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jaimeslanisters · 2 years ago

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the pawn in every lover's game (part nine)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 13.4k notes: i lost complete control of myself while writing so this is a MASSIVE chapter daskjfljdsfl enjoy (: it's melee time

Jocasta Lannister is an undeniably sweet girl, you know this. On the ride from Lannisport, when all of your other cousins were eagerly making their flower wreaths for knights that may or may not ask for their favors, she had sat with you in the wheelhouse, complimenting your choice of wildflowers and the way you had braided the stems together. There is not one calculating bone in her body - she’s all softness and gentle smiles. The Seven had smiled down at her when they had granted her a boon in being born a Lannister but there was nothing lionlike about her. Nothing that would mean she had had any bad intentions when she had given Victor Florent one of the dozens of Lannister-themed handkerchiefs you have made as embroidery practice throughout your life.

Jocasta Lannister is a sweet girl but she’s a dumb girl and that, if you’re feeling uncharitable and you are, is almost worse than being outright malicious. If malice had driven her hand, you could be impressed that she had managed to maneuver you into exactly the position she wanted, that her and Victor’s scheme had gone flawlessly and that you were simply outplayed. That was respectable. Except, instead of a secret plan behind her back, she had given him the handkerchief out of a misguided attempt to help.

That was just annoying.

“I’m not angry, Jocasta,” you reiterate, feeling your head pulse in frustration. Your cousin looks close to tears, her cheeks a bright red as she holds herself back gamely. You didn’t want to have this conversation - you honestly hadn’t even planned on it. Your plan had been to just give her a cold shoulder seeing as, sooner rather than later, she would be shipped right back to Lannisport. There were more important things to worry about. The tea with the Florents was meant to happen in a few minutes and you were supposed to walk over with your father and uncle together. Except now Jason is off who knows where and Tyland had gone out to look for him to drag him along and so, of course, Jocasta had chosen this exact moment to “confess all her sins” to you. You didn’t want to deal with this - not now. Not with the tea looming over your head. Not with Erren thrice-damned Florent and his son waiting for you. Not with Aemond participating in a melee today, something that you know he would have never done if it wasn’t for Victor Florent forcing his hand.

You had bigger things to deal with than Jocasta’s guilt but, instead of snapping at her, you take a deep breath, trying to force your annoyance down. “It’s alright. Honestly. It’s over and it’s done with. It’s fine.”

Jocasta sniffles, her big round green eyes peering up at you with guilt. She really is a sweet girl. “But it’s not! I didn’t know that he wasn’t actually courting you! Just… the way he talked about you and your sweetness-” you snort here but your cousin continues on as if she hasn’t even heard you. “And your kindness and your beauty… I just thought there was no way a man could say all of that if he wasn’t seeing you!”

You sigh, rubbing at your temples and debating the pros and cons of just leaving. “You’re young, Jocasta. Men will say whatever they must to get what they want. It was… an honest mistake. One I hope you will not repeat again soon,” you say, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. She may have only been three years - if that - younger, but you feel the small age gap between the two of you as if it’s three decades instead.

Lannisport is a safer place than King’s Landing, you reason as you watch Jocasta wipe at her eyes. There’s no need for her to be cautious of the intentions of others there, not when every other person is another Lannister.

Your cousin offers you a wobbly smile even as, behind her, Jason and Tyland enter the apartments, deep in discussion as they speak in lowered tones. “Thank you,” she murmurs pitifully, her voice still shaky. “Ser Victor is wrong about Prince Aemond. He must truly care for you if he’s entering the melee. It’s not at all what he thinks.”

You blink, eyes going sharp as you stare down your guileless relative. Jocasta, after a moment, notices your gaze and she shifts awkwardly in place, looking as if she’s torn between breaking down into tears again or bolting for her room. “What do you mean by that?” You ask, voice soft, feeling ice creep down your spine. “What did Victor Florent say about Aemond?”

She looks hesitant and frightened, and, when you finally reach your limit and reach over to grab her wrist, she bursts into nervous tears. Behind her, Jason and Tyland look baffled but you don’t have time for them, pulling Jocasta close so you can look her directly in the eye.

“Jocasta,” you repeat, feeling your patience grow thinner and thinner until you’re certain it will snap. “What did Victor say?”

