst with a happy ending #maybe

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azrielmasterlist · 4 months ago

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His Shadows & Their Starlight

Storyline:-(Ver.2.0) Azriel is sitting next to Elain as you sit by the fireplace reading. You've been staying with Azriel, Cassian, and Rhysand for the past two months in Velaris. You're a mortal but Rhysand says you have different abilities that no mortal should be able to have. For example, winnowing or teleporting. Azriel is in love with Elain Archeron even though Elain already has a mate.

Word count:- 1.2k

Warnings:- Insecurity, Lonliness, Jealousy, Angst.

Series:- Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Chapter 5: Unspoken Words

Isla's POV

The days blurred together, each one more tangled than the last. The weight of unspoken things pressed against me, a silent reminder of the tension that had taken root between Azriel and me.

He avoided me now, or at least tried to. His presence was still a constant shadow in my life—both literally and figuratively. Even when I didn’t see him, I felt him. His shadows brushed against me in moments of quiet, soft and fleeting like they were checking in on me.

It should have made me feel uneasy, but it didn’t.

Instead, it felt like we were speaking a language that only we could understand. A language that Azriel himself didn’t seem to know how to handle.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

One evening, I found myself sitting by the Sidra, watching the water shimmer under the moonlight. The city was quiet, the kind of peaceful that only came when most of its inhabitants had retired for the night.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice him approach me until his shadows brushed against my arm.

I looked up, my heart skipping a beat when I saw him standing there, his wings partially furled, his face unreadable in the dim light.

“Isla,” he said, his voice low and rough.

I nodded in acknowledgement, unsure of what to say.

For a moment, he simply stood there, as though debating whether to join me. Then, finally, he sat down, leaving a careful distance between us. His shadows, however, had no such reservations. They curled around me, brushing against my skin like they were saying hello.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I said softly, breaking the silence.

Azriel didn’t respond right away. He stared out at the water, his jaw tight. “I thought it would be better that way.”

“Better for who?”

“For both of us.”

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. “Do you believe that?”

He turned to look at me then, his hazel eyes burning with something I couldn’t quite name. “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Help me understand why you’re so determined to push me away.”

His wings shifted, the movement agitated. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” I pressed.

“Because I’m not free to feel this way,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

The rawness of his confession hit me like a physical blow. I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“I have a bond,” he said, his gaze dropping to the ground. “A bond that ties me to someone else. Someone who doesn’t… who can’t love me back.”

“Elain,” I whispered, the name heavy on my tongue.

He nodded, his shadows retreating slightly as though they, too, felt the weight of his words.

“But she’s not with you,” I said carefully. “She’s with Lucien.”

“That doesn’t change the bond,” he said, his voice filled with self-loathing. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m supposed to love her.”

Three Sisters For Three Brother

“Supposed to,” I echoed, my heart aching for him. “But do you?”

His silence was answer enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days after that conversation were quieter. Azriel and I kept our distance, but his shadows were still there, ever-present and watchful.

I found myself studying them more, trying to decipher the way they moved, and the way they seemed to react to my emotions. They weren’t just an extension of Azriel’s power—they were a part of him, a reflection of his innermost self.

And they were telling me a story that he couldn’t.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We crossed paths again a few nights later, this time in the library. I had come to lose myself in the comfort of books, hoping to quiet the storm of thoughts in my mind. But the moment I saw him sitting there, his wings tucked close to his body, I knew it wouldn’t be a peaceful night.

“Isla,” he said, his voice soft but strained.

“Azriel.” I hesitated, then sat down across from him.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up, his hazel eyes meeting mine. “And?”

“And I think you’re lying to yourself.”

His wings twitched, but he didn’t respond.

“You say you’re supposed to love Elain,” I continued, “but your shadows… they tell a different story.”

His gaze sharpened, his shadows curling around him protectively. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” I asked, leaning forward. “They’re always there, Azriel. Always with me. They’re trying to tell me something, even if you won’t.”

For a moment, he simply stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he stood, his shadows flickering like a storm around him.

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice raw. “I can’t be what you need.”

“Who said I need you to be anything?” I shot back, standing as well. “I’m not asking for your love, Azriel. I’m asking for your honesty.”

He turned away, his wings flaring slightly. “I can’t give you that either.”

And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the shadows he’d left behind.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The conversation replayed in my mind over and over again, each word cutting deeper than the last.

I didn’t understand why he was so determined to push me away, why he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. But I did understand one thing: his shadows didn’t lie.

They were his heart, his truth, even if he couldn’t admit it.

And they were reaching for me.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning, I found Azriel in the training yard again. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I marched straight up to him, ignoring the wary look he gave me.

“We need to talk,” I said firmly.

He sighed, sheathing his blade. “Isla—”

“No,” I interrupted. “You don’t get to walk away from this. Not this time.”

His wings tensed, but he didn’t argue.

“I don’t care about the bond,” I said, my voice trembling. “I don’t care about what you think you’re supposed to feel. All I care about is what’s real. What’s here, between us.”

His shadows stirred, reaching for me even as he tried to hold them back.

“You’re afraid,” I said, stepping closer. “Afraid of what this means. But you don’t have to be.”

For a moment, he simply stared at me, his hazel eyes filled with so much emotion that it took my breath away. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against mine.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” I said, lacing my fingers with his.

His shadows wrapped around us then, a silent promise that we weren’t alone.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged.

Taglist:- @donnadiddadog @onebadassunicorn-blog @wintersquirrel @rcarbo1

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jkparkin · 2 months ago

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Bitter Root: The Next Movement #2 (Image Comics, April 2025) cover by Sanford Greene

#sanford greene #bitter root #bitter root: the next movement #comics #comic books #cover art #comic covers #image comics

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lisalamona · 4 months ago

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𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 - VII

Chapter VII: Survive

. Summary: Despite your brother's insistence, you stubbornly decided to join him and his men in the war. Now, are you prepared to face the consequences of your actions? . Pairing: Various x Fem! Reader (platonic) . Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, death, trauma, and other sensitive content. . Notes: View notes at the end of the chapter.

Previous chapter │ Next chapter

Masterlist

The force of the cyclops’s fist slamming into the cave floor sent shockwaves through the ground, making you and those nearby jump and crash back down with a thud. Before the beast could swipe at you, a hand yanked you to your feet and dragged you into a sprint toward the cave’s mouth.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw Eurylochus, his face tight with concern, silently asking if you were okay. You gave a quick nod. You weren’t fine—not really. Terror gripped every part of you, but physically, you were unscathed, and you hoped it would stay that way.

The cave was chaos. Men scrambled to flee, shouting over each other in panic, bumping into one another as they ran. But then, above the clamor, a commanding voice cut through:

“My brothers!” Odysseus shouted, his tone sharp and steady. A few men skidded to a halt, turning toward him, their panic momentarily dulled. “The rest of our fleet waits on the beach. If we’re defeated here, they’re as good as dead! If we want to survive, we must fight this beast!”

His words brought a grim clarity. There was no escape without defeating the monster. The only way forward was through.

Odysseus waved for the crew to follow him, leading you all to a sheltered spot behind a large rock. The cyclops, now visibly disoriented, lumbered slowly in search of its prey, its single blood-red eye scanning for movement. Its sheer size worked against it—its slowness bought you precious moments.

The little lotus eater clinging to your shoulder tightened its grip on your hair so it wouldn’t fall, making you wince. A hand reached over, gently prying the creature free. Polites cradled it in his arms, carefully peeling its tiny paws away from your strands.

When you met his eyes, you saw the tension there—a somber, bitter expression that didn’t suit him. He noticed you watching and forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Polites wasn’t a coward; far from it. But he hated violence, especially this kind of confrontation.

Your attention snapped back to Odysseus as he rallied the crew: “No backup, no support. This is our fight! Draw your swords!” His voice rang with conviction, his tone sharp as steel. “Our foe must fall right here and now or none of us leave this cave alive!”

The men, though trembling with fear, drew their swords. Their hands shook, their breaths were shallow, but they stood ready. Odysseus paced before them, his voice rising with urgency.

“Six hundred lives depend on us! It’s just one life to take! When we kill him, our journey is over. Defeat is not an option! No dying on me now. We will live through this day! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

With his command, the crew charged forward, driven by fear, determination, and the need to escape this nightmare.

You stood frozen, sword at your side. For the first time in a long while, true terror rooted you to the ground. Normally, you’d have leapt into the fray without hesitation, eager to prove yourself. But this… this was different. The cyclops loomed like a force of nature, something far beyond anything you’d ever faced.

Still, a voice whispered inside you—a small but resolute spark. If you don’t go, what happens if someone falls because you weren’t there to help?

