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misswynters · 6 months ago

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Winter’s Embrace — Chapter One

Cregan Stark x targaryen fem!reader

[synopsis: You arrive at winterfell, you feel unwelcomed and like an outsider. You weren’t used to not customs of the north.

[a/n: i know, it’s always a targaryen princess switch it up! (pls this is my first time ever writing) and there’s barely any cregan x readers.

[word count: 2.5k?

[note | pls don’t just like, reblog & give me feedback. i don’t want to get shadowbanned

next chapter |

Winterfell loomed on the horizon, its grey stone walls blending seamlessly with the winter landscape. As your carriage approached the gates, you felt a shiver run down your spine, not from the cold but from the uncertainty of what awaited you within those ancient walls. The North was a world away from the warm sands and fiery skies of King's Landing, where you had spent most of your life. Here, you were not just a stranger but a princess—a dragon in a land of wolves.

The carriage came to a halt, and you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. The door opened, and a gust of icy wind greeted you. Wrapping your cloak tightly around your shoulders, you stepped out into the courtyard, your breath visible in the frigid air. The guards watched you with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, their eyes lingering a bit too long.

Cregan Stark, who’s the Warden of the North, stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, his imposing figure framed by the heavy wooden doors. He was a tall man with dark hair and piercing grey eyes that seemed to see straight through you. As you approached, he stepped forward, his expression one of polite interest.

“Princess,” he greeted you, his voice deep and resonant. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

"Thank you, Lord Stark" you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "I greatly appreciate your hospitality."

He nodded, his gaze not wavering. "I hope you find Winterfell to your liking, though I fear it may not be as comfortable as the South."

You forced a smile. "I am sure it will be an adjustment, but nevertheless i will get used to it"

The Great Hall was bustling with activity as servants hurried about, preparing for the evening meal. The warmth of the fire was a welcome contrast to the cold outside, but it did little to dispel the feeling of being an outsider. You could feel the weight of their gazes, the whispered conversations that fell silent as you passed.

Cregan led you to your chambers, a modest but well-appointed room with a large bed and a roaring fire. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask," he said, his tone formal.

"Thank you, My lord," you replied, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but then he simply nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

The days that followed were a blur of introductions and attempts to settle into a routine. The people of Winterfell were polite but distant, their mistrust evident in their eyes. You tried to make yourself useful, helping where you could, but it seemed that no matter what you did, you were always viewed as an dragon in a wolves den.

Cregan was kind but distant, his duties keeping him busy. He checked in on you regularly, making sure you were comfortable, but there was an unspoken tension between you. You sensed that he believed you were ill-suited for the harsh realities of the North, a delicate flower from the South who would wilt in the cold.

One evening, as you sat by the fire in your chambers, lost in thought, there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” you called, expecting one of the servants.

To your surprise, it was Cregan. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I hope I am not disturbing you," he said.

"Not at all," you replied, gesturing for him to sit. "Please, join me."

He took a seat opposite you, the firelight casting shadows on his chiseled features. "I wanted to see how you are adjusting," he said. "I know this must be difficult for you.

You sighed, staring into the flames. "It is. But I am trying to accustomed to the way everything is done here."

He nodded, his gaze intense. "You are stronger than you appear, Princess. I see that."

You looked at him, surprised by his words. "Thank you, Lord Stark. That means a lot."

For a moment, there was a silence between you, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Then, Cregan spoke again, his voice softer. "I understand that you are a dragon dreamer."

Your heart skipped a beat. It was not something you spoke of often, the gift—or curse—that you carried. "Yes," you admitted. "I have dreams of dragons and the future."

He leaned forward, his eyes searching yours. "Do you trust your dreams?"

You hesitated, then nodded. "I do. They have never led me astray."

Cregan seemed to consider this, then leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps, in time, you will find your place here. The North is a harsh land, but it can also be a place of great beauty and strength."

You smiled, feeling a glimmer of hope. "I hope so, Lord Stark. I truly do."

As the days passed, you began to find small ways to integrate yourself into the life of Winterfell. You helped in the kitchens, learning the recipes and customs of the North. You spent time with the children, telling them stories of dragons and far-off lands. Slowly, the walls began to come down, and you felt a sense of belonging start to take root.

Cregan was a constant presence, his support and encouragement a source of strength. He seemed to understand the struggle you faced, the weight of expectations and the challenge of finding your place in a world that was not your own. There were moments when you caught glimpses of the man beneath the lord—the kindness in his eyes, the warmth of his smile.

One day, as you were walking through the courtyard, a group of women approached you. Their leader, an older woman with a stern expression, looked you up and down. "Princess," she said, her tone respectful but cold. "We have heard much about you."

You nodded, feeling a knot of anxiety in your stomach. "I hope it has been good."

The woman shrugged. "Some good, some not. But actions speak louder than words. We will see what kind of woman you truly are."

You smiled, determined to prove yourself. "I hope I can earn your respect."

Cregan watched from a distance, his heart swelling with pride as he saw you stand your ground. He knew the road ahead would not be easy, but he had no doubt that you were strong enough to walk it.

One night, as the storm raged outside, you found yourself unable to sleep. The dreams had been coming more frequently, visions of dragons and fire, of a future shrouded in darkness. You threw on a cloak and made your way to the Great Hall, seeking solace in the warmth of the fire.

To your surprise, Cregan was there, staring into the flames. He looked up as you entered, his expression softening. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

You shook your head, joining him by the hearth. "No. The dreams..."

He nodded, understanding. "Tell me about them."

You hesitated, then began to speak, the words flowing out of you like a river. You told him of the dragons, of the visions of a future both beautiful and terrifying. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Those are just visions, what matters is how you act upon them and not let them get to your head” he said in a soft tone.

Tears welled in your eyes, and you squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Cregan."

He smiled, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. "You are stronger than you know, Princess. And I am proud to stand by your side."

The days turned into weeks, and the snow outside showed no signs of abating. Within Winterfell, you began to find your place. You helped in the kitchens, worked alongside the maids, and even joined the training sessions in the yard. Slowly, the people began to see you not as an outsider, but as someone willing to share their burdens.

Cregan watched with growing admiration. One evening, as you sat by the hearth, he joined you, his presence a comfort in the cold.

"You've done well," he said, his voice warm.

You looked up at him, a smile playing on your lips. "Thank you. It hasn't been easy."

He reached out, his hand gently brushing against yours. "Nothing worth having ever is."

The thaw began slowly, both outside and within the hearts of Winterfell's people. The Northmen, once so wary, started to see you in a different light. Your actions, your kindness, and your determination had begun to win them over.

One day, as you helped prepare for a feast, one of the older women approached you. "You've done well, lass," she said, her voice gruff but not unkind. "You've proven yourself."

You smiled, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. "I’m glad i was able to prove myself." Cregan, watching from across the room, felt a surge of pride.

#house of the dragon #cregan x reader #cregan stark #cregan x you #hotd season 2 #hotd fanfic #hotd cregan #house targaryen #cregan fanfiction #house stark #jacaerys velaryon #winters embrace – mini series

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andreawritesit · 6 months ago

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can i request cregan and targ reader where he gets her a wolf and its all sweet and stuff ❤️

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Targaryen Reader

Synopsis: You had been living in the North for quite a while now but nothing felt quite as welcoming as receiving a warm bundle of joy as a present.

It was not morning yet. Or perhaps it was. Wrapped in the dark grey clouds, the sun often played hide and seek in the Northern skies. It was difficult to tell what time of the day it was. You got out of bed and immediately, the sudden chill enveloped your entire body, down to your bones. Quickly grabbing the fur blanket from the bed, you wrapped it tightly around yourself. The cold was your worst enemy, your soul was forged out of fire after all. Even after an entire month, you still couldn't understand why your mother would betroth you to a Northern lord. You were the same girl on the side of whose bed she had spent countless nights awake. As soon as the weather became colder, you'd catch a fever. Throughout your childhood and even now, in your adolescent years, Rhaenyra has been on her toes constantly because of how the cold affected you. And yet she had sent you to marry Lord Cregan Stark. Why? That's not to say that your betrothed wasn't the most respectable man you had ever met. Cregan was cold and stoic as Northerners tend to be, but he was also honorable and extremely kind to you. As soon as you had arrived at Winterfell on dragonback, he had done all he could to make sure you were comfortable. He made sure you got plenty of warm clothes and furs and despite being the lord of Winterfell, he came to your chambers every day to see if you needed anything.

You had both decided that you would marry only after the war was over. He didn't want to tie you to himself knowing very well that he could die in the war and leave you by yourself. And you didn't want to marry him so soon either because you still wanted to partake in your mother's efforts to get her throne back from the usurpers.

You walked to the window and looked outside. Everything was covered in pristine white snow. It was so different from Dragonstone and Kings Landing. Instead of the hustle and bustle of the South, there was a calming silence in the North. Soon enough, the sun's rays began to pierce through the dense clouds, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered landscape. You couldn't help but smile at the view outside. The tranquility was suddenly broken by a soft knock at the door.

"Come in", you called, walking away from the window.

The door slowly creaked open, revealing the Lord of Winterfell. His tall and imposing figure was contrasted by a warm smile on his face, a sight you had come to cherish over the past month.

"Good morning Princess. I hope I didn't disturb your rest."

You shook your head, "Not at all, my Lord. I was already up." Your eyes went to a bundle of blankets in his arms. "What brings you here so early?"

Cregan's smile widened as he walked to where you were standing. "I come bearing a gift for you, my Princess." He stepped closer, revealing a small, furry creature nestled in the crook of his arm. "I hope this will make your stay here easier. He's a wonderful companion." He removed the top blanket a little and a small head peeked out.

Your eyes widened in surprise. "A dire wolf pup?" you breathed out as you reached to gently stroke his fur. "He's so precious and small."

"One of the she-wolves gave birth to many pups this morning. When I saw this one, I knew I had to give him to you." The dire wolf pup, with its striking blue eyes and white fur, nuzzled into your touch, eliciting a soft laugh out of you. "Here, hold him", Cregan whispered as he softly passed the pup into your arms. You cradled him close and looked up at Cregan, your heart swelling with affection.

"Thank you. He's perfect."

"Much like you", he said while stroking the pup's head gently.

"Is that why you brought him to me? Because he's perfect like me? Or was there any other reason?"

Cregan let out a small chuckle at your words. "It's one of many reasons I decided to gift this one to you. You see, just minutes after being born, he was already jumping around and causing mayhem in the yard. Reminded me of you and your dragon quite a lot."

You punched his arm lightly and a laugh left your lips. The pup nuzzled your neck and you couldn't help but giggle. Cregan's gaze softened as he watched you bond with the dire wolf. "He's strong and brave, much like you," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "I thought he could be a symbol of the North's acceptance of you."

You felt a rush of gratitude and warmth, not just from the direwolf but from Cregan's thoughtful gesture. He had once again won you over, something that had happened quite a few times already.

"I know it's not easy for you to settle down here in the North. But I'm grateful that you're trying and I promise you, I will take care of you. I will make sure you won't have to miss the warmth of your home. Winterfell will be your abode one day and I hope I will become your family, someone you'll be able to trust and perhaps even love one day."

You shifted the pup into your right arm and held Cregan's hand with your left hand. "You have no idea how much you have already done for me. When I first came here, I was a scared little girl who was being separated from her family but now I feel like I was always meant to be here, with you. I can assure you that I will also do everything I can to be there for you. I am ready, to accept Winterfell as my home and you as my husband."

Cregan's expression softened, and he squeezed your hand lightly. "I'm glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "I'm glad you came here."

"Me too."

Suddenly, the pup stirred, letting out a small, contented yawn. You and Cregan both laughed softly. The moment was broken but no less sweet. "I suppose he's tired", Cregan whispered as he covered the pup with a small blanket.

"Have you named him yet, my Lord?"

He shook his head, "No. He's your companion. You should name him."

You took a long look at the white fluffy ball of fur in your arms. "I'll name him Winter," you decided, looking up at Cregan with a smile. "To remind me of the kindness and strength of the North."

"Winter it is, then," he said. "May he bring you joy and protect you always."

Your heart swelled with emotion as you held Winter close. "He already has," you replied, your gaze locked with Cregan's. "Thank you, Cregan."

In that moment, the chill of the North transformed into the warmth of new companionship and a realization that perhaps your feelings for the Northern Lord had evolved into something deeper.

#hotd x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x targaryen reader #cregan stark #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark fanfic #hotd fanfic #andreawritesit

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buckets-and-trees · 4 months ago

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Chosen, Part 1: Arrival

Characters/Pairings: eventual Bucky x curvy Millennial Female!Reader, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Word Count: 3.4k Summary: After surviving three rounds of interviews, you have been invited for a full-day to tour and interview at the estate and headquarters that belong to the Winged Heritage Foundation.

SERIES Content Warnings: SOFT!DARK STORY, cult themes, explicit smut, dubious consent and enthusiastic consent, veiled truths, gaslighting

CHAPTER Content Warnings: none

Notes: I started writing this story with the intention for it to be a long one-shot, but after it shot past 18k, I realized I would need to break it up into installments, so ... expect sort of a slow burn for the plot? Installments will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays.

Shout outs to @stargazingfangirl18, @witchywithwhiskey, @biteofcherry, and @vonalyn for helping me get my ideas sorted out for this trip!

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You scroll through the note in your phone with questions to ask during a final interview as the car pulls off the interstate and starts down a country highway lined with trees.

At least you hope this is the final interview.

You had applied for a basic administrative assistant position with the Winged Heritage Foundation, but after your first interview you had been called by a recruitment officer and asked if you would consider a different position with the organization, one that hadn’t been posted publicly.

You still don’t know what the position is you’re being considered for, but after two more interviews, you had been notified that you were a finalist and invited to a full-day interview and tour of the Foundation’s headquarters – an estate outside of the city. They had even arranged for a professional car service to pick you up and take you there. The offices in the city, where your previous three interviews had taken place, evidently handles most of the business operations for the Foundation, and the estate is where the more focused work takes place.

You are naturally a bit nervous for a fourth - and full day - interview, but you feel you like your nerves are at a healthy level - present but not paralyzing, a small buzz that will keep you focused.

The car slows as it approaches a break in the trees, and your driver signals to turn. As you round the corner, your breath catches in your throat. A wrought-iron gate stretches across a wide driveway, its intricate scrollwork spelling out "Winged Heritage" in elegant script. The gate swings open silently as your car approaches, as if by magic.

The driveway stretches before you, a winding ribbon of pale gravel cutting through a verdant landscape that takes your breath away. Ancient oaks and maples line the drive, their branches reaching across to form a dappled canopy overhead. Bright morning sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground.

As you travel deeper into the estate, meticulously manicured gardens unfold on either side. Vibrant flower beds burst with color - deep purple irises, sunny yellow daffodils, and blood-red roses. The gardens give way to rolling lawns of emerald green, dotted with sculpted topiaries in fantastical shapes.

As the car rounds another bend, a shimmering pond comes into view. Its surface is like polished glass, reflecting the azure sky and fluffy white clouds above. A family of swans glide gracefully across the water, their long necks arched in elegant curves. At the far end of the pond, a delicate bridge of white marble spans the narrowest point, its railings gilded with gold.

The driveway begins to climb a gentle slope, and as you crest the hill, your jaw drops at the sight before you. A magnificent mansion rises from the landscape, its pale stone walls glowing warmly in the morning sunlight. The architecture is a stunning blend of classical elegance, with graceful arches and intricate stonework that seems to ripple and dance as you approach.

The central facade is a masterpiece of symmetry, with wide steps leading up to a grand entrance flanked by towering columns. Ivy climbs the walls in artful patterns, as if guided by an invisible hand to accentuate the building's most beautiful features.

The car follows the curve of the driveway as it sweeps up to the grand entrance before coming to a stop. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself for what lies ahead. The driver opens your door, and you step out onto the gravel, the crunch beneath your feet grounding you in the moment.

A figure emerges from the ornate double doors at the top of the steps, and your heart skips a beat as you recognize her instantly. Natasha Romanoff, the Chief Recruitment Officer, descends the stairs with astonishing grace. Her vibrant red hair catches the sunlight, creating a halo effect that seems almost otherworldly. She's dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that exudes both professionalism and an air of mystery. As your eyes meet hers, you're struck by the intensity of her gaze - piercing green eyes that seem to look right through you.

As she draws closer, you notice a subtle smile playing at the corners of her mouth, a mix of confidence and what you suspect to be mischief. Over the course of your brief interactions up to this point, she had been nothing but professional, but you could feel some alluring pull or energy that seemed to run deep beneath the surface of her controlled demeanor. She had been present in your second interview, conducted the third with one of her associates, and had been the one to schedule you for this.

"Welcome," Natasha says, her voice smooth as silk. "We're so pleased you could join us today." She extends her hand, and you shake it, noting the firmness of her grip.

"Thank you for having me," you reply, proud that your voice doesn't betray your nerves. "The estate is absolutely breathtaking."

Natasha's smile widens slightly. "It is, isn't it? We find that beauty inspires greatness. But come, let's not linger in the driveway. We have a full day and much to show you."

She gestures towards the entrance, and you fall into step beside her as you ascend the stone steps. The massive doors swing open silently, revealing a grand foyer that takes your breath away. The ceiling soars overhead, at least three stories, adorned with an intricate fresco depicting a beautiful sky, birds in flight, and towering trees, bringing the beauty of the grounds into this entry.

Natasha guides you through a doorway off to the side of the foyer, leading you into a small sitting room. The space is elegantly decorated with plush couches, rich mahogany furniture, and intricate paintings on the walls.

"Please, have a seat," Natasha gestures towards one of the couches as she takes a seat in an armchair across from you. You sink into the soft cushions, trying to take in everything at once - the opulence of the room, Natasha's presence, and her piercing gaze.

"First things first,” Natasha says, a professional smile on her face, “the nature of what goes on here is very sensitive and so I'll need you to sign this NDA before we continue." She hands you a stack of paperwork and a pen.

You quickly skim through the document before signing it, feeling slightly uneasy about signing something so quickly without fully understanding what the day ahead of you will entail. But your curiosity outweighs your hesitation and when Natasha takes back the signed document, she slides it into a briefcase by her side.

"Now that's out of the way," she says smoothly, "let me tell you more about our foundation."

She proceeds to give you an overview of the Winged Heritage Foundation – an overview of its history, mission, and values. It's all very intriguing and impressive - but although what she shares is engaging, outside of supporting initiatives identified as important to its founder and possibly something to do preservation of history or historical places and artifacts, you still feel you don’t have any clearer of an idea of what the Foundation’s actual purpose is. But since you have an entire day here, you don’t press the point now, assuming some part of the day will be dedicated to diving deeper into the work they do.

"But enough about us," Natasha says with another enigmatic smile. "Let's talk about what brought you here today."

She pulls out your resume from her briefcase and goes over your experience and qualifications with sharp attention to detail. She asks probing questions that make you feel like she's reading between the lines of your professional achievements.

"Impressive," she comments once she's finished going over your resume. "Your professional and personal character references also speak very highly of you."

Your brow furrows slightly. “Sorry,” you interject, “I don’t remember giving personal references?”

“No, you did not. But we do a lot of work on our end to vet candidates at this point for positions like this. Surely you understand.”

You nod slowly and train your face back into a smile. At least whatever homework they seem to have done on you came back with a positive result.

She leans forward slightly, and you can feel the intensity of her gaze. "We need someone who's truly suited for the responsibilities, but personnel fit is also incredibly important to us.”

“Of course,” you respond. “And what responsibilities exactly would you be looking for me to fulfill?”

Natasha presses her lips together and seems to scrutinize your face more closely. “You’re being considered for two opportunities. Until later in the day when I’ve made a determination on which I’ll recommend you for, I won’t be disclosing that information to you.”

“Oh,” you’re a little surprised at her directness, but you suppose her reason for withholding the information is logical.

“As the Chief Recruitment Officer, I’m very good at what I do, so I’ll know your future with us by the end of the day.”

Natasha rises from her chair with fluid grace. "Shall we begin the tour?" she asks, extending her hand to help you up. You take it, noting the surprising strength in her grip. “I'm eager to show you the wonders of our estate."

She seems to hold your hand longer than necessary, or maybe it’s just your nerves, maybe you looked unsteady standing up and she was only ensuring you were okay.

As you follow her out of the sitting room, you're once again struck by the grandeur of the foyer. Natasha notices your gaze lingering on the fresco above. "That was commissioned by our founder," she explains. "It's said to depict the view from the highest peak of a mountain range that no longer exists."

She leads you down a long corridor, its walls lined with portraits of distinguished-looking individuals. "Our benefactors and notable members throughout the years," Natasha explains. "Each one has contributed significantly to our mission."

The corridor opens into a vast library that takes your breath away. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretch as far as the eye can see, filled with leather-bound tomes. The air is heavy with the scent of old books and polished wood. Sunlight streams through tall windows, casting a warm glow over the room. The library is a bibliophile's dream, with rolling ladders affixed to the shelves, gorgeous wooden tables for spreading out books for research, and cozy reading nooks tucked into alcoves.

As you walk between the towering shelves, you notice that some of the books look ancient, their spines cracked and faded with age, some even appear to be bound in unfamiliar materials. Others appear to be in pristine condition, despite clearly being very old.

"Our collection is quite extensive," Natasha says, running her fingers along the spines of nearby books. "We have texts dating back centuries, some of which are the only surviving copies in the world."

"How do you preserve them so well?" you ask, unable to hide your fascination.

Natasha's lips curl into a mysterious smile. "We have our ways. Mostly it’s all down to our librarian Jarvis.”

She leads you through a set of double wooden doors at the other side of the library. Once you exit, Natasha leads you through a series of grand hallways, each more breathtaking than the last. The walls are adorned with tapestries and paintings that seem to come alive as you pass, their subjects' eyes following your movement. You could swear you see a figure in one portrait shift slightly, but when you look back, it's perfectly still.

"This wing houses our main offices and research facilities," Natasha explains as you walk. "We have state-of-the-art equipment for analyzing artifacts and documents, as well as a world-class conservation lab."

You pass by rooms filled with people working diligently at computers, their screens displaying what look like ancient texts and complex diagrams. In one room, you glimpse a team carefully examining what appears to be an old manuscript under specialized lighting.

As you continue down the hallway, you notice a door that seems different from the others. It's made of dark, heavy wood and adorned with intricate carvings. Unlike the other doors which are open or have glass panels, this one is firmly shut.

Natasha catches you looking at it. "That area is off-limits, I'm afraid. Some of our more... sensitive projects require absolute secrecy."

You nod but can't help feeling a prickle of curiosity. What could be behind that door that requires such concealment?

Natasha guides you to an elevator at the end of the hall. As you step inside, you notice there are more floors than you would have expected from the outside view of the mansion.

"We have quite extensive facilities underground," Natasha explains as she presses a button for one of the lower levels. "It allows us to maintain the historical integrity of the mansion's exterior while having all the modern amenities we need for our work."

The elevator descends smoothly, and when the doors open, you find yourself in a sleek, modern space that contrasts sharply with the ornate decor above. The walls are a pristine white, and the floors are polished concrete. The lighting is bright but not harsh, giving the space a clean, almost clinical feel.

Natasha leads you down a corridor lined with glass-walled rooms. In one, you see people in lab coats hunched over microscopes. In another, a group is gathered around a large touch screen, manipulating 3D models of what look like ancient artifacts.

