#makes it impossible. and with a dagger at his throat there is only one way this could go. starts with tragedy. ends the same | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ethereance · 5 months ago

Note

*Goes feral over these tags*

-yeah! For the memories it really could go any way. Pouring all of one’s memories of the deceased into their newly transmuted body, in turn forgetting them, leaving a shadow in Lance’s memories which he cannot compare to this new person because he simply does not know them. Yet, yet he feels like he should, that seeing them like this should kill him. But they are both living

-or, or it could be seen as an exchange as the transmuted body creates new memories, he loses some of his. Another way of losing oneself in the process of bringing back the dead. It’s the struggle for everyone else around him, knowing they could lose Lance because of this, and the only way to bring him back is too—

-oooo, I was thinking the hollow route, which starts with him thinking that the transmuted person is off, but the more he talks with other people, the more he realises it was him. He’s the one that’s off. He gave up much more than he realised. The spark, the drive that led him to commit human transmutation in the first place just isn’t there. Maybe it’s relief, that the other person is back, and yet, he hardly even feels that.

-But I very much like the possibility of it leading to a shortened life span. Without his soul, he’s running out of time, running on the fumes of his extinguished soul.

-and all this sacrifice for someone who hates his guts. He could live with it if they were themselves (knowing they hate him, but at least they’re alive!!! Alive to hate him!! It’s better than dead), but the more time spent around said person, the more he can see the cracks in the facade. It seems too good to be true at first for Lance, but the longer spent around them, the more it feels like an act, to them, to him. Maybe he’ll turn a blind eye, a gut feeling telling him not to, but this is them. It has to be. Has to because then what was it all for? But they’re too much like his memories of them, and in the eyes of others, they do not match up to how they perceived them. That’s the thing, this person is going off of how others (Lance) remembered them, they do not have an idea of who they are themselves. They hate this idea of them, this identity that has been forced upon them, but it is all they know. It is everything he gave to them, and yet they struggle to meet it. It’s a walking identity crisis of a person, and the first real thought they have to themselves is that they never asked for this, the second is that they’ll do anything and everything to break against this mould.

They are not themselves.

Any longer blind to it, and it could cost everything.

‘It’s all his fault and he must fix it even if it kills him (a part of him hoping it does)’ <<<< This!!!! He’d feel a duty to his mistakes, to make things right. This is a person (or a monster? Or is it easier to see them as one? See them as a foe wearing the face of a loved one like a meat suit?). A person he moulded to outfit his grief, a person he moulded to fill a void shaped like them. But they don’t fit the mould, and yet they still exist. His doing. Anyone they hurt, he’d probably feel like it was on him, the consequences of his actions. They’re sullying their memory, making it rotten and more people are being dragged into grief.

A part of him wants to hope there’s a part of them still in there. Another part doesn’t.

Because he knows what he has to do, and if it really is them, he’d be losing them all over again.

And as long as part of him thinks this, that there’s still hope they’re them, the longer this goes on. The longer their memory hurts and hurts and hurts, and the more people who will push to let them go. Their soul is long gone from this world.

(He feels their second death would kill him) (and so let it, Lance thinks.)

Thoughts on an au where Earth also has alchemy but it's kinda like one in fma and Lance did the Human Transmutation?? (I don't think kid!Lance would initially be interested in studying nerd shit alchemy but if it's to bring someone he loves? Then yeah. This guy was in show equivalent of nasa/stem program so he can be a pilot, I believe in him)

Very very very much like where you’re going with this Anon. Because oh boy does this give one the opportunity to test Lance to his limits *insert one evil cackle here.* (As someone who loves fmab, but especially fma03 and what that particular version did with its homunculus, *fma spoilers here* and their relationship with identity, and the identity imposed upon them, the very essence of ‘came back wrong’ this could lead to a horrible no good very bad time for Lance should I start writing anything remotely like this. Which I’ve now begun. Whoops.)

I have many thoughts :))) Probably focused way too much on the fma alchemy part, but brace yourself.

So. Humans have alchemy. Maybe they’re naturally born with this ability, perhaps many years ago ancient Alteans arrived in hiding and brought the practice of alchemy with them. It’s just a thing that’s always existed.

Pidge and Matt are the obvious to go for if you follow the fma storyline. They’re the kid geniuses and honestly that sounds like an interesting fic following the pair of them resurrecting their Dad (or perhaps Pidge trying to and Matt only catches on far too late). But. But. But Lance going f*** it we ball and messing around with those mystic mumbo jumbo dark forces he doesn’t get, learning to understand them because he cannot handle a reality where this dead person isn’t around? Yes please. I write self indulgently.

You get it! Lance got into fighter pilot class because there was a spot, meaning he would probably have been the top of cargo class, and you don’t get there without at least trying. Yeah, he’d call it ‘nerdy’, but this guy will put in the effort if it comes to it, and who’s he fooling, he was very much enjoying himself in that M&m episode.

So, if the situation arises, if he loses someone he cares about, and he’s in a world where the solution is there seemingly in the palm of his hand (human transmutation)? Yeah, he’ll put in the hard work, and wouldn’t think twice about the repercussions on him if it means whoever he’s doing this for will be okay. Is it selfish? Is it selfless? Who can say? Lance cares so much for his family, something happening to them would devastate him, so in this kind of au they’ll probably be at the top of the list of resurrection. So I’m thinking:

-His mother (his family is in shambles and a kid Lance wants things to go back to normal). Totally not ripping off fma with this suggestion.

-Rachel (they’re the closest in age, she has a matching jacket with him/has worn a spare version of his jacket so I’m gonna use what little breadcrumbs I have to presume she’s the sibling closest to him. I also like the probably refuted by canon headcanon of them being twins, and how upon returning to earth those two would deal with this new 3 year age gap between them. The ramifications of that time skip and Lance trying to find his own place in his family again just seems interesting to explore but I digress).

-Veronica (have more of a feel for her personality as opposed to characters like Rachel, Marco, and Luis. And Lance was pretty protective of her, despite Veronica being older than him).

-Hunk (could even go the childhood friends route with them). There’s nothing Lance wouldn’t do for his friends, he values them so much.

-Allura if it’s set around the same time as canon is (I’m an allurancer at heart and can’t help adding her to the list. Besides, allura has healed/resurrected him in canon during omega shield. Lance would want to give back, and would probably rationalise it as something she would do, sacrificing herself for someone else. Mr I can’t imagine this world without you is going to great lengths to get her the heck back, even at the cost of himself aka the fic I’m currently writing now Anon what have you done).

-or to pull plots up from canon, it could be Shiro and this is how Kuron (homunculus Shiro) is born, but I kinda see Keith being the one more likely to pull off the human transmutation for this. Maybe they work together on this? It would mean that Shiro and Lance would have to have a stronger bond than they did in canon, but anything is possible in an au (not that they didn’t have small moments, but they weren’t a focus like Keith and Shiro were).

Of course, it doesn’t go to plan at all. Whatsoever.

To what lengths would he go for sacrifice?

It’s all about that equivalent exchange.

-an arm and a leg because this gives him the perfect coping with humour ™ opportunity to say it only cost him an arm and a leg. Plus, perhaps Lance brought this person back out of guilt, ‘if I had been fast enough—‘. His inaction to save them the first time now leaves him without an arm, or without a leg. Or both (he’s not tethering anyone’s soul to armour here, just depends on how much flesh is taken from him to recreate the deceased’s body). Also, also. It correlates to his two positions on Voltron. The very same arm he was, the very same leg.

Also. It’s about those parallels of being just that little bit more like his hero (Shiro) but knowing that the loss of his arm was self inflicted, making him feel like a false hero, a presense, and he couldn’t feel further away from Shiro. He failed to save this person.

-memories of him in the mind of people he cares about (If you’re feeling super mean).

-His memories of the deceased. Now he wants to know why exactly he risked so much to bring back this unknown person back. What do they mean to him?

-him unknowingly giving up his soul so they can have one. And they’re fine and Lance feels like he was the one who came back wrong ™ there is something missing in him and he doesn’t get it.

And then whoever it is comes back.

They get thrown in a healing pod. Lance probably gets berated by whoever is there (Shiro, his mother, Coran) for doing so reckless, so risky without telling anyone. He knew they’d talk him out of this, but it all worked out right? Right?

But this person isn’t right.

Something about their skin is like a reanimated corpse’. It’s a little too pale. And their eyes are a little too dead. But it can all go by the wayside, they can ignore it. Being gone for so long can’t have been easy.

Said person resents who Lance made them be.

He didn’t bring them back at all.

And so we go the route of them having been brought back but is it really them? Or someone else who has been left with Lance’s memory of who they’re meant to be?

A small part of this person cares for Lance as they did, as a son/friend/sibling/significant other, and they hate that.

Maybe they require quintessence to keep them alive. And oh no. Not this again.

Just. Lance learning alchemy for the purpose of saving someone only he doesn’t save them at all. He risks it all to create a person that never asked to exist, that never asked to be who he wants them to be.

He didn’t make them right.

#rambling into the ether #thank you for giving me the chance to ramble more about this #absolutely loved reading those tags #it allows me to mesh my love of fma03 and vld together into a serving of pushing Lance to the brink #sorry Lance :(((#you’re my favourite really #like. that scene of fma03 Ed vs Sloth? haunting. pretty much what I’m basing this on #with him using the remains of his mother to stop Sloth #no idea if anyone reading this has seen this particular version. but that’s the inspiration #anyway #I really do think he’d try to care for them. he got close to Kuron after all even if he thought he was Shiro. but. but this person just #makes it impossible. and with a dagger at his throat there is only one way this could go. starts with tragedy. ends the same #(or maybe they just end up in a cryopod)#Lance can’t let go of the person they were. and they can’t let go of a life they blame him for #yeah. very much turned up the angst for this one. whoops #all the hurt. none of the comfort.#Lance: the blue lion alchemist #maybe Voltron is a group of alchemists. maybe each of them have tried human transmutation for someone. maybe their world’s Zarkon is like #fmab’s Father #stopping tagging before I make like 5 more fma x vld aus. this was just about alchemist!Lance

6 notes · View notes

amore-reads16 · 3 months ago

Text

Liam Mairi x fem reader

Overview- part two

After Y/N has found out the truth about Liam, and the betrayal their entire relationship was built on, she has to navigate her nexts steps very carefully with her life at risk. Meanwhile Liam is overcome with the guilt his actions has made him feel and is trying to get Y/N alone to explain everything even if it means betraying Xaden and the revolution.

Pain and gut wrenching heart ache would be the only emotions you would be feeling if it wasn’t for the blood curdling anger that consumed your body after learning of Liam’s back stabbing betrayal. You didn’t think that you had gotten a second of sleep last night. All you could think of was that monumental moment last night when you realised your whole relationship with Liam had been built on a lie, on a plot, on a command from wingleader Xaden Riorson. When your signet had manifested you had been pulled out of class immediately and sent to an empty room, isolated, until general Sorrengail strode in only to tell you that your signet was powerful and a key asset to the academy. There hadn’t been a healer this gifted since your mother is what the general had told you. Knowledge of this could but you in a vulnerable position- people would come for you, manipulate you, use you. And they did. You were just too naive to see that. Especially when that person had such an innocent, angelic aura about him. ‘An angel sent from god himself’ you used to call him. Used. He was now the devil in your eyes, perhaps Lucifer incarnate- an angel who fell from god’s graces, banished to hell only to seek vengeance on mere mortals like yourself.

Not only had you betrayed yourself, put yourself in harms way, but you had also betrayed general Sorrengail and to think of her wrath was to think of your death. There was only one thought swirling in your mind- either way you are dead. Xaden upholding his promise to let you live would be like believing that the wyvern described in the folk stories your mother used to hide under the loose floor board in your family home was real. Fantasy and impossible. But if you were to go to general Sorrengail and tell her the truth of what had happened she would most definitely kill you for your idiocy. To reiterate, either way you were dead.

You could lie in bed debating your imminent death no longer. It was either kill or be killed. And you sure as hell wasn’t about to leave your brother to fend for himself with no family left in this twisted world. You had a plan. You had been plotting all night. You would make yourself look like a threat to Xaden and his marked group. If you appeared to be strong, a force to be reckoned with then perhaps they would all think twice about crossing you or your brother. And if plan A failed then kill or be killed would have to become your new motto. You wanted Liam dead that was sure in your mind but whether you had the actual ability to do so was another debate completely. You had loved him and to kill him would be to kill a part of your soul. Fuck him you thought. He would regret the day he ever crossed you and you would make his life a living nightmare. That would be a revenge sweeter than death.

Getting out of bed you put on your tightest fighting leathers attaching your sharpest daggers to the pouches you had installed. Slicking your hair back into a long plait you were now ready to fuel your body for the day that was ahead of you. Luckily for you the quadrant was no foreign place to you despite being a first year. Your parents would fly you and Jude here all the time when you were both little and leave you to roam the academy whilst they ‘settled business’. Therefore you had friends here, knew people and had advantages. One of those many advantages was being friends with the kitchen staff and being welcomed whenever you didn’t want to sit in the dining hall and today was one of those days- seeing Liam right now would make you want to run over and slit his pretty little throat whilst you had the chance. So isolation it is.

“Hello Di, what’s for breakfast today” you asked the older woman who was stacking pastries on plates.

“Oh hello dear what are you doing down here this morning, we haven’t seen you for a while because of that boy you’re always hanging around with” Diana replies with a suggestive look and a twinkle in her eyes which just makes your heart crush even more.

“Oh… we had a falling out and I don’t really want to see him right now” you reply with a shrug trying to seem nonchalant. She raises an eyebrow at you. “Fine” you sigh “the thought of his face makes me want to take Rhella and burn this whole fucking place down so I thought it best if I breakfast in here this morning”

The woman just laughs slightly “well dear you are always welcome here. There’s croissants over there and some of that raspberry jam you like in that jar.”

You thank her and quickly eat your breakfast. You have things to do and people to see. And one of those people happens to be Dain Aetos who you catch as he is strolling down the corridor to the training mats.

“Dain! Wait up!” You yell at the boy. He stops and turns in surprise clearly confused as to why you are running after him in the corridors. You and Dain’s signets are classified so you had been advised to keep distance from each other in the public eye to avoid any assumptions being made. But the two of you were used to each others company as you had been training together in private ever since your signet manifested. He could be a pretentious dick at times and you and Liam had spent hours mocking him behind closed doors once you had told him your secret. But despite his arrogance Dain did have the ability to be a nice guy. He was caring and although he was a sucker for the rules he looked out for those he loved, even if he had a controlling way of doing that.

“Cadet Y/LN” he replies in a serious tone “can I help you?” He gives you a wide eyes look as if to say ‘what on earth are you doing talking to me in public?!’

“I’m sorry Dain” you whisper “but I need you to do me a favour and I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if I wasn’t desperate.”

He looks apprehensive and pulls you to a quiet corner after looking around for anyone who may be watching “what is it?” He asks clearly concerned.

“I need you to try and change who I’m fighting today on the mats. I need to fight Bohdi today” you ask, your eyes pleading with a boy who is not known for breaking the rules.

Dain takes in a deep breath before shaking his head “why? Why Bodhi of all people?”

That was a good question. You could have fought Liam and gods you wanted too. But you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep a cool control and the fight would be sure to turn into a blood bath. Garrick was a third year so that was off the cards and you didn’t trust Imogen not to skin you alive just for the fun of it. And as for Xaden well, you know where to pick your fights and you are not too proud to admit he would have you on your ass with a flick of his fingers. So Bodhi it was. “I can’t tell you that right now but I can explain everything later but trust me I need to do this today” you say.

He takes another long look at you debating whether whatever is going on with you is worth bending his moral compass. Eventually he sighs again placing his hands on his hips “okay I can try but why you would want to fight Bohdi, a second year, is beyond me. Have you seen him fight? You know he’s been trained by Riorson?”

You nod slowly but it is clear that your mind won’t be changed and Dain knows this. Even though the two of you have never been close he knows you. He’s known you since you were a child due to your parents importance. And that means he knows how stubborn you can be.

“Okay” he sighs for what feels like the millionth time “just- just don’t get yourself killed Y/LN”

“Don’t worry I won’t” you smirk and then walk away ready for what is about to come.

……………………………………

Walking into the combat room your heart was pounding in your chest so heavily you thought it may be the loudest sound in the room. But you needed to keep your head high, appear unbreakable because that’s what you were- unbreakable. You would not be bent by the hands of Xaden, Liam or anyone for that matter. The hustle of the room was nothing out or the ordinary. Everyone preparing to fight or watch as other people fought- sometimes to their deaths. Striding into the room you felt a pair of eyes on you. Blue eyes to be specific and they were burning a hole into your body. Liam was across the room surrounded by the people who were cloaked last night- Xaden, Garrick, Bohdi and Imogen. Scanning your body, taking in the tight leathers you had decided to adorn this morning, his mouth dropped ever so slightly before he closed it tightly, a grim expression on his face. You noticed it. You noticed everything about him. You always had, even before he had introduced himself that fated day. Liam tuned his head to face Xaden finally removing his eyes off you and you went to stand with your friends. Courtney, Elise and Kat were the only real friends you had made. You were friendly with everyone- hated no one other than now Liam and his group. But those girls you could trust with your life and they could trust theirs with you.

“Wow someone dressed up for the occasion” Kat whistles as you walk to them.

“This wouldn’t have to do with a certain sulking blonde haired boy would it?” Courtney chimes in.

“He’s been on edge ever since we saw him this morning in the dining hall” Elise says “anything happen between you two? With him looking like a kicked puppy and you in those revenge leathers I’m assuming there has been a lovers spat?”

Biting the inside of you cheek you struggle not spilling your entire guts right here to them, but you can’t and you need to hold yourself together, so you just shrug your shoulders sparing another glance at Liam who has gone back to looking at you. You catch his eyes momentarily but it feels longer as if the world had just stopped so the pair of you could gawk at each other. He is pleading with you to let him in. To let him explain. But you won’t let him and he knows this. He can tell by the deadness that is in your eyes. It used to be that when your eyes would meet he could feel your love, your happiness, your excitement but now there was nothing but a cold, hard resentment. You look away first, focusing on your friends once more as you reply to the question just asked “lovers spat is an understatement and as for the leathers… well he’s crossed the wrong woman.”

The girls all share a look and a sly laugh before the matches are called for the day and lo and behold the last match to be read out is yours.

“Y/N Y/LN and Bodhi Duran”

Dain actually pulled through. Thank you Dain you silently praise. Xaden looks shocked. Garrick looks concerned. Imogen looks pleased. And Liam… he looks mortified. They all think that this will be your death you think. They think you are weak but they haven’t seen how you fight. Not properly. But today that will change and they will know just how much of a threat you can be.

You take to the mat avoiding Liam’s obvious gaze as he tries to make you look at him. Tries to make you pull out of the match or tap out early. But that is the last thing you will be doing. He storms off somewhere you don’t know as you don’t grant him the privilege of your attention. No that is reserved for Bodhi as the two of you take to the mat and prepare to fight. He seems apprehensive and keeps on glancing in the direction Liam has just sauntered off in. Strange you think. Shouldn’t he be happy- doesn’t he want you dead? But you can’t think about the questions that swirl around your head instead you think about the facts. They all want you dead. Xaden would have killed you last night if it wasn’t for Liam’s logical interference. You can’t fight with mercy. You must fight with wrath. And so you do. The match begins. People have gathered around your mat in particular. Perhaps because of the determined look you are sporting or maybe because of the interest the fight has gathered from Xaden’s group. But he does not stand by the mat. Xaden is on the outskirts, as normal, his gaze flicking between your fight and what appears to be cadet Sorrengail who is stood with her friends watching Sawyer fight. You and Bodhi circle each other clearly sizing each other up. You have seen Bodhi fight before and he, like Dain argued before, is good. But he has never seen you fight to your full potential. That will change now. You leap with a stealth so surprising you catch Bodhi off guard and you manage to slide your dagger across his arm. A warning. He stumbles slightly before whipping around to face you, a shocked look on his face. Your dagger is still clutched tightly in your hand as Bodhi attacks almost charging at you, but you are quicker. You slide out of his way before elbowing his back sharply, winding him slightly and causing him to fall but he quickly gets back up. He looks pissed now. Good you think. He again attacks but you doge him, this time grabbing his arm and twisting it as you turn yourself under it getting behind him shoving him to the ground with great might, you yourself landing on top of him straddling his back.

You pull at one of the daggers that he carries in the side of his jacket with the hand that is not being used to twist his arm tossing it across the floor causing some bystanders to jump out of the way. Letting go of his arm you shock your audience as you stand up allowing Bodhi to also get back up.

“That’s one” you claim and use his confusion to your benefit as you punch him in the face, hard, pulling another dagger from his front. Doing the same thing as before flinging it to the side you mock the boy who is stood still in pure shock “and now that’s two. Come on Durran I thought this would be a hard fight” you smirk evilly at him. His confused look has now been replaced by anger and embarrassment. Good, that will work to your advantage you decide.

“So that’s how we are playing Y/LN” he asks wiping the blood from his nose.

“This isn’t a game to me” you spit as you pounce again but this time he is ready and grabs your waist tossing you to the floor with ease but you quickly roll out of the fall getting back to your feet with a laugh “that’s all you’ve got?” You laugh which doesn’t bode well for you as he charges with more force.

The two of you land many blows. He slaps you in the face so hard at one point thar you swear you see starts dotting your vision. “FUCK!” Someone yells angrily from the crowd “GET HER OUT OF THERE NOW!” but you can’t place the voice and if it wasn’t for the sheer determination of winning and more importantly surviving fueling you, you think you would have passed out. But power is power you think. And mine will be seen.

“As it should quick one” Rhella chants in your head motivating you to show everyone what you are truly made of. Blood and fire. Shattered love and vengeance.

Your fight has attracted a larger crowd now and whilst you have Bodhi locked in your grasp, another of his daggers in your hand and quickly on the floor, you catch a glimpse of striking blonde hair. Liam is here watching. Assessing. Hating every moment you hope. Bodhi is down to his last dagger and the pair of you are panting on the mat heavily. This has gone on for too long, and he is getting restless, determined more than ever to beat you feeling the humiliation of the loss of his six daggers. His last dagger must be important to him you think. It’s striking and has a blue sparkling gem at its hilt and swirling patters on its handle. It’s a beauty and it will be yours. You must rely on his assumptions and trick him into a trap. So you kick your leg out which he easily grabs. The crowd gasps thinking he has you. He could easily slam your body on the floor and be on top of it within moments. But they have never seen you fight like this before. You never wanted to show what you could really do. It would only make you stand out. And standing out in a place like this only leads to your own death. That’s what your mother had indoctrinated you to believe at a younger age and as you got older you saw her words to be true. Strength is not something positive in this place, it is not praised or rewarded it is only controlled. And you will not be controlled.