Your grip tightened on the hilt of your sword, your knuckles whitening. The trembling in your hands didn’t stop, but you ignored it. Slowly, you began to unsheathe your blade.

A hand landed on your shoulder. You spun around, startled, to find Polites watching you, his expression soft but serious.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.

“I need to,” you replied, your voice firm despite the fear constricting your chest. You fully unsheathed the sword, the metal catching the dim light of the cave. “I’m sorry.”

Without another word, you sprinted toward the fight.

“Surround him!” Your brother’s voice boomed and echoed through the cave, sharp and commanding. It cut through the chaos like a blade, and every soldier by his side obeyed without hesitation. You fell into step, following his warnings like a shadow. “Attack from behind! Keep your distance and stay in his blind spot! Strike at his heels!”

The cyclops stumbled, disoriented and enraged, its massive form lurching as if it couldn’t keep up with the swarm of tiny, darting figures. It swiped at the air, its colossal hands narrowly missing their marks. Each miss fueled the soldiers' confidence.

You swallowed hard, gripping your sword tightly as you surged forward. Your feet pounded against the ground, each step echoing in your ears like a war drum. As the cyclops lashed out, you ducked beneath its sweeping arm and slid toward its right foot. With all the momentum of your sprint, you slashed at its heel, blood spurting from the wound as a furious roar shook the cavern.

Heart racing, you dashed to the other side of the beast where Odysseus stood, his eyes ablaze with focus. The cyclops bellowed, shaking the ground beneath you, as more soldiers followed your lead, cutting at its heels.

“What are you doing?!” your brother barked, his voice tinged with a note of panic. His piercing gaze locked onto yours.

“I’m helping you!” you retorted, wiping sweat from your brow. Before he could object, you cut him off. “Don’t tell me you don’t need it, brother. We’re less than a tenth of what we were when we fought in Troy!”

For a moment, Odysseus looked as though he wanted to argue, but his shoulders slumped in reluctant defeat. “You should’ve stayed with Polites,” he muttered, his tone resigned.

You glanced back at the cave’s entrance, where Polites stood frozen, clutching the lotus eater. “Well, I’m sorry, brother but—”

“Captain,” he interrupted firmly, though exhaustion dulled the edge of his voice. “Right now, I’m your captain. And I need you with that group over there.” He pointed to a cluster of archers stationed near the cave wall, their arrows at the ready. “Go. And for the gods’ sake, don’t pull another stunt like that.”

For a moment, you forgot about the cyclops entirely and allowed a small smile to tug at your lips. “Yes, sir.” Without hesitation, you sprinted toward the archers, determined to prove your worth.

Odysseus’s voice rang out again, cutting through the din of the battle. “Exhaust him! Don’t let him get close—he’s strong, but he’s slow. Keep your distance! Stand up and fight for your lives!”

The archers quickly briefed you on their plan: aim for the cyclops’ eye. A direct hit could tip the scales in their favor, but any misfire at its feet risked injuring their comrades. Your brother had taught you well—wielding a bow and arrow was second nature. You nocked an arrow and drew it back, your aim steady despite the chaos.

“Push forward!” Odysseus shouted, his voice an anchor amidst the storm. The soldiers surged, the cyclops howling in frustration as its blows continued to miss.

Then, the ground trembled.

The cyclops reached into a pile of scattered food and unearthed a massive club, gnarled and menacing. Time seemed to freeze as it gripped the weapon in both hands. Its single eye scanned the battlefield, landing squarely on Polites. The two locked gazes. Polites didn’t flinch outwardly, but you knew the terror that gripped him.

“Polites!” you screamed, your feet already moving before the cyclops raised the club. Your name rang out—Odysseus, frantic—but you ignored it, your only focus on reaching Polites in time.

With a desperate lunge, you shoved him out of the way just as the club came crashing down. The impact shook the cavern, dust and debris flying as a deep crater formed where Polites had stood moments before. His glasses were obliterated, shards scattered amidst the wreckage.

“You idiot!” Polites stammered, his voice trembling. His hands shook as he gripped your arm. “You could’ve—”

“No time for that!” you snapped, hauling him to his feet. The cyclops growled, raising the club again. You grabbed Polites’s free hand and bolted, zigzagging to avoid drawing attention.

“He’s got a club. HE’S GOT A CLUB!” a soldier shouted, panic spreading like wildfire. The cyclops swung wildly, its weapon connecting with bone and flesh. The sickening sound of the blow was followed by a soldier’s scream that was abruptly cut short. Warm blood splattered across your face, staining your already sullied clothes.

Your steps faltered, nausea clawing its way up your throat. Not that there was much to expel—rations had been scarce for days. Polites steadied you with a trembling hand on your back, his fear palpable yet grounding.

“Captain!” Someone cried desperately. “What are our orders?” When he didn’t receive an answer he got more scared, “Captain? CAPTNI—” He met the same fate as the last man who dared to speak.

Odysseus stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the growing pile of bodies. Blood streaked his face, and for the first time, you saw something you’d never expected from him: fear.

The cyclops bellowed, its deep voice vibrating the walls. “Enough!” it roared, its words thick with rage. “Six hundred lives I’ll take, six hundred lives I’ll break! And when I kill you, my pain will be over!” It was almost as if it was mocking Odysseus.

It swung again, the club obliterating everything in its path. Another soldier fell, then another, until the cyclops paused, heaving with exertion. “You're dying here and now,there is no escape from this. You won't live through this day, now die, di-i-i—” Suddenly, its eye fluttered. A strange, sluggish glaze overtook its features, and it swayed unsteadily.

The cyclops staggered, its movements slowing until, with a thunderous crash, it collapsed to the ground. Silence blanketed the cave, save for the labored breaths of the surviving soldiers.

. Notes: After about three rewrites, I finally finished it. Do I like how it turned out? No, but I'll have to deal with it. You won!!! I let Polites live, are you happy?! Now I've gotta figure out how to fit him into the rest of the story. And I'm not saying he's safe from dying, because, y'know, his death is one of the most important events in Epic, and I don't want to lose what it causes. Sooo, I guess I'll have to keep you all on your toes. Sorry for making this chapter short, it's just one big fight scene, and I suck at those :( Anyway, last chapter of the year!!! Wooooo!! Sorry the last chapter of the year is so bad :(

#epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #greek mythology x reader #platonic x reader

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graphicpolicy · 4 months ago

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Bitter Root returns in March 2025 with "The Next Movement"

Bitter Root returns in March 2025 with "The Next Movement" #comics #comicbooks

Bestselling creative trio David F. Walker, Chuck Brown, and Sanford Greene will usher in a bold new chapter to their epic, multiple Eisner Award-winning series Bitter Root with the upcoming “The Next Movement” story arc. Bitter Root: The Next Movement will kick off a new, five issue installment in the long running series will launch in March 2025 from Image Comics. In Bitter Root: The Next…

#bitter root #bitter root: the next movement #chuck brown #comic books #Comics #david f. walker #image comics #sanford greene

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celtigxr · 7 months ago

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THE PINK DREAD - CH. 15 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: The servants are whispering, and the gossip is flowing. Someone is besmirching Valeana Celtigar's name. Word Count: 3807 CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ Smut MDNI, nudity, sexual frustration, angst, Angy!Aemond

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: New Look. I'm too lazy to update the previous chapters. Also I decided to put the sneak peaks for the next chapter at the end of chapters for now on. Also, I'm not putting the smut acts in the chapter warnings. Feels like it ruins the mood. Unless its dubcon and the like, there's no need. Y'all just need to know some hanky panky happened.

The torch clattered onto the floor and rolled until it hit the red stone walls that trapped them. Little embers flew upon impact, twirling around in the air, reflecting the white hot sparks that spread throughout Valeana’s body like a forest fire that started from her loins. She was breathing heavily, hot and bothered for an entirely new reason, an entirely new sensation.

Valeana’s mind was wiped clean, and replaced with longing. All her hurt, anger, bitterness wiped clean, and it was replaced by Aemond and his hands, and his lips, and his blazing amethyst eye. Perhaps this was a mistake; perhaps she will regret it when she was of a sounder mind. But the future did not matter, all that mattered was feeling him on her body, after all these years of yearning it.

Aemond’s fingers atop her breasts sent a ripple of goosebumps all over her body, almost effectively sobering her. But her head spun, and her sense of self was lost when she got drunk off of the look on his face and the simple heat of his palm upon her. Then he fell to his knees and his lips found purchase on top of her mounds, and his frenzied hands grasped and pulled at her bodice, loosening up the laces and freeing her chest.