“I-I didn’t… I’m sorry!” She wails and you fight the urge to roll your eyes, wishing she would grab control of herself for just a moment. “He said… He said that Prince Aemond took advantage of your friendship with Princess Helaena so he could use you to better his standing in court! And that he frightens the ladies with his eye and you’re also frightened but you’re much too polite to say that so you just tolerate him! Ser Victor told me that Prince Aemond has scared off the other men in court from you and he knew that if you could, you would give Ser Victor your favor but that you’re frightened of the Prince’s reaction an-”

“That’s quite enough,” You cut in, barely containing your rage. They’re not her words but that doesn’t mean the urge to strike her goes away and instead, you pull your hand away from her, gripping it tightly with your other one to hold yourself in check. Your cousin blinks at you, her eyes reddened, and you stiffly nod your head at her, dismissing her without words. She immediately bolts and you stare down at the patch of ground she had once occupied, taking deep breaths and trying to find some calm within yourself so you don’t do something rash like enter the melee yourself just to get the chance to try and stab Victor Florent.

Victor Florent was a fool. Aemond was the One-Eyed Prince yet he could see you more clearly than Victor ever could.

Wishing you could break something just to watch it shatter, you calm your beating heart, swallowing your rage and pushing it down.

Not now. Not now.

But soon.

After a few moments, when calmness finds you, you look up at your watching father and cousin, and you smile at them, the mask coming easy to you. “Shall we go?” You ask and they look back, their perfectly identical faces quizzical.

Jason opens his mouth to say something but Tyland clears his throat, elbowing his brother in the ribs. “Of course, little one,” he says, stepping up to you and offering you his arm. “The Florents are waiting.”

——————————–

Regretfully, the gardens are lovely today and, as you and your family greet the Florents, you wish that the day wasn’t so pleasant as well. Spring is well underway and, around the terrace your father has selected as a meeting place, beautiful red roses bloom, their smell wafting through the air pleasantly. Looking at them, however, reminds you of the crown Victor had given you - a crown that some servant had probably thrown away by now - and you stubbornly look away from them, sliding into your seat as soon as you can.

“I’m thankful you could make the time to host this tea, my lord,” Victor says the moment the men all sit as well, leaning across the table eagerly. His gray eyes are bright in the sun and it makes him look that much younger, more boy than anything resembling a man. “I’ll admit - I have been hoping for quite some time that we could meet like this under these circumstances.”

Erren laughs, patting his son on the back. He’s steady, confident, and you watch him carefully, looking for a reason why. “It’s nearly all he writes to me about! Nothing about his training or his service in the City Watch. Instead, he just writes about your daughter’s beauty and kindness.”

“I’m surprised my lord could fill so many letters with that sort of talk,” you reply, smiling sweetly at the two Florents as their gazes swing away from your father to look at you. “We haven’t had many conversations in the past for you to be so well acquainted with my nature.” At your side, Tyland jabs you in the side with his fingers and, under the table, you swat back at him, maintaining your pleasant expression.

Erren’s eyes darken but Victor only smiles shyly. “I cherish our precious few conversations and, I’ll admit, I have admired you from afar for some time now.”

You admire from afar because that’s the distance I keep you at you think sourly, remembering all the times you’ve had to duck into other rooms or start impromptu conversations with whoever was closest just to avoid his overly lengthy monologues about how he could support and maintain you with only his savings and his love.

“I’ve tried a few times before, actually, to secure a betrothal meeting but your uncle always denied me,” Victor continues, laughing slightly as if it was a grand joke, and you almost feel a flash of pity for his clueless bumbling. He’s a clueless fox in a den of lions and dragons and he doesn’t feel the danger all around. All he sees is you and you wonder, not for the first time, how he could have survived this long.

Tyland gives him a close-lipped smile. “My niece has two older sisters. It’d be inappropriate if she were to get engaged before them so you can understand my hesitancy in entering any such negotiations.”

“Ah, yes, but I’ve met Lord Garth Tarly,” Erren cuts in, smiling that awful empty smile of his. The golden fox brooch on his lapel catches the light, shining and blinding. “Charming young lad. Shame that he had to become the Lord of Horn Hill so young but he seems to have handled his ascension with grace and maturity. From what I’ve heard, he seems to be quite besotted with the Lady Tyshara. He’s refusing all marriage pacts that come his way for her.”