Bodhi’s grip is strong but that’s just what you need as you twist your body around bringing your other leg up so quickly he can’t react. He can only take the blow you give him as you kick him in the face hard. It causes you both to fall to the floor but you had been expecting this so are not immobilised by the shock which you use to your advantage as you dive on top of his body quickly pining him down.

“Stop this!” The same voice from before shouts.

“No can do Mairi, she’s got him now” Kat replies.

You pin Bodhi’s arms about his head with one had using all the strength you have whilst you pluck the dagger out of his own hands using your other. Holding the dagger to his throat you glare down at him fiercely.

“TAP OUT” you don’t ask you demand.

Bodhi only huffs causing you to become more angry than before “I said tap out Durran” you command. To which he smirks.

“You’re feistier than you look Y/LN” he tries to bait you “no wonder Liam is obsessed with you” he smirks.

You don’t give in to his taunts and instead your hold on him becomes stronger and the grip of your thoughts around his waist becoming tighter. This pose must look overly sexual you briefly think. This thought is only reinforced as you notice Liam from the corner of your eye storming over to Dain begging him to “get her off him now before I do something I’ll regret”

You note this burst of apparent and unplaced jealousy from him and continue to stare down at Bodhi who still hasn’t tapped out . A sinister smile graces your face as you lean down close to his face. At this he starts to look extremely worried, perhaps that you will kiss him given the lack of space between your faces, a worry that is echoed by Liam as he now bellows your name in a warning “Y/N don’t you dare!”

But at the last minute you swerve your head and place your lips close to Bohdi’s ear. Everyone is now watching, including Xaden whose shadows you can already feel are dying to escape and probably strangle you to death.

“I have a message for your wingleader” you whisper lowly so only Bodhi will hear “tell him that I am not and will not be that easy to kill.”

You pull your face up offering the boy beneath you a fake sweet smile. He looks hauntingly shocked as you use your hand which is gripping his to bang them to the floor twice, tapping him out yourself. “He’s done” you say emotionlessly as you finally get off him, his dagger still in your hand. You waste no time to part through the shocked, still crowd but not before you take one long look at Liam who is seething with anger. He looks somewhere in between disgusted and impressed. You don’t smile or let any emotion slip past the mask you have now decided you need to wear around him. All eyes follow you and you head towards where Xaden is stood but before you reach him you turn around “oh Bodhi” you shout over “you can keep your daggers I only want this one” you say as you hold up the last one you took. The blue stoned beauty. You reach Xaden who peers down at you. Gods he’s tall you think.

“I left you a message. Be sure to listen to it” is all you say as you barge past him and out of the hall ignoring the chatter that has erupted with your departure. Usually people stay a little while after a match to record points and see the leader boards but you couldn’t bear to stand there today- not in the same room as him. You’d had enough for today and if you did say so yourself your point had been proved nine times over . You would be a force to be reckoned with.

Footsteps suddenly sound from behind you in a fast pace causing you to pivot only to see Liam running towards you.

“What. The. Fuck. Y/N” he says.

“What?” You ask in an annoyed tone wanting nothing more than to be away from him.

“What the fuck was that? You might of well have just had sex with him right there the way you were climbing his body” Liam spits.

This takes you back. Out of everything you just did to his friend back there, the positions you put him in wasn’t what you thought Liam would be the most pissed about. Humiliating his friend by removing every single weapon he had on him? Sure. Punching him so hard you heard his nose break? That would be understandable. Spitting the blood that had flooded your mouth after he slapped you so hard you felt your tooth unhinge itself in his face? For sure that was pretty gross and disgusting on your part. But straddling Bohdi and climbing his body like a tree was not what you thought you’d be discussing with Liam in these halls.

“Are you jealous?” You ask after a long moment of silence “because if you are you have no right to be. We sure as hell aren’t together after what happened last night. After you stabbed me in the back and sold my secrets to your bum buddy Riorson” you say to which Liam sighs angrily at as he tightens his hands into fists.

“Bum buddy?” He mumbles “you’re a child” he shakes his head but not in a playful way like he normally would have done with you. No he is pissed. “I have every right to be jealous. You mounted his body in front of everyone in those tight leathers, which by the way haven’t gone unnoticed! And then you pin his arms above his head? What the fuck is actually wrong with you?” Liam is panting now clearly getting more angry the more he relives what just happened between you and one of his closest friends.

“Me!” You shout “what is wrong with ME! How on earth you are twisting a situation which has only been caused by your betrayal is beyond me! Gods Liam you are so self centred. Do you really fucking think that I have any interest in Bohdi when I can’t even stand the fucking sight of you?” You yell at him and his face flinches with pain.

“Well maybe you could if you would just let me-“

“Explain?” You click your tongue and shake your head “there’s nothing to explain Liam . You are what you did- a lying, treacherous asshole and I will never see you as anything more than a backstabbing prick. I never want to see you again, I don’t ever want to hear your voice again, I never want to see your smile or hear you laugh! Don’t you understand Liam? You’ve broken me and I’m sorry if you don’t like the outcome of that but that’s too damn bad. ” you say before quickly pivoting away not allowing him to utter another word.

You hurry to your room locking yourself in taking a deep breath as you try to process everything that just happened. There is no point trying to understand Liam, you think, this is a wild game of survival. And hopefully you have just proven that you will not be the prey.

#liam mairi x reader #fourth wing #xaden riorson #violet sorrengail #liam mairi #bodhi durran #garrick tavis #imogen temult #dain aetos #dragons #fighting #tension #enemies to lovers #betrayal

69 notes · View notes

nonbinaryeye · 4 months ago

Text

Forced to Take a Break

Written for @gortash-week

Day 4 - Relax

Enver Gortash is a busy man; he has no time to relax. Not of his own free will at least. Sometimes the circumstances force him though.

Read on AO3

...

His pocket watch is neatly tucked in his breast pocket. He assembled all the fragile metal parts, all the little cogs inside them, himself. Yet they keep betraying him over and over, again and again, by ticking a time away a bit too fast for his liking. He thought he had more time. He always thinks he has more time and no matter if it is true or not, he also always needs more time. Sometimes he is willing to cheat and buy it through any accessible means. Yet he is always surprised when the hour to pay the price arrives.

Gortash does not remember falling unconscious. He was working late, even later into the night than he usually does. There are so many changes he needs to make as the newest Director of Foundry and it is always so hard to find people who are not only loyal but also at least a bit competent. At one point he was doing the last revision of the newest instructions for Bane’s faithful – servants to himself as much as to their Dark Lord – and the next one he finds himself in a dream-like hastened state. He is still vaguely aware of everything happening around him but the reality seems to be several layers of thick fog away. It would be so easy to fully forget of it, if it had not been for the familiar voice cutting right through like a dagger through flesh.

“Has someone finally managed to kill you or has the tyrant forgotten again that a body requires sleep?” The Dark Urge chuckles, tone filled with playful teasing reserved just for their Banite ally. They appear to stand right behind his chair. Gortash has not heard any steps nor doors or windows being opened. But even in a much more awake or straight out vigilant state it is almost impossible to notice them before they themselves wish to be noticed.

“For someone who criticised where I can fall asleep, your choices do not seem to be that much more comfortable…”

You can hardly compare falling asleep on the desk to taking naps in piles of viscera or freshly dug graves. Gortash attempts to scoff at them and slowly rise so he can with no doubt see them baring their deadly sharp teeth in amusement. But he cannot.

His limbs feel so heavy. Unmoving. No matter how hard he tries or how much he wills for them to raise up or at least twitch, his body is refusing to respond. Gone on a strike for the mistreatment he has put it through. No matter the effort he puts into it, no coherent sound comes out of his mouth. His tongue does not feel like part of his body right now, it is just a dead slug lying in his mouth uselessly.

“Enver…?” they do not let any sign of worry slip into their voice but the fact that they called him by his first name is proof enough of their concern on its own. As much as Gortash has a bit of complicated feelings towards his first name he enjoys the way they roll it on their tongue. But his mind is as slowed down as the rest of the body and he struggles to put his thoughts together properly, draw some conclusion from their worry, his name on their lips and how he is feeling about it.

Gortash senses them moving closer. The Dark Urge places their fingers on his neck to the side of his windpipe to check his pulse over his carotid artery. The deadly claws, so often covered in blood, so used to ripping throats, touch him gently and linger over him much longer than they need to. Gortash fails again trying to turn his head, wondering what expression might be on their face right now. What is going through their head?

“Hmph, this thing again,” the clinging sound of empty glass bottles meeting each other lets him know they have noticed the used-up speed potions. “You should be more careful with this stuff. It is not good for you,” they lecture him because they can never understand, they refuse to consider that sometimes his work cannot be postponed and he needs to push through to finish what he is doing. So sometimes he needs a little boost of energy.

The Dark Urge leans to his ear. He can feel the tingle of their icy cold breath – a feature of his dragonborn heritage. Their tongue must be almost licking his earlobe as he speaks.

“You would be so easy to kill like this,” morbid flirtation sneaks into their tone as their hand is placed on his throat again in suggestion of a longitudinal cut through his trachea. One movement, easy and natural for their sharp claws to make, and he would be dead.

That would not be very satisfying though, would it? To kill me like this? Gortash does not answer as he still cannot force his tongue to work. At this point even he recognizes he maybe should feel a sparkle of fear, being so helpless in the presence of a predator, but all his senses are too numb. Besides he knows them well enough to be able to tell when they mean their threats.

“What should I do with you like this, Enver?” they sigh and Gortash is not quite certain what they mean. This is their cue to leave. Maybe laugh at him for it later during their next meeting, start another pointless discussion about his habits and that he should be more careful about his substance abuse. To which he will point out that no one but them can sneak up on him unharmed by all his various traps and that he really did not intend to fall hastened and this is a really rare one-time occurrence which they unfortunately get to witness.

But they stay. He feels their arms wrapping around his body in an embrace and he does not realise what they are planning to do till he feels himself being picked up. He is not a lightest man and his muscles and limbs are uncooperative. Dead weight. Yet they do not seem to struggle at slightless in handling him. It should have not come as a surprise. They must have enough of experience in carrying unresponsive bodies around.

He instinctively tries to protest against being manhandled but there is nothing he can do nor say to stop them. Completely at the mercy of a bloodthirsty killer. They can choose to do with him whatever they desire.

And what they seem to desire to do is to carry him and put him in bed. He feels the silken sheets of his bedding welcome his immobile limbs as the Dark Urge lays him down. There is a pause and Gortash starts to suspect they are done with him, that maybe they left and his mind starts slipping to a proper darkness before he feels their hands on his body yet again. Tugging at his shoes, slipping a coat of his shoulder, rolling him around and undressing him before they wrap him under covers.

Maybe he should feel embarrassed over his ally seeing him like this. Helpless. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Weak. But only emotion embracing him and filling his mind is satisfaction, a strange pride because who else can say to have a murder incarnate tugging him gently in a bed.

“Your work will not run away from you, unlike mine,” they chuckle and Gortash would like to object. So what if the victim they set their mind to kill slips through their claws one evening. The Dark Urge could just get them the next one. There is no place in Baldur’s Gate to hide away from them. They do not really have to worry about work running from them. Gortash, on the other hand, is the one who needs to be always alert, every time he blinks there is a chance he missed some fleeing chance to further his goals.

Of course he says none of those things as he still cannot speak nor move and in the end there would be no point to saying any of this even if he could. Because he can imagine them being just as amused by his worry. They would argue that he is doing well enough, his achievement and their speed is impressive enough. Yes, he knows he is doing well but he could still be doing better. He has no time for their foolish suggestions that he should take more breaks from time to time. That it might even do him good.

“Get some rest for that brilliant mind of yours,” the Dark Urge brushes his hair off his face, their voice uncharacteristically gentle, filled with a suggestion of fondness he cannot properly decipher for now. “Sleep well, my tyrant,” their claw lingers on his face longer than necessary with gentleness that he did not believe they might be capable of. It feels right, and as crazy as such a thought must be, it feels safe. Something in Gortash yearns to reach for it, reach for them and pull them closer.

Luckily, he is still trapped in hastened state and so no matter how much he longs for their touch, how much he desires embrace of the deadliest assassin, his hands will not move and his mouth will not speak and even his eyelids remain shut.

He wonders if they are aware he can still hear them or if they think they are talking just to themselves. It already feels like a dream. He wonders how much of their action will he remember in his conscious state in the morning and how trustworthy he will find his own mind and memory.

Gortash hears them no more and that is as good indicator as any that they are probably gone for good. He has a lot of things to think about now but it is still as if he has forgotten even how to think. He needs to hold this feeling while it is still lingering in the room before it disappears with morning light. He needs to analyse and draw conclusions and make use of it. But the more he is trying to get his brain matter to work the quicker the final threads of consciousness seem to be slipping away from him. Till at last it all goes to black and he is embraced by peaceful darkness of dreamless sleep bringing him much needed rest.

#I just realised that so far all my Gortash week entries unintentionally seem to be chronological order #gortashweek #bg3 #durgetash #bg3 fanfiction #enver gortash #dark urge #mEye fanfic

42 notes · View notes

loaksky · 2 years ago

Text

— 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘸𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦

the lowdown — the one where you and lo'ak are words apart, but not a thing can come between you.

the who — lo'ak x fem human!reader

the word count — 5.2k (could i even still call this a drabble i–)

the tags & warnings — perhaps some language, slight idiots-to-lovers (the signs are there and lo'ak is a dummy), reader is really sweet and just loves life hehe, arguably too much tension lmaooo

the notes — based off of this request! read more notes at the end!

masterlist

Something in the forest smells…off.

Against better judgment, Lo’ak tails it, ears twitching as he creeps through overgrown leaves and rustling foliage. His hand is on the hilt of his knife, eyes keen as he searches high and low for any shift or change in the terse atmosphere.

He’d wandered off, a little too far from where his father warned him the boundary lied, but there was a scent that clung to the trees, that slunk around his willowy figure and it belonged to no creature in the forests of Pandora.

It’s quiet, almost eerily so, the only sounds in the dense habitat is the pad of his feet against the grass and the chirping and croaking of the animals hidden among the trunks of trees and stems of flowers.

It’s like they’re watching, waiting, and Lo’ak’s heart begins to thud nervously in his chest as the scent strengthens like a haze.

I could turn back now, he reasons with himself. Because whatever lies ahead could be his very demise. It’d be a horrid way to go, alone and in the thickening brush.

But then he hears it. A voice so delicate and lilting, and like a sailor hooked by a siren’s call, he follows it, deeper and deeper. The trees begin to twine closer to each other, roots sprawling and the pathway overgrown.

Pandora is beginning to glow, the only indication that eclipse is drawing near now that the canopy of leaves overhead knit so close together, the sun can’t cut through to the ground.

It’s singing, he realizes. The voice is, but he can’t make out the words, a slurry of syllables and smooth melody that makes his eyebrows dip.

As he draws nearer, the voice becomes clearer and he’s stricken when the words he makes out aren’t in Na’vi. Like a predator hunting prey, Lo’ak crouches and moves the brush to the side to peer into the clearing, breath catching in his throat when he finds you, a peculiar little thing who sings as you hunch over something in your lap.

You’re angled away from him, but the sleeveless shirt you’re wearing shows earthy skin, so far removed from the blue Lo’ak’s been accustomed to seeing. The curls of your hair are unruly, piled high as neatly as you can to keep it out of your face.

His eyes are wide, finding a human so far from the camp established near his home. There’s something about how relaxed you are, your grace as you fiddle and hum like there aren’t dozens of predators on the prowl who could pounce at any moment, Lo’ak included. You can’t be with the enemy, it’s impossible, you’re too unaware and too soft.

And he can’t peel his eyes away, fingers wrapped around the handle of his dagger loosening as he watches you with bated breath.

After another moment of fiddling, you cheer quietly, triumphantly, as you hold up what you’d been tinkering with.

Lo’ak’s only seen one once before, one of those little film cameras that develop instantly. You point it towards a patch of grass and a split second of flash goes off before the mechanical whirring of the film feeding from the camera echos through the clearing.

It’s only when he moves forward for a better look that his rustling catches your attention. Your head snaps up, towards his direction and you’re brushing the strands of stubborn hair behind your ears as your eyes, big and round, survey the area.

“Hello?”

Lo’ak’s gaze flits over every curve of your face, eyes dipping to take in the swell of your cheeks, the expanse of your neck and the shoddy beadwork fastened around your throat.

He sizes you up as you stand to your feet, ratty gingham of your yellowed skirt swishing around your ankles.

“Hello?” you try again, hand coming up to a holster slung across your chest.

You unsheathe a knife so tiny, Lo’ak can’t help but snort out a laugh and your steps stutter when you make out the familiar blue whorls behind the flora.

Lo’ak’s severely underestimated his hiding spot, spine going rigid when he notices the way your eyes grow as big as saucers. He’s been found out and your jaw nearly unhinges.

“Whoa,” you whisper, sheathing the knife as you take a tentative step towards Lo’ak’s post.

He’s sure you can hear the way his heart thuds against the cage of his chest, know that he’s caught like a hideous game of cat and mouse.

Your movements are slow, calculated, as if anything sudden will spook Lo’ak away. But he’s rooted to his spot, eyes unblinking as he watches you close in on him. He waits, almost with anticipation as your fingers close around the leaf, a hairsbreadth from his nose, and move it out of the way to get a good look at his face.

For what seems like melding moments, you both are still, eyes searching and bodies frozen.

“Hi,” you squeak, throat bobbing.

Lo’ak is huge, shoulders broad and legs long as he squats before you. His lean muscles flex as he shifts in his spot, eyebrows furrowing a fraction as he takes you in before him.

You’ve got a flower stem tucked behind your other ear and he notes that your cheeks are red. But what’s more peculiar is the fact that you have no oxygen mask, seemingly breathing the dense air with ease.

“Hi,” he warbles, voice catching as you take another step forward.

One of your hands is outstretched, like you’re reaching to touch him, but like a flash of lightning in the sky, his fist closes around your wrist to stop you, jostling you with narrowed eyes. The other hand has pulled his dagger from his hip and the tip, razor sharp, is aimed towards your trachea.

“Sorry,” you breathe, swallowing down the knot in your throat. “I’ve never…”

You’re breathless, absolutely in awe at the boy who crouches before you.

You’d spent the latter half of your existence on Pandora watching the Na’vi from afar, opting instead to center your time and attention to the sprawling habitat of the forest. For years you documented the change in weather, the flora, the fauna. More seldom, you’d jot down the brief observations of the Na’vi you encountered, three instances you can count on your fingers.

You’d been enraptured with the moon, your home away from home. But as the memories of the dingy planet, decaying and falling to the greed of humans, continue to dull, all you seem to recall is the lush jungle.

“Who are you?” Lo’ak’s tone is accusatory. “What are you doing here?”

You��re stunned, his voice seemingly rumbling from deep within his chest. You wonder if his English is from a language school, but others from the small commune said that the last institution closed decades ago after an attack.

“________,” you introduce quietly, shakily, as the weapon pointed towards your throat doesn’t relent. “My name is ________.”

“Are you with the RDA?”

He has to be sure, watches every inch of your face for a tell.

Instead you look horrified at the idea.

“God no,” you shudder. “I would never.”

He lowers his knife, but doesn’t lose his edge.

“You can breathe without a mask,” he observes. “How?”

You’re still tense, frozen as you watch Lo’ak rise to his feet to tower over you. You barely reach his diaphragm and a ripple of fear slinks down your spine knowing that Lo’ak could crush you with no hesitation.

“Lab rat,” you admit, almost shamefully.

Before Lo’ak even knows what you’re doing, you’re lifting up the hem of your shirt to reveal a raised scar that travels across your abdomen, from bottom rib to bottom rib. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be looking at, just stares down at you as your pointer finger brushes over the fused flesh.

“The atmosphere in Pandora has enough oxygen for the average human to survive, but that survival factor is squashed by the amount of carbon dioxide in the air,” you say simply, like you’re reciting a fact. “Na’vi have an extra organ that acts as a filter to—”

You stop talking when Lo’ak blinks at you and you feel sheepish over your word vomit.

“Well…” you divert.

“Well what?”

“What about you?” you ask, scratching the back of your head.

“What about me?” Lo’ak asks uncomfortably, eyes flitting as he takes in the way you seem to light up.

You are so starkly out of place, but something in the way the forest melts around you makes him feel like this is where you belong.

“What is your name?” you ask, tilting your head.

He hesitates for a moment, but you look hopeful, excited.

He takes a step back, still wary despite dwarfing you.

“Lo’ak,” he answers skeptically.

You test the name on your lips, beaming up at him when he nods. When you advance upon him again, he doesn’t retreat, just reluctantly lets you circle his towering figure with wide eyes.

“You’re the first Na’vi I’ve seen up close,” you admit softly.

There’s adoration in your voice that makes Lo’ak shiver.

“You’re in the middle of nowhere,” he observes. “We don’t venture out this far.”

“Except for you,” you amend with a hum.

He’s used to being the exception, the sore thumb. His father always reminds him as such whenever he steps out of line, but coming from you, something in the way you acknowledge makes him feel like you can see right through him.

“Yeah, I guess,” he agrees.

Your hand reaches out to him, but you pause, finding his gaze unrelenting. He watches your every move.

“Can I touch you?” you ask gently.

“I mean…sure? I guess?” he forces out, throat suddenly hoarse.

Your palm presses into the smooth expanse of his abdomen and his stomach caves with a deep breath at the feeling of your fingertips brushing against his skin.

You grab his hands, turning them so that they’re palms up, and if possible, your eyes are comically larger than life when you count his five fingers.

“You have–”

He snatches his hand away from you, expression souring as he tucks them behind his back.

“I get it,” he gruffs. “It’s weird—”

You hold your hand out to him, so much smaller in comparison to his and offer him a weak smile.

“No,” you assure him softly. “It’s okay.”

He’s opening his mouth to say something, but the comm crackles to life in his ear and his father’s voice is grainy.

“Lo’ak, do you copy?”

He takes in a deep breath, pressing the button to speak into the air.

“Yes.”

“It’s getting dark,” is his father’s way of apologizing. “Be home soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Your eyes are still pinned to him as he straightens, taking another step back from you the survey the scene before him.

“Where are you…” your voice trails off as you watch him retreat.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he warns you.