“Ooh,” Valeana’s eyes fluttered when she felt his thumbs run over the beaded nipple through the thin material of her chemise. The sound encouraged him, gently pushing her against the rough wall by pressing his chest against her stomach. A growl escaped his throat and vibrated against her chest. The sensation and the sound both sent a wave of heat that pooled at the apex of her thighs.

Val’s hands found the back of his head, fingers carding through the silky silver strands, and catching under the leather strap of his eyepatch. Feeling it made her hesitant and careful, not knowing how he would react should she move it and expose the wounded eye. The last thing she wanted was to ruin this moment…This dream come alive.

Aemond gave a rough tug of the bodice, finally getting it fully open. Her breasts spilled out of the collar of her chemise in the one swift movement. He groaned loudly, hungerly as his nose nuzzled between them, both hands kneading the pillowed flesh and pinching her tiny but hard nipples. Valeana gave a soft mewl as her head fell back and her fingers gripped his hair at the roots. When his tongue snaked out and lapped a strip between her breasts, tasting her sweat and skin, she gasped and nearly melted in his embrace.

“Gods, Aemond…”

At the sound of his name being said so sweetly, he pulled her closer to his body. His greedy lips and tongue moved over to her right breast and lapped up her nipple like a babe starved. She squealed, causing an echo to disturb the silence of the barren passageway.

Aemond inhaled her scent deeply, keeping her hard bud in his mouth, and then exhaled a growl of need.

“Valeana,” He purred into her chest, “Valeana, Valeana, Val– Mmmm…”

He spoke her name like a prayer, and then inhaled her nipple, suckling on it with such vigor it was almost painful. Aemond then moved onto the other, repeating the same ritual with his teeth and tongue, while keeping the other occupied with his eager fingers.

She looked down at him in her cloud of pleasure. Down at Aemond. Aemond Targaryen. In her deepest, darkest desires, she had dreamt of this moment all her life. She imagined his touch would send her skin on fire, and the reality exceeded it. It was always meant to be him; her first everything. Her body was always meant to be his. They were born under the same moon, and grew up orbiting each other.

Perhaps if she was of a sober mind, she wouldn’t have let it get this far. She would’ve allowed her resentment and anger towards him to win, as it always did. But her walls were down, and she was not only drunk on wine and ale, but drunk on his touches, his sounds, and his scent. His touch was an addiction like no other.

Valeana peered down at him through the light curtain of her lashes, completely hypnotized by the sight of him worshiping her tits. Her shy hands migrated to the sides of his face, gently pulling him away so he could look at her.

“Aemond,” her gentle plea reached his ears. His eye flickered up to her, and he reluctantly pulled away from her nipple with an obscene wet ‘pop’. Aemond’s lips were absolutely plush and slick with his spit, and the sight of it filled her with all encompassing hunger.

With her hands cupping his face, he silently understood her request.Slowly raising to his feet, Aemond bent over ever so slightly so his nose could touch hers. One of his hands moved up to cup her cheek, and the other moved to take a hold of the back of her neck. Their lips were hovering over each other, breathing in the other’s air. One of Valeana’s thumbs trailed over the bottom of his lip, and the other ghosted over the corner of the scar that escaped the shield of his eyepatch.

“Aemond,” she sighed his name, her breathing becoming laboured with need. “Please.”

Their lips were a hair apart when something stirred behind his eye. As if his soul returned to his body, and he was no longer just a suit of flesh and manly desire. Valeana’s chest caved in doleful defeat as she witnessed regret and clarity breach the fog of lust. In an act of divine symbolism, light peaked through the small diamond shaped holes in the wall and lit up Aemond’s lilac eye. He pulled away from her slowly, yet purposefully, still breathing hard. Then his chin raised in the way he does when he wishes to appear above someone. In the end, it only gave her a perfect view of the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed after he pinched his lips shut and swallowed his desire, deep down to the bottom where it could no longer be reached.

Now aware of her state of undress, Valeana looked down, utterly ashamed as she gathered herself in her arms, and shielding her vanity from him.

She shivered, suddenly feeling so cold.

Ellyn did not remember much of how she returned back to the Northern Tower where she, her sisters, and her father were residing. She vaguely remembered the Throne Room, and saying goodbye unwillingly to Wylla Stark as she was shoved into a wheelhouse at the main gates, kicking and screaming. Though it appeared that when she arrived back, her family were in a deep sleep, and she managed to find her way to her bed, stumbling in the dark without incident.

But then the morning came, and she was greeted by the offending sun when little Floris pulled open the curtains. Her head was pounding, her eyes, mouth and nose as dry as Sandstone. She clung to her covers and buried her face in her pillow, desperately clinging to a few more minutes of sleep.

“Where were you?” Cassandra asked while they broke fast. She at least waited for her Lord Father to leave in favour of male companionship before she started her interrogation. “I told father you were sound asleep, but I waited for you for hours.”

Ellyn moved around her food on her plate, suddenly having no appetite for ham. She mumbled something about losing track of time with Lady Stark and Lady Celtigar.

Cassandra made a face, “You mean Valeana?”

Ellyn simply nodded in response.

Her eldest sister made a noise of disapproval, “Stay away from that one. She is a bad influence, from what I heard.”

“And where have you heard that?” Ellyn’s voice was a little harsher than she intended, but she blamed it on her dry throat and splitting headache.

Cassandra shrugged innocently, “I’ve heard whispers.”

“From Floris Grafton, specifically,” Maris smiled down at the book she was cradling in her hand. She briefly glanced up at Cassandra, “Do not pretend you have a network of spies in the Keep already. Everything you know about Valeana is from her step-sister. Who is quite obviously green with envy.”

Cassandra scoffed at that, “Nonsense. Floris – not you, dear – has a good head on her shoulders. She’s warned me about her; about her being spotted alone with Prince Aegon on multiple occasions at odd hours of the day and night, and I do not get me started on her whole childish feud with Prince Aemond.”

At this, Maris’s attention to her book was lost, “What about Prince Aemond?”

The eldest sister leaned forward, eager to share what she knew, “Well, apparently they were to be betrothed when they were children. But he was so disgusted by her, he pushed her down the stairs to get rid of her. The Celtigars fled back to Claw Isle, and according to her own step-sister, Valeana has been plotting revenge ever since.”

Ellyn’s brow was so furrowed it could have been mistaken for a unibrow, “That is complete and utter rubbish, Cassandra. That is not at all what happened.”

“Oh? And how would you know?”

“She told me!”

“And you believe her?”

“Yes!”

“Hm, I’m going to have to side with Ellyn on this,” Maris leaned back in her seat, rouge starting to dust the tops of her ears and cheeks. “Prince Aemond would never do that.”

Everyone, including little Floris who had been quiet the entire time, silently absorbing all that was being said, turned to the second sister.

“And how would you know?”

Maris shrugged coyly, “I met him in the library yestereve. We conversed for some time, and…” She trailed off as she bit her lip shyly, “And he was beyond charming. He even went out of his way to escort me home afterwards. He was quite the gentleman, and I don’t see him capable of purposely harming a little girl.”

Ellyn narrowed her eyes at her sister curiously. She opened her mouth to say something, but didn’t know what to say. What little she remembered from last night were the emotional conversations she shared with her new friends; the knowledge of Valeana’s true feelings towards the prince was seared into memory.

Wait, didn’t he volunteer to escort Valeana back to the Holdfast last night?

Yes, that was the last time she saw her friend. As small pieces started to fall in place, Ellyn could just vaguely remember words being shared. Something about bacon and eggs, and two princes fighting over a white-golden haired maiden. Valeana. They were fighting over a drunk Valeana.

An image of her being tucked under Aemond’s chin flashed in her mind. When Ellyn looked over at her sister, her face was aglow with béguin.

A large smile crept on Cassandra’s face, “Why, Maris, my dear sister. Are you telling me that you and Prince Aemond One-Eye shared an intimate moment? Tell me everything.”

Ellyn suddenly felt nauseous… From dread this time.

Aemond woke up well into noon, feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. His unconscious mind spun him in an helter skelter whirlwind of emotions and memories, from those in the far past, to those that happened recently. Amongst the chaos of it all, he could hear conversations and see visions that he could not distinguish as fact or torturous fiction. He relieved the moments of bliss he indulged himself in between Valeana’s breasts, his face nuzzled in the pillows of his bed as if they were the real thing, and his hips rutted into his mattress with the unquenchable need that built up to agony. But suddenly she was pulled away from him, and he was nailed to the ceiling as he watched Aegon claim her body. His brother, bare, laying on red silk sheets, and Valeana straddling his hips and throwing her head back whilst Aegon assaulted her neck and chest with his hands and lips.

