#i /thought/ about naming it golden twins but
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Au where Luz is also the Golden Guard!
(Yes I know that this is a pretty common au, shut up 🖕🖕🖕)
When Luz is about 4, while Manny and Camila are taking a nap, she wanders away. She goes into the shack near her house and *gasp!* The portal is there while Eda does Eda things. So Luz goes through the portal.
Cut to Hunter and Belos. Belos is somewhat panicking because, Holy shit, they don't usually pop out this early. I headcanon that Grimwalkers usually pop out at ages 10-12 because like, still an easy age to manipulate, but a lot easier to deal with than someone younger. However, Hunter (always the odd one out) popped out at the ripe old age of 5. Belos doesn't have a single fucking clue on how to deal with small children, so he's just... Sending Hunter out with whatever coven scout pisses him off because apparently this weak ass 5 year old is too small to start training and will be until he's like. At least 8.
So Hunter is out and sees Luz. And he's super excited to see someone around his age, because all the people in the Emperor's Coven are oldddddd. And they're fast friends until Hunter sees Luz's ears and he's like.
Hunter: Woahhhh, youw eaws awe wound!
Luz: Yah
Hunter: Do you wanna meet my uncle? I wanna sow him youw cool eaws
Luz: Oki
So he takes her to Belos who's like. Why is another random child here- Holy shit that's a human!!!! So Belos is then like. Well. Hunter seems to like her. And he'll probably be easier to deal with if he has a friend. And it's not like it's uncommon for me to train the magicless. It might be different because she's a human, but that's all the more reason to keep her! Plus, two Golden Guards? Both of which, now that I think about it, will probably be more obedient if they've had training from a younger age... This will work out well, I think. Probably. Maybe.
So he keeps both of them!
(He tells Luz that she was born from a literal half witch, that she's half human, half witch, (which is why she has no magic and her ears are round) but that her mom died in child birth and her dad followed soon after as an unprotected human in the Boiling Isles. He says that Hunter's family, always so kind, adopted her before being killed by the evil wild magic!)
At first, he's harsher on Hunter, because Come on, Luz is human, not evil like these demons! but because she's younger and understands less, she's more rebellious than Hunter. So the abuse is now on both of them. And anyways, some humans are just evil like those creatures! If she's in the Boiling Isles, it's probably fate anyway! Not trickery like it was with that wretched witch who mind controlled his brother- he's getting off track.
So Luz grows up in the same tiring, abusive, and unhealthy environment as Hunter, but with one change from Hunter's treatment in main canon. Belos realizes that if he punishes one Golden Guard for the others mistakes, it has much more effect on both. Of course, if one does really well, he gives them validation like a loving uncle, even if the other one does badly. And of course he still punishes them individually for minor mistakes! But for worse mistakes? He forces them to watch as he hurts their sibling for their mistakes. (He does still hurt them afterwards, because while most of the time he's faking with not having control over the curse, when he gets really angry, he does actually lose some control.)
This leads Luz and Hunter to both have incredible self hatred, because instead of just thinking that they deserve the punishment they get, they also have to watch someone else suffer for their stupid mistakes. One of the only people they actually care about, no less. So they're even more under Belos' control then Hunter in the actual series with the combined guilt, fear, and concern for their sibling keeping them in line.
Hunter is basically just... Hunter in canon but more compassionate towards Luz. That and being even more brainwashed by Belos, somehow.
Luz is kinda herself in the show? Like, she still copes with humor and all that, but her jokes are a lot darker. She joins Hunter in the PTSD squad. She's terrified of upsetting authority and terrified of failing. She hates herself even more than she does in show, so now she will freak out horribly whenever someone (other than Hunter) is concerned for her because she doesn't deserve this, it's her fault this happened, she's a parasite
#I'll make another post with a plot explanation for the au#this is just the introduction#but in the meantime#what would be a good name for this au?#i /thought/ about naming it golden twins but#1. they aren't twins#and#2. that's basic.#tw child abuse#tw swearing#tw manipulation#<for filtering#the owl house#toh#luz noceda#hunter wittebane#luz wittebane#<for this au#emperor belos#phillip wittebane#toh au#luz golden guard au#<placeholder name for now
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
My favourite useless headcanon is that Usami and his sister are twins
#golden kamuy#usami tokishige#i have headcanoned her name as tsumune with the kanji for tranquility also#shes completely normal but theres still that wild look in her eye#also i think she knows her brother is gay#or whatever tokishige is#is there any other canon backing no. but i do think he doesnt personally resonate with the Nikaidous about being twins#bc tsumune isnt his identical twin and they dont have the same level of social bonding present.#like theyre not joined at the hip interpersonally#more thoughts exist but id be tripping into spoilers#shes the kinda person you feel like you need to impress#i feel like ive made this post before
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia
chapter: 6 chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader
summary: The wedding ceremony with Emperor Geta gives you a first glimpse of what you are going to face, once the title 'Empress' crowns you. Meanwhile Caracalla has to deal with the thoughts about his twin owning you now.
warning(s): heavy nsfw & sexual violence | angst | alcohol consumption | drug consumption | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything
Note: I am wishing you all a 'Merry Christmas'! Sorry that this chapter took so long, i wanted to finish it faster, but i was ill for quite some time and had no head for writing. No worries though, i am feeling better now! A small reminder: Due to the holidays, the next chapter might take a bit of time.
word count: 3.6k
Gods expected rituals and nothing in Rome was more important, more holy and more strict to certain rules than a wedding - especially the wedding of an Emperor. A whole series of necessaries had to be prepared in advance to this special celebration before the bride and the groom were able to stand in front of the altar. From the preparation of the dowry to the sacrifices made to the gods. It all began with the most formal part: engagement ceremony, where the exchange of promises between the groom and the bride's father hold more significance than the words of the soon-to-be-wed woman. In Roman society, being born a female was still strongly bound to ownership. First the ownership of the father and then the ownership of the husband. And even though rich Roman women had more freedom than others, it was still a life in societal chains.
Now that you sat on the floor to your mother‘s feet, you instantly thought about the eyes of that lamb your family had brought to the temple of Juno as a sacrifice. The innocence in its eyes slaughtered by the dagger of the priest. One Life for another Life - yours. Did Juno have her blessing? How could you know right now.
„Mother…?“, you spoke out as you noticed the shaking hands and the tears in your mother‘s eyes.
She was pale as marble, trying her best to keep her face, but you were well aware of how much it destroyed her and your father to let you go - especially when the arms of your soon-to-be-husband were Emperor Geta. As a daughter, you tried your best to comfort your mother, as much as it hurt you too. Your hands took hers, gently squeezing them, while your eyes found hers. "I shouldn't cry, i know...", she whispered and placed her hand on your cheek through the thin fabric of the flame-coloured veil that covered your face. Your body was clothed in a beautiful white tunica dress, embroidered with golden depictions of different flowers. You were shackled by the amount of jewelry - engagement presents of Emperor Geta for his bride -, expensive golden necklaces and bracelets that should depict the status you will have standing by his side. Although you were no Empress yet, you wore a bridal crown on top of your carefully braided hair. One of woven fragrant herbs and flowers, Rosemary, verbena, marjoram, roses, violets, and lilies, to represent fertility.
"My beautiful daughter, even Venus would envy you now. But i had wished that... that you would not have to marry a man like-"
"Don't", you stopped her, knowing fully well, which name she was about to say and you shook her head. It was meaningless to express any form of sorrow or hatred, even if this wedding was a forced one - a trade for your own life and that of your parents. Terrible or not, it would bring honor to your family and in the end, it would make you Empress. A gift as well as a heavy burden, especially given the man that will be your husband - your Emperor. Geta.
A marriage ceremony always followed specific rules, that were meant to please the gods. A scacrifice in the temples of Juno and Jupiter was mandatory, but soon you'll face another significant part of your wedding. As Romans believed the only bride of value was a virgin who had to be stolen from her family, they simulated the bride being abducted from her family as part of the ceremony. You were able to hear the chants and chattering of the big entourage of guests arriving to you parent's home outside - accompanied by a large amount of Praetorian Guards and the Emperor himself. Usually the large wedding feast and celebration would take place at the bride's family home, but given the significance of an Emperor's wedding and the amount of guests, it was agreed that it would take place in the palace after the procession.
Even if you tried to face it with a stoic mask, your heart pumped against your chest - a mixture of excitement and fear. Your eyes closed for a moment, as you heard the footsteps and voices of the Praetorian soldiers and amongst them Geta's, who was the first to enter the room. You were still facing your mother, holding her hands tight, while tears ran down her face. "I am here to claim my bride", the Emperor called out with a triumphant smile on his face, dressed in a golden, heavy decorated armor and a white groom's toga - a depiction like a god. Unusual for a wedding ceremony, but it was a symbol. A symbol of the power and wealth of the twin's reign, a symbol of his triumph over General Acacius, who had no choice anymore than to give him his most precious belonging - his daughter.
Seeing you there on your knees was a sight we might never forget. Even if your back faced him, he could see your curves under the garment you wore and he immediately thought about the wedding night, which was the highlight in his mind for today. But right now he had to calm himself, as he stepped forward and suddenly took you at the waist to pull you from your crying mother's embrace. "Mother!", you screamed as the groom forced you to go with him, tears dripping down your cheeks under the flame-red veil. The tradition dictated that the bride would cry out in pain to fool the gods of the home that she was taken away, 'stolen' before you would have to walk the procession without the protection of any god until you stepped into the home of the groom.
All of Rome had gathered in the streets to witness the procession of the Emperor's wedding. You stood at his side on a richly decorated chariot carried by two pale-white horses. The big amount of wedding guests accompanied your path by singing the Hymenaeus and carrying a whitehorn torch, a spina alba, to honor the goddess Ceres. Normally you would simply walk to the palace, as it was the core of such a parade, but nothing was normal about an Emperor's wedding and especially not Geta's. He wanted to show-off, he wanted eveyone to know how powerful he was and that he was now marrying the daughter of one of Rome's most successful beloved generals. It was all calculated and everything followed a plan, he viewed as perfect. This union was not only a definite way to get you, it formed an even closer bond between his and his brother's reign and your father's role as a military general. Would he ever betray them again, it will also be a betrayal against you. And another calculated side-effect was the use of Acacius' popularity through a marriage with his daughter.
The masses cheered for you and for the Emperor, they wished you "feliciter" - "good luck" for your marriage, some of them even shouted your name. It felt surreal and you were glad that the veil covered your face, while you bit your tongue. The palace, your new home, on the palatin hill looked even more oppressive than the last time you'd faced it. Your heart was heavy and you could practically feel the stare Geta gave you, but also the one of Caracalla, who followed you two alongside your father and mother as part of the wedding procession. There was something lingering in his eyes, something you didn't notice as you were focused on what lied ahead. Geta leaned towards your ear and whispered.
"Isn't it exciting, my dear...? You will soon be the wife of an Emperor, my wife." He accenturated his last words, almost as if he had to point out that your life center will soon be him and him alone.
"How could i forget. Just as i may never forget the true reason, why i am here. A threat is still a threat", you answered in a low tone, provocative.
But the groom simply chuckled and turned his face towards the cheering masses again, waving to the common folk. He didn't really care about them in any way, but he knew well about the power of such events in the eyes of the plebs. And to accompany this wedding, he'd already ordered games in the collosseum and many festivities around Rome in honor of his special day.
"Let me tell you that i rather enjoy those little outbursts of hatred. I will ask you again, once you enjoy all the privileges an Empress has. I can be a generous man, as long as you're not testing my patience. For now, i simply expect you to smile and show those peasants the beauty of their beloved general's daughter. Let them see that the sun is shining upon them in the presence of Venus."
Words like honey and yet they tasted bitter to you, while his hand was locked on your back, not only to stabilize you on the chariot, but also holding you tightly against his own body. You belonged to him now and he wanted everyone to see that.
_______________________________
“Ubi tu Gaia, Ego Gaius.”
“Ubi tu Gaius, Ego Gaia.”
The words still rang in your head, again and again, even as the music and the chattering of the feast surrounded you. And you still felt the kiss of Geta's lips on yours, even if it was only the beginning. You were considered married now.
Fire and Water. The symbol of life. The moment you stood at the main door of the palace, a matron of honor hold a candle and a bowl of water, as both you and Geta traced your hands over it. He was able to lift your veil at that point, kiss you and carry you over the doorstep - it was that simple in the end. And it had sealed your life forever.
It was necessary and yet the kiss was longer than it should've been as it was the first symbolic union of groom and bride in front of the wedding guests, who cheered and honored them with chanter and congratulations. And even though it was just a kiss on the lips, nothing more, you could practically sense the hunger of Geta, the hunger for more. Of course it had to wait until he got you in his bed the first time, but this would soon become a reality and you didn't know if you were ready for it.
The music and the voices of the people were still a numb background sound as your eyes glanced over the room, while you were sitting right next to your now husband on a lectus, receiving one personal congratulation after another. The palace was richly decorated, even more than the last time you were here for the victory celebrations of your father. Hordes of servants ran around to assure that all the guests had enough of the expensive wine and expansive food, luxuriously presented on a long table with tons of fruits, vegetables, fish as well as expensive, rare meat such as ostrich, peacock and wild deer.
Roman generals, politicians, rich merchants, every patrician from Rome��s upper class had gathered here to celebrate the union between Emperor Geta and his new wife. The wedding gifts ranging from gold, jewelry and silk to exotic animals were piling up in another room, as servants had to walk in and out, every time another guest paid his respect. You gave them your smile and your words of thanks and yet none of it really reached your eyes, as you were still trying to cope with the fact that they now adressed you as 'Empress'. Your eyes went to your parents, which were part of the guests, who participated in the feast and celebrations. But you could clearly see the pain in your father's eyes and the pale face of your mother, who could barely eat something even though she tried to hide her sorrows behind her rehearsed mask of charm and politeness. Their eyes find yours in certain moments and it hurt you the most to see them like this as you knew very well, that your father gave himself the blame for your current situation. But you had already moved on, as it made no sense to cry about the past in any way.
But you were pulled from your thoughts, when it was Emperor Caracalla, who stepped forward to pay his respect to the new wed couple. The twin of Geta with the golden laurel wreath crown on his head was dressed in an ornate that depicted his wealth, expensive embroidered silk in dark blue and purple colors, a stark contrast to his gingerblonde, wild hair. Even though he smiled, you could see that it was a forced one, a bitter smile, hiding his true thoughts. "Brother, i congratulate you and your beautiful wife on your wedding. May the gods bless this union," he spoke out, while Geta already stood up and you followed him.
"Your words mean the most to me, Caracalla. Thank you," his twin answered with a happy smile as he took him into his arms and hugged him tight.
Even though Geta came off as a crual human being sometimes, it was undeniable that he hold nothing but a strong brotherly love for his twin, despite them sharing the power. After Geta, Carcalla turned to you and placed his hands on your cheeks.
"I welcome you to the family," he whispered, before he placed one kiss on each side of your cheek.
It was not an uncommon gesture to do so, especially not as a way to welcome someone in a new household - but Geta's eyes were locked on you two as his brother did so. And you were very aware that something was off in this very moment, as you could feel the slightly trembling fingers of Caracalla on your skin, as if he had to hold himself back. He quickly stepped back, staring into your eyes, while a servant rushed to him, giving the Emperor a small wooden box, carved with all sorts of flowers.
"I thought, ... since you'e now the new Empress of Rome, the only present worth your grace would be a crown that truly underlines your beauty," Caracalla explained and opened the box.
In it was a golden half-round Roman-styled tiara with ornamental decorations, well-crafted with every little detail that catched your eyes. It was stunning, even given all the expensive jewelry with which Geta had hung you, it was still breathtaking. A soft smile appeared on your lips, before you spoke your words.
"This is a wonderful and very generous gift, my Emperor. I thank you dearly". Caracalla's lips shuddered, before he forced an almost innocent smile on them too.
"This tiara is made after my personal request. The artist was assigned to model it after the crown that Empress Poppea wore once. The wife of Emperor Nero. I thought you might like the... historical connotation to it".
Your face grew pale, while you tried your best to keep your smile in place. Geta didn't seemed to realize what his brother meant with that - but you did. You instantly remembered the conversation you had with him at the amphitheater, you remembered the way he looked at you, the desire in his eyes, that was still present in this very moment. And even though his brother did not understand the true meaning behind Caracalla's gift, he did sense the tension that lingered in the air.
"Thank you, brother", he instantly cut the air with his voice, his hands softly taking the tiara out of the box before you could do anything.
Geta positioned himself between you and Caracalla, a very clear symbol that even if he tolerated his brother in your presence and might even be willing to allow him much more freedom than a husband would, it was still Geta, who called you his wife now. You were his. So it was him, who placed the tiara onto your head, where it perfectly fit with the half-bridal hairstyle you wore. His eyes lingered on your face for a moment, before his fingers touched your skin as he pushed one of your straints of hair back in place before leaning down to your ear.
"Just a little more time and then I'll have you all to myself", he whispered, before he turned to his seat again.
There was only one step for this marriage to be fully recognized in the eyes of the gods and it was the wedding night - Geta's prize, which he longed for and Caracalla's hell. The reminder he will not be the first to have you, but his twin.
_______________________________
"Say it! SAY THAT YOU LOVE ME!", he hissed over and over again, pounding harder with each word.
His fingers pressed against the neck of a concubine, while his golden rings tightly pinched into the soft flesh. She wore quite a similar attire than you did today, her hair styled like yours, her face at least reminding Caracalla of you. But that concubine was nothing like you, a dull replacement, a vessel the Emperor needed to get the heat and anger off his mind as he fucked her senseless under the eyes of his entourage of male and female slaves. No one said a word, fear was written in their eyes, because they knew it was one of their owners 'outbursts'. They could see how the young woman tried desperately to get a catch of air, while Caracalla strangled her in his psychotic state, tears running down his cheeks as he did so. Instead of his brother it should've been him to marry you, to fuck you, to love you like you deserved. A goddess amongst the common humans, a Venus. He was Nero and you were his Poppea. At least here in his own chambers, he could play out this fantasy, while the wedding celebration still went on and you were probably on your way to the chambers of his damned twin brother Geta. It needed a lot of sex and a cocktail of ancient drugs to numb his thoughts over this injustice.
"I love you-..., my Emperor", the young woman under him moaned with all the strength that she could find in a situation like that, the fear of losing her life all written on her face.
But those words were the ones Caracalla needed to hear. With a couple of heavy thrusts, he came inside of her, spilling his semen into that concubine like he would've done with you - if he just had the chance. His eyes were still shimmering wet with his tears, while he pulled back, catching his breath for himself in this moment. The young woman layed on the mattress in front of him, still alive, but in a state of bliss and shock, her eyes wet in tears as well. She wasn't able to say something, and even if so, she were not allowed to do anyways. Caracalla's ice-blue eyes stared cold at her naked body, freezing in the moment as he tried to still pretend to himself that it was you laying in front of him. But it wasn't you and it hit his mind now. This woman was just another whore he tried so desperately to numb his thoughts with. Yet the voices in his head grew louder and louder. "Get her out of my sight!", the Emperor ordered.
"I don't want to see this girl ever again. She is nothing compared to her - throw her away, i cannot stand this waste any longer!", he screamed with a hoarse voice, still sobbing.
"Where is Dondus!?"
No one dared to speak up in a situation like that, no one even dared to look at Caracalla. Everything that might anger the young Emperor could end in an immediate death right now. Even the slave that always carried his pet monkey around, simply rushed to the Emperor and handed him over Dondus in silence, before retreating as fast as possible.
"Oh Dondus, all of this is so unfair. Every time i desire something, he has to take it from me. Nothing truly belongs to me and me alone... it is alwas us", he mumbled with a shake in his voice, while he carefully took his monkey and placed him on a pillow as if it was his child.
Caracalla never treated anyone as careful and caring as he treated his pet monkey. In fact, he could be quite cruel, depending on his mood that changed rapidly between weird happiness and irrational anger. This little animal had more importance to him than any human life - well, except for yours of course. And everyone here knew this. The Emperor would never hurt Dondus, but it only took one outburst of hate for a slave or even a patrician to lose their head in an instant.
"I want her, my Poppea ... i cannot stand the thought of not having her...i cannot. I love you her you understand this, Dondus, don't you? No one understands me the way you do. She is an incarnation of Venus."
But Dondus just looked at him with his dark button eyes - how could a monkey understand love? And how could he understand, how much it pain it left in Caracalla.
____________________________
Tags:
quuinyoung koshkahhh mmkkzz analves pandora-journey ange-olras tellynojelly targwh0re h3k3t onelemonoat whitenoise808 spooky-cupid dev1lbella onelemonoat hawraa-alzubaidi omg-hellgirl the-holy-pigeon justnobodynothingmore fandomblogs-stuff justnobodynothingmore superblyspeedydragon deliciousfestsalad moon-390 lv9su harmfulb1tch apollonshootafar zalera8310 sweetffcts lvspedri soltik capitanostella weepingfashionwritingplaid labellapeaky @qardasngan @fallout-girl219 @chaand-sitara @eighttens @riddlerloveb0t @nicksolemnlyswears @myotakureprieve @lovely--lover @idiotsatan @mqrrstarr @eclypsosworld @happythingtiger @a-lovers-card
#gladiator 2#gladiator ii#emperor caracalla#emperor geta#general acacius#geta x reader#caracalla x reader#joseph quinn#pedro pascal#fred hechinger#gladiator ii fic#kabuki writes
727 notes
·
View notes
Text
Danyal- or well, Daniel now he supposes, seeing as none of these “kind” strangers can pronounce his name right. Has found himself a golden opportunity to hopefully get back to where he actually belongs.
His current predicament was anything but what he could have ever imagined happening to him. He remembers an attack, an assassination attempt on him and his twin. He remembers taking a hit meant for Dami, he remembers the electricity coursing through his body from the weapon the assassin used and so graciously left in his abdomen, meant to make his body seize which would make attempts to keep him from dying just a little bit harder, and his death just that little bit more painful.
After that he vaguely remembers falling, and then burning green.
Next thing he knows he’s in a foreign place with foreign people trying to “help”.
Wherever he is he’s certainly not anywhere near Nanda Parbat.
But he’ll get back, and the easiest way to do so is to secure transportation and funding.
Which shouldn’t be hard as soon as he’s “convinced” this random rich guy to adopt him.
—✧・゚: *✧・゚:*---*:・゚✧*:・゚✧—
Oliver is starting to regret the brilliant PR idea of sponsoring and supporting the new improved Star City foster care system.
In and of itself that’s of course a very good thing, and absolutely something he cares about and is happy to spend his money on, but these things should just be a given, just a thing that’s done because it’s the right thing to do.