“But—”

“I’ll kill you.”

You don’t even flinch, climbing over the same branches and ducking over the same vines he does so with ease as he makes for the same path he’d taken there.

“Wait, Lo’ak!” you call out as he picks up the pace, unable to keep up with his hulking strides. “Will I see you again?”

He throws you a look over his shoulder, like you shouldn’t be so noisy, and you shrink, watching his form diminish in the glowing forest.

You count almost nine eclipses without Lo’ak, something heavy like river stones anchored to the pit of your stomach. You hadn’t been able to sleep much since your encounter with him, so fascinated with the glow of his eyes, the stripes of his skin, his extra finger.

He was all you could sketch in your journal, all you could write about, think about. After years and years of quiet, distant observation, of hearsay from the villagers, you’d finally seen a Na’vi, up close and personal, and you were aching to see him again.

You don’t know if Eywa had heard you, if she pitied your poor soul, but on the tenth morning, you sit in the same clearing when you hear rustling in the brush. It comes from the same little patch it had last time you were here alone, and when your gaze flits to the swaying foliage, you yelp when you find that Lo’ak hadn’t even tried to hide this time.

The smile that spreads across your face is sunny, blinding, as you climb to your feet and close the distance between the two of you.

“You’re back,” you observe happily, peering at him from head to toe, then you giggle. “I can’t believe you’re back.”

You’re looking at him like you’re looking for anything out of place since you’d last seen him and it makes him incredibly warm under such a brilliant gaze. When the pads of your fingers glide from his wrist to forearm, like you can’t believe he’s really standing right in front of you again, his tail involuntarily swishes.

“I thought you said Na’vi don’t really come out this far,” you tell him, taking a step away from him.

He finally breathes the air he’d been holding in his lungs.

“We don’t,” he agrees. “Except for me.”

Your grin widens, if possible, at the subtle implication that maybe he’d been thinking about meeting you as much as you thought about meeting him.

“Well…” you trail off, turning on your heel so that he doesn’t see the hope in your expression. “Is there a reason why you returned? Last time we saw each other you told me you’d kill me if I said anything.”

“Have you?” he retorts, unmoving from his spot.

“Never,” you say quietly. “Wanna keep you to myself.”

The words stun Lo’ak, make something twist in his stomach as you turn back around to face him.

“Where’s your family?” he pries, the courage the ask you all the questions that had culminated over the past week finally teeming at the brim.

“Don’t have much left,” you answer honestly, openly. “A lot of them didn’t survive the journey here. I only have my sister and my mother.”

Something akin to sympathy squeezes in his chest as he watches the way you fidget.

“And your village,” he presses. “Who all is there?”

“My own and four other families,” you reveal. “It’s not much, but we don’t really need a lot when we have such a vast forest to survive off of.”

He doesn’t know what to do with the information, still in awe that humans so far removed from the RDA and the scientists he’d grown up knowing take up residence in the very jungle he thought he knew like the back of his hand.

“Can they breathe like you?” he asks bluntly.

You blow out a small laugh, seemingly finding the interrogation amusing rather than intimidating if the way that you walk away from Lo’ak is anything to go by.

“No,” you tell him, returning to your station in the middle of the clearing.

You’ve got a blanket spread neatly on the grass, stacks of books and a rucksack pinning each corner down to keep the fabric semi-taut. You’d been reading through a book about the herbs on Pandora, the page still flipped to a beautiful bundle of petals and stems that resemble Earth’s baby’s breath.

You don’t realize that Lo’ak has followed you, standing half a meter away from your setting to observe your belongings, so tiny in comparison to the things back at camp. He pauses, weary like he’s crossing a threshold, but you lean forward, fingers grabbing his own to yank him gently.

He’s toppling onto the woven blanket, shifting comfortably like a baby touching grass for the first time when he feels the odd texture against his skin.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admit to him, leaning back on your haunches as you shamelessly stare at him with that soft smile on your face.

“I was debating,” he whispers under his breath, eyes still wandering.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you remark simply, hands folded in your lap. “The first time around.”

“I could say the same for you,” he responds, gaze finally settling on your own.

You breathe another laugh, taking his hand in yours to compare the difference.

“Don’t think I could’ve even I tried,” you breathe, and something eases in Lo’ak at your acknowledgment that he has the upper hand.

But he doesn’t think he could hurt you. He wouldn’t. Not when you’re so soft and curious, and especially not when you insinuate that you’ve been waiting for him patiently.

“What do you do here, ________?” he asks you, genuine interest as he folds one long leg under the other to settled before you.

You shrug.

“Research, read, live,” you answer. “We left Earth with no real agenda. Just wanted to live a better life.”

Lo’ak skims your features.

“You like to swim?” he asks you, and you perk up.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Love it.”

“Good,” he says. “I know a place.”

The two of you become like polar opposites of a magnetic field, so drawn to the other, not a single thing could drive a wedge between the two of you.

Lo’ak can’t help it, not when you talk a million miles a minute about your love for life, for Pandora. Not when you first break the barrier and sit in his lap with a book, reading him your favorite children’s stories or blurbs that accompany the research materials you’d crafted from years of exploring the moon.

And he can’t just chalk it up to being able to see his home from your perspective, but being able to see the wonder that oozes from you when you see it from his. How in awe you are when he carries you on his back to climb the looming trees, seeing above the canopy of leaves for the first time since you touched down on the lush terrain. Or when you run your fingers over the spines of fish during your swims in the nearby streams, when you coo at the cubs of creatures that would otherwise devour you whole.

It doesn’t help that you take your life by the reigns, seemingly invincible after you divulge the entire story behind your scar. To know that they’d experimented on you, grown artificial organs, used you as a trial and then left you for dead after a seemingly failed test run. You live your life to the fullest, find no fear, but still tread with compassion.

You beguile Lo’ak, have him wrapped around your finger as the two of you teeter over a very fine line.

And your village sees it. No one has to utter a word to know that something, someone, has been occupying your attention these last few weeks. Humans are few and far in between, so they turn the other cheek, waiting until you feel comfortable enough to tell them that a certain native has captured your heart.

Lo’ak, on the other hand, toes his friendship with you with great caution. He slips through the cracks undetected, crossing the forest to see you when he can. He keeps it hush, locked tight like a vault, but his family knows better. Knows that if he’s not audacious in the way he’s causing trouble, he’s still stirring it up somehow.

Neteyam pounces first.

“Where are you going?” he asks, fingers tight around his younger brother’s shoulders.

“Out,” Lo’ak answers simply.

“Out?” Neteyam mocks, expression flat like he doesn’t believe him.

“Yes, out,” he reiterates, pulling his shoulder from his grasp. “I’ll be back.”

He’s paranoid on the way to you, taking a few detours in the case that his brother, the ever diligent and doting eldest, is tailing him. It weighs heavy on his mind even when he finally makes it to your corner of the jungle unfound.

“Does your village still not know about me?” he asks suddenly, one of the first words he’d uttered since settling behind you, large hands braiding your hair gently as you read quietly to yourself.

You look up from your book, spine straightening.

“No,” you answer honestly. “You told me not to and I honor your wishes.”

He’s silent for a moment before asking another question.

“How would they react?” he asks, starting another braid in hopes to quell the tremor in his fingers. “If they knew about me? About, you know…”

“I think they’d love you,” you say honestly. “Especially if they know you like I do.”

He’s putty in your hands and you don’t even know it. It makes his heart ache and stomach tie because he’s not so sure he could say the same. If his family, or his village, would welcome you with open arms like you say yours would.

“Why?” you ask, turning to face him.

He simply shrugs, doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s brimming with feeling. That the weeks, months he’s spent intermittently spending time with you makes him feel the most alive he has in years. And he especially doesn’t know how to tell you that even if he’s scared shitless, a part of him wants to try, wants to be with you if you’ll have him.

But he doesn’t know what your life is like back at your camp, doesn’t know if you have someone waiting for you. And what would his siblings think? His parents, if he told them he was falling for a—

“Would you like to?” you ask him, hand coming up to touch his face. “To meet them?”

“I mean…” he trails off, scratching the back of his neck. “Could be nice to, you know, see where you—”

You’re staring at him so intently, he stops mid-sentence.

“But I couldn’t return the favor,” he says suddenly, biting the inside of his cheek as he watches the way your expression screws up in confusion.

“What do you mean?” you ask, taking his fidgeting fingers in yours.

“I wouldn’t be able to take you to meet my village,” he says in one breath. “It’s too risky. They’re not really fond of humans and—”

You squeeze his hands, a sad smile gracing your lips that makes his heart wrench.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, Lo’ak,” you tell him. “I know what the dynamics are like, and rightfully so. Humans have taken a lot from you, from the people. It would be disrespectful to expect them to welcome me.”

He nearly melts, doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve someone like you in his life.

“You’re too good,” he whispers.

“When you’re ready,” you say softly. “If you’re ready, just tell me.”

Neither of you bring up his clan or your village again after that, just enjoy the moments that you spend with each other in the glittering jungle.

“Smile!” you coo, film camera held in both hands as you nestle back against his chest and aim the lens towards your huddled figures.

The motors whir and while you wait for the photograph to develop, you’re turning to face him. Your cheeks warm when you find that he’s already staring down at you, golden eyes soft and lips slightly parted.

“Have you ever listened to the radio?” you ask him, pinching the photo between your fingers to fan it through the air.

“Radio?” he parrots, pulling himself from his reverie.

“Yeah, it plays music,” you tell him. “Sometimes it broadcasts the news, but obviously we don’t get signal here.”

“News?” Lo’ak’s expression is pinched in confusion as you pull away from him and your laugh flutters through the air.

Your skirt pools around your figure when you crouch to rummage through your bag, items clinking and clunking together as you search for the battery-operated music player you smuggled from your friend’s family in the village.

“Here!” you call excitedly, pulling the red and blue player from where it's buried under one of your dozens of leaflets and rolls of film.

You pop the back open to make sure the batteries are still intact, the radiant grin spread across your full lips widening when you fiddle with the buttons and it creaks to life.

The tinny sound of Phil Collins starts playing from the weak little speaker, but you set it on top of a fallen tree trunk and take Lo’ak’s hands in yours.

“Let’s dance,” you giggle, moving in time to the beat of his drums.

“Wait, wait,” Lo’ak calls, embarrassed. “I don’t really…”

“Oh, come on,” you prod, arms gliding through the air as your skirt twirls around you in tandem with the rhythm.

Lo’ak is mesmerized, swallowing down the knot in his throat as you dance like it’s the only thing you’ve ever done. Your movements are fluid, amateur, but makes his heart thrum violently nonetheless.

You sing along with the words, voice smooth and lilting as your feet pad against the grass.

The scene before him is picturesque against the eclipsing sun, your skin warm and dewy under the growing glow of the forest’s glimmer. He itches to capture this moment, freeze it in the frame of a photograph for his eyes only. So when your face arches skyward and you continue singing along with the quiet music, Lo’ak picks up your camera and snaps a clumsy picture.

“Hey!” you burst out laughing, rushing towards him just as the photo begins feeding out of the camera.

“What?” he whispers innocently, jerking the photo from your grasp when you try to reach for it.

“Stop,” you whine. “What if I look stupid?”

“You could never,” he hums, tucking the photograph in his woven satchel.

He knows there no going back from this, going back from you. The night you watch the stars seals his fate.

“There she is,” you croon triumphantly, pointing to the glowing orb.

You and Lo’ak are nestled high above in one of the tree branches. You’re bundled against him, your back to his chest with the warmth of his skin cocooning you as you both watch the slowly shifting sky.

“My dad came from a star,” he says after a pregnant pause, one that makes you lean your head back against his shoulder and play with the fingers splayed across your stomach.

“Really?” you whisper, watching as something flits across the midnight sky.

“Yeah,” he chuffs, other hand pointing eastward. “That one, right there.”

You squint, eyes straining as you try to make out the twinkling blurb.

“What’s he like?” you ask, knuckling the fatigue from your eyes.

“Who?” Lo’ak hums. “My dad?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He must be pretty great if he raised someone like you.”

Lo’ak’s at a loss for words, can't admit that while he thinks his dad’s incredible, that all he wants in life is to be like him, he’s not sure if his father feels quite the same. If the disappointment in his gaze and the stone in his voice is anything to go by every time Lo’ak fucks up and gets lectured, he could argue that his father’s efforts to rear a good man have gone in vain.

“Something like that,” he opts to say, cheek nuzzling against yours as you shift further into his hold.

“And your sisters?” you prod, pinkie linking with his.

He’s silent for a moment before a small smile stretches across his lips.

“I think they’d like you,” he says sincerely. “You remind me of both of them, actually, so I think that if you were to ever meet them, they’d love you.”

Like I do, he wants to add.

You hum in response and he can tell you’re getting tired with the way you’ve fallen slack and completely relaxed against him.

“And…your mom?” Your words are coming out slowly, like you’re fighting against sleep and losing.

“She’s amazing,” he says softly. “She’s sacrificed a lot and–”

A long, steady puff of air blows from your nose and Lo’ak shifts a little to see that your eyes have fluttered closed and you’ve pulled the shawl you’d brought with you tighter around your shoulders.

Lo’ak’s always felt that lingering feeling that you could feel it, too. You had to. You wouldn’t wait for him before every eclipse, let him hold you, let him treat you like he loves you if you didn’t.

He gets his answer on a random afternoon in your clearing.

You had bound a thin journal, scrawled your names on it, and now you were in the middle of pasting a picture of you and Lo’ak in the stream to the section you titled Adventures.

“Have you ever been in love?” Lo’ak asks crassly, then clears this throat, backtracking a little to save face. “Like on Earth…or…”

“I was ten when I left home,” you chuckle, flipping to a fresh page.

You start setting leaves and petals against the paper, arranging photographs of you and Lo’ak on various excursions.

Lo’ak swallows.

“So never?” he asks.

You pause your crafting to lean back on your haunches, peering at him through your lashes with the glue brush still in your hand.

“Why?” you deflect.

He fiddles with one of the flowers on the page, shrugging his shoulders.

“Just curious,” he murmurs.

“No,” you answer honestly, after a moment. “I haven’t.”

He nods.

“Do you think you will?” he prods, busying himself with thumbing through the dozens of pictures the two of you have amassed through your time together.

You watch him closely, see the way his ears are flat and his tail thumps quietly against the forest floor. You can’t help but smile when he glances over the top of one of the photos to peek at you.

“It’s very possible,” you respond coyly, picking at a piece of lint on your skirt.

Lo’ak goes rigid, dropping the photos in his lap to look at you. He opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

“There is someone,” you say seriously, willing the grin creeping at the corner of your lips to relax as you search Lo’ak’s expression for any fissures. “Someone who’s become quite special to me.”

Lo’ak wants to roll his eyes, but you light up and he can’t find it in himself to be ugly.

“All he has to do is say the words,” you whisper, closing the contents of the journal in on itself as you ease closer to him.

He’s sitting with his legs folded one into the other, but you’re eye level as you stand on your knees. One of your hands move a braid behind his ear, settling on his shoulder as the other traces his cheek softly.

Something like hope sizzles in his stomach when he sees how close you are, when he smells the sweet aroma of fruit and herbs in your hair as you inch forward.

“Do you think he will?” he swallows, breath warm against your lips.

Your nose brushes his, waiting for the final plunge.

“I don’t know, Lo’ak, will you?”

A smile grows from ear to ear as Lo’ak leans forward, lips slotting against yours as he seals every last bit of emotion and affection that pools in his gut into a kiss that takes his breath away.

His hands settle on your waist, thumb brushing your scar as you climb into his lap and he pulls you closer.

He doesn’t see the woodsprite that settles on your shoulder as he kisses you feverishly, a silent sign from the Great Mother that being worlds apart will never transcend what the two of you have.

Differences be damned.

an; okay WHEW this one was actually such a challenge! i grappled with wanting to include angst, but i feel like a lot of my writing veers in that direction, so i decided to gift you guys with lo’ak and reader who are in love despite the odds hehehe. although i consider this a long drabble, i do have a lot of cut scenes that i’d be willing to share to turn this into a mini drabble series *side eye* lmaooo. love you all <3

taglist: @nao-cchi , @jkiminpark , @philiasoul @amart-e, @s-u-t , @netesbby , @tayswiftlovebot , @dumb-fawkin-bitch , @ewackmn , @fanboyluvr , @neteyamoa , @itssiaaax , @girlpostingsposts , @athenachu

#lo'ak x reader #lo'ak avatar #lo'ak imagine #lo'ak fanfiction #lo'ak fic #lo'ak fluff #lo'ak sully #avatar #avatar way of water #avatar the movie #avatar the way of water #atwow #avatar 2

1K notes · View notes

to-fly-with-clipped-wings · 8 months ago

Text

A Sea of Sorrows -> Act 1, Part 1

Act 1: the Fall of the Gods

Dear Percy. This was the year the Gods fell from Olympus, and I fell from you. I miss the us from that year. I wonder, did either of us know what was in store?

Series Summary: A chronicle of the moments you fell in love with your enemy, Percy Jackson. An epilogue to your fate and an epitaph to your grave.

AKA in a universe where you are a traitor to Camp Half-Blood. This is an ode to the boy that led to your downfall: Percy Jackson.

Series Masterlist

Percy Jackson Masterlist

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “OH, OH, tell us again how the legend goes?”

Your eight-year old self bounced on the heels of your feet. The little blue birthday hat atop your head started to slip, the elastic string too long to fit snugly around your head, but you hardly bat an eye. You clap your hands together, giggling, staring in awe as yet another star sparks in the sky and, it too begins its spiralling descent from its heavenly abode and to the feet of your earth-dwelling mortals.

The star’s trail of divine dust, marking its venture across your frail vision, was reflected in your eyes. You raised an arm, as though trying to pluck the celestial from the sky.

Silena Beauregard giggled as she reached over to fix your askew birthday hat.

You didn’t know if it was the mind of your eight-year-old self manipulating a shroud mist around the girl or if she genuinely held the most ethereal, luminous pieces of the sky within her dark blue eyes. You didn’t know, or perhaps, didn’t want to remember, if her midnight silk hair, glossed and draped over her shoulders as the night enveloped the horizon, had been anything but that. The bracelets around her wrist tinkled as she went about drawing your astray strands of hair back. You could smell her perfume as well, but its scent was so fleeting that you could never seem to recall it once she left.

You smiled at her, like if you had even the slightest chance, you wouldn’t have hesitated to delve into the velvety curtain of the night to retrieve only the finest of stars for her eyes to hold.

She smiled at you, as though — impossible as it may have sounded — as though, in that moment, she loved you.

“Well,” she started, leaning over to place both you and Annabeth on her lap.

Clarisse La Rue took that chance to rip off her birthday hat (red, she had insisted) and replace it with her usual bandanna. The Stoll brothers, apparently, took great offence to that gesture, as they too whipped off their own hats to brandish like daggers at the Ares girl. Clarisse snarled at them, before taking her own, very real, spear and threatening to shove it down their throats or in some other choice places.

Beckdorf smirked, crossing his arms as he turned his head to appraise the face-off between the brothers and Clarisse, but he didn’t make any move to discourage the oncoming fight. And then, as was usual, Luke — the golden boy, the older brother to all campers (no matter if you were younger or older than him) — sighed, as though he’d just lost fifteen years of his life from their spat, and then plucked Clarisse’s spear out of her hands and lightly pushed his half-brothers into each other, sprawling onto the ground like dominoes.

“Can’t you guys ever settle down?” he asked, rolling his eyes. But then he smiled, so all of you knew that he didn’t really mean it. “I mean, it’s little Major’s birthday today and all we want is to enjoy the meteor shower in peace.” “Little Major is contradictory,” frowned Annabeth. An onlooker might’ve thought that Luke had just wished a deadly curse upon her entire bloodline, from the way her grey gaze furrowed. “How can she be little and major at the same time? It doesn’t make any sense!”

Before Luke could make a teasing remark (you could tell from the way the outer corner of his lip, the one without the dimple, twitched upwards), you cut in. “Please, Selly, pretty please! Tell me about the shooting star?”

“It’s a tale of wonder,” Silena finally began, her pearly white teeth shining through her picture-perfect smile. Her tone was hushed, like she was whispering a super-secret secret to the girls, “forged by immortals under a sky, much like this one.”

“In the days of old,” continued Beckondorf, his contribution to the conversation surprising you. The muscular boy was of few words, but you supposed that Silena’s presence had drawn him out from his carefully crafted shell. You and Annabeth shared amused looks, far more knowing beyond your years.

“The Greeks looked up to the heavens and saw the gods in every corner of the night. They believed that the sky was a grand canvas, a blank machine of sorts, where the gods etched their stories in constellations and galaxies.”

“Now, the gods, they weren’t distant watchers,” said Silena, glancing at Beckendorf as she spoke. She looked at him as though she wasn’t reciting the tale to you, but to him, the only other person in the world. “They were keepers of hopes, weavers of destinies. And sometimes, just sometimes, they would lean so close to Earth that a star would slip through their fingers and streak across the sky. That’s what we call a shooting star.

“The legend goes that in those fleeting moments, the veil between us and the divine thins. It’s when the gods are listening, truly listening, to the heartbeat of the world. And if a mortal, pure of heart and full of hope, makes a wish upon such a star, the gods take notice.”

“They say that Aphrodite smiles upon lovers,” spoke Luke softly. He gazed up at the sky, and then toward the pine-tree in the far distance. “Athena guides the seekers of wisdom, Ares leads man into war, and that, if you were truly of a golden heart, Zeus himself might offer his insight.”

His voice dwindled off, and if, at the time, perhaps you hadn’t been so caught up in your childish, insolent elation, you might’ve picked up on his bitter tone.

Annabeth turned to you. “So, on your special night, let’s wish on all the shooting stars. Together.”

Silena nodded, resting her head on Beckendorf’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, you wish on that star. You wish and you dream wish with all that is there in your heart, and just, believe. Believe, as the gods are kind, and they cherish the dreams of their children.”

“But you remember, Major,” Luke turned his saddened gaze back to you. “That old star can only take you part of the way. You have to help it along with some hard work of your own, and then, yeah. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Just promise us one thing,” murmured Silena. “That you'll never, ever lose sight of what's really important.”

“I don’t know what to do,” You stared up at her anxiously, fiddling with the string of your birthday hat. “Could you show me how to wish?”

She smiled once more, and it felt like the balance of the stars and sky had been reborn to take the form of Silena Beauregard. “Oh, I’m sure you already know how to do that.”