"This is our primary research facility," Natasha says, leading you down a wide corridor. "We have some of the most advanced technology in the world at our disposal here."

As you walk, you pass by rooms with glass walls, allowing you to see inside. In one, you spot what looks like a holographic projection of a complex molecule rotating in mid-air. In another, a team of scientists in white lab coats huddle around a table, examining something you can't quite make out.

You pause for a moment, trying to take it all in. The contrast between the classical architecture upstairs and this futuristic facility is striking. "This is incredible," you say, unable to keep the awe from your voice. "I had no idea the Foundation had such advanced capabilities."

Natasha's lips curl into a satisfied smile. "We pride ourselves on being at the cutting edge of research and technology. It's essential for some of our work. We’re also one of the few science labs in the world that still is granted an affiliation with the nation of Wakanda."

As you continue down the corridor, you notice a few doors that aren't made of glass like the others. These are solid metal, with keycard readers and what look like biometric scanners next to them.

"What's behind those doors?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

Natasha's expression doesn't change, but you sense a slight shift in her demeanor. "Those are our most sensitive research areas. Access is strictly limited to senior researchers and leadership."

As if orchestrated for this precise moment, the doors slide open, and two men emerge, engaged in a heated discussion. Or, rather, one of them is heated, and the other is shooting back casual, sarcastic comments.

Natasha clears her throat, “Gentlemen.”

They both stop.

“We have company,” she says, gesturing to you.

The two men turn to face you, and your jaw nearly drops as you instantly recognize them. Standing before you are none other than Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, two of the most famous figures in the world and certainly at the Foundation.

Tony Stark, looking every bit the billionaire genius he's known to be, is dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that probably costs more than your current yearly salary. His goatee is perfectly trimmed, and his hair is styled with just the right amount of casual messiness. There's a faint blue glow visible beneath his shirt - the arc reactor that's become his trademark.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Tony says, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and mischief. He steps forward, extending his hand. "Tony Stark. But you probably knew that already."

As you shake his hand, you can't help but feel a bit starstruck. Tony Stark's grip is brief but firm and confident, his smile charming yet slightly calculating as he sizes you up.

"And this strapping specimen of American values is Steve Rogers," Tony adds, gesturing to the man beside him.

Steve, standing tall and broad-shouldered, offers you a warm smile that seems to light up the room. He's dressed more casually than Tony in khakis and a fitted blue shirt that barely contains his muscular frame. His handshake is strong but gentle, and his blue eyes radiate sincerity.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Steve says, his voice deep and reassuring. "I hope you're enjoying your tour of our facilities."

You manage to find your voice, introducing yourself. “The tour has been nothing but fascinating and impressive so far,” you affirm.

Tony's eyes gleam with interest. "Oh, you’re the one they’ve been wooing, eh? I was sent no less than five reminders this morning that I was to be on my best behavior,” he discloses with a wink.

Natasha rolls her eyes, and you have the suspicion Steve only barely restrains himself from doing so.

"Anyway, welcome to the Foundation," Tony says.

"Stark is supposed to be one of our most valuable researchers," Natasha explains.

"Eh, that’s why you send Steve down to get me back in line when I’m pursuing tangential projects."

This time Steve does roll his eyes.

You can't help but chuckle at the banter between Tony and Steve. Their dynamic is exactly as you'd imagined from what you've seen in the media - Tony's quick wit and sarcasm playing off Steve's more serious demeanor.

"So, what do you think of our little operation so far?" Tony asks, gesturing broadly at the surrounding facility. "Pretty impressive, right?"

Before you can answer, Natasha interjects smoothly. "I'm sure our guest is finding everything quite fascinating, but we should continue the tour. I'm sure you both have important work to get back to."

Tony raises an eyebrow at Natasha, a silent exchange seeming to pass between them. "Right, right. Important work. Can't keep the world waiting, can we?" He turns back to you with a grin. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around."

“You’ll at the very least be seeing me,” Steve says. “I believe I’m scheduled to join you for lunch.”

“And I’m not invited?” Tony protests, but he sports an unrepentant grin rather than any genuine offense.

Steve puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder to steer him away, “You’re not the Executive Director of the Foundation, so, no.”

Tony shrugs out of his grip, “And remind me why that is?”

“‘All administrative, no science,’ as you aptly put it so many times when you remind me why you don’t want to listen to what I say.”

“Right,” Tony replies, but does fall into step with Steve heading down the corridor.

As they leave, you can't help but feel a mix of excitement and bewilderment. Meeting two such prominent figures so casually during your interview process only adds to the surreal nature of this experience.

Natasha gently touches your elbow and guides you away from the metal doors and continues down the corridor. "My apologies for that interruption," she says, though her tone suggests she's not entirely displeased. "Mr. Stark has a tendency to... make an impression."

You nod, still processing the encounter. "It's no problem at all. I'm just surprised to see them here. I knew they were involved with the Foundation, but I didn't realize they were so hands-on."

Natasha's lips curl into a knowing smile. "The Winged Heritage Foundation values the direct involvement of all its key members. You'll find that everyone here, regardless of their public status or their position in our organization, contributes actively to our mission.”

She leads you through more state-of-the-art laboratories and research facilities, each more impressive than the last, before returning to the elevator to bring you surface-level again.

As the elevator ascends, you find your mind racing with questions. The encounter with Stark and Rogers, the glimpses of cutting-edge technology, and the air of mystery surrounding certain areas of the facility have only heightened your curiosity about the true nature of the Winged Heritage Foundation is, showing you so much, but not truly illuminating any answers.

NEXT PART: LUNCH

Welcome to the Winged Heritage Foundation, lovelies. This is only the beginning... Where will this day take you? And what is going on here?

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes x reader #curvy reader #female reader #aspen wrote something #chosen au #tony stark

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bat-mom-writer · 1 month ago

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Rage and Redemption Part 3

Bruce Wayne X Adapted(Female) Reader

Summery: After losing your parents, staying at a unloving orphanage, you are adapted by Bruce Wayne. But you make it clear to him, that you don't want to live with him and that you plan to make him regret taking her in. While Bruce makes it clear that he's not give up on you and he'll be there to help you heal.

Rating: slight angst, cursing, flipping the finger, happy ending?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

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A week goes by and you find yourself in the back of Ms. Jenkin's car, the leather seats sticking to your skin from the nervous sweat. You don't know where you're going, only that Ms. Jenkins had told you to get dressed and pack your things. You've never been off the orphanage grounds since you arrived, and the outside world seems to buzz with a strange energy that makes you both anxious and excited.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask, your voice edged with defiance and a hint of a smirk. "Are you finally throwing me off a bridge like you threatened?"

Ms. Jenkins' eyes narrow in the rearview mirror. "Your humor is as distasteful as your behavior," she snaps, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

You shrug, unbothered. "So, where am I going?"

Ms. Jenkins' grip tightens on the wheel. "To your new home," she says through clenched teeth.

"As if," you murmur under your breath. "New home." The words taste sour. You've heard that before. The "new home" was just a new set of bars, a different cage with different faces.

"Do I at least get my picture back?" you spit out, the question burning on your tongue like a live coal.

Ms. Jenkins' eyes meet yours in the mirror, cold and unyielding. "You'll get it when you learn to behave properly," she repeats, the words sticking to the air like a bad smell.

You lean back in the seat, arms crossed over your chest, staring out the window as the cityscape passes by. The buildings grow taller, the cars shinier. You've never been to this part of Gotham before. It's cleaner, brighter, and a stark contrast to the grimy streets you've come to know. The sight fills you with a mix of anger and envy.

As the car approaches a massive, iron gate, it slows down. You can see the name "Wayne Manor" etched into the metal, surrounded by lush greenery and a sense of peace that feels eerily out of place in the chaos of the city. Above the gate, a camera swivels into view, the speaker crackling to life. "Name," a disembodied voice asks.

Ms. Jenkin looks to the camera, her smile forced and brittle. "Ms. Jenkins, Bruce Wayne should be expecting me," she says, her voice tight with annoyance. The gates to the Wayne Manor begin to swing open, revealing a sprawling estate that seems to breathe wealth and opulence, a stark contrast to the stark reality of the orphanage. The car glides up the winding driveway, the tires whispering over the gravel.

You find yourself captivated as you gaze out the window, your eyes wide and unblinking, taking in the breathtaking landscape that unfolds like a beautiful painting. The sprawling lawns are a lush sea of vibrant emerald green, stretching endlessly toward the horizon, their gentle undulations mimicking the waves of an ocean. Scattered throughout are perfectly manicured gardens, bursting with colorful blossoms and lush foliage, each one looking as if it has been lovingly curated from the pages of a whimsical fairytale.

Ahead of you stands the manor, a majestic edifice of weathered stone and lush ivy that appears to rise organically from the earth. Its grandeur is both imposing and enchanting, with tall, pointed gothic arches that reach skyward and intricate stonework that tells a story of bygone elegance. The windows, set like glittering jewels within the façade, catch the sunlight, reflecting it with a dazzling brilliance that transforms the whole structure into a shimmering beacon of beauty. The scene is a harmonious blend of nature and architecture, creating an inviting yet mysterious atmosphere that beckons you to explore further.

The car stops in front of the grand entrance, and Ms. Jenkins turns the engine off before turning in her seat to you, her eyes bore into yours, "I don’t want to see you again after today. You are to be a perfect child to Mr. Wayne," she says, her voice cold and unforgiving. "Because I wouldn’t be taking you back," she adds, her voice dropping to a whisper, "You can take your attitude and your brattiness to the streets, I don’t care. Just don’t come back to me."

You grin, not out of joy, but rather out of spite. "Yeah, sure," you say, mimicking her sweet tone. "I'll be as perfect as you are."

The sarcasm hangs in the air like a toxic fog, and Ms. Jenkins' eyes narrow. "This is your only chance at a real home," she says, her voice a warning. "Don't throw it away."

With a jerk, she opens the car door and stands, gesturing for you to get out. You do so with a dramatic sigh, dragging your trash bag with very little belongs, and slamming the door behind you. The sound echoes through the quiet, serene air of the manor's grounds, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city.

You approach the imposing front door, which seems to loom over you, taunting you with its grandeur. Before you can knock, it swings open, revealing a stern-faced butler dressed in a crisp, black suit. His eyes sweep over you, taking in your disheveled appearance and the tension that practically radiates from your every pore.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor," he says, his voice as cold as the marble steps you ascend. You follow Ms. Jenkins into the foyer, where the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers fills the air. It's a world away from the stale odor of the orphanage, and your nose wrinkles in an involuntary reaction to the unfamiliar smells.

The grandeur of the manor is overwhelming. The high ceilings are painted with scenes of mythological battles, and the walls are adorned with tapestries that tell ancient stories of valor and honor. The floor is made of gleaming black and white tiles that seem to stretch into infinity. You feel like an ant in a palace, insignificant and out of place.

Then, you hear the sound of footsteps, measured and precise, echoing down the grand staircase that spirals up into the heart of the manor. Your heart races as Bruce Wayne descends, his figure cast in shadow until the last step brings him into the light. He's dressed in casual clothes, but there's something about the way he carries himself that screams power and wealth.

"Hello," he says, his voice warm and surprisingly gentle. "It's nice to finally make your acquaintance properly. I'm Bruce." he extends his hand.

You look at his hand for a moment, contemplating the gesture. Then, with a smirk, you bring your hand up, not to shake his but to give him the finger, flipping him off with a twist of your wrist.

Ms. Jenkins gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. "You little-!" she starts to scold, but Bruce holds up his hand, silencing her. He smiles, a ghost of amusement flitting across his face, and takes a step closer to you, leaning down with his hands on his knees.

"I see you've got some fire in you," he says, his eyes twinkling. "That's good. You're going to need it."

You cross your arms and scoff. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bruce's smile turns into a grin. "It means," he says, his eyes never leaving yours, "that I know you're not a quitter. And I'm not either."

He stands back up, his towering presence seeming to fill the room. "Thank you, Ms. Jenkins," he says calmly. "Alfred will see you out."

Ms. Jenkins sputters, but Alfred steps forward with a nod, taking her by the elbow. "Right this way, ma'am," he says, guiding her out of the room with surprising gentleness.

The door closes with a soft click, leaving you and Bruce standing in the opulent foyer, the silence heavy with anticipation. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart thudding in your chest.

"Well," Bruce says, breaking the tension. "Why don't I show you your room?"

"You mean my cell?" you reply with a sneer.

Bruce chuckles, a warm sound that seems out of place in the cold, unfeeling world you've come to know. He leans down again, his eyes searching yours, and says, "I mean your room, where you can keep your things, sleep, and maybe even find a bit of peace." He stands back up, the smile on his face unwavering.

He starts up the stairs, his steps echoing through the cavernous foyer. The tapestries whisper secrets as you follow him, your sneakers squeaking against the polished marble. The grandeur of the place feels like a prison, each step further inward a silent confinement to a gilded cage. But something in his eyes gives you a glimmer of hope—a hint of understanding, perhaps.

As you reach the top of the stairs, he points to a long hallway lined with portraits of stern-looking ancestors. "There are rooms for each of the boys I've adopted. Dick's is there," he points to the first door, "Jason's is next to it," he indicates the second door, "Tim's is down there," he nods to the third, "And Damian's is at the end."

You raise an eyebrow. "You have more prisoners?" you say, trying to keep the sarcasm from your voice.

Bruce laughs, the sound surprisingly warm. "I like to think of them as… part of the team," he says, his smile not reaching his eyes. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. This," he opens the last door on the left, "is where you'll be staying."

He opens the door, and you step into a bedroom that's bigger than your entire old apartment. The walls are a soft blue, the color of a quiet night sky, and the bed looks like it could swallow you whole. There's a desk with books lined up neatly, a wardrobe that seems to stretch on forever, and a window that looks out over the lush gardens.

"What? No swimming pool?" You deadpan, trying to keep the awe out of your voice.

Bruce chuckles, the sound bouncing off the walls. "No, there's one right outside. But I'm sure you'll find your tub to be more big enough," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes. "Very funny," you mumble, moving to the bed and dropping your trash bag on the floor with a thud.

"But if you don't find that satisfying enough," he walks to two double doors on the opposite side of the room, "your library is right through here." He opens the doors to reveal a space that takes your breath away.

The walls of the cozy room are lined from floor to ceiling with sturdy wooden shelves, each one brimming with books in diverse shapes and sizes, their spines a kaleidoscope of colors. In the middle of the quite room a charming swing chair hangs from the ceiling, gently swaying back and forth as if inviting you to settle into its embrace. The soft creak of the chair complements the soothing ambiance of the room.

In corner, the warm glow of a crackling fireplace casts a flickering light, illuminating the space and creating a welcoming atmosphere. The dancing shadows throw whimsical patterns onto the plush, deep-colored carpet, enhancing the feeling of warmth and comfort.

A beautifully designed window seat, framed by large, arched windows, is tucked into the bay, overflowing with an array of sumptuous velvet cushions. These cushions, in rich jewel tones, beckon enticingly, inviting you to sink in and find a cozy spot to immerse yourself in the pages of a captivating book.

Overall, the room serves as a tranquil sanctuary, a perfect escape where you can lose yourself in fantastical worlds, far removed from the harsh and gritty reality of Gotham outside. It is a haven for readers and dreamers alike, nurturing the imagination and offering solace in its warm embrace.

You wander over to the swing, tentatively giving it a push. It glides back and forth with a gentle, soothing motion that feels alien to your jaded soul. The books on the shelves seem to whisper promises of adventure and solace, each one a gateway to a new life. You reach out to touch one, the spine cool and smooth under your fingertips as you pull it out, the title blurring before your eyes as you struggle to read it.

"I don't like to read," you lie, the words feeling like sandpaper against your tongue. You drop the book onto the floor with a thud that seems to echo through the vastness of the library as if you've committed some great betrayal.

Bruce watches as you leave the library, the lie hanging in the air like a forgotten echo. He knows you're lying—it's written all over your face, in the way your eyes lingered on the book, in the gentle caress of your fingertips on the spine. But he says nothing, allowing the moment to pass.

He follows you back to your bedroom, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet that muffles the sound of his heavy boots. The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click, closing out the rest of the world. The room feels smaller now, the grandeur of the manor receding into the background as he stands in the doorway, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"If you don't like to read," he asks gently, his voice a soothing balm to your jagged nerves, "then what's something you do like?"

You look at him for a long moment, weighing your words. "Why do you wanna know?" you ask, jumping onto the bed, the mattress sinking beneath your weight. You bounce once, twice, a childish act that feels surprisingly liberating in the face of his expectant gaze.

Bruce doesn’t flinch, his eyes never leaving yours. He takes a step into the room, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "Because," he says, his voice soft, "I want to get to know you. I want to understand what makes you tick. And maybe," he adds with a small smile, "I want to help you find a way to heal."

You scoff, the sound of a harsh bark in the pristine silence of the room. "Heal?" you repeat, your voice laced with sarcasm. "I'm fine." But even to your ears, the lie sounds hollow.

Bruce crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes never leaving yours. "We all have scars," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "Some are just more visible than others."

You roll your eyes, the smirk never leaving your face. "Spare me the motivational speech. I've heard it all before," you reply, your voice a sneer.

Bruce's smile falters for just a moment, but he quickly recovers. "I'm not here to give you a speech," he says, his voice firm. "I'm here to offer you a home and a family."

You snort, the sound echoing in the large room. "I don't need a family," you spit out, your voice harsh. "I don't need anyone."

Bruce's eyes darken slightly, a hint of sadness flickering across his features before it's quickly masked. "Everyone needs someone," he counters, his voice firm.

"Not me," you reply, "I don't need you or your pity. I'm just fine on my own."

Bruce's gaze remains steady, his eyes piercing through the facade of anger you've built around yourself. "You may think that," he says calmly, "but I've seen the look in your eyes when you think no one's watching. I know you're hurting."

"You don't know anything about me," you spit out, your fists clenching tighter. The words are a challenge, a barbed wire fence you've constructed around your heart, daring him to try to get through.

Bruce's gaze doesn't waver. "I know enough," he says, his voice low and even. "I know that you've been through something unimaginable. I know that you're hurting, and I know that you're scared."

You laugh, a harsh, bitter sound that fills the room. "Scared? Me?" you challenge, taking a step closer to him. "You think I'm scared of you?"

Bruce's expression remains calm, almost serene. "I don't think you're scared of me," he says, his voice steady. "But I do think you're scared of letting anyone in. Letting anyone see the pain behind that tough exterior."

You snarl, the anger burning in your eyes. "That what you think? You think I'm just this sad, little girl who's lost everything?"

Bruce doesn't flinch. "No," he says, his voice calm and even. "I think you're a survivor. You've been through hell and come out the other side. And now, you're trying to keep everyone at bay because it's easier than letting them in and getting hurt again. You act up, push people away, because you think that's the only way to protect yourself. But it doesn't have to be that way."

You stare at him, your chest heaving with the effort to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over. His words cut through the armor you've so carefully constructed, exposing the raw, tender wound beneath. You want to scream, to yell, to lash out at this stranger who seems to see right through you. But instead, you clench your fists even tighter.

"I think I should make something clear, old man," you say, your voice low and steady, the smirk on your lips growing into a full-blown grin. "I don't plan to be a sad story for you to tell at your fancy parties. I'm going to make sure your life is a living hell. You'll regret ever taking me in."

Bruce's smile never falters, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "Is that so?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You nod, your smile a challenge. "You just watch me," you say, the smugness in your voice unmistakable.

Bruce leans down, his gaze locking onto yours. "I think there's something you should know then," he says, his voice a gentle rumble, "I'm a big believer in seeing the best in people. And I see something in you, something that's worth fighting for. So, go ahead, test me. I've faced worse. But want I want you to know is that no matter how much you push, I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. Not unless you really want to."

You glare at him, the fire in your eyes burning brighter. "I'm no quitter," you say, your voice filled with a fierce determination that surprises even yourself. You've lived on the streets, faced the Joker, and survived an explosion. You're not about to let a fancy manor and a billionaire who thinks he can save you break you.

Bruce walks to the door, his hand on the knob. "Dinner will be served in an hour," he says, his tone still calm. "I'll have Alfred show you around until then. Oh and, " he adds with a hint of mischief, "try not to cause too much trouble before then, okay?"

You shoot him a look that could set the curtains on fire. "Sure thing, pops," you say with a smirk, the words dripping with sarcasm. Bruce chuckles, the sound low and warm, and you can't help but feel a strange warmth in your chest. It's been a long time since anyone has tried to tease you, to treat you like a normal kid.

But you're not a normal kid, are you? You're a survivor of the Joker's wrath, a girl who's been through hell and back, and now you're standing in the bedroom of a billionaire's mansion. It's all too much to process.

You wander over to the bedside table, drawn by the glint of something shiny. There is a small, simple frame. Your heart skips a beat when you see your family photo inside—the same one that had been in the purse you stole.

With trembling hands, you quickly pick it up, taking it out of the frame. The glass is cool against your fingertips, the edges sharp. You bring the photo closer to your face, breathing in the scent of home that seems to cling to the fading ink. You trace the outlines of your mother's nose, and your father's eyes, memorizing the contours of their faces as if you could bring them back to life with enough willpower.

For a moment, you're lost in the past, in a time before the fire and the chaos. Before the Joker and the pain. But then the reality of your present crashes over you like a cold wave, and you realize that this is your new reality. The orphanage is behind you, and Bruce Wayne is your new...what? Savior? Father? Jailer?

Bruce watched from the gap in the doorway as the girl discovered the family photo, his smile gentle and knowing. He'd placed it there on purpose, hoping it would offer some small comfort amidst the overwhelming change. The way she held it to her chest, eyes scanning the familiar faces, told him more than any words could about the depth of her pain.

As she traced the outline of her mother's nose and her father's eyes, Bruce felt a pang of sorrow for her loss. He knew what it was like to have your world torn apart, to feel the burning rage of injustice. But unlike him, she was still so young, her wounds fresh and raw.

He stepped away from the doorway, allowing her a moment of privacy with her memories. He knew she needed it, needed to feel the pain and anger without the burden of his watchful gaze. The hallway outside was silent, the manor's grandeur a stark contrast to the quiet, personal battle playing out in the room behind him.

Part 4

#batman #bat family #dc universe #dc fandom #batfamily #bruce wayne #bruce x orphan reader #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #batman x little girl #orphan reader

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novaursa · 6 days ago

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The North Remembers Her (the winter has come)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Note: This is the last part of this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence, death)

- Previous part: whispers of snow

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

Winterfell’s walls buzzed with ill omen as the icy wind carried the distant rumble of an approaching army. Ramsay stood at the top of the battlements, his pale blue eyes scanning the horizon, his grin sharper than ever. His men moved with precision beneath him, assembling for the battle that loomed closer with each passing moment. Crimson banners bearing the flayed man of House Bolton flapped wildly in the stormy winds, a dread sight upon the gray and white of the Northern landscape.

One of his captains approached, bowing quickly before speaking. “My lord, the scouts report Jon Snow’s army is nearly upon us. They’ll be at the gates by nightfall.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes brilliant with anticipation. “Good. Let them come,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “We’ll crush them under the walls of Winterfell. And when their bodies are piled high, I’ll send their bastard leader’s head back to the Wall.”