Can’t just do that of course… we have to make a huge spectacle about it, showcase some poor but very adorable kids in need of a loving family. make a big party about it.
Oliver is vaguely reminded of pet adoption days that some animal shelters do. Also a good thing he’s in full support of, but that’s animals, and these are actual children.
The thought is making it rather hard to keep a pleasant smile on his face. Thankfully he’s very effectively being distracted by the little guy who somehow managed to attach himself to his leg and refuses to let go.
Oliver looks down.
The boy with the biggest most blue eyes looks up.
There are cameras and reporters and Oliver can feel the bad decision creeping up and the voice in the back of his head screaming, “don’t do it. DON’T DO IT”
Oliver lifts the boy up, “hey there little man, what is your name?”
He gets a big smile in return and the bad decision suddenly doesn’t seem so bad anymore, weird.
—✧・゚: *✧・゚:*---*:・゚✧*:・゚✧—
Roy had been talking, or well, it was more like venting to Dinah about something Oliver had done, or said, maybe both, probably both… When they heard the front door open and was quickly followed by a “Dinah I have a surprise but first you have to promise you won’t get mad”
Which… bad sign, very bad sign, terrible sign.
“Oliver what have you done”
The man walks into the room and proudly shows off his latest impulsive decision, “Congratulations, it’s a boy!”
…That’s a whole ass kid.
“Oliver Jonas Queen! you did not!”
But he did and that choice changes everything.
#Danny actually already is a halfa cause of the electricity that killed him and the pit healed him and then spat him out near Star City#So no Fentons here But Danny gets a red head older sibling anyway#Roy thought he'd be more upset with a sudden new ''sibling'' but he's actually kind of okay with it#probably cause Danny is very young#Dinah doesn't know what to do with this idiot of a man#Things are going to get really complicated later down the line#cause you know... Batman#dpxdc#dcxdp#danny phantom#danny fenton#dp x dc#dc x dp#dp x dc crossover#green arrow#oliver queen#dcxdp fic idea
789 notes
·
View notes
Text
What is a King to a God, and what is a God to a non-believer?
DEMO ☥ PINTEREST
This game is geared for mature audiences and as such is strictly 18+.
Ancient shackles bind you to the mortal realm, a soul severed from a home lost to the sands of time. A curse on you, a blessing for those who take command; Who wouldn't like to own a God?
You're the highly revered deity of fortune. Or you were, five thousand and eighty-two years ago. Now you're nothing but a glorified plaything to one of the most powerful families in the world. Every demand you must fulfill, no matter how vile or self-serving. The illusion of choice is all but shattered, there's nothing you can do to change it.
Or is there?
It takes a simple thing for something to shift. A fragment from the past, an ageless, flickering hum of power that unfurls the hands of fate and unearths buried sparks of hope. No one would've thought that an ancient sherd would hold the first hint to your freedom, a warm, familiar sensation of your soul locked in a tomb somewhere where no mortal has stepped in well over five thousand years.
Let's hope the decay doesn't take you before you find your way back home.
☥ FEATURES ☥
Two separate sides to customization; The one mortals perceive, and select parts of your true form. Choose names, appearances, gender, pronouns, sexuality, romantic orientation, and more.
Shape the personality that starts to re-emerge after being dulled for the better part of history. Reconnect with yourself, and get in touch with memories and feelings you lost so long ago.
Experience a character-driven story full of twists and turns that eventually determine how each of the three endings play out.
Romance one (or two) potential love interests from a cast of characters; A shunned archaeologist, a primordial God, the reincarnation of a priestess, or the mysterious man you can't quite place. Or don't, it's up to you.
And last but not least: Don't let the decay reach your heart. Every change of fortune has consequences, and mindfulness is encouraged. This game does have bad endings.
☥ CAST OF CHARACTERS ☥
Zain/Zaina Tharset ∆ M or F, 28
"You're my birthright, and I'd sooner have you dead than let you make a fool out of me."
Z is your charge. Loud, obnoxious, and entitled; They don't care about your feelings or protests. Every desire that leaves them only serves them alone, and it's on brand for most of the charges you've had before. In simple terms, Z is not a good person, and the more time you serve under them, the less you believe they have any redeeming qualities.
Like everyone in the family, Z has warm brown skin with golden undertones, and eyes in light shades of brown. Their hair is naturally curly and shaved on the sides, leaving a strip of hair on the top and back, like a fashionable mohawk. Zaina's hair reaches the middle of her shoulder blades, while Zain's stops at the nape of his neck.
Being bound to them is painful, but you have no choice. Trying to retrieve your soul will be an ordeal, and it might not be worth the agony.
Rami Tharset ∆ M, 28, RO
"Just because the world has forgotten you, forgotten them, doesn't mean I will."
Rami is the twin brother of your current charge. Kind and humble, it's difficult to imagine him a part of the Tharset family on count of how different he is from that pit of vipers. He keeps to himself, usually holed away in a library or study where he digs into the history of, well, you. Or the ancient world you came from. This has caused the rest of the archeological community to shun him, the name of your old empire nothing more than a myth and a glorified fairy tale.
Rami shares his family's warm brown skin tone, and the black curly hair that's usually a messy mop that sits on top of his head, unstyled and naturally chaotic. It reaches just the stop of his ears, and is shaved in the back. Light brown eyes that are quite blurry without his glasses, but the gold-tinted pilot-framed lenses fit him nicely.
He's one of the few friendly faces you face in the Tharset circle, and you curse your misfortune that you couldn't have him as a charge instead.
Maluset ∆ M, N/A, RO
"For all I am, all I have controlled, still I could not keep you safe. Forgive me, old friend."
The God of the Night, and everything that you have left of an age and life long forgotten. While the rest of your pantheon faded one by one, he remained. You've always known Maluset as a calm presence, a steadfast and unperturbed God that never let himself be shaken, by mortals or his siblings.
While Mal prefers manifesting as his animal motif - a jackal made of black marble and eyes like consolidated galaxies - he does have a human form too. If he must appear mortal, his skin takes the color of what the mortals of your time had; bronzed, medium brown with a golden undertone. His hair would be jet black and curly, medium length, and he likes it naturally tousled by the winds. If necessary, he'll let his eyes appear dark brown in color, but he prefers the starlit skies in them instead.
He's been a constant in your life, at least until he disappeared three centuries ago. You know he's still out there since the realm where you take shelter is his, and it hasn't yet disappeared.
Rory Ewing ∆ F, 23, RO
"I can't remember, but your face, it stirs something in my heart. Why? Who was I to you?"
Rory is a new acquaintance to you, but there's something very familiar about her. She might just be a student now, her curiosity bringing her close to you, but you can feel an old connection whenever she's close by. Her voice reminds you of prayers long ago, even if her modern vernacular is closer to 'damn, that shit's the bomb' than hymns sung in your praise. Then again, reincarnation has a way of changing people.
It doesn't, however, change appearances. Back in your day, Rory's vessel was a traveler from the north; Her skin was light beige, rosy in its undertones. Her hair was thick and a subdued red, woven into an intricate braid that hung over her shoulder, reaching her midriff. Her eyes were also uncommon to you; pale green, vibrant but ghostly.
She doesn't remember you, and maybe that's for the best. Her new self is a stark contrast to who she was, and you don't think she'd enjoy the idea of donning priestess garb over the punk-rockish getup she wears now.
Taz Arian ∆ M, 34, RO
"Funny, isn't it? How some people seem familiar, even when they shouldn't be."
Taz is... Someone. He appears out of nowhere to join your journey, his knowledge of old ruins and tombs handy but somewhat worrying when he shouldn't even be able to see you. There's a strange thrum of power coming from him whenever he speaks, and you swear you've met him before, but where? It might be easier to find out if he didn't deflect and flirt his way out of things, but it does help with mortals that can't see you.
His appearance is nothing extraordinary; Dark brown hair that's held up in a bun, and you could assume it reaches his shoulders when loose, the loose curls pulling it a tad shorter. His eyes are light in color, almost golden in the right light, glinting with mischief. His skin is weathered, and golden bronze in color, with an intricate tattoo of an eagle spanning across his chest. He also sports a short beard, which gives him a rogueish look.
There is something about him that tugs at your memories, but you can't catch that thread of remembrance for long enough to recall him. Still, he doesn't seem to mind and resorts to teasing you instead.
#fortune forsaken if#interactive fiction#if wip#choicescript#intro post#man i still suck at tagging huh#anyway hi#if demo#if game#dashingdon#kinda but not quite
642 notes
·
View notes
Text
Pretty Little Thing
summary: After finding yourself at a holiday party you hadn't wanted to attend in the first place, Aemond Targaryen makes it worth while.
pairing: modern!Aemond x Reader
warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI - smut, oral fem receiving, fingering, spanking, praise, slight dirty talk, overstim, kissing, love bites, hand over mouth, titty play, allusions to Aegon being a creeper, alcohol, smoking, langauge
word count: 7.2k
note: im back! grad school didn't kill me! hope you enjoy!
link to other stories from me!
To be notified when I post something new, be sure to follow @sapphire-writes-updates & turn notifications on 💙
—
Be there soon.
Alysanne had texted you nearly an hour ago, and with each passing minute you became more doubtful she’d be making an appearance at all.
You hadn’t even wanted to come. It’d been her idea and now she was blowing you off.
“We’re just exchanging the last of our things,” she’d promised on the phone several hours earlier, “You go on without me and I’ll meet you there.”
Yeah. Because it takes three hours to give your ex-boyfriend his stuff back. Totally.
Alysanne and Cregan Stark had been on and off again since you’d known her; this time was no exception. You knew from her first running later than I thought text that the night wasn’t going to go as you’d hoped.
You decide to like her most recent message instead of replying, unable to stop the wave of annoyance cresting inside of you.
You hadn’t even wanted to come.
An end-of-semester holiday party. Thrown by the elder Lannister siblings; twins Jason and Tyland. The kings of Casterly Rock are well known for their extravagant get-togethers and the unimaginable generational wealth that funds all their exploits.
They’d long graduated from King’s Landing University, but you and Alysanne scored an invite courtesy of Cerelle Lannister, their younger sister, whom you’d been trying to avoid since you arrived. If Cerelle didn’t see you, perhaps you could escape the party unscathed.
That hope proves too good to be true as your name is called from across the room. You slide your phone back into your pocket as Cerelle approaches you. Her blonde hair hangs in effortless curls down her back, the emerald green top she wears accentuating its golden hues, along with her bright green eyes.
You’re not exactly close with Cerelle, though she appears to enjoy your friendship, at least on a surface level. She’s part of the weekly book club you attend. Her grin widens as she reaches you, eyes drinking you in.
“Darling!” she muses, pressing a kiss against your cheek.
“You wore it!” she says, fingers ghosting across the cashmere cardigan you’d chosen to wear that evening. Cerelle had bought it for you a few weeks ago, though you’d begged her not to; the price was more than you made in a paycheck.
Alysanne once referred to you as Cerelle’s Polly Pocket.
“She pulls you out of her pocket and plays dress up. It’s fucking weird,” she’d said.
Cerelle’s lips curve upwards in a Cheshire cat grin as she slings an arm around your shoulder, bringing her glossed lips next to your ear.
“Stop moping in the corner like some dreary wallflower,” she purrs, brushing some hair behind your ear, “Have some fun! It’s winter break!”
Goosebumps break out on your skin at her affections. You laugh breathlessly shrugging away from her touch causing her to frown.
“You haven’t had enough to drink,” she insists, reaching for another glass, “You’re much too antsy.”
“Alysanne was supposed to be here,” you tell her and she nods understanding, looping her arm through yours and giving your forearm a comforting pat.
“Fashionably late as always, I suppose,” Cerelle drolls, pointing across the room, “There are lots of fascinating characters here who’ll distract you. Shall I spin a bottle to decide?”
“Hilarious,” you tell her, shaking your head.
“I never joke about a good shag,” Cerelle argues, gaze flickering about the room, “From the looks of it you could use it.” She turns back to you, matching your pout. “Don’t frown, you look too lovely.” She places her hands on your cheeks, thumbs tugging the corner of your lips upwards.
“Much better,” she praises as you hold the smile she’s decorated your face with, “Come on let's find you someone…don’t look at me like that! Someone to flirt with, that’s all. A bit of harmless fun.”
You roll your eyes earning a pitch on the arm and you swat Cerelle’s hand away.
“There’s no one here I want to flirt with,” you insist, following her gaze around the room, “Let alone shag.”
“You’re too picky,” she muses, tapping a manicured nail against her chin as she scans the room, “What about Greyjoy?”
A shiver rolls through you, “No thank you.”
“Heard he’s good in the sack.”
You’d heard a lot of things about Dalton Greyjoy. None of which made you want to spend an extended period of alone time with him. You glance at Cerelle giving her a firm look. She sighs, returning to her mission.
“You need someone,” Cerelle insists after you shoot down several more options, “You haven’t been with anyone since—what was it again?”
His face flashes through your mind before you can help it.
“Unimportant,” you quip, “Cerelle, I just want to—” Your words die as two new guests bound up the stairs into the main hallway.
Suddenly, it’s as if all the air has been sucked from the room, your heartbeat echoing in your ears the only sound you can hear. You tug Cerelle closer, eyes wide.
“You invited them?” you hiss, as Cerelle frowns, following your gaze.
“Not me. Jason must have,” she answers, “It’s not a party without Aegon. Jay swears he has the best coke on this side of the Keep.”
Aegon Targaryen is relatively harmless as long as you keep your drink close. You’re more concerned with the tall figure who lurks closely behind him. Though the younger, Aemond Targaryen towers over his brother; his presence makes the room feel smaller, colder than it was moments ago. He’s dressed in all black, as he usually is, the silver chain around his neck the only other color. His long snow-white hair is braided down his back, an eyepatch securely covering his left eye.
He never takes it off.
Aegon pushes by his brother making a beeline for the kitchen where most of the chaos is localized. You can tell a new drinking game has begun by the sound of cheers and the echo of glasses clinking together. Aegon’s eyes lit up as he disappeared down the hall, eager to join the miscellaneous fun.
Aegon loves a good party.
Aemond watches his brother but lingers behind in the living room leaning against a wall. He extends a long arm to the bookshelf retrieving one with his long fingers. He flicks open a few pages, lips pursing. He glances up, violet eye meeting yours for the briefest moment.
Your lips part and you look away, warmth flooding your cheeks. You had shared a couple of classes with Aemond, nothing more nothing less. He was quite mysterious.
“Anyway,” Cerelle says, her attention wavering with each passing second, “Back to you drinking. I’ll get you another glass. Loosen up, pet.”
—
You try to, you really do. No matter what her intentions are, Cerelle has been nothing but nice to you, so you allow her antics. An hour has ticked by and Alysanne has yet to respond to your latest text message. Squeezed between Cerelle and Sabitha Frey during another round of quarters you decide to plan your escape.
“I’m going to get some air,” you tell her, rising from the couch. Cerelle rolls her eyes, “I’m not leaving, I swear!”
“You better not!” she says, perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitting together, “I’ll come to fetch you if you’re gone too long—you know I will.”
She’s telling the truth.
“Five minutes,” you insist, forcing a smile.
Cerelle’s nose twitches but she lets it go and nods, returning her attention to the game.
Weaving through the sea of people you make your way outside letting the door shut behind you as you walk down a few steps of the front stoop. It’s colder than you expected, you can see your breath in front of you.
You stand shivering, trying to decide what to do next. Reaching into your pocket, you check your phone for the time. You could leave, make your escape down the steps, and catch the last bus back to Maegor’s Holdfast.
If you stay any longer, you’ll be forced to spend the night or dip into your savings to splurge on an Uber. It’s always crazy expensive on this side of town as if the drivers know the neighborhood is full of rich kids.
The door opens and noise from the party fills the cool night until it slams shut once more. You roll your eyes expecting Cerelle as you turn your head.
Only it isn’t her.
Aemond Targaryen lingers on the top step, reaching into his jacket pocket and placing a cigarette between his teeth. He finds a lighter a moment later, a nice expensive one, flicking it open with a sharp click. Fire blooms in the palm of his hand and you can just make out the three-headed dragon branded on the side of the silver lighter before it disappears into his pocket again.
He releases a cloud of smoke into the air, mimicking the one your breath makes. You turn away as he walks down a few steps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.
“You were in my class,” he says suddenly, his head tilting to the side, “History of The First Men, right?”
You force your lips together. “Mhmm,” you answer, surprised he recognized you.
Aemond Targaryen didn’t seem the type to remember a random girl in his class. Smart as hells, he focused solely on his grades, paying little attention to the rest of the student body. He seemed to be the antithesis of his elder brother. Though incredibly different, supposedly they had similar lustful appetites.
One for pleasures of the flesh, the other for academic validation.
Aegon Targaryen was a known party boy and ran in multiple social circles. He didn’t care about class or popularity; if there was sex, liquor, and drugs around, Aegon Targaryen would be there.
However, there were stories about Aemond too that made their way around campus.
“You alright?” he pressed, the silence laying heavy between you.
“I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now,” you breathe, chuckling slightly as you rub your arms as the frigid air bites into your exposed flesh.
Aemond quirks a brow at that, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Why’s that?”
“You’re sort of a banned topic at book club,” you admit, causing his lips to curl into a small smirk.
“Am I?”
“Mhmm.”
Another moment of silence goes by before his curiosity gets the better of him. “Because?”
“Maris runs it,” you tell him, and he clicks his tongue, nodding to himself before taking another drag of his cigarette.
Maris Baratheon, the elder of a pair of Irish twins. Floris Baratheon, once the object of Aemond’s affection for about a half second, was royally screwed over when he left her for none other than Alys Rivers. Adjunct Professor. It was quite the scandal at the time.
You’re not exactly friends with Floris; closer to Maris if you had to choose. But it's the principle of things—girl code.
“Floris and I were never exclusive,” Aemond comments.
“Yikes.”
So maybe Aemond Targaryen is just like every other guy. Though, you’re mostly sure he’s telling the truth. The story you’d heard was that he ghosted her.
“She shouldn’t have assumed,” he continues, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.
You roll your eyes, blood boiling at his statement as annoyance begins to quicken in your belly. Aemond Targaryen seems more like his elder with every word that leaves his curved lips.
“Right, of course not, how dare she,” is your sarcastic reply.
Aemond tilts his head toward the sky, speaking around the cigarette.
“You seem rather upset,” he accuses, “Funny, Floris never mentioned you.”
You turn to face him fully and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. Folding your arms across your chest you jut your hip out. “We’re not friends. It’s the principle of it all. I don’t like assholes.”
His perfect lips curl slightly. “I’m an asshole?”
“Mhmm. At least Aegon owns up to his behavior, he doesn’t pretend he’s some suave guy doing nothing wrong.”
You swear a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he plucks the cigarette from between them.
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Sure seems like it.”
Aemond takes a step closer then. You have to tilt your head to look him in the eye. Something about being this close to him is almost unnerving, your stomach drops slightly as you focus on his prominent cheekbones.
“It’s not my problem if a girl gets her hopes up after getting fucked properly,” he counters.
Your breath hitches in your throat and you back up, slightly slipping against the icy railing. Aemond reaches out, his hand curling around your bicep to steady you. It’s warm, almost hot; the heat seeps through your thin sweater in the shape of his fingers.
There’s a tension between you as he holds your arm for a second too long, before the door opens and several partygoers stumble down the steps, forcing you to break apart. Aemond takes another drag of his cigarette from across the stairs as they laugh tumbling into the street. You’re grateful for the distraction, taking a moment to slow the frantic beating of your heart, and the slight flutter in your stomach.
“So,” you begin, trying to break the awkward silence the partygoers left behind with their departure, “How do you know Cerelle?”
Aemond looks at you quizzically.
“How do I know Cerelle?”
You jerk your chin up in a hasty nod. Aemond chuckles, shaking his head and taking another drag.
“Family friend,” he answers, “Old money likes to stick together.”
You nod again, unsure of how to answer as he observes you.
“Surely you’ve heard of the Westerosi Seven?” he asks.
You haven’t.
“The what?”
“The seven families,” Aemond says, his tone indicating that this is somewhat common knowledge, “Generational wealth that can be traced back to medieval times. The higher lords and ladies. Near royalty.” He takes another drag.
“And you’re one of them?” you ask, crossing your arms.
“My family, yes,” he answers, “And Cerelle’s. The Baratheon girls. Stark. They’re all quite close.”
“Interesting,” you tell him, glancing down the street again, “You sound like the mafia.”
Aemond holds your gaze, not denying your allegation. You release a breathless laugh, but unease settles in your gut.
The door opens as if on cue, and Cerelle pops her head out.
“Darling! Come back inside you’ll catch your death,” she calls, waving you forward. She spots Aemond out of the corner of her eye, and you don’t miss the look of interest that gathers in her green eyes as they flicker between the pair of you, “Targaryen.”
“CeCe,” he politely greets, choosing to use the nickname Cerelle often kept reserved for her family only. She doesn’t comment on Aemond’s choice.
“Hope you’re being nice to my girl,” she says, the words clipped.
“Of course,” Aemond comments and you can’t help but feel like you aren’t there.
Cerelle glances back at you, a smile decorating her face once more.
“Come on, pet! In the kitchen.”
Her blonde hair disappears in the door. Aemond walks down the remainder of the steps tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it beneath his heel.
“Best run along,” he muses, not turning to face you, “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Annoyance prickles under your skin.
“She’s my friend—”
“You have got a very generous friend,” Aemond comments, turning to face you. He motions at your sweater. “Myrish, isn’t it?”
You cross your hands over your chest.
“Mhmm,” Aemond hums glancing up at you from the bottom step, “I’d just be careful if I were you. Accepting gifts from rich strangers is a lot like Persephone eating the pomegranate seeds.”
You scoff at the implication before turning away and heading back into the townhouse. Aemond does not follow; you don’t hear the door open as you hurry back up the stairs.
The party has since moved completely to the kitchen, sans a couple making out on the living room couch. You enter the crowded space and crane your neck to see what everyone is cheering at.
It’s something happening on the marble island, but you don’t see what—that is until Cerelle sits up, her blonde curls cascading around her face, a lime between her pearly white teeth like a cat with a mouse.
She smiles curling her finger, beckoning Aegon Targaryen forward. He leans against her, bringing his mouth to hers and stealing the lime. The juice flows down his chin before he lets it fall, pressing a sloppy kiss to Cerelle’s lips, earning several cheers.
As she breaks away she notices you, eyes lighting up as she slips off the counter.
“Good, you didn’t leave!” she says giggling, “It’s your turn.”