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ii. Against all odds, you would say that you were looking forward to the Yancy school trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Yeah, you didn’t really care about art or architecture or the weird little naked statues of the gods (you definitely didn’t appreciate that), but you were looking forward to your first extraction mission as a demigod — even if this little outing of yours couldn’t be considered a quest, and even if it was long overdue.

Being undetermined was a disease in the world of Greek mythology, and it was a disease that followed you like the plague. it was a curse when your Godly parent refused to claim you, refused to acknowledge you. You were cursed from the start, cursed to run around, seeking kleos, and for what?

For absolutely nothing.

That was something no one let you forget. From your spot on the floor in Cabin Eleven, to the brown mass of curls on Grover’s head that frantically kept glancing back at you to make sure that no monster had snuck up on you during the last thirty seconds he hadn’t been looking at you. It even took Chiron about three years worth of convincing to let you go out, as he used the same reason (excuse) over and over again: you aren’t claimed. You don’t know how to defend yourself. It is too dangerous.

That’s what it always boiled down to.

You weren’t claimed, fine. You didn’t need to be claimed to be able to fight.

It was always the same broken record that played whenever someone opened their mouth, but instead of sweet melodies or even sweeter, praise, it was the string of never-ending, ‘you aren’t strong enough. You aren’t brave enough. You aren’t good enough.

You aren’t claimed.’

A voice in the back of your mind churned traitorously. Although, you supposed that you shouldn’t be the one to talk about betrayal.

The speculations held merit, it had whispered.

Once a demigod was claimed, it was said that their powers grew exponentially. A claiming was essentially a blessing from your divine parent’s hand, a way of saying ‘I, as your parent, grant you your birthright as my child.’ You became blessed by Olympus to become faster, better, and stronger, a means to defend yourself from the monsters that lurked in the outside world.

But the thing was, once a godly parent claimed their kid, their godly side also began to radiate monster-attraction scent that enhanced their presence to monsters in a nearby radius. One would argue then, that meant unclaimed half-bloods would be better suited to high-risk jobs since they were at a lower risk of monster attacks than claimed ones.

“But,” Clarisse La Rue had argued, “that also means that you have less experience fighting monsters, so what happens if you encounter a beast like the minotaur on the field? Less experience, plus no divine blessing is a stirring pot for demigod death.”

“So,” Chiron blinked at you, not unkindly. “You need to understand, we simply cannot be sending you out of camp, Major. Your mother is not in a state where she is able to ward off monsters, and you…”

You…

You are not strong enough, you finish in your head bitterly. You were not strong like the others, not because you weren’t good with a sword or spear, but because you were not good enough to register as a child to your divine parent.

It was always Major, the side-kick. The pathetic little Robin to Luke’s Batman, or the golden rope to Annabeth’s Wonder Woman. Always the damsel in distress, never the prince. Always the one in the shadows, never the hero. Always the angel, never the god.

Since your mother’s passing four years ago, you had become a year round camper so you had more training under your belt than, say, ninety percent of the Apollo cabin. Yet, even they were allowed to leave camp and get up to all sorts of nonsense.

Were you not enough for your godly parent to look up from whatever divine duties they needed to do? Were you not good enough for your godly father to come down to save your mother when she was on her deathbed? You weren’t even sure if your father knew your name.

You sent Grover a small smile when he glanced back at you again.

Next to you, Percy Jackson, pulled a face.

Percy was a thirteen year old boy. With staggering sea-green eyes, black hair and tan skin, he was the half-blood Grover had called Chiron out for. For a year, it had been you, him and Grover fighting your way through the hell-hole that was Yancy Academy. Between failing classes, cheating off each other during tests (and failing those anyways because apparently both of you sucked at academics equally) and throwing dirt into Nancy Bobofit’s eyes, whenever she threw her weird bits of peanut-butter-and-ketchup sandwich on Grover, you would say that you and Percy were probably each other’s closest friends. Throughout the year, you and Percy had become each other’s anchor. You shared the burden of academic challenges, often finding peace in the fact that if you were going to fail, at least you’d do it together.

There was a certain comfort in Percy’s company, a sense of acceptance that was rare and maybe even precious. He never looked at you with eyes of thinly veiled judgement that others often did, nor did he offer unwanted pity, that felt more like a burden than a comfort. It was probably because he had no idea of his demigod heritage, but with Percy, you were just you.

Unclaimed, maybe, but never unseen.

You liked Percy’s company, and you were impatiently waiting for the day Chiron gave you the all clear to return to Camp Half-Blood. There you and Percy could spend your days picking strawberries, sparring, whatever it was you two wanted to do. And hopefully, Percy would end up being unclaimed, or maybe even the son of a minor god, so you could ride out your days in the Hermes Cabin forever. Maybe one day, you would even be promoted to having a bunk. That would be especially great.

“Excited for the trip, Major?” Percy grinned at you.

You sighed, tilting your head on your seat so you could glance at him through the corner of your eyes. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Ahead of you, Grover squawked when Nancy Bobofit threw another bit of her sandwich at him.

“I’m going to kill her,” muttered Percy, his eyes darkening at the red-headed girl.

You patted Percy’s knee, trying to stop him from leaping toward Nancy. She sucked, but it wasn’t worth Percy getting expelled from Yancy just yet.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “It’s easy,” said Luke, clapping your little, eight-year-old self on the back. “Wait and watch.”

And that you did. With bated breath and rapidly trembling fists, you waited and waited until the stars started to pour once again from the sky. They streaked down the horizon, the eyes of the sky shedding them like divine tear drops or that raindrops that slid down a window — the sort you would bet on with Annabeth about which would reach the sill first.

Beckendorf pointed at the brightest one he could find. He cleared his throat before saying his wish under his breath.

You tilted your head in confusion. “I didn’t hear the wish,” you frowned.

Luke smiled gently, his facade of happiness not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s the catch. You can’t let anyone find out about your wish, otherwise it won’t come true. It’s just between you, and the gods.”

He turned to the sky once more, and uttered his own wish. This time, you tried extra hard to pick up what he was saying, but you couldn’t hear much. You did catch a few words, something about history? It didn’t make too much sense to you though.

It was Silena’s go next. Her cheeks were pink as she made her wish, and she looked at the ground instead of the stars. Her wish was so quiet that even though she had placed you and Annabeth on top of her, you couldn’t hear a thing.

Annabeth Chase, Clarisse La Rue, Travis and Connor Stoll, Harmony Crosscov and Critos Lyalin all prayed for their wishes as well. It wasn’t hard for you to predict what theirs might've been about. Annabeth’s probably had to do with architecture, Clarisse’s with her spear (possibly making it more deadly, even though you didn’t know why exactly a ten year old needed a super deadly spear in her collection). Travis and Connor probably asked to get a key for the camp’s gift shop so they could raid it even when it was locked.

Harmony, a daughter of Apollo, had picked up the lyre she was strumming and held it to the sky as she wished, so you suspected hers had to do with maybe creating the most beautiful melody mankind had ever heard with it (although she already did that, so you didn’t know why she needed to use her wish on that). Critos was a son of Demeter, and he was the only one who weren’t entirely confident about, but you thought maybe it had to do with one of his plants — like the petunias that kept wilting? He had always complained about those.

Now, everyone had made their wish. Everyone but you. Your birthday posse turned to face you, the birthday girl, as you prepared to make what was going to be the most important wish of the night.

You were beside yourself in excitement. Today was your eighth birthday! The gods had to grant your wish, that was the intrinsic birthday rule, wasn’t it? The gods had to be looking, heck, maybe even your godly parent was looking. Maybe, just maybe, today would be the day you would get claimed.

You thought about using that as your wish. ‘I wish to be claimed.’ But you decided against it. You had only been at camp for about two months, that wasn’t that long compared to the other camper’s claiming stories. You had plenty of time ahead of you to get claimed, so you didn’t need to rush and waste your wish on something that was inevitable anyways.

Maybe you should wish to win the next capture the flag game? Gods know that the Hermes cabin would be ecstatic if you did. What about acing the Ancient Greek vocab test you had the next day? No, you shook your head. You were going to fail that anyways, wishing on a star wouldn’t save your pitiful grades. You would just have to hope Annabeth would be in a ‘helping-Major-cheat’ mood tomorrow.

Maybe you should wish for something to do with your mother? You frowned.

The thought of her laughter, her warmth, her guidance - all the things you missed the most - flooded your mind. ‘If she could come back, would she be the same?’ you pondered, the uncertainty a heavy stone in your stomach. ‘And what would she think?’ The frown deepened as you considered. It wasn't just about what you wanted; it was about the balance of things, the natural order. But… she’s gone now. Was she? Could this wish bring her back?

You opened your mouth, but before you said anything, another thought struck you. And with that thought, a sense of peace began to settle over you, as if your mother's wisdom had reached out from beyond, guiding you once more.

That was it!

The most perfect wish. The gods had to grant it, there was no way they could refuse. It would be the best blessing, the most perfect divine grant that couldn’t possibly be refuted.

In your excitement, however, you forgot about the wishes-were-supposed-to-be-super-top-secret-so-you-must-whisper-them rule, and ended up just blurting it out of your mouth, words churring out faster than you could comprehend.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ii. Chiron — sorry, Mr. Brunner, led the museum tour.

It wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before. Ancient Greek armour (that you knew weren’t that ancient), pots with little dancing figures painted on them, steles with, to no one’s surprise, weird naked statues of gods running across them. It was really nothing special, just the usual artsy stuff mortals were crazy for, but you did get a kick out of Percy snapping at Nancy when Chiron was rumbling about something to do with Greek depression or something.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Percy gave her his nastiest stink-eye.

Everyone laughed. You nudged Percy’s shoulder, and he turned his gaze to you, kicking your shoe in retaliation, before remembering that Chiron and Mrs. Dodds were still there, and they didn’t look happy at all with Percy’s interruption.

Mrs. Dodds was an interesting character. She despised Percy with all of her being (not heart, you weren’t sure if she had a heart), but you would say she had a soft-spot for you. Like whenever she gave Percy after-school detention for blowing up a bin or something, you would turn, smile at you and hand you this weird melted candy bar that tasted oddly like hot fudge and sea salt?

While the chocolate was a much appreciated gesture, you didn’t enjoy the way she snapped at Percy, and you agreed that there was something off about her. Like in the way she wasn’t exactly… normal? But you doubted anyone would listen to you anyways, and if Chiron hadn’t picked up on it, then it probably wasn’t important.

“Mr. Jackson,” began the centaur in disguise. “Did you have a comment?”

“No, sir,” said Percy, his cheeks burning red.

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. “Perhaps you’ll tell us what this picture represents?”

Percy looked to where he was pointing. He nodded slightly, that he knew the answer to that question (if he didn’t that was fine anyways, you would’ve just whispered it to him). “That’s Kronos eating his kids, right?”

“Yes,” Mr. Brunner said, raising an eyebrow. “And he did this because…”

“Well… Kronos was the king god, and —”

“God?” Mr. Brunner asked.

You flinched slightly when Percy said it; you didn’t think the gods would be willing to hold back if they caught him making that little comment. The gods had incredibly short fuses, and it was often their temper that caused the most destruction — like when Ares shot that one archduke back in 1914 and started World War 1.

“Titan,” Percy fixed. “And…he didn’t trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—”

“Eeew!” squealed a girl from behind you.

“—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans,” Percy powered through, “and the gods won.”

Nancy Bobofit mumbled, “like we’re going to use this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, ‘Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.’”

You didn’t like Nancy much, but there was probably some merit to her question. The gods cared so much about themselves, that one day they probably would manage to hijack mortal job interviews into a pop quiz of ‘what is Aphrodite’s favourite brand of perfume’ or ‘write a one thousand word essay on why Zeus is most supreme god, explaining clearly why his brothers Poseidon and Hades suck ass.’

You rolled your eyes.

“And why, Mr. Jackson,” Brunner said, “to paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s excellent question, does this matter in real life?”

“Busted,” Grover muttered.

“Shut up,” hissed Nancy, her face even brighter red than her hair.

Percy looked pensive for a moment, the most pensive you’d ever seen him apart from when he needed to decide between blue cookies or blue jelly beans. “I don’t know, sir.”

“I see.” Chiron sighed. “Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan’s stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld.”

Kronos. The name sent chills up your spine. The Titan lord who had once ruled before the gods, now a whisper from the past, yet his legacy lingered like a shadow. As Chiron recounted the tale, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of foreboding, a sense that the history of the gods and Titans was not as distant as it seemed.

Your gaze shifted downwards to your trembling hands. You clasp them together to try and steady them. The tales of gods and Titans, of heroes and monsters, they all seemed like distant echoes of a world you were forced into but never truly belonged. You felt the weight of your unclaimed status, a constant reminder of your place, or lack thereof, in this mythological nightmare.

You watched Percy. His fate was yet to unfold, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. He had a path, albeit unknown to him, but you… you were adrift in a sea of uncertainty, a ship without a sail.

The gods, those mighty beings who played with the lives of mortals and demigods alike, they were the root of your turmoil. How easy it must’ve been for them, to watch from their celestial thrones, to judge and to ignore the pleas of their children.

In the days to come, I would stand by you as you discovered the truth. But, when the weight of your destiny became too much to bear alone, my greatest regret was that I could not stand beside you. Your bond was a testament to the strength that friendship and loyalty could bring. Mine was a testament to the darkness and hatred of our world.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iii. The battlefield was before you, a canvas of chaos painted with the scars of war. The earth itself seemed to mourn, its once green flesh torn and charred. The battlefield stretched out, a vast, open wound upon the ground. The grass was soaked with the blood of fallen warriors, and squelched underfoot as you walked among the remnants of what had once been a fierce and vibrant camp. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burning flesh, a sensory assault that would haunt you for all your days.

The earth, which had once cradled life, now cradled the fallen, its bosom scarred by the violence it had witnessed. The camp, once a beacon of hope and strength for demigods, lay in ruins, its vibrant pulse silenced, save for the mournful wind that whispered through the shattered remains.

Luke Castellan had returned, but not as the triumphant hero he had set out to be. His quest to retrieve the golden apples had failed miserably. The cost of his ambition was written in the blood and lives of his quest mates, who had perished along the way. The monsters he had inadvertently brought to the camp's boundary were now a symbol of his failure, their snarls and roars a chorus of impending doom.

Amidst the cacophony of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded, a shadow loomed large. The dracanae, a beast of nightmares, slithered through the chaos, its presence a dark omen. Its scales, as dark as the void, absorbed the light around it. They were fighting not just for their lives, but for the very soul of the camp, against forces that sought to extinguish their light forever.

Monsters had breached the camp's defences, and panic had taken hold.

Luke stumbled across the boundary line of the camp, his face marred in blood, blood, blood. Luke's arrival had been a tragic procession, a lone figure staggering under the weight of failure and loss. His face, a mask of agony, was a stark reminder of the cost of their endeavours. The blood that stained him was not just his own but that of his questmates, their lives extinguished.

One of his eyes was doused in the red, liquid, acid, and you could make out a gruesome scar that trailed from above his eyebrow right down to his jaw. You sucked in a breath.

You had watched, your heart shattering, as Luke's knees buckled, his strength waning. The monsters he had unwittingly led to the camp's boundary now surged forward, eager to feast on the grief and fear that hung heavy in the air.

His face was as though it had been split open. You dropped your sword, and immediately rushed toward your old friend. Luke cried out in pain as he brought a hand up to his wound in an attempt to hold his face together.

“Luke! Luke!” you shrieked, almost tripping over the armour that was too big for your ten-year-old body. “Luke!”

You ran toward them, engulfing him with your arms. You had run, small legs carrying you faster than they ever had, toward the brother who had taught you to be brave, to fight, to hope.

The battle raged on beside you, but you could hardly care, for your oldest brother was in your arms with his heart and soul bore open and torn to shreds.

As you had reached him, the world seemed to slow, the sounds of war fading into a hushed lull. You had wrapped your arms around him, a futile shield against the tide of darkness that threatened to engulf you both. Luke's eyes, once bright with mischief and courage, now mirrored the devastation that was before you.

The battle had raged on, indifferent to the small, poignant scene at its fringes. But for you, in that moment, there had been nothing else—only the piercing grief of a child holding onto the last remnants of a family that was swiftly being torn away.

“Archers!” Lee Fletcher called out to his fellow half-siblings. “On my mark!”

The sky above was a tumultuous canvas, where the wrathful gods seemed to paint with clouds the colour of bruises and ash. Their indifference hung heavy, a suffocating blanket over the carnage below.

You had once prayed to them, believed in their wisdom and justice, but now their names left a bitter taste on your tongue.

“Now!”

A volley of arrows spiralled through, each one hitting its mark. One, two, three arrows in rapid-fire succession knocked off the beasts that stumbled into camp boundaries. A cyclops that had been standing over a bloodied mass of a young girl, hollered in pain as an arrow pierced its singular eye. A draco aionius roared out a blast of fire, but your eyes were so wrung out with tears and blood that you couldn’t see who it had shot down before it had been killed. The dracanae lashed out one final time before exploding into a heap of golden dust.

The cries of the wounded rose around you, a haunting chorus that melded with the wails of those mourning their kin. You saw families torn apart, sisters cradling lifeless sisters, brothers with eyes hollowed by a brother’s loss. Each face was a mirror of your own despair, reflecting a shared agony that would bind you to them in grief.

You stumbled upon the body of the young son of Demeter, his chestnut hair matted with blood, his eyes forever staring at a sky that offered no solace.

Critos, you sobbed. Critos…

A mistake that no amount of tears could wash away. A young camper, a son of Demeter known for his gentle spirit and his ability to make the flowers dance, lay still on the ground.

With a heart heavy as lead, you made your way to the infirmary, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the low hum of healing chants. There, among the rows of cots, you saw her—a daughter of Apollo. Harmony.

The sight of her, your friend who had once filled the air with melodies so sweet they could make the sky weep, struck a new chord of pain within you. Her hands, those delicate instruments of beauty, were now disfigured by the violence in the name of the gods. She had dreamt of music that would touch the divine, but now her dreams lay as shattered as her bones. Now, those hands were stilled, and the music was no more.

Her hands, once so deft at the lyre, now lay motionless by her side.

Her eyes met yours, and in them, you found not blame, but a silent understanding. It was the cruelty of fate, not the will of gods, that had brought this upon her.

She looked up at you, her eyes not accusing but filled with a sorrow that echoed your own. In that gaze, you saw the reflection of every broken promise, every shattered hope. She had been there to celebrate your life, and now here she lay, a casualty of a battle she had no part in starting.

Anger surged through you, a fiery torrent that threatened to consume everything in its path. The gods, those distant arbiters of fate, had watched impassively as your world crumbled. They had remained silent, their celestial indifference a stark contrast to the cacophony of grief that filled the camp.

Your mother, a casualty of their indifference. Critos, your dear friend, your found brother. Harmony, who would never play her instruments again. Her god-given gifts, the blessings bestowed upon her by her father had been ripped away from her. You knew it — injuries, bone fractures, that were severe beyond repair. No one apart from the gods could save her, but you knew that no matter how much you wished on the stars, they would never answer.

You wept for Thalia, who you had never known but who had died for you and your family. You wept for Annabeth, her face wrapped in a cast of bandages, and was laid on the cot next to Harmony. You wept for Luke, who was only a few steps away from the white bags that enshrouded that bodies of—... of the fallen.

They were all lives that could have been saved.

Silena cried in Beckdorf’s arms. Their shared silence was louder than any words could ever be, a mutual understanding of the depth of their sorrow.

In this moment of profound loss, the realisation hit you like a wave crashing against the shore: wishes were but fleeting thoughts, powerless against the tides of fate. The gods, distant and enigmatic, offered no solace to the grieving hearts of mortals. It was a harsh lesson, one that stripped away the veneer of mythical heroism to reveal a truth as old as time itself.

Was this what they had meant about not relying on some magical stars to make a wish?

The gods, those distant beings, had taken from you the family you had found in this band of warriors. They had watched from their lofty thrones as you had fought, bled, and wept, mere pawns in their celestial games. And in that moment, as the weight of loss bore down upon you, you felt the seeds of hatred take root. Hatred for the gods who had forsaken you, hatred for the fate that had been thrust upon you, and hatred for a world that could be so cruel.

In the end, you could only truly rely on yourself to make wishes come true.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. Strapping your head-piece securely on, blue plumes spilling from the top. Your armour was strapped on and you were decked out in metal from head to toe. You double-checked that your sword was tucked into your sheath before joining the Athena alliance in their march for the Capture the Flag match.

You quite liked Capture the Flag. It was one of those games where you had to do something and everyone got to run around and play — albeit, Camp Half-Blood kids did run around like headless chickens most of the time.

Percy scrambled to catch up with, tripping over his shin-guard that was a few sizes too big for him. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you grinned at him.

“So what’s the plan?” He asked. “Got any magic items you can loan me?”

You shook your head. “Nah. Sorry. Magical items are things you get from your godly parent when they feel like it. I haven’t got anything.” you waved at your basic sword for effect. “That’s why I usually go with one of the spare swords from the training shed.”

You pointed at his pocket. “You’ve got Riptide, though, haven’t you? That’s more than enough.”

Percy shrugged. “I don’t have it anymore, it vanished. I’m stuck with a regular, boring sword like you.”

You frowned at this. Didn’t Chiron give it to him? He should still have it, shouldn’t he? “That’s strange. Just make sure Clarisse’s spear doesn’t touch you, it's electric and stings like hell. Annabeth will handle getting the banner from Ares.”

He gave you a lopsided smile. “Okay, Major.” He said ‘Major’ with the same tone you would call someone ‘Bossy’.

You laughed before catching him by the strap of his armour when he tripped over again. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Border patrol, whatever that means.”

“Ah,” you nodded. “That’s easy. Stand by the creek, keep the reds away.”

“What’re you doing?”

You rubbed your chin thoughtfully. “I think I’m supposed to be a decoy for Luke when he runs for the flag.”

Percy looked at you appraisingly. “I guess you do look like him. I see how that would work.”

He swerved to avoid getting a faceful of the dirt you’d kicked up at him with your shoes.

Percy then started chasing you down to the creek where the Athena alliance were planting their flag, similar to how the satyrs would chase the dryads near the strawberry patch albeit a lot slower because of his armour that was triple his body weight.

You stopped when you reached the silver flag, causing Percy to topple into you and send the both of you flying into the ground. You laughed, tugging the boy up with your hands and punching him in the shoulder. He huffed before waving at you and walking down to the creek to assume his duty of border patrol.

You went to stand by Luke.

Overall, you would say Capture the Flag was a success.