Jason nods even as he reaches for the carafe of wine on the table to pour himself a drink. “My Tyshara visited the Reach on a tour a year or two ago. She met Lord Tarly and they’ve kept up a correspondence since. I had no idea he was so charmed by her.”

He did have an idea. You all had an idea. If Garth Tarly could have it his way, he and Tyshara would have long been married by now, Cerelle’s marital status be damned. Once, she let you read the letters he always sends and you had been left with the distinct impression that, even if the Maiden herself descended from the Seven Heavens and begged to marry Lord Tarly, he would refuse in hopes that he would one day soon be united with his beloved Golden Beauty.

Of course, none of you were about to let Erren Florent know that, especially since the inappropriateness of being betrothed prior to Cerelle and Tyshara was one of the thin shields you could wield against him. Instead, you tilt your head in surprise, eyes going wide in mock shock.

Erren seemingly does not mind though that no one in your family is confirming or denying the rumor. “Regardless, it seems that young Lord Tarly is charmed by some lady, Lady Tyshara or otherwise. There can be no other explanation for his remaining unmarried. Of course, he is still very young and he has a younger brother to serve as his heir but it’s terribly shocking for him to refuse all betrothal meetings.”

“What other men choose to do with their marriage beds is their business,” Jason firmly says, laughing to soften his edge. “I’m sure Lord Tarly knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course,” Erren immediately concedes even though his eyes flash in victory. “I have no doubt he has a plan in mind. He may have even already chosen a bride.”

You glance at your father, hiding a wince when relief briefly flickers on his face as he nods. He’s showing his cards too soon and too early and Erren Florent, while a bumbling idiot who insults more than he charms, is not so complete a fool that he would miss the way Jason relaxes when you move off Tyshara’s all-but-official betrothal. He knows and that knowledge gives him the confidence to pursue the same with you.

“If your family could accept my suit, then we can hold off any betrothal announcements,” Victor says and you can’t quite help but tense as he lays his intentions bare. You had come to this tea knowing that it would be a discussion, a debate, over your hand but you’re still knocked off kilter by it being laid out so plainly. It makes it all too real and you can almost feel the thorns of the crown he had given you pressing into your head. “We can simply… have an understanding.”

Erren nods in agreement, rapping his knuckles against the wooden table. “My son has much to offer your daughter. He will become Master of Arms at Brightwater Keep when the current one retires and then inherit the traditional apartments for that position for the two of them to live in. The two of them will be able to travel and he will bestow countless crowns upon her. He’s already named her Queen of Love and Beauty here for the joust and I have no doubt he’ll be able to recreate his success with the melee and win her another crown. This is only the beginning of the honors for Lady Lannister.”

Honor, not honors.

For a moment, you can feel your mother’s presence as if she’s physically next to you and you suddenly miss her with such a force that it knocks the breath out of you. Your mother should be here, staring down the Florents with more ferocity than your father ever could. You could only imagine her face at hearing someone promise the daughter of a Westerling honors.

Honor, not honors. You can hear her voice say, as hard and unyielding as the very mountain that Casterly Rock was carved into. My daughter does not need to be crowned by your boy to be worthy of being a Queen of Love and Beauty.

Victor leans across the table, staring at you beseechingly, and you gaze back, eyes colder than they had been before. He doesn’t notice, too blinded by his own yearning, and you marvel at how someone so dense could prove such a skilled fighter. “Aside from that, I offer you my love. I’d cherish you, my lady, from now until the end of our days. If you were to marry me, I would dedicate my life to you and to any children you would bear me. Brightwater Keep is also not far from Horn Hill, my lady. Only a three day ride. You could visit your sister whenever you wished. Raise our children at her side.”

You bite your tongue, wishing you could spit back his offers in his face.

I have a sister here in King’s Landing and you’d have me abandon her to the snakes and rats of this awful city.

In lieu of responding, you blankly nod, your face calm and expressionless, before you look over at your father, deferring the topic.