The captain nodded and retreated to relay the orders. Ramsay turned to Reek, who lingered nearby, trembling under the weight of his presence. “Reek,” he said, his tone deceptively light, “make yourself useful. See to the hounds. They’ll have a feast tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” Reek stammered, scurrying away like a frightened animal.

Ramsay inhaled deeply, as though savoring the scent of blood and battle on the air. His grin faltered only slightly when another soldier approached, hesitating before speaking.

“My lord,” the soldier said, his tone cautious, “the Lady Bolton… she’s gone into labor.”

For a brief moment, Ramsay’s expression froze, the grin slipping into something unreadable. Then, just as quickly, it returned, triumphant than ever. “Well, isn’t that fortuitous?” he said, his voice laced with mock cheer. “Two battles in one day.”

Inside the castle, the sense of foreboding was no less palpable. You were confined to your chambers, clutching the edge of the bed as another wave of pain tore through you. The midwives moved frantically around you, their voices low and urgent as they prepared for the child’s arrival. The room felt stifling despite the chill in the air, the fire in the hearth doing little to warm the cold reality that had settled in your chest.

Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps as you clutched the sheets, the pain almost blinding. “It’s too soon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This shouldn’t be happening now.”

The head midwife glanced at you briefly, her face tight with worry. “Babes come when they will, my lady. Focus on breathing. Save your strength.”

The door creaked open, and Ramsay strode in, his presence filling the room like a storm. His eyes swept over the scene, his smile returning as he took in the chaos.

“Ah, wife,” he said, his voice lilting with mock affection. “You couldn’t have picked a better time. While your bastard brother marches to his death, you’re giving me an heir. How wonderful.”

You glared at him through the haze of pain, your voice a low growl. “Get out.”

Ramsay chuckled, stepping closer to the bed. “Oh, but why would I miss this? My child’s birth is a momentous occasion. The future of House Bolton, born amidst the cries of battle.”

“You don’t care about this child,” you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of pain and fury. “You care about your power.”

Ramsay’s smile faltered briefly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “And power is all that matters, isn’t it? This child ensures our legacy, wife. It ensures my legacy.”

Another contraction tore through you, and you cried out, clutching the sheets tightly. The midwives murmured words of encouragement, urging you to focus, but Ramsay’s presence made it impossible to find any semblance of calm.

The soldier from before appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “My lord, Snow’s forces are nearing the gates. They’ll be here within the hour.”

Ramsay turned, his smile returning as though the news were a gift. “Excellent. Ready the men. I’ll be down shortly.”

The soldier hesitated, glancing toward you before retreating quickly. Ramsay turned back to you, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Do try to hurry this along, wife,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “I’d hate to miss the moment. But duty calls.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and strode out, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to breathe through the pain. The midwife leaned closer, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “My lady, you must focus. The babe is coming.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as another wave of pain surged through you. The sounds of preparation outside the walls echoed faintly in the distance—Ramsay’s army readying for war, Jon’s forces drawing closer.

But here, in this room, another battle was being fought.

And you prayed silently to the Old Gods for strength, for survival, for the child you were about to bring into a world of blood and fire.

The winds howled across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, whipping the banners of House Bolton against the sky. Ramsay rode at the head of his force, his eyes alight with amusement as he surveyed the opposing army. The Stark banners—proud direwolves on fields of white—stood in stark contrast to the flayed man of the Boltons. The sight of them seemed to amuse Ramsay even more.

Jon Snow sat astride a black horse at the front of his army, his expression grim and determined. To his right rode Davos Seaworth, his gaze scanning the Bolton forces, while Tormund Giantsbane sat to Jon’s left, his wild red hair and beard bristling against the wind. Behind them, the men of the North and the Free Folk stood united, their presence a defiant challenge to Ramsay’s rule.

Ramsay grinned widely as he reined his horse to a stop just a few paces from Jon. His men halted behind him, a wall of crimson and steel. The air between the two armies crackled with animosity, the silence broken only by the whinnying of horses and the rustling of banners.

Jon’s voice cut through the cold air like a blade. “Ramsay Bolton,” he called, his tone steady but filled with restrained fury. “I’m here to give you a chance to save your men. Surrender Winterfell. Release my sister. And retreat to the Dreadfort.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “Your sister?” he said, his tone mockingly light. “You mean my wife. My lady. She belongs to me now, Snow.”

Tormund growled, his hand gripping the hilt of his axe. Davos placed a steadying hand on Jon’s arm, though his own expression was hard as stone.

Jon’s voice rose, cutting through Ramsay’s taunts. “Surrender now, and I’ll let you leave with your life. Refuse, and I’ll take Winterfell from you. I’ll rip your banners from its walls and burn them in the Godswood.”

Ramsay threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and grating against the tense silence. “Oh, you are amusing, Snow. Truly. Do you think you’re in a position to make demands? Look at you.” He gestured to the army behind Jon, his grin twisting into something cruel. “A ragged band of Wildlings, deserters, and broken men. Do you really think they can stand against me?”

Tormund’s horse stepped forward, the wildling’s voice a deep growl. “You’ll find out soon enough, bastard.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered briefly, his eyes narrowing. “Careful, savage,” he said, his tone cold. “I don’t take kindly to threats.”

Davos spoke then, his voice calm but firm. “This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed, Lord Bolton. You could save your men, save yourself, by walking away.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his grin returning. “Save myself? I don’t need saving, Onion Knight. I am the Warden of the North. Winterfell is mine. And no bastard, no savage, and no smuggler will take it from me.”

Jon’s voice was steady, but the fury in his eyes was unmistakable. “This is your last chance. Surrender, or face the consequences.”

Ramsay leaned forward in his saddle, his grin widening further. “Consequences? Oh, Snow, I think you’ll find I enjoy consequences. Tell me, have you ever seen what a pack of hounds can do to a man? Or perhaps I’ll show you what they can do to a sister.”

Jon’s hands clenched around the reins, his knuckles white. The hatred between the two men was a tangible thing, thickening the air until it seemed ready to snap.

But then Ramsay leaned back, his grin softening into something almost playful. “You’ll die here, Snow,” he said lightly. “You and your little army. And when it’s over, I’ll hang your body from the walls of Winterfell for the crows to feast on.”

Jon didn’t flinch, his voice cutting through Ramsay’s mockery like ice. “Then we fight.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Yes, we do.”

With that, he turned his horse sharply, his men following suit as they rode back toward the gates of Winterfell. The sound of their retreating hoofbeats echoed across the field, leaving Jon and his army in tense silence.

Tormund spat into the snow. “Cocky little bastard.”

Davos shook his head, his voice grim. “He’s dangerous. Too dangerous for games. We need to be ready.”

Jon turned his horse back to his men, his face set in grim determination. “He’ll pay for what he’s done. For everything.”

And as the Stark banners fluttered in the icy wind, the two armies prepared for the storm of battle that was about to descend upon Winterfell.

The clash of steel and the screams of men echoed across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, mingling with the howling wind. Ramsay’s banners of flayed men flew high above the battlefield. Below, chaos reigned.

Jon Snow led his forces into the fray, Longclaw shone as he cut through the lines of Bolton soldiers. Beside him, Tormund roared like a wild beast, his axe carving paths of destruction. Davos Seaworth commanded the left flank, his calm and strategic orders keeping the line intact against the relentless onslaught.

Ramsay sat atop his horse at the rear of the battlefield, his pale blue eyes gleaming with excitement as he watched the carnage. “Beautiful,” he murmured to himself, his smirk cutting as a blade. “Simply beautiful.”

Inside the walls of Winterfell, the battle was far from your mind. Your screams filled the chambers as another wave of pain tore through you, the midwives bustling around in controlled chaos. Sweat beaded on your forehead despite the chill in the air, and your hands gripped the sheets with white-knuckled intensity.

“Breathe, my lady,” one of the midwives urged, her voice steady despite the chaos. “The babe is coming.”

“I am breathing!” you snapped, though your voice wavered with the strain.

Another contraction gripped you, and you cried out, the pain overwhelming. Outside, the distant sounds of battle seeped through the stone walls, a grim reminder of the war raging just beyond the castle gates.

Reek hovered near the door, his hunched figure trembling as he watched. His eyes darted nervously between you and the midwives, his fear visible.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him.

“I-I’m supposed to stay,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “My lord’s orders…”

“To hell with his orders!” you snapped, another scream tearing from your throat.

On the battlefield, Ramsay’s forces began to falter under the relentless assault. Jon Snow’s men pushed forward with somber resolve, their cries of vengeance ringing out as they fought to reclaim Winterfell.

Jon himself was a blur of movement, his sword cutting through Bolton soldiers with precision. His focus was unyielding, his mind filled with the faces of his siblings, the memories of what had been stolen from them.

Across the field, Ramsay watched with growing irritation as his lines began to break. He dismounted his horse, his smirk replaced with a cold fury. “Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Hold it, or I’ll flay every last one of you!”

But even his threats couldn’t stop the tide.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives worked frantically, their hands steady despite the urgency of the moment.

“The head is crowning, my lady,” one of them said, her voice firm but encouraging. “You must push.”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the pain blinding as you gripped the sheets tighter. “I… I can’t,” you gasped, your voice trembling with exhaustion.

“You can,” the midwife insisted, her eyes meeting yours with determination. “One more push, my lady. For the child.”

With a scream that felt like it would tear you apart, you bore down with all the strength you had left. The sound of a baby’s cry filled the room, strong and piercing, cutting through the air like a storm.

The midwives moved quickly, wrapping the newborn in a soft blanket and placing the child in your trembling arms. Tears streamed down your face as you looked down at the tiny figure, its cries subsiding into soft whimpers.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife said softly, her voice filled with quiet awe.

For a brief moment, the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the child in your arms.

On the battlefield, the tide turned completely. The sound of hooves thundered across the plains as the knights of the Vale appeared on the horizon, their banners snapping in the wind.

Riding at their head was Petyr Baelish, his gaze fixed on the chaos below. Beside him, Sansa Stark sat tall and proud, her expression cold and determined as she watched the Bolton forces falter.

The knights charged into the fray, their lances gleaming as they crashed into Ramsay’s men with devastating force. The Bolton lines broke completely, their soldiers scattering in every direction as the battle turned to rout.

Ramsay stood amidst the chaos, his pale eyes wide with fury and disbelief. “No,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t how it ends.”

But as Jon Snow approached, his sword raised and his face calm, Ramsay knew the end was near.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives cleaned the room quietly as you held your son close, his tiny hand grasping at your finger. The sounds of battle had faded, replaced by the muffled cheers of victory from outside.

Reek remained by the door, his trembling figure a reminder of the world you were still trapped in. But as you looked down at your child, a spark of hope flickered in your chest.

The wolf was still alive. And so was the fight.

The courtyard of Winterfell was eerily silent, the snow thick beneath their boots. The air was heavy, carrying the metallic tang of blood from the battle that had raged just hours before.

Jon Snow stood tall, his chest heaving, Longclaw gleaming in his gloved hand. Across from him, Ramsay Bolton lingered, his eyes alight with something dark and dangerous. The smirk on Ramsay’s face belied the truth of his situation; his men, those who hadn’t fled or been slaughtered, cowered at the edges of the courtyard, leaving him exposed.

The snow crunched beneath Ramsay’s boots as he stepped forward, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You’re persistent,” he said, his voice carrying a mockery that only served to ignite the tension further. “I’ll give you that.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened, his knuckles white. “Surrender, Ramsay,” he growled, his voice low but steady. “This is over.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Over? Oh, no, Snow. This is just beginning. You see, Winterfell is mine now. It doesn’t matter how many Wildlings, traitors, or Starks you bring.” His voice turned icy, venomous. “The North is mine.”

Jon’s eyes burned with fury, but he held his ground. “You’re wrong. The North belongs to the Starks. It always has, and it always will.”

Ramsay laughed, a low, grating sound that echoed off the walls. “The Starks?” he sneered. “A dead house. A memory. The North follows power, and I’ve shown them power. Fear is stronger than loyalty, Jon Snow.”

Jon took a step forward, his voice rising. “You think fear will protect you? You think it will save you from this?” He gestured around them, to the fallen men and shattered banners. “The North remembers, Ramsay. And today, they’ll see justice.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing. “Justice?” he repeated, his voice laced with mockery. “Is that what you think this is?”

He raised his arms, gesturing to the empty courtyard. “Go on, Jon. Fight me. Kill me. Prove to the North that you’re just like me. That you solve problems with blood and steel. Show them that you’re no better than the bastard you despise.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened further, his rage barely contained. “This isn’t about me,” he said firmly. “It’s about everyone you’ve hurt. Everyone you’ve killed.”

Ramsay’s grin returned, sharper than before. “Oh, you’re so noble, aren’t you? So self-righteous. But tell me, Jon… how many men have you killed to get here? How many lives did you throw away to claim your precious Winterfell?”

Jon took another step forward, the fury in his eyes matched only by the resolve in his stance. “You talk about fear and power, Ramsay. But look around you. Your men abandoned you. Your banners are torn. You’re alone.”

Ramsay’s smirk flickered, a shadow of doubt crossing his face before it was replaced by defiance. “I don’t need anyone else,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Because I’ll always have Winterfell. And I’ll always have her.”

Jon’s expression darkened, the mention of his sister igniting a fire within him. He raised Longclaw, pointing the blade directly at Ramsay. “You won’t touch her again. You won’t hurt anyone again.”

For a moment, the two men stood frozen, the snow falling softly around them. Then Ramsay lunged, his dagger flashing in the light as he closed the distance.

But Jon was ready.

With a swift, practiced motion, Longclaw met Ramsay’s dagger, the clash of steel ringing out across the courtyard. The force of the blow drove Ramsay back a step, but his grin remained, his movements quick and erratic as he slashed again.

Jon blocked the strike easily, his sword swinging in a wide arc that forced Ramsay to retreat. The smirk on Ramsay’s face began to falter as Jon pressed forward, his strikes deliberate and unrelenting.

“You’re nothing without your men,” Jon growled, his voice carrying over the clash of steel. “Without your tricks. Without your hounds.”

Ramsay’s breath came faster, his movements growing desperate as he tried to fend off Jon’s relentless assault. “And you’re nothing but a bastard,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury.

Jon’s blade caught Ramsay’s dagger, wrenching it from his grasp and sending it clattering to the ground. Before Ramsay could react, Jon’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the snow.

Ramsay scrambled to his knees, his eyes wide with shock as Jon loomed over him, Longclaw poised for the killing blow.

The courtyard was silent, every eye fixed on the two men. Ramsay’s smirk was gone, replaced by the realization of his own defeat.

“Do it,” Ramsay hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Kill me. Show them who you really are.”

Jon hesitated, his grip on Longclaw tightening as he stared down at the man who had taken so much from him. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his fury warring with his sense of justice.

Then he lowered the blade, his voice steady. “You don’t deserve a quick death.”

Turning away, he signaled to the men waiting nearby. “Take him,” he commanded, his voice firm. “Put him in the kennels.”

As the soldiers dragged Ramsay away, his laughter echoed across the courtyard, chilling and hollow. “You’ll regret this, Snow,” he called out. “You’ll regret not killing me when you had the chance!”

But Jon didn’t look back.

The halls of Winterfell were quiet now, save for the faint echoes of boots on stone. The stench of battle still lingered in the air, a reminder of the lives lost to reclaim the ancestral seat of House Stark. Jon Snow led the way, his steps deliberate as he moved through the familiar corridors with Sansa close behind him. Their men followed silently, their faces marked with the weariness of war but also the faintest glimmer of triumph.

Jon’s sword hung at his side, his grip tight on the hilt as they approached the solar where the midwives had said she was. His heart pounded with anxiety and unease, the weight of what he might find pressing heavily on his chest. He glanced at Sansa, whose expression was a mixture of worry and determination, her fiery hair stark against the low light of the castle.

As they entered the room, the sight before them made Jon’s breath catch in his throat. There she was—his sister, seated in a large wooden chair near the hearth, a bundle wrapped tightly in her arms. The midwives bustled quietly around her, their hands careful as they cleaned and tidied the room. Despite her exhaustion, there was a fierce protectiveness in the way she held the babe, her head tilted down to shield it.

And then there was Reek.

He lingered near the corner, his hunched figure trembling, his wide eyes darting to Jon and then back to the floor. His clothes hung off his thin frame, and the remnants of the man Jon once knew were buried deep beneath layers of shame and fear. Recognition flickered in Jon’s eyes as he took a sharp breath.

“Theon,” Jon said, his voice low and filled with disbelief.

Reek—no, Theon—flinched at the name, shuffling further into the corner like a beaten dog. His hands twisted nervously in front of him, and he refused to meet Jon’s gaze. “I… I didn’t… I tried to…” His words were disjointed, barely audible.

Jon took a step toward him, his expression hardening, but Sansa placed a hand on his arm. “Jon,” she said softly, her voice steady. “Not now.”

He hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides, before his gaze shifted back to the figure seated by the hearth. The weight of the moment crashed over him, and his anger toward Theon faded into the background as he took a step closer to his sister.

“Y/N,” Jon said, his voice softer now, filled with a mixture of relief and concern.

You looked up slowly, exhaustion etched into every line of your face. But when your eyes met Jon’s, something shifted. The weight you had carried for so long seemed to lift, if only slightly, at the sight of him standing there, alive, whole, and so very much like your father.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He crossed the room quickly, dropping to one knee beside you. His eyes flickered to the bundle in your arms, and his breath hitched when he realized what it was—a child. “You’re alive,” he said softly, his hand hovering near yours but not quite touching. “You’re… safe.”

Sansa moved closer, her expression a mixture of shock and heartbreak as she took in the sight of you. “Oh, Y/N,” she said, her voice breaking. “What have they done to you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you forced them back, shaking your head slightly. “I survived,” you said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

Jon’s gaze shifted to the babe in your arms, his brow furrowing. “Is it… his?” he asked hesitantly, his voice laced with anger he couldn’t quite contain.

Your grip on the child tightened, your voice firm despite the quaver in it. “He’s mine,” you said, meeting Jon’s gaze with a fierce protectiveness. “Whatever blood runs through his veins, he’s mine.”

Sansa knelt beside Jon, her hand gently resting on your arm. “We’ll protect you,” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet determination. “We’ll protect both of you.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he looked back at you. “He won’t hurt you again,” he said firmly. “Ramsay is finished.”

You let out a shaky breath, the weight of their words settling over you like a balm. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to believe it might be true.

Reek—Theon—shifted nervously in the corner, drawing Jon’s attention again. His face hardened as he stood, but Sansa’s hand on his arm stopped him once more.

“He helped her,” Sansa said quietly. “In his own way. Let it be.”

Jon hesitated, his eyes burning into Theon’s crumpled figure. Finally, he nodded curtly, turning back to you. “We’ll figure this out,” he said softly. “Together. As a family.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at them—your family, your blood. For the first time in so long, hope flickered in your heart.

Winterfell was home again. And the wolf, though battered and scarred, was still standing.

The cold air bit at your skin as you descended into the dim stone corridors beneath Winterfell, the faint smell of damp earth and animal musk thickening as you approached the kennels. The torches flickered weakly in their sconces. Your footsteps echoed, the sound bouncing off the confined space, but you walked steadily, cradling the strength you had left after a week of painful recovery.

The midwives had protested your decision to leave your chambers, but you silenced them with a single look. This was something you needed to do yourself. Jon had offered to handle it, his rage barely contained whenever Ramsay’s name was mentioned, but this was not his task. Ramsay was your demon to confront.

Reek—or Theon, as Jon and Sansa had begun calling him—followed a few steps behind, his figure hunched as always. He hadn’t spoken much since the battle, but his presence was strangely reassuring. He understood what Ramsay had done, perhaps better than anyone else.

When you reached the iron door of the kennels, two of Jon’s men stood guard. They stiffened at your approach, their eyes flickering with concern. One of them stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“My lady,” he began cautiously, “are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “Open the door.”

The guard hesitated but obeyed, the heavy iron door creaking open to reveal the dark, narrow corridor beyond. The sound of snarling and pacing echoed faintly, and the air grew colder as you stepped inside.

At the end of the row of cages sat Ramsay Bolton, shackled and filthy, his once-pristine leather jerkin torn and stained. He was slumped against the stone wall, his pale blue eyes lifting to meet yours as you approached. The grin that curled across his lips was both familiar and chilling.

“Ah, my wife,” he drawled, his voice hoarse but mocking. “Come to visit your lord husband in his moment of need? How touching.”

You stopped just out of reach, your eyes narrowing as you studied him. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked, but the fire in his gaze had not dimmed.

“I’m not your wife,” you said coldly. “Not anymore.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, though it was brittle now, his pale eyes gleaming with something dark. “Oh, but you are. You’ll always be mine, little wolf. No matter what your brother or his Wildling friends think.”

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms. “You’re wrong. You’ve lost everything, Ramsay. Winterfell, the North, your men—everything. And now you’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

His laugh was low and grating, echoing in the confined space. “Answer? To you? What are you going to do, wife? Lecture me? Scold me? You don’t have the stomach for what needs to be done.”

You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the fury burning within you. “I have more stomach for it than you think. And unlike you, I don’t need to hide behind fear or cruelty to make my point.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his pale eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You think you’ve won,” he said softly, his voice dripping with venom. “But you’ll never be rid of me. You’ll see me in that child of yours. Every time you look at him, you’ll remember me. And you’ll never forget.”

Your breath caught for a moment, his words hitting their mark. But then you straightened, your voice firm. “You’re wrong again, Ramsay. He’s not yours. He never was. He’s mine.”

His laughter was sharper this time, almost manic. “Oh, little wolf, you’re deluding yourself. But go on. Decide my fate. Show me how merciful the Starks really are.”

You turned to the guard, who had followed you inside and stood silently behind you. “Bring the hounds,” you said quietly.

The guard hesitated, his eyes widening slightly. “My lady—”

“Do it,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “Now.”

The man nodded and disappeared, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. Ramsay’s grin returned, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze now.

“My hounds won’t hurt me,” he said confidently. “They’re loyal. More loyal than any man.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on him as the minutes stretched on. When the door opened again, the guards led the hounds into the kennel, their low growls filling the air. The beasts were lean and hungry, their eyes gleaming as they caught Ramsay’s scent.

His confidence wavered, his grin faltering as he shifted against the wall. “They won’t hurt me,” he repeated, his voice less certain now. “They know me.”

You stepped back, your voice cold. “They’re starving, Ramsay. You made sure of that.”

For the first time, you saw fear flicker in his eyes. He turned to the hounds, his voice rising. “Down! Sit! Obey me!”

But the animals didn’t listen. They crept closer, their growls deepening as they bared their teeth.

“Stop!” Ramsay shouted, his voice breaking. “No! Stop!”

You stood still, your chest heaving as the hounds lunged. The sounds of snarling and screaming filled the air, and you turned away, your hands trembling as you walked back toward the door.

The guards closed it behind you, muffling the chaos inside. You leaned against the cold stone wall, your breath shaky but steadying. It was over.

Ramsay Bolton was no more. Winterfell was yours again.

And the wolf had finally found justice.

105 notes · View notes

aylacavebear · 4 months ago

Text

Soulmates? Yeah, right, pft. - Ch. 14

When you turn sixteen, and your soulmate's name doesn’t appear anywhere on your body that you can find, you figure you had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t have one. Most of the town shuns you, so you stick close to family. Your Aunt Ellen raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were two, but what happens when the Winchesters return to town and buried secrets begin to come to light?