The Athena win streak was not lost this match, and you got to beat down one of the Hephaestus kids with your sword, which was always a pretty good bonus. The blue team cheered loudly, carrying Luke on their shoulders as he waved the Ares flag about in the air. You were going to join them when you saw Percy, drenched in water, arguing with the air.

“I told you. Athena always, always has a plan,” said the air before shimmering and revealing Annabeth with her invisible yankee cap.

“A plan to get me pulverised,” snapped Percy. His arms were crossed as he stared down the daughter of Athena.

“I came as fast as I could. I was about to jump in, but…” She shrugged.

“You didn’t need help?” you suggested, popping up between them.

Percy’s glare dropped as he saw you. “Sup, Major. I’m guessing decoying for Luke went well?”

“The best,” you agreed before noticing the wound on his arm. “How did you do that?”

“Sword cut,” He said, rolling his eyes. “Stupid Clarisse and her pig-headed minions.”

“No,” Annabeth interjected sharply. “It was a sword cut. Look at it.”

You watched, incredulous, as the blood disappeared. Where a gaping wound had been, only a faint line lingered, and even that was fading fast. In moments, it dwindled to a mere scratch, then vanished as if it had never been.

The smile slipped from your face.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iii. Being a demigod was a curse.

It was a relentless burden, especially when you had been confined within the walls of Camp Half-Blood for four years, and still, your divine parent remained a shadow, unclaiming and aloof.

You lifted your face to the heavens, rain simmering on your face like little angels doting you with frigid kisses, each drop mingling with the silent tears that trembled down your cheeks. It was almost as though you were praying, but you knew better than that.

Prayer had once been a solace, a hope, but now it felt like a bitter reminder of divine neglect.

The pyres stood ready, a grim assembly for the ritual of farewell. The rain fell in a relentless drizzle, each drop a cold, indifferent tear from the heavens. You stood before them, the shrouds of your fallen family draped over the lifeless forms that had once been vibrant souls among you.

Being a demigod had always been a double-edged sword, but never had the blade cut so deep. The walls of Camp Half-Blood, which had once offered sanctuary, now felt like a prison, holding you captive with your grief and rage.

You raised your face to the sky, the rain washing over you, a cruel mimicry of the comforting touch you so desperately needed. It was as if the gods themselves were mocking your pain, offering water when it was solace you sought.

Your heart was a cauldron of fury, simmering with a silent rage that threatened to boil over. The gods, those distant observers of mortal toil, had turned their gaze away, leaving you to fend for yourself in a world that seemed to crumble at your feet.

As you stood there, the injustice of it all seared your soul, igniting a fire within that no amount of rain could douse. Betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow, and it lodged itself firmly in your throat, a constant reminder of the gods' neglect.

Your hands, though trembling, were resolute. The delicate tremor was not a sign of weakness, but a testament to the strength that surged through your veins—a strength born of anger, of loss, of an unwavering commitment to those you called family.

With a heavy heart and a spirit ablaze with determination, you stepped forward to light the pyres. The flames caught quickly, their hungry tongues licking at the shrouds, consuming the last physical remnants of those you loved. The smoke rose to the heavens, a silent scream of defiance against the gods who had forsaken you.

In that moment, as the fire crackled and the rain wept, you made a silent vow. You would do anything for your family, for those who had stood by you when the gods had not. You would be their protector, their avenger, their unwavering support. And though the gods may have turned their backs on you, you would never turn your back on those you loved.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. “I—I don’t get it,” he said.

Annabeth was deep in thought, face wrinkled in concentration, and you could only imagine the intense mental gymnastics happening behind her gaze. “Step out of the water, Percy.”

“What—”

“Just do it.”

Percy emerged from the creek, hair plastered to his face and body bone-tired, but strangely enough, completely dry. He swayed on his feet, and you reached out to steady him, your touch firm.

“Oh, Styx,” Annabeth cursed. “This is not good. I didn’t want…I assumed it would be Zeus.…”

You could only meet Percy’s gaze in a muted horror.

Of course you’d picked up on Annabeth’s train of thought. But the revelation left you reeling. You couldn’t believe it. You thought… of course they wouldn’t stick to the oath. This — the one thing! How could they? What?

Your jaw clenched, and your grip on Percy tightened subconsciously.

Percy opened his mouth but before he could say anything, a canine howl reverberated throughout the forest.

Everyone tensed and Chiron barked out “Stand ready! My bow!”

Above you, a monstrous creature crouched on the craggy ledge, its silhouette massive against the sky. Its eyes burned like coals from the depths of a forge, and its massive jaws bristled with teeth, each one as lethal as a freshly honed blade. It stared down at you with an intensity that pierced through your body.

A hellhound. Your eyes widened, gripping the handle of your sword.

Nobody moved except you, who yelled, “Percy, run!”

You tried to step in front of the boy, your sword clutched in between your fingers. The hellhound barked, and although you expected it to forget Percy and redirect its course to you, it dove past you (ignoring you completely) and ripped into Percy’s armour.

You didn’t look back as Chiron and the Apollo cabin took care of the hellhound, focusing on Percy whose chest was blooming with deep, red bloodstains.

“Percy!” You cried out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your fingers fumbled with his chestplate, trying to ignore the slick, warm blood that coated your hands.

“Di immortales!” Annabeth exclaimed. “That’s a hellhound from the Fields of Punishment. They don’t…they’re not supposed to…”

“Someone summoned it,” Chiron announced, trotting over. “Someone inside the camp.”

The dead body of the hellhound melted into the shadows, presumably returning back to the Underworld, only, you didn’t care. What you cared about right now was Percy Jackson who was drenched in blood with a horrific gash torn into his body.

“You’re wounded,” Annabeth told Percy as if no one knew that. “Quick, Percy, get in the water.”

You draped Percy’s arm around your shoulder, helping him step into the creek with little protest.

“Chiron, watch this,” Annabeth said.

As Percy staggered into the creek, the water seemed to greet him like an old friend. The blood that had painted his clothes a grim crimson began to dissolve, carried away by the gentle current. You watched as the gruesome wound in his chest closed before your very eyes. The torn flesh knit together, leaving not even a scar behind. It was as if time had reversed, as if the claws of the hellhound had never touched him.

But that wasn’t the part that stunned you the most.

“Look, I—I don’t know why,” Percy tried to apologise. “I’m sorry.…”

“Percy,” Annabeth said, pointing. “Um…”

There was a sign above Percy’s head, an unmistakable one that no one did not know. A hologram of green light, spinning and gleaming. A three-tipped spear: a trident.

“Your father,” Annabeth whispered. “This is really not good.”

“It is determined,” Chiron stated solemnly.

Campers knelt around you, even those from Ares’ cabin, though they did so grudgingly.

“My father?” Percy was bewildered.

“Poseidon,” said Chiron. “Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God.”

A shadow was drawn upon your face, eyes fixated on the trident above Percy’s head. The throb in your head returned and all you felt was a torrent of fervent, quivering, absolute rage that coursed through you.

I know that it wasn’t your fault, Percy, but at that moment, I couldn’t think of anything else.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iv. The shroud burning had already taken place, the flames extinguishing along with the last rays of twilight. The camp was shrouded in darkness, a reflection of the sorrow that enveloped your heart. You stood alone, the grief a tangible presence that seemed to suffocate you with its intensity.

The gods had remained silent, their absence in your hour of need a betrayal that stung sharper than any blade. The ritual had been meant to offer closure, but it had left you feeling hollow, the embers of the pyres like the dying light of your hope.

That night, as the world around you faded into the quiet hush of slumber, a curious sensation took hold—a dream, or so it seemed, yet not quite. Dreams were fleeting. They often slip through the fingers of your mind, vanishing from your memory once you woke up. But for some strange reason, you felt the trickling trail of deja vu climbing up your spine.

You thought that you’d had this dream before. Probably.

A shiver of recognition danced up your spine, a whisper of memory that felt like an old friend—or perhaps a ghost from the past. It was a dream that had etched itself into the grooves of your mind, returning with the silent stealth of a cat prowling in the night.

You strained to recall the last time this dream had visited you. It could’ve been a year ago, a month ago — even last night. But you did know that you’d had it. This dream had treaded the halls of your sleep before.

In the realm of dreams, you found yourself wandering through an ancient forest, the moonlight casting ethereal shadows upon the ground. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the whisper of leaves. The moon, a sliver in the sky, provided scant illumination, casting long, haunting shadows that danced between the ancient trees. Your footsteps were muffled on the forest floor, as though the earth itself conspired to keep your passage secret.

With a heavy heart, you spoke into the storm, “You could have saved her, but you didn’t.”

The words hung in the air. “My mother. She was one of your most faithful, but, when she needed you most, you turned away. Why? Was her devotion not enough? What about Critos, who died alone, without his family, on the battlefield? What about Silena, who lost her sister? What about Harmony, who will never be able to use her hands again, never able to exercise the blessing that you gave her. What about all the countless other demigods, older and younger than me, who died for a cause — your cause — whose names you will never bother to remember.”

The silence that followed was your answer.

Your voice broke as you continued, “What about me? For years, you ignored me — you still ignore me. For years, you left me to fight for myself in a world that you created. I don’t understand. We’re your children, aren’t we? Aren’t we supposed to matter to you? We deserved better.”

“You’re supposed to be our parents. We deserve someone who would fight for us, who would value our lives. But what do we get instead? Fucking selfish deities, with all the power in the entire goddamn world who leave us to suffer and die in some sick game you orchestrate just because you can!”

“You don’t understand! I’ve waited my whole life for just a sign from you. Our whole lives revolve around you! What more could you want from us?” The tears of the sky dripped onto your shaking form.

“You take life after life! You take, take, take when we’ve already given you everything you could have ever wanted!”

The thunder seemed to mock your pain, and you trembled with a mixture of cold and fury. “You say these stupid things, give us stupid, stupid, naive hope — wish upon the stars, wish upon you and all will come true? We looked up to you! We wished, and wished and wished, but instead, you killed my family, tortured us beyond cruelty. What do you want from me?!”

You were screaming at the sky now, your mind pulsing with nothing but red-hot rage. “I’m done waiting! You’ve shown me exactly what we mean to you — nothing!”

Something clasped your shoulder.

Turning around, your heart caught in your throat. Your eyes trembled, pupils dilated at the sudden contact. As you turned away, a presence enveloped you, not the warm embrace of a father, but the cold touch of something ancient and powerful.

A dark mist surrounded you. The air crackled with static, a lingering feeling of something you couldn’t quite name.

And then, without warning, the forest fell away, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a clearing. The mist swirled here, gathering strength. From the heart of the mist, a figure materialised. It was tall and imperious, its form shifting and wavering as if woven from the fog itself. Its eyes, when they met yours, were bottomless pits of darkness, and you felt yourself falling into them.

“Child,” it spoke, and the words seemed to resonate with the very fibres of your being. “I have watched you, and I know the suffering you’ve been dealt by the gods.”

“They have wronged you, as they have wronged me,” the figure continued, the mist swirling with every gesture. “They sit in their celestial palace, blind to the struggles of those below. But I see your potential, your desire for justice. Together, we can make them regret.”

In the quiet of your dream, your heart stirred. You did not know who this figure was or what he wanted from you, but his words reached you. The gods, those distant watchers, had become but silhouettes against your tribulations, their figures blurred by the tears of your unanswered calls. Beings who had turned their back on you, refused to acknowledge when it mattered. Left you unclaimed, left your mother to die, left your brothers and sisters to die, and since the beginning of time, left humanity to suffer in a cyclic torture.

And, so close, was the embrace of the mist — echoing your fury, validating your resentment.

“Why should I join you?” you asked, though part of you already yearned for the vengeance he promised.

“Because your rage is a weapon that can reshape the world,” the mist replied, its form growing more defined, more commanding. “The gods fear what they cannot control, and they cannot control the fury of the heart. I will help you shield the loved ones you have left. If you join me, I promise they will be safe in the end. We will turn your fury into a force that will shake even the heavens. And you, my dearest, Major, will see to it that your family is treated better than the gods would ever care to allow.”

The mist’s words were a poison, sweet and lethal, the dream reached its peak, as you teetered on the cross-roads of a decision that could alter the course of history.

You stood still, the realisation dawning on you like a cold sunrise. This was Kronos, the Titan King, the very essence of time and treachery. The air around you grew colder, the mist swirling with a newfound intensity.

The mist around you thickened, and Kronos’s voice became more insistent. “I can help you,” he whispered again, the words slithering through the air like a serpent.

You felt the anger and sorrow within you stir, manipulated by his words. It was a dangerous game he played, but in your heart, the seeds of rebellion had been sown.

“Join me,” whispered Kronos.

“Yes,” you found yourself saying, the word escaping your lips before doubt could take hold. “Yes, I will join you.”

With a resolve born of grief and betrayal, I turned my back on the sky and walked away. That was the moment, when I was only ten years old, that I swore my life to Kronos. It was the moment, I think, that sealed our fate.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. “I wish that we would all stay together.” you said.

“That’s my wish. I wish that, no matter what, no matter what place or lifetime we’re in, we will always, always, be family.”

“Promise me, ‘kay?” you continued, not fully sure if you were still talking to the gods or the people around you. “That in this life and the next and the one after, we will always find each other. Because we’re family.”

You turned to the demigods around you, who have all taken on some form of shock. The younger ones look appalled that you spoke your wish out loud (“how will it come true now?” protested Annabeth, though her face was tinged with a pink blush), while the older ones wore expressions you couldn’t quite discern.

“Major…” Silena breathed, her eyes, for some reason, glossy. Was she upset that you had said your wish too loud?

“I mean it!” you looked to the heavens earnestly. “We’re family now, we have to stick together. Forever and ever and ever.”

Another star crossed the twinkling night tapestry. It was a dark, terribly dark, night, but unless someone else had been sharing this story, to you, the moment would remain of the most bright, luminous scenery you’d ever had the honour of bathing in.

The gentle hand of the gods met their mortals upon the ground through the sky’s scattered stars, and they coated you and your family in their mystical star dust.

Luke blinked himself out of his stupor. He offered you his hand to shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Major. Gods or not, we promise. Family.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, a gesture as warm as the sun's embrace, which seemed to spark a chain reaction. Annabeth, with a smile that could light up the darkest of nights, followed suit, her arms joining his. One by one, the rest of your family, a patchwork quilt of half-bloods, each with their own stories they bore in their hearts, came together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Under the star-swept sky, a canvas dotted with celestial wonders, the group hug grew, a living, breathing entity of connection and joy. You shrieked with laughter, the sound mingling with the chorus of chuckles and snorts around you. It was a symphony of happiness, a melody that resonated with the very core of your being.

You tried to pull your head out of the mass of limbs you’d become entangled within, seeking a breath of air, only to be lovingly dragged back into the fray. Someone’s hair tickled your nose, another’s elbow nudged your side, but it was all part of the beautiful chaos that was your home.

The hug was more than just a physical act; it was a promise, a silent vow of unity and support that needed no words. It was the understanding that no matter where life's journey took you, these bonds would remain unbroken. And as you stood there, enveloped by the people who had become your world, you knew that this moment would be etched into the stars above, a memory as eternal as the night sky itself.

“This is— the— best birthday— ever!”

And thought you meant that. You really, really did.

I wish I could’ve said sorry to you, Percy, back then.

Maybe then we could’ve stood a chance. * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

Random fun fact: Major is anti-government and hates taxes 🥶😊, she also likes liquorice

taglist!!! (comment if you want to be added): @itzmeme

65 notes · View notes

virginsexgod69 · 7 months ago

Text

2| Locked Doors

pairing Daryl Dixon x F!Reader

summary While you're gone, Daryl snoops about your cabin in search of his weapons

cw none! this chapter's rather mundane

1.7k words

series masterlist

Daryl scanned the living room of the cabin, not because he wanted to snoop, but because he wanted to familiarize himself with where he'd be staying for the time being. The weather only worsening as time passed told him that he'd be here for a while. Your cabin was small and cozy, homey even. Family photos decorated the mantle, making him wonder if there were others here. The pictures that were framed all over the walls were either photos, art pieces, or messily drawn artwork, presumably made by a child. Seeing the pictures of the kids made him think of Carl and Rick. He hoped they were alive and he cursed himself that he was in here, cooped up and injured, instead of out there looking for them and the others, too.

He was analyzing one picture in particular on the mantle; it was of you, but you looked a few years younger and you were holding a baby, smiling, and a man was hugging you from behind, also smiling, in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. The sound of you clearing your throat snatched his focus away from the perfect family image. He turned to look at you but you were already glaring daggers into his skull. You briskly walked over to the mantle and placed the picture frame face down before doing the same with the rest.

"How's your leg?" you asked, not looking him in the eye.

"S'fine." He replied, wondering why you reacted in such a way. By the tense look on your face, he knew better than to ask.

"Good," you tersely replied as you walked to the window. You intensely watched as the heavy rain beat against the glass, falling from the dark storm clouds. He joined you in your storm watching, but you quickly stepped away and into the kitchen.

"Here. You need to eat so you can heal," you said, holding out an opened can of beans and a water bottle. He wanted to refuse, not wanting to keep taking from you and possibly owe you something later, but he was famished. The torrential downpour made hunting almost impossible. He accepted the food and began devouring the beans. He paid no mind to how you disappeared down the hall, until you came back, wearing an empty backpack and zipping up a raincoat.

"Where're you goin'?" he asked after swallowing a large spoonful of beans.

"I don't have much food left, so I'ma go out and see if I can find anything," you replied as you stepped into your rain boots.

"S'too dangerous. You should wait til the rain calms down," his gruff voice suggested.

"All I have left is a can of creamed corn. That won't even last us a day." He looked into the now empty can of beans and felt guilty for eating the last of your food.

"Gimme back my weapons n' I'll go with ya," he offered. Although you appreciated the gesture, you couldn't help the laughter bubbling in your chest. "That's sweet and all, but I don't need an injured man holding me back." Holding you back? He was used to going out alone so he wouldn't be held back by others. He wanted to tell you just as such, but you were already at the door. The once warm room was suddenly freezing as the wind and rain harshly blew inside.

"Don't go nosing about my cabin! And don't try any funny shit either!" you demanded before slamming the door shut behind you.

It had been about an hour and you still weren't back. He wasn't worried, though, he'd be out for days on end hunting sometimes. He wanted to look for his weapons, especially his crossbow, so when the time came he can just up and leave. You did say you'd give them back when the time came, but he didn't fully trust you. Sure, you seemed generous and hospitable, but he'd be a fool to trust someone so blindly, especially during these times.

He didn't see where you went when you confiscated his weapons, but he noticed you often disappear down the hallway often, so he started there. There were four doors in the hallway, two on each side. He slowly opened the first door, before creeping inside. It was just the bathroom. He checked the cabinet under the sink only to find cleaning supplied and not a weapon in sight. Nothing was in the medicine cabinet either. He closed the door behind him before trying the one across from it. It was locked. He could have easily broken the door open, but you'd notice that he'd been snooping, defying your only request. The door next to it was also locked, so he tried the last door, the one next door to the bathroom. It opened, revealing a bedroom. He deduced it was yours since it was the only one kept unlocked. It was kind of a mess. The queen sized bed was unmade and clothes were strewn all over the wood floor. The top of the dresser was a mess of clutter and trinkets and drawers overstuffed with clothes. He doubted there was even room to hide his weapons in there. He looked underneath the bed, careful not to move in a way that would tear his stitches, and saw nothing. He angrily cursed to himself. His stuff had to be in one of the locked rooms. He needed to find a way to get in without you noticing, but for now he went back to his spot by the fireplace.

He was bored with nothing to do but watch the ever worsening weather. The thunder and rain had stopped, but hail fell in its absence. Despite being rather early in the evening, the sky grew darker with storm clouds. He wondered if you were even still alive, considering the hail was the size of golfballs. His question was shortly answered when the wind slammed the door open, revealing you. You were soaking wet and covered with mud and blood, but it looked like your search was fruitful. Your arms were full of cans and boxes and your backpack was full as well. You dumped the contents in your arms into the kitchen island and pushed the door shut, powering through the resistance the wind put up.

“I think a tornado’s gonna come through,” you said as you tossed the backpack on the floor. Daryl nodded his head in agreement.

“We can wait it out in the bathroom, there’s no windows in there.” You picked up the backpack and shoved it into Daryl’s arms and told him where the bathroom is. You hurried to your room and dried off before changing into clean clothes. As you were changing, you heard the unmistakable high-pitched whistling winds that were almost always indicative of a tornado. You snatched the pillows off of your bed and brought them with you to the bathroom. You tossed Daryl a pillow and closed the door behind you.

“It’s gonna be a long night.”

Next Chapter ►

thanks for reading! <33333

fun fact: i was in a tornado once when i was visiting my family down south. it didn't hit us, though, so i was just chillin and reading a book by candle light.

join the taglist?

Taglist

@eternalrose81 @the-dixon-effect @millybaby @daryldixmedown @theoraekenslover @aeriean

#the walking dead #fanfic #female reader #x reader #fic rec #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl dixon fanfic #twd

48 notes · View notes

xhanisai · 1 month ago

Note

Have you ever, or would u ever (PLSPLSPLSPLS) make a fic based on ur Felix crushing on Marinette, jealous Adrien headcannon?

(Takes place before season three finale)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"...What did you just say...?"

The sight of sharp, ice blues piercing through his entire frame mercilessly along with ashen skin was enough to snap Félix out of his daze and instantly, unimaginable horror settled in the pit of his stomach. He...he didn't...

He didn't even realise--

"Félix. What did you just say?" Marinette's tone was more stern now, her entire body now facing him as if he was an enemy she needed to take down.

She wouldn't be half-wrong if she thought so.

'I love you...' Was what slipped out before he realised his mouth was moving but he didn't dare to even move a single muscle with how her fiery eyes seemed to have nailed all of his limbs in place. He swallowed harshly as the cogs began to run in her head and suddenly a realisation washed over her face. The horror that she wore hurt a million times more than the anger she directed towards him.

"You never really changed...did you?" She took a step back, covering her mouth with her trembling hands. "You only befriended me...befriended us...just to get with me and hurt Adrien in the process, didn't you?"

No, no, no, NO!

"Not anymore! I mean--"

"Not anymore!? What the hell, Félix!?"

He wanted to bite his tongue off, frustrated more than ever that no matter how hard he tried to keep his cool and choose his words wisely, just one glimpse of her face was enough to fluster him and make it impossible to lie or even walk around the truth.