“My turn?” you ask, heart dropping into your stomach.
“Mhmm,” she says, dragging you forward, “Up now!”
“Cerelle, I don’t—”
“Hush! Qyle Martell is doing it,” she says biting her lip suggestively, “Let the sexy Dornishman take a shot off you, alright?”
Your cheeks darken as he appears before you, arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you onto the counter like a lamb for slaughter. The crowd cheers and your eyes widen as you meet Qyle’s warm brown eyes.
“Your sweater,” he says, motioning to it with his hand that clutches a bottle of tequila.
You glance at Cerelle and she nods encouragingly. Over her head and in the doorway you spot Aemond. He didn’t leave after all. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, observing the chaos with a curled lip, as if the entire thing is beneath him.
Qyle whistles, drawing your attention back to him. He motions to your sweater yet again.
“Oh,” you tell him, moving to unbutton it.
Thank goodness you wore a tank top underneath. Your fingers slip with nerves as you struggle to unbutton it. You’re the center of attention, peers cheering and chanting around you as you struggle with the bottoms.
Quite the sacrificial lamb you are.
“Here, can I help?” Qyle asks, reaching toward you, his fingers bumping against your own. The bottle of tequila sloshes.
“No—no I’ve got it—oh!”
You’d moved wrong, done something wrong—or perhaps someone pushed him you’re not sure. Your head is buzzing with the noise of the room and suddenly the front of your sweater is doused in tequila. Qyle’s eyes are wide as Cerelle pushes him to the side as the smell of alcohol fills your nose.
The room quiets momentarily until Cerelle’s bell-like laugh pierces through the silence.
“Qyle you idiot,” Cerelle sneers, nose wrinkling with playful distaste, “You’re supposed to wait till she’s laying down—”
“It was an accident!”
“—and her sweater!” Cerelle growls in annoyance, “Go upstairs, pet, my room. Pick anything you like.”
You slide off of the counter, hurrying from the room, leaving the sound of music and chanting behind as you move deeper into the labyrinth of the Lannister home.
—
Cerelle’s room lacks color and warmth.
You’d spent the night once here before, crawling into the white feather bed after too much mulled wine. Cerelle had stroked your hair until you’d fallen asleep, only to awake the next morning with a severe headache and a churning belly.
Popping the rest of the buttons, you peel the soaked sweater from your body and throw it in the hamper. You then walk over to Cerelle’s closet—double doors—and open it. Expensive. Perfumed. You’ve already ruined one pretty thing. Though Cerelle could hardly care about the expense, you do. You sigh, gently pushing through the soft fabric.
“Playing dress up?” a voice calls, and you turn to Aemond at the door.
You close the closet door. You’ll just have to survive in your thin top. Aemond holds a glass of whiskey between his long fingers.
“Well, I suppose that was a given,” you answer him, sitting down on the bed.
Aemond watches you from the doorway, his arm raised above his head, fingers tapping nonsensically against the frame.
“D’you want to see how you’re supposed to do it?” he suddenly asks.
“Do what?” you question, tilting your head to the side.
“What Qyle was going to do,” he answers, and you understand his meaning.
Aemond walks over to you, the ice rattling against the glass he lazily grips between his fingers, coming to stand in front of your legs. You’re not sure why he’s asking, what interest he has in you. But something in your belly tightens the closer he gets.
“Alright,” you give him a quiet answer, the word barely slipping past your lips.
Aemond purses his lips, glancing down at your legs.
“Spread them,” he says softly, motioning with the cup. Warmth creeps up the back of your neck and blooms on the apples of your cheeks. You lock eyes with him, focusing on the ring of violet that surrounds his pupil. You do as you’re told, knees parting; his gaze hypnotizing. “Wider.”
Your skirt tightens against your thighs as you do so, but you spread your legs wide enough for him to stand between them. He takes a step forward and you’re forced to look up at him.
“Lean back,” he instructs. You’re beginning to notice how easily he slips into the domineering role. Again you follow his instructions, cheeks burning as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows.
You’re much more exposed without your sweater, the tops of your breasts visible in the thin top you wear. Aemond steps closer, looming over you, heat radiating from his tall form.
He reaches out, fingers caressing your cheek. You hope he can’t feel how warm they’ve become, feel your pulse fluttering against his fingers as they trail underneath your jaw and down your neck until they reach your collarbone.
“You’re to put salt here,” he murmurs, pressing against the dip of your collarbone for emphasis, “That’s first.” He leans down then, fingers trailing over your shoulder and down your arm leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Though we’re without.”
You swallow as his fingers continue to trace your collarbone. His violet eye watches you carefully before he pulls his hand away. He brings them lower, ghosting down your ribs until they reach your waist.
“May I?” he asks, fingers at the hem of your shirt. You give him a wordless nod, not able to trust your voice. Aemond pushes the fabric up slightly, revealing your navel. He holds the glass above your stomach; a drop of condensation falls causing you to flinch at the cool sensation.
Aemond flicks a brow at the constriction of your abdomen, “You’re quite sensitive.”
“It’s cold.”
“Mhmm,” he agrees, turning the glass so more condensation falls; little raindrops begin to adorn your skin, “The liquor goes here.” His fingers ruin the pattern he’s created, rough fingertips swirling the dew drops around your navel, “Tequila.”
“We haven’t got any,” you breathlessly tell him, his touch leaving a scorched trail across your belly.
Aemond brings his glass closer, pressing the edge against the beginning of your belly button, letting some whiskey pool there. Your hands clenched into fists as the cold liquid fills you up; you watch as it shakes slightly, overflowing. Aemond leans forward, catching the spill with his mouth causing a gasp that sounds more like a moan to leave your mouth. His mouth covers your navel and you can feel his tongue swirl around, collecting the liquid he poured there with hot, calculated strokes.
His violet eye peers up at you from behind silver lashes, half-lidded as he hollows his cheeks sucking harshly. He reaches toward the side table, mouth never leaving you, to place his glass on the edge freeing his hand. You can feel his tongue circling your navel, gently probing the sensitive skin. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at the ticklish sensation. Aemond presses his hands against your obliques before releasing you with a pop, his chin and lips shining.
“That’s how it's supposed to be,” he murmurs, not moving from the spot between your legs. Some of his silver hair has fallen across his brow, and on instinct you reach forward, brushing it from his eyes.
“There’s one more part,” you tell him, fingers grazing the beginning of the scar that mares his left brow before disappearing behind the patch.
“What’s that?” he asks, his gaze revealing he knows the answer.
He just wants to hear you say it, you realize.
Your lips part, fingers still somewhat tangled in his hair; the strands soft as silk between your fingers.
“There was a lime,” you tell him, “The person….holds it in their mouth.”
Aemond pushes up then, his hands sliding up your sides until they’re pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from your own.
“Have you got a lime on you?” he asks, his breath warm on your face, the scent of whiskey strong between you.
“No,” you murmur, not knowing where to look. He’s so close you can see the flecks of blue and gold in the lilac iris of his eye, count his silver lashes, and notice the small indentation on the tip of his prominent nose.
He hums again, his eye dropping to your lips.
“Pity,” he says, lips down turning into a pout.
Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest with the way it's pounding incessantly against your ribcage. He’s so close your chests are practically touching; your nipples straining against the fabric of your top. His chain peeks out from under the collar of his shirt and your resolve crumbles. Your eyes flicker to his lips, tongue darting out to wet your own and he leans forward, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.
Your hands wrap around his neck as he kisses you; his lips so soft and firm against your own, skilled tongue parting them with ease to deepen the kiss. A moan doesn’t make it out of your throat as his hand cradles your jaw, the sound of soft kisses is the only thing you can hear besides the muffled hum of the music playing downstairs.
Aemond pulls away then, the look is his eye ravenous as he lowers himself between your legs once more. For a minute you think he may grab his glass and do the party trick all over again, the kiss just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Instead, he pushes your skirt up, fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs. You realize a moment too late what he’s doing.
Riiiip!
“Aemond!” you squeak, as he rips the seam of your tights, “These were a new pair!”
“I can buy you another,” he says, pressing a kiss against the smooth newly exposed flesh, “Or perhaps CeCe can. You’re her favorite plaything, aren’t you?”
Your cheeks burn at the statement, your mouth pressing together in a tight line. Aemond grins, nimble fingers undoing the zipper of your skirt and wiggling it down your legs along with your ruined tights.
“Oh she doesn’t like that,” he says, clicking his tongue, “But it’s true, isn’t it?” His hands are roaming higher now, grazing against your clothed center. You’re certain he feels the evidence of your arousal but he stays quiet about it. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? A pretty little plaything.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss, humiliation seeping into your veins, though it does little to quell the desire pooling in your belly.
“No shame in that,” he says, shaking his head, “I understand Cerelle, entirely.” His fingers tug your panties down your bare legs, exposing your wet center. Aemond’s eye locks on it, lips quirking upward. “I like pretty things as well.”
“So I’ve heard,” you quip as Aemond’s second-hand joins the first. He swirls a finger low against your entrance and you clench as he drags it upwards.
“Have you?” he muses, circling your clit with minimal pressure, “And what have you heard?”
“That you’re as insatiable as your brother,” you manage to choke out as his thumb continues to tease your clit, “You just hide it better.”
Aemond cocks his head to the side in silent agreement before pressing his face against you. A sharp cry leaves your lips as his tongue explores from your entrance up to your clit, the tip circling the sensitive button.
Eyes rolling back in your head, Aemond nuzzles his face against you, tongue slipping down and pressing into your clenching hole. He hums in approval as you make another desperate noise as his tongue curves upwards inside of you.
Seven hells, how is anyone’s tongue long enough to do what Aemond’s is doing? Your toes curl as his tongue hooks upwards against the front of your pelvic bone, thrusting against the sensitive patch of nerves that resides there.
“Oh gods—fuck—fuck!” you cry as he continues the repetitive movement of his tongue, waves of pleasure lapping up your spine, sending shivers through your whole body. “Hells Aemond…”
His nose presses against your slippery clit, rubbing against it in a way that stokes the pleasurable fire burning in your belly. His hands hold your thighs open and you throw your head back against the bed as the pressure inside you builds and builds and builds. Your back arches and your thighs tremble in his bruising grasp.
You lean up on your forearms to watch him, his violet eye intently watching your face, studying your reaction. You can tell he’s smug at the effect he’s having on you. He would often get that same look in his eye in class after he proved someone wrong or made a more intelligent point. How you must look to him now; all spread out before him, flushed and slack-jawed, dewy-eyed and pretty.
You’re a pretty toy to play with. Just want he wanted.
His tongue leaves your fluttering pussy and you whine at the loss of contact. He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like needy before two fingers sink inside your warmth to replace what he took away.
Aemond’s tongue returns to its place around your clit as his fingers curve upwards replaying the motion from before. The stimulation now is much harsher, the pads of his fingers dragging effortlessly against your spongy walls, curling with brutal intention; relentlessly pressing against the swelling spot inside of you.
His warm, wet tongue against your clit only hastens the tightly winding ball of pleasure in your gut and you feel your walls swelling around his fingers as your release knocks the wind out of you.
You come with a strangled cry, hands gripping the bed sheets as your abdominal muscles contract to the point of pain, all your muscles going taut as warm waves of euphoria rush through you.
Aemond releases a choked chuckle of appreciation as he feels you tighten around his fingers. He fucks you through it, stretching out the wave of your orgasm until your legs are trembling and the overstimulation causes you to hiss at him.
“Stop, stop, please.”
“Alright…shhh,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your mound and gently pulling his fingers from your fluttering walls, “There you go, that’s a good girl. You did so well for me.”
You can’t help but warm at his praise, the ringing in your ears fading as your chest swells. Aemond is on you once more, lips pressed to yours the mingled taste of whiskey and you hot on his tongue.
“Are you going to let me fuck you?” he murmurs between sticky kisses, “Hmm?”
“Aemond…” you breathe into his mouth, hoping that is enough for him.
You can feel him smirk against your lips and know instantly it's not. He tuts disapprovingly, pushing you back against the mattress, his face dipping into the crook of your neck.
“What would Floris say?” he teases, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. Your hands wind around his neck, fingers digging into his scalp. His braid is all but ruined. “I thought you said something earlier,” he continues, nipping and sucking at different spots on your neck, humming with pleasure when he locates a spot that has your back arching.
“I don’t—”
“Loyalty, I recall,” he purrs, his hand snaking down your side, gripping the meat of your thigh and hoisting it around his waist, “Something like that.”
“Aemond,” you whimper helplessly as he grinds against you, the feeling of his hard cock concealed by his trousers driving you close to madness, “Aemond please.”
“You’re going to have to say it,” he insists, kissing your cheek, “Come on, say it.”
“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him, “Please Aemond—gods.”
“They can’t hear you,” he taunts, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, “You’re all mine.”
You frantically nod, nose bumping against his as his lips curl into a greedy smile. He removes his shirt with one hand before he rolls off of you and onto his back, motioning to you with his hands.
“Go on then,” he says, “Take what you want.”
With shaky hands, you undo his belt above the sizable tent in his pants before dragging the zipper down and releasing his cock. He’s bigger than you expected, both in length and girth, the reddened tip already weeping in anticipation. You stroke his velvety shaft once before he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him.
His hands pull your shirt from your body as you straddle him, his cock nudging at your folds. Aemond’s hands slide up your back, undoing your bra and freeing your breasts.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, hands cupping the sizable mounds, “Gods, you’re so lovely.”
Your face burns at his praise as you raise your hips before gripping him in your hand and guiding him inside of you; gently letting yourself slide down his length, inner walls fluttering around him at the new sensation. Shuddering on top of him you whine at the stretch. “Gods—”
“You can take it,” he murmurs, squeezing you softly in encouragement, “Come on baby, that’s it, just like that.”
Slowly you let him bottom out in your warmth, happily seated on his cock feeling incredibly full. You brace your hands on his chest as he pinches both of your nipples, your jaw slacking in response. Aemond lifts his hips slightly, gauging your reaction as your eyes screw shut.
“That feel good?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper.
“Yes,” you breathe, slowly starting to ride him, hips lifting and returning to his with a soft smack.
“There she goes,” he murmurs, hands dropping to your hips, squeezing, “Take what you need, gevie.”
A breathless moan escapes you as you ride him, his hands guiding you through the movements. The hum from the music downstairs matches the ringing in your ears.
Aemond drops his hand from your waist bringing it to the apex of your thighs. His lips part as he watches you rise and fall on his cock, his length coated with your arousal.
“That’s it,” he coos, his tone bordering on one of condensation, “Just like that—there’s a good girl.” His thumb brushes against your clit as he says it, a broken moan leaving your lips as pleasure ignites your veins.
His movements are soft, tantalizing, and brutally calculated as he circles the sensitive button; his other hand clings to your waist, hard enough to bruise. Surely they’ll be memories of his touch when you wake; dark purple petals blossoming on your soft flesh at first light. He guides your movements as they become sloppier the closer you get to your release.
It sends tingles up your spine, your chest and neck growing warmth as you edge closer to the precipice of pleasure.
No other man has made you finish before.
“Are you close?” Aemond murmurs, never stopping his attention to your clit, the subtle movement of his hips thrusting up into you, “I know you are—can feel you clenching around me.”
Your head falls back, mind foggy as you desperately grind against him, trying to ignore the burn in your hamstrings. Aemond’s hand leaves your hip crashing down against your ass with a loud smack. You yelp in surprise, head jerking forward, nails clawing into the hardened muscles of his chest. Aemond’s hand remains where he’d spanked you, fingers curling into the meat of your ass as he releases a breathless laugh; his eye flickers to where your nails dig against his pale flesh, leaving a trail of red behind as they scrape down his chest.
“Answer me,” he demands, and you quickly nod earning another stinging slap, “With your words gevie. Use those pretty lips.”
“Yes,” you practically gasp, “Yes, Aemond I’m close—”
“And you want to cum, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk, “Do you want me to make you cum?”
“Yes, Aemond please—” the sentence dies with a moan as he plants both feet on the mattress, bucking his hips up against yours at an inhumane pace. Your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging open in ecstasy as all the muscles in your body tense followed by a sudden burst of euphoria pulsing through you.
Aemond hums in satisfaction as you ride your high, blood rushing in your ears as you shake on top of him, clenching around his thick length. He’s careful to pull his thumb away from your sensitive clit as your eyes flutter open, eyebrows scrunched together at the overstimulation. But his compassion is short-lived as he hooks his arm around your waist, flipping you onto your back and slotting his body on top of yours.
His cock is removed for merely a moment at the switch of positions before it’s stretching into your once more earning a sharp gasp. Aemond’s hand covers your mouth in an instant, his face buried in the crook of your neck once more.
“Shhh,” he coos, placing a kiss under your ear, “Hear that?” he asks, thrusting gently into your warmth causing your eyes to roll back in your head. “Listen.”
His hips continue their gentle roll against yours, slowly stoking the pleasurable fire that is reigniting in your belly. Limbs still tingling from your previous orgasm, you blink rapidly trying to focus on what he’s asking.
The music downstairs has died.
“Everyone’s going home,” he murmurs, through another kiss, “We’d best be quick. Would hate for lovely Cerelle to find her pet in such a position.”
Embarrassment burns your cheeks and he chuckles, keeping his hand over your mouth as he slings your leg over his shoulder, deepening the angle of his thrusts. The head of his cock bullies against your sweet spot almost lovingly as he drags his cock in and out.
“Keep quiet,” he murmurs, the sound of silence deafening with the lack of music, “Can you do that?” He’s rather cruel with his question, delivering a particularly harsh thrust as he asks, then clicking his tongue in disapproval at your muffled moan. “Thought not.”
So his hand remains as he plows into you, the sounds of your pleasure muffled but still desperate as you claw at his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he encourages, “Cum for me again, just like that.” His pelvis grazes against your clit, the friction only aiding in his efforts of making you reach your release once more. His violet eye scans your face before he dips to your collarbone, nipping the sensitive flesh with his teeth and you cum with a desperate cry against his hand.
“There you go,” he coos, the words breathy and broken his hips faltering as your walls clamp down around him, “Squeezing me so fucking tight—fuck.” He regains his pace with renewed enthusiasm as your walls continue to flutter around him. Aemond removes his hand from your mouth pressing it into the mattress beside your head.
Nerves raw from the continued stimulation a tear rolls down your cheek as he chases his own release. Aemond leans forward, hot tongue darting out to catch the salty stream as he hums in satisfaction.
“We’ll have more time next time,” he whispers the promise against your cheek, “I want to explore what other pretty noises you make.” His lips capture yours then, swallowing the whimper you release.
“I’m very curious,” he murmurs against your lips, slinging your other leg over his shoulder, pushing your knees back beside your ears. “And I’m very thorough.” A silent scream leaves you as he slams back into you, toes curling as you cum again, vision going white with the force of it.
Aemond’s hips meet yours a few more times and then you feel his cock pulsate inside of you before the warmth of his release fills you to the brim. You’ll need to make a trip to the pharmacy, but you’ll think about that later. He stays like that for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you as you both try to regulate your breathing.
Aemond lowers your legs gently from around his shoulders and brushes some sweat-soaked hair from your forehead.
“Are you alright?” he asks, and you nod as he kisses you sweetly.
“Just fucked out,” you assure him, a pleasurable ache radiating down your thighs. Aemond hums, carefully pulling his softening cock from your warmth.
The emptiness takes your breath away as he stands. “Wait here,” he orders, walking towards Cerelle’s bathroom. He returns a moment later, washcloth in hand. You push yourself onto shaky forearms as he carefully cleans the mess between your thighs.
“Thank you,” you tell him, face burning from his attention.
“No need for thanks,” he insists, “It’s the bare minimum.”
“For you maybe.”
Aemond flicks a brow toward his hairline, his violet eye meeting yours. His expression is curious, but you sense he’s not going to push you to elaborate. You hold his gaze.
Not tonight.
“Are you staying here?” he asks, standing when he’s done, handing you pieces of your clothes.
“I think I have to,” you answer, putting your skirt back on and glancing at the clock, “The last bus is long gone.”
Aemond frowns, reaching for his phone.
“I’ll have my driver take you,” he says, unlocking his screen.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s no trouble,” he insists, placing the phone against his ear, “Cole. Ten minutes. Thank you.” He hangs up quickly leaving no time to argue.
“Thanks,” you mutter awkwardly while finishing dressing. You walk to Cerelle’s large mirror and attempt to fix your sex hair. Your eyes widen in horror as you tilt your head to the side, leaning closer to get a better look.
“Aemond,” you hiss, fingers pressing against the three red marks sure to bruise, “I look like I’ve been mauled by a bear.”
Aemond walks up behind you dragging his fingers down the curve of your neck and over your collarbone. Goosebumps appear in their wake. Three more red marks lead a path down to the top of your right breast. Several sizable mouth-shaped love bites.
Aemond rests his chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror.
“Think of them as a gift,” he tells you, the curve of his lips pressed against the skin of your neck.
His hand curves around your waist, the other slinking up to turn your face towards him. He hums appreciatively, kissing your lips, then your cheek. Down your neck to your shoulder. You glance in the mirror once more, catching his eye.
There’s something new there. Almost possessive.
His grip on your waist tightens and he presses his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder.
Outside, snow begins to fall.
#aemond x fem!reader#aemond x reader#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#modern!aemond#modern!hotd#aemond targaryen x fem!reader#aemond targaryen x you#aemond x you#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen x y/n#aemond targaryen x female reader#modern!aemond x reader#modern!aemond targaryen#aemond/reader#aemond the kinslayer#aemond targaryen/reader#aemond fic#aemond targaryen fic#aemond smut#aemond targaryen smut
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Golden Pt. 3 - Weasley Twins x Reader
Hi guys! This is Part 3 of Golden! I did want to put a warning up here that this fic is 18+ (minors dni). There will be smut beneath the cut. You've been warned. ;)
Part One
Part Two
For a moment you didn't know where you were.
Your eyes focused on Fred's sleeping face. It was soft and you could almost see a slight smile pulling at his lips. You almost reached out to touch him before an arm wrapped around you from behind, pulling you against them.
Oh, you thought, the other Weasley. In his sleep, he wasn't nearly as much of an arsehole. He now held your body taught against his, enclosing you in with an arm tightly around your chest and stomach. Exactly where your mark hid under your chunky sweater.
You jump when his fingers drag from your waist to the hemline of your sweater. His fingers brush against your stomach before he works his slender digits higher, resting on the valley of your chest. Your heartbeat refuses to slow as George readjusts his body behind you, drawing you even closer. "And I thought you didn't want me to be your soulmate, princess," he whispers, mouth grazing your ear. "You're the one who pulled me over," you retorted, eyes locked on his twin who was sleeping only inches away from the two of you. "But you're the one with the racing heart." You didn't even need to see his face to know he was smirking. "You don't like it there, sweetheart? Where do you want it?" "Not in my shirt," you hissed. "Your brother is right bloody there."