He became a martyr to his greatest insecurities, screaming down at them, and trying to pull his hands free from the coffin nails that held him. Aemond’s voice was mute, and instead all around him were the voices of others, chanting things in his subconscious.

“That’s it, Val, keep going.” “I know my sister. She hungers for attention…” “You will make amends with Lady Valeana. She did not deserve what you did to her that day.” “You do not need to make this more difficult than it needs to be.” “I forgive you. It was an accident. I forgive you.” “This your plan, huh? Finish off what you started?” “Jikagon raqagon aōha līvi, lēkia. Issa daor aōhon bisa bantis.” “Shall I describe it to you? Her delicious, untouched cunny–” “Aemond… Please.”

Aemond woke to the sound of Valeana’s moans and pleas echoing in his ears. He was sweating profusely, chest heaving, a patch of dampness stained the crotch of his smallclothes. He sat for a good while on the edge of his featherbed, soiled clothes torn off, with fingers pressed to his eye. However that didn’t alleviate anything, he ended up agitating it, because whenever he shut his eye he could still see her breasts and her flushed face in the colours and shapes that danced around behind his lid.

It was almost easy to convince himself that what had happened last night was simply a delusion created in a fretful sleep, but the memory still existed on his fingertips, lips, and the smell of her sweat still lingered on his nose. No, that actually happened…He did the very thing that he accused his brother of potentially doing.

All the emotions he had felt post act came flooding to him like an afterbirth. In the briefest of seconds when he nearly coveted her lips with his own, lucidity came to him like an intrusive thought. Guilt crashed upon his head, and with his thoughts working as fast as lightning, he realized several fundamental truths:

He was taking advantage of her, like his brother would have.

He was weak willed, like his brother was.

He did not protect his heart, like Cole advised him to do.

She had manipulated him, like Floris told him she would.

She was a poison, made to weaken him.

She was drunk, she wouldn’t have allowed him to touch her otherwise.

Because she hated him. She hated him. She hated him.

He lifted his head and surveyed his bedchambers. It was a mess. Accent tables were flipped over, a carafe of wine shattered on the floor, leaving a puddle of red staining the flagstone floors and seeping into the carpet. Scrolls and books tossed about, and shards of vases littered amongst them. Amidst the evidence of his guilt-riddled anger, he spotted his eyepatch under pieces of amber coloured glass.

After the passageway, the rest of the journey to the Holdfast was painfully silent as he kept a safe distance from her. Valeana trailed ten feet away from him, head bowed to avoid the curious stares of the servants that walked by. They didn’t bother attempting to hide their walk of shame, though there was no evidence of their tryst in the passageways. Aemond smoothed out his hair, and Valeana fastened her bodice securely, and combed her hair as much as she could before they exited into the corridor. He looked immaculate, albeit a little flushed, and she still looked sweaty and dazed. For those who witnessed him escort her back to her apartments mutely, it would just seem like he was doing a duty as a gentleman and a prince by aiding a lady in need.

He said nothing to the guard at her door; he was a knight from Claw Isle, and therefore did not recognize him. Valeana did instead, simply telling him that she fell asleep in the gardens when Aemond found her. Her voice was hoarse yet meak, evidence of her exhaustion and emotional defeat. His name on her lips felt derogatory, as if it pained her to speak it. She didn’t even thank him when the guard ushered inside, though he didn’t expect her to. When it shut, the guard stared at him, eyes full of unspoken judgement. Aemond’s jaw clicked before turning on his heel and striding to his apartments on the other side of the Holdfast.

When he got there, the second his door closed behind him, all objects in his way were subjected to his wrath. Including the piece of leather strapped to his face.

With a growl, he got up from the edge of his bed and stepped carefully through the sharp litter strewn across his carpet, then bent down to swiftly pick the eyepatch off the ground. The corner was frayed a bit, likely by his finger nail when he tore it off. Staring at it critically, he pouted as yet another intrusive thought assaulted him

Valeana could mend this…

The mere thought of her name brought back the memories of what conspired not eight hours ago. With fingers curling into the leathered patch, he bit into his bottom lip and shut his eye, where he could see it so clearly. His hands could barely contain her breasts as they spilled in between his fingers. So soft and milky, it was like nursing from the teat of the Mother herself. The texture of her nipples still lingered on the tip of his tongue; they were so innocently small, surrounded by the wide light pink areolas he found so undeniably inviting.

And he could have had the memory of her lips too, had he continued. He could have the ghost of her tongue tangling with his. He could have had her legs wrapped around his lithe waist, and his throbbing cock break through her maidenhead. She could have been his last night, and again that morning.

There he went– Desiring her again.

With growl laced with frustration of various kinds, he grabbed onto the nearest object – a washstand with a full pitcher of water – and threw it across the room. Aemond turned sharply around, grasping a column of his four poster bed, and then used his other to reach down to his hardened shaft that curved up towards his stomach, begging for attention.

“Aemond… Please.”

“That’s it, beg for me.”

Aemond contemplated not leaving his room, but he needed to give space for the servants to restore it. Besides, it didn’t matter how many times he stroked himself with his reminiscences, he could not satiate the frustration he held for himself. Floris was irritably correct that her step-sister was making him out to be a fool. A weak fool who could not control his inflamed longing for a woman who he claimed to be indifferent to.

The need to put an obstacle between him and Valeana was paramount to him now. Maris Baratheon will prove to be useful as both a distraction and a weapon against impending gossip about him and Valeana. Gossip he was sure that she was responsible for. He can only assume what tales she will spin about what happened last night and that early morning.

He was crossing the courtyard towards the north tower when he saw his grandsire exit the Tower of the Hand.

“Ah, there you are,” Otto strode over to him with an expression that he couldn’t entirely read. It really infuriated Aemond that Otto Hightower was the only man he had difficulty reading.

Aemond braced himself for a lecture about the asinine theatrics of last night, since he had no doubt that the servants and guards that likely spied them in dark corners would have fed conjecture to the nearest purse with ears.

“Daeron has arrived. Tessarion was seen flying over the city towards the Dragonpit,” Aemond felt his shoulders relax. “I have arranged for my nephew, his new lady wife, and his sons to reside in my tower.”

Aemond nodded, “Anything else?”

Otto raised an eyebrow, “Remember Daeron is your brother, not a stranger, Aemond.”

“Of course, grandfather,” Aemond couldn’t care less about Daeron at this very moment.

“I expect you, Helaena and Aegon to bond with him, as siblings should. I’d imagine he feels like an outsider with his own kin.”

“Hm,” Aemond pursed his lips, “I’d imagine that wouldn’t be the case had he not been carted away the moment of his birth.”

Otto gave him the deadest of deadpan stares.

“And I’d imagine that is why he has a good head on his shoulders.”

The corner of Aemond’s lip curled into a poorly contained smirk, “By the end of the Conclave, grandfather, that may not be the case any longer.”

“Befriend him,” the Hand said authoritatively. “Do not corrupt him. What’s more, I want you to encourage his friendship with Floris Baratheon.”

At that, Aemond tilted his head at him, now recalling his conversation a while ago about the possibilities of betrothals between Celtigars and Targaryens. His grandsire never did answer his question about whether or not he wanted Daeron to wed a Celtigar, and now he understood why. He had his own schemes.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Aemond lifted his chin, “From what her sister tells me, young Floris is already head over heels for him, and they have not even met in person.”

Otto’s brow furrowed, “You speak to Borros’ daughters?”

The prince shrugged one of his shoulders, “They are guests in our home. Is it not obligatory to entertain them when we can?”

“It is, but I’ve known you long enough to know you would rather shovel your dragon’s shit into a pile than have to entertain young female courtiers for more than an hour.”

Aemond’s smile broadened, “As it happens, grandfather, Lady Maris proves to be stimulating company. She’s intelligent, and has a lot more to offer a conversation than most women. There is only so much that could be said about dresses, embroidery, and flowers.”

A little smirk appeared through the veil of Otto’s wiry mustache, “As I recall, Aemond, conversations about dresses, embroidery and flowers kept you well stimulated for near a decade.”

Aemond’s smile dropped.

Irritably, Otto changed the subject before Aemond could even find the words to rebuke his statement.

“We’ll sup with Daeron and my family tonight. I’ll inform Aegon, so you do not have to,” Otto began to walk away, but slowed his gait to cast a critical eye at his grandson over his shoulder. “And Aemond… Next time, let a guard escort her back. It will spare me from another problem I have to deal with.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN SNEAK PEAK “I came bearing gifts,” He smiled politely, gesturing to the items he was cradling in his arm. “And to ask you a favour.” She raised an eyebrow, looking at the bottle and bundle of canvas in his arms, and then back at him, “What’s the occasion?” Aegon’s eyes flickered to the guard and maid, and then back at her, “May we speak privately?”