At first, she was meant to be a way for him to one-up his cousin. He wanted to play around, break his heart and toss Marinette away afterwards. To show that he wasn't the inferior twin and that he could get what he wanted. To punish everyone and everything for the way he was mistreated as a child.

But fate is a cruel, twisted thing.

He fell in love with Marinette.

And he stopped rejecting his cousin.

He...he loved them both. So, so, so much.

And now he was going to watch it all fall apart before his very eyes.

"We trusted you...we trusted you! We thought you were our friend!" Tears were running down her face and she pushed him with enough force to make him stumble back a couple of steps. He also noted that she hardly used any of her herculean strength against him, causing the lump in his throat to keep growing. "How could you do this to Adrien!? You're one of the only family he has left! How could you think about hurting him!!"

"...I did change, Marinette--" He tried to speak.

"Liar!"

"I promise, I did!"

"I don't believe you--"

He took two large strides until he was right up in her face.

"You changed me!" With shaking hands, he grabbed her shoulders. His grip was firm enough so that she couldn't escape but not enough to hurt her. No.

He would never even bend a single hair of hers out of shape.

"You changed me..." He repeated again, breathlessly. His greens were pleading, begging for her to understand he was no longer what she assumed he was. "Falling for you has changed me. Please...believe me."

There was only sadness in her eyes now.

She shook his hands off her shoulders and she took a step back away from him. But it felt like they were a hundred thousand million miles apart.

"I love Adrien." Her voice was steady and her blues were clear. "I'll always love Adrien. You know that." Her words only sent painful, excruciating daggers to his heart. Félix forced himself to stay silent, knuckles whitening from his nails digging into the palms of his hands and the front of his teeth biting down on his bottom lip hard.

He did know.

He already knew that.

But even still...

"I still fell for you anyways..." He clutched his chest with frustration, both cursing and thanking his traitorous heart for putting him in this predicament to begin with. "Maybe...just maybe if we could--"

"Could what?" She was ice cold again. "I'm with Adrien." She took a step towards him and he felt his eyes sting. He let out a sharp exhale and directed a glare towards her.

"You should come to London with me. It's safer there!" The dam was broken. "Over there you don't have to deal with Akumas or Sentibeings or le Papillon endangering you and everyone else--"

"Stop...please stop--"

"He still lets his father control him! He won't be able to protect you like I can--"

"I SAID STOP IT!" She smacked away the hand that reached for her shoulder again with enough force to make him gape. He wanted to curse his stupid, stupid heart once more. "I don't need anyone's protection! And don't you ever, ever, dare to use Adrien's situation against him."

She was watching him with contempt now.

But it was still tinged with so much melancholy his heart shattered for being the reason for it.

"You claim to have fallen for me and yet you think I would just abandon Adrien and run away to London with you for the sake of my own safety...?" She shook her head, disappointment plastered all over her face. "You don't even know me." Marinette then jabbed a finger into her own chest. "I would die for him."

And that is the one thing that scared him the most.

"Marinette--"

"Don't. Don't even say my name." She looked away from his face and brushed her fringe back with one hand, only for it to fall back on her forehead wildly. "We'll...we'll keep this between us. Your original motives in the beginning. Your...your feelings for me. Everything. I don't want Adrien to lose his newly found happiness of having you by his side so just pretend that this didn't happen."

"...You're asking for the impossible..." He didn't even flinch at the way she scrutinised him. "I can't just pretend. I can't lie to him."

"Didn't stop you in the past though, did it?"

"I told you, I've changed!" It was like talking to a wall now. "For fuck's sake! You find out how I really feel about you and now you won't stop digging up the past!"

She shook her head.

"It's how you're acting on those...those feelings." She didn't let him utter another word, already getting the gist from the confusion on his face. "If you were a true friend, you would never tell me to abandon the one I love...your family." His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach as if it was made of lead. "Why couldn't you just be our friend? Why do you have to always do or say something so twisted?"

She looked so defeated.

He wanted to sink to his knees.

"You say you've changed...but did you change for the better or for the worse?"

And she was gone.

He didn't know how much time had transpired since she ran off and he had already sunken to the floor. It could have been seconds, minutes or even hours.

He was so numb.

But not numb enough to not notice the figure that walked towards him with blazing infernos of green fire for eyes.

"...Well? Obviously, you saw everything that had just happened. Aren't you gonna punch me or something?" Félix bleated, continuing to feel empty as his cousin's eyes practically set hellfire on his miserable little figure.

"Believe me, I want to do so much worse." Adrien's voice was devoid of any warmth, reminiscent of Gabriel's icy, icy tone. "You broke her heart and played us all like fools."

"She broke mine too."

They both stayed silent for a few moments and the unforgiving wind tore through their golden hair.

"It hasn't been determined yet if she's willing to give your friendship another try."

Félix finally looked up and faced his standing cousin. Greens met greens.

"Why would she!? That would be a really stupid decision to make. Did you not hear our conversation properly? The things that I've said?" Finally, he stood up and they were eye to eye. Yet, Adrien didn't twitch a muscle.

"It's as she says...you know nothing about her." With one final glance at his cousin, Adrien began to walk away.

But not before pausing and saying one last thing.

"And you know nothing about me either." Adrien's eyes were hellfire once more and Félix found himself frozen on the spot. "You have no idea how far I'm willing to go to protect Marinette. No matter what they are, who they are, I will get rid of them if I think they'll cause her any harm. Do you understand?"

Adrien left before Félix could give an answer.

However, the boy left alone couldn't help but think who exactly changed for the worse amongst the three of them.

One was ready to deceive.

One was ready to die.

One was ready to kill.

#my asks #my writing #ml fanfic #ml fanfiction #I KNOW YOU WERE PROBABLY LOOKING FOR SOME CRACK #BUT I COULDNT HELP IT #AFTER YOU SENT THE OTHER ASK THIS PLOT STARTED DANCING IN MY BRAIN AND WOULDNT LEAVEEEE #and low and behold i turned them into a tragic trio heheheehehheh #adrinette #adrienette #felix has a crush on marinette #it's a little messy forgive me i haven't edited it #I HOPE YOU ENJOY

17 notes · View notes

spicyseonghwas · 1 year ago

Text

nobody likes you anyways

pairing :: jung jaehyun x male reader genres/au's :: smut, college au viewer rating :: 18+ ; sexual content content warnings :: cursing, name calling, hate sex sorta, throat fucking, hair pulling, degrading sorta, reader is a shit talker lmao, implied adhd!reader network tag @preciousillusions-net word count :: 682

jung jaehyun had always had a way with love and sex. it was the easiest thing ever for him to navigate and deal with, even easier than the many heartbreaks he'd suffered in his life. and he had always considered himself a pansexual of sorts; he had never really been very picky about who he loved.

but l/n m/n was a completely different story.

you were a complete mess. you were absolutely chaotic. you were loud, extremely charismatic and eccentric, and you were an absolute fatmouth. you could never seem to stop talking shit about everyone around you, and very word that came out of your mouth made jaehyun shake with rage.

you were absolutely impossible to be around.

which was why he was so exhausted already after only having been trapped in the library with you for an hour.

"do you ever shut the fuck up??" jaehyun snapped, whipping around to stare daggers into your disgustingly bubbly smile.

"hMMMMMM..." you feigned, "NOPE!" and a playful scream and a laugh escaped your lips as you dodged the third book jaehyun had pelted at you in the past hour.

"if you don't shut the fuck up i'm going to fistfuck your throat." jaehyun hissed, his glare making you freeze. your incessant giggles faltered for a moment before your confidence came back, one single word coming out of your mouth.

"bet."

jaehyun didn't answer for a long moment, simply staring into your eyes, a multitude of emotions you couldn't quite identify flitting through the other boy's unusually warm, chocolate-brown eyes.

"alright, mr. snappy." jaehyun quipped. "you really want it?" he asked.

you nodded.

jaehyun smirked.

"get your bitch-ass over here and take it."

~+~

your face continued to get bright red, your eyes, rolling back into your skull before they fluttered closed as your face continued to get hotter and hotter. you groaned like an animal, the sound making jaehyun's cock vibrate as he fucked your throat. he chuckled, his grip on your hair tightening. you let loose another whoreish moan that was muffled by jaehyun's cock, and your pride skyrocketed through the roof as jaehyun groaned, his already painfully tight grip on your hair tightening again until your scalp sort of started to sting.

"you like this, you little bitch?" jaehyun asked smugly, smirking snarkily.

as your mouth was stuffed with cock, your only response was another moan, this one sluttier than the last.

jaehyun growled like a beast, signalling you that his release was coming soon. you smirked internally, knowing he wouldn't last much longer. you closed your eyes again, hollowing out your cheeks and pressing your tongue flat against the bottom of jaehyun's cock to drag him closer to his release.

jaehyun bit his lip and held back a whimper that would not hold up well with his reputation, pulling harder on your hair as he blew his load into your mouth.

"you're such a slut," jaehyun said smugly, "you talk so much big shit, but you'll shut up in a second if it means you get to have your throat fucked. hm?"

you giggled, nodding your head with an innocent smile that caught jaehyun completely off guard.

"...why are you smiling? i just insulted you--" he started, but you cut him off, rolling over on top of him and slamming your lips onto his. you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

"y'know the reason i take your bullying is because i think you'd be a lot hotter if you'd just quit being an absolute dick, right?" you asked, wiggling your eyebrows playfully with a grin and a giggle when jaehyun gave you the weirdest, most innocently confused look.

"...what-" jaehyun started, but then cut himself off. "you do know that's literally the most wrong, stupid, dangerous, self-abusive, idiotic thing you've ever said?!?"

"yes, jaehyun, i'm aware that i'm an idiot."

"...i have nothing to say. no comment."

you giggled.

"you could fuck my throat again~" you prompted.

"...or i could just punch you?" he replied hopefully, but with a giggle of his own this time.

#chase.exe 🌑#fever.dreams 🌑#cacaokpop #k labels #nct #nct 127 #nct smut #jaehyun #jung jaehyun #jaehyun x male reader #nct 127 x male reader #nct 127 smut #jung jaehyun x male reader #jaehyun x male reader smut #nct x male reader smut #kpop x lgbt #male idol x male reader

86 notes · View notes

impossibleblizzardstudentposts · 19 days ago

Text

Rematch - Part I

I’ve had this little story bouncing around in my head for months now, and finally put together an outline. Feedback sincerely appreciated, as I haven’t written in years, and never for TGM.

Rooster x OC Rebekah Rooney (Bob’s SIL)

“UNCLE BERTIE!“ an excited child’s exclamation rings out in the relative quiet of a weekday afternoon bar crowd.

Lt. Floyd turns around expectantly in the direction of the voice and smiles. He would worry about the implications of everyone calling him ‘Bertie’ later. A small girl, who couldn’t possibly have reached double digits in age, has broken away from her guardian and is now running toward Bob’s group of colleagues.

“Row, Row, Row Your Boat!”

Instead of crouching down to meet the girl in a hug, the pair immediately engages in an elaborate secret handshake that matches their silly nicknames.

“Wow, you two are better than ‘The Parent Trap’!” laughs Natasha, as the rest of their crowd applauds, mostly for the child’s benefit, but also for the obvious joy brought to their friend.

The Daggers were in need of some joy. Though only recently formed, the group had been to hell and back on a nearly impossible mission. Their reward for all making it back in one piece had been some time off around the holidays, which is exactly what brought these foreign guests to The Hard Deck.

Bob blushes, standing back up to his full height, and clears his throat as he comes to terms with having momentarily been the center of attention. “My niece” he explains, gesturing to the girl. “Rowan”

Luckily, another voice joins them and he is spared having to speak further. “And his dreaded sister in law” says the woman from whom Rowan had just broken free in her excitement, with a curtsy and a joking smile. Rebekah never struggled with speaking up in a crowd the way Bob did. She had the charisma and confidence of someone who’d been on a Broadway stage, because, well, she had.

Polite introductions begin back and forth, but Bradley’s eyes stay fixed on the new woman and his mind wanders.

“Natasha”

Hand shake.

“Rebekah”

She’s beautiful. That smile.

“Callie”

Wave.

“Rebekah”

Sexy, really. That hair.

“Mickey”

Wink.

“Rebekah”

She’s familiar. Why is she so familiar?

“Bradley…Bradley…Bradshaw!” Nat nudges her spaced out friend and uses her eyes to draw his attention to the extended hand he had left hanging for longer than acceptable. He quickly takes the hand, dwarfing it in his own, and offers a lopsided grin.

“Bradley?” she confirms, with a smirk, as they lock eyes.

“Yes ma’am”

“I’m Rebekah. Bob’s sister in law. Nice to meet you.”

Holy shit. In their moment of close proximity, a whiff of her perfume acts like a key, unlocking Bradley’s memories from New York Fleet Week. It was earlier this year, but it seems like another lifetime. Before Maverick’s return, before Iceman’s death, before the uranium mission. She was there.

As Bradley was sorting this all out in his head, the group has scattered a bit. Bob is taking his family’s luggage to his car. Halo and Fanboy have started a game of pool. Phoenix has helped Rowan onto a bar stool, her light up sneakers dangling, reaching not even halfway to the floor. She is anxiously awaiting a Shirley Temple with seven cherries pleaseandthankyou. Bradley guesses that must be her age. He is further shaken from his thoughts when he hears Rebekah’s voice again.

“Where’s the restroom?”

“I’ll show you.” Bradley and Nat say at the same time.

Nat gives him a crooked look, silently questioning why he would show someone to the women’s bathroom.

But Rebekah smiles. She must have recognized him too. Could this be a ploy to get them alone to talk?

“I mean, I’m heading that way anyway.” Bradley adds, attempting nonchalance.

“Do you mind terribly sitting with her until Bob returns?” Rebekah asks of Nat before they venture off.

“Not at all” Silent girl code thanks are exchanged via simple glances.

Bradley does lead them down the hallway near the restrooms, but instead pokes his head in an empty storage room and pulls her in, locking the door behind them. Her back is against the wall and he is dangerously close.

“Mrs. Robinson” he rasps softly, not quite a whisper.

She was too old for him, she had initially claimed. When they first met, in a crowded bar, flooded by a sea of uniforms, Bradley was flirting in earnest, but she was treating him like an amusing puppy. Surely he could find a more suitable shore leave match than a recent divorcee like her. Ooh maybe an unassuming grad student! she suggested Or a Rockette; they’re leggy. And flexible! Bradley remained undeterred by the couple years she had on him; he honestly wouldn’t have guessed without her saying so. Eventually, he decided if he couldn’t beat ‘em, he’d playfully join in the age bashing. And so, whenever there was a lull in conversation, or when his mouth was close to her ear as they danced, he would hum the Simon & Garfunkel tune. In the end, it worked in his favor, as the only thing that shut him up was a kiss.

“Hey, Sailor”

#rooster x reader #miles teller #lewis pullman #top gun maverick fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw #robert floyd #bradley bradsaw x reader

12 notes · View notes

redskull199987 · 2 years ago

Text

You and I drink the Poison from the same Vine

Din Djarin x female!reader

Word count:1.5k

Warnings: heavy Season three spoilers, angst, PTSD, violence, blood, fluff at the end

Summary: After the eventful days on Mandalore, you and Din have to adjust to your newly found home

Masterlist

Translations:

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum-I love you

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum or'atu- I love you more

It felt like you were moving in slow moition. Every move that you made felt too slow. Even though your legs already hurt, you had to run faster, you had to reach him somehow and right before the Doors could fall shut, you managed to slip underneath it to the other side. Your head shot up and you saw how the troopers attacked Din. He tried to resist, but there were too many, even for him. And while you tried to help him, there wasn't much, either of you could do. And as one of the troopers managed to grab your arm and drag you towards Gideon, your eyes shot to the child, who was standing on the other side of the door. Your heart hurt at what he had to witness. He didn't deserve this, any of this. He deserved a normal childhood, normal parents, normal friends. But all he had seen was violence and destruction.

"Y/N"

You looked at Din, who was kneeling just a few feet in front of you. His voice was slightly trembling. He was just as scared as you were, but he tried to be strong. For you, for Grogu.

"It's going to be okay, Y/N", he whispered, his voice trying to be reassuring. You took a deep breath in and tried to believe his words. This was just another obstacle in your way, you would survive it too, like you always did.

"The Mandalorian and his woman", you heard Gideon chuckle and seconds later, you felt how he grabbed your arm, pulling you closer to his face.

"Tell me!?", he hissed into your ear,"How would you feel if I killed him right now in front of you?"

"No!!", you yelped, struggling against his grip on your arm,"Please don't hurt him!"

Begging was all you could do at the moment. Without any weapons and any way out, you didn't know what else to do.

Moff Gideon only laughed at your words again:"You have managed to escape me for so long and here you are, begging for the life of your Partner."

He put extra emphasis on the word 'begging', while you still struggled against his grip. Every fiber of your body was on fire, all you could think of was to make it out alive together with Din and Grogu. But right now, that almost seemed impossible.

"How about this?", Gideon finally propsed after a few seconds of thinking. He tossed you to the ground in front of Din. And while you still tried to get up again, he had already put a knife against your throat.

"You kill him or I'll kill you!", Gideon grinned. The expression on his faced showed the utmost amusement.

"No", Din mumbled,"Leave her out of this!" He struggled against the troopers, but of course, there was no escape.

As the first tears started to roll down your cheeks, you felt how Gideon slipped a dagger into your hand. The cold material almost burned against your fingers, as you looked down at the weapon.

"Beskar", Gideon mumbled. Of course it was beskar. There wasn't a cruelty that didn't buzz around Moff Gideon's brain.

"I won't do it", you mumbled. You tried to sound confident, but it didn't work. It was as clear as day that you were afraid, but not of your own death, but of the death of your partner.

"Y/N, please", Din whispered and tried to reach for you, but he was pulled back by the troopers,"Don't do this"

"I'm sorry, Din", you uttered, slowly letting the knife fall out of your hands. The beskar clattered against the metallic floor.

"So be it", Gideon mumbled. The pressure against your neck dissapeard and for a second, you allowed yourself to hope. To hope that Bo-Katan had somehow found a way to you or that the child was able to use it's powers.

But none of that was the case.

And the last thing you saw was Din trying to escape the grasp of the troopers. You heard him scream, but it felt like he was far far away and only seconds later, you felt something , that you would never forget again. You felt the sharp pain of Moff Gideon's blade ramming into your stomach. You looked up at the former imperial officer and his face lit up with delight upon seeing your suffering. And with the biggest grin on his face, he pulled the blade back out, pushing you to the floor. You tasted copper and felt how your own blood ran down your chin and dropped into the already forming puddle on your clothes. Everything felt surreal and even if you saw Din still fighting against the troopers, trying to reach you, You couldn't hear him. You couldn't hear anything apart from the prominent ringing in your ears. Your hands wandered to the wound trying to put pressure on it but it was helpless. You knew that within seconds you would be dead and All that you've been through, It would've been worth nothing. All the adventures, all the dangers, the people you've met and lost, the countless memories...

It was all worth nothing

Your eyes shot open and within seconds, you were sitting up straight on your bed. Your breathing was erratic and you could feel your heart furiously beating against your chest. Only now, you noticed the wetness on your cheeks. You had been crying in your sleep.

"Y/N!?"

You gaze wandered to the door, upon hearing Din's voice. For a second, you forgot that you escaped, that you survived, that you moved into the small hut on Nevarro, that Grogu was safe and that Din was safe. All you saw, was the picture of him on his knee's, a dagger in your hand and a choice in mind. The image burned into your skull, an image that you would never forget again.

"I-I- Din-", you stuttered, not able to get those horrific memories out of your head. Din seemed to immediately understand and walked over to you. He kneeled down in front of you, his hands searching for your own.

"Look at me, Y/N", he said, his voice stern but yet soft,"I am right here, I am with you. You are safe."

Fresh tears started to run down your face upon hearing his words. You stumbled forward and threw your arms around him. Din gladly accepted the hug and pulled you into his arms.

"Careful", He mumbled. And you instantly understood what he meant, as a sharp pain errupted in your stomach. A small groan left your lips, as Din helped you to sit back up on your bed.

"Your wound is still not completly healed, we need to be careful", Din mumbled, lifting your shirt to see if the bandage was still intact, which it was , luckyly.

"I know, thank you", you whispered, suddenly feeling ashamed for causing so much trouble in the middle of the night.

"I have been thinking", Din suddenly said. You were perplexed for a second, as he took your hand in his again,"I want you to see me"

You gasped at his words. You had expected many things, but not this.

"Din, you don't have to. Yo've been through much too-", you tried to protest but Din only shoock his head

"You and I drink the poison from the same vine"

You nodded, understanding what he meant. After seeing how much you hesitated, Din grabbed both of your hands and put them on his shoulders, before slowly sliding them towards his helmet. With a deep breath, you finally started to slide the helmet upwards. You could barely see anything in the dense lighting, but as the helmet finally came of entirely, Din's big brown eyes focused on yours. He was all you could've ever imagined and so much more. His soft features and the smooth brown locks , that framed his beautiful face.

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum", Din muttered. A tear rolled down your cheek as you recognized the words, that he had told to you so often before.

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum or'atu", you uttered, putting a small smile on Din's face.

Your body almost moved on it's own, closing the distance between the two of you.

You felt Din's gentle hands on you waist, careful as to not hurt you, Within seconds, his lips were pressed against yours in a passionate kiss. The first one, since he confessed his feelings to you. Probably the first one in his life. But you didn't care about that. All you could think of right now, was that you finally managed to push those gruesome memories from Mandalore aside. Your mind and soul were filled by Din Djarin. And you would't want it any other way.

Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time

You and I drink the poison from the same vine

Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time

Hidin' all of our sins from the daylight

107 notes · View notes

thereweredragonsss · 6 months ago

Note

Saw you're asking for requests 👀 would you write something HTTYD from Toothless' pov? Maybe about Hic teaching him to write. With some "I wonder what name my cat gave me" elements to it?

I know it's very specific but 🙈 this thing has plagued my mind lately.

Thanks in advance!

Oh my god! So sorry it took me so long. I had some stress with college but here its is. Enjoy reading!

...

Contains: friendship

~ English is not my native language ~

All my fics

...

The night fury wakes with incredible pain. It almost catapultes him back into unconsciousness. But he fights against it. The pain spreads from his tail fins. Or rather, his one tail fin. The events of last night come back into his mind. Him flying over that island, fighting with the other dragons against the viking's attack. But then suddenly, something hit him and he lost balance. The last thing he remembers is the crash through the capony. And now he is here. The dragon tries to stand up, but a rope stopped him. It is wrapped around his whole body. A frustrated growl escapes his throat as he tries to free himself. But that rope just gets tighter - whoever built that must be an excellent craftsmen.