He hummed behind you, his chest vibrating against you. His hand lowered from your shirt, onto the hem of your sweats. "This better, princess?" You gasped, but George's other hand flew to cover your mouth. Fred stirred slightly, but didn't wake. "You've got to be quiet now, or you'll wake up poor Freddie. Poor thing won't know what to think if he wakes up to you moaning my name."
His other hand slowly started wandering down. "And I'll stop if you want me to, of course," he added once he made it to the base of your hips. "But I don't think you want me to. Do you, darling?" After a moment, you shook your head. "Thought not," he smirked.
His hand traveled farther done and he gasped softly. "No knickers? You just knew one of us would end up inside of you, didn't you, princess?" Your cheeks burned under his hand and suddenly you felt very exposed, with Fred asleep beside you and his brother's hand down your sweats. You fidget within his grasp, which he promptly noticed. "Aw, don't get embarrassed now sweetheart." His fingers rub back and forth over your sex, getting you embarrassingly wet. "You can be embarrassed when you wake up your other soulmate."
Without warning, his fingers sunk into your cunt, masterfully curling to hit your most sensitive areas as they went in and out, all at a breakneck speed that left you breathless. His other hand pulled your face to the side, exposing your neck to him. Without slowing the speed of his fingers, he began leaving sloppy kisses up and down your neck, along with what you assumed would be a mess of hickeys. When his kisses turned into a sharp bite right below your ear, your breathless pants turned into actual moans, which he quickly silenced. His hand drew tighter over your mouth, nails digging crescents into your cheek.
"Fred's hands may never hurt you, but you'll be begging for mine to," he hissed, somehow quickening the speed of his fingers pumping into you. His words bring you right to the edge, a mess within his hands. "Getting close, sweetheart?" he asks, keenly aware that you're about to snap. You nod, vision starting to blur. He then repositions slightly, allowing his thumb to rub quick circles over your clit. You would have been writhing from the touch if you weren't within his clutch. It was becoming too much. The edges of your vision went back and goosebumps covered your skin. "Come for me, princess," he whispered in your ear. And then you were coming apart in his hands, cunt squeezing down on his fingers as you tried to force your legs together from the pleasure. You couldn't stop the moans that left your mouth, hopefully muffled by the hand still covering your mouth.
"'Atta girl," he whispered as you came down from your high. "That's a good girl." Your head was foggy from your orgasm and his words were not helping. You whined as he pulled out of you, leaving you empty. He was propped above you now, allowing you to look up at him. He slipped his fingers into his mouth, sucking them dry. "Mm," he moaned, before looking down at you. "I guess this'll be our little secret, right princess?"
***
Next in the series: Part Four, Part Five
Alright friends, above is my first attempt at smut ever. Hopefully it is not disgustingly awful or you may find this fic just gone. Love ya
taglist: @rk-ceres, @foji2000, @hazilyss, @f-e-222, @luthien-elvenia-asher (sorry some people wouldn't actually tag, but I promise I tried) <3
#harry potter imagine#george weasley imagine#fred weasley imagine#george weasley x reader#fred weasley x reader#weasley twins x reader#harry potter#hp imagine#fred weasley#hp#george weasley x reader x fred weasley#smut#weasley twins smut#fmm smut#mmf smut#george weasley smut#hp smut
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Call of the Black Dread
Fandom: House of Dragon
Summary: Haunted by the pull of a dragon long thought lost to history, you defy fear and tradition to claim Balerion the Black Dread, forging a bond that shakes the realm and asserts your place as a true heir to the Targaryen legacy.
Pairing: None
For as long as you could remember, you had felt it—a hum in your blood, a faint whisper in your dreams. It was not just the fire of the Targaryen bloodline coursing through your veins, but something deeper, older. It was a presence, a shadow that loomed large in your mind even as a child. You had never spoken of it, not even to Jacaerys, your twin, who shared almost everything with you.
It was the shadow of Balerion, the Black Dread.
Even as a child, you had wandered to the edges of the dragon pit on Driftmark, drawn by something you couldn’t name. You would stand there, staring into the cavernous darkness where no light dared linger, your small hands clutching the cold stone walls. Sometimes, you thought you heard a deep rumble, like the growl of the earth itself, though no one else seemed to notice. When you asked your father, he would only shake his head, saying, “Balerion is no longer for this world, my child. Let the Black Dread rest.”
But you knew better. Balerion might no longer answer to kings, but he was not gone. His fire still burned, deep within those shadows, waiting for someone bold—or foolish—enough to claim it.
The pull grew stronger as you aged, until it was no longer just a whisper but a call. You dreamed of obsidian wings cutting through the sky, of golden eyes boring into your soul. You would wake with your heart racing, your hands trembling as if they had been scorched by dragonfire.
But the chance to act on that pull never came—until the night of Laena Velaryon’s funeral.
The sea air was cold as you stood with Jacaerys near the cliffs, watching the waves crash against the rocks below. The night was heavy with grief, but something else stirred within you—a sense of unease, of something shifting in the air.
“Aemond has gone to claim Vhagar,” Jacaerys said suddenly, his voice tight with anger. His words jolted you, though they didn’t surprise you. Aemond had always been brash, desperate to prove himself worthy of the Targaryen name.
“Vhagar,” you murmured, your mind racing. You could already see it: Aemond, smug and triumphant, returning to Driftmark astride the largest dragon in the world. The thought made your blood boil.
And then, like a flame catching, the pull hit you again—stronger than ever. It was no longer a call but a command. You turned to Jacaerys, your eyes blazing. “Let him have Vhagar.”
Jace frowned, startled. “What are you saying?”
“There’s another dragon,” you said, your voice steady and sure. “A greater dragon. The one who has always called to me.”
His eyes widened in realization. “You don’t mean…”
“Balerion,” you said, your heart thundering in your chest. “He’s waiting for me, Jace. He always has been.”
The trek to the pit was one you knew by heart, though you had never dared enter. Tonight, you would.
Jacaerys followed you, though his face was pale with worry. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice low. “If this goes wrong—”
“It won’t,” you interrupted, your voice filled with a conviction that surprised even you. “Balerion has been waiting for me, Jace. I can feel it.”
As you descended into the darkness of the pit, the air grew thick and hot, the scent of sulfur filling your lungs. The walls seemed to close in around you, but you pressed forward, driven by the pull that had haunted you your entire life.
And then you saw him.
Balerion the Black Dread.
He was enormous, his massive form half-shrouded in shadow. His dark scales gleamed faintly in the dim light, and his eyes glowed like molten gold. He was not sleeping—he was watching. Waiting.
Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped closer, your every instinct screaming at you to run. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The pull was too strong.
“Balerion,” you whispered, your voice trembling but clear. “I am here.”
The great dragon let out a low rumble, the sound vibrating through the ground and up into your chest. Smoke curled from his nostrils, and his tail swished behind him, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
You took another step forward, your hand outstretched. “You have called to me my whole life,” you said, speaking in High Valyrian now. “I am Targaryen. Blood of the dragon. I am your rider.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then Balerion lowered his massive head, his golden eyes locking onto yours. You could feel the power in his gaze, the weight of centuries of fire and blood. Slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his warm scales.
A bond snapped into place, as if it had always been there, waiting for you to claim it.
When you climbed onto Balerion’s back, it was like stepping into a dream. His wings unfurled, their shadow swallowing the pit, and with a mighty roar, he launched into the sky. The wind whipped against your face as you soared higher and higher, the world below shrinking into insignificance.
The stars seemed closer now, the air electric with the power of the Black Dread beneath you. You had always felt the pull, and now you knew why. You were not just a Targaryen. You were his rider.
As you circled back toward the cliffs, you saw Vhagar take to the skies with Aemond astride her. His laughter echoed across the night, but it faltered when he saw you. Balerion’s roar drowned out all other sounds, a deafening proclamation of his return.
Aemond’s face twisted with shock and fear as he realized what had happened. He might have claimed Vhagar, but you had claimed something far greater.
When you landed back on Driftmark, Jacaerys ran to meet you, his face alight with awe. “You did it,” he breathed. “Balerion…”
“Balerion and I,” you corrected, your voice steady but filled with quiet triumph. “We are one now.”
The news of that night spread quickly, shaking the foundations of the realm. Aemond had claimed Vhagar, but you had brought the Black Dread back into the skies.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
Please support my work with like and comment
#jacaerys velaryon x reader#jacaerys targaryen x reader#jacaerys targaryen#jacaerys velaryon#asoiaf#house of the dragon#a song of ice and fire#hotd#asoiaf fanfic#hotd fanfic
244 notes
·
View notes
Text
message in a bottle ౨ৎ theodore nott
pairing theodore nott x fem!slytherin!reader genre fluff | 1.8k words | friends/fwb to lovers warnings mentions of drinking alcohol, use of y/n song "message in a bottle" — red (taylor's version), taylor swift
YOU WOKE UP IN THEODORE NOTT'S BED, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains of his dorm room. His room was a comfortable mess, with books and clothes scattered around, and the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air.
You sat up stretching, feeling the warmth of the blanket cocooned around you, and glanced at Theodore, who was still half-asleep beside you.
"Y/n, come on, stay a bit longer," Theo mumbled, his voice husky with sleep as he reached out to pull you back into the warmth of the bed. His eyes, heavy with sleep, pleaded with you to stay.
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "I can't, Theo. It's Sunday so I need to complete my Transfiguration paper."
He groaned, rubbing his eyes as he sat up, his messy hair adding to his disheveled charm. "You always leave early in the morning. Can't you take one day off and cuddle?"
Your heart fluttered at the thought of spending the day wrapped in Theo's arms, but you knew you couldn't afford to slack off. "I wish I could," you replied, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and standing up. "But if I don't finish this paper, McGonagall will have my head."
Theo smirked, watching you as you searched for your shoes amidst the clutter of his room. "You know, most people would kill for an excuse to stay in bed longer. Especially with me."
You rolled your eyes playfully, finally finding your shoes and slipping them on. "Nice try, Nott."
He sighed dramatically, leaning back against his pillows, the morning sunlight casting a golden glow on his features. "Fine. But you're going to Draco's dorm to hang out later, right?"
You smiled, grabbing your robe and heading towards the door. "Of course. I'll see you later, Theo. Try not to miss me too much."
He laughed, throwing a pillow in your direction as you left his room. The cool air of the dungeon corridors greeted you as you made your way back to your own dorm, a contented smile lingering on your lips.
Later that night, all of your friends decided to drink, but after running out of alcohol, you and Mattheo offered to go get some more. Thankfully, the Weasley twins owed you a favor, and they had some leftover liquor from the last Gryffindor party.
Although both of you were tipsy, making the entire journey humorous, you were sober enough to navigate the dark corridors.
"Matt, stop, you're going to wake up the entire floor!" you shushed Mattheo’s laughter as you walked up the stairs to the dorms.
“All right, all right,” Mattheo whispered back, his voice still carrying a hint of amusement. He was holding the crate full of bottles, which were making noises with every lousy step.
As you approached Draco’s dorm, you slowed your steps, Mattheo following suit. The low murmur of voices from inside caught your attention.
“What do you think they're talking about?” you whispered to Mattheo.
Mattheo's eyes gleamed mischievously. “Let's find out.”
You nodded, turning Draco's door knob quietly to open the door. When the door had a small crack, you both inched closer to the hole, trying to listen in without being noticed.
“So, when are you confessing to Y/n?” Blaise's voice rang out, breaking the quietude of the hallway.
“I’m tired of listening to how you're going to ask her out, then never have the guts to actually do it,” Blaise continued, his tone laced with amusement.
The mention of your name made you hold your breath and you felt Mattheo tense from beside you. In your best friend's head, you weren't supposed to find out this way.
“I agree with Blaise,” Lorenzo chimed in. “Just go on and ask her out already.”
Then came Pansy's voice, her tone teasing. “I can't believe you've fallen for your friends with benefits.”
Theodore Nott likes you?
"I heard Diggory is planning on asking her out this week. If you're serious about her, you should make a move before him."
Theodore sat in silence at Draco's comment, the gears in your head turning like clockwork.
You stole a glance at Mattheo, the new information soaking in. He smirked at your clueless face before he stood up straightening his back and had you do the same.
“We’re back with more bottles! Who’s ready to drink more?” Mattheo walked inside the dorm to set the crate down.
You felt yourself sobering up as you stood by the door, still taken back at the new information. Eventually, you stepped in, closing the door behind you, the open spot next to Theodore reserved for you.
When you sat in your old seat, Theodore’s arm snaked around your waist, placing his head on your shoulder. He placed his hand on your thigh, joining in the new topic that your friends were discussing.
The night continued as if nothing had changed, but the knowledge of Theodore's feelings weighed heavily on your mind.
You laughed along with your friends and enjoyed the drinks but you couldn't help calculate to all of Theodore’s touch, as it felt more meaningful.
The next day, you woke up with a knot of nerves in your stomach. You had Potions class with Mattheo, and you were determined to ask him for confirmation about Theodore. You’d had a crush on Theo for years, and the uncertainty was driving you crazy.
As you walked to the dungeons, you noticed the familiar hustle and bustle of students making their way to class. The cool air and the stone walls of Hogwarts offered little comfort as you navigated through the corridors, your thoughts consumed by the conversation from last night.
When you entered the classroom, you spotted Mattheo setting up your workstation. He glanced up and offered you a small smile, but you could tell that he sensed something was bothering you.
Professor Snape swept into the room, his presence commanding attention. "Today, you will be brewing Veritaserum," he announced, his voice cutting through the quiet chatter of the students.
After a brief reminder of when the potion was due, the classroom erupted into activity as students gathered ingredients and prepared their cauldrons.
You and Mattheo worked side by side, but your mind was elsewhere, the events from last night playing on a loop in your head.
About halfway through the class, as you waited for a potion to simmer, the room filled with the low hum of conversations. Seizing the opportunity, you turned to Mattheo, the anticipation of the previous night's revelations still weighing heavily on your mind.
"Matt," you began quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling heavy on your tongue. You glanced around to make sure no one else was listening, the tension palpable in the air.
"What's up, Y/n?" Mattheo replied, his voice barely audible over the gentle bubbling of the cauldrons. He looked at you expectantly, his eyes filled with curiosity.
"Last night, when we overheard the conversation in Draco's dorm... about Theo," you said, the words tumbling out in a rush, the weight of the revelation pressing down on you.
Mattheo's face softened, a knowing look in his eyes as he nodded in understanding. "Yeah, it's true. Theo's fancied you for a while now. You weren’t supposed to find out that way, he’s been wanting to confess. He just hasn't had the guts to say anything."
You sighed in relief and frustration, the words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. "I really like him too, but I don't know what to do. I feel like I'm just waiting for him to make a move but it’ll take forever."
Mattheo smiled sympathetically, his expression filled with understanding. "Sometimes, you just have to be patient. Theo will come around. He's just... not good at expressing his feelings."
His words offered some comfort and you forced yourself to focus on the potion in front of you, but your mind was still consumed by thoughts of Theodore.
After classes finished, you were sitting by the Black Lake, enjoying the warm weather and the rare moment of peace. The sky was clear, and the gentle breeze made the day perfect for a relaxing break.
You noticed Cedric Diggory standing nearby, looking like he wanted to approach you. He caught your eye and walked over with a friendly smile.
"Hey, Y/n," he greeted, standing beside you. "I've been meaning to ask you something." You smiled back, though your mind instantly recalled Draco's words the other night
"What's up, Cedric?"
"Well," Cedric began, rubbing the back of his neck, "I was wondering if you'd like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?"
From a distance, Theodore saw you talking to Cedric. His heart sank as he saw Cedric leaning in, seemingly asking you something important.
He couldn't hear the conversation, but he could see the serious expressions on both of your faces. Panic surged through him as he rushed over, hoping it wasn’t too late.
Theodore left Pansy and Draco's side, their faces confused at his sudden departure. It was when they saw that you were with Cedric, that the two smirked with knowing looks.
As Theodore got closer, Cedric smiled at you one last time before walking away, leaving you alone. Theodore reached you just as Cedric was disappearing from view.
"Y/n," Theo said, slightly out of breath, "Can I talk to you for a second?" You looked up at him, your heart skipping a beat.
"Of course, Theo." He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. "I saw you talking to Cedric, and I don't know if I'm too late but I need to tell you something. I’ve fancied you for a long time, and I’ve been too scared to say anything. I know we're already seeing each other for other reasons, but I fell for you hard."
You couldn’t help but laugh softly, causing Theo to look at you in confusion.
"What's so funny?" You shook your head, a smile playing on your lips.
"Theo, I overheard everything last night. I know that you like me. And just now, when Cedric asked me out, I told him I fancied someone else."
Theodore’s eyes widened in surprise. "You did? Who?" You took a step closer, your eyes meeting his with a warmth that made his heart race.
"It’s you, Theo. I’ve been waiting for you to finally ask me out." A look of relief and joy spread across Theodore’s face.
"Really? You like me?" You nodded, smiling up at him.
"Yes, really." He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding.
"So, how about we make this the start of something new? No more friends with benefits, but an actual relationship?" You squeezed his hands, feeling the warmth and sincerity in his words.
"I’d like that very much." As you both sat down by the lake, hand in hand, you realized that the waiting was over.
Your message has been received.
#harry potter#slytherin#slytherin boys#theodore nott#slytherin x reader#slytherin fanfic#slytherin fanfiction#slytherin imagine#slytherin fluff#slytherin boys fanfiction#slytherin boys x slytherin reader#slytherin boys fluff#slytherin boys imagine#slytherin boys oneshot#slytherin boys oneshots#slytherin boys scenarios#theo nott#theodore nott fanfiction#theodore nott imagine#theodore nott scenarios#theodore nott scenario#theodore nott oneshot#theodore nott oneshots#theodore nott x reader#theodore nott fluff#theodore nott x y/n#theodore nott x you#theo nott fanfiction#theo nott imagines#theo nott oneshot
856 notes
·
View notes
Text
Characters of the day:
The Jordan Family!!!!!!
Most underrated and funniest family in all of DC.
They have the most relatable and hilarious family dynamics ever.
It is honestly funny whenever people HC or imagine that Hal is a loner, only child guy who clings onto the bat family or others too seek closeness when he has a whole family with multiple nieces, nephews and a cousin that adore him.
Neeeeeeed a family sitcom about them asapppp
We will talk about a couple members of the family and give our facts and HC’s about them:
(I included Helen in a different post, so check that out if you want to see her)
Jack Jordan:
The oldest child of Jessica and Martin Jordan, the brother of Hal Jordan (Green Lantern).
Often seen as the “golden child”, he was the most successful in terms of employment and economically.
Jack Jordan married a woman called Janice and had Two kids called Jason and Helen.
Canonically used to cheat on his wife with many people.
Took a lot of stress out on Hal when Jessica got sick.
Some HCs:
The kids all know the names of the women that he cheats on Janice with, they make a Bingo card with all their names on it, and compete with each other to see who wins.
Calls Hal, Jim and vice versa
Janice is in denial about the whole ordeal.
Jason Jordan
Son of Jack Jordan and Janice Jordan, twin brother of Helen II Jordan and the nephew of Hal Jordan.
Protective of his sister, and loves his uncle Hal.
Some HC’s
He listens to instrumental music a lot
Pretends to like phonk since his friends do, but can’t get into it.
He makes a lot of Pinterest boards for the things he likes and uses it as a bucket list for inspiration.
Sends Hal airforce memes and any references to Green Lantern at all.
Him, as well as Jane are the ones who update him on internet trends he misses.
James Jordan (Jim Jordan)
Youngest son of Jessica and Martin, younger brother of Hal and Jack.
Husband of Sue Jordan and father of Howie, Jane and Arthur.
His wife (who is a journalist) married him because she thought he was Green Lantern, later found out it was actually Hal and … yea….
Hal’s most supportive brother.
Some HCs:
Knowing that his wife thought he was Green lantern still keeps him up at night .
He tried to become a vegetarian once and then accidentally ate something that had meat within it the following day(he cried ).
He plays candy crush.
Howard (Howie) Jordan:
Eldest son of Jim Jordan and Sue Jordan
Brother of Jane and Arthur
He is quite a smart kid, often pointing things out that even Hal doesn’t notice, and speaking his mind when he feels like it.
Some HC’s:
Howie pretends to be a superhero whenever he is alone in his room.
He always wears the colour green when Hal comes round.
He was the class president in his high school
He can name all the dinosaurs and spell them out correctly ( idk i just think he likes dinosaurs a lot).
Jane Jordan:
Is the daughter of Jim and Jane
Sister of Howie and Arthur
Used to have quite long hair, but cut it quite short
Some HCs
She is definitely the rebellious type .
Asks Hal the come to all her parents evenings.
She loves the young justice group.
She once has split dye hair (Green and pink iykyk).
She probably had a Ben 10/danny phantom phase.
Arthur Jordan:
Youngest child of Jim and Jane
Literally a baby
Soooo cute
Some HCs:
He watches coco melon.
iPad and YouTube kids enjoyer most likely says “Skibidi” .
Makes aeroplane noises when Hal comes over.
He knows everything and hears everything NO ONE IS SAFE.
Harold (Hal) Jordan Jr:
The son of Larry and Helen I
The cousin of Jack, Hal and Jim
He is the third Airwave and has “radio powers”, his dad and mum were the first and second. He inherited these powers from his dad.
Is implied to be queer.
Some HCs:
He sucks at mortal combat .
He always tries to help out and keep everything sane.
He tried to do a back flip once for the first time it went terribly and Helen (his mum) instead of taking him to the hospital she phoned Hal.
Doug “Hip” Jordan:
The no-good distant cousin of Hal and his family.
Runs around in a lot of gang circles, and tried selling Jim in a green lantern circle to a gang in an attempt to get into it.
Hal got him arrested.
Drugged the whole family and used the kids to help him do it.
Known as the black sheep of the family.
Some HC:
He is always spotted at the wrong times when someone is either hurt or fighting.
He sold John Constantine a vape.
He tries to use Morden day slang to fit in with the kids .
He uses the term “Where my hug at” to anyone that approaches him.
#hal jordan#dc comics#john constantine#green lantern#helen jordan#family#characterofthedayfxk#comics#batman#flash dc#barry allen#halbarry#if you know you know#jack jordan#jim jordan#carol ferris
192 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mr. Know It All
Pairing: Taehyun x Reader
Summary: When you finally find yourself sleeping over at Taehyun’s dorm, you start to wonder if you and him could ever be something more serious.