Notes: Oh, you thought it was gonna be uphill from now on? Nope. We still cooking, babes. To quote Ewan: Aemond just needs to calm the heck down. Anywho, I hope you like the new format, new banner. Felt it was now appropriate to change things up a little bit.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

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yuellii · 1 year ago

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01. / Fate : BITE ME

vampire neuvillette / gn reader . completely sfw . dark themes

Fontaine : DARK BLOOD ; supernatural series m.list

There is a sensory contact, one that is cold and cutting upon the wake of his fingertips, all when he touches the beginnings of your hair against your head. You can see it in his eyes, the longing emptiness that's yet filled with a passing thought, or what you suspect to be the containment of a certain animalistic instinct he might desire so.

"I adore you," Neuvillette whispers, and he almost feels human as his words of admiration are traced along the roots of your hair above your ear. It brings a shiver down your spine, both from the chill of his breath and the deadly steel-like feeling of his hands. “Even as an outsider,” he breathes.

Pale, boney. He has not touched sunlight for obvious reasons.

You are not ignorant to the way his eyes flicker down to your neck and your collarbone; whether or not he himself noticed it seemed almost subconscious to his nature. This was a recent occurrence—his wandering eyes equated to the beginnings of your fear. For he was not like this at the start: when you first took him into shelter amidst the midnight pouring rain.

Back months ago, starved of blood at your doorstep yet still respectable. You did not fear for your life then when he looked at you like a human, and not his next supper.

You step back. “How heavy,” the remark flies from your tongue. It is only then, at the sound of your voice, does his gaze finally wander away from your neck. He meets your eyes with clouded daze and guilt. “You should consider the weight of your words before speaking them, Monsieur. Any other citizen may mistake your intentions if they hear you ‘adore them’.” For a moment, he looked surprised.

“Ah, it seems I still have more to learn about human speech,” he muses. And there’s a clear, apologetic tone laced in the fanged accent of his words. It almost makes your body less tense for just a moment. “But if you consider my words of adoration for you to be ‘heavy’,” he continues, “then I assure you, every one of my intentions you can assume is correct.”

He mutters aloud to himself. “I best believe, fate discovered you to save me.”

“Have you been eating enough lately?” you ask him one early morning, just as he lays to rest. The curtains are drawn, lightening dawn peeking through the tiniest of crevices.

“My blood intake?” he clarifies. And that’s when he turns on the bed to face you, feeling the weight of your body as you sit along his bedside. He closes his eyes momentarily, as if feeling for an answer, “It’s been sufficient, yes.” You can’t help but feel most normal like this—his laying eyes looking up as your back faces him from the bedside. The way he meets the gaze of your turned head. Perhaps it was times like these, times where he was so ghostly pretty, that you’re both most vulnerable. “Why do you ask?” he mutters, volume quieter than before.

You hummed, hand moving forward towards his laying figure to trace his loose strands of hair behind his head. “You seem…” For a lack of better words, you break the contact of your eyes. The luminescence of his gaze is far too piercing. “Hungrier, lately.”

He stays quiet, simply looking up at you with an innocence in his eyes you want to ignore. Perhaps that’s his form of denial, but you cannot control the sudden tenseness in your body at his lack of a verbal answer. He makes no movement, no response, no expression change—and yet, your body pulls itself taut in fear. Maybe he didn’t know how to answer, but you feel like you might die.

“Monsieur.”

There’s a bitterness seeped into the air, and when he slightly leaned into the touch of your hand combing his hair, you knew that he could sense your tension. Upon this morning dew, there is a lingering question yet to be vocalized between a human and a vampire.

“You won’t bite me, right?”

The sun rises, and he remains silent.

There’s a flicker of vulnerability in which he asks, “Would I have your consent to stay like this a little longer?” And it’s an early morning once again, right when he’s ready to rest just as you’re about to leave for the day.

It’s as he’s clinging onto your body for comfort, holding you with his arms around your waist in a way that’s starved of touch. And you, despite all warning signs, cannot help but cradle the heart of a lonely immortal. Because since his little ‘confession’ of adoration for you, you’ve noticed how much more longing and affectionate he’s become without words. You carry a sense of sympathy that can’t quite ignore him.

But your ignorance leads to a sudden threat—as his face glides from the side of your head to rest downwards at the crook of your neck. It feels sweet, it feels affectionate—but the assumptions and implications flood your mind so instantaneously your body immediately tenses from the feel of his cold lips against your skin. There’s a sudden hypersensitivity in your nerves, and your breath is stunned to stillness as your mind fears the feel of fangs.

Yet, there is not a touch of sharpness atop your skin. Instead, there is the feeling of his lips against your neck, turning downwards to indicate he is frowning. The way your body tensed in danger—he was hurt by it. You almost felt guilty.

It’s a sweet scent of nectar that suddenly secretes as he leans into you, kissing your neck and holding you tighter in this featherlight way. But there’s a desperation in his hold, one that grips tightly to the bunches of your clothes in his fists. He opens his mouth; You cannot feel his fangs, but you can feel his intentions.

“Will you ever let me?” he whispers along your skin.

You know what he’s asking.

Your hand instinctively reaches up to thread into his hair, resting at the back of his head. Perhaps it felt like a comforting touch to him, but you both knew it was so you could yank his head away from you if he bit down.

“Why,” is all you can initially ask, and there’s an air of disgust in your voice you can’t quite control. But who could blame you, when you’ve trusted this creature in your home for months? “Am I not providing you enough?” you ask him. His body is deathly still, but you’re beginning to tremble. “Or are you finally craving my blood? Do you have an urge to kill me, Neuvillette?”

He is intensely shocked by your questions, so much that his face backs away from your neck immediately in order to look up at your face. Your blood. It’s pumping crazy from the fear of death.

“No, no, please,” he is quick to insist. And that’s when he completely leans in, his lips meeting your open mouth to conceal your shallow breaths, and you can feel his fangs against your own lips. You can feel the desperation and obsession within him, once concealed by his clouded eyes and cluelessness of humanity. There’s a question in his kiss, once left unanswered yet one that is also begging for your attention. “Your death is not my interest,” he breaths against your mouth. “Just please, allow me to bite you.”

“I feel sick,” you whispered with seethed teeth, and he returns downwards to kiss a trail from your lips to your jaw. “You already know my answer.”

“I want to serve you for eternity,” he confesses simply, planting one final kiss of devotion to the crook of your neck. “I believe eternal loyalty to you is my fate in this world, and my veins have searched for you like destiny.”

And it’s now when coldness makes you gasp, the first time ever feeling his fangs rest against your neck. He rests them there atop your skin, one movement and he may bite down. Yet you are no longer stunned with the fear of death, but instead the confines of his outwardly obsession floods the depths of your mind—that is when it clicks: he wants to grant you immortality, only to spend it with him.

“Please, please,” he begs against your skin, and it sounds as if you are torturing him. “It is all I ask for.”

An eternal binding that leaves his mark forever on your neck, tying his soul to yours. And he is here, pleading tightly for your shared salvation. You feel a different sense of death.

“I won’t kill you,” he continues on amidst your silence, and you had forgotten his lack of humanly skills only made him ramble longer and longer. “I won’t, I swear to you.” He pulls your head closer to him, breathing against your neck. He was so close. So, so close. “Not when I’ve just found that my purpose is you.”

“Neuvillette…” you struggle out his name, almost choking.

“Will you say yes?” he continues on. And it’s now that you can feel the newfound shakiness in his own voice, one that indicates his patience is running thin. He was still not human. As polite or as much of a gentleman he could ever be, he still had his overcoming instinct of a devouring vampire, and you gulped. This was probably the end of your life.

Blind devotion, so sickening to your stomach.

But you gave your silent answer when your body relaxed itself, and when your head tilted to the side, but you could not tell whether you really wanted this or if you were just giving up a fruitless demise. Exposing the skin of your flesh to his fangs, they sunk in immediately. At the first taste of your blood, he was trembling, whining in his feast little mutters of ‘thank you’, and whispers of gratitude that sealed his fate to your own.

And when you fell back from loss of your blood, his arms caught you right before the hit of the floor. All the gruesomeness in the world; his lips stained with your blood trailed upwards to meet your own lips once more, the taste of iron stinging most evidently along your tongue.

Fate, it was his excuse to tie himself to you. And now the mark on your neck sealed his eternal devotion, forevermore.