Suddenly, the dragon hears something in the woods. A twig breaking. His eyes dart around and his ears twitch. A boy steps out of the woods. Climbing over the destroyed ground, that the dragon had created with his crash. Blasting fast, the night fury closes his eyes, trying to stifle his breaths. He could hear the boy taking to himself. He could feel a boot against his leg. With an unsteady growl, he pushes the human away from him. How dare he put hand on him!?

He opens his eyes and could see the boy, a dagger in his hand. Fear rises up in his body and his primal instincts take over. He wants to flee but these stupid ropes pin him in place.

The boy now screams: "I'm a Viking!"

The night fury takes a deep breath. He could see the determination in he kids eyes. A feeling of hopelessness floods the dragon and he puts down his head. Waiting for the final strike. But that never comes. Instead, the buy cuts his strings lose. He is free! The night fury hesitates a split second. Then he furiously jumps onto the boy. Wants to kill him. But there is something in that kids eyes. The same fear, the black dragon just had seconds ago. So he gathers all his anger and roars loudly in his ears. He turns, spreads his wings - only to crash again.

Stranded. He is stranded in this stupid cove. He had tried to fly away all this day. But the missing tain fin makes it impossible. Unsettled, he paces back and forth. There must be another way. He gets distracted when he hears someone approaching. It was the boy that shot him down. The night fury growles as a warning. But the boy doesn't seem afraid. The night fury's eyes fall onto the fish in the boys hand. His stomach rumours. When was the last time he had eaten something? Carefully, the boy comes closer. Pulling a dagger from his belt. The dragon moves into attack pose and growls. Ready to fight. But the viking boy throws the dagger away. He is no threat anymore, the dragon realises. Curiously, he closes the space between them, his eyes on the fish. The boy reaches out his hands and frownes.

"Toothless", he says.

Toothless!? What kinda name is that? But it seems funny, because the boy thought he had no teeth. A dragon without teeth, c'mon! But the boys smile moves something inside him.

In the next few weeks, the boy - whose name is Hiccup by the way - visits him almost every day. Brings him fish and talks to him. He tries to get to know him, to learn more about dragons. And Toothless tolerates it. He is also curious about humans. He watches him write something in his little book. Watches him draw. And one day, the boy draws him - Toothless. The dragon has never seen that behaviour before. Normally, humans would kill him within seconds. Especially him. But that boy is different. Hiccup draws Toothless face and when the dragon imitates him, his eyes wide. It looks funny, Toothless thinks. The boy stumbles around, trying not to step onto the lines. Toothless watches him amused. And suddenly, he stands directly in front of the dragon. The boy hesitates. But then he slowly reaches out his hand. Toothless growls. That was way too close. Even for that boy. But then, he moves his head away, and something inside Toothless clicks. The kid could've already killed him if he wanted to. But he didn't. So Toothless decides to trust him. Let him touch him.

The next months, they became friends. Hiccup built a new tail fin for his dragon friend. Toothless could fly again! And even if the beginning was a bit rusty, due to the fact that his human friend had to help him steer, it feels heavenly. They fly around the islands and discover the place. It could have been amazing, if there weren't the villagers. They killed dragons their entire lives. And only his friend hiccup is the first one to befriend a dragon. Toothless is afraid, they could find and kill him. So they hide. But then they discover the dragon queen and they have to do something. They fightt it, kill it. And almost get killed themselves. Toothless can barely save his human friend.

The village turns into a dragons paradise. And Hiccup and this friends become a dragon rider squad. They discover islands, new dragon species and have a lot of adventures. The Viking boy, who almost killed him becomes his best friend. And Toothless his. As they get older, they change. But their friendship remains. One day, Toothless catches his friend staring at Astrid, the blonde viking girl in their group. Toothless knows, that Hiccup has a crush on her. But that stupid boy wouldn't admit it. So he has to help him a bit. Toothless pushes Hiccup's shoulder from behind. He stumbles, only his metal leg catching his weight. Toothless mimicking towards Astrid. Hiccups eyes wide. "Stop that!"

Toothless makes a little growl.

"No, I am not in love with her." Hiccup insist. But Toothless can see it. He can see it in his eyes, his movements. And sometimes, something inside him wishes he had the same feelings. That he could share his life with someone. Sure, there is Hiccup, but he is a human. And the other dragons, well they are a different species. He is the only night fury out there. Sometimes he just longs for someone who is just like him.

With the years passing, their adventures get bigger. They discover new worlds, Hiccup's lost mom. And they fight new enemies. But Drago Bludvist is another level. Somehow, he can control dragons. He even controlles Toothless. And he shots Stoick the Vast. He dies. Hiccups' father is dead. And it is his fault.

Toothless wings hurt. His heart hurt. He almost can't bear the fact that he - Hiccups best friend - killed his father. And now he is under Drago's control. But he can't do anything. He tries fighting against it, bit the whirring and buzzing in his head just gets louder. You killed him. He hates you. I am your new master. He hates you. It's your fault.

Toothless wants to give up. But Drago's control doesn't allow it. His gaze is blurred. Every cell of his body numb. But suddenly, a silhouette moves into his view. A voice. Hiccup? No that couldn't he, he hates him.

"It's me, bud"

Bud. Something inside him flickers. It is Hiccup! But the buzzing only gets louder, he couldn't hear him anymore.

"... not your fault." Not his fault?

"You're my best friend"

Toothless shakes his head. It must be Hiccup. The whirring fades for a second and he could see more clearly. Brown hair, green eyes. Hiccup! He doesn't hate him. He came back. His best friend came back! He lets out a happily roar and pushes Drago from his back.

A few years later, they have to leave Berk. Toothless' heart breaks, the island had become his new home over the last couple years. But he knows that his rider is devastated. Hiccup had been grown up there and now he has to leave this place. The only ray of hope for Toothless, is her. The lightfury. Every time he thinks of her, his heart flutters. He had never been in love before, but he knows it must be love. It feel exactly like the closeness Hiccup and Astrid had. Hiccup had told him a lot about those feelings. (Only in private of course, when no other dragon rider was around). He wants to see her every day, every second. And his rider had noticed that.

So one sunny afternoon, Hiccup builds a new tail. One that replicates the automatic tail Hiccup once gave him for Snoggletog. Toohless prances around excitedly while Hiccup tries to attach the tail fin. He closes the last straps and stepps a few metres away. "What do you think bud?"

Toothless growls happily and licks his human friend over his face. Hiccup laughes and complaines at the same time but Toothless doesn't bother. He turns around and runs into the woods, into his freedom. But at the end of the clearing he stopps and turns around. He lets him go. Hiccup lets him go. The dragon throws a questioning look at his friend. But Hiccups just smiles. "It's okay", he says approvingly.

It is time. It is time to leave. Toothless knows it is right, but on the other hand he doesn't want to leave his human friend. His best friend. The closest friend he ever had. How many adventures did they had! They all hold a special place in Toothless' heart. They always will. His eyes wander over to his human. Hiccup smiles but in his eyes shimmer tears.

"Alright bud. Its time.", he says. His smile shakes.

"You looked after us for long enough. Time to look after yourselves."

Toothless wants to cry but dragons can't cry. He is so grateful for all those years. Grateful that Hiccup shot him from the sky. Yes, even grateful that he lost his tail fin. Because if he hadn't, they woul've never became friends.

The dragon wants to show Hiccup all those thoughts. Wants to show him how much he means to him. How much he loves him. So he does what humans do to express their love. He rises up and puts his forelegs around Hiccup's shoulders. Hugs him tightly. He can feel Hiccup's small body unter him shudder.

"Go Toothless. Go", the boy whispers.

Toothless lets him go. Hiccup puts his hand onto his snout and closes his eyes. It immediately catapultes Toothless back to their early times when they just became friends. And for a second, it feels like no time has passed. His best friend lets his hand fall and he smiles. Then Toothless lets out a roar and the dragons rise up into the air.

He looks at Hiccup one last time. Then the nighr fury opens his wings and follows the other dragons into the sunset colored sky.

Something disturbs their peace. She had smelled the foreign scent and woke Toothless from his nap. He reaches his nose into the air and his instincts sharpen. He smells humans!

With a small growl, he tells his family to stay hid behind him. Toothless crawles onto the edge of the rock on which they had camped. Though the mist mandifests a viking boat. The night fury rises his wings and moves into attack position. With a powerful jump, he closes the distance and lands on the deck of the boat. Four humans stare at him. A blonde woman holds two children close to her. And in front of them stands a man with brown hair and a beard. Toothless growls. But then, the man reaches out a hand. Irritated, Toothless hesitates and sniffs.

A familiar scent rushes through his body. And suddelny, thousand memories flood his mind. Memories from his past. From a boy with his dragon friend. A boy that wanted to kill a dragon but befriended it instead. Their first flight. The Alpha. Berk. Dragon's Edge. Snoggletog. Dragon races. And vikings.

And the remembers that boy. Skinny, with brown hair and freckles. And suddenly he realises. The man in front of him is an older version of that boy with freckles. It is him. He came back! Hiccup came back. They are together again. Just like old times.

#httyd #how to train your dragon #toothless #hiccup #hiccup and toothless #fanfic #fanfiction #story #mine #thereweredragonsss

15 notes · View notes

bleedingcoffee42 · 4 months ago

Text

I had to bury you- WIP

A while ago I responded to a comment on my own smut fic with this bullshit ---> "We were married the whole time" Winnix Angst where one of them disappears during/after the war for years and comes back and finds out the other one is re-married. The betrayal of seeing someone else's wedding ring on their finger. The 'i thought you'd wait for me', the ' we were forever' just internalized with a ' i wanted you to move on and be happy' that comes out of their mouth. 'I had to bury you and it almost buried me' in a tearful excuse for why they have to not run into their arms and thank God they are back, because God just twisted the dagger in their heart and shattered their world again.

And I immediately opened Docs and wrote down whatever came to mind. I'm never going to make anything of it so I'm just going to say it's a writing exercise and just leave it here.

A)It could not have been more perfect, to be reunited in Paris. Seeing him again, seeing Lewis Nixon walk out of a hotel and thinking it was a mirage; convinced he was seeing things because there was no way after five years that they could be in the same place by accident. After five years of fighting to find a way to get home to him, he was here and looking straight at him like he saw a ghost. Dick was still in ragged fatigues from a war that had been over for too long, he was certain he looked like he was a ghost so he waited for Lew to approach him. And as Lew put his hand over his mouth to muffle whatever cry had to be aching to leave his throat, Dick saw the light catch a ring. A gold ring. Theirs had been silver. And in that moment Dick felt his heart collapse in on itself because he knew it was too late. Lew moved on, because of course he did. He was never good at being alone, he always needed someone. It took everything to not turn around and disappear into the crowd as a single tear slipped from his eye.

B)The farmhouse was just about what he pictured it would be, simple but well taken care of. Even the fence around the front yard was without a speck of peeling paint and there was a flag flying on the pole, fluttering in the wind like a picture perfect American Dream. A milk cow mooed at him and Lew smiled, because it was the perfect way to open a conversation he didn’t know how to have, with a joke about Dick Winter’s being Amish. He walked up the steps to the wrap around porch and knocked on the screen door, hat in hand. Years, years he had struggled to stay alive, and care about staying alive, so he could have this moment: The homecoming. So when the door opened and Dick’s face appeared, his expression going from ‘I don’t want your religion I have my own’ to ‘that’s impossible’ to ‘I’m seeing a ghost’ to…

“Honey, who is it?” from a very feminine voice as two red headed toddlers and a golden retriever appeared at Dick’s feet, Lewis Nixon wondered if this was what it was like to climb the stairway to heaven only to be rejected at the gate and thrown into hell.

C) The one where the do make it to the Pacific from the ETO--

“There was nothing left.” Lew choked out as he fumbled with his cigarettes and his hand shook. “Not even dog tags, just a crater where you two….”

Dick held his breath as Lew felt apart in front of him, and to his absolute amazement Lip pulled him into an embrace and muttered all kinds of things as sobs wrecked Lew’s body. He was caught in that moment, unable to breathe, unable to think , unable to process the tenderness and familiarity of it. Thankfully Ron Speirs wasn’t frozen in place, never was.

“What the fuck?” Ron spat. “You two are thing?”

“We buried you.” Lip explained. “Or what we thought was left of you. You have no idea what it took to keep him out of that hole…to keep going.”

Ron stood up, pushing his chair back loudly and looked at Dick. “Well, that settles that. Ready to go?”

“I’m sorry.” Dick said and stared at them and Ron started to pull him out of the chair and he looked at him knowing he didn’t want to be here when he blew up. Because they had survived, they got left behind, they had watched an explosion the likes of which they never could imagine take out Japan and gave up trying to be rescued. They thought the world ended and just survived. They had each other, so it was only fitting that…. “We….”

“Are leaving.” Ron said and yanked him to his feet before Dick could give some stupid speech about how great it was they had each other. And how Sink had told them Captain Lipton took over Easy and led them out of the PTO when their idiot commanders got blown to hell standing next to each other. How the world didn’t really end, they just dropped an atomic bomb to end the war, but….the world really did end. Dick had to be feeling his hand shake in his fatigues–had to– because his glassy eyes looked to him and said ‘I’m sorry’.

“Glad they had you, Lip.” Dick said and let Ron pull him away, get him out of the room, make some excuse to Sink about digestive upset from having real food, and left the building. Then Ron left him leaning against the side of the building while he destroyed some crates that were being cataloged by a few baby faced privates who knew better than to stand in the way of this pissed off captain. Dick sank down the wall and put his face in his hands and let the weight of it all crush him. He wanted to be happy Lew had Lip, God he was surprised even Carwood Lipton could save him, but he felt like he just lost him all over again. And they had just inflicted the same pain on the people they loved. It was no surprise to him that Lip came looking for them as Ron obliterated some ordinance crates and probably injured himself in the process.

“We’re so glad you’re home.” Lip said and watched a shard of wood go flying. Blood was splattered on the wall of the building, Ron was standing there, hands on hips with blood dripping off hands.

“We don’t need any of your placating bullshit right now, Lip.” Ron snapped. “We fucking gave up and gave you both up, so like Dick said. Glad they had you and we mean it.”

Lip swallowed hard, Ron turned and looked right past him to Dick. So now it was Bastogne all over again, anyone who didn’t experience what they had was now unable and unwelcome to be a part of their circle. He looked down at Dick who really never needed to know how bad Lew got after losing him, and realized that was exactly the situation they were in- Bastogne all over again. It was, however, unacceptable to give up. “Are you staying on base?”

“Yeah.” Ron said and looked at him. Lip as Captain Lipton was perfect. It really made up for all the other bad decisions the army made if someone finally saw what a damned good soldier he was. In reality, he probably got the job because everyone else was dead, but it didn't mean it wasn't deserved and earned. “Probably sign up for the next war.”

“Can you at least try to…”

“No.”

“Then I’ll beg.” Lip said and looked at Dick because Dick Winters knew what it took to save Lewis Nixon. “Please, we’re living with Lew’s Mom and sister. Doris has been going downhill and Blanche isn’t mentally in the best place. Bill Guarnere is visiting, helping me with the reunion.”

Dick looked up at him. Why Carwood Lipton was always asked to hold together a damaged family was a question he wanted to scream at God right now.

Ron huffed. A reunion. Of course Lip would organize a gathering for the company, he'd keep them together and in touch after the war. It had been two years, time to check on everyone. Well, at least they'd have something to talk about.

“I can’t handle watching you both disappear at war again, so please, can we take this conversation home?” Lip could see Dick processing it, Lew was his weakness and the last two years had to be worse knowing how poorly Lew handled loss.

“What conversation? It’s over.” Ron said and it was cold enough to get Dick to snap out of his moment and give him a nasty look.

“Far from it.” Lip said. Ron's moods never bothered him, he just didn't expect him to be protective over Dick Winters. But two years alone together with nobody else, well he was happy they had each other. Hurt, but everything about this was going to hurt. “The house is big enough for two more and our hearts are still missing the pieces of you that we…”

Ron softened as Lip choked up.

“Buried. We didn’t even try to look for you, we just gave up and moved out and…”

Dick got to his feet, to put a hand on Lip’s shoulder. “In combat, you can’t pause to memorialize anyone. You have to keep moving.”

“It’s not over.” Lip said and wiped away tears. “You’re alive and it’s not over. I am begging you both to come home.”

“And now every morning we all wake up to the reality that we all gave up too soon.” Ron said and shook some blood off. “No thanks. Dick, I’m going to the infirmary. Let me know what you decide.”

“I’m coming.” Dick said let go of Lip’s shoulder and attached himself to Ron’s side, where he had been for the last two years.

Xxxx

Every time they looked at each other, it was as if their hearts shattered again. Shrapnel flying and raw feelings of betrayal. Betrayed by the man they loved, betrayed by God, betraying the man they loved. The pain of everything hitting everywhere at once, and they retreated every time. Watching Nix and Dick together, was downright painful.

Now with him and Lip, it was more of a soul being ripped from your core. A heart beating with pride for how he continued on, how he took charge. Fury that he was now bound to someone who took and drained him, even if Lew was generous with his money. If it had been him, he would have doted but yielded when needed. They both had someone to watch over now, someone who had shared something so devastating that it changed who they were. The pain was of what could have been instead of what was lost.

And God, did Lew and Dick lose each other all over again each time they made eye contact. So, it was time to move. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

“I'm going to take him to see his Mom.”. Ron said and waved away the offer of a smoke. Those ran out long ago, he wasn't sure he could stomach them again. “My parents are waiting for me. Wife already moved on.”

Lip felt that sting, he knew it was about Edwyna but it was also about him. “You know how things are. Tough situations, time works differently.”

“Nix is a tough situation, probably would be dead without you.”

Oh how true that was. “And Dick?”

“Those two got married. Fucking married. That was what bound them and now it's what destroys them.”. Ron crossed his arms. “So, Guarnere and Nix's sister, huh?”

“He makes her laugh and in two years I haven't seen her laugh. The Nixon kids, they have a tempest inside of them that rages and tries to drown them. Bill, well he's pretty happy too. Didn't see it coming.“

“Yeah.”. Ron said, none of them saw any of this coming. “We are leaving in the morning.”

“Come to the reunion. It's next month.”

“No.”

“Ron.”

“No.”

“I can't watch you walk off and disappear again, Ron. I can't.”

Ron saw him shake a little, a crack in the damn holding back everything. And he was holding back the floodwaters for everyone. It wasn't fair, one man shouldn't shoulder the burden for everyone he ever met.

#winnnix #speirton #WIP abandonment #snippet #fic #band of brothers #writing exercise? Or just examples of why I fail interactions? IDK #angst #AU ---Can't forget that tag or else

7 notes · View notes

agirlwithdemonblood · 5 months ago

Text

Through the Shadows: Chapter 22 - Love, Loss and the Fight to Return

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader

Series Summary: A hunter's Journey through despair and recovery is guided by Dean Winchester's unwavering love, leading her to reclaim her strength, voice and hope for their shared future.

Chapter Summary: She has to make a deicison, fight or leave, and Dean is there to show her that he's not giving up.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of coma, health issues, overdose, suicide, little heavy.

Series Masterlist here!! & Main masterlist here!

The hospital room felt like a prison, a place of sterile lights and endless despair. Dean hadn't left her side since she's been admitted. The doctors had explained everything to him-the overdose, the seizures she had because of the pills, the likelihood that you might not wake up.

Their words were clinical, detached but to dean they were a dagger to the heart. He cursed at them, at himself, at the universe. He held her hand, his grip tight as if he could anchor her back to reality through sheer force of will.

She was trapped in a world of darkness, a space where the voices around her sounded like echoes underwater. She heard Dean's desperate pleas, felt his lips on her scars, but she couldn't decide if she wanted to return to the pain filled world above, or say goodbye all together. His words haunted her, a reminder of the pain she has caused in his heart.

Every day was a struggle between life and death. The decision was hers, but she couldn't find the strength to pull herself out, to decide which way to go.

One day, Dean received the box she prepared for him. He opened it with trembling hands, his eyes filling with tears as he saw the memories she left behind. He laughed softly through his tears, reminiscing about the moments captured in the pictures, and about the night they bonded over drinks.

Dean sat beside her bed, clutching the box's contents, his voice a mix of sorrow and love as he spoke to her. "I forgive you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry for everything I said. You're more than worthy of love. It's just.. people make it hard to believe sometimes, and I'm one of those people. But you-you're everything I ever wanted. Come back to me. Let me love you."

The doctors became more insistent about unplugging Y/N as her heart began to fail, but Dean's resolve only hardened. "No," he growled, glaring at them. "You're not giving up on her. She's going to wake up. She has to."

Two weeks had passed, and Dean's determination never wavered. He stayed by her side, talking to her about the world outside the gloomy hospital walls. He was a constant presence, a lifeline tethering her to the world she had left behind.

In the depths of Y/N's unconsiousness, a realization dawned. Love wasn't the problem. She was. She had pushed it away, convincing herself she couldn't have it, didn't deserve it. But Dean's refusal to let her go, his dedication to show her he loved her through thick and thin, showed her what true love was-something she had always wanted but had been too afraid to accept.

She decided to fight. For him, for herself. The struggle to return was nearly impossible, a battle against the darkness that consumed her, but she fought as hard as she possibly could, each moment a step closer to the light.

Dean was half asleep beside her bed when he felt it-a faint twitch of her hand against his. He jolted awake, his eyes wide as he stared at her. "Please," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Come back to me."

Minutes passed in agonizing silence, and then she twitched again. Dean's breath caught in his throat, hope igniting his chest. Her eyes fluttered open, the harsh brightness of the room assaulting her senses. She began to gag and choke, the tubes down her throat making it impossible to breathe.

Panic seized her, but Dean was there, holding her hand, his voice a soothing presence admist the chaos.

"Hold on baby." he urged, his voice frantic. "Just told on. The doctors are coming."

Sam burst into the room, the doctor close behind. They quickly removed the tubes, and she gasped for air, her chest heaving as she fought to breathe. Dean's hand never left hers, his grip nearly painful as she took her first breath of freedom.

She was back. Weak, disoriented, but alive. And in that moment, she realized that she had a second chance-a chance to embrace the love she had once feared, to fight for the life she wanted.

Dean's tear-filled eyes met hers, and for the first time in a long time, she saw hope reflected back at her.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Chapter 23 coming soon stay tuned!