Tropes: friends with benefits, mutual pining, angst, fluff, college AU, tutor!taehyun
Word Count: 1.2k
Warnings: mentions of sex (mdni), LOTS of overthinking
A/N: This is unedited and I wrote it all in one go lol <3
"And the songbirds are singing Like they know the score And I love you, I love you, I love you Like never before" —Songbird, Fleetwood Mac
Taehyun doesn’t know how to tell you that things aren't and never have been casual between the two of you.
It started one rainy afternoon after a study session in the library. The two of you had run through the deluge into the safety of his dorm room, and when he peeled off his wet clothes to change, you didn’t look away.
So, one semester later, right after you’ve finished moaning his name, he struggles to find the words to ask you to stay the night.
He hates watching you gather up your things and leave, refusing to be held by him for even a moment after both of you have finished what you came here for.
“Y/N,” he manages to get out, his voice barely above a whisper. You turn away from the door, your hair still messy, eyeliner smudged. “It’s raining.”
It’s code for “I love you. Please don’t leave.”
“Right,” you say, glancing out the window. Lightning flashes throughout the small dorm, with the crash of thunder following shortly after. Only a fool would leave in this weather. “I don’t have an umbrella.”
“You can stay,” Taehyun says, patting the bed beside him. You nod, crossing over and settling under the warm blanket. Despite how often you’re here in this position, it’s never under these circumstances.
“It seems like the rain is always bringing us together,” you laugh. You’re careful not to say anything loud enough for his roommate to hear through the walls, although in retrospect, you’ve never considered your volume when in bed with Taehyun before.
It’s awkward. Before any of this started, he was just the guy who helped you out with your math problem sets. Add in the perfect distraction from actually sitting down and having a conversation with each other, and you barely knew anything about him.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he offers, already sliding off of the twin sized mattress with a pillow in his arms. “I don’t want to bother you.”
You note how between sleeping next to you and on the floor, he’s decided that the latter is more bearable.
Usually, the two of you are in perfect sync. He knows how to please you better than any other guy you’ve been with, making sure to do things the exact way that you like. Sometimes, you worry that he doesn’t think the same of you.
Are there other girls? You don’t see him as often as you’d like to, but maybe he’s just busy with other things. Kang Taehyun, the chronic overachiever and golden boy of SNU. What would he even want with a girl like you?
Surely, he spends all of his free time studying and going to band practice, you tell yourself.
At this point, your racing thoughts are never going to let you fall asleep.
“Taehyun,” you say, hoping you aren’t waking him up. You haven’t taken your eyes off the ceiling since he moved to the floor, half out of guilt that he’s even down there, and half worried you’ll catch yourself staring at him while he sleeps.
“Yeah?” he answers, his voice low. You wonder what it sounds like when he sings with his band. Maybe, if he asks you to, you’ll go to one of his concerts soon.
You hesitate, wondering whether or not he’ll say yes. “Can you come back up here?”
When you hear him gather his things and stand up, you finally let out the breath that you've been holding. Within seconds, he’s climbing in next to you, his body warm and strong.
“Are you cold?” he asks, pulling the covers up over your collarbone. “Sorry. I think the heater is broken and I haven’t had time to call maintenance.”
“Yeah, it’s a little chilly,” you confirm, although the temperature is fine. In fact, it might even be a little too hot.
“I can, uh,” Taehyun starts. You’ve never heard him stutter before. “I can hold you, if you want. That might help.”
“That would be nice,” you say, mentally cringing at how formal the exchange is. He positions himself behind you, snaking his arm around your waist and pressing his chest against your back.
“Is this better?” he asks, his voice still shaky. You worry that this level of intimacy is making him uncomfortable, but he nestles his head over your shoulder in a way that makes you finally stop overthinking. Maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way you do.
“Yes,” is all you manage to squeak out. He lets out a quiet laugh in relief before pressing a kiss into your shoulder blade. The small gesture sends a shockwave through your body.
“You’re cute,” he says, snuggling into you further. Is this really what things would be like if you didn’t run away after every hook up? It seems like second nature to him, making you question whether it actually means anything.
Still, he doesn’t bother to touch you now like he’s always dying to after you show up to class in a short skirt or send him a risky text when you know he’s running office hours.
“I can hear you thinking,” he mutters, startling you. You break away from his grasp to turn and face him, his piercing eyes already fixed on you. “Is something wrong, Y/N?”
“No,” you attempt to lie, although your face says otherwise. Taehyun feels you stiffen in his arms, your gaze locked on his.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he concedes, his voice icy and monotone. “But I know something is wrong.”
How could he know that? What could Taehyun possibly know about you besides what you look like with your clothes off?
When he first got assigned to tutor you, he had scolded you for being late, and again for being unorganized. If you don’t open up to him now, he might actually revert to the same cold demeanor as before.
Even worse, he might stop meeting up with you. With the school year ending next month, you’ll have no excuse to see each other anymore. The thought of being alone again brings you to tears.
Taehyun’s expression softens at the sight of you breaking down. “I’m sorry,” you cry, burying your face into his chest. His hand reaches up to stroke your hair, the other gently rubbing your back. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight.”
“I do,” he sighs. You pull back just enough to look up at him through teary eyes. “I pushed things between us too far. I should’ve known that you wanted to keep things casual. I’m sorry, Y/N.”
You stare at him, awestruck at how wrong he is. You want nothing more than to know anything and everything about him.
Still, when you search for the right words to explain this, your brain draws a blank. The only thing you can do is cup his face and kiss him, your nerves finally settling when he melts into you.
You’ve kissed him hundreds of times by now, but this one feels like the first time.
It feels like forever before he pulls away from you, a wide grin on his face. “Please, please, please let me take you out to dinner.”
“Okay,” you smile back, unable to contain your giddiness. “I’d like that very much.”
“Tomorrow night?” he proposes. His eagerness makes you giggle. He might be the busiest person on campus, but he’ll clear his entire schedule if it means he gets to spend time with you.
“Sure,” you agree. “It’s a date. If we ever manage to get out of bed, that is.”
Taehyun laughs a little before pulling you into another kiss. By now, the rain has stopped, but you aren’t going anywhere.
—————-
Taglist: @orangesodafoam @deezbutz28 @ur-mother-realnotclickbait @iyeeeverydee @internet-folks @darlingz99 @foxyjun @stardustmooncakes @giaalorine @beomgyubabybear @niningtori @goquokka @csbenthusiast @moarmyjkhk @lizdevorak @sooberryworld @lonelybutterflytae @midnight-mochii @theresawtf @nowadays56 @jjklvr9 @baekberrie
P.S.: Please shoot me an ask or a reply if you’d like to be added to (or removed from) the taglist! Also, I struggle to keep up with different lists for individual members, but if you really don't want to be tagged on all of my works, just let me know and I will do my best to make a note <3
#txt#tomorrow x together#txt imagines#txt fic#txt x reader#taehyun x reader#taehyun#kang taehyun#txt taehyun#taehyun fluff#taehyun smut#taehyun angst#txt fluff#txt angst#txt smut#taehyun imagines
550 notes
·
View notes
Text
Restoration AU: Jon I
Previous part, Ned I, here.
x~x~x
Jon knew where Robb would go next, and that his presence would be more unwelcome than ever, so it was the solitude of the godswood he sought instead. Better than roaming the castle halls or grounds, where he could already feel stares following him, and hear whispers falling to silence in his wake. Theon’s handiwork, no doubt.
Brothers. Jon stared into the dark pool at the base of the heart tree, feeling as though he might wake up from a dream at any moment. He had always longed to know more about his mother, and it was plain as day that those boys were kin. With the other Jon—my name, why would she give him the same name?—it had been like staring into a mirror. They looked even more alike to him than Arya, which surely meant they shared a mother too.
Why is she not here with them?
Jon burned with questions. He had been since Jory had helped the boys up onto the horses, the one named Jon with the captain, and the other with Robb. The choice had felt deliberate on Jory’s part, as deliberate as their return by the Hunter’s Gate, bearing further shame for Lord Stark.
Had he loved his mother, then? Jon knew that it did not take love to sire children, that base lust would suffice, but his father was no Theon. If he had gone back to her, that meant he had missed her.
He took me from her, but not my brothers. Had he known about them? There had been a wide-eyed recognition in his father’s eyes when he beheld them, but Jon did not know if that was because he had not expected them, or because he had not known of their birth.
They had been abandoned in the wolfswood, too, at risk of freezing in the cold. Two children who could not be older than Arya.
She is dead. Jon knew it in his heart. If she had kept his little brothers for this long without telling his father, then she would not have easily parted with them, and certainly not in such a way as to endanger them. She is dead and I will never know her.
But his brothers had, and he could not help the ache of jealousy in his heart. They had not known their father, he reminded himself. Each of them had grown up half-orphaned, mistrusted for their very nature.
And it was plain to see that they had grown up in a lord’s household as well. Their dress was fine, and they had been comfortable speaking to Robb. Despite their shivering, they had walked confidently through the halls of Winterfell. That sense of belonging was not one that a baseborn bastard would possess.
Had she been highborn herself then? There was so much he longed to ask his father, questions he had not dared before. If he will answer, even now.
Motion flickered in the periphery of his vision, and he turned his head to see his father approaching as though summoned by his thoughts. His little brothers were at his side, and they had been changed into warmer clothing that Jon recognized as belonging to him and Robb when they were younger.
I looked like that once, he thought as he watched the other Jon. There would be no confusing his other brother, Raymar, for Robb of course. Their mother must have had uncommonly fair hair, more silver than golden. It was a color Jon had not seen in the north. The closest he could recall was a blond-haired whore who Theon had favored for a time, and the memory of it brought a clench to his stomach. He could already hear Theon’s voice drawing the comparison.
“Jon,” his father called in quiet greeting once they had reached him. His face, which could be by turns stern or gentle, was neither. It was almost uneasy, as it had been when they had come upon Ghost’s mother, dead in the snow.
“Which one?” Jon asked.
His counterpart did not react to the bite in his question, though their father grimaced. “I am Willam now.”
Lord Stark put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders. “These are your twin brothers, Willam and Raymar.” He glanced down at the boys, taking in a breath. “And this is your brother Jon.”
Jon had stolen sidelong glances at the boys on their way to his father’s solar. Now that they were right before him, no longer shivering with cold, he took his time in study. He and the other Jon—Willam—were not exactly alike, he could see now. His own face was slightly longer, his hair and eyes a shade darker. There were subtle differences in the shape of their eyes and mouth, though they were close enough that Jon felt like he was looking into a mirror some five years before.
He could easily see himself in Raymar as well, though his coloring made the differences more dramatic, the boy’s eyes a striking purple. Jon struggled to find their father in him, however. He must favor our mother, the way Robb does Lady Stark. Jon had been teased before for his own locks, which he wore longer than Robb’s or Theon’s, but Raymar’s were far longer, giving him an exotic look that did not match his name.
Both children were subdued, as though numbed by the shock of the day’s events, and there was a tension to either of grief held in check. Jon, who had been ready to demand answers of their father, felt some of his hurt-fueled anger falter.
They had been alone, abandoned, their lives upended. Winterfell was at least Jon’s home, and the Starks his family. But to his little brothers, they were all strangers. Jon tried to imagine someone setting Bran or Arya loose to wander alone in a cold summer snow, far from home, and his blood flared hot.
“Hello,” Jon said, softening his voice. “I am glad to meet you.”
Willam approached first, gaze solemn with understanding, and Jon hugged him. His brother did not relax, though he returned the hug. Raymar was next, his violet eyes taking in Jon’s features with the same intensity as his own study, shifting between him and Willam. His upset seemed to grow, and Jon could feel the shake of it in his limbs as Jon pulled him into an embrace.
I have true brothers and I never knew. But on the heels of that anger came guilt. Robb is no less my brother, nor are any of my siblings.
“What happened?” Jon asked, meeting his father’s gaze. “Why were they abandoned in the snow? Where is—”
Where is our mother?
“Come,” Lord Stark said. “Such matters must be discussed in the privacy of my solar.”
Jon felt his eyes narrow. “First I would have you stand before the heart tree and tell me of my mother.”
Lord Stark’s discomfort seemed to grow, only confirming Jon’s suspicions. He wishes to continue to withhold the truth.
It was Willam who spoke, moving to press his hand against the weeping face of the weirwood tree. “Our mother’s name was Rhea. She died two years ago.”
Jon had been expecting it, but still the blow caught him in the chest. Rhea. He knew his mother’s name at last, and she was dead. He could not help the sagging of his shoulders, or the sudden ache of his throat.
“Did you love her?”
His question was for his father, who stepped before the tree as well, his sorrow plain as he placed his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “I loved your mother, yes.”
Jon had dreamt of hearing his father say those words for most of his life, but they left him hollow now. He had been a product of love, born of a woman his father had perhaps wished he could marry instead, and yet it did not matter. She was dead, and the legacy she had left was one of regret.
“Come,” Lord Stark repeated, hand squeezing his shoulder.
The stares were even worse in Lord Stark’s presence, his father’s face a stony mask as he led his three bastard sons through the halls of Winterfell and into his solar. Jon sat down by the hearth, half-numb, while his brothers settled on the couch. He should have sat with them; they looked overwhelmed, but he could not bring himself to.
“Who was she?” he asked, knowing that he should be asking what had happened to his brothers instead. “What was her house?”
His father had chosen to stand by the fire, his back to it, shrouding his face in shadow, but it could not hide the tension in his frame at the question. Even now, with her two years dead, he does not wish to speak of her. Perhaps it was love or guilt or grief—or perhaps it was regret that the evidence of greater dishonor still had come knocking upon his door.
“Her family was from Lys,” Raymar said, answering the question instead. “House Perzane. We grew up in Gulltown, but were sent to live with kin there, after her death.”
House Perzane. Jon did not know much about the houses of the Free City of Lys, but it explained both Raymar’s odd coloring and the twins’ noble upbringing. He had never considered that his mother might not even be of the Seven Kingdoms.
“What did she look like?” Jon asked.
Raymar’s gaze dropped. “Me,” he said, his voice small. “She looked like me.”
And now he was surrounded by kin who looked nothing like her. Willam reached for his brother’s hand, but he snatched it away, angling away from his twin. Jon leveled a look at their father, whose fists had clenched but otherwise made no move to comfort his own child.
Jon stood then and joined them on the couch, squeezing in next to Raymar to gather him in for a hug. “I am sorry,” he told the boy. “I wish I had known her.”
“They were taken from their mother’s kin,” Lord Stark said stiffly. “I assume their abductors had learned of their relation to me and sought ransom.”
Or perhaps blackmail, Jon thought cynically. How much would Lord Stark have paid to keep their existence a secret, had they not been found wandering alone?
“How did you come to be on the edge of the wolfswood?” Jon asked, turning to the twins.
“Jon—Willam stabbed that man who took us,” Raymar said, still staring into his own lap. “We ran into the wood.”
“We were close,” Willam added. “We could see smoke from the castle rising into the sky.”
Jon wondered what their captor’s plan had been. To march them directly to the gates of Winterfell? Perhaps he had thought that Lord Stark would want his bastard sons, since he had taken Jon in as a babe, and had instead sought a reward.
“He did not hurt you, did he?” Jon asked, looking them over for signs of injury.
They shook their heads in unison, and it was his father who spoke. “They were dosed with dreamwine to keep them docile.”
A wise measure, given that little Willam had managed to wound their captor gravely enough for them to escape. “Has their captor been found?”
“I have sent men in search,” Lord Stark said grimly. “If he yet lives, I doubt he will come here.”
Jon frowned at the thought of the man escaping. “Let me join them.”
“No. Your brothers will need your strength.”
His meaning was plain. “You spoke with Lady Stark.”
His father grimaced. “I have not. Once your brothers are settled, I shall go to her.”
Who will she hate more? The bastard she knows, or the two that are proof that she comes second in his heart? Jon looked down at the dark and light-haired heads of his brothers, feeling a surge of pity. They do not deserve her scorn.
“Take them to your chamber,” his father continued. “They will stay with you for now.”
For now. “Do you mean to be rid of them?” Jon demanded.
“No,” Lord Stark said with a quiet sigh. His gaze swept the three of them, and Jon caught another glimpse of that unease. He is worried. Did he fear reprisal from House Tully? Unrest amongst his bannermen? Jon was unsure why. He would hardly be the first lord to sire three bastards. “You do not shame me, Jon, nor do they. The shame is mine alone.”
Only it wasn’t. A lord was untouchable to most, above jeers and japes. A lord’s bastard sons, however, were not. And it was not Lord Stark who had borne Lady Stark’s jealousy.
“When do you mean to introduce them to the rest of their siblings?”
Jon had shied away from thinking about them, especially Robb and Sansa. Robb had always admired their father, and held him as a man of upstanding character. It had been easy for his brother to dismiss his infidelity before as a young husband at war who had not yet had enough time with his new wife. He had not blamed Jon, but now—
And Sansa had never viewed Jon with particular kindness, preferring to keep a distance. It did not bother him too greatly these days, since she was just a girl while Jon was near a man, but his little brothers would not have the same armor if they had grown up with their mother’s family.
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” his father said after a long moment in thought. “I need to speak with their mother first. It would be best if you took supper with your brothers in your chamber tonight.”
Jon smiled without humor. “But we do not shame you, of course.”
“Jon—”
“I will take them there,” Jon interrupted, not caring that their father looked sad and tired. He sprang to his feet, and held out a hand to his newfound brothers, forcing warmth into his smile. “Come along.”
x~x~x
They did not go directly to Jon’s chamber. He did not care if it was a bad idea to venture out, there was one thing capable of cheering him and comforting young boys, and he was currently nursing in the kennels, which were at least mostly out of the way of any would-be gawkers.
“Wait out here,” Jon bade them before slipping into the building.
Ghost was curled up next to his direwolf littermates, as well as their adoptive hound siblings, dozing lightly. He wriggled with excitement as Jon picked him up and tucked him into his shirt, and his smile felt like his first true one since finding the twins shivering in the snow.
It instantly faded as he stepped out to find Theon outside the kennels, leaning on the fence as he looked the twins over.
“I heard we had some fresh snow,” Theon said with a smirk. “I did not take the honorable Lord Stark for a man who would keep a mistress. Some pretty thing from Lys, maybe, with a bush as white as her hair.” He thrust a hand out, ruffling Raymar’s hair for a second before the boy ducked out of his reach. “Where did he find the time?”
“It must have been when he was on the way to crush the Greyjoy Rebellion,” Willam said, his voice cold as ice. “He made quite a few widows there before your father begged for peace.”
Theon’s mirth disappeared, hand twitching at his side as though he wished to cuff the boy, and Jon immediately stepped between them, fists balling. He was hungry for a fight, and he did not care that Theon was larger and close to full-grown. “Try it, Greyjoy.”
His father’s ward backed down after a moment. “They’re as mouthy as you, Snow. You would do well to teach them what a bastard’s place is in the world.”
With that, Theon shoved off, disappearing through the gate into the castle’s courtyard. Jon took a few breaths to reclaim his composure, not wanting to walk into the yard looking upset. Willam was glaring after Theon with a dark fury that surprised him, leaving him to wonder if bastards were treated differently in Lys. Perhaps it was more like Dorne, where it was said a man’s bastards were held as equal to his trueborn children.
The quiet shock that had yet to leave Raymar seemed to tell a similar story. Jon put a hand on his back. “Let’s go.”
Jon did not relax until they had successfully navigated the halls without running into Lady Stark. He did not want his little brothers to face her venom just yet, not without warning. Once they were safely in his chamber, he dragged his chair from the hearth over to his bed, and gestured for his brothers to take the bed.
“Here,” Jon said. He reached into his shirt and withdrew a sleepy Ghost, setting him gently on the bed between them. “This is Ghost.”
Their eyes went wide, both children extending a hand to the direwolf pup, which he happily nosed and then licked. But before Jon could feel any triumph at managing to comfort them, he realized that Willam was crying. He could tell the boy was trying to hold it in, but the bed practically shook under the force of his quiet sobs.
“It’s all right,” Jon assured him, though the words felt empty.
His brother’s tears seemed to unleash a similar flood in Raymar, and Jon was faced with two silently crying children on his bed, their pain reaching deep into Jon as well. There was something hauntingly familiar about strangling the hurt until you choked, knowing that it was not your place to burden others with it.
If their birth came from the Greyjoy Rebellion, they cannot be older than Bran. They looked closer to Arya’s age, but it was said that bastards grew faster than trueborn sons. Jon abandoned his chair, clambering up onto the bed with them to pull them into a hug, one in each arm. Just because he had been alone with his pain in this room, it did not mean they need be.
“I want to go home,” Raymar said, the words half-mumbled into Jon’s chest.
“All will be well,” Jon promised. “I will look after you, and so will Ghost.”
He helped them out of their boots and their borrowed cloaks, noting their exhaustion through the tears, and tucked them in beneath the furs of his bed. Ghost licked worriedly at their faces, until the heartbreak on Willam’s face turned to a tremulous smile, his fingers burying into the pup’s fur with each stroke.
“Take some rest with Ghost,” Jon said. “I will wake you when it is supper, and I can tell you all about Winterfell.”
135 notes
·
View notes
Text
Boyfriend // Jasper W. Hale.
Jasper Whitlock-Hale x male!reader.
A/N: Just wanted to write the Cullen's being a family and Jasper being a ranging homosexual.
Summary: Jasper likes a booooyyyyyy uuuuhhh~
Fluff. Blood drinking (animal).
Esme was in the kitchen, making some food for Bella now that the girl comes for dinner almost everyday. The mother of the household saw a particular blonde coming downstairs with a smile on his face and fingers texting rapidly.
Esme smirked, she was filled with curiousity, Jasper rarely leaves his room and rarely smiles, no, he doesn't smile at all.
"Where are you going, hun?" The woman asked, the blonde stopped on his tracks and his smile has now faded but maintain a polite smirk that seems only reserved for any women that holds authority over him.
"Just goin' for a walk, ma'am." He spoke softly, Emmet from the couch laughed, the mother arched an eyebrow and Jasper narrowed his eyes at his brother.
"He's going to see his boyfriend!" Emmet shouted from the living room, a laugh coming from Edward followed.
"He's not my boyfriend." Jasper rolled his eyes and meet his "mother's" teasing smirk.
"Yet." Alice chimed in with a smile.
"Go ahead, Jasper. Tell Esme who is not your boyfriend." Rosalie spoke after Alice with a playful smirk. Jasper furrowed his eyebrows to his "twin." Should he tell Esme? He doesn't tell her anything anyway.