Fontaine : DARK BLOOD ; supernatural series m.list

#🗡️ : Fontaine — DRK BLD #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette imagines #genshin x reader #neuvillette x you #genshin imagines #genshin x gender neutral reader #neuvilette x reader #neuvillette

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padawan-snack-packer · 20 hours ago

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Hi hello!! I saw you had 0 slots taken, can I request a Senator Aide!Reader x Commander Cody please? If you don't want to write it it's okay!!

"Of Dinners and Blasters", a Commander Cody x Senator Aide! Reader Ficlet

Anon, sweet chaotic soul — I saw this and immediately blacked out and woke up clutching a datapad, drenched in secondhand embarrassment and thirst.

So yes. You may have this ridiculous, flirtation-disaster, Senate-holo-map-humiliation, slow-burn hot mess. 🫡

✨ Featuring: - One (1) overworked and underqualified Senate aide - A tragic arrow-related incident - A very patient (but also slightly vindictive) Commander Cody - “Virile” used in a completely inappropriate tactical context - And the slow realization that maybe you like being bossed around by a clone commander just a little too much

You said Senator Aide x Cody and I said yes, but make it spicy (a bit) and deeply unprofessional 💅

Hope it makes you laugh/scream/melt into the Senate floor!!💖

Title: Of Dinners and Blasters Pairing: Senator Aide!Reader x Commander Cody Tags: teasing, slightly spicy (bestie it's very VERY light), fluff kinda????

The gala had started off fine.

The lights were low and warm, casting everything in soft gold and polished chrome. The kind of upscale Senate event where the champagne never stopped flowing and everything smelled faintly of artificial florals and expensive cologne. Strings of orchestral music drifted from the corner where a live quartet was tucked behind a fountain, and every third person in the room looked like they’d rather be anywhere else — which was how you knew it was going well.

You’d even managed to make it through your senator’s speech without a nervous breakdown. A miracle in and of itself.

Sure, the speeches had dragged on longer than expected — as they always did — and your senator had once again gone wildly off-script halfway through his address. Something about how intergalactic cooperation was like a "complex stew of root vegetables" that required careful seasoning or it would become "politically mushy." He got stuck in a metaphor loop for nearly seven minutes. At one point, he compared the Trade Federation to a "bitter yam."

You were pretty sure the Chandrilan ambassador was still trying to figure out if that was an insult.

But that was normal. That was fine. You were used to finessing damage control with a polite smile and a data pad. You could handle a rogue tuber analogy or two.

What you hadn’t anticipated was the wine. Or the open bar. Or the holoprojector set up at the center of the room, slowly rotating through a set of clone commander-authored tactical models as a display of military "transparency" and cooperation. Or the fact that, after your second glass of wine and a particularly brutal round of small talk with three senators who still thought clones were grown from “military potatoes,” you found yourself standing beside the holo-display next to a very stone-faced Commander Cody and saying—

“Wow. That is a lot of arrows.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just a small hum of acknowledgment, eyes still tracking the red and blue troop patterns as they flickered across the air between you.

“They’re kind of... big,” you added. You were gesturing vaguely now. “Like, absurdly big. Not very subtle. These look less like troop movements and more like... well... compensation. Very hum... phallic.”

There was a pause.

A beat.

Then—

“Oh no,” someone muttered behind you.

You glanced back. Fives — because of course it was Fives — was already halfway through snorting his drink up his nose. General Kenobi looked like he’d started coughing purely out of self-preservation. You thought you heard someone choke on an hors d’oeuvre in the corner.

And Commander Cody...

...turned his head toward you.

Slowly.

Methodically.

With all the solemn judgment of a man internally reviewing every poor decision that had brought him to this precise moment in time.

You smiled at him, sheepishly. “I was joking,” you said. “Just a little... strategic satire.”

He blinked once.

“Humor,” you clarified, too quickly. “I was making a humorous observation. In jest. About the arrows. It was a joke.”

Silence.

You could hear the silence. Taste it, even. Somewhere in the background, the quartet shifted into a minor key, like the universe itself was soundtracking your descent into public disgrace.

Cody's gaze was unreadable. Not cold — he wasn’t angry, exactly — just... mildly horrified. In that very calm, quiet way that made it so, so much worse. The kind of expression that screamed: “I have seen battlefields and unspeakable violence, but this. This is a new kind of pain.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” you blurted, because your brain had clearly decided to betray you completely. “I just meant they’re very... uh... bold. The arrows. Bold and thick. And... and virile?”

Virile?!

You wanted to die. Instantly. Right there.

To fling yourself into the rotating holo-map and be consumed by its shame-glow.

“I mean—not virile, obviously,” you backpedaled, waving your hands. “That’s not a military term. Probably. I’m not an expert on clone tactics, which you know, because if I were, I wouldn’t be making jokes about the—about the—thick arrows.”

General Kenobi had turned fully around now, face in his hand, shoulders shaking silently.

You considered diving under the hors d’oeuvre table.

Cody was still watching you. Still perfectly still. The tiniest twitch of one eyebrow, like he was experiencing an emotion but choosing to file it under "classified."

You smiled again, helplessly. “You know what? I’m gonna go stand over there now.”

And you did.

You absolutely fled across the floor like the world's most flustered diplomatic gremlin, cheeks burning, stomach plummeting, a full-body flush of mortification clinging to your spine like static electricity.

You spent the rest of the evening hiding behind a decorative pillar and pretending to answer emails.

It was fine.

Except for the part where you were now fully certain Commander Cody was going to have you court-martialed despite the fact that you were, technically, not even in the military.

And also, possibly, he might be planning your tactical execution.

With bold arrows.

Gods help you.

Which brings us to… now.

“Wait, you’re actually serious about this?” you ask, laughing nervously as you scurry after Commander Cody down the polished hallway inside GAR Command.

“Oh, absolutely,” he replies, not even bothering to look over his shoulder. His voice is too calm. Suspiciously calm. Like a man who has made a decision and will not be swayed by mere mortal things like logic or dignity. “If you’re going to critique a tactical formation, you’d better know what it’s for.”

“I wasn’t critiquing!” you protest, stumbling slightly as you dodge a protocol droid. “I was—teasing. There’s a difference.”

“Mm.”

“Joking! You know, that charming kind of banter that builds morale?”

Cody finally glances back at you, expression bone dry. “I think you wounded morale.”

“You mean your morale,” you mutter.

He doesn’t answer. Which is rude, frankly. He just keeps walking like he’s on a mission. Which, technically, he is. A very petty, extremely personal mission of honor reclamation and holo-map revenge.

You try not to look at his back. Or his shoulders. Or the way his dress blacks fit just a little too well for someone who allegedly doesn’t care about appearances. It’s a war crime, honestly. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and it’s making you feel things that are absolutely inappropriate for someone being marched to their death-by-target-practice.

The door to the GAR firing range hisses open.

Cody steps inside without preamble. You hesitate in the doorway.

“This is a little dramatic,” you say, gesturing broadly at the empty training bay. “Dragging a civilian to a military shooting range to prove a point? Bit much, don’t you think?”

Cody sighs. Loudly. The kind of sigh that sounds like it’s been passed down through generations of clone commanders specifically for dealing with your flavor of chaos. “You’re not just a civilian,” he says. “You’re a Senate aide. You give briefings. You sit in on tactical overviews. You know how the chain of command works.”

“Yes, but I’m also just a little aide-,” you say sweetly. “A tiny, harmless, flirty little bureaucrat.”

“You mocked a Republic deployment pattern in front of members of the Jedi Council,” he says flatly.

“Okay, that was—technically true.”

“‘Technically’?” He gives you a look.

You wince. “...I didn’t know the hologram was live-streamed.”

Cody closes his eyes. You watch his soul briefly try to leave his body through the ceiling. Then he turns away, muttering something that might be a prayer or a threat.

“Grab a blaster,” he says.

You blink. “I—what?”

He gestures at the weapons rack. “Training model. Stun only. Go on.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you say, edging toward it. “This isn’t like... you’re not going to shoot me, right?”

“No,” he deadpans.

You narrow your eyes. “That wasn’t very convincing.”

“I’m not going to shoot you.”

A pause.

He adds, “Unless you say something about ‘phallic arrows’ again.”

You hold up your hands in surrender. “No arrows! Got it. Blaster acquired.”

You grab the training model. It’s heavier than you expected, and slightly cold to the touch. You immediately drop it.

Cody watches this entire performance in unimpressed silence.

“Okay,” you mutter, finally managing to hold it upright. “But just so we’re clear — if I die of embarrassment, that’s on you. You’ll have to notify my next of kin. Probably the janitor who sees me crying in the Senate hallway every week.”

“Noted,” he says, stone-faced.

You shuffle into place at the firing line. Cody follows, stepping in beside you like an instructor — or a very put-upon older brother who has absolutely been called in by someone’s senator to fix your diplomatic disaster with a hands-on pop quiz.