Pairing: Mechanic Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You

Word Count: 2214

Warnings: Angst, suspense, emotional situations, Crowley being Crowley.

A/N: This is my non-Supernatural fic I'm attempting. Please let me know what you think, as I always love hearing from my readers.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 14

When the SUVs pulled up to what looked like a heavily guarded wrought iron gate, attached to a thick brick or concrete wall, your heart almost felt like it would beat out of your chest. Dean at least still had his arm over your shoulders, holding you close, but your eyes were focused on the things outside. Outside the gates, all you could make out were the tall hedges and trees that had grown past the top of the wall, which you assumed encompassed the property. There were a few different types of vines, but they looked as though they’d been repeatedly cut back.

You wanted to ask where they’d taken you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak at the moment, even after what the judge had said. As the gates began to open, you felt like you were almost holding your breath. The driveway was neatly kept, winding its way through a pedicured landscape of trees, hedges, and flower beds. The mansion of a house where the SUVs stopped took your breath away. It was the most elegant and extravagant home you’d ever seen in person. The agent next to Benny opened the door, stepped out, and then held the door for the three of you. You swore your jaw had hit the pavement as you stepped out, staring up at the mansion before you when that Scottish accent pulled your gaze to the man coming down the steps.

“Oh good, you made it without incident,” Crowley stated, seeming quite pleased.

“What’s going on?” you asked, relieved it was Crowley and not someone from the Vaught family.

“I’ve made arrangements for you to stay here during the course of your case,” he explained. “One of my men will be back with your belongings, and theirs as well. Now, shall we get some brunch?”

You were still fairly confused, but you followed Crowley into his mansion, Dean by your side and Benny bringing up the rear. The interior of Crowley’s mansion was even more impressive than the exterior. As you stepped inside, your eyes were immediately drawn to the high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings and chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a palace. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling and elegant wallpaper, giving the space a sophisticated yet intimidating ambiance.

You walked through a grand foyer with a sweeping staircase that curved up to the second floor. The marble floors gleamed underfoot, and you could see various pieces of antique furniture and art tastefully arranged throughout the space. It was a stark contrast to the cold, sterile environment of the courtroom.

Crowley led the way down a long hallway, the rich scent of polished wood and old books filling the air. You passed several rooms, each one more opulent than the last, until you reached a set of double doors. Crowley pushed them open to reveal a lavish dining room.

The dining room was dominated by a long, mahogany table that could easily seat twenty people. The table was already set for a smaller group, with fine china, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery laid out meticulously. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and several large windows allowed natural light to pour in, illuminating the room in a warm glow.

A chef and a few servants were bustling around, preparing the final touches for the meal. The aroma of bacon, cooking meat, and something that was perhaps a fine fish dish wafted through the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation.

“Please, have a seat,” Crowley gestured to the chairs, taking his place at the head of the table. Dean guided you to a seat beside him, and Benny sat across from you, giving you a reassuring nod.

As you settled into the plush chair, Crowley smiled and spoke to the servants, “Begin serving, please.”

The servants moved with practiced efficiency, bringing out a covered plate for each of you, while others had platters with delectable deserts displayed on them. The aromas only made your mouth water further. Another servant set a chilled, open beer on a coaster near your, Dean’s, and even Benny’s plate while another poured Crowley a glass of what looked like fine wine.

Crowley dismissed the servant as he looked at you, his expression more serious now. “You must have many questions,” he said, taking a sip. “Feel free to ask anything you need to understand.”

You wanted to answer him, but the servants set a dish down in front of the three of you, revealing what had smelled so good. Yours and Dean’s contained the most delicious-looking burger you’d ever seen, while Benny got something that was clearly something he hadn’t had in a long time. You were just too focused on your burger at the moment to even ask what it was.

“Figured you lot would prefer something simple,” Crowley told you, seeing you focused on the meal and not his prior statement.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, looking over at him as Dean squeezed your knee in a reassuring way. “Why are you doing this for us?” you asked finally.

Crowley’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something softer behind his usual confident exterior. “Let’s just say, I have a vested interest in seeing justice served. The Vaughts have been playing games for too long, and it’s about time someone put a stop to it.” Dean leaned in slightly, his voice low. “We appreciate your help, Crowley. But what’s the catch?”

Crowley chuckled, setting his glass down. “No catch, Dean. Just a mutual benefit. You get the support you need for this case, and I get the satisfaction of seeing the Vaughts lose for once.” Benny spoke up, his tone serious. “We’ll do whatever it takes to win this. They’ve messed with the wrong people.” Crowley nodded approvingly. “That’s the spirit, Benny. Now, let’s eat. You’re going to need your strength for what lies ahead.” As the meal progressed, you found yourself relaxing slightly, the initial shock of Crowley’s opulent home giving way to a sense of determination. You had allies in the fight, and together, you were going to bring the Vaughts to justice.

Halfway through the meal, the double doors opened, instantly pulling your attention to what looked like a butler. “They’re here, Sir,” he told Crowley.

“Ah, wonderful,” Crowley replied, delighted as a smile played at his lips. “Show them in.”

The butler nodded, and a few moments later, Sam, Ellen, Jodi, Bobby, Mary, and John came into the dining hall. You instantly stood as Ellen made her way to you, tears in both your eyes as you embraced her in a tight hug.

“Oh, honey,” she told you softly, and you heard the sadness and relief in her tone.

“I’m okay, Auntie,” you replied quietly.

Ellen held you at arm’s length, her eyes scanning your face as if reassuring herself that you were truly alright. “We’ve been worried sick about you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Dean, Sam, and even Benny embraced in hugs before Dean hugged John and Mary. Even Jodi and Bobby hugged the boys, then came over to you, giving you a soft, but relieved smile, embracing you in a hug.

“We’re here for ya, kid,” John told you with the softest expression you’d ever seen on the man.

Crowley, ever the consummate host, gestured to the empty seats. “Please, join us. There’s plenty of food, and we’ve much to discuss.” As everyone settled around the table, the atmosphere shifted slightly. There was a sense of camaraderie, of a team coming together to face a common enemy. You wished that Jo could be there, as she was more like a sister to you than a cousin. And, oddly enough, even Cas and Garth. Just as you were finally feeling like you were relaxing, your mark began burning, horribly, a pained hiss leaving your lips just as Dean was getting out of his seat.

Crowley snapped his fingers a couple of times while you put your hand over your mark, missing whatever was being said. Moments later, though, Dean was putting cream on your mark. “It’s okay, I’m right here,” he attempted to soothe you as the entire room had gone silent.

“Well, now, this changes things,” Crowley mused from where he sat, leaning back in his chair. “Why wasn’t I informed about that?”

“About what?” you asked, only wincing slightly as you looked at him.

“With that,” he began, gesturing to your mark, “we’ve got a little more leverage.”

You tried to look down at your mark, but with where it was, you couldn’t see it. Frustrated, you looked back at him, “What are you talking about?”

He practically laughed, “Dean, you haven’t told her?”

All Dean did was glare at him and the others stayed silent, which only annoyed you further. “Tell me what?” you snapped, clenching your hands in your lap.

“I was waiting,” Dean managed through a clenched jaw, clearly annoyed.

“Will someone tell me what the hell you’re talking about? I’m tired of this, of all of you keeping secrets from me,” you snapped at them, looking around the table as your anger finally boiled over. When no one spoke up, you just got up and walked off, practically slamming the dining hall doors.

Crowley sighed and nodded to one of his servants, who promptly followed you. The servant was a young woman with kind eyes, and she caught up with you just as you were starting to feel lost in the labyrinthine halls of the mansion.

“Miss, please allow me to show you to a room where you can rest. Your bags have already been brought up,” she said softly.

Too tired to argue, you nodded and followed her. She led you up a grand staircase and down a long corridor to a beautifully furnished room. “If you need anything, just ring this bell,” she instructed, indicating a small ornate bell on the bedside table.

“Thank you,” you murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed as she left the room.

Meanwhile, back in the dining hall…

Dean, still fuming, stood up, “We agreed to tell her when her mark came in more.”

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly, although he wasn’t pleased about his secrecy, “It slipped my mind. Besides, she has a right to know.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t helping. How did she not notice one of the letters came in all the way?”

Dean sighed and sat back down, “She never looked in the mirror at it, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her to.”

“Son, she’s gonna be more hurt if you wait much longer,” John told him sincerely.

“Does she have at least an idea of how you’re connected to all this?” Crowley asked, although clearly frustrated, but needing further information.

“Not completely,” Dean reluctantly answered.

“Benny, did she even pay attention when Dean testified?” Sam asked, fairly puzzled how you wouldn’t have found out.

Benny sighed, “No. I was talkin’ to her. Tryin’ to help er’ relax a little.”

Crowley was usually a calm, collected man, but this frustrated him: "What does she know?”

Dean grabbed his beer, taking a sip before he answered, staring at the label, “I told her I know she’s my soul mate, part of the thing with Lisa, and that she’s an empath.”

“That’s it?” Bobby exclaimed in annoyance and frustration.

“That explains why she knows we’re hiding something,” Mary sighed, looking back at the closed dining hall doors.

“I didn’t want to make it harder on her,” Dean mumbled quietly.

“Dean, she has to be told, before her birthday, or it’s gonna hurt her more, and not just emotionally,” Sam told him, his tone soft but firm. “I know what I told you before, but she’s quickly running out of time.”

Dean’s attention went to the doors, his mind on only you and what you were feeling. He’d hated not telling, not letting himself get closer to you than you’d let him. He’d felt everything from the moment he’d seen you that first day at the bar, and it was tearing him up inside that you still doubted him. Sam had warned him of the risks of waiting too long, but he just hadn’t been able to find the right time and he didn’t want to do it once you two had gotten stuck in that bunker. “Dean, are you even listened?” Crowley asked him, frustrated and now leaning forward in his seat, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

“Yeah, I mean, no. I wasn’t listening,” he grumbled.

An annoyed sound left Crowley’s lips as he leaned back in his seat. “Her birthday is in two days. Either you tell her tomorrow, or I’ll have to make sure the doctor is here.” His tone was of concern for you more than for Dean.

Dean looked down at his beer, “She’s gonna hate me, but… I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

“Son, she’s gonna be mad at all of us, but she’s not going to hate us, especially not you,” John tried to reassure him, feeling bad for what not only his son had to go through, but also what you have had to endure.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 15

Story Master List Main Master List

Tag List: @deans-spinster-witch @jamerlynn @jackles010378 @bruhidkjustwannaread @onthehuntforshinies

@chriszgirl92 @angzls @xolivvies-cornerxo @certainsaladstarfish @onlyangel-444

@nancymcl @muhahaha303 @suckitands33 @kr804573 @justrandomthougt

@suckitands33 @mxtansy @scarletqueenx @krazykelly @roseblue373

@whimsyfinny @ladysparkles78 @aaathazagoraphobiaaa @hobby27 @perpetualabsurdity

@cicibunbuns @n-o-p-e-never @vanessa-boo @foxyjwls007 @uoberpmollah

@xolivvies-cornerxo @certainsaladstarfish @kdadss @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reignsboy19

@bonbonnie88 @ghostieghoul711 @flamencodiva @kayleezee @stillhere197

@lexasaurs634 @enamoredwithbella @winchester-whiskey @brandinicole911 @swaggyemily

@megs-gadom

If I missed tagging, please let me know. I had a lot of requests for tags for this one. If you'd like to be tagged, drop me a comment.

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u6is · 2 months ago

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"Be my fire in the cold."

pt. one

— kylian mbappé x reader: fluff

In the quiet town of Megève, nestled in the heart of the French Alps, the snowfall was a gentle, rhythmic lullaby. The kind that makes you want to snuggle deeper into the warmth of your bed. You felt an irrepressible pull towards the frosty beauty outside your window. You threw the covers aside and padded over to the windowpane, your breath fogging the cold glass. The snow had painted a fresh canvas over the sleeping world, turning everything monochrome but for the occasional twinkle of distant lights.

You glanced over at Kylian, still lost in a peaceful slumber, and couldn't resist the urge to wake him for a surprise. You whispered his name, a soft echo in the stillness of the room. His eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile spread across his face when he saw you.

"Merry Christmas," you said, and his smile grew. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and took in the serene winter wonderland outside.

"It's perfect," he murmured, and you knew exactly what he meant.

You both got dressed in warm layers, your cheeks flushing from the excitement of the crisp air. Kylian looked at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Prête à y aller, ma chérie?" (ready to go, my darling?) he asked, holding out a pair of snowshoes.

The thought of exploring the pristine landscapes together filled you with excitement. You nodded, and he helped you strap them onto your boots, the sound of the bindings clicking into place echoing through the room.

With snowshoes on, you stepped out of the cozy chalet and into the silent embrace of the Megève Ski Resort. The snow was thick and fluffy, muffling the sound of your footsteps as you ventured into the frosty forest. The trees towered above you, their branches laden with a fresh coat of snow, creating an archway of white that led to the untouched wilderness beyond. The scent of pine was sharp in the air, invigorating and pure. Kylian took your hand, leading you through the enchanting maze of snow-covered trees.

Your breaths grew heavier as you climbed higher, the cold air biting at your cheeks. But the effort was worth it; every step revealed a new postcard-perfect scene. The sky above was a canvas of soft blues and purples, the sun peeking shyly over the mountain tops, casting a warm glow over the snow-capped peaks. Kylian paused to point out a family of deer in the distance, their dark forms standing out against the stark landscape as they grazed peacefully. You watched them in awe, feeling a sense of kinship with the creatures that called this place home.

He stopped at a small clearing, the snow untouched except for the occasional bird tracks. The silence was profound, the only sounds the rustle of the trees and the distant echo of laughter from somewhere in the resort. Kylian looked at you, his eyes full of a warmth that seemed to melt the icicles hanging from the branches above. He leaned in and kissed you gently, his warmth a stark contrast against the frosty air. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the beat of his heart against your chest, a rhythm as steady as the falling snowflakes.

“So, is this your secret plan to keep me all to yourself out here?” you asked, giving him a playful smile.

“Caught me. I figured if I brought you out here, you’d be stuck with me,” he replied, smirking.

“Oh, so you think I can’t find my way back alone?”

“Hmm, well, maybe. But I doubt you’d want to.”

You grinned, raising a brow. “Confident, are we?”

“Only because you’re still here, in my arms. So... maybe just a little bit,” he teased, holding you tighter.

You laughed, resting your head against his chest. “Alright, you win this time. But only because you’re my best heater in this cold.”

He chuckled softly. “Best heater, huh? I’ll take it. But you’ll owe me a reward.”

You looked up at him, eyes glinting. “Oh? And what exactly does this ‘reward’ involve?”

He leaned in, his eyes sparkling with warmth, “More moments just like this one.” and gently kissed your lips.

Breaking the kiss, Kylian bent down and scooped up a handful of snow. He playfully threw it at you, the chilly flakes landing on your nose. You squealed and laughed, the sound echoing through the woods. The snow fight was on, with Kylian using his speed and agility to dodge your throws while you tried to keep up, your cheeks growing rosier with every giggle. The snow fell around you, the world a blur of white and mirth.

As the laughter subsided, Kylian took your hand again and led you deeper into the woods, the trail growing steeper. The challenge of the climb brought you closer together, your breaths coming in quick gasps as you pushed through the drifts. At the top of a hill, you stopped to catch your breath. The view was breathtaking—a panorama of endless white, unmarred by the chaos of the world below.

Kylian looked at you with admiration, his eyes gleaming with pride. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, his warmth seeping into your bones.

When you were both sufficiently cold and breathless, Kylian took your hand and led you back to the chalet. The warmth inside was a welcome embrace as you shed your outer layers and hung them by the fireplace to dry. The crackle of the firewood and the smell of pine filled the room.

You settled onto the couch, a mound of blankets between you. Kylian disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a tray laden with hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a plate of buttery croissants. The aroma of chocolate and baked bread wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of the fireplace. He placed the tray on the coffee table and took a seat beside you, his eyes dancing with the reflection of the flames.

You both took a sip of the rich, creamy drink, the warmth seeping into your chilled fingers and toes. The sweetness was a delightful counterpoint to the bitterness of the cold outside. Kylian reached for a croissant, breaking it in half and offering you the larger piece. You took it, feeling the warmth spread through your body as you took a bite. The flakes of pastry melted on your tongue, leaving a trail of buttery goodness that made you close your eyes and sigh contentedly.

The fire crackled and popped, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

With your hunger eased, your head rests gently in Kylian's lap, gazing up at the soft flutter of his lashes, lost in the beauty of the moment.

"Mon chéri, can you read that book for me, please?" You beg softly.

Kylian pulled out the book from the shelf beside him,

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

He began to read aloud, his voice deep and soothing.

"He is more myself than I am.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger:

I should not seem a part of it."

Kylian's fingers found yours under the blanket, weaving together like the roots of the ancient trees outside. The words weaved a warm blanket around the two of you as the night grew darker. The warmth of his hand was comforting, a silent promise that no matter where life took you, you'd always find your way back to moments like these.

The candles on the mantle flickered, casting a warm glow over the room, making it feel as though you were the only two people in the world.

The moon had risen high, casting a silvery light on the fresh snow, making everything glisten like diamonds. Kylian set the book aside. "How about we try something different?" he said, his voice a gentle rumble.

He led you to the back of the chalet, where a wooden deck jutted out into the night, surrounded by a ring of towering pines.

He stood there, a bottle of wine cradled in one hand, while in the other, two delicate glasses glistened, waiting to be filled with the promise of an evening just for the two of you.

In the centre of the deck was an outdoor hot tub, steaming gently in the cold air.

The water looked like a pool of liquid gold, beckoning you closer.

Kylian's eyes never left yours as he helped you into the tub, your skin prickling with anticipation. He followed the warm water enveloping you both as you settled in opposite each other. The jets bubbled around you, a soothing caress that seemed to melt away the tension of the day.

Sipping wine with him in the warmth of the hot tub feels like being wrapped in a soft, whispered embrace, each moment as soothing as a blanket drawn close on a winter’s night.

You leaned back, set the wine glass to the side, let the water lap at your chin, and watched the snowflakes pirouette around you. They were so close you could almost feel their chilly kisses, but the heat of the tub kept you cocooned in comfort. Kylian reached out, and his fingertips grazed your cheek, brushing a stray snowflake away. His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine.

He moved closer, the water sloshing gently between you. His eyes searched yours, seeking permission, and you gave it with a nod so slight it was almost imperceptible. The moonlight reflected in the pools of his irises, making them look like twin lakes under the stars. His hand slid down to your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You leaned in, the anticipation a delicious ache. His kiss was tender yet urgent, a silent declaration of the depth of his feelings for you.

The warmth of the hot tub was a stark contrast to the icy air outside, but it was nothing compared to the heat that grew between the two of you.

As Kylian's hand traveled down your arm, you felt every inch of your skin come alive. You reached out, your fingers in his hair, and the world outside the wooden deck ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, the water, and the night sky above.

Kylian's kisses grew more urgent, his hands exploring every inch of your body. You responded in kind, the warmth of his touch sending waves of pleasure through you. The sound of your breaths mingled with the gentle bubbling of the tub, the only soundtrack to your private dance of desire. The snowflakes continued their silent descent, kissing your skin as they melted away.

Kylian's hand slid beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together, skin on skin. The warmth of the water was a stark contrast to the cool air, creating an erotic friction that made you shiver.

You felt his hands on your back, untying the strings of your bra, the fabric slipping away, leaving you bare before him. He took a moment to drink you in, his eyes a smoldering gaze that set your heart racing.

"You're so beautiful," Kylian murmured, his voice thick with desire.

He slid closer, the water rippling around you, and his hands found your breasts, cupping them gently. His thumbs circled your sensitive nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You moaned softly, the sound lost in the whisper of the falling snow.

The water sloshed as you moved over him, your legs straddling his. You felt the hardness of him pressing against you, a promise of what was to come.

"I can’t stop thinking about you...Every moment without you feels like a lifetime."

His mouth found yours again, the kisses growing deeper, more demanding.

"I’m right here, you know." Breaking the kiss you looked into his eyes and saw it—an undeniable yearning, soft and vulnerable, like a puppy's gaze waiting for a home in your touch.

You could feel your body responding, your heart hammering in your chest.

"I know, but I need you closer. I just need to feel you... It’s like I can’t breathe without you near." His hands gently pull you towards him.

His chest was a warm wall of muscle against your cool skin, his breath hot against your neck as he trailed kisses along your collarbone.

"I didn’t know you were so needy."

"I am." His hands continued to explore

"When it comes to you, I can’t get enough. You make me crave more than I ever thought possible." Tracing the curve of your waist and the dip of your hips.

"Laisse-moi te prendre tout entière." (let me have all of you) With a tender yet intense tone, Kylian's hands roamed over your bare skin, sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

The world outside the hot tub was forgotten as your bodies moved in a rhythm as old as time itself. The snow continued to fall, but it couldn't penetrate the bubble of heat and passion that surrounded the two of you.

As the night grew deeper, the stars grew brighter, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the resort. The cold was a distant memory as you clung to each other, lost in the warmth of your love.

part 2 🫢

needy kylian aaaahhh

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x reader

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drowninginblox · 3 months ago

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The Tell

Based off of this scene (SPOILERS FOR XMEN '97) I am back on my nightcrawler bs!!!!

Have some angst and hurt/comfort to bide yall. I'M WORKING ON PART 3- MIDTERMS HAVE ME BY THE SOUL!! Yall know the drill: 2nd person bc idgaf GN pronouns for yall (I think?) No beta we die like (spoilers)

He was gone. You were across the world and you knew he was gone. In a step, in a breath, in a waining thought- all silenced by the wind in your hair whispering "Gambit's Dead"

You rushed home as soon as possible, making it just a day before the funeral. Everyone was barely holding it together but seeing you after all these years, a ghost, sent waves. Logan, Rouge, and Hank were all indifferent to your presence, understanding but also contempt of the fact that now- now you show up, after years away. This is what got you back.

Scott was worse- not even bothering to speak to you, just walking away altogether. Jubilee didn't know you that well, but from what she knew and how she is, she took you in with a grain of salt. Smart girl- that one.

Kurt, now that was a reaction. Moments after you were let in, Kurt was getting tea for everyone and as soon as he saw you- everything fell apart. Not many people have had the displeasure of seeing the Nightcrawler angry. After all, the few who do, don't live to tell the tale. But now you've seen it thrice. But unlike the times before- you stayed and took it all.

All the vile curses, both English and German, all the arm motions and tears, all the looks of emotions so mixed it could count as a cocktail. When he was done, and stark silence filled the over-occupied room, he muttered. "Welcome home Windwalker." Before dacking your shoulder on his way out.

You knew you should have left at that moment but you stay ed for the funeral. As soon as it was over and Kurtis touched your heart once again, you started to walk away again.

You made it ten minutes before he came racing after you. "Wait." He called from behind you.