"Isn't he one of Carlisle's ancient friends?" Edward spoke this time from the couch, Esme tried to guess which one of their friends could be Jasper's type, or at least what she thought it's his type.
"He's not ancient." Jasper spoke with a defensive tone which made the rest of his siblings chuckle.
"He's like a million years old." Emmet said from the living room.
"So who is it then?" Esme spoke politely and took Jasper by his arm but not really touching him. Jasper sighed, he feels embarrassed and angry.
Jasper said your name.
Esme's mouth opened to speak but closed immediately. She knew you, or well, of you. You're not really the extrovert type and the only vampire that hasn't had a problem with you is Carlisle. You're a little too mischievous for the rest of vampires.
"May I go now, ma'am?"
"Yeah his boyfriend gonna be so mad if he arrives late for their date!" Emmet shouted again, making everyone laugh. Jasper thinks about attacking his "brother" to make him shut up, those loud thoughts making Edward feel uneasy now, hitting Emmet with his elbow discreetly to shut him up.
"Do you like him?" She whispered. Jasper nodded, a small smile appearing on his rosy lips.
"Yes, ma'am." The blonde whispers back. Esme nodded and smiled widely.
Jasper is reserved, withdrawn and he seems miserable most of the times, but right now, he looks happy.
"Does he treat you well?" She asks something that is very important for her, the blonde's lips curl into a smile again and his mind reading brother read all of the sweet thoughts he got about you.
"Yes, ma'am."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jasper walked through the forest, the moon was about to rise and the air was cool.
Someone is running near the woods, the leaf crush under the rapid walk.
His golden eyes looked around, trying to find the source of the sound. The trees, he can hear the wood cracking and the leafs falling.
"Look over here, goldilocks!" You shouted.
Jasper smirked and turn around to see you up on a tree. You jumped and landed infront of him.
"Did I scare you, cowboy?" You spoked teasingly as your red eyes meet his golden ones.
"I was trembling with fear, pretty boy." He muttered softly, his texan drawl making you feel all tingly. He couldn't help but to stare down at your lips as they curled into a smile.
"Let's meet at the top of our tree!." You smacked his shoulder softly before zooming out. Jasper chuckled and started to run behind you matching your incredible speed.
You did a spin and take a bunny that passed by. Jasper shaked his head.
"Stop showing off!" The blonde shouted behind you. You laughed.
"You're jealous you're not as cool as I am!" You responded before starting to climb a tree. You could hear Jasper catching up with you before you jumped from one tree to another, feeling the wind hit your face and the comforting smell of plants after a rainy day.
Jasper admired your vampiric beauty as he ran, he felt those strange tingles in his stomach again. He couldn't take his eyes off you.
You climbed and jumped until you stopped at the tree you've designated as yours and Jasper's. You looked down at him as he climbed up to meet you.
"You lost." You teased as you hold the bunny on your arms.
"I let you win." He replied with a smirk. You laughed and sat down on the branch of the tree.
"You lost and loser's don't get juicy bunnies for dinner." You bared your fangs at the small animal, Jasper looked at you and smirked.
"I dare you to do it. I want to see you drink the blood of an animal, pretty boy. Actually drink it." He talked between a chuckle. You furrowed your eyebrows and growl at him playfully before taking the bunny and bury your fangs on the small creature.
You pulled away, he could see you swallowing the blood before your face scrunched into one of pure disgust.
Jasper bursted laughing at you.
You smiled, you've never heard his laugh, it made you feel a strange sensation on your stomach. Or it may be the horrible sip of blood you've just drank.
"May I?" Jasper asked holding his hand out for the bunny.
"It's all yours, blondie. I warn you, that's the worst blood I've drank in four hundred years." You handed the perishing animal to his pale hands.
Jasper bared his fangs, his pupils dilate, hiding his golden eyes behind a pitch black wall. He buried his fangs deep into the animal, the bunny screamed but the cries died down quickly as the vampire drains it's life.
A couple of blood drops fall down his sweater. The blonde pulled away and tossed the dry cadaver of the animal down to the forest.
You couldn't pull your eyes away.
That was hot you have to admit. You cleared your throat.
"Do you actually like feeding from animals?" You asked, you always wondered if animals are as tasty as humans, Jasper thinks for a moment about it, he nods.
"It was hard get used to the taste. But it is better than feeling like I want to kill myself after each feeding." He spoke softly and with full honestly.
You lean over and wipe the blood from his lips with your thumb.
Jasper froze for a second. Your touch was gentle, his shoulders relaxed. It's been decades since he felt something so nice.
Your face was now so close to his, your eyes meet. If there's a word that defines you it's impulsive.
You lean over and lock your lips with his. It was a slow dance, shy at first from both parts.
Jasper pulled away, his golden eyes wide and shiny, he was about to withdrawl but instead came back in full force. Kissing you in a bolder way, his cold hand cupping your jaw.
He depends on the kiss, a delicious moan leaves his lips, a groan from your part following after, he's tasting you, touching you and drowning in your scent. He has never felt this way and he couldn't control his urges.
Your back meets the huge tree. Jasper it's almost on top of you now.
The blonde pulls away once more, to take a useless breath. You feel dizzy with happiness because the southerner felt himself radiant with joy.
The two stay silent. Eyes lingering into each other for a couple of seconds before Jasper's lips touch yours a third time. This time it's more gentle and loving.
"I've wanted to do this for a long time...ever since I met you, you light up my world, darlin'." He whispers, you can only look at him, you've never had anyone be this soft and caring with you.
You want to speak, to say you've felt the same way, that he became very special to you, that he made you feel worthy and loved.
But he could feel it too. He knew.
His lips leave a soft kiss on your forehead before he rests his head on your shoulder. You smile and wrap your arms around him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Heyyyy, sorry I've been away. I'm really focused on school and that's why I haven't written shit. This was on my drafts so here it is. You can still send requests or asks just know I'm going to take a little of time in answering. Hope you liked it!
#jasper whitlock hale#jasper hale x reader#jasper whitlock#jasper cullen#jasper hale#jasper hale x male reader#x male reader#twilight x male reader
553 notes
·
View notes
Text
Happy Memory - Tom Riddle x Reader - Oneshot
no warnings, just pure fluff, takes place mid-7th year for Tom, so in 1945. (y/n) has she/her pronouns and Tom is an awkward teenager.
1,115 words :3
=
Tom Riddle knew what it meant to have matching patronus' with someone. Well, it could mean many things, an exactly matching patronus-meant obsession, only wanting them and almost refusing to better ones self to better match the other in a proper way.
A mirrored patronus meant complete understanding-usually twins had mirrored patronus’, as Tom had researched, so their magic would mirror the other due to the innate understanding they had about the other, but still different enough to be their own person, because even mirrors weren’t perfect.
A matching patronus, like a doe and a buck-meant complete understanding love, being someone's other half, to be complete with the other, but still being your own being.
Tom Riddle had never been able to produce a patronus, he’d never even created whisps of one. He didn’t exactly have any happy, powerful, memories. He had tried to use the day he found out he was a wizard, or when he got his wand, or when he was sorted into slytherin-but none worked to even create a breath of the charm.
He was getting quite, frustrated, with himself; he could easily perform any other type of magic, charm, hex, curse-you name it, he could cast it. Yet the Patronus charm was giving him so much trouble he wanted to throw himself at the wall.
He watched as everyone else in the ‘advanced charms and defenses’ class either got a little bit of a whisp, or almost got a corporeal patronus. It was infuriating. He was Tom Riddle, descendant of Salazar Slytherin-he SHOULD be able to summon a damn patronus.
“Expecto Patronum.” Tom hissed under his breath, his hand and wrist moving perfectly to cast the charm. His pronunciation was perfect, his wand movement perfect-and yet nothing came from his wand-not even a shift in the air.
“Merlins-saggy-balls.” Tom hissed, tapping his wand hard against the heel of his palm, glaring at the pale long wood of his wand as if it was the reason he couldn’t produce the charm. He took a long shaky breath, pinching his nose as he tried to calm himself down-being angry wouldn’t help-he needed to think of a good memory, a happy thought.
Bloody hell he sounded like Peter fucking Pan.
“Havin’ trouble smiles?” Tom huffed at the annoyingly familiar voice that came from behind him, turning to see (y/n)-he’d known her since the very first day of the school year, meeting her on the Hogwarts Express over 7 years ago when she’d sat in the same compartment as him and proceeded to babble his ear off.
She was still doing that, really the only constant in his life.
Though he could do without the bloody nickname.
“Shut up.” Tom grumbled, turning his head again to focus, taking a deep breath to single out a memory, any memory-to try and cast the damn spell. “Expecto Patronum.” Tom said.
Nothing.
Tom let out a frustrated snarl and nearly threw his wand to the floor-but managed to keep his calm mostly, as the room was full of other students who think he’s perfect and calm and the golden boy of Hogwarts-especially after last year when he’d framed Hagrid for killing Myrtle.
He hears the familiar laughter of (y/n) behind him as she walks up to him, and she rests her elbow on his shoulder, giving him a half smirk that makes him want to-
“What are you thinking of smiles?” (y/n) asks and Tom frowns, scrunching his nose-she was probably the only one to get these sort’ve reactions from him. He wasn’t a cold emotionless bastard, he was just calculated-though most of the time he wore his emotions on his sleeve, but (y/n) got the most natural reactions from him.
“When I got my wand,” Tom drawled, almost weakly, turning his wand over in his fingers, rolling it between the heel of his palm and the tips of his fingers, watching and feeling it roll and roll over his skin.
(y/n) let out a weak snort, shaking her head. “well that ain't good enough, you know Merrythought was talking about powerful emotions, memories, is what makes a good patronus. Getting a wand feels like nothing compared to the last seven years.”
Tom rolled his eyes, looking at (y/n)-her elbow was still on his shoulder. “Oh yeah? And what memory are you using, munchkin?” (y/n) laughed, bold and giggly as she leaned into him and Tom couldn’t help his half smirk.
“That’s a new one,” (y/n) snickered, flipping her wand between her fingers as she tilted her head to the side. “Hmmm, Expecto Patronum.” She waved her wand and pronounced the charm perfectly, and out from her wand came the form of a snake, but it wasn’t the snake form that caught Tom’s attention, it was the several horns at the crown of its head-a familiar but unusable gleam to its eye.
“Your patronus,” Tom breathed, eyes locked onto the basilisk patronus-how rare, and unusual. Tom would feel jealous if he wasn’t so amazed right now. He turned to (y/n), eyes wide and feverishly determined. “What memory did you use?” Tom asked-breathlessly-and (y/n) gave a little half-shrug, her elbow still on his shoulder.
“Day I met my best friend,” (y/n) said, giving him a look that had his cheeks flushing and his heart stutter.
Best friend? She…she thought he was her best friend? He never knew she thought of him as anything more than someone she liked to mess with and get along with well enough to not hate each other.
Then again, they spent nearly every day together, she barged into his private head boy dorm room a lot, he let her steal his food-and books, and she was probably the only person ever to touch him so freely as she did now.
Tom, clearing his throat, feeling his heart beating fast and his breathing stuck in his throat-lifted his wand once more, spinning it once. “Expecto Patronum.” He said clearly, concentrating and letting his emotions bubble to the surface.
The tip of his wand burst into light-and out came a basilisk, this one almost matching (y/n)’s but it had some differences, like where the horns were and the markings on the scales. Tom felt his face burn as (y/n)whistled, her elbow shaking him a bit.
“Aww it matches mine~” (y/n) cooed, her arm moving to wrap around his and her head leaned on his shoulder as she teased him, her left hand covering his right. “What memory did ya use smiles?”
He cleared his throat, swallowing harshly, looking down at her.
“When I met my best friend,” he mumbled and (y/n) beamed, squeezing his arm as their matching patronus’ intertwined in the air.
-end-
117 notes
·
View notes
Text
🎸 out of my mind ! 💿 track five: the battle of the bands
guitarist!ino x drummer!reader
summary: it's the annual battle of the bands at the fix, your college campus's iconic live music bar, and this year you're taking the stage as the drummer for indie rock group cursed technique. you know the competition is strong, but no part of you is ready for lead singer and guitarist takuma ino. you lock eyes at the edge of the stage, and something starts—something that might make you feel alive even more than the beat of the drums.
warnings: language, alcohol, DOGGOS, yuji literally is just a ray of sunshine 24/7, mentions of drunk driving, so much fluff, ridiculous amount of kissing tbh, short time skip at the end, FINAL CHAPTER! || sfw. 8.8k words.
FOR THE FIRST time in a long stretch of busy days, you wake up not to the chirp of your alarm but to soft rays of Saturday morning sunlight seeping through the cracks in the blinds, painting your eyelids orange-gold. You crack an eye open and find Takuma stirring beside you. Right.
“Morning,” you whisper. For a moment, when Takuma opens his eyes, he looks surprised, and then he seems to remember why and how you got here and his expression melts into a soft smile.
“Morning, Skip.” He yawns. “Time’s it?”
You shrug. You’re pretty sure your phone is dead.
“Eh, it’s Saturday,” he mumbles. “S’fine.” You chuckle, daring to reach out and ruffle his hair. You don’t know what this is, the unspoken thing in the thin slice of air between you. You know what you want it to be, though.
For a while you both lie in comfortable silence, letting the sounds of the awakening house float up the stairs toward you. Murmuring, clattering around in the kitchen, the front door opening and closing, cars outside.
“Hey,” you say eventually, making eye contact. His eyes are a very deep shade of brown, dark but warm in a way that reminds you of old bookshelves or tree bark after the rain.
“Hey back.”
He’s relaxed, every part of him unhurried, and you take the image of it and stamp it into your mind over the memory of the night prior. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Takuma smiles. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Maybe it should be more awkward, the fact that you’re here in his bed in his clothes and you haven’t named whatever it is that stretches out in the silence. But it’s not. It’s just… easy.
“Skipper?”
“Hm?”
“I really, really like you,” Takuma whispers. The words wrap themselves around you, warm when you didn’t know you were cold.
“Yeah?” You bring a hand up to his face, trace the line of his jaw. His cheeks are a little colored in the mix of light slipping through the window and the cracked door. “I really, really like you too, Takuma.”
He cups your face in both hands, pulls your lips to his, and your whole body responds, pressing up against him in the too-small twin bed. Your hand goes to hold the back of his neck, deepening the kiss, and this is what people write love songs about, you fucking get it now, all the metaphors and cliché words you thought were exaggerations but no, they’re not, because you’re feeling all of them all at once and you don’t ever want to leave this moment in time.
“Like” doesn’t feel strong enough, not for this. You’ve only known him for a month. Is it really possible he’s already become so integral to the structure of your heart?
You’re kissing in the early morning light and it’s hungrier than you thought your next kiss would be, because even though all the rest of your days are rolling out before you, you don’t know how many there are. He twists so he’s above you on his knees, one of them between your legs, and it’s like a reversal of that night on the roof, like you can feel the night air even in the golden midmorning hours.
“Kuma,” you murmur between kisses, and he grins against your mouth, takes your next breath and makes it his.
At some point you’re interrupted by the startled growl of your stomach, and you break apart, unable to stifle the giggles rising up in your throat. “Well.”
“Well,” Takuma echoes, grinning. He stands and offers you a hand. “Breakfast?”
Downstairs, the house is alive with idle chatter and the clinking of silverware. Kirara is seated atop the counter, legs swinging as she eats a plate of eggs, and Hakari stands beside her leaning against the cabinets. Megumi scrolls absently through his phone at the table, the dogs looking up at him expectantly from either side, and Yuji is digging through a bunch of take-out boxes. When he sees you, his whole face lights up.
“Morning!” he practically sings. “Here, eat food.”
“Where’d this come from?” Takuma asks.
“My friend dropped off breakfast,” Yuji chirps, pushing a Tupperware container of pancakes toward you. If it weren’t for the brace wrapped around his wrist, you’d have no idea anything happened. He’s his usual golden retriever self.
You smile, forking one of the pancakes onto a plate. “That’s sweet.”
Your phone buzzes, and it’s Tsumiki sending you the link to the news brief. You frown at the headline, not out of any disrespect for the writer who stepped up to cover it, but more at the fact that it’s unfortunately true.
JU senior issued DUI after crash on 34th and Olson Blvd Friday night
“What’s up?” Takuma asks, immediately noting your expression. You slide the phone across the counter, watching its screen catch the light from the kitchen window. Kirara leans over it as well and starts reading off Junpei’s story halfway through.
“Zenin, who according to a campus police report was driving under the influence of alcohol, was on the phone with an ex-girlfriend when he swerved into the opposite lane.” Her dark brows knit together in some combination of anger and disbelief. “Jesus.”
“That’s fucked,” you murmur.
Someone’s phone rings, and Megumi glances at his screen and blinks, seems to hesitate. Then he gets up and disappears down the hall. You glance at Takuma, but he just shrugs. It’s probably Gojo.
The rest of you eat and eventually make your way to the living room, scattering yourselves across the couch and carpet and chairs.
“That single last night,” Takuma says, letting Kuro jump up beside him on the couch. “Concept. Make it the title track of an EP.”
You blink for a second, startled. “Wait, for real?”
“Yes!” Takuma says, sitting up straighter. “Think about it. Cover art is one of those name tag stickers, you all sign it, wrinkle it up and crease it and take a grainy film photo. And you put the song on it with Next Fix and a couple of your older singles you and blow up.”
“Or you print one off that says hello, our name is,” Kirara pipes up, seeming excited by the idea. “Ooh, you can have an intro track like that.”
“All caps. Just to match the energy,” you say, picturing the EP cover in your mind. “HELLO MY NAME IS. No punctuation either.”
“I like it,” Kirara nods. Takuma’s got that excited shine to his eyes, and you realize he’s very in his element in this conceptual space—he really will be a good producer. He has the mind for it.
Megumi slips back into the room looking a little haphazard, disgruntled, looking anywhere but into anyone else’s eyes, and Yuji cocks his head in question. Not Gojo, then. “Who was that?”
“No one,” Megumi lies, waving him off and turning back toward the kitchen to avoid everyone’s questioning gaze. Hm.You know better than to ask, and it seems that’s the consensus, because nobody pushes it—Megumi will open up in his own time. You hope he figures it out soon.
For your part, it’s a lazy Saturday, hanging out with Takuma, Yuji, Megumi, Kirara, and Hakari, gaming and talking and generally just existing in each other’s presence. After the chaos of last night, it seems to be exactly what all of you needed.
It’s not until late afternoon that Kirara broaches the topic of the band.
She gestures at Yuji, a flapping motion that misses the mark a little because Kirara is sprawled upside-down in the beanbag in the corner. “Itadori, can you, like… drum with that?”
He shrugs, looking down at his injured wrist. “Yeah, probably!” You frown. So much of drumming is in the wrist, and you kind of figured Kirara’s question was rhetorical. You realize abruptly that Shibuya Incident is still going up against Black Flash in the finals on Friday, and if they don’t have Yuji, they’re fucked.
“Psh, don’t look like that, it’s fine,” Yuji insists, grabbing two Wii remotes and wielding them like drumsticks. He goes to bang them around, mimicking a rock beat, and you watch as his face twists into a grimace and he drops one of them. “Okay, so, update: never mind!” He grins sheepishly.
Kirara is the first one to look at you, and by the time you’ve processed what exactly it is she’s trying to say, everyone else has their eyes locked on you—including Yuji.
Oh, shit.
“Whaddaya say, girl drummer?” Kirara asks, pointing a finger gun at you.
“Oh, guys, I don’t… I don’t know, it’s your band. Yuji—”
But Yuji is the one who seems the most excited about it. He’s abandoned both Wii remotes on the floor and is now looking up at you with bright eyes and his eternal grin. “No, Skipper, please? It would be so fun! I can still do aux and stuff. But we could play together! It would be so awesome!”
“Is that even allowed?” you ask, glancing at Takuma, who’s trying and failing to hide a boyishly excited smile. “I mean, I already got eliminated.”
“Hang on,” Hakari says, pulling out his phone. It takes you a minute to realize who he’s asking. “Yeah, no, Panda says it’s whatever. Better that than not have a battle at all.”
Takuma nudges you with a knee, looking at you with steady eyes. It’s your choice, he seems to say.
“I think,” you say slowly, “I should talk to my band first. But… I’m not opposed.”
Yuji whoops so loudly you flinch a little and Takuma grins, putting his arm around you and squeezing your shoulder.
“I probably should head out,” you say, a little reluctantly. “Kinda left the roommates high and dry last night.”
Kirara salutes you, her face red from the blood rush of still being upside down, and Yuji chirps out a happy see ya!
“I’ll walk you out,” Takuma says, standing when you do. You say bye to the band and the dogs and he follows you to the front door, going as far as to step just outside with you. The door stays open just a crack as you linger, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back. He pulls you in and kisses you right there on the front step, and you smile against his lips.
“Are we, like…?” Takuma murmurs when he pulls away, cheeks flushed from the question or the cold, you can’t tell.
“Are we what?” you tease, shoving lightly at his chest.
“You know.”
“Well, if you don’t say it I’m gonna beat you to asking—”
This seems to zap whatever hesitation Takuma had right out of him, and he cuts in, “Willyoubemygirlfriend?”
“Sorry, what was that?” You know you’ve got a shit-eating grin on your face, but you can’t stop it. “Couldn’t really hear you—”
“Oh my god. Will,” he says slowly, drawing out the word, “You. Be. My. Girlfriend?”
You can see your laugh fanning out before you in a puff of warm air, and you tip your head forward into his chest, grinning. “Yes, Takuma, I would love to be your girlfriend.” You pull back and look up at him, lacing your fingers together. “I was kind of trying to get you alone all week so we could figure out what the fuck was going on. But it worked out, huh?”
“Yeah,” he grins. “It worked out.” He reaches up and ruffles your hair, laughing when you go to swat his hand away. “I was trying to get you alone, too,” he admits. “I like spending time with you, Skip. I’m pretty sure you’re the coolest person I’ve met, like, ever.”
“Ever,” you echo. “Those are some pretty lofty expectations to live up to.”
He shrugs. “You meet them all.”
Despite yourself, heat creeps up to your cheeks again.
“That was less scary than I thought it was gonna be,” Takuma confesses. Your phone rings in your pocket, and you glance at it and see Maki’s name sliding across the screen.
“Think that’s my cue.” You plant one last kiss on Takuma’s lips and turn around, throwing a “bye, boyfriend” over your shoulder. You glance back and catch him mid fist-pump, and he sheepishly shoves his hands into his pockets when he realizes you saw.
You’re still wearing his clothes, you realize as you answer your phone. Guess it doesn’t really matter, since they’re your boyfriend’s.