Like, comment, and reblog, feedback is my fuel 💕

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean x reader #supernatural one shot #dean #spn fic #jensen's smile #deanwinchester #spns

17 notes · View notes

deja-yu · 1 year ago

Note

hii can we get 9 & 11 from 🌸 with seonghwa pls🥺 thank you and hope you’re having a great day!

Park Seonghwa 9. "Whenever I'm with you my brain stops working." & 11. "I never wanted you to find out." "Why?" "Because it's impossible. We're not made for each other."

Royalty Hwa 411 words warnings; angst ;D

Seonghwa’s eyes on you feel like daggers against your skin, you wish it was that instead. You’d rather be sent away to god knows where to fight in a losing war but instead you are here. People sliding around the ballroom like feathers in the wind, music carrying through the halls of the castle. Your eyes keep finding his while you’re scanning the room, searching for any possible threats. But the only threat is the anger you see in his eyes and now you watch it slip into his façade. Lips curling in a snarl for a moment before he straightens his features again. Which made him arguably scarier as his steps brought him closer. “I wish to leave” bowing you acknowledge his request “Of course your highness” you can hear him suck his teeth in annoyance. You follow him through the castle doors opening for him while everyone bows in his wake. A chill running down your spine when Seonghwa whips around suddenly to face you in an empty corridor. “You weren’t going to tell me? I had to find out from that bastard?” you don’t dare look at him “Look me in the eye and tell me why you are leaving after…” the hesitation, the small waiver of his voice makes you look up. With tears in his eyes, he asks again “Why are you leaving me? You… after everything?” there is a lump in your throat as you try and breathe. “I never wanted you to find out this way” “Why?” he asks again “Because it’s impossible. We’re not made for each other” something flies past you, the vase that used to be decoration now shatter behind you. “I don’t care what I was made for! I want to decide!” the tears are spilling down his cheeks and you wish to wipe them away. “You were the only thing that was truly mine” a hiccup as he stumbles over his words “Why can’t I be yours?” it’s the drop that breaks the dam. Rushing over to embrace him in your arms, “They would never accept it” his arms sneak around you to tug you impossibly closer. “You drive me crazy you know, whenever I am with you my brain stops working”, you guide him with soft hands on his cheeks to look into your eyes as you speak. “Then why leave?” “Because it’s the right thing to do, to protect you one last time will be my honour”.

Sorry these prompts called for angst :[ Still taking requests! Request post can be found here.

#ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x y/n #seonghwa x y/n #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa x reader #req #ateez requests

20 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 1 year ago

Text

Lying In Between The Memories

You could call it paradise but it looks just like hell to me

Summary: Following the blood rite, Gwyneth Berdara can't shake the memories of a life long-gone.

The shadowsinger can't seem to move on after five centuries of loving the same woman.

Together, they'll have to carve a new path forward.

[ongoing TW for Sexual Assault]

“This isn’t what Rhysand sent us to do,” Gwyn complained, stretching out her leg on the little island Azriel had brought them to. It was mostly jagged rock and steep, cliff drops into the churning ocean she’d jumped toward just the night before. Relatively few trees remained, battered and gnarled from the relentless water that pounded the shore. Black sand made up the beach, and treacherous waves crept toward them, trying to sweep them into the icy sea at the first opportunity.

Azriel was in his element. That irked her, made more irksome by that too knowing smirk on his stupid, beautiful face. He was in his training leathers which was hardly unusual, though Gwyn had caught him unpacking the night before and knew for a fact Azriel owned nice trousers and tunics. He just chose not to wear them.

“Sure it is,” he interrupted, his dark, icy voice no match for the water splashing just below them.

“It’s a loose interpretation of what he wants from us,” she shot back, unsure why she was arguing. Azriel’s smile widened and gods she wished he wouldn’t smile like that. In fact, Gwyn wished he’d go back to scowling all the time .It was almost impossible not to want to please him when he looked so happy.

“I’m starting to think you care about the rules, Gwyneth,” he shot back without any malice to his words. Reaching for his thigh, Azriel pulled out his dagger while nodding at her to do the same. “This is where we left off, if I recall.”

Gwyn sighed. “No stretching?”

“Do I look like Cassian? Stretch before you arrive,” he replied, no hint of anger in his voice. There was nothing but the cool expression on his face and the dagger in his hand. Gwyn unsheathed her own blade, catching the furrow between his brows when he realized it was nothing special. Hardly the nice one she’d been gifted—but this was what Gwyn preferred. Jutting her chin in the air, she dared him to make a comment on it.

Azriel didn’t. His eyes found her face again, nodding in that respectful way of his.

Are you good, those hazel eyes seemed to ask?

Gwyn didn’t dare answer.

“Stab me,” Azriel murmured when she put herself into a defensive stance. She hated this game. Azriel knew it, too, judging by the wicked gleam in his eyes. They’d done this before, and the end result was always the same: Gwyn, flat on her back while Azriel held a dagger to her throat and explained everything she’d done wrong.

Privately, Gwyn thought the only mistakes she made were not being born five hundred years earlier. Of course he was better than her—he’d had so much time to practice. Gwyn could already feel the ache in her ribs as she stepped forward—her first mistake. Azriel’s grin was lethal when his arm shot out, slamming her roughly to the ground.

“Prick!” she gasped.

“Sloppy,” he replied, peering down at her from where he stood. “Have you regressed that much?”

“Maybe I just hate you too much to try,” Gwyn replied, rolling to her stomach so she could push herself to her feet. Azriel was quiet, waiting for her to stand. She’d gotten to him—she could see it in his expression. A better person would have apologized, but some part of her liked wounding him that way.

Azriel could hurt her physically, but Gwyn could get him back emotionally.

“Again,” she said, holding his gaze.

She swore it was admiration looking back at her—blinked away the next second as his shadows swirled between the pair of them like a buffer. What followed was the most maddening morning she’d spent in a long time. No matter how Gwyn approached Azriel, or how good she was, he was always better, and she always ended up on her back.

Even when he demanded she track him through the island in an attempt to even the playing field between them, and even when his shadows curled around her, trying to whisper help she couldn’t understand, Gwyn still ended up with truthteller pressed to her throat every. single. time.

“I hate you,” Gwyn told him when the moody sun was high in the sky. Sweat coated both their faces, dripping miserably into the leather conforming to her body. Azriel raked a hand through his thick hair, just as damp as the rest of him.

“You don’t,” he replied, though he seemed tense as he said it. As if he didn’t really believe the words he was saying, or that Gwyn might not hate him. Gwyn couldn’t admit that he was right, but she didn’t want him to think she actually hated him, either.

Twisting one of the plaits in her hair around her fingers, she asked instead, “Who trained you?”

Azriel’s thick brows raised high. “I trained in the Illyrian war camps, same as everyone else.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, though, telling her that wasn’t exactly true. She could pry. That seemed the least she could do, given Azriel was being amicable and talking, for once.

“Just the Illyrian camps?”

There was a beat, and then— “The High Lord trained me into his service once I left.”

Rhysands father. Gwyn kept her voice carefully nonchalant, sliding her dagger back into the holster against her thigh while Azriel watched. “I heard he was cruel.”

Another pause. “He was.”

Azriel’s long life was a mystery to her. In truth, Gwyn had never given it much thought, but now, looking at him and his handsome features that always seemed so cold and distant, she wondered if that wasn’t protective, if only a little. She didn’t dare pry about working for the High Lord—at least, not yet. Gwyn merely filed that away for later.

“What are the Illyrian war camps like?” she asked him, coming a little closer. One of his shadows ringed around her neck, hovering against her shoulder. Azriel watched, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. In the light, she caught glimmering flecks of gold against the brown and green, adding dimension and light to a male so typically bathed in shadow.

She hated how she noticed that.

Hated even more how it made her heart stumble.

Azriel seemed more comfortable answering that question. “Brutal. You wouldn’t last a minute in that place.”

“It sounds like I wouldn’t want to,” she grumbled, coming closer still. “I grew up in a temple.”

His whole expression shifted into one of curiosity. “Were they kind to you?”

She couldn’t help her smile. “Yes. It was a family, in its own way. There were a lot of children, so you were never alone.”

“And you liked that?” Now it was Azriel inching closer, his head cocked like a cat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

He only shrugged. “That you don’t like a lot of noise.”

“How would you know that?”

His smile was too much. Too earnest, too…too sweet. He had no right to look at her like that. He’d never looked at her like that, if she was thinking clearly. Gwyn schooled her expression into careful neutrality and prayed he kept the few feet of space between them.

“Spymaster, remember?”

“Don’t spymaster me, alright?”

Azriel held out one of his broad, callused hands—scarred, which she only noticed half the time. Now, though, Gwyn was wondering if that happened in the Illyrian war camp or from the High Lord. Wounds like that, with his immortal blood, ran deep. They would have been gruesome at the time. She supposed it was lucky he’d been able to salvage them at all, and wondered if they ever hurt him.

She gave no indication she was looking at them at all, hidden halfway beneath the siphoned glove he always wore. Instead, she made a show of reluctantly accepting, thinking if she were him, she wouldn’t want anyone's pity. Azriel didn’t seem the sort who would appreciate it, either.

She didn’t know much about him, but she knew that.

Azriel pulled her closer in that rough way of his, which she also liked. He offered her no pity, either. He could have, too. He’d been there in Sangravah. He knew what had happened intimately, in a way no one else beside Morrigan ever would. Gwyn had never spoken to him about it and he’d kept his feelings about that day to himself.

Outside of the temple, though, too many treated her like she was fragile. Nesta and Emerie, despite all their good intentions, were careful of what they said, and Cassian always wore kid gloves where she was concerned.

And Azriel merely beat her senseless into the dirt.

His wings flared behind him, blotting out the sun for a brief moment before he kicked off the ground. Gwyn wondered what kind of strength it took to lift not just himself, but her as well, into the air. She shivered. She didn’t want to think about that, either.

Gwyn did reach up, one arm still wrapped around his neck, to touch the edge of his wing.

Azriel choked, veering sideways and very nearly dropping them both into the turbulent, open sea water.

“Don’t,” he ordered, his voice strangely breathless. “You can’t—don’t touch those.”

“Why?” she asked, heart thudding in her chest. He didn’t look angry. Only out of sorts and deeply flustered. Red crawled up his neck, his eyes staring overhead as he righted them in the air.

“It’s…” Azriel swallowed, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s intimate, to touch an Illyrian male's wings. It’s something between lovers.”

Oh. It was Gwyn’s turn to look away, so deeply embarrassed she didn’t know what to say. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the whistling wind and the distant crash of waves below.

“It’s not a big deal,” Azriel finally said, his voice back to normal. “You can look at me, you know.”

“I thought you would prefer silence, too,” she said, looking over his shoulder.

“Did you?” he questioned softly. Gwyn swallowed hard. That voice felt more intimate than any amount of touching the silky edge of his wing ever could. There was no escaping it, not when his arms were wrapped around her body, keeping her safe and airborne.

Get it together. It’s only Azriel.

But that wasn’t true. More like, it was only Azriel. Gwyn took a breath, drinking in the warm scent of snow flecked wind and burning metal. It was comforting. “When it comes to me? Yeah, I did think that.”

An answering smile ghosted his features. “You’re wrong.”

Gwyn had never been so grateful to touch solid ground than she was just then. “If you say so, shadowsinger.”

His chuckle haunted her all the way back to the palace.

AZRIEL:

Azriel couldn’t read.

Staring at the pages of the book in his hand, reclined lazily in a chair in the library Kai had set Gwyn up in, Azriel tried. Not hard, but tried all the same. It was made more difficult by Gwyn, in a gown of periwinkle, staring down at her own book while Kai hovered just behind her. What happened to her priestess robes? Where had those gone? Hell, even the leathers were preferably to those dresses that hugged every inch of her body in the most maddening way. Worse, still, was the way Kai’s eyes kept darting to her breasts, pressed against the square neckline. It was made worse by the fact that Gwyn was leaned over that table, palms flat against the wood. Her cinnamon colored hair spilled around her shoulders, an occasional nuisance she’d brush out of her way while trying to translate the ancient tome Kai clearly hadn’t wanted her to see.

Azriel didn’t know if he wanted to murder Kai for looking at Gwyn with such obvious lust or for trying to monitor what she learned, when it was clear only Gwyn knew how to translate these texts.

Mostly. She knew some of the symbols, but not enough to read the way she would have liked, which was making her frustrated. Privately, Azriel hoped Gwyn exploded and Kai was caught in the crossfire.

As for Azriel, well…he could handle whatever she threw at him.

“What does that mean?” Kai asked, catching whatever Gwyn had muttered.

“I don’t know,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “Oh, this is impossible!”

“Why not something simpler?” Kai suggested, putting his hand on Gwyn’s shoulder. Blindingly hot rage raced through him, tempered when he caught himself about to stand. About to break Kai’s hand—and for what? He knew Gwyn had her dagger beneath her dress. What was his problem?

His knee began to bounce all the same.

“I need…I need a cypher,” Gwyn said, head snapping up to look at Azriel. He pointed at himself, brows raised. He didn’t know what she was talking about. Shaking off Kai’s hand, Gwyn stepped around the table, eyes shining bright.

“You know who might have one—”

“No.”

She was about to divulge information Kai had no business knowing. And though she didn’t mean to, Gwyn was seconds from telling Kai about Helion Spell-Cleavers ten thousand libraries. He held her gaze, catching that flash of answering fury skitter across her face.

Kai watched their invisible showdown with interest. “Who?”

Gwyn swallowed, clearly pissed he’d dismissed her outright. It was a good idea—one Azriel was willing to entertain in the privacy of their shared bedroom. Not here. “One of the priestesses in my temple. She’s very good with puzzles.”

Kai’s eyes flicked to Azriel. He knew they were lying. “You can’t take the book from here.”

“I wouldn’t—of course not,” Gwyn said, so obviously flustered. “Maybe I can still decipher it later. I…”

“You look like you need rest,” Kai said kindly while Azriel swallowed the urge to snarl at him. “Maybe a nap before dinner?”

Gwyn’s whole face reddened. Slamming the book shut, she said, “Fine. I’ll be back tomorrow, though.”

“Of course you will. You’ve got that fighting spirit so many other females lack. I admire that about you.”

Azriel rose to his feet as Gwyn snapped, “You must not know many females.”

Far from being offended, Kai chuckled. “How right you are.”

Azriel bit back an annoyed sigh. It was tempting to suggest Kai go out and meet more females—preferably ones who were not Gwyn, nor anyone from Prythian. He didn’t, though, if only to keep himself from getting his head bitten off when Gwyn finally decided to sweep out of the library. She’d put the back on its shelf while Kai trailed after her, chatting about dinner and how she ought to sit with him up at the high table. This was courting, he realized. He’d seen Rhys do this a few times in his life—when they were younger, and his brother was testing what it meant to be a High Lord's son.

The ladies back then had at least recognized what was happening. Gwyn merely glanced over at Kai before inviting him to sit with her and Azriel. As if any male trying to convince a female into his bed wanted to compete with another male, winged bastard or no. Gwyn didn’t realize that, though, because Gwyn’s training hadn’t been in courts where males all but danced around what they wanted.

Azriel didn’t hide his smirk when Kai reappeared, put out and clearly frustrated his advances had been spurned. How did it feel, Azriel wondered, for a prince to lose to the likes of him? It wouldn’t be the first time—Azriel had stolen many females right out from Rhys’s nose. Not that he was trying to steal Gwyn—he wasn’t. They were…friends? That didn’t settle right with him, though he couldn’t find a word that explained things between them better.

Still. One day, Gwyn was going to pick a decent male and it wasn’t going to be the sickly looking prince from the smallest territory on the continent. Azriel very much doubted Kai even wanted her as a princess—merely an amusement for the duration of her stay. That’s what irked him, he decided. Kai didn’t even realize how lucky he’d be to end up with Gwyn as a wife, spoiled and snotty as he was.

Gwyn dismissed Kai with a tight smile and an agreement they’d talk more later. As she walked down the hall, Azriel remained just behind, eyes not on her sashaying hips. His shadows slithered back from their hiding spot, dancing around her and whispering secrets they knew damn well she couldn’t hear.

Azriel was grateful for it, given one of them was telling her how he’d spent his previous night, the traitor. He closed the door to their room, bracing himself for her rage. It came swiftly in the form of her spinning on her heel, eyes ablaze.

“No?” she hissed.

“You were about to tell him about Helion,” Azriel replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you think the continent would do if they learned about ten thousand libraries, all at our disposal?”

“You couldn’t have said anything else?” she demanded, coming up to him without an ounce of fear. That was more than a lot of people could say. He’d seen full-grown Illyrian males cringe in his presence. Gwyn, on the other hand, jammed her finger against his chest. “You’re a prick!”

“So you keep reminding me,” he replied dryly. “What was in the book that’s so important?”

“I don’t know,” Gwyn hissed, stepping back with a huff of air. “Maybe something about Koschei, or maybe something about growing strawberries at night. The language is older than anything I’ve seen in the library.”

Azriel tucked his wings tight against his body, bracing himself for another bout of her anger. “I’ll send word to Rhys. See what Helion has to say. Maybe you could copy one of the pages?”

All at once, the ire winked out of her expression. Gwyn looked up at him. “Yeah. I could do that. Hold on—”

“I’m coming with you,” he grumbled, turning right back around to follow her once again, though at least this time she wasn’t radiating rage. Her steps were bouncy, hair swinging against her back. The library was, mercifully, free of Kai—or anyone but Gwyn, who made a beeline for her shelf.

“It’s gone!” she exclaimed, her face becoming red with anger. “He took it!”

Azriel thudded towards her, boots ominous even to his own ears against the floor. Azriel wasn’t surprised the way Gwyn seemed to be—it was clear Kai didn’t like how intelligent Gwyn was, and likely didn’t like the way everyone kept yielding to her.

Azriel looked down at her, unable to resist picking up a strand of her hair. Gwyn went still, chest rising and falling as the pieces slid through his fingers like silk. “I’ll get it back.”

“How?” she demanded, hands balled to fists at her side.

“Spymaster, remember?” Azriel was careful to keep his voice wry, to make it seem like this didn’t matter to him one way or the other. Perhaps he’d been wrong about Kai—maybe he could read the book and had taken it before Gwyn discovered the contents. Azriel very much doubted he’d be guarding it fervently. More likely, he’d tossed it somewhere out of sight, out of mind and wouldn’t notice it was missing for days. Long enough to get a letter to Rhys and longer still for Gwyn to work on making a cypher of her own.

Beneath him, Gwyn bit her bottom lip. “You’d do that?”

“It’s my job, remember?” he said, though the real answer he swallowed was of course I would. She didn’t need to know that. Hell, Azriel wished he didn’t know that. Chalking it up to the swirling emotions from Mor and being away from home when he wanted nothing more than to be napping in a chair in Feyre’s art studio, Azriel took Gwyn back to their shared room. He didn’t laugh when he told her she’d have to eat with Kai, nor was he particularly looking forward to going into the city alone when his own stomach got the best of him.

But at least he’d have that fucking book, and maybe some of the secrets this place had hidden from Mor and was currently trying to hide from Gwyn. He waited until she was gone, still in that ridiculous dress he loathed, scowling as she went. Kai would be too distracted by Gwyn’s beauty to wonder what he was up to.

“Where is the prince's room?” he murmured to his shadows. Functionally, they’d been useless since meeting Gwyn. All at once, they were back, whispering in his ear the way he’d become accustomed to.

In the west wing, in the spire overlooking the sea.

A little further down from where his mother was shoved.

He had several females over the night before, he tied them to the bed until they cried.

His father doesn’t sleep at night.

That last one interested Azriel the most. “Find out what he is doing,” he whispered before slithering out into the hall. Despite Azriel’s size, he know how to remain unseen, even when people were looking right at him. That wasn’t any kind of real magic, but the skills borne of a little boy desperately trying to avoid the notice of his brothers and father. Maybe now it was more than just a skill the way his shadows were, because no one spared him a second glance, even when he came in danger of running right into him.

Or maybe people only saw what they wanted, and no one wanted to look at him. Azriel was perfectly fine with that, especially when his shadows slithered beneath the locked stone door of Kai’s bedroom and unlocked it for him. He slipped inside, unnoticed by the servants and guards.

The room itself was pristine, though it reeked of stale arousal. Azriel thought his own room likely smelled the same, though it rankled him all the same. Something about another males bothered him—instinctually, it felt like a threat.

Azriel moved through the room, ignoring the unlit fireplace and the open windows. No drapes in here. It seemed in private, Kai was done mourning. That was interesting, too. He filed that information away for later, moving through the sitting room with little interest. There were no books here, though plenty of absurd letters from the ladies at court hoping he’d fall in love with them over their flowery prose.

If everyone was trying so hard, maybe it made sense that Kai wanted Gwyn. He’d seen that with Rhys, too. After a while, there wasn’t any fun chasing females if you knew you could have anyone you wanted. Sometimes, Azriel wondered if that hadn’t been the allure with Feyre, at least at first.

Stepping into Kai’s bedroom was a strange experience. Azriel didn’t consider himself prudish, nor was he a hard male to surprise. But iron rungs hung just over the bed frame seemed a little excessive, especially when a leather cat o’nine tails was set atop the wood bedside table. Azriel could guess, from the scent of come and blood, what went on in here.

It made his body tight with hatred, imagining Gwyn kneeling, arms chained over her head while a whip was taken to her skin. Too much, too far—he’d kill Kai for even thinking about it. The book Azriel was looking for was tossed lazily to a nearby desk right atop more absurd, filthy letters.

Rolling his eyes, Azriel picked it up and slid it under his arm while his shadows pried in every nook and cranny for anything interesting. More sex toys filled the closet and bathroom—their uses better left a mystery, even to Azriel.

He was back in the dining hall, book dropped on Gwyn’s bed without lingering, just in time to see Kai bowing over her hand, mouth against her skin. He had to swallow, fighting the urge to snarl even from across the room. Gwyn was flushing, bright eyed and lovely right until she saw him at the far end of the room. Their eyes met, silencing the chatter happening around them. There was a question in her eyes.

Did you find it?

He inclined his head slightly. Azriel had the displeasure of watching Kai murmur something against Gwyns skin, and worse still when she tilted her head back to laugh. He didn’t need to watch this. There was dinner waiting for him down in the city in one of the vendors' stalls, and if he was lucky, people wouldn’t stare too much. She had her book.

She didn’t need anything else.

Not from him, at any rate.

#gwynriel #me to me: i want a month off after this week #also me: upload this chapter so you can post the smutty one next week

51 notes · View notes