A sigh and half of a turn was the most you got before the brunt of a sword collided with your eye- sending you stumbling into a nearby tree. "You are not leaving until I'm through with you, Zepher." You wince. Not at the pain. You didn't bother to stand as Kurt readied his blades. You just closed your eyes and waited. A moment passes before Kurt shouts "Steh auf, verdammt! Get up and fight me!" The rage eminent in his voice. You open your eyes to see him looming from listed over a yard away. His stark eyes contrast the gloom of the landscape. Where this moment was pure mourning, he was nothing but firey disgust. Contemplation washed over you, but you got up. You didn't bother to ready yourself as if you could- Kurt was already on you, his swords slashing into you. Kicks sent you here and there while the memories of late-night training sessions made your tears mix with the downpour. Blood followed soon after.

Whether it be minutes or hours later, he was finished with you. On the brink of passing out either out of blood loss or exhaustion. He stepped back to look at you. "Warum liegt mir so viel an Ihnen?" He mumbles. You only swallow back the copper taste in your mouth. His eyes narrow, finally seeing you as the human trash you are. You close your eyes and hope that the devil is kinder than this fallen angel.

You wake to smoke. immediately sitting up and coughing out the vile intruder. You use your mutation of wind manipulation to give yourself a radius to breathe. Kurt appears next to you before grabbing your chest and suddenly teleporting you outside. He doesn't linger to explain whats going on- just leaving you to watch as these human-robot things destroy the manor. You take out a few that try to break in and even save Logan from one too. When the chaos is settled, everyone makes a gameplan- something something Rouge, something something Magneto- you were out for most of it. It wasn't until Kurt gripped your shoulder that you found yourself back in reality. Kurt stares at you for a moment before grabbing your waist and teleporting to the outside of the manor's green.

"I-If you want a round two... go ahead." You offer even though the bandages wrapped around your torso and arms are turning pink. "I know you wanted to for harder." You close your eyes. "Can I say something though?"A beat passes. you feel his tail swing against your ankle. "Make it quick." You nod. "I'm going to say I've changed, or that I feel sorry, or that I've repented- because... I don't think you care about that." You let out a breath. Your heartbeat is still racing. "But what I am going to say is, that when I left- I didn't do it to hurt you." Something builds in the back of your closing throat. "I- I had to leave to protect you. And I know it was stupid to not say anything- especially given our last conversation. But I had to go. Y-you mother-"

"Mystique."

You nod, and you feel your cheeks get wet. "She found my family. My blood one. And you know that I've been keeping tabs on them since I left- she said that she'd kill them and then go after you guys-" She tries to suppress the frown that was deepening. "I know that I should have told you but I was scared. You told me what your mother is capable of. And I couldn't just stand there so-" A weight envelopes you. A warm, protective, weight, that grounds you to the moment. You open your eyes to see the thing you've been dreaming of for the past decade finally become reality. Kurt's buried his head into your shoulder and holding onto you for dear life. For a moment you can only watch. But as reality slowly but surely seeped in, the cracks in the years-old walls finally led to you crumbling in the arms of your oldest friend. You return his hug, clutching him to make sure that this wasn't one of the most twisted dreams you've ever had.

His tail wraps around your calve. "I missed the west wind," He mumbled into your embrace. You hold him tighter. "And I yearned for the fallen angel."

#nightcrawler x reader #kurt wagner x reader

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yoshi17here · 1 month ago

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"3rd of December me in your sweater"

It’s the 3rd of December, and the air feels like ice against my skin. The winter chill, typical for this time of year, bites at my cheeks, making my breath visible in small clouds as I exhale. Hyunjin and I are walking side by side, our footsteps crunching in the thick layer of snow beneath us. It’s been years now—three, to be exact. Three years since we began dating, and yet, moments like this still feel surreal, like something out of a dream I never want to wake from.

The sun hangs low, casting a soft golden glow over the landscape. It’s one of those days where everything feels muted, like the world is wrapped in a blanket of silence. The snowflakes fall lazily from the sky, floating like tiny stars caught in a moment of stillness. It’s the perfect day for an art date—our favorite kind of date.

I glance at Hyunjin as we walk, his profile sharp against the winter landscape. His long hair, usually styled to perfection, is slightly tousled by the wind, and he looks like he just stepped out of one of his sketchbooks. He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling in the corners, the same smile that still makes my heart race after all these years.

“We should find a nice spot to sit and paint,” he says, his voice warm despite the cold. “What do you think? Maybe near the lake?”

I nod eagerly, “Yeah, that sounds perfect. I’ve been wanting to paint the snow-covered trees by the water.”

Hyunjin grins. “I knew you’d say that. You always find the most beautiful places to paint.”

I blush, looking down at the snow beneath us, unsure if I can handle the attention he always gives me. It's overwhelming in the best way. After all, I’ve never understood why he could be so sure of me, but he is. Maybe that's one of the things I love most about him—the way he makes me feel like I’m enough, just as I am.

We reach the lake, and I gasp in awe. The snow blankets everything in sight, the frozen water glistening like a sheet of glass. It’s peaceful, almost magical. Hyunjin walks ahead, leading the way to a perfect spot by the edge, where a large tree stands tall, its branches heavy with snow. He sets down his art supplies on the ground and motions for me to sit next to him.

As we settle down, I notice the cold seeping through my layers. My fingers are numb from holding my paintbrush, and my nose is pink from the wind. I shiver slightly, rubbing my hands together in an attempt to warm them.

Hyunjin notices right away. He looks at me, his expression softening. “Are you cold?” he asks, his voice gentle.

I try to brush it off, not wanting to seem like I’m complaining. “A little, but I’m fine. I don’t mind.”

His eyes narrow in that way that tells me he’s not convinced. He pauses for a moment, looking at me with a thoughtful expression, and then his gaze drops to the sweater he's wearing. It's a thick, oversized knit in a deep shade of navy blue, the kind that looks as if it could keep you warm even in the middle of a snowstorm.

“Here,” he says, his voice soft yet firm. “You need this more than I do.”

Before I can protest, he’s already pulling the sweater off, revealing a thin long-sleeve shirt underneath. The contrast is stark—he’s much more resilient in the cold, his skin seemingly impervious to the chill.

I open my mouth to argue, but before I can get a word out, he drapes the sweater over my shoulders. The warmth from the fabric envelops me instantly, and I inhale deeply, the familiar scent of him—cinnamon, coffee, and something that’s uniquely him—fills my senses.

I look up at him, blinking in surprise. “Hyunjin, you’re going to freeze,” I say, trying to give him the sweater back.

He just shakes his head, giving me a soft smile. “I’ll be fine. You look like you need it more than I do. Besides, I’m used to the cold.”

I can’t argue with that. Hyunjin’s always had a way of shrugging off discomfort, focusing on others instead of himself. It’s one of the many things I admire about him.

The sweater is too big for me, the sleeves hanging past my hands, but it feels like I’m wrapped in a hug. I snuggle into it, feeling his warmth still lingering within the fibers. My heart beats a little faster, a mix of affection and gratitude bubbling inside me.

He sits down next to me, pulling his own coat tighter around him. For a moment, we’re both silent, the only sound being the soft crunch of snowflakes landing on the ground. Hyunjin picks up his paintbrush and dips it into the water, starting to sketch the landscape. I can’t help but admire the way his hands move, the fluidity and ease with which he brings his art to life.

I turn to my own canvas, feeling the brush in my hand, though my mind is still somewhat elsewhere. I can’t stop thinking about how gentle Hyunjin is, how he always knows exactly what I need without me having to say a word. It’s like he’s always attuned to me, even in the smallest ways.

I glance at him again, his brows furrowed in concentration as he paints, his lips slightly parted. The way he looks when he’s in his element—lost in his art—makes me fall for him all over again. It’s a familiar feeling, but it still catches me off guard, every single time.

“You look beautiful today,” he says out of the blue, his voice soft and tender.

I feel my face heat up, my fingers fumbling with the paintbrush in my hand. “What? No, I—”

He chuckles, the sound light and airy, and looks at me with that knowing smile. “You always do. Even when you don’t think so.”

I don’t know how he manages to make me feel so special with just a few words, but he does. Hyunjin has this uncanny ability to make the world feel like it’s ours and ours alone.

The sky above us is starting to darken, the sun having long since dipped below the horizon. The air is even colder now, but I don’t mind. Hyunjin’s sweater is warm, and his presence beside me is all I need to feel content. We continue painting, working side by side in silence, comfortable in each other’s company. It’s moments like these that remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place—because he’s not just my boyfriend; he’s my partner, my confidant, the person I want by my side through every winter, every season, every year.

And as the snow falls around us, I realize that even if time passes and the world changes, moments like this will always feel like home.

day 2 -- day 4

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midnight-mourning · 13 days ago

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Sleigh Bells Ring (Are you Listening?)

❄️❄️Midnight's DCA December Day 16❄️❄️

Another cute fluffy fic for you all, what a surprise amiright? Anywho, really tried to capture the scenery with this one, personally a big fan of cold snowy winters mhm, and also kissing robots-WHAT WHO SAID THAT anywho, enjoy!

Prompt: Oouu bats my little eyelashes,,i have a request!!💥💥 i think going on a sleigh ride with the dca would be fun!!!

Word Count: 1796

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Your feet hit the floor with a quiet thump. You stretch, yawning as you check the time on your phone. Still early, but the smell of food cooking downstairs has made you wide awake.

You twist to look outside, seeing a white, rolling landscape looking back at you. You walk over to the window, putting your hand on the cool glass. There's a bit of snow still falling, not as hard as the past few days, but enough.

When you first thought of the idea of returning to your family's old farmhouse all those months ago, you'd been hesitant. Mainly because you weren't sure how the attendant would react to such a stark contrast in environment compared to the Plex, and then your small cramped apartment. Two very different locations in terms of size, noise level, and population.

However, after the devastation that was the fire, and the months of recovery that followed, you think a change of pace would be what was best for all of you. And, you were right.

Both Sun & Moon had seemingly loved every minute of being on the farm, cleaning things up, taking care of the animals and the land, and so on and so forth.

You walk downstairs, the old floorboards creaking with each step, the air getting just a little warmer as you enter the main floor.

You spy Sun in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He turns to you as you enter.

"Good morning, Sunbeam! Did you sleep well?'

You nod, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "Yeah. You guys been up long?"

"Just a little bit!" Sun walks over, depositing a plate of pancakes, bacon, and other breakfast goodies in front of you. You don't ignore how the food resembles a smiley face, commenting on such. His rays spin at your words.

Mid-bite you speak up. "I'm thinking after we check on the animals we clear out the back of the barn. There's a bunch of stuff back there that either needs fixed up or thrown out already. It'll be an all-day activity, if you're up for it."

"You know how much we love organizing!" Sun claps his hands.

"Great. Let me finish breakfast."

The air nips at your nose, hands in your pocket as you make your way over to the barn. Sun's ahead of you, stopping every so often to examine the snow in detail, or to drop to the ground and make a snow angel. If you weren't trying to stay warm you'd join in, you were having a competition and you were losing severely.

Upon arrival, the animals greet you. Cows mooing, goats bleating, and what have you.

Before you open up the doors a bit further and hit the lights, you watch Moon retrieve a spare carrot from his sleeve, giving it to his—supposedly not favorite—favorite horse, Opal.

"You're spoiling her." You say, unlocking the big doors and starting to push them apart.

Moon scratches the horse's head with both hands while she revels in the attention. "Nonsense. She needs it."

You scoff, but smile as the two continue to admire each other.

You allow all the animals that want to out to roam in their yards for a bit while you and Sun work on cleaning and feeding them. With the help it takes very little time at all. Allowing you the chance to get started on your project in the back.

It's as messy as you always remember it being, your grandpa wasn't a hoarder by any means, just a collector rather. Among the old farm equipment is random knick knacks and quite frankly, junk. No disrespect to the old man, but what use he saw in a five foot tall chicken statue, that was between him and the statue you supposed.

You make good progress however, getting about half of it at least organized in piles before lunch time.

You're about to head back inside and shut the barn up again for a bit when Sun calls you to the very back of the barn.

"What's this, Starlight?" He points to a large mass half covered in shadow and a sheet.

You furrow your brow and decide the best course of action is to just pull the sheet off. After the dust settles, something clicks in place in your memory.

You can't help the grin that splits your face. "Hey! It's the sleigh my grandpa used to take us for rides in when we were kids." You take a step closer, hand ghosting over the brass trim. "Man, I completely forgot about this. Didn't know he kept it all these years. Still in good condition too."

It's true, it was a lot better than you would have ever expected. The dark green painted wood has only a few minor chips and scratches. The leather seats and have no cracks or tears, just a fine coating of dust. Even the brass that decorates and lines the edges of the sleigh look good, you can see your own warbly reflection in places.

"It's beautiful..." Sun says beside you, his own hand hovering just above it, like he's afraid to touch it. "Would, would it still be useable?"

You shrug, looking back to the sleigh. "I don't see why not." You knock the side a couple times. "Wood doesn't seem to be rotted, meaning it should still be pretty sturdy. Why, would you guys want to go for a ride?"

"Please!"

You look up to him, slightly surprised.

Sun fakes a cough, rays flitting. "I mean, if we could, we really, really want to. Pretty please."

You laugh. "Okay, yeah. Shouldn't be too hard. Let's drag it out to the front and we'll clean it up after lunch."

After a bite to eat, you and the attendant work to clean up the old sleigh. Wiping it down, polishing, sharpening the blades and so on. It's tedious work, but you enjoy it and the conversation you share.

By mid-afternoon, the sleigh is ready to go and both Sun and Moon are more than ready to go for a ride.

"Sun hold on, I need to adjust the reins to make sure they're comfortable." You have to shoo him away from you so you can focus.

His rays spin as he whines, but retreats to sit down in the sleigh. "I know, I know, but we've been waiting alllll day."

"And you've been so incredibly patient." You respond, adjusting the bridle on Marshmallow's—named by your cousin's kid—nose.

"Exactly!"

With a laugh, you double check everything before walking behind the horses to the sleigh. Picking up the reins you turn to the frantic bot beside you. "Ready?"

"Yes!" He clasps his hands together. "Please, Sunshine. I'm begging you. Let's go."

You sigh, long and dramatic. Then, you grin. "Alright, let's go." You click your tongue, tugging on the reins once and you start to move forward.

The wind blows all around you, cold against your face. But, you're having too much fun to care.

You swear Sun's eyes are sparkling as he takes it all in. Head whipping back and forth as you travel along. It's peaceful, the crunch of the snow under the horses' hooves, the skating of the sled. Despite the weather it's a gorgeous scene as you cross the countryside.

The snow thankfully isn't too much for Opal and Marshmallow to handle, and you think they seem very content and please to not be cooped up in the barn.

Besides the cold on your face, it's pretty cozy inside the sleigh, the two of you are wrapped up in an old fur blanket you'd found in the attic, and if you weren't so happy that they were having such a good time, you'd be burning up at the thought of sitting so close with them.

Sun's knee bounces against your as he taps his foot, hands fidgeting with your coat sleeve as he has no other way to expel his energy.

You spend a good hour or so out in the snow, even stopping by some of the neighbors places to check in. You return home, cold and hungry, and Sun is happy to usher you inside and cook up dinner.

While cleaning up, you check outside and are pleased to see that the snow has stopped for now, leaving way for a clear night with a full moon. Just like you were hoping.

It takes a moment of convincing, but you pull the boys back out into the snow, stating that it's only fair that Moon should get a ride too.

Soon enough, you're back out in the world, the peace of the night just a pretty as the day. There's only a few stars out, but the moonlight is so gorgeous as it illuminates your path that it more than makes up for it.

It's somehow even quieter out now. The wind blowing only every so often. The lantern you'd set in the back seat casts a yellow hue of the back of Moon's head as he enjoys the ride. While not as fidgety as Sun, he does stick close, hand having somehow intertwined with one of your own, rubbing small circles into the back of it every so often.

All of the sudden, you feel his head rest on your own, it causes heat to grow on your ears.

"Thank you for indulging us and our insistent demands today, Star." He sighs, snuggling closer to you. "This has been lovely."

You duck your head a moment, then clear your throat. "Yo-You're welcome."

Moon's chuckle reverberates against you.

"Could you stop for a moment?" He asks after some time has passed.

You nod. "Sure."

It takes a second, but eventually you're sitting still, waiting for what he's going to do.

What you don't expect is Moon to shift, using his free hand to move under your chin and turn you to face him.

"Wha—"

He bends down then, pressing his smile to your lips, pulling away after a moment.

"That's all, you can keep going now." He snickers, sitting back in the seat.

You blink, taking a moment to process before protesting. "Are you serious? You think you can just do that and not say anything more?"

"Opal wants to get moving, she has carrots to snack on when we return. Marshmallow too."

You hook the reins around part of the sleigh, twisting to face Moon fully. "Opal can wait. I have a few things I'd like to say first." You use both hands to pull his faceplate down to your lips, kissing him again.

And as you sit there, kissing—one of—the bots you love, you can't help but feel a little more grateful that you'd found the sleigh.

So, very grateful.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Gah loved writing this one, thank you @crystalmagpie447 for the request! I hope you enjoyed the fluffy sleigh ride, I def did :)

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@robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva

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#eheheehehe #moon lovers you're finally eating well #im sorry for neglecting you with these #hope this helps #fnaf dca #dca fandom #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #sundrop #moondrop #dca fic #x reader #mm dca december #writing requests

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mononijikayu · 8 months ago

Text

monster like me.

The weight of Gojo Satoru's presence became increasingly palpable as he shifted his gaze towards the setting sun. An oppressive silence enveloped them both, one laden with the shared grief too profound for words. Their unspoken understanding needed no verbal reinforcement. Two unhappy people together had no need for words, after all.

GENRE: pre - hidden inventory arc to shibuya arc (1990s to 2010s);

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: monster like me by morland and debrah scarlett

NOTE: i wanna give satoru and genmei a hug pls,,,,,,why are they being mean to you both??? (its me, im mean to them)

masterlist

u s and t h e m

[ Mikoto Shrine, September 2007; Kyoto Prefecture ]

ZENIN GENMEI THINKS ITS HARD TO THINK STRAIGHT THESE DAYS. Perhaps it was the unrelenting heat, or maybe the absence of a soothing summer breeze, but Genmei felt a restless impatience brewing within her. The days seemed to stretch endlessly, each moment dragging longer than the last, reminiscent of a past she thought she had managed to bury deep within her.

It felt like those days all over again—the days when Kaiko left her. Yet, there was a stark difference now, a disparity that puzzled and tormented her. Back then, the pain was sharp, a sudden severance of a bond she had known her entire life. It was a profound loss, the kind that reshapes one's entire existence in its wake. But this current feeling, this lingering ache—was it worse? How could the loss of someone she had known for merely three years weigh so heavily on her, seemingly more painful than the loss of someone who had been a fixture in her life from the beginning?

The question gnawed at her, a persistent echo in her mind that refused to be silenced. Each day without resolution brought with it a heavy sense of sorrow, mixed with a deep-seated confusion about the nature of her attachments.

Had her years with Kaiko been so deeply ingrained in her being that they became a part of her subconscious landscape, a piece of her identity that she could detach from, however painfully, because it was expected? Was the surprise of forming a new, profound connection later in life—only to lose it unexpectedly—somehow more jarring, its abrupt end more disorienting because it was unforeseen?

Genmei pondered these questions, feeling the weight of her thoughts like the oppressive summer heat. The lack of clarity frustrated her, the inability to rationalize her emotions or predict their impacts made each day a maze of memories and what-ifs. The absence of Kaiko had been a void she learned to navigate, filling it over time with new experiences, allowing it to scar over in a way that became manageable, if not entirely healed.

But this—this was different. This pain was raw, fresher; a wound reopened before it could fully heal. It questioned her understanding of attachment, of love and loss. It forced her to confront the possibility that perhaps the intensity of a connection isn't measured in the length of time it's endured but in the depth it reached in one's soul.

Maybe, in those three years, she had allowed herself to open up in ways she hadn't with Kaiko, to be vulnerable in a manner that was both terrifying and exhilarating, which now left her exposed in the aftermath.

Letting out a small, weary exhale, Zenin Genmei could do nothing but sit still. But she seemed to hate that more than anything.The stillness provided no answers, only the space to acknowledge the deep caverns of this beast of feelings. Perhaps understanding would come with time, or maybe it wouldn't. For now, Genmei had to accept the drowning in her emotions. And she cannot run away. She can never run away.

As Genmei wrestled with the tumultuous thoughts swirling through her mind, she began to realize that perhaps the profound sense of loss she felt was intricately linked to who Geto Suguru was—and, more importantly, what he had represented to her. If Satoru was the moon, Suguru was the sun. The moon cannot exist without the sun. And Genmei cannot live them both. Not even if she tried.

The more she thought about it, the clearer it became that her suffering stemmed from a deep yearning how deeply she felt about Suguru. She'd never reflected on it this deeply before. But it's all Genmei had.

Genmei could only think about how she longed for his smile—so full of warmth and life, so distinctly his. She ached to hear his voice again, tender and reassuring. It was as though he was life in itself. And she could only dream, that he would come back. Even after all he had done.

Genmei can only sigh as she leaned her head against the tree. Her lips locked in a tight line as she looked at the small echo of the setting sun. Her hands tried to reach far and wide, but even as her fingers caught the light, there was nothing that could prevent the sun from leaving.

"You're getting too quiet."

Genmei looks to her corner, the silver halo echoing from the peripheral of her sight. "Temples are usually quiet, Satoru."

"People at temples aren't this quiet."

"It's for prayers."

His blue eyes looked at her, as though searching for something she could not understand. "Then pray. I'll listen."

"You're too much of a brat, Satoru."

He snickers, leaning his body towards the small of her back. "You'd never cared before."

Genmei couldn't help but snicker quietly. Gojo Satoru had never once believed in gods his entire life. If anything nowadays, he was more like a god than anything. But Genmei thinks she'd deny him of her prayers being said out loud. Genmei had never been eager to celebrate grief with others. She'd never been good at it. The Zenin kept things to themselves. No one talked about anything.

The Mikoto thinks it should be discussed in the depths of one's lonesomeness. To let it all drift away with the wind itself. Mother had always told her that reflection heals all wounds. That was expected from her mother, she supposed. Her mother was born to reflect, to keep those emotions, those echoes of loss, in the silence of reflection. A priestess through and through. An attribute she supposed she earned from her.

Father used to say the opposite, Genmei could recall. Her father with her loud boisterous voice, his warm hands and his bright starlight eyes. One must wonder how he was ever a Zenin. He often said that humans are not islands, cannot exist as islands. Islands need life. Islands need the touch of humanity. Genmei did not know if she agreed with her father, but it was something she was mindful of, to at least learn. To understand.

Genmei had seen it all too many times with the people that are left behind each and every mission. She noted each and every emotion on their faces, as though she was remembering what they used to feel like. How they fit her face when she had learned it all those years before, on the bright gaze of a bright eyed young wonder. Her father, Kaiko, Namie and now Suguru. They taught her how, to blossom in wonder. And now they took it away too. What had been relearned, Geto Suguru took it away with him too.

When people are sad, she remembered how people crave the need to be together. They yearn to feel whole at the thought of loneliness abandoned. Genmei never needed that before. The warmth of another person's touch, the space to let the eyes dampen with those unspent tears. The cries that ring desolation. Genmei wondered if she ever allowed herself to be like that. To be able to cry again like that. To be human.

Emotions expressed, of what she learnt at one point ─ the dead took it with them. Suguru himself took what remained. All that warmth that had built the fullness of a human's home had died once more. Genmei supposed it's what helped her last in Zenin manor recently. Like all those times before, Zenin Genmei ran to her emptiness to survive.