Targets begin to slide into place on the far end of the range. Glowing. Mocking you.

“I won't totally humiliate yourself, you know?” you murmur hopefully. “I’ve shot a blaster before. Once. At a senator’s retreat team-building event. There were moving targets and everything — though those targets were holographic fruit. And I may have missed most of them. And accidentally shot one of the catering droids.”

Cody makes a noise like he regrets knowing you.

“Elbows up,” he mutters. “You’re leaning back too far. Square your shoulders. You look like a drunk twi’lek in a wind tunnel.”

“That’s very specific.”

“I have experience.”

You manage to hit one target. Barely.

You spin to him, triumphant. “Ha. Got one.”

“Congratulations,” he says blandly. “Try hitting the other fourteen.”

“Oh my gods, Cody.”

He smirks.

You shoot again. Miss. Again. And then—suddenly—you feel him shift behind you, stepping close.

Your breath catches.

“May I?” he asks, voice low, warm.

You nod.

He’s gentle — carefully adjusting your stance, one hand guiding your elbow, the other settling lightly at your waist. You’re painfully aware of how close he is. Of the smell of soap and leather and something a little warm and electric underneath.

“Keep your eye on the target,” he murmurs.

You try.

The next bolt hits dead center.

You blink. “Did I just—”

“You did,” he says, sounding absurdly smug.

You turn toward him a little too fast. He’s right there.

“Are you proud of me, Commander?” you say with mock sweetness.

He raises a brow. “I’m proud you managed to shoot the target instead of a bystander.”

You gasp. “That was one time!”

He huffs a laugh, warm breath brushing your temple. “And it’s now permanently part of your training record.”

“You made a training record just to log that?!”

“Commander’s discretion.”

You glare. “I hope you trip over your own boots.”

Cody leans in a fraction closer. “That’s not very diplomatic of you.”

“I’m not feeling very diplomatic right now.”

The silence stretches.

You’re still holding the blaster.

He’s still not moving away.

“I’m not wrong, though,” you say, tilting your head. “About the arrows. They really do look like—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Cody says, deadpan, “you’ll be assigned to the 212th’s ‘unspecified terrain’ campaign for three weeks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re bluffing.”

He leans in again, voice dropping just enough to make you swallow. “Try me.”

Your heart does a very stupid flutter.

Cody pulls back after a beat, watching you like he knows exactly what he just did.

And he does.

Smug bastard.

You click the safety on the blaster and set it down. “Well. I think this was very educational.”

“For both of us,” he says, nodding once.

“Next time I critique your arrows, I’ll bring a laser pointer.”

“You’re never getting near my deployment holograms again.”

You grin. “Scared I’ll redesign them in front of the Chancellor?”

“I’m scared you’ll make further anatomical comparisons.”

“Tempting,” you murmur, shooting him a sideways look. “But I think I got the point.”

He sighs. “Stars help me.”

You start walking toward the exit, and he follows. Just before you reach the door, he speaks again — quieter, almost casual:

“You shot better than I expected.”

You glance back, grinning. “You say that like you expected me to fail spectacularly.”

“I did.”

You fake a gasp. “And after everything we’ve been through.”

Cody gives you a look. “You’ve been through a single tactical incident and three glasses of wine.”

“And now a heartwarming bonding experience at the firing range,” you add.

There’s a pause.

Then Cody says, voice low and bone-dry:

“...Maybe next time I’ll just arrest you.”

You smile wider. “Kinky.”

He blinks. Actually blinks. For a half-second, his brain stalls — like a datapad buffering in real time — and that is your new favorite moment of the entire day.

“Goodnight, Commander,” you chirp sweetly, and saunter out the door like you didn’t just completely derail his thought process.

Behind you, you swear you hear him mutter:

“Force help me.”

#clone wars #star wars #sw tcw #star wars the clone wars #swtcw #star wars fic #clone troopers #commander cody #commander cody x you #commander cody x reader #star wars clones #the clone wars

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rynneer · 1 year ago

Text

Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after an accident in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

<< Beginning | < Previous | Next >

Chapter Four

Fíli paces the living room, running a hand through his tangled hair, only succeeding in tangling it further. Shafts of dawn light peek through the window, taunting him with reminders of the sleep he did not get. His head snaps up when he hears footsteps from down the hall. “Y/N, I–”

But it’s not you. Instead, Thorin stands before him, arms folded and looking at his nephew expectantly.

“Where is she? She never returned to our chambers.”

Thorin nods back toward the way he came.

“Is…” Fíli swallows hard. “Is she upset?”

“She came to my door last night, would not say what was wrong, and began to cry.” Thorin raises an eyebrow. “So, is she upset?”

Fíli’s heart sinks. “She was crying?”

“Sobbing would be a better word.” Thorin shakes his head and sighs. “Fíli, what happened?”

Fíli turns his head away, face growing hot with shame and guilt. “I said hurtful things. Foolish, hurtful things.”

“Such as?”

Is he really going to make me repeat it? Fíli steels himself as if he’s the one on the receiving end. “I asked her if it was real. The dance. The kiss. Or if she only did it because it was expected of her. Because people were watching.”

“You are right. That was foolish and hurtful,” Thorin snorts.

Fíli sinks down onto the couch, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I messed up.” He runs his hand down his face. “Some husband I am,” he mutters.

Thorin studies the wretched dwarf in front of him. Fíli is hunched over, shoulders drawn and tight. He stares dully at the ground. Every once in a while, he shakes his head to dispel some thought, mustache braids swaying with the movement.

“You are dismissed from your duties today,” Thorin says curtly.

Fíli looks up, dumbfounded. “But the trade negotiations—as heir, I should be there!” he protests.

“Kíli will take notes for you. Mahal knows he needs to pay more attention during these meetings anyway.”

“But–”

Thorin silences him with a hand on his shoulder. It’s not Thorin, King Under the Mountain, looking down at him, or Thorin Oakenshield, the warrior.

It’s Uncle Thorin. The dwarf who raised him, who held him as a child when he cried, who sang lullabies to him when he thought no one else was listening. The softer Thorin.

“Fíli, make peace with your wife.” Thorin squeezes Fíli’s shoulder and takes his leave.

Fíli watches the heavy, wooden doors shut with a thud, as if waiting for Thorin to change his mind. To return, to berate him for how he treated his One.

But the doors remain closed. There will be no reprieve for Fíli, nothing to stall him before he has to face what he did. He says a silent prayer as he stands and trudges to Thorin’s chambers. As he reaches a hand out to the door, he freezes. Dread of what awaits him keeps him rooted in place.

Don’t be ridiculous, Fíli scolds himself, shaking his head sharply. It’s just Y/N. Nothing to be afraid of.

He knocks first, but receives no reply. With a deep breath, he carefully pushes the door open. His eyes scan the dimly lit room, finding no sign of you at first. Then, movement in a wingback chair facing the fireplace catches his eye.

Fíli takes a cautious step forward. “Amrâlimê?”

You don’t respond to the endearment.

He changes tactics. “Y/N? Can we talk?”

You poke your head around the side of the chair for a second before turning back and burrowing further into the cushions. “Go away,” you mumble, pulling the blanket tightly around you. While Fíli’s frustration had softened over the sleepless night, your surprise and hurt had hardened into bitter anger.

“Y/N,” Fíli closes the distance. He traces his fingers along the chair’s arm. “Please.”

“Go away!” you snap again. You press your face into the opposite arm of the chair and cover your head with the blanket. It’s petulant, you know that, but you don’t care. Maybe it will soothe your pounding headache.

“No, my love,” he says gently, but firmly. “We need to talk.” Fíli settles on his knees so he’s level with you and pulls the blanket off of your head.

You scowl at him, but with his careful, honest eyes searching your own, you can’t hold it long. Your gaze drops to your hands, clutching the blanket tightly. “Still?” you ask at last, voice soft.

“Still what?”

“I’m still your love?”

Fíli gently pries your fingers apart until he can hold them, rubbing them to coax warmth into your cold hands. “Always,” he murmurs. “You will always be my love.”

Hot tears fill your eyes. “Then why’d you have to get mad at me?” You try to pull your hands away, but he squeezes them tighter.

“Oh, no, no, amrâlimê, I was not angry with you.” He reaches up to brush strands of hair away from your face.

Your glare tells him you don’t believe him.

“I was not angry,” Fíli insists. “I was…” He shakes his head while he gathers the right words. “May I speak plainly? Without upsetting you.”

You look at him warily, but give him a tiny nod.