Jason, to his credit, does not seem thrown by the proposal. He’s frowning slightly, as if deep in thought, before he slowly shakes his head. “Regretfully, my lords, I will have to decline your offer,” he says, sounding genuinely upset to be saying it. “I couldn’t part with my daughter, not yet, and I’m sure my brother will agree with me. Perhaps after Cerelle and Tyshara find their husbands, I could reconsider but for right now, she will remain as she is.”

Victor’s eyes go wide as if he hadn’t been expecting the rejection, but Erren nods slowly, expression calm. “Understandable,” Lord Florent replies smoothly. “All we ask is that you keep my son in mind when considering her future options. She is a treasure amongst women - do not let her be squandered on men who would not appreciate her. Victor can offer her something that other noblemen cannot.”

It’s a testament to your willpower that you don’t snort in response. Instead, you smile. “I thank you for your kind words, my lord, and am regretful that this meeting was not more productive for us all. I trust my father will ensure that whoever I will marry in the future will treat me with the respect I deserve as both a lady and a Lannister.”

Erren watches you sternly, his pale eyes cold as he considers you. On a certain level, you almost respect the tenacity with which he’s approaching his son’s marriage. Victor is his fourth son and his house’s legacy has long since been secured. You’re not sure whether it’s solely for Victor’s benefit or whether or not he cares more about his house’s power but either way, there’s no doubt in your mind that Erren Florent will do what he needs to secure your hand.

You have little hope that you’ve managed to charm Lord Florent - unlike his son, he’s well aware of your disdain for the proposed match - but you doubt you needed charm to make him realize what a boon a marriage with you would be for his house. You’re a Lannister, one of five daughters to be sure, but a Lannister is still a Lannister. Your dowry would be a windfall for even a major house, let alone the Florents who land somewhere solidly in the middle of the social ranking.

You meet his gaze, your own eyes steady and calm, and the annoyance that flickers on Erren’s face when you do not quail under his stare almost brings a smile to your lips.

The tea after is a dreadful affair. You mostly sit quietly the entire time as Jason and Tyland discuss with Erren how the current royal wedding compares with the ones prior. No one is expecting you to participate and a part of you wonders if your father and uncle chose this topic to spare you from having to play nice for longer than necessary. You twiddle with the ends of your sleeves, wishing you could just leave. There is no reason for your presence - the betrothal had been denied and would be denied for the foreseeable future - but etiquette demands you stay and you long to just go, away from this tea and away from the Florents.

You wish you were at the tourney grounds already. At least there, you could breathe again though you doubt you could relax. As much confidence as you have in Aemond’s skills, you’re not oblivious to the danger he’s facing. The melee is always more brutal than the joust, more prone to maimings and deaths. Even at the tourney for Loren’s birth, five knights had been grievously injured and three more had died. Even now, you can still perfectly remember sitting by Cerelle’s side, clinging to her hand as you had watched a knight drive his armored fist into another man’s face, punching over and over until all that remained was a bloody pulp, completely unrecognizable as a person. If you think hard enough, you can remember the way your ears had rang for hours after as the screams of excitement from the crowd echoed in your memories.

Jousting was dangerous but it was impersonal. Knights wore helmets, their faces hidden behind a steel visor. They lifted it at times to speak but when the actual jousting happened, all they could see of their opponents was a faceless helmet. Melees were far from that. Most men wore helmets, yes, but they could hardly wear the visors in one on one combat. In some cases, they took it off completely in order to have the biggest range of vision. In those battles, their opponent had a face. Their bloodlust had a target.

The matches were meant to last until the fifth strike or until one of the opponents yielded but it hardly ever went that way. With the screams of the crowd in their ears, driving them to go further and further, most fighters went until their opponent was incapacitated and most fighters refused to stop until injury forced their hand. It was the bloodiest event by far and of course, it had to be the one that Aemond was entering.

As a prince, he should be safe. It’s hard to imagine any knight risking retaliation from the Hightowers if he harmed the son of the king in a match. But then again, the whole realm knew that Viserys did not care about any of his children from Alicent. He had yet to make an appearance at any of the wedding events and you somehow doubted he would. If someone were to harm Aemond, Viserys would not rise to his defense. He hadn’t in the past and he wouldn’t in the future and that made Aemond vulnerable.