Yet, as she sensed the subtle tilt of his head resting against her shoulder, Zenin Genmei thought that deep down ─ she was allowing herself to dig through that numbness. He was warm, Satoru always was. Even the moon he was, he was still more warmth than barren cold. Even in the grief that dug through him, he brought the coldness she felt back to life with his warmth.

She noticed a faint, inaudible sigh escaping her mouth while a dull ache began to take root in her legs. She was feeling the discomfort of the stiffness that comes with the way she sat under the grass. Nevertheless, she remained unmoving, steadfast in her conviction. He wanted to rely on her in this moment, the most humbly human of requests. He needed this, she supposed.

The day would soon draw to a close. Genmei could not remember when the last time her world stopped for such a moment of quiet. Jujutsu sorcerers rarely had the time to savor things like these. When they do, it was a treasured thing. Blue hour was upon them, gleaming like the dark deep shine of Okinawa's deep blue. Memories hit her, tugging at her heart to remember the humanity that dwelled with the love that she wanted to lock away.

Years ago, such treasured moments were stolen moments. Even from where they sat, the thought of all those times beckoned her on. To unlock the key and return to those moments. Genmei purses her lips tight as she looked onward upon the dancing grass. Laughter filled her ears, as though it was a song stuck in her head. The smiles glistened panel after panel in each fragment hidden under lock and key. Before Satoru, before Suguru, before Shoko.

Those memories haunted her. All those echoes retorted to her, gnawed at her with all it had. Just one look at the sunset beam, Genmei recalled it all. The youth where she smiled the truest, the past three years where she reclaimed that smile. The young daughter of clan Zenin blew a soundless breath in the air.

The day unfolded with such breathtaking splendor, resembling a veritable Eden unveiled before their eyes. Both of them long discarded their talk. The sudden breeze serenading their languid forms, the unyielding tree bark etching its presence upon his charcoal uniform, the slight glimmer of scarlet light dancing against the slit of her hakama.

The descending sun showered them with its farewell caress, a poignant parting gesture. Not all days boasted such perfection, nor did they all weigh as heavily on the heart as this. All death, all tragedy, all lost of youth, its worth mourning. Even beautiful skies must be mourned.

The heron heralded its imminent arrival, casting the benevolent embrace of the ethereal blue hour that gradually consumed the fiery vestiges of the scarlet sky. On an ordinary day, Zenin Genmei might have lamented her perceived lack of productivity. Even then, she can't blame Satoru for it.

The gods demanded honesty and clarity from their priestest. Yet, she knew she would not be able to give that to the gods. Not when Suguru's words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. His smile so genuine as he spoke of the world he dreamed of. The one where the world burns and his conviction would remain steadfast in the joy it would bring him.

Genmei thinks it was better to say nothing to Satoru.

He wouldn't be able to handle all of it, she thinks.

He'd never be able to understand how Suguru smiled.

‘It repeats over and over, the song of tragedy rhymes again,’ Genmei contemplates with an air of exasperation as if a disconcerting sensation tempts her away for a brief dalliance with nicotine. The key was unlocked, she was sure.

The throes of her humanity fighting its way to come alive. She yearns for the noxious tendrils of smoke to vacate her lungs, as if they held the power to purge her thoughts, her endless sufferings. ‘With all that I could have seen and have not allowed myself to say…’

Her solitary recourse lies in the graceful inclination of her head, a poignant gesture born of inner turmoil as she contemplates the disheartening notion of history unfurling itself once more. The weight of self-reproach deepens as she revisits the keenly missed telltale signs, those subtle cues that her discerning eye had once so deftly unveiled.

Her lilac eyes, now narrowed, bear the heavy burden of accumulated recollections spanning years, all converging inexorably to that austere conclusion—the same deluge of denouement. It was bound to happen all over again. She warned them. Souls that break can never return. Yet they did not listen to her. And they repeated the same mistake. And all is left is tragedy.

Yet, despite the overwhelming emotions that surge within her, the most she can muster is a profound, resigned sigh.

With a leisurely closure of her eyes, she wished for reprieve. The young woman yearns to erase her thoughts. Though, that in itself may be tedious work. Genmei had tried to forget. Tried to fight the box that had burst from within her. But the memories come rushing back one way or another. Genmei mourns, then she cries. Then she marches forward and then loses to fate. The cycle repeats. The worst of it she supposed is to remember in the quiet.

One that had plagues her as she sits to meditate. The words so sweet from the mouth of someone she loved, visiting her like a curse that had been willed to haunt her. Tilting her head slightly downward, she permits the weight of her contemplations to rest on Satoru. As he leans into her, he seems content to remain motionless. To lose any sense to the mundane.

The warmth shared between them feels like fire, intensified by the uneven caress of the vanishing sun. Infinity appears to exist only in the obscurity behind his dark glasses. Genmei remains uncertain about his countenance to reality, yet she cannot help but imagine that their faces had dried against a torrent of mournful tears. Not that Genmei could even blamed him. She would have gone mad with all of it, too. Well, she has.

When he sought her out, he did so without uttering a single word. Veiled in impenetrable silence behind the obsidian lenses of his dark shades, he extended a hand and gently beckoned her away from her solitary stance. He stole her away from her own bitterness, so they may sit together, bitter.

Their departure from the temple was a measured procession, their hearts coursing with the blood of shared experiences, and their bond weighed heavy with the burden of mutual silence. In time, they found solace beneath the same trees where joyful memories had once danced in her mind like fragments of a shattered mosaic.

Genmei ponders whether he had nearly forgotten how to draw breath. Yet, she could scarcely hold it against him, for the shock of such a profound loss was an expectation that accompanied it.

Youthful love is the most grotesque loss, Genmei knew from the start. When one thinks of curses, love is the worst. Much more with the denial that it is lost forever. Most cases Genmei found that the cases she deals with comes from the madness of love becoming the curse that people bear.

Satoru's not the type to unleash such malice upon the world, she knew that at the very least. But it did not stop the hurt, nor will it ever stop it from breaking his heart. To be separated from the person he held dearest, the one who tethered him to humanity. In the solitude of divinity, kamis often found themselves lonely, far too easily. You never get use to it. Genmei was certain to speak from experience. She hasn't let go after all this time, either.

Nevertheless, they were aware that they could never truly attain humanity. Yet, in the union of Satoru and Suguru, there existed the closest semblance of a kami becoming fully human. Genmei's head lowered gently as she contemplated the glistening grass underfoot. She reminisced about the gentle smile that had once graced humanity within the soul of Suguru Geto, now replaced by an overwhelming sense of grief for what might have been.

‘Was I like this back then, with Kaiko? With Namie? With my father?’ she pondered silently, opening her eyes to witness a small bird taking flight. Suppressing a quiet laugh with a bite of her lip, she added, ‘I don't remember.’

‘No,’ a voice whispered back to her, almost mockingly. ‘You do remember, and now you feel it once more, clawing at you. But you realize it, don't you? How worse it is now? How you let yourself break like the weakling you are. You loved that boy too much and now it burns you whole.'

Her lips tightened against her jaw. ‘Silence.’

The voice chuckled but refrained from further conversation. She didn't anticipate it would speak further.

At that moment, the young woman found herself immersed in the world around them, the clouds waning as the sun continued its haunting descent beyond the horizon. Lost in her thoughts once more, the young woman with lilac eyes inwardly cursed the voice in her head as youth flooded in like an unstoppable tide.

Genmei's thoughts churned like a turbulent sea, brimming with memories, regrets, and unspoken sentiments, all of which remained tightly sealed, many of them never to be revealed, not even on her final day. Yet, perhaps one day, some of those words would find their way into the world.

As the light faded, she discreetly stole a glimpse of Satoru, his face still concealed behind those dark glasses. She wondered about the world he perceived and the emotions he harbored. However, there was no need to inquire; their connection transcended mere words. She sensed the tempest of emotions raging within him—a storm of pain, anger, and sorrow.

"I wish I could alleviate your pain." she murmured, her words barely more than a breath of air. She meant those words. That she was certain. Yet she knew he heard her. There was no necessity for a response; her mere presence sufficed for now. "To make it easier—"

"You can't." Satoru responded nonchalantly, maintaining his cheerful facade. Her lips pursed into a line, and she could only sigh. "Not even if you tried."

For a moment, Genmei closed her eyes once again, allowing the world's sounds and sensations to wash over her. She felt Satoru's warmth against her, a small source of comfort amid the overwhelming grief. Memories of happier times with him flashed before her—moments of shared laughter, dreams, and quiet intimacy, a bittersweet montage.

"I won't let you face this alone," Genmei whispered in her words a solemn pledge to the man beside her. She had confronted her demons and regrets in the past, and now she was determined to help him confront him. They were two souls intertwined in a shared history and a profound understanding.

He snickered, almost haughtily.

He looks at her, almost mockingly.

Genmei's used to it, after all this time.

"Promises being met? Rare these days, Genmei - senpai." He always liked to bait her into mockery with the word 'senpai'. Suguru had always scolded him for that. But Genmei knew she did not mind. She never truly did. "Don't promise something you can't fulfill."

"Do you doubt me, Satoru?"

"You've given me no reason to trust you right now." Oh. He knows. He felt him here, his residuals. Genmei bit her lower lip. Of course he did. He is the honoured one, after all.

Lilac against blue. "No, I have not."

The world beyond their cocoon of grief carried on, oblivious to their suffering. Birds continued their evening serenades, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above. It was as though nature itself sought to offer solace, reminding them that life persisted, even in the face of loss.

At that moment, beneath the darkening sky, Genmei and Satoru became acutely aware of the world's indifference to their pain. It presented a stark contrast to the intensity of their emotions as if the universe had turned a blind eye to their heartache, a nearly jarring dissonance.

Yet, as night deepened and the stars gleamed brilliantly, a sense of unity with the cosmos began to seep into their souls. It was a silent recognition that their grief, however profound, was just one thread in the vast tapestry of existence. They were but specks in the grand scheme of things, yet their pain was real and valid.

Genmei glanced at Satoru, still shrouded in darkness, his presence a constant reassurance. Despite the void that had taken root in their hearts, they were not truly alone. The world might not pause for their sorrow, but it continued to offer its beauty and wonder, and they could choose to find solace in that. Genmei turned her gaze away, focusing on the darkening sky.

"Genmei," he called to her again, unmoving. He dropped the honorifics, though he had never needed to use them. Genmei sensed the eerie strength in his tone.

Deep within Genmei, one kami recognized another—the Honored One.

The voice within Genmei snickered, almost excited.

All of it had made her head hurt more than anything else.

"What is it, Satoru?"

"Promise me.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Don't ever leave me."

Four words reverberated, four words etched in their shared history. Genmei would have laughed, had this been years ago when she was younger and more brash, overflowing with confidence and unburdened by the weight of unmade choices and untraveled paths. But now, older and wiser, she understood the significance of those four words, as meaningful as the three or even one.

Satoru was not offering her a choice; it was a command, and Genmei's words constituted a promise—an island reaching out to another, a connection of lonely souls. Zenin Genmei closed her eyes, her fingertips reaching toward the warmth of his hand.

Gojo Satoru made no move to stop her. Infinity once again ceased to exist between them as their smallest fingers intertwined in a solemn pledge, like children binding themselves to a sacred vow.

"I swear it," Genmei whispered to him, as his grip tightened around her finger. "Monsters have to stick together."

He laughs at her words. "Monsters, huh?"

Her eyes softened. "Well, aren't we?"

"Hm, I guess we both are."

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 4 months ago

Note

Ok, hi! I absolutely ADORE and LOVE all of your writing, and I know you're not going to continue Green Eyed World, but I just wanted to know what you had planned for the ending so my anxious ass can finally rest in peace. Would Remy leave his universe to be with the reader? Would they live together happily ever-after or would it be bittersweet? I'm just so curious and I know you're the only person who can answer that ^^'. Anyways, I hope you're doing well <3

Okay so! I’m gonna give you my favourite bits that I wrote for the last few chapters.

Keep in mind none of this has been edited ❤️

Chapter 10:

Remyknocks gently on your door, the familiar sound a small comfort. “Hey,” he calls out when

you open it. “I brought you that sandwich I promised you. Thought you might be hungry after everything.”

You smile, a touch of your usual banter returning despite the emotional toll of the day. “You actually made it? I’m impressed.”

Remy chuckles, stepping inside and holding out the sandwich. “Well, I figured it was the least I could do. Plus, I didn’t want you accusing me of forgetting again.”

You take the sandwich gratefully and start to unwrap it. As you both settle into a light-hearted conversation, the mood lightens. The joking and laughter momentarily distract you from the Heaviness you’ve been feeling.

Eventually, the banter dies down, and a more serious tone fills the room. You take a deep breath, feeling a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability. “Remy, can I ask you a favor?”

He looks at you with genuine concern. “Anything. What’s up?”

You hesitate, struggling to find the right words. “After today... I need to feel something real. Something safe. I know this might sound strange, but... could you stay with me tonight?”

Remy’s expression softens as he processes your request. He closes the door behind him and moves towards the chair by your desk, pulling off his boots. “Sure,” he says, his voice reassuring.

“Just give me a sec.”

He slips into bed beside you, pulling the covers back and settling in behind you. For a moment, he just holds you, hesitating as if searching for the right words.

Finally, he wraps his arms around you, his warmth and presence a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves. “You did amazing today,” he whispers, his voice low and sincere. “I’m so proud of you.”

You close your eyes, letting his embrace envelop you. The comfort of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his soft words provide a sense of security you desperately need.

You shift closer, seeking solace in his arms, letting go of the day’s stresses as you drift into a more peaceful state.

In the quiet of the night, you find a semblance of peace, knowing that despite everything, you’re

not alone.

As you lie there wrapped in Remy's embrace, a profound realization begins to settle over you.

Amidst the chaos, the uncertainty, and the emotional turmoil of the past few days, one thing stands out with absolute clarity. In the midst of all the confusion, there’s an undeniable truth: your love for him is real.

The gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his arms, and the sincerity in his voice when he whispered how proud he was—these things ground you. They remind you that amidst everything else, this feeling you have for him is genuine and unwavering.

You let the sensation of his closeness wash over you, appreciating the tangible reality of his presence. It’s a stark contrast to the abstract challenges you’re facing. As you nestle deeper into his embrace, you hold onto this truth, letting it be a beacon of stability in the ever-shifting landscape of your life.

With each breath, you reaffirm this feeling, understanding that no matter what happens, this love is a constant, something solid and real. It becomes a source of strength, something to hold onto when everything else feels uncertain. In the quiet of the night, you allow yourself to fully embrace this truth, finding comfort and solace in the knowledge that this love, at least, is something real in a world full of chaos.

As you lie in Remy's arms, the weight of the day's events begins to lift, and a deep sense of calm washes over you. Gently, you reach for his hand, which rests across your stomach, and bring it up to your mouth. You press a soft, tender kiss to the back of his hand, letting it linger for a moment before holding it against your chest.

Remy's hand is warm against your skin, a comforting presence that soothes your racing thoughts. You feel him respond with a lazy, affectionate kiss to the back of your head, his arms tightening around you in a protective embrace.

The simple gesture, the closeness, and the warmth create a cocoon of safety that you haven’t felt in a long time. As you drift into a peaceful sleep, the first you've experienced since the chaos with Thanos, you hold onto the tranquility of the moment. Remy’s presence, the gentle pressure of his hand, and the steady rhythm of his breathing provide a sense of security and comfort.

In this serene embrace, you finally let go of the stress and fear that have been your constant companions, finding solace in the knowledge that, at least for tonight, you’re not alone.

The night drifts on peacefully, each breath you take syncing with Remy's, your bodies nestled together as if they were made to fit just so. The usual barrage of thoughts and anxieties that plague your mind every night is mercifully quiet, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against your back.

You stir slightly, still half-asleep, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest. In the darkness, his presence feels even more profound, like an anchor grounding you to something real, something tangible in a world that often feels like it's slipping through your fingers. Your hand still grips his, pressed to your chest, as if holding on to this moment could make it last forever.

Remy shifts behind you, and you feel his breath warm against your neck as he whispers your name, so softly you’re not sure if you heard it or if it was a dream. You can tell he's still awake, his hold on you tightening just a bit, as if he needs the reassurance that you're really there with him, just as much as you need it from him.

"Y' know," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with sleep, "you ain’t gotta do any of this alone."

His words are gentle, filled with an understanding that cuts through the night, touching something deep within you.

You don’t reply, partly because you’re too tired, and partly because you know he’s right. Instead, you just press yourself closer to him, letting the silence speak for you. Remy’s hand moves from r chest to rest protectively around your waist, and you let yourself sink further into his embrace, feeling more at peace than you have in years. As the minutes stretch into hours, sleep pulls you both deeper into its embrace. The world outside fades into the background, leaving just the two of you, wrapped up in a moment that feels both fleeting and eternal.

Chapter 11:

You stood on the battlefield, the students gathered behind you, ready to fight at a moment's notice. The X-Men stood on guard, a formidable wall of defense, with Remy right by your side.

His presence was more than comforting; it was the only thing grounding you in this moment of uncertainty.

Before you, Kang stood alone. His purple jacket flowed with the wind, hands clasped behind his back, a serene and confident smile playing on his lips.

"I thought he would’ve brought an army," Logan growled, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the solitary figure.

You didn’t break your gaze from Kang, your voice hardening with disgust. "Kang doesn't need an army," you replied, bitterness seeping into your tone. "He has me. It’s always been me."

Beside you, Remy reached out and took your hand, his fingers interlocking with yours. The warmth of his touch contrasted with the cold dread creeping up your spine. When you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes were intense, filled with emotions that words could never convey in such a fleeting moment. His love, his fear, his desperation—all of it was there in the way he looked at you.

"I know," you murmured, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, though the words were as much for you as they were for him.

You reluctantly let go, stepping forward to meet Kang in the middle of the field. His smile widened, pleased at your approach. "I didn’t expect such a large welcoming," he remarked, his tone casual, almost mocking. Though he appeared unassuming, you knew better than to underestimate him. You could feel his power, a dark force that seemed to resonate with something deep within you.

"They’re ready to blast you off this field," you said, your voice steady despite the storm inside you.

Kang spread his arms wide, inviting the challenge. "Let them," he replied smoothly, pausing as he studied you. "But you won’t."

"What do you want?" you demanded quietly, the words laced with suspicion. "It's been you, hasn't it? Those dreams I've been having... you've been planting them."

Kang shook his head slightly, a knowing smile on his lips. "They’re not dreams. They’re memories. Your memories. Of a future you haven’t yet lived."

A frown creased your brow. "How can they be memories when there’s only one of me?"

He wagged a finger at you, teasingly cryptic. "Yes, this is true. But some things must remain close to my chest," he whispered, stepping closer until his face was inches from yours. "Those memories happen. I lay waste to every single person in this school. Every child, every mutant, every human." His gaze drifted over your shoulder, settling on Remy with a dark, deliberate intent. "Your boyfriend will be the last to go. That one, I'll make you watch. Unless..."

He took a step back, giving you a choice. "You come with me."

Your refusal was instant. "No."

Kang smiled, almost as if he expected your answer. "I don’t expect an answer right now. But I’ll be back. This time tomorrow, I’ll be back to get you."

"You sound convinced that I’ll come," you said, your voice firm despite the unease gnawing at you.

"Twenty-four hours is all I need for you to make up your mind," he said, his smile never faltering.

"And you will come."

Chapter 12:

The room was warm, the faint scent of your body wash lingering in the air as you sat on the edge of your bed, one leg propped up on a chair, your fingers working lotion into your skin. Your hair was still damp from the shower, and you were dressed in a pair of comfortable sports shorts and one of Remy’s shirts that hung loosely on you. The fabric carried his scent, wrapping you in a sense of comfort even as your thoughts swirled with everything that had happened earlier.

The door creaked open, and Remy stepped inside. He looked tense, his brow furrowed, and you could see the worry etched into every line of his face. His grey jumper clung to his frame, making him look both effortlessly casual and heartbreakingly handsome. You could tell from the set of his jaw that he was ready to argue, and you braced yourself for what was coming.

"You can't go with him," Remy started, his voice low but insistent. "We’ll fight this, together. You don’t have to—"

You cut him off with a small smile, looking up from your task. "You look really good in that," you said, nodding toward his jumper.

For a moment, he looked taken aback, as if your response was the last thing he expected. His eyes flickered with confusion before they softened, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.

You went back to moisturizing your legs, the simple act grounding you in the midst of the chaos swirling around you both.

"Don’t do this," he continued, his tone pleading now. "You’re talkin’ like you’re already gone. We can fight him, chérie. Together. We’ve fought worse."

You paused, your hands stilling as you considered his words. Then, without looking up, you spoke, your voice calm, almost serene. "I love you," you said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Really, I do. I’ve been wanting to tell you for so long, but there always seems to be chaos. It never feels like the right time."

You closed the lid of the lotion container and leaned back in your chair, your gaze finally lifting to meet his. "This just proves there never is a good time, doesn’t it?" you added with a soft, almost bittersweet smile.

For a moment, Remy just stared at you, the words hanging in the air between you. He seemed stunned, as if he didn’t quite know how to process what you’d just said. Then, slowly, he crouched down in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. His thumbs began to trace gentle circles into your skin, the warmth of his touch soothing yet filled with an undercurrent of desperation.

"Why now?" he asked quietly, his voice laced with a sadness that tugged at your heart. "Why tell me now when you’re thinkin’ ‘bout goin’? Don’t do this to me, chère. Don’t make me watch you walk away."

You reached out, brushing a hand through his hair, your fingers lingering on his cheek. "Because I don’t want to regret not telling you," you admitted, your voice softening as you looked into his eyes. "I’ve been afraid, Remy. Afraid of what this all means, of what could happen. But I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to leave without you knowing how much you mean to me."

His eyes shimmered with emotion as he leaned into your touch, his breath catching in his throat. "I’ve known, chérie," he murmured, his voice thick. "I’ve always known. But you ain’t leavin’. I ain’t lettin’ you go. We’ll figure this out, just stay with me."

You could see the raw vulnerability in his gaze, the way he was holding on to hope, to you, with everything he had. It broke something inside you, seeing him like this, and yet it made you love him even more.

"I want to stay," you whispered, your thumb brushing over his lips. "But I have to do what’s right. And right now, what’s right feels impossible."

He shook his head, his grip on your thighs tightening as if he could physically hold you here, keep you safe by sheer will alone. "There’s always a way," he insisted, his voice trembling slightly. "We’ve always found a way before, and we’ll find one now. Please, chérie. I can’t lose you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, leaning down to press your forehead against his. "You won’t lose me," you promised, though you knew the words might be hollow. "I’ll come back to you, I swear."

Remy closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he tried to believe you, tried to hold on to the sliver of hope that your words offered. His hands slid up to your waist, pulling you closer as if he could fuse you to him, keep you anchored in this moment.

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "So much it scares me."

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him as tightly as he held you. In that embrace, time seemed to stand still, the looming threat of tomorrow momentarily forgotten in the warmth of his arms.

But even as you held each other, the weight of what was to come lingered, a shadow that neither of you could fully shake.

Remy’s hands remained on your thighs, his thumbs still gently tracing circles as he held your gaze, searching for something in your eyes. His voice was soft, almost fragile, as he asked, "Do you remember what you told me that night in the cabin? When Wade, Logan, and Vanessa were there, and I was beggin’ you to leave… do you remember what you said?"