“Hey,” Maki says in your ear. “You comin’ home anytime soon? No rush, but we’re making lunch so we figured we’d ask.” In the background, you can hear Toge singing what you think is a dramatic rendition of Kristoff’s song from Frozen II, but you aren’t entirely certain because none of the words are right.
“Yeah, I’m literally walking through the door in thirty seconds,” you say, and Nobara’s face appears in the kitchen window. She waves excitedly and you raise a hand in return.
“Oh, sick.” The line goes dead as you open the front door. “Hey!” Maki shouts when she hears it click, and you slam it closed against the rush of cool air trying to sneak inside with you.
“Hi!” you call back.
Yuta pokes his head around the corner and grins at you. “Welcome home, our favorite breaking news reporter.”
“I didn’t actually report on anything,” you admit, kicking your shoes off and padding into the kitchen. Toge is somehow balancing cross-legged on one of the high stools, and Maki is making tacos. “Conflict of interest once I realized who it was.”
“Yeah, I saw the article,” Nobara chimes in, glancing up from her phone. “Yikes. Frickin’ Naoya Zenin. What an asshat.”
You snort. What an understatement.
“Hope he rots in jail,” Maki says in a sing-song voice, not even looking up.
“I love family,” Toge says.
You fill your friends in on the crash and the aftermath and Yuji’s wrist, leaving out some of the details about Takuma, because that feels a little invasive. And then Yuta asks the big question: “What about the band?”
“About that,” you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not exactly sure why this makes you so nervous. Maybe it’s just that these are your people, your band, and you all worked so hard and then went down together. It doesn’t seem fair that you get to go back on stage and try again and the rest of them don’t. “So. They asked me to fill in—“
“Yes!” Nobara shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “Oh, that’s so awesome!”
“Well, I didn’t say yes yet—”
“What? Why?” Toge asks incredulously. You laugh, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. Of course they’re okay with it. These are your best friends. They’ll always have your back.
“I wanted to check with you guys,” you say, feeling silly about it now. “Just—I don’t know, to make sure. Since it’s not our band, and I didn’t want you guys to feel like I was, I don’t know, like…”
“Musically cheating?” Maki chuckles. “Skipper, this is great. You should say yes.”
Yuta solemnly puts a hand over his heart. “Avenge us.”
“Thanks, guys.” You grin as you hop up on the counter next to Nobara, pressing your shoulder to hers. “I love y’all.”
“Sap,” Maki says, which means love you too.
—
Using a drum set that isn’t yours is always a weird experience. You feel like everything is just ever so slightly off, and Yuji’s kit is an absolute patchwork of different brands of heads and shells and cymbals. You have to lower the stool because he’s taller than you. But it’s just for rehearsal, at least—you can use your own kit at The Fix.
It’s your first time in the shabby basement of Takuma’s house, and it looks distinctly different than your own. They’ve pinned old rugs to the walls as a type of sound deadener, not dissimilar to your own setup, but their lighting is a collection of Facebook marketplace floor lamps and a little disco ball that’s apparently Yuji’s. Your basement has string lights and a bunch of stools and beanbags, and this one has extra blankets all over the floor where Yuji and Kirara have made themselves at home.
Learning Shibuya Incident’s songs isn’t difficult—you’ve heard enough of their music to anticipate what’s coming, and Yuji’s there to give you pointers. Their three-song set for the final performance isn’t actually done, because they don’t feel like they have a good enough finisher, and after you’ve run the first two songs several times you mess around with potential chorus lines.
“What about that?” Kirara says after plucking out a new melody. “It’s hype enough, I think. Or it will be, once we add the rest of you.”
“I like that.” You tap out the rhythm on the snare rim, humming. “You have lyrics?” You look at Takuma, who’s staring at the ceiling like it might have all the answers if he just squints hard enough.
“Somethin’ about, like… losing your head a little bit because you caught feels,” he says. “Like, you’re down so bad you can’t function, to be dramatic about it. That triplet at the beginning of the chorus, Kirara—”
She plucks it out again, down-up-down. “On my own,” Takuma echoes, down-up-down. “Every little move I can’t pin down…”
The words tumble past your lips before you can stop them, because they’ve been circling your head for a week now. “Friends with all the dead in my ghost town.”
He spins around to look at you, a grin spreading across his face. “Yes! It’s like I’m going…”
“Going,” Kirara echoes, and they go back and forth—going, going, “out of my mind!”
“Whoo!” Yuji cheers, pumping a fist in the air. “Holy shit. That was crazy.” Takuma grabs the nearest beat-to-hell spiral notebook and starts scribbling.
Megumi starts laying out a bassline, subtly driving the beat forward a little, and you clamp the hat down on two and four to keep time. Kirara comes in with something that must be the verse, and Takuma reads off, “You left in the morning after eight, I got into work two hours late, I can’t see the sun without your face.” Bass, bass, bass. Megumi nods along and Yuji is practically dancing from his spot on the floor.
“One day and I run fresh out of light…”
Hm. You add, “Twelve hours without your hand in mine.”
“I’m dizzy and overworked and tired,” Kirara sings lowly. All three of you sing the chorus again, and you feel just like you’re at home in your own basement, writing a song in real time with Nobara and Maki and the boys.
“Oh, that slaps,” Takuma practically shouts. “Jesus. We’re gonna win.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Megumi warns, a wry quirk to his lips.
Kirara glances at her phone. “Food’s here. Break time, freaks.” She bounds up the stairs and Megumi follows to help her grab the bags—you DoorDashed Taco Bell, since Yuji never got his beloved crunch wrap on Friday.
You leave your sticks on the snare and move around the drum set, flopping down on the ground beside Takuma. “You’re good at that,” you tell him honestly, pulling the notebook away to read what he’s writing down. I met you across the darkened stage, you shook up my life, you got me made, you’re drivin’ me crazy night and day.
You can’t help thinking of the night you met him, locking eyes while he sang from the edge of the low stage at The Fix, lit up by purple-red stage lights and putting you in a trance. You scribble a few more lines after his and hand the pen back.
“You’re a poet,” he tells you, and you laugh.
“I’m a journalist.”
“Woman of many talents,” he says, echoing Maki’s words from that first night you met.
“Itadori!” Kirara shouts down the stairs.
“Coming!” Yuji leaps up and disappears up the rickety basement staircase, leaving you and Takuma alone.
“Hey,” he says, tapping the pen on the page. You glance up at him, nodding for him to keep going. “Can I take you out? Like, on an actual date?”
Something light and quick kicks around in your chest, a hummingbird loose in your ribcage. “I would not be opposed,” you say, as if the idea doesn’t make you want to kick your feet like a little kid. “When are you thinking?”
“Mm, you’re in night class prison tomorrow,” he says, tapping the pen against his lip now. “Tuesday?”
It shouldn’t make you so irrationally happy that he remembers your schedule, but logic seems to go out the window where Takuma Ino is concerned. “Tuesday’s good. Where do you wanna go?”
He shakes his head adamantly, tapping you on the nose with his pen. “Leave it to me.”
—
The only things Takuma’s told you about your date tonight are dress warm and bring your board. He meets you outside your place at four, his bag definitely bulkier than usual, his own skateboard under one foot.
You’re wearing a denim jacket over a hoodie and your favorite cargo pants with your boots, and you tucked a beanie and gloves into your bag just in case, but it’s surprisingly balmy out for late October. The wind is the worst of it.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Takuma says when you coast down the driveway and come to a stop beside him. The greeting makes you blush as much as his smile does, and he chuckles as he pushes off. “This way.”
“Where are we going?”
“Crazy,” he says. You roll your eyes. Sounds like the kind of dad joke Yuta would make.
“Well, then.” The two of you make your way down the street and around the bend, and you realize he’s taking you to the skate park. But at the entrance he keeps going, around the pit and a few of the ramps and to the largest one, back in the corner—not the one Sukuna deals under, but the one opposite. And you stop in your tracks, your longboard making a protesting schkk under your feet, when you see it.
Battery-powered string lights loop around the posts and down the underside of the ramp, and blankets and pillows are spread out across the ground. The area is sheltered from the worst of the wind, and you know your jaw is hanging open a little as you watch Takuma unload his bag—JBL speaker, two thermoses, and a bunch of food.
“Takuma,” you say, not knowing what other words suffice. “I—oh my god.” You did not peg him as being this romantic.
Then you think about his song lyrics and think maybe you should have.
He grins at you from where he’s sat down on the blankets, holding out one of the thermoses. You leave your board by one of the poles and sit down beside him, taking it and letting the warmth seep into your hands. “What is it?”
“Hot chocolate.”
“Mm.” You scoot closer to him, staring up at the layers and layers of graffiti and marker art covering the underside of the ramp. “This is maybe the sweetest thing ever.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “I had no idea what I was doing.”
“I wouldn’t know.” You take a sip of the hot chocolate—still warm. “It’s romantic. Big fan.”
“Really?” He points to where somebody drew a dick on the far side of the ramp.
“Okay, well, you didn’t have to point it out,” you smirk. “You ever done graffiti?” Looking at his mischievous smile and the beanie tugged over his head, the skateboard abandoned a few feet away, he does look like the type.
“Tagging?” He shrugs. “No. I would, though. Maybe we should.”
You hum, staring up at the arcing bubble letters and jagged black lines all over the ramp. You think you’d be horrible at graffiti, but you’ve always appreciated it, the way it sends a message and doesn’t ask for anything in return.
“This is like… alternative aesthetic stargazing,” you muse, lifting a finger and tracing the sharp lines of one of the illegible words in the air. You could stare at all this art for hours and never find all the intricacies of it.
Takuma digs around in his bag and produces a Sharpie with an “aha!”
“You’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie?”
He throws it at you and you catch it in one hand, instinctively twirling it like a drumstick. “We’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie,” he corrects.
And so you do.
The nearest part of the wall is covered in bright pink paint outlined in black, and it takes you a moment of squinting and tilting your head to realize it says LEAVEYOURMARK. Seems as clear of an instruction as any. So you do��scooting forward, you start to draw flowers into the thick bands of pink lettering, and soon they’re shifting to music notes, percussion notation, aimless squiggles. Takuma queues up a laid-back playlist with a few artists you recognize and many more you don’t, and you pass the pen back and forth, adding tiny notes to messages around the ramp, doodling in the empty space.
You’ve been on dates before, but this feels wholly different. With Takuma, you’re not stressing over conversation starters, worrying about commitment, wondering if you picked the right outfit, trying to gauge your shared interests with carefully planned questions. It’s just easy, existing with him like this.
After a while, you’re on your back in the mess of pillows and blankets, staring directly up at the massive painting of a skateboard with a face. Takuma is drawing something on the wall behind you.
Squinting, the green streaks under the skateboard look like that loss meme Toge sends you at least twice a week. You take a photo with the intention of showing it to him later, though maybe you shouldn’t—he gets way too proud of himself for versing you in what he calls Reddit culture.
You crane your neck to see what Takuma’s drawing and find the thick, dark strokes of a city skyline, towers and domes and boxy apartment buildings.
“Artsy,” you tell him, smiling when he appears in your line of vision upside-down. “You sure about this computer science thing? You’re too creative.”
“That’s what my mom said,” he chuckles, capping the Sharpie and sitting down beside you. As you sit up, he leans back on his hands and glances over at you. “I told her about you. She’d love you. I mean, I’m pretty sure she already does.” He hesitates. “Is that weird? Too soon?”
“No,” you grin. “I—that’s really sweet, actually. I would love to meet your mom.” Your gaze softens at the relieved smile that crosses his face. “Gotta thank her for raising a guy like you, anyway.”
You realize you want Takuma to meet your family too—you want to show him all the corners of your too-small town, show him the place you grew up. It made you who you are—it led you here, to him, after all.
“So,” you say, tilting your head. “When you say you wanna be a producer. Where do you mean? Like, LA?”
He shrugs. “Probably. But I’m sure it’s more competitive there than anywhere else. I feel like the major hubs are there and New York, but I wouldn’t mind somewhere quieter, either.” He loops an arm around you, and your head finds its way to his shoulder. “What about you, world-class journalist?”
You grin, thinking of all the places you haven’t been, all the places you want to go. “Anywhere and everywhere. I just wanna see it all. I wanna travel.”
“You should!” He sounds genuinely excited about the concept, and you lift your head, taking in the expression on his face—he looks the way he did when he was talking about making an EP, like the world is full of possibilities and he wants to see them all play out. “You’d be so good at it. Being a travel writer or international correspondent or whatever.” He clears his throat. “I read some of your stuff, y’know.”
“What?” Suddenly you’re racking your brain for every piece you’ve published in the JU Journal, overly critical of your own work in hindsight. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s good. Really good, Skip, seriously.” He reaches out and tugs a wayward strand of hair behind your ear, and you find yourself leaning into the contact.
You aren’t sure what to say, so you settle on a soft, “Thank you.” Somehow, the idea of Takuma going out of his way to read your work feels personal on the same level that writing a song together does. Taking in your words, your ideas, internalizing them. What is intimacy if not that intellectual exchange?
“I think you’re going to be a really good producer.” It’s his turn to blush. “I mean it. Not everyone has the perspective for it, or the ear. But you do.”
“Ah, well, I—”
“Am not good at taking compliments?” you cut him off, raising a brow. “Mm, we’ll fix that.” He laughs, and you’re leaning in to kiss him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is the most natural thing in the world.
It’s late October, and you are not the least bit cold.
—
Your hands need to stop sweating before you lose a drumstick or something.
Shibuya Incident has about twenty minutes before you’re all due on stage for the finals, and The Fix is alive with students and lights and drinks and music and chatter. You’re out on the floor tonight, off to the side for easy access to the stage once Black Flash clears out.
“We’re kicking off with the reigning champions of the Battle of the Bands,” Panda booms, throwing an arm out as the band takes the stage. “You know ‘em, you love ‘em, they’re every genre and no genre, covers and originals, brass and wind. Give it up for Black Flash!”
You whoop just as loud as anyone else here, grinning at Nobara’s animated cheering from closer to the center of the floor. Miwa walks right up to the mic and takes it off the stand, the neck of her white electric in her other hand. “Hey, folks!” She brushes her bright blue hair out of her face and shouts, “Y’all ready to hear some good music?”
She has the sort of infectious enthusiasm that could work on pretty much anyone, and before you know it you and Kirara are spinning each other around to the beat of a synth-heavy pop song that sounds like it came straight out of the 80s. The instrumentals are simple but tight, and Miwa jumps around, engaging the crowd, belting like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“They’re good,” you catch Megumi saying lowly, probably to Yuji, but Takuma’s the one who answers.
“If I tell you the power of friendship will lead us to victory—”
“No.”
“Well, okay, you’re no fun.”
Kirara turns around and plants a hand on her hip, looking at Megumi. “Fushiguro, we’re fine. We’re going out with a badass new single and not one but two percussionists. We’ve never sounded this good.”
“Just being the token pessimist,” he sighs, cracking a reluctant half-smile. “I know we’re good.”
Yuji elbows him playfully. “Mr. Realist.”
Black Flash segues into a second track, an ABBA cover that has you dancing without thinking, and Takuma catches your eye and grins, moving along with you. And all too soon it’s over, a third song come and gone, and Panda’s back up on stage and the five of you are hopping up over the side to make your way to your places. Hakari and another tech have already swapped out the kits, and you settle yourself in the comfort of your own throne, your own pedals, flipping on the snare and pounding the kick a few times.
Yuji’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning at you. “You got this,” he mouths, shaking his tambourine at you.
You truly have no idea where he got a tambourine.
“What happened in Shibuya? Who the hell knows?” Panda shouts, riling up the crowd. “Give it up for Shibuya Incident!”
That’s your cue. You look at Kirara, who nods with a conspiratorial smile, and then Megumi, who plucks out a few notes in answer. Yuji’s already giving you a grin and a thumbs-up. And Takuma… he’s already stepped into his on-stage confidence, all relaxed, easygoing performer, and the look he gives you has energy coursing through your fingertips like an electric shock.
You hold your sticks above your head, clicking them loud on the lower end of the shaft, and shout, “One, two, three, four!”
You are alive.
The first track is another pulled from their EP, and you’ve listened to it probably an embarrassing number of times—you know Yuji’s part down to the sixteenth note, the roll, the rest, but you don’t hesitate to put your own spin on it, and he’s alight with the same energy beside you, messing around with a tambourine and a few other aux instruments near a mic of his own, since he’s also doing backup vocals tonight.
Your hands are moving fast, your feet pumping the pedals of their own accord, an instinct, and it’s over before you know it, a sheen of sweat already forming under the stage lights. You grin, catching your breath, wiping your hands on your jeans as Takuma introduces the band.
From your place near the back of the stage, you get more of the low feedback than anything else, but you definitely hear when he says Shibuya Incident and the crowd responds raucously in kind.
“That’s Kirara Hoshi on guitar and vocals,” he says, pointing to her as she does her little riff.
“Yeah, Kira!” You have no idea where Hakari’s voice is coming from, but it’s unmistakable.
“We got Fushiguro back there on the bass,” Takuma continues, and Megumi gives the crowd an unbothered nod, showing off his own instrument for a moment. “Itadori’s back here on aux and vocals.” He pauses to let the crowd shout for Yuji and then adds, “And filling in for him on kit, we’ve got the legendary drummer from Cursed Technique. Everyone give it up for Skipper!”
You do a quick roll, laughing as your own band goes crazy—you can’t see them in the glare of the lights, but you (and everyone else) can definitely hear them.
“I’m Ino, we’re Shibuya Incident, and this next one’s gonna slow things down a little.”
This one starts with Megumi, a laid-back track with a similar vibe to the first song you ever heard Shibuya Incident perform, but a little smoother. It’s over before you know it, and then you and Kirara are launching into the new single. Even Yuji looks like he’s having the time of life on backup vocals.
“On my own,” he and Kirara harmonize, Takuma taking the lead, and you nail the next two lines with punchy cymbal-tom hits, “all the shadows look like a death threat, everybody’s waitin’ to get hit, it’s like I’m going (going) going (going) out of my mind!”
All your worries melt away as the beat drives your movements. You’re not thinking about dropping a drumstick, missing a measure, losing the competition. You’re doing what you love with people you love, and that’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.
“Think I’m seein’ double in one eye, startin’ to think this air is spiked, no one told me that’s what love is like.” Takuma lets the guitar hang and grips the mic in one hand and the stand in the other, leaning with it as he engages the crowd, and you definitely hear Nobara screaming. “You got me going (going) going (going) out of my mind, yeah, yeah.”
It’s over so fast you can barely breathe, and you’re laughing before you know what’s happening, Yuji throwing his arm around you and shouting, “You killed it!”
Takuma turns around and locks eyes with you, and you see that same adrenaline high in his gaze that you know is in yours, and when the band stumbles off stage in Panda’s wake, he grabs your hand and pulls you into a hug. “That was crazy!” he practically shouts, which is probably good, because your ears are ringing so much you probably wouldn’t have heard him otherwise.
“Guys,” Megumi says, deadpan as always, but you can see the effects of the performance even on him, his usually stoic expression unable to mask his own excitement. “I think… we might have a shot.”
“Holy shit,” Kirara says. “Skip, write the story. Resident pessimist breaks vow of negativity—”
“Oh, shut up.” Megumi elbows her as she dissolves into laughter. In the wings, you can hear the indistinct sounds of Panda’s instructions as he starts voting, and music kicks up over the speakers. Ten minutes. Ten minutes.
It’s the longest and shortest wait of your life, and then you’re back on stage with Black Flash and Panda, and it’s fucking time.
You wonder if everyone else can hear your blood roaring, too.
“Once again, an insanely tight vote,” Panda says, a hush falling over the crowd as they wait for the verdict. “Phenomenal performances from both of our final bands, but someone’s gotta win. Give it up for the champions of this year’s Battle of the Bands…”
You imagine Maki hissing under her breath for Panda to hurry it up, Nobara’s hands clasped together as she anxiously bounces on the balls of her feet, Yuta biting his lip and trying to get Toge to shut up.
Takuma’s hand is on your shoulder, Yuji on your other side, Megumi and Kirara behind you. You glance at Miwa, and she gives you a knowing look that you can’t interpret.
You almost don’t hear it.
“SHIBUYA INCIDENT!”
You don’t know which screams belong to who—maybe one of them’s yours—but you’re swept into a massive pile of musicians drunk off victory, and you’re laughing, and Miwa’s jumping up and down and saying how that was insane, guys, you were amazing, and even Mai nods at you in congratulations, and Yuji is abruptly on Todo’s shoulders, and as the stage lights turn down a bit you finally catch sight of your own band, losing their minds on the floor.
“That’s our girl!” Maki hollers, and Yuta whoops as Toge pumps a fist in the air. You realize you can’t see Nobara, and two seconds later your questions are answered when she somehow materializes on the stage, launching herself at you with a massive grin on her face.
“You did it!” she shouts. “Holy shit, Skipper!”
Everything around you is chaos and laughter and noise, but something in the center of your being is incredibly still, and you think maybe it’s contentment. In this moment, you would ask for nothing else. It is perfect.
Nobara detaches herself from you after more profuse congratulations, turning to Miwa, and the bands make their way gradually off stage. Takuma’s hand is in yours—you don’t know when that happened—and he pulls you past the band, past the wings, all the way into the drum storage room backstage.
“That was fucking amazing,” he says. “You’re fucking amazing.” His beanie is off, tucked into his pocket, his hair as wild as his eyes as wild as your heart.
You close the door.
It’s a pulse. That’s the only way you can describe it, the rush of living energy that comes with kissing Takuma Ino behind the stage of a shitty campus bar, the heat shooting through your veins in time with the throb of the bass from distant speakers. Breath on your teeth and hands in your hair, the warmth in your gut from skin-on-skin proximity, ears ringing with the sound of your name on his lips and love-blind eyes, you’re alive and addicted to a feeling you know you’ll chase forever.
—
TWO MONTHS LATER. DECEMBER 19.
The house is alive with laughter and chatter and Michael Bublé’s Christmas album spinning from the record player. The semester is over, and tomorrow you’ll scatter for winter break, home for the holidays. Nobara insisted on throwing a party before all the inevitable road trips and flights, and the main floor is strung with multicolored lights and tinsel—Yuta’s plant, Rika, even has a tiny Santa hat on.
In addition to the actual residents of the house, Takuma and the band are here, as well as Hakari, Panda, Tsumiki, Miwa, and a handful of other friends. Megumi’s even brought the dogs, who have both taken a liking to the loveseat by the window and claimed it as their own. You’ve informed Megumi that they’re going to stay here with you forever (he said no, but you don’t take orders from him).