Biting your lip, you tune back into the conversation, willing for it to go faster so you can leave for the tourney grounds to at least try and see Aemond before the event begins. The gods, predictably, scold you for this and, when Victor raises to his feet and looks at you expectantly, you wonder which of the Seven is punishing you for your impatience.

Likely the Mother, you think, wishing you could scowl openly.

“I have to take my leave and head to the grounds to prepare myself for the melee,” Victor declares, eyes never leaving yours. “If possible, I’d like my lady to accompany me.”

Jason nearly chokes on his wine but Tyland is quick to the draw. “My apologies, Ser Victor, but I’m afraid we’ll have to be the ones to take her to the grounds. Lady Lannister, that is, my good sister, has sent her daughter a letter that she wanted a prompt reply on.”

You don’t visibly react but internally, you’re baffled. Yesterday, a letter had arrived from your mother and it had been a normal one - she had filled you in on Loren’s growth and had inquired about how the wedding proceedings were going.

They’re just giving me an out you reason but your stomach still twists at the idea that something has happened that your mother thinks you need to know right away.

Victor nods. “Understandable. Could I then accompany her to the Lannister apartments?”

Jason rises to his feet, already nodding. “If she accepts, I cannot see why not?”

All eyes swing to you then and you feel a flash of annoyance at being put on the spot even as you offer Victor an apologetic smile, standing up to your full height. “I would hardly wish to pull you away from the tourney grounds, Ser. I know how important your preparations must be. I’d hardly want to be in the way. Perhaps it’d be best to speak after?”

He immediately shakes his head. “No, no, you wouldn’t be in the way at all, my lady. It’d be an honor.”

Erren laughs loudly, patting his son firmly on the shoulder. “It’d be good luck, I imagine. All the good knights in the songs get to be with their lady before winning a great victory.”

This isn’t a song and I am not his lady.

Taking a deep breath, you nod your consent, ignoring the look your father and uncle share. “In that case, I can hardly refuse. I imagine Ser Victor will need all the luck he can get for the melee.”

Victor smiles as he nearly trips over himself to reach your side but Erren Florent watches you, eyes cold and piercing. You give him nothing, however, simply tilting your head in acknowledgment with a smile.

Farewells said, your group begins the walk through the gardens back to the Lannister apartment and, when Victor offers you his arm, you take it without hesitation.

“I’d like to offer my apologies, my lord,” you say after a moment, keeping your eyes on the path ahead. In the more populated areas of the gardens, people watch you and Victor walk with interest, their whispering tones fading into the background.

Victor starts as if he hadn’t realized you would speak, before promptly shaking his head. “What for, my lady? You’ve done nothing of offense.”

“I’m afraid you never did get that dance,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the path to look up at him. He’s smiling and you feel that familiar, creeping rage wash over you.

“There will be other dances,” he says.

You smile, tilting your head. “Perhaps. You did dance with someone though, that night that you asked me. Lady Jocasta, my cousin.”

Victor nods, a flicker of nervousness flashing on his face. “I did, yes. She’s a very kind lady.”

Your smile grows. “She is, isn’t she? A sweet girl. Nothing at all like a Lannister ought to be. Of course, she’s a Lannister of Lannisport. It’s alright if she’s easily led. She’s afforded that grace. If she was a Lannister of the Rock, things would be very different for her.”

“Easily led?” Victor asks and you turn away from him, facing the gardens once again. Adjusting your grip, you encircle his arm with one of your hands, nails pointed downwards into his flesh.

“Yes, my lord,” you reply. “She’s easily led. Easily frightened. She’s as much a lion as I am but she’s never had a need to use her claws.”

“And you have?” Victor asks, voice rumbling.

You squeeze tight in response, hardly enough to do damage, but Victor stumbles slightly nonetheless. “When I’m provoked,” your voice is light and breezy. If someone heard you, they’d think you were flirting. “Luckily, I’m not easily provoked. Nor am I easily frightened.” You turn your gaze back to Victor and his eyes flash in recognition.

“My lady…” he starts, a hint of desperation entering his voice, but you shake your head, smiling, as you lean in and pat his arm, releasing your tight hold. “I… I only told your cousin what I’ve seen.”