You felt your throat tighten, the memory of that night flooding back with vivid clarity. The desperation in his voice, the way he had pleaded with you to walk away, to save yourself from the chaos that surrounded you both. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you nodded slowly, the words tumbling out of you in a whisper, "In every universe, I’ll find you."

His breath hitched, and before you could say anything more, Remy surged forward, capturing your lips in a deep, desperate kiss. It was filled with all the emotions he couldn’t put into words—fear, love, longing, and the overwhelming need to hold on to you, to keep you with him.

You returned the kiss just as fervently, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if that could somehow make the world outside disappear. His lips moved against yours, speaking a silent plea, a desperate attempt to make you stay, to make you see that he couldn’t bear to lose you.

"Please," he murmured against your lips, his voice trembling with emotion. "Please don’t leave me. I can’t… I can’t do this without you."

Chapter 13:

Kangaroo control over you was absolute, but he underestimated the power of your will and the strength of your love for Remy. Even as you endured the trials he set before you, you remained determined to find a way to return to him. The hope that one day you would be reunited, that the love you shared would be a beacon through the darkness, was your guiding light.

Weeks turned into months as Kang tightened his grip on you, gradually molding you into the weapon he needed to prune timelines and eliminate events that didn't align with his grand vision. The sterile, emotionless halls of his stronghold became your world, the metallic coldness seeping into your bones as time wore on. You were no longer just you; you were a tool, a means to an end in Kang's relentless pursuit of power and control over the multiverse.

At first, you resisted with everything you had. Each time Kang commanded you to alter a timeline or erase a pivotal event, you would argue, plead, or defy him. You challenged him with questions—what right did he have to dictate the course of countless lives, to snuff out entire realities just because they didn’t fit his plans? Your defiance was met with cold indifference or, worse, twisted amusement. Kang would listen to your protests with a slight, condescending smile, as if your resistance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a fleeting rebellion that he knew he could crush.

And crush it he did.

Kang was patient, methodical. He knew that breaking you wouldn’t happen overnight, so he chipped away at your resolve, bit by bit. He exposed you to the horrors of unchecked timelines, showing you visions of chaotic futures where unchecked power led to devastation, where the worlds you once knew lay in ruins. He presented these visions as proof of his necessity, as if the atrocities he forced you to commit were somehow justified in the name of a greater good.

The first few times you were forced to prune a timeline, the guilt was unbearable. You would stand on the precipice of a world, staring at the people who lived there, the moments they cherished, and the futures they hoped for. You would see yourself in them—ordinary beings trying to find their place in the universe—and you would feel the weight of what you were about to do. Kang’s cold voice would echo in your mind, urging you to complete the task, to erase these lives as if they were nothing more than glitches in his grand design.

The act of pruning was excruciating, a deep violation of everything you once believed in. You would watch as entire timelines—whole realities full of people, hopes, dreams, and histories— were reduced to nothingness. The first time you pruned a timeline, you collapsed afterward, the enormity of what you had done crashing down on you like a tidal wave. You wept for those lives, for the universes that would never be, and for the person you once were, who would have fought to the death before allowing such an atrocity.

But Kang knew how to erode that person away

Chapter 14:

Remy’s voice, soft and laced with concern, pulls you back to the present. “You hungry? Thirsty? Anything you need?” His question is tentative, like he’s trying to find some way to make you comfortable again, to bring you back to this reality where you’re safe, home, and with the people who care about you.

You look at him, then at the rest of your friends standing around you, their eyes filled with a mixture of hope, worry, and love. You smile softly, trying to reassure them, even as your emotions churn inside you. “I just… I just need a minute,” you say, your voice steady but quiet.

Without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and walk toward the living room. The familiar space feels both comforting and alien, filled with memories of a life you’ve been disconnected from for so long. You sink down onto the couch, your hands gripping the fabric as if anchoring yourself to something real, something that won’t slip away.

Logan appears in the doorway, his presence a steadying force. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just walks in and takes a seat beside you, giving you the space you need to gather your thoughts. The silence between you is comfortable, a reminder that you don’t always have to fill the void with words.

“It’s okay to take your time with all this,” Logan finally says, his voice low and rough, but gentle.

He looks at you, his expression understanding, patient. “Ain’t no rush to figure it all out. You’ve been through hell.”

You sigh, rubbing your hands together as if trying to warm them. “I don’t feel like I belong here anymore,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “Not after everything I’ve done. I don’t even know where to start.”

Logan watches you carefully, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s always been able to see through the bullshit, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “You belong here, kid,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “You think you’re the only one carryin’ around guilt? You think we haven’t all done things we regret?”

You open your mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, stopping you. “Let me finish,” he insists, his voice softening. “When you were gone, it messed Remy up. The first few months… hell, the first six months, he wouldn’t leave the house. He barely left your room. He was holdin’ on by a thread, waitin’ for you to come back.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, the weight of them sinking in as you picture Remy, alone, refusing to leave the space where he felt closest to you. “Then it changed,” Logan continues. “He started avoidin’ the house altogether, doin’ anything to keep busy, to keep his mind off the fact that you weren’t here. But even then… even when he started actin’ normal again, he still wasn’t the same. He was still missin’ you, every day.”

You bite your lip, the guilt gnawing at you. “But it’s not just him,” Logan adds. “Wade and Vanessa—they moved in here. Gave up their apartment. They didn’t want to leave him alone, didn’t want him to fall apart without you. They’ve all been waitin’ for you to come back, hopin’ for it. Those aren’t the actions of people who don’t have your back. They’re with you, through thick and thin, no matter what.”

You nod, swallowing hard as tears prick at your eyes. The weight of their love, their loyalty, presses down on you, making it harder to breathe. You’ve been so focused on your own guilt, your own pain, that you didn’t realize how much your absence affected them—how much they’ve been hurting too.

Logan leans back, his gaze still fixed on you. “Look, you’ve been through a lot. We all have. But that doesn’t mean you don’t belong here. This is your home. We’re your family. And if you’re feelin’ lost, we’ll help you find your way back. But you gotta let us in. Don’t push us away because you’re scared of what you’ve done. We’ve all got blood on our hands, but that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a chance to make things right.”

You wipe at your eyes, nodding slowly. “I don’t know how to make it right, Logan,” you admit, your voice thick with emotion.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Logan says simply. “One step at a time. But don’t shut yourself off from us. You’re not alone anymore.”

His words sink in, and for the first time since you walked through that door, you feel a glimmer of hope, a tiny spark that maybe, just maybe, you can start to heal. You’ve been through hell, but you’ve also found your way back to the people who matter most. And they’re willing to stand by you, no matter what.

As you and Remy make your way down the hallway to your bedroom, the house feels strangely familiar yet different, like you’re seeing it through the eyes of a stranger. Everything seems both the same and completely new, as if you’ve been gone longer than just a year. The walls hold memories, echoes of conversations and laughter, but now they seem quieter, waiting for you to fill them with life again.

When you reach your bedroom door, Remy hesitates for a moment, glancing at you before opening it. The room is just as you remember it—your things exactly where you left them, your bed neatly made. But there’s something different about it now, something that makes your chest tighten with emotion.

“I’ve been sleeping here,” Remy says quietly, his voice breaking the silence. “But I’ll clean it up for you before tonight. I know you probably want some space.”

You look at him, seeing the weariness in his eyes, the weight of everything he’s been carrying since you left. He’s trying to give you the room you might need, to be respectful of whatever boundaries you might have now. But that’s not what you want. Not at all.

A small, genuine smile forms on your lips as you shake your head. “You don’t need to clean anything up, Remy. You can stay in here as long as you want.” Your words are soft, almost tentative, but the meaning behind them is clear. You’re asking him to stay with you, a silent plea that you hope he understands.

Remy’s eyes widen just a bit, a flicker of surprise passing through them before he nods, the corners of his mouth lifting in a gentle, almost relieved smile. He knows what you’re asking, and he’s not going to make you ask twice.

You move over to your wardrobe, intending to grab some clothes to change into. As you rummage through the hangers, your fingers brush against something soft and familiar. You pull it out and see your old SHIELD jumper, the one you haven’t worn in years. It brings a wave of nostalgia, memories of a time when things were simpler, when the world made a little more sense.

For a moment, you just stand there, holding the jumper in your hands, your mind racing with everything that’s happened since you last wore it. The pain, the loss, the unimaginable choices you had to make. But also the love, the connections that have brought you back here, to this very moment.

You close the wardrobe, holding the jumper close for a second before setting it aside with the clothes you’ve chosen. “I need a shower,” you say, your voice steady but laced with the weight of everything you’ve been through.

Remy watches you closely, his eyes filled with an intensity that makes your heart ache. He doesn’t move, just stands there, as if he’s trying to memorize this moment, trying to etch it into his memory.

“I’ve missed you,” he finally says, his voice low, almost reverent.

Those three simple words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you feel the tears welling up again. You’ve missed him too—missed everything about him. The way he looks at you, the way he’s always there, quietly offering support and love without asking for anything in return.

You nod, swallowing hard as you meet his gaze. “I’ve missed you too, Remy,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but you know he hears it. He always hears you.

There’s a silence that stretches between you, filled with all the things that don’t need to be said.

You’re both here, you’re both alive, and that’s what matters. The rest—the healing, the rebuilding—will come in time.

Finally, you turn towards the bathroom, your hand brushing against his arm as you pass by him, a silent promise that you’ll be back, that you’re not going anywhere. As you close the door behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, trying to steady yourself as you prepare to face the reality of everything that’s happened.

The water runs warm as you step into the shower, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you let yourself relax, if only for a few moments. The water washes away the grime, the tension, the pain, leaving you feeling a little lighter, a little more like yourself.

But even as you try to find peace in the simple act of washing away the past, you can’t help but think about Remy, just on the other side of the door. Waiting. Ready to pick up the pieces with you, no matter how broken they are.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you can find your way back to each other. One step at a time.

Remy paces the hallway outside the bathroom, his fingers drumming anxiously against his thighs as he listens to the muffled sounds coming from behind the closed door. The running water of the shower mixes with the quiet sobs, a stark reminder of all that’s been lost and all that’s been endured. He wants nothing more than to burst in there, to hold you and offer whatever comfort he can. But he knows, deep down, that you need space right now. You’ll come to him when you’re ready.

Chapter 15:

The sun dips below the horizon, the first stars begin to twinkle in the sky. The moment is serene, filled with a sense of calm that you all have longed for.

As the sky deepens into twilight, the atmosphere on the balcony shifts to one of quiet reflection.

Remy finishes his cigarette, tossing the butt into the ashtray with a soft clink. He stretches out his legs, sitting closer to you and Vanessa, the warmth of his presence a comforting anchor.

Vanessa, always perceptive, reaches out and places a hand on your arm. “It’s good to see you smiling again,” she says, her voice gentle. “We’ve all missed you.”

You smile at her, grateful for her support. “I’ve missed you all too,” you admit, your voice soft but filled with sincerity. “And I appreciate you being here, through everything.”

Wade, ever the source of levity, interjects with a playful grin. “So, what’s next on the agenda? Do we get to pick out some new adventures, or are we just going to sit around and enjoy the view?”

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. “Maybe we’ll just focus on making sure this place stays as peaceful as it is now,” he suggests, his tone a mix of practicality and hope.

The conversation drifts to lighter topics, the camaraderie between you all easing the lingering tension. As you listen to the banter, you feel a renewed sense of belonging. The feeling of home, once so elusive, now wraps around you like a warm embrace.

Remy leans over and takes your hand, his fingers entwining with yours. “How about we just take it one day at a time?” he proposes, his gaze steady and filled with love. “I’ve got you back, and that’s what matters right now.” You nod, squeezing his hand gently.

“That sounds perfect.”

The evening stretches on, filled with laughter, stories, and the simple joy of being together. As the stars fully emerge and the night settles in, you feel a deep sense of contentment. The battles of the past seem a little lighter, the uncertainties of the future a little less daunting.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a warm smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, and FYI. Next time you fuck up my morning and ask me to take a random trip to the void to pull out some friends, I’ll kill you.”

Wade’s grin widens as he lounges casually, his hands behind his head. “To be fair, I think I’ve earned some brownie points for convincing you to rescue th he man who becomes the love of your life. You’re welcome.”

Remy chuckles beside you, his hand still intertwined with yours. “Yeah, Wade, you’re definitely on thin ice, but I’ll give you this—without you, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Logan nods in agreement, a rare smile on his face. “Just don’t make it a habit, Wade. We’ve had enough chaos for a while.”

Wade’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Hey, it’s all part of the grand adventure, right? Besides, it worked out, didn’t it?”

The group laughs, the tension of past events melting away under the shared camaraderie. As the ht deepens, the sense of togetherness strengthens, and you can’t help but feel a deep appreciation for the people who’ve stood by you through it all

#marvel #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x reader #reader

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oneshotnewbie · 3 months ago

Note

I love love love love your writing and I wanted to ask if you could do an imagine of one of Angela Bassett's characters, It could be Queen Ramonda or Athena Grant. ❤️🥰

Authors note: Today two stories in one day. Simply because I felt like it and I'm currently in 9-1-1 fever. Enjoy reading ♥

ᕚ---ᕘ

The wind whipped against the windshield of the black SUV as Athena Grant rounded a bend and drove down the narrow mountain road. The low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the car radio were the only sounds that broke the silence in the vehicle. You, her wife, sat next to her, your head leaning against the side window as you stared absently at the passing landscape. The dense coniferous forests, the mountains looming in the distance, and the endless sky provided a backdrop that was in stark contrast to her hectic life in Los Angeles.

Athena cast a quick sideways glance at you. Your usually lively eyes were surrounded by dark shadows, the tiredness clearly visible on your face. You looked like you had carried the weight of the world on your shoulders - and in many ways you had. The past few months had not only been stressful, they had been draining, harrowing, and emotionally devastating.

It had started with a particularly difficult case that had pushed Athena's police department to its limits. A series of brutal attacks, carried out with unpredictable violence, had terrified the city. Athena had, as always, been at the forefront when the perpetrators were finally caught. But the price she and her family paid for it was high. It wasn't just the endless nights and the emotional toll of constantly confronting death, it was the knowledge that her family - and especially you - had suffered from her absence and the constant feeling of threat.

You had also been going through a difficult time. You had been in the middle of a project that demanded all of your attention, but when one of your closest friends had died suddenly and unexpectedly, it had hit you hard. It was as if death had caught up with you both, no matter how hard you tried to distance yourself.

And then there was the accident.

Athena still had the sound of breaking glass and screeching tires in her ears as she took the corner too fast to follow a fleeing suspect. The shock of waking up in the hospital, the pain in her body, and most of all the horrified face of yours that she saw right after waking up was the image that was burned into her memory. Those eyes, full of worry and fear, had made it clear to her that you couldn't put yourself through this any longer.

"I'm glad we're doing this," Athena said quietly, giving you another look. Her voice was soft, but with a hint of worry as she looked at your pale face. "We need this. You need this."

You sat up a little and smiled wearily. "We both need this," you corrected gently. "After everything that happened... I thought I could just keep going, but I feel burned out."

Athena nodded and looked back at the road with concentration, the steering wheel firmly in her hands. "Me too. I've ignored it for too long. The work, the responsibility... but now we have to take care of ourselves. Our relationship."

The streets became narrower and the trees grew closer as you reached the last part of the route to the cabin. The cabin itself was secluded, as you had hoped - far from the noises of the city, from sirens, phones, the constant calls calling you back to reality. There was only silence here. Pure, uninterrupted silence.

When you reached the driveway, Athena stopped the car and looked over at the cabin. The small wooden building, hidden between the trees, seemed inviting and at the same time foreign. It had something of a refuge, a place that would give you the opportunity to find yourself again. The windows reflected the orange light of the setting sun and a light breeze made the trees dance in the wind.

You got out first and stretched extensively while Athena opened the trunk to get the luggage out. As you looked around, you couldn't deny the feeling of relief that spread in your chest. This was exactly what you both needed: no work, no constant interruptions, no threats. Just you and your wife, in the silent embrace of nature.

"It's even more beautiful than I imagined," you said as you stood next to Athena and looked at the wooden house. Your smile was a little more genuine now, not quite as heavy from the last few months. Athena put an arm around your shoulders and gently held you against her. "Yes, it's perfect. Just the two of us for a while."

You walked together to the porch and opened the door, which creaked quietly under the weight of their story. Inside, it smelled of wood, fresh air, and a little of the dust of isolation. The furnishings were simple but cozy. A fireplace, a small kitchen, a few bookshelves, and a wide sofa that looked inviting.

"I'll make us a fire," Athena said as she put the bags down. She longed for the warmth of the fireplace and your arms wrapped around her middle, mixed with the calming atmosphere that would surround you here. While you opened the windows to let in the fresh air, Athena leaned over the fireplace and began to stack the wood.

It didn't take long until the fire was crackling and the flames were reflected in the room. You were now standing at one of the windows and looking outside. Your eyes were fixed on the forest, but your thoughts seemed far away.

Athena stepped behind you, her arms wrapping around your body as she placed light kisses on your neck. "Hey," she said softly, briefly moving away from the thin skin of your neck to place another kiss on your shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

You took a deep breath and placed your hands over hers, tilting your head to the side as your eyes closed for a moment. "About everything that happened. About us. I don't think I've fully processed it all yet."

Athena pulled you closer to her front. "We don't have to do this right now," she whispered in your ear, causing goosebumps to spread across your skin. "We're here to take our time. No rush, no expectations."

You snuggled up to her, and for a moment it seemed as if the silence of the forest was calming your inner turmoil as well. You stood there, just the two of you, while the sunset sent the last golden rays over the horizon.

"I love you," you finally said, almost whispering, as if you didn't want to break the silence. Athena held you even closer, a smile enchanting her lips. "And I love you. We can do this. Together.“

ᕚ---ᕘ

The night was deep and silent when Athena woke up. The fire in the fireplace had long since gone out, and only the cold ash and a few faintly glowing logs bore witness to the fact that it had once been warm and alive. She lay there, listening to the gentle breathing of you, wrapped tightly in a blanket in her arms, sleeping soundly.

It was the first time in a long time that she had woken up in such silence - no cell phone ringing at five in the morning because a new emergency had arisen. No gunshots or screams echoing in her mind, no nightmares of chases and injuries. Just the gentle whisper of the wind and the steady breathing of her wife.

Athena let her gaze wander around the room. The faint moonlight that fell through the window bathed everything in a silver light. It was a peaceful, almost unreal scene. And yet she felt a certain restlessness within herself. She had gotten so used to the chaos and constant movement of her life that the sudden silence was almost frightening.

She closed her eyes briefly and focused on the here and now. This was what she wanted, what you had both decided on. A time out. A break from the world outside to find yourselves again, and above all to find each other again.

She carefully pushed you off her and sat up. She was careful not to wake you, although she knew that you were hard to disturb in these deep phases of sleep. Athena got up quietly and crept to the patio door. The fresh night air hit her as she stepped outside.

The silence was overwhelming. The forest stretched around the cabin like a dark, calming blanket. No light from a nearby town, no traffic. Just the stars glittering above the trees and the whispering of the leaves. Athena took a deep breath and felt her shoulders slowly relax.

As she stood there looking into the darkness, she felt someone quietly open the door behind her. You stepped out onto the veranda and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. "Can't you sleep either?" you asked gently and stood next to her. Your gaze also wandered over the forest, and for a moment you stood there in silence, next to each other, both lost in thought.

"It's... unusual to have so much peace and quiet," Athena finally admitted. "I think I've forgotten what it's like to just stand still. Not always being ready for the next thing that will tear me out of sleep."

You nodded slowly. "I know what you mean. The city, our life... it has kept us both so busy. But here... it almost feels foreign, doesn't it? But I think that's what we have to learn: to calm down again."

Athena sighed and leaned on the railing of the porch. "It was hard for both of us. I thought if I was strong enough, if I could control everything, it would help us. But it only pulled us further apart."

You stepped closer, put a hand on her arm and looked at her lovingly. "You always had to be strong, that's a part of you. And that's exactly why I love you. But... maybe it's time for you to allow yourself to be weak. That we both allow ourselves to just be. Without pressure, without expectations."

The words hit Athena deeply. It was exactly what she had avoided for so long: showing weakness. In her job, in your relationship - she always wanted to be the strong one, the one who supported everyone else. But now, here in the silence of the forest, that was what she needed. To let go.

"Maybe you're right," Athena murmured softly and pulled you into her arms. She laid her head on your shoulder, feeling the warmth and comfort she found in that simple moment. There was no grand gesture, no dramatic moment of realization - just the silence, the feeling of you in her arms, and the deep, unwavering love she felt for you.

"Would you like to take a walk with me?" you asked after a moment of absolute silence. "I think there's something calming about the forest. It might be good to just walk without a destination." Athena hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. "Yes, that sounds good. Let's go."

You both slipped on your shoes and pulled on your jackets. The forest welcomed you with open arms as you walked along the narrow path that led away from the cabin. The trees, dark and tall, seemed to be a silent guardian of your path, and the ground beneath your feet was soft and springy.

You were silent for a while, taking in the nature around you. Athena felt her thoughts gradually calming down. Out here, far from the city, the falls and the crowds, she found a peace she hadn't expected.

"Do you remember when we first met?" you finally broke the silence, your voice a quiet smile. "You were so serious. Always so controlled, so... aloof."

Athena snorted slightly, a wide grin on her face. "I remember. I thought I could have everything under control. But then you came and messed up my whole system."

You laughed softly and looped an arm under hers. "I think that was my plan."

Athena paused and pulled you gently to her side. "You gave me so much, you know that? You made me see things differently. You showed me that I don't always have to be in control."

You looked at her with those gentle, loving eyes that Athena had come to know so well over the years. "And you showed me what it means to be truly strong. Not just for others, but for yourself."

You stood in silence for a moment, only the gentle sound of the wind around you. It felt like you were alone in the world - no past, no pain, no fears. Just the two of you and nature holding you in its silent embrace.

"Let's start over from here," Athena said finally. "It won't be easy, and we won't suddenly solve all our problems. But here... here we can find ourselves again."

You smiled and placed a hand on Athena's chest, right above her heart, to hear it beating for you. "I think this is the best plan we've ever had."

You continued walking, hand in hand, along the path. The sun slowly began to appear over the treetops, bathing the forest in a warm light. Every step felt lighter, every movement less burdened by the weight of the past.

In this quiet, peaceful environment, you and Athena found not only the time to recover from the wounds of the past year, but also the opportunity to discover your love in a new way - far from the dangers of everyday life, in the simplicity of nature and in the silence of the forest, where your hearts beat in harmony again.

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 5 months ago

Text

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Thirty-Night

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: None.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.7k

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Mihawk’s ship glides smoothly through the waters, drawing closer to Kuraigana Island. You stand at the bow, watching the dark, gloomy landscape emerge from the mist. The ruins of the Shikkearu Kingdom loom in the distance, and a shiver runs down your spine despite the warm cloak Mihawk had lent you.

He stands beside you, his presence a silent assurance. “Perona is waiting for you,” he says, his voice cutting through the quiet. “She will help you prepare.”

"I assume that Benn will keep Shanks from sneaking off to see me?"