Fíli brings his hand back to your hair, smoothing your marriage braid with his thumb. “I am afraid,” he whispers. “I am afraid that I’m losing you. I am afraid that you have gone somewhere that I cannot follow.”

The tears finally spill over your cheeks. The walls of anger you’ve hidden behind crumble, and you wrap your arms around Fíli. You bury your face in his neck and cry. Your hands claw at his back, desperately searching for purchase.

Fíli immediately pulls you from the chair and into his lap on the floor. “Oh, Y/N.” He kisses the top of your head, patiently waiting for you to find your words again.

“I want to remember,” you sob. “I want to love you the same way you love me. I want what we had. I don’t know what we had but I want it back!”

Fíli hugs you tighter as your chest heaves and breath shakes.

For the first time, you don’t recoil from his touch. You need to feel him. Soft skin over hard muscle, coated in gold curls. The weight of his chin on your head. Every inch of him warming you.

You sniff. “Has it been good?”

“Hm?”

“Our life together.“

Fíli lifts his chin from your head and loosens his grip, encouraging you to pull back enough to look at him. “It’s wonderful,” he says. His eyes grow distant with a faint smile. “We both have our duties as the future king and queen, of course, but I treasure every spare moment I get to spend with you.”

The wistful happiness on his face only makes you feel worse. “I’m sorry I took it away,” you whisper.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” Fíli returns to the present, hand rubbing gently up and down your back. “We can start over. You are still you. The brave and clever woman I fell for. My little fighter. And I am still me.” He tilts your chin up and kisses you, quick but soft. “I waited eighty-two years to find you. What’s a little more?”

You shake your head, sending fresh tears spilling over. “It won’t be the same.”

“What if it could be?”

You both jump at the voice. Fíli pulls you back into a tighter hold while his eyes grow darker, scanning the room for threats. The protective lion.

The owner of the voice stands in the doorway, studying you with a careful eye.

“I have an idea,” Tauriel says.

“You cannot seriously be suggesting we take her with us.”

Gandalf leaned back in his chair, puffing at his pipe. “At worst, she makes for an interesting companion. At best, her knowledge of the journey could prove useful.”

“At best, she is a distraction and at worst, a burden,” Thorin retorted. He cast a disdainful look at you, standing in the corner. Bilbo had run out of dining chairs. “The girl’s never touched a sword in her life.”

“Neither has Bilbo,” you muttered.

Kíli snickered.

“Well, I, for one, do not intend on leaving a stranger in my home while I am not here,” Bilbo declared, hands on his hips.

“So you are coming!” Nori exclaimed.

“I never said that!”

“If it’s any consolation,” you interjected, “I’m not exactly thrilled to be here either.” The whole thing was starting to give you a terrible headache as everyone bickered over your presence. Or maybe it was the copious amount of smoke filling the dining room. Either way, you needed out.

“Where do you think you are going?” Thorin demanded as you made for the door. “This is not finished.”

“Somewhere where no one’s blowing smoke in my face,” you snapped. You yanked open the door, barely remembering to duck as you exited. Of course, the awkward height of the doorknob makes it almost impossible to forcefully slam the door behind you, but you did your best.

Some of your frustration melted away as you took in your surroundings. Since you’d just shown up on Bilbo’s doorstep, an overnight bag in hand, you hadn’t gotten the chance to appreciate where you were. It was almost enough to take your breath away. Stars scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds spilled over dark velvet. More stars than you’d seen in your life. Fireflies flitted about the garden, flashing and winking at each other in the night. Small, round windows set into the hills, little puffs of smoke drifting from chimneys nestled in the earth, hobbits settling into their evening routines. You plopped down onto the wooden bench just inside the gate.

The Shire.

Damn it.

Middle Earth.

Damn it.

You put your head in your hands and let out a heavy sigh. You didn’t look up when the door opened and shut again, not until you felt the wood of the bench bend beneath you.

“Care for a smoke?”

Of course it was them. The curious little boys. You lifted your head to see Kíli already lounging next to you, kicking his heavy boots up onto the fence. Fíli sat on your other side, offering you your backpack.

“Didn’t want to go rummaging through your belongings just to find your pipe,” he explained as he tossed it into your lap.

“I don’t have one,” you said.

“Ah, that’s alright. You can borrow mine,” Kíli offered.

The smell of the pipeweed was almost sickening. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Did you not hear me tell Thorin why I left?”

“Something about smoke?” Kíli puffed out a series of increasingly smaller smoke rings. They vanished in the cool breeze.

“To get away from the smoke. Just… never mind.” You shook your head. “Did Thorin send you to make sure I don’t run away and spill his plans to the world?”

“No,” Fíli said, as Kíli said “yes.”

You just rolled your eyes.

Fíli leaned back, lighting his own pipe. “So,” he said through teeth clenched on the end of his pipe. “Not from around here, eh?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you replied with a shrug. “I guess I should get used to it. To this.” You gestured vaguely towards the rest of the Shire.

“It’s not bad,” Fíli remarked. “Peaceful. Quaint.”

“Boring,” Kíli added.

You groaned, putting your head back in your hands.

“I hope you won’t be sulking like this on the road.” Fíli nudged your side with his elbow. “It’d be a bit of a downer.”

You looked up at the dwarf prince. The stupidly handsome and charming dwarf prince. His stupidly handsome and charming brother. Your stupidly handsome and charming favorite dwarves.

Don’t get attached, warned a voice in the back of your mind. You know what happens.

You tried to shut it up, but it refused to be silent. It all flashed through your head—Fíli falling from the broken tower to the ground in front of his brother. Kíli bleeding out as Tauriel leaned over him. Bilbo crouching at Thorin’s side as the king slipped away.

“It’ll be fun, having a lass along,” Fíli interrupted your train of thought. He leaned his head back and blew out a steady stream of smoke. “We’ll watch out for you, naturally. Keep you out of trouble. We would not want you all battered and bruised by the time we face the dragon.”

“You are way more chill about this than you should be,” you said. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the zipper on your backpack. “Do you actually understand what you’re supposed to do?”

Kíli stretched his arms over his head. The bench creaked in protest as he shifted his weight. “Sure. Get to the mountain, kill the dragon, get the gold. Simple.”

“If you expect it to be that easy, you’re fucked.”

“Ooh!” Kíli’s eyes lit up. “She’s got a mouth on her—I like that in a girl.” He winked, but his mischievous expression dimmed a little when he looked over at his brother.

Fíli’s brow was furrowed. He tilted his head as he peered at you. “You speak as if you already know our path.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Clearly, they did not listen very closely to the argument between Thorin and Gandalf after you let slip some key information about the quest, things no one else should know. Your gaze fell to your backpack in your lap, not wanting to meet the prince’s eyes. It was far too modern for your rustic setting. It didn’t belong.

And neither did you.

“Because I do,” you admitted at last. “I read the book. I saw the movies. I know how it goes.”

Fíli’s face lit up. “Do we win? I bet it will be a spectacular victory.”

“Not telling.”

“Come on!” Kíli pressed. “Nothing?”

You flashed him a warning glance. “Look, I’m just along for the ride. I’m not here to change things—if Thorin will even let me come. But I doubt it.” You kicked at a pebble beneath your feet, watching it skip out onto the path worn into the hillside from hundreds of carts and hobbit feet. “I seemed to have pissed him off just by existing.”

“Ah, you’ll win him over eventually,” Kíli remarked with a lazy grin. “He’s a softie at heart, really—oh, hello Thorin.”

You held your breath as heavy footsteps tromped down the steps. How long had he been listening?

Thorin crossed his arms and glowered down at you. His eyes then flickered to his nephews, leaning back casually while you sat stiffly between them. “I want the three of you awake before dawn,” he said finally. “We leave at first light to retrieve the ponies.” With one last, wary glance at you, he turned away.

You finished processing his words just as he put his hand on the doorknob. “Three?”

Thorin halted. “Do not make me regret this,” he grunted.

And then he was gone.

Fíli clapped you on the shoulder, almost knocking you off the bench in the process. “Well, you heard him. Up before dawn.”

“I think I’ll stay out just a bit longer.” You relaxed a bit on the bench as the brothers stood.

“Suit yourself,” Fíli shrugged. When he was halfway up the steps, he stopped and turned back around. “You do have a name, right? We can’t just keep calling you ‘lass.’”

“Y/N.”

“Pleasure to meet you, m’lady.” He winked and vanished inside with Kíli.

All the air rushed from your lungs as the door closed, leaving you alone in the garden of Bilbo Baggins. In Hobbiton. The Shire.

You shook your head.

What did you get yourself into?

#fanfiction #fíli #kíli #the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #fili x you #fili x reader #everybody lives #angst and hurt/comfort #it gets angstier before it gets fluffier

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