“Okay, I’m dropping you off at ten, right?” Yuta quadruple-checks. You’re huddled in the kitchen with him and Maki—Toge was here a minute ago, but he heard someone in the living room mention Just Dance and ran off to assert his dominance or whatever.
“Oh my god, yes,” Maki answers for you. “Yuta. You wrote it down. It’s in your calendar. You live in the same house as Skip, you’re not gonna forget.” She bumps her shoulder with his and he sighs in admission.
“I know.” He smiles at you. “Just gotta make sure she gets home for the holidays. Can’t have you turning into a sad Christmas cliché on us, Skip.”
You salute him with half a gingerbread cookie. “Appreciate it.” He’s taking you to the airport tomorrow for your flight home and refuses to take your gas money, so you’re already planning on beating him to paying for the first grocery run when you get back.
“Things with Mai are good?” you ask, glancing at Maki. She shrugs noncommittally but doesn’t correct you, which is a good sign. She and her sister met up the week after the Battle of the Bands for coffee, which you genuinely thought was a joke when she told you about it. They’re both going home for Christmas and have apparently decided to try and like each other a little more openly. And she actually showed up tonight, which you have to admit you weren’t entirely expecting.
“Yuta!” Toge hollers from the other room. “You have to come do Rasputin with me!”
Yuta groans, looking pleadingly at Maki like she can get him out of this, but she just grins. “You heard him.”
“You hate me.”
“Yeah,” Maki says fondly. Yuta, defeated, goes to join Toge in the dance of death. Maki whispers to you that she’s going to record it for blackmail and slips out after him.
Tsumiki appears beside you, drink in hand, and leans against the wall. She tilts her phone screen toward you and you see it’s the Journal website analytics.
The top story right now is yours. You grin. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize.”
“I expected it,” she admits, tucking her phone back in her pocket and gazing out across the room. “Look, I’ve been meaning to tell you. We won’t start the application process until spring sem, but, if you want it,” she glances at you, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “I really think you should apply for editor-in-chief, Skip.”
Your mouth opens and closes without anything of use coming out, and Tsumiki laughs. “You don’t have to, but—”
“No!” you blurt, grinning. “I—I want to. I would love to. I was planning on it. I just didn’t know you… wanted me to.” Kusakabe’s just the advisor—when it comes to actually hiring the next editor, Tsumiki has the final say. Her endorsement is as good as a job offer. “I… thank you, Tsumiki.” You look down, suddenly overwhelmed by the words. “Big shoes to fill.”
“Aw, none of that,” she says, stealing a cookie from the tray on the counter next to you. “I literally can’t think of anyone better.” With a wink, she disappears through the doorway, where Kirara and Nobara are talking animatedly. Nobara gestures to you when she catches your eye.
“Dude, our listens are shooting up!” she says, shoving her phone into your hands. Your EP dropped mid-November, six tracks recorded in the studio with Takuma and Hakari, and you’ve performed better than you ever expected. The analytics show a sharp uptick that’s probably in large part due to Panda playing your stuff on the radio station.
You whistle, leaning on Nobara’s shoulder. “Awesome.”
Kirara leans against the wall, considering. “You guys thought about what you’re gonna do next year?”
Truthfully, you’ve really tried not to. The idea of Maki and Yuta graduating is so bittersweet. But graduation means Shibuya Incident will have a hole in their band, too. Kirara will be gone.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Nobara muses. “We could join forces. If we lose Maki and Yuta and Kirara, the only thing we’re doubled up on is drums and lead.”
It’s not a bad idea. And if Yuji is track captain next year and you get that editor job, neither of you will have as much time for the band—switching off could actually be very helpful. You hum, considering. You’ll have to talk to the others.
“Oi,” Kirara says, reaching out to poke you with a socked foot. “Your boyfriend’s in lost puppy mode over there.” You glance into the living room to see Takuma scanning the room next to Megumi and the dogs, probably looking for you.
“Dumbass,” you say fondly, and nod goodbye to Nobara and Kirara before making your way over to him. The boys are halfway through Rasputin and Yuta is, much to Toge’s chagrin, kicking ass. Toge looks like he’s just run a half marathon.
Takuma lights up when he sees you, a mischievous smile appearing on his face as he intercepts you by the hall entrance.
“Oh, wow, what is that?” he asks cheekily, and tilts your chin up to see a piece of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. That was definitely Nobara’s doing. “Crazy that we just happened to—”
You cut him off, dragging him in by the shirt and kissing him, and makes a surprised sound that has you smiling against his lips.
“Crazy,” you repeat after you pull back, relishing the flush on his cheeks. Even after dating him for two months (as of today), every reaction you get out of Takuma makes your heart rate bump up a few beats. “Oh!” he says, suddenly remembering something. “Wait, c’mere, I have something for you.”
“Takuma!” You swat at him. “I told you not to—”
“Boo hoo,” he says, sticking his tongue out and dragging you toward your room, where he dumped his stuff earlier. You quietly close the door behind you as Takuma digs around his bag, standing up with his hands behind his back. “It’s Christmas and it’s been two months. You have no defense. Close your eyes.”
You do, giggling a little as he grabs your hand and presses something into it—something soft. “Okay,” he says, and you open your eyes to see a little stuffed penguin perched in the palm of your hand. It’s fucking adorable.
“Oh my god!” you cry. “Oh, he’s so cute! Takuma.” You cradle the penguin to your chest with both hands, grinning.
“It’s you!” he says, laughing. “Not official Madagascar merch, but I thought it was pretty cute. Your own lil’ Skipper.”
“I love it,” you say, making the penguin do a little dance in the air. You grab its tiny wing and poke Takuma on the nose with it. “Thank you.”
“Merry early Christmas.” His nose scrunches up a little in thought. “Early Merry Christmas? What’s the right way to say that?”
“Happy early nondenominational holiday of your choice,” you say teasingly, because the public university won’t actually say Christmas despite the decorations all around campus.
It’s a running joke among the entirety of the student body that the massive tree in the arts lobby is not a Christmas tree but a secular modern art installation. There are variations of insane alternate tree names on the school meme accounts. The knockoff JU Barstool page even got in on it, and the student groups hosting the Hanukkah and Kwanzaa celebrations.
Takuma’s answering laugh is bright and it follows you as you cross the room to your desk, pulling a box out of the second drawer. “Your turn.”
“What?” He has the audacity to look confused. “Skip—”
You hold up the penguin. “Objection denied!” The box is light and square, and you watch excitedly as he opens it.
“Oh my god,” he says when he realizes what’s inside. “No way. These are the exact ones—how did you even—?”
You had to do some investigating to figure out the precise guitar strings he uses, but what's your journalism degree for if not this?
“Who knows?” You shrug playfully. “Maybe it’s the psychic powers, maybe it’s the housemate I begged to sneak into your room and find out.”
Kirara was more than willing. “Good thing you came to me and not Itadori,” she laughed. “That kid can’t be subtle to save his life.” Takuma’s strings have been on the brink for a while, and you’re honestly shocked none of them have given out yet.
“They’re perfect,” Takuma laughs, setting the box back on your desk. “I love them. I love you.”
He says it so easily it takes you a moment to realize what just happened. He freezes, mouth opening and closing like he doesn’t know what words he’s looking for.
“I—uh,” he says eloquently. “It’s—I mean. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t mean to say it like that but I did mean it, you don’t have to say it back, if it’s too soon or you—”
Instead of cutting him off verbally, you grab him by the shoulders and press your lips to his. His eyes are wide when you pull back, despite the way he relaxed into the kiss on instinct.
“Hey,” you laugh, one hand trailing up to the back of his neck. “I love you, too.”
The excited smile that spreads across his face is slow and hesitant, like he can’t believe you reciprocate. You pull him back in and feel his grin against your lips, his hands coming to rest at your waist, warm.
“Thank god,” he murmurs between breaths. “Because I keep almost accidentally saying it, and it was gonna happen sooner or later.”
“Least it didn’t happen over the phone,” you grin, your hand skating down his arm and coming to rest in his.
Sheepishly, he admits, “Almost did. Yesterday.” Your laugh is bright and so is his answering one, and you perch your little stuffed penguin atop the guitar strings and tug Takuma toward the door.
“Okay, lover boy. Back to the outside world.”
“Lover boy, huh?” he teases. “Kay, pretty girl.”
“Couple of cheesy ass romantics we are.”
“Mm.” He presses a kiss to your temple, the action so casual and unthinking you want to melt. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The second you step back into the living room, Yuta grabs you by the elbow and presses a Wii remote into your hand.
“Oh, no. Yuta—”
The song’s been chosen for you, and Toge has passed the remote to Maki, who looks like she’d rather die than give a rousing performance of TiK ToK by Ke$ha.
“Well, at least it’s you,” she says. Toge tries to discreetly pull his phone out, but Maki gives him a death glare that could send a grown man to his grave. He nearly drops it in his hurry to shove it back into his pocket.
You snort, patting Maki sympathetically on the shoulder. “Let’s kick ass.”
Three hours later, everyone has somewhat settled down, sprawled across furniture and countertops and the carpeted floor. Yuta’s grabbed an acoustic from the basement and it’s being passed around, goofy Christmas songs overlapping with the still-spinning record player.
You enrolled here with the intention of building a new life, finding a new purpose—new faces, new music, a new place to call home. And you feel like you’ve found it. This is the point of college. You’re surrounded by the best people you’ve ever known, and your heart is practically overflowing with how much you fucking love them all.
After all, your heart is not a finite thing. You’ve just got an endless supply of affection, and you’re not scared of it.
Love is the right word, you think, letting your head fall onto Takuma’s shoulders, legs tucked up beneath you on the couch.
“I love you,” you whisper, just to say it. When he whispers your name, your real name, in the shell of your ear, something in your chest sparks a little. He makes it sound like a song.
“I love you, too.”
directory | prev.
jjk taglist open: just send me a message!
@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32 @gojodickbig @stargazing-with-choso @anonymity-222 @honeyyhuggs
a/n: that’s a wrap on out of my mind! ahh! i loved this one a lot, and it has so much spinoff potential i’m going a little crazy with it—keep an eye out for the megumi spinoff dropping soon. if you want to be alerted when it drops, lmk and i’ll put you on the jjk taglist. also, greta wrote a sukuna spinoff here—go read!
@bitchkay i need you to know your reblog tags give me life and you were fucking RIGHT ON THE MONEY with these developments
i’m not sure if i’ll start writing other fandoms or not—if y’all would want to see attack on titan or blue lock do let me know!
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#takuma ino x reader#takuma ino#ino takuma#ino x reader#megumi fushiguro#yuji itadori#yuta okkotsu#nobara kugisaki#kento nanami#toge inumaki#gojo satoru#jjk ino#college au#jjk au#band au#tsumiki fushiguro#hakari kinji#kirara hoshi#scry writes#maki zenin#aoi todo#kasumi miwa#ieiri shoko#mechamaru#suguru geto#ryomen sukuna#iori utahime
105 notes
·
View notes
Text
Water Lilly (Part 1)
Robb Stark x Frey!Reader (F)
Enemies To lovers
Summary: Y/N Frey (reader) is the youngest daughter of Walder Frey, her mother being just another woman who died in childbirth, here she learns about her union with Robb Stark, King of the North, and she’s more then displeased of the sudden arrangement, but when she looks into his eyes for the first time. Now that’s something.
warnings: alcohol consumption, forced marriage
i fear i don’t know what i’m doing ISNT PROOFREAD also switched out from “You/your “ pronouns and “She/Her”
this was all pre written in my notes w my OC’s name and without “Y/N”/ & or You so i apologise if u do see a random girls name that’s not Y/N or You lmao (unless you’re your actual name) x
——————————————————————————
Y/N stirred awake, blotches of orange and pink sunlight spilling into the room through the curtains, she fluttered her eyelids as she made sense of her surrounds as always, this was the cold, stone room she called home. The bed was cold and stiff, much like the Twins, but the warmth of morning softened the chill in the air. She lay there for a moment, blinking up at the heavy wooden beams on the ceiling, and sighed deeply. She missed Dorne. The dusty winds and golden sands, the gardens that spilled over with sweet-scented blooms, and the warm laughter that lingered in the air, all of it was so different from the grim and graying walls of her father’s keep.
She was born in the river lands in the Twins to her mother, Lady Frey, who unfortunately passed away from childbirth, another forgotten face who lost their battle on the battlefield of the bed. As a youngling, Walder Frey sent her of to Dorne, where her mother had been born and brought up. Though, technically her mother was of Myrish descent, who just happened to be one of those descendants of immigrants who crossed the narrow sea for work. That’s how Y/N’s mothers side ended up in Dorne with no actual dorneish blood. Y/N was mixed, which was uncommon in Westeros, since Essosi’s and Westerosi’s did not mix all the well, and it was worse when Y/N’s features took favour to her mother, atleast she didn’t look as boring or unappetising as her sisters (though Roslin has always been beautiful.)
She sat up, wrapping her arms around herself as a handmaid poked her head through the door. “Good morning, my lady,” the maid greeted with a small bow. “Shall I draw your bath?”
Y/N nodded, her thoughts drifting as the maids bustled around, bringing in buckets of steaming water. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air, oh that was her favourite scent in the morning. Two maids helped her undress, and she sank into the tub, sighing as the warm water soothed her.
As one of the maids gently poured water over her shoulders, Irene spoke, almost to herself. “I was happier in Dorne,” she murmured, trailing her fingers through the water. “I want to go back there someday. To see my family again, to be… me again.” She looked down, smiling wistfully. “I was freer there, you know?”
One of the older maids, Meg, nodded with a sympathetic smile as she rinsed your hair. “Aye, my lady. They say Dorne has a way of bringing out the heart in people. But your father has his reasons for wanting you here.”
“He always has his reasons,” You said softly, her voice edged with resignation. She leaned back, letting the maids scrub the last traces of sleep from her limbs.
“You’re still Frey dearie. You’d never stay in Dorne for too long, though it’s built you, made you smarter.” Meg cheerily said, scrubbing and Y/N’s hair, throwing whatever ointments. Y/N hummed to this, she’s still Frey, the reason why she lingered in Dorne until her thirteenth was quite the random decision.
The other handmaiden, Nora, much younger and atleast 17 said to Y/N, “My lady, there’s talks about Lady Stark coming over here, apparently she’s looking for a bride for her son.” She spoke excitedly, washing at your arms.
“Stark? Northerner? he must be a rugged beast with no sense at all, must be another one of those brutes they breed up there.” You replied quickly, to think that a Stark would want to marry a Frey was also unbelievable, who would want to marry a big wolf?
“Your father’s picking between your sisters, then they have to be confirmed by my Lady Catelyn.” Meg continued, as you let them condition your hair and add some extra oils and essences to your bath time.
You nodded, not that you cared… well you thought it was interesting for one of them to ask for a hand in marriage, “What’s the reason for the marriage?” You asked, looking down in the soapy water.
“The crossing or something like that, they need it for the war.” Meg rattled on, scrubbing the last parts of you before preparing a towel for you.
“Of course.” You muttered, still sleepy from the terrible cold, wet night you all suffered from. “What’s the boy’s name?” You asked, less then cheery.
“Robb Stark? something like that. He’s know as the Young wolf, rides a wolf into battle, turns into one in the night. I think it’s a load of rubbish, but I do hear he’s handsome.” Nora spoke, rattling on about this Robb Stark and what good features he has and how much he resembles his Tully mother.
“Perhaps you have a chance though my lady.” Meg said calmly. As she was drying you off and wrapping yourself in a thick robe. “Lady Y/N,” she began, helping with the braid of her damp hair. “Your father could choose you, this rugged beast of a man could be your escape.”
“And leave you all behind? I doubt it.” You rolled your eyes at their failure at convincing you.
“It’s merely a suggesting. Do take it lightly.” Meg replied, trying to please you.
Y/N allowed the maids to dry her off, the steam from the bath still clinging to her skin, making the chill of the Twins feel sharper. She was dressed in a simple gown of dusky blue wool, plain but fitted, with embroidered vines of silver along the cuffs and neckline. Her hair had been braided into a crown, a few tendrils curling loose around her face, softening her expression as she wrapped herself in a fur cloak. She was ready to brave the drafts that snuck through the old stone walls.
As she made her way through the winding halls, Nora fell into step beside her. They walked slowly, their footsteps echoing off the stone, and Y/N’s voice was almost a whisper as they resumed their conversation.
“So, Lady Stark is truly searching for a wife for her son?” Y/N asked, her voice threaded with curiosity and a hint of skepticism. “Does she think it so simple to find one of us willing to move to the North? Nonetheless with this war, any one of us be part of it?”
Nora gave a soft laugh. “It seems your father thinks it’s simple enough,” she replied, glancing at Y/N. “But yes, word has it she wants a match to strengthen the ties between the North and the Riverlands. They say Robb Stark needs someone who’ll bring loyalty and strength to his cause, but also it’s an agreement for the crossing that will help him win the war”
“Loyalty and strength,” You mused, a smirk playing at your lips. “I wonder if Lady Stark knows much of the Freys.”
Nora chuckled at that, shaking her head. “Perhaps she only hears what she wishes. But you might surprise her, my lady. You’ve a spirit that could suit the North well. They say it takes a certain fire to keep warm in those freezing castles.”
You paused by an arched window, looking out over the river winding far below. The day was clear, and the wind swept in with a sharp bite, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and cold water. You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself. “I wonder if he’s anything like her, Robb Stark,” You murmured, almost to yourself. “I’ve heard Lady Stark is as proud and steadfast as the North itself.”
Perhaps,” Nora replied, leaning against the wall beside you. “But I’ve also heard he has some of his father in him. An honorable man, loyal to a fault, like Eddard Stark. A woman could do worse.”
“Could she?” You asked, turning away from the view with a sigh. “The North is distant, Nora. Cold. Unyielding. I’ve only known heat and light, gardens that stretch as far as you can see. Here, it’s all stone, and there, well, it’s ice, isn’t it?”
Nora gave you a sympathetic look, but before she could reply, a loud, impatient voice interrupted them.
“Y/N!”
They turned to see your half-brother, Merrett Frey, striding toward them, his expression bored and slightly sour. Merrett was a portly man with thin hair and a perpetually furrowed brow, looking as though everything he saw annoyed him.
“Y/N” he repeated, glancing from her to Nora, “Father wants to see you. Now.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line, though you masked your annoyance quickly. “Did he say why?”
Merrett shrugged, clearly uninterested in details. “Something about a match. Said he wants you in the hall at once.”
Y/N exchanged a glance with Nora, a mix of dread and resignation in her eyes. “So it begins,” she muttered under her breath before she straightened, squaring her shoulders.
“Very well, Merrett,” she replied coolly, giving a final look out the window, as though Dorne lay somewhere beyond, waiting for her. “Lead the way.”
And with that, she followed her brother down the winding corridors, a feeling like ice settling over her heart.
The great hall of the Twins was dark and drafty as Irene entered, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow. Walder Frey sat at the high table, hunched over with age, his piercing eyes watching her approach. He gave her a thin, sly smile, a glint of satisfaction in his gaze that made her stomach twist. Around him, a few of her siblings and half-siblings lingered, pretending to be occupied with anything other than her arrival.
She stopped before him, lifting her chin defiantly.
“Y/N,” he began without ceremony, his voice as thin and cutting as the river wind. “I’ve struck a deal with Catelyn Stark, and I’ll hear no argument. You’ll be marrying Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, and doing your duty as a Frey. Our alliance with the Starks strengthens us. You should be proud.” He then took a chug out of his red wine.
You felt your throat tighten, her voice sticking as she forced herself to speak. “Father, surely… surely there’s someone else more suited to this—“
Walder’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll be good because I say so. We’ve not been offered a match like this, not in a long time. A wolf from Winterfell, boy or not, could make you a queen if you play it right. But you’re to do as I command,” he said, his tone turning as cold as steel.
You opened your mouth to protest further, but his stare silenced you. Your voice faded, her gaze lowering. You realized then, painfully, that you had no choice.
“Yes, Father,” she murmured, her voice resigned. “As you wish.”
He grunted, satisfied. “Good girl. Go on, then. I expect you’ll be a dutiful wife.”
Days later, Y/N stood in her chamber at the Twins, a quiet stillness surrounding her as she prepared for the wedding. She thought back to Lady Catelyn’s gaze when they first met sharp and cool. Catelyn had looked her over with an assessing eye, her expression revealing nothing as she took in Y/N’s every detail, from her posture to her expression. Y/N could practically feel the weight of Catelyn’s silent judgment, her assessment of whether Y/N would be fit to stand beside her son in both marriage and war. After what seemed an eternity, Lady Stark had finally given a curt nod, deeming her acceptable.
You slipped into your wedding gown, a simple yet beautiful piece the seamstresses had hurriedly prepared. It was made of silken ivory, with long, elegant sleeves that flowed to your wrists, and a fitted bodice embroidered with delicate silver leaves. The gown was free of unnecessary adornment, simple yet striking, with a modest neckline and a trailing skirt that whispered over the stone floor behind you.
Your hair, braided the southern way, with a shimmering veil falling infront of your face and behind you, covering up the meek expression you held.
“You’re shining.” Nora spoke sadly, knowing this was probably the last time they’d see eachother. Her voice soft and filled with acceptance.
Meg, the older maid who had helped raise you, stepped forward as well, her eyes misty with emotion. “Be strong, my dear. You’re braver than you think.” She reached out and gave your hands a squeeze.
“Il miss you both,” A knot in your stomach tightened, this was really it. You bid your goodbyes before making your way down the hall outside, your father taking your arm with that wretched grin he always had on, the doors opening, the Stark flag hoisted alongside your own one, you didn’t dare look up from your feet, the chill air hitting you immediately as you were clutching at your fathers arms before he let you go and you had met with what looks to be Robb Stark.
You couldn’t really see him well with the veil and you’re sure he couldn’t see your face at all. A moment later after the septa spoke, he removed the veil over your face, and his eyes.. something in it softened, they were pools of dark blue, and you swear you felt your heart thump a little faster. He was rugged yet handsome, with the wolf emblem on him, you saw him quickly look at someone else, rather this other young lady before looking back at you, that lady having a rather solemn look on her face. You knew straight away that was his lover, and this would be even more complex then you had anticipated. You said your vows and shared a kiss, your lips much softer against his chapped ones, but perhaps you felt that warmth again. Maybe this could work, or maybe you were doomed to fail.
——————————————————————————
tags!!! (Tell me if you want to be tagged in pt2)
@samieree @maysileeewrites
#asoiaf#robb stark#robb stark imagines#robb stark x reader#robb stark x y/n#robb stark x frey reader
118 notes
·
View notes