Mihawk gives a slight nod, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Benn knows his duties well. Shanks won't be able to slip away easily."

The path opens up to reveal the castle, its stone walls weathered and overgrown with ivy. Mihawk pushes open the creaky gate, and you step inside, the change in atmosphere immediate. The castle's atrium is a stark contrast to the island’s gloom—bright and full of colorful plants and birds that Perona carefully tends to.

Perona flits around the atrium like one of her beloved birds, her pink hair trailing behind her. She spots you and rushes over, her big round eyes sparkling with excitement.

“There you are!” she exclaims, grabbing your hands. “Come on, we have so much to do!”

Mihawk gives a slight nod and turns to leave. “I’ll be in my quarters,” he says, more to Perona than to you.

“Thank you,” you manage to say before he disappears into the castle's depths.

Perona’s grip on your hand is firm but gentle as she pulls you through the bright atrium. You glance around, taking in the lush greenery and vibrant flowers, their colors almost too vivid against the backdrop of the gray stone walls. Birds chirp merrily, fluttering from branch to branch, oblivious to the whirlwind of preparations about to ensue.

Perona leads you up a winding staircase, her excitement palpable. “We’ve got everything ready,” she chatters, her voice echoing slightly in the narrow corridor. “The dress, the flowers, even some makeup if you want it!”

Your heart pounds with a mix of nerves and anticipation. It’s been a long journey to get here, and now that the moment is so close, you begin to feel nervous. The last time you had been in this position you had felt like you were walking towards one prison to another. Perona pushes open a heavy wooden door, revealing a cozy room bathed in soft sunlight streaming through tall windows. A gown draped over a chair catches your eye—simple yet elegant, with delicate lace and flowing fabric that seems to shimmer faintly.

“Sit here,” Perona instructs, guiding you to a cushioned stool in front of a large mirror. She busies herself gathering various items from around the room—combs, brushes, small pots of makeup.

You sit quietly, hands resting in your lap as Perona works. Her fingers are deft and sure as she braids sections of your lavender hair, weaving in tiny flowers that she must have picked herself. “You look beautiful,” she says softly, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Shanks won’t know what hit him.”

A smile tugs at your lips despite the butterflies in your stomach. “Thank you, Perona,” you whisper.

Perona hums a soft tune as she works, her nimble fingers working tirelessly your hair. The gentle tug and pull are almost soothing, but your mind races, filled with memories of another time, another wedding.

Perona pauses, her dark eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “You’re nervous,” she states more than asks, her voice gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “It’s just... the last time I was about to get married, it didn’t go so well.”

Perona tilts her head slightly, curiosity evident in her expression. “What happened?”

You look down at your hands, the memory still raw despite the time that’s passed. “I was supposed to marry a Commodore,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “It was an arranged marriage. My parents forced me into it for political reasons.”

Perona’s hands still for a moment before she continues braiding your hair, slower this time. “That sounds awful,” she murmurs.

“It was,” you agree, the words spilling out now that you’ve started. “He was much older and not a kind man. I ran away the morning of the wedding. That’s how I ended up with Shanks and his crew.”

Perona’s eyes soften with understanding as she finishes the last braid and secures it with a tiny flower. “And now you’re worried about getting cold feet again?”

You nod, biting your lip. “What if... what if this is all too much? What if I’m not ready?”

Perona places her hands on your shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “This is different,” she says firmly. “This time, you’re marrying someone you love, not someone chosen for you.”

Perona helps you slip into the simple, flowing wedding dress. The fabric feels cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the corsets and heavy gowns of your past. She tightens the laces just enough to give the dress shape without making you feel trapped. Each tug of the strings reminds you that this is different, this is your choice.

She then hands you a pair of heels, delicate and understated. You step into them, feeling the slight elevation they provide. The mirror in front of you reflects a version of yourself that feels both familiar and new. The dress flows around you, light and unrestrictive, a stark contrast to the stifling garments of your previous life.

Perona steps back, her eyes shining with pride. “What do you think?” she asks, her voice filled with anticipation.

You take a deep breath, letting your gaze wander over your reflection. The dress fits perfectly, the braids in your hair adorned with tiny flowers add a touch of whimsy, but most importantly, you still look like yourself. Not the doll your mother portrayed you to be.

“I still look like me,” you say softly, almost in disbelief.

Perona’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Of course you do! That was the whole point.” She places her hands on your shoulders again, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “This is about you and Shanks, no one else.”

You nod, feeling a sense of calm wash over you. The woman in the mirror is strong and free, ready to face whatever comes next with the man she loves.

Perona takes a step back, admiring her work one last time before she grabs a small bouquet from a nearby table. “Here,” she says, handing it to you. “A little something extra.”

The bouquet is simple yet beautiful, just like the rest of your ensemble. You hold it gently, feeling the soft petals beneath your fingers.

“Thank you,” you whisper again, emotion choking your voice.

Perona waves off your gratitude with a dismissive hand but her eyes are warm and kind. “Come on,” she says with a wink. “There’s someone very special waiting to see you.”

Perona takes your hand, leading you through the bright atrium. The colors of the flowers and the cheerful chirping of the birds offer a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You clutch the bouquet tighter, feeling each step bring you closer to a new beginning.

Benn stands waiting, his presence a steady anchor amidst the sea of uncertainty. His gray hair is slicked back, and his rifle is conspicuously absent, leaving him looking almost out of place in such a serene setting. As you approach, his eyes soften, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice low and reassuring.

You nod, but your nerves betray you. “I’m... I’m nervous,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “The last time I was in a wedding dress...”

Benn’s expression turns serious. He places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “That was then. This is now. And this time, it’s different.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I know,” you say, offering a weak smile. “I’ll be okay.”

Benn studies your face for a moment longer before nodding. “Alright then,” he says, but his eyes still hold a hint of concern.

A thought strikes you suddenly, and you pull back the light skirts of your dress to look down at your heels. The memory of running through the town barefoot on that fateful day rushes back. You met Shanks in a wedding dress and barefoot; it feels only right to marry him that way too.

“Hold on,” you say, bending down to slip off your heels. The cool stone floor feels grounding beneath your feet as you stand back up.

Benn raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it. Instead, he offers his arm to you with a knowing smile. “Shall we?”

Benn’s arm is solid and reassuring as you walk down the makeshift aisle. The rough stone beneath your bare feet feels grounding, a tangible connection to the reality of this moment. The crew of the Red Force stands on either side, their faces a mixture of joy and pride. They’re dressed in their best, but there’s still an air of ruggedness about them that makes you feel at home.

You catch glimpses of familiar faces—Yasopp with his unruly hair tamed just enough for the occasion, Lucky Roux grinning widely with a piece of meat still in hand, and Beckman giving you a nod of encouragement. Bonk Punch with Monster perched on his shoulders. Each step brings you closer to the end of the aisle, closer to Shanks.

But as your eyes finally find him, your breath catches in your throat. Shanks stands tall, his broad shoulders squared, but his attention isn’t on you. Instead, he’s glaring at Mihawk, his single arm clenched tightly at his side. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Mihawk’s eyes flick to you briefly before he speaks. “Shanks,” he says, his voice calm and authoritative. “Your bride is walking down the aisle.”

Shanks’ gaze snaps to you, and the transformation is immediate. The anger melts away, replaced by an expression so tender it makes your heart ache. He takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours.

Benn gives your arm a gentle squeeze before letting go, signaling that it’s time for you to take those final steps on your own. You walk towards Shanks, each step bringing you closer to him and further from the past that tried to bind you.

As you reach Shanks, he holds out his hand to you. You take it, feeling the roughness of his palm against your own. There’s a moment of silence where everything seems to fall away—the past, the fears, the uncertainties—leaving just the two of you standing there together.

Shanks leans in slightly, his voice low and filled with emotion. “You look beautiful,” he says.

You smile up at him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “So do you,” you reply softly. Then Shanks' nose scrunches and his eyes drop.

"Are you barefoot?"

"You are most observant, my love," you comment dryly, your lips twitching as you see the gears rotating behind his eyes. The tension in his shoulders disappears, and he shakes his head with a laugh.

“Only you would, Treasure,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. Mihawk steps forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the assembled crew. He adjusts his hat with a casual flick of his wrist, his red eyes sweeping over the gathered pirates before settling on you and Shanks. His expression is as unruffled as ever, a picture of calm detachment.

"Shall we begin?" Mihawk’s voice is deep and resonant, carrying easily over the soft murmur of the wind and the distant cries of seabirds. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, as if he finds the whole affair mildly entertaining.

Shanks squeezes your hand gently, drawing your attention back to him. The warmth in his gaze is undeniable, and it sends a rush of reassurance through you. You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the words that will bind you to him.

Mihawk clears his throat, an almost theatrical gesture that draws everyone's focus. "We are gathered here today," he begins, his voice steady but with a hint of wryness, "to witness the union of two individuals who have somehow found each other in this chaotic world."

The crew chuckles softly at his words, their affection for you and Shanks evident in their smiles and nods. Even Perona giggles behind her hand, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

Mihawk continues, seemingly unfazed by the reactions around him. "Marriage is a bond forged by choice," he says, "and it requires courage to commit oneself fully to another person." He glances at Shanks then at you, his gaze piercing but not unkind. "I trust both of you possess that courage."

Shanks’ thumb brushes over your knuckles in a silent promise. You look up at him, finding strength in the unwavering love reflected in his eyes.

Mihawk’s lips twitch slightly, perhaps the closest he’ll come to a smile. "Do you, Shanks, take Linaria Bonn to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," Shanks replies without hesitation, his voice strong and sure.

Mihawk nods approvingly before turning to you. "And do you, Linaria Bonn, take Shanks to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," you answer, your voice steady despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

With an air of finality, Mihawk declares, "Then by the power vested in me by... well, myself," he says with a faint smirk that earns another round of chuckles from the crew, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Shanks doesn’t wait for further instruction; he pulls you into a kiss that feels like coming home. The eruption of cheers from your crew is near deafening, but all you can think of is Shanks' lips pressing against yours.

As Shanks’ lips press against yours, the world around you fades away. The warmth of his kiss fills you with a sense of belonging you’ve never known before. The cheers and laughter of the crew become a distant hum, a background to this moment of pure connection.

When you finally pull away, your eyes meet his, and you see your own joy reflected in his gaze. Shanks' hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “You are my treasure, Aria,” he whispers, the words meant only for you. "And I love you so much."

“Not as much as I love you,” you reply, your voice trembling with emotion.

The crew’s celebration surrounds you like a warm embrace. Yasopp claps Shanks on the back with a hearty laugh, while Lucky Roux lifts a tankard in your honor. Perona dabs at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief, her usually stern demeanor softened by genuine happiness.

Benn steps forward, offering his congratulations with a firm handshake for Shanks and a gentle squeeze of your shoulder. “Welcome to the family,” he says warmly. "Though one could argue that you already were one of us."

“Thank you,” you manage to say, still feeling overwhelmed by the sheer joy of the moment.

Perona pulls you into a tight hug. “You’re one of us now,” she says fiercely. “And we take care of our own.”

You smile through the tears that threaten to spill over. “I know,” you whisper back, hugging her just as tightly.

The celebrations continue around you, but it’s Shanks’ presence that grounds you. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close as he steers you towards the heart of the gathering. The crew has set up tables laden with food and drink, a makeshift feast in honor of this special day.

Shanks leads you to a seat at the head of one table, his eyes never straying far from yours. As everyone begins to eat and drink, laughter and stories filling the air, Shanks leans in close. “Are you happy?” he asks softly.

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

He grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Good,” he says, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before standing up and raising his tankard high.

“To Aria!” he shouts, his voice carrying over the noise of the gathering. “My wife!”

The cheer that follows is deafening but all you can think of his how proud Shanks looks to call you his wife.

Date Published: 8/26/24

Last Edit: 8/26/24

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#shanks x you #one piece shanks #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks #akagami no shanks #red hair shanks

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sailorshadzter · 7 months ago

Note

Jonsa prompt: Jon is a Targaryen who was with Daenerys in Essos.

HELLOOOO THEREEE.

*insert my usual apology about how long this has been in my inbox*

tbh anon i had to force myself to stop writing, i really love toying with ideas outside my usual settings, so this was really fun. i definitely can see myself writing more for this au!

hopefully you see this!!!!

send me prompts

When the raven arrives, she’s surprised by the seal it holds.

She blinks, turning it over twice, thinking perhaps she’s only seen it wrong, that there was no way at all that a letter had come bearing the Targaryen seal. However, when she breaks it open, even more surprising is the somewhat familiar handwriting sprawled across the page- her one time husband, Tyrion Lannister, has penned this letter for the foreign queen he’s come to serve in their years apart.

Reading the words written, she feels her heartbeat quicken its pace, her eyes widening ever so slightly. He writes that his queen, Daenerys Targaryen, intends on sailing for Westeros to reclaim the throne she believes belongs to her. Of course, Cersei Lannister sat upon that throne right now and something tells Sansa she won’t give that up without a fight, no, not without a war. Tyrion writes that Daenerys hopes for her support to claim the Iron Throne, as with her she brings Sansa’s own kin, a cousin born to her long dead aunt Lyanna Stark.

Ah, him.

Sansa has known of Aegon’s existence for many years now, her father had often lamented over not being able to bring the child into their home. He’d been spirited away at the very last moment by his father, sent away to live with his younger siblings Viserys and Daenerys, the latter of the two being just a little older than he was. Due to this, Aegon had lived away from Westeros and his Stark family for all of their lives- truth was, that was better for his safety these days, certainly Cersei would have him killed in his sleep at the first chance. After all, there were many out there who whispered that Targaryen or not, he was the best claimant to the Seven Kingdoms. Save for the North, of course.

“Your grace?”

She jumps at the voice, the letter falling out of her hands and back to the top of her desk. A very flustered Lord Royce stands there, stammering over an apology for startling her. “No mind, my lord, I was so lost in thought I didn’t hear you knock.”

“I only wanted to let you know the other lords have arrived for the council meeting.” The older man says, her Hand to the Queen, her most loyal of advisors- perhaps the only man in this world she fully trusts.

“Good, for we have much to discuss,” she says, rising up to her full height, giving the letter she holds a wave. “We are to have visitors.. And soon.” She doesn’t know what the right answer is, but she does know one thing- there would be no fighting back against three dragons, not in a physical fight that was.

So she will discuss with the lords, but she knows Daenerys Targaryen will arrive all the same.

[ x x x ]

It is bitterly cold, but somehow, it feels like home.

The Northern landscape is beautiful, with its freshly fallen snow drifts and gray skies, wild and wonderful in its own way. Daenerys complains bitterly, but she is a dragon and not built for such temperatures. Overhead her dragons soar through the sky, shrieking and belching fire as they weave in and around one another, surely terrifying the locals that gather to watch the arrival of the first Targaryen in decades.

“How do you like it?”

The voice draws him from his own thoughts and he casts his gaze to the right, where Tyrion has slid up beside him on his black horse. “How do I like what?” He asks in reply, never eager to entertain the dwarf’s conversations.

The imp chuckles, his scarred face twisting with amusement as he leans over, just a little bit closer. “The North, I mean, it should have been your home after all.” Like everyone else, he knows that Aegon was never meant to live the life he has- he should have remained North, in the custody of his mother’s family, never to have his royal blood acknowledged. Instead, just before he was slain, his father had managed to find him and sent him with his most trusted knight to Dragonstone, where Viserys and Daenerys still lived with their nurses and maids. That knight never made it back to Rhaegar before the fighting began and would drink himself to death when the war was over.

“It is as I expected it to be,” Aegon says, flatly, returning his gaze forward.

“Well, I imagine you are eager to meet your cousin,” Tyrion says next, eyeing the young man with those green eyes. “As am I, we were married, you know.” Aegon turns back to look at him now, arching a brow. “She was quite young, too young, even for me,” he goes on with a dismissive wave of his hand. “From what I’ve heard, she’s been quite unlucky in terms of marriage.” Tyrion had heard of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton and the rumors of what that marriage had cost her… And, in the end, what it had gained her. “My nephew would have been a saint in comparison to her last husband.” Aegon has heard all about the terrible boy king Joffrey, not just from Tyrion, but other men who had fled his rule over the years. “Ah, I see the gates now… I must fetch the queen.” He’s lagging behind now, for the queen rides several yards behind them, surrounded by her loyal Dothraki.

Sure enough, when Aegon turns to look ahead once more, there’s the gates that will lead them all to a new chapter, a new life entirely.

[ x x x ]

When the gates open, she’s standing there in her courtyard, looking every inch a Northern Queen. Her hair twisted back in braids, her finest furs draped over her shoulders, she holds her head high as the silver-haired Targaryen queen slides down from her mare with help from an older man she knows must be Jorah Mormont. She has learned the names and lives of all of the men who serve this woman- at least, the best she can, based on old records and the recollection of her lords who once knew these men. She’s learned as much as she can about the Targaryens and their past, more than she’s ever bothered to learn before. None of it prepared her for the sight of the dragons flying overhead, creatures certainly too fearsome to exist, despite them being there in front of her own two eyes.

She forces herself back to the present, watching as the woman approaches; Daenerys is just a little older than she is and she’s beautiful. Silver hair hangs down her back in soft curls, though she wears elaborate braids and when she smiles, she dimples prettily, but her violet eyes are cold in their gaze, never once brightening up with the smile she wears. “You must be Lady Stark,” she says in an accent she doesn’t recognize- one born in Essos, she supposes- taunting her openly in her own home by choosing to not refer to her as the title she holds. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Sansa knows she has but a split second to decide what to do- suddenly, she is fourteen again, caught in this very same game with Joffrey. And just like that, it all comes flooding back. Just like that, she knows what to do. “Welcome to Winterfell, your grace, I hope we can become fast friends.” It does the trick and the dragon queen smiles, again, the light never reaching her violet colored eyes. “I’m certain you are tired and cold from your journey, allow me to have someone show you to your rooms.”

A moment later, Agatha is there to lead the way, but a single man remains in the courtyard, choosing not to join his queen as she enters Winterfell.

And at once, Sansa knows who this man must be.

He has the look of her father, the look of Arya, a steady reminder of all she’s lost. “You’re Aegon,” she says without preamble, watching as he flinches, as if the name brings him nothing but pain. As if it is a name not his own, much as she once felt living as Alayne. “You are most welcome here, cousin.” Now that she thinks about it, he is all the family she has left in the world. Gone were her parents, gone were her siblings… The last of the Starks, but perhaps, not entirely.

A smile crosses his features, foreign, but warm.

[ x x x ]

He finds her on the battlements the third day of their arrival.

It has been a long three days, full of sharpened stares and venom laced words. Daenerys and Sansa Stark seem as if they will never get along, not that he can blame her, not really. Daenerys was hard to get along with, even for her most trusted advisors, even for him, her only living relative. “Your grace,” he greets, the only one in the Targaryen queen’s entourage to use her true title. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

She turns to him then, a smile curving on her lips, the beauty of it striking. “You aren’t,” she assures, gesturing for him to fall into place at her side. He does, their shoulders just barely brushing as she leans forward, gloved hands gripping the railing as she stares ahead into the forest that borders the palace walls. Once, she had jumped from these very same battlements, to run into the forest, to hope to escape the hell that was her life within the walls of Winterfell. “I was just taking a moment before the day began.” She shifts her gaze back to him, only to find he’s already looking her way; the realization of that makes her heart skip a beat.

She doesn’t know it, but he does the very same thing each day.

“You are an early riser,” he notes, for the morning call has not even yet sounded, though there she was fully dressed and her hair perfectly pinned. It’s hair so red, so vivid in color, he’s never seen hair such as hers before. The color of it reminds him of a sunset, crimson, yet with gold woven into the strands. She laughs at this, nodding, her blue eyes bright as she turns to fully face him.

“Shae hates me for it, but aye, I am.” She replies, thinking of her handmaiden who would always prefer the extra hour or two of sleep, but who never outwardly complained. “I find it is the only way to have any time to myself at all.” The rest of her days are consumed by council meetings, by running the North, by every little in and out of being their queen. It left next to no time for herself, save for these early mornings. “You, too?”

It is his turn to smile, only the second one she’s seen since his arrival- a stoic man, this Aegon seems to be, again, reminding her of the father she’s lost. “Since I was young,” he admits, thinking back to his earliest of days, running through the market streets of Essos with the sunrise warming his back.

“You are a Stark indeed,” she says next, thinking of her father who always rose before the morning call, of Arya and Bran who were always out causing trouble before the sun even rose above the horizon. “My father always said your mother would be out riding her horse before the morning call.” She hasn’t thought often of her long dead aunt, dead before her own birth, but she imagines Aegon must think of her often, must wonder how his life could have been different if only she’d lived.

If he means to reply, he’s interrupted by the morning call, shrill in the morning cold. “I must go,” she says with an apologetic sort of smile. “Let’s talk again, Aegon.” There it was again, that flinch, as if he hates hearing his own name. He nods then, recovering, offering her a bow any courtier might offer his queen.

When she heads back inside, she finds her heart is thumping madly.

[ x x x ]

In the godswood, just after dinner, she finds him.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your prayers,” she says when he looks up at her from his place beneath the heart tree. Somehow, she finds it amusing how they’ve both stumbled across the other today.

“I’m not praying,” he says, mirroring words she’s said before. “I’ll go, so you can…”

He means to rise up, but she shakes her head, giving him enough reason to pause. “I don’t come here to pray,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, closing the gap between them before she sinks onto the ground at his side. For a moment he finds himself staring at her, realizing then how much of a regular woman she was, this Sansa Stark. Queen or not, she was like a normal woman, easy to understand, easy to get along with. Easy to love, some might even say. “I have not prayed in years.” He blinks and in that instance, she was not the bright ray of sunshine she seemed to always be, but rather, a woman wrapped in darkness. A woman full of regrets, full of grief, a woman who had lived through things she could never put to words.

“Neither have I,” he says softly, thinking how no god has ever answered any of his prayers before.

Her blue eyes meet his gray and for a long moment, they are two people who understand one another in perhaps a way no one else could. Despite being little more than strangers, they understood the gravity of that feeling, the overwhelming sense of knowing that nobody was listening, no one was hearing their cries. “Can I ask you something?” She asks, her gaze never once wavering. He nods. “You don’t like your name, do you?”

My name… He thinks about how for all of his life, he’s lived with this Targaryen given name, yet somehow, it has always felt foreign. It has never felt like his own. “No,” he admits, softer now, hands curling into fists atop his thighs. He’s never admitted such a thing to anyone ever before.

Her eyes soften, rosy lips twitching with a frown. “My father intended to take you in, you know,” she says with a tilt of her head, red hair cascading across her shoulder. Jon nods, again, silent and somber. “He once told me that had he achieved bringing you home, he’d have named you Jon, after our ancestor Jonnel Stark.” Those gray eyes widen, his mouth falling open in silent surprise. “Somehow I find it fits.”

Jon… Had he remained North, his name would have been Jon Stark, or perhaps Snow, if he’d been passed off as a bastard son. Jon… That could have been his name… It should have been his name. “I might like to call you by that name, if it pleases you,” she says, softer than before, the lightest of blushes staining her ivory cheeks pink.

“It would,” he says with a nod, watching as her face lights up from within.

#jonsa #actuallyjonsa #jon x sansa #jonsa au #anon asks #writing prompts #send me prompts #i wrote this #my writing

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