“Oh? What you’ve seen?” You ask, raising a brow. “Shall I tell you what I’ve seen? I was there when they were treating Prince Aemond after the attack. I saw the mark that was left on him, and I watched as the maester attempted to sew it back together. I still remember when I spoke and he tried to follow my voice. I remember seeing a socket without an eye try to find me. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can recall every single detail. You’ve participated in several tourneys, Ser. Doubtless, you’ve seen awful wounds, injuries I couldn’t even imagine, but it’s awfully different seeing it on a child when you’re a child yourself.”

Victor doesn’t answer for a moment, staring down at you. Finally, he speaks. “You must have been scared.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you? I wasn’t scared, however. I was angry. I’ve never felt that much anger in my life, that much helpless rage with nowhere to direct it. Well… recent events not included,” you say, laughing slightly. The sun feels warm around you. It is a beautiful day.

“You’re a lady. A proper lady,” Victor begins, a note of begging entering his voice. You watch, smiling. “I’ve seen you with Princess Helaena, with the servants and the other ladies in the court. You’re a kind and beautiful and gentle lady. I mean it with no disrespect to Prince Aemond but he frightens the ladies in the court, even with the eyepatch. He’s handsome enough, I will give him that, but he’s fierce and stern and it scares every lady he meets. Y-You’re different from them but… you’re a lady nonetheless. You’re much too polite to warn him away - not when you serve his sister.”

You hum in acknowledgment, gesturing for him to go on, and Victor nods, a glimmer of relief entering his eyes.

“I… I know I’m far from the only man to ever notice you. Every man in the court would have to be blind to not recognize you and your beauty. Any man who notices you, however, is always scared off by Prince Aemond. He abuses his power at court to have any titles they’ve earned for themselves taken away. He approached me at the welcoming feast and said if I bothered any more Lannisters with my dreams, I’d be quickly reminded of my position.”

You can’t help it. You laugh and Victor genuinely flinches, dropping your arm. He stares at you as if he’s never seen you before and you smile wide, baring your teeth in a grin. “And have you been? Reminded?”

He doesn’t reply, simply staring at you, searching for something you’re sure he’ll not find in your eyes, and you shake your head ruefully. “You will be soon, I pray. Either a dragon teaches you or a lion will and I’m not too sure which one you would prefer.” You step close, tilting your head as you look up at him. Victor stares back, pale eyes wide and stunned. “You lied to the court with that handkerchief, Ser.” You murmur softly. “You lied about me. You placed a crown on the head of someone who does not belong to you. There is a price to pay for all of that. I hope you can afford it.”

With that, you bow your head as you drop into a curtsey before stepping away, continuing down the path towards the Lannister apartments. Victor stays, frozen like a statue in the gardens, but your father and uncle pick up their pace to walk by your side.

“You scared him something fierce,” Jason says after a moment, and, when you look up at your father, he’s watching you with a strange look in his eye.

After a moment, you recognize it. Pride.

The last time he looked at you like that was when you had agreed to go to the capitol to find a princely husband and you almost trip in your shock, heart beating fast.

“She’s a Lannister, Jason,” Tyland laughs. “Moreover she’s a lioness raised amongst dragons in a pit filled with liars and frauds. I’d dare say only someone like Prince Aemond could be fierce enough to claim her.”

Jason hums, offering you his arm, and you take it, feeling the glow of accomplishment wash over you. “Speaking of claiming… I did receive a raven this morning though not from your mother. It seems that we’ve lost a lion but gained a wolf. Cerelle has married Cregan Stark.”

You miss a step, stumbling slightly, but your father’s hold keeps you upright and you stare at him in shock.

Cerelle. Cerelle. Cerelle.

If it wasn’t for Aemond and the tourney, Helaena and the wedding, you don’t think there would be a single force on the planet that could stop you from racing towards Winterfell, towards your sister. You had always imagined being there for her wedding and, though you knew what would happen when you had pushed to send her North, you still feel a sense of loss wash over you.

Cerelle isn’t a Lannister anymore you realize with a shock and a knot forms in your throat, the glow of success leaving you and leaving only a cold sense of reality behind. She’s a Stark now.

Pushing it down, you finally nod your head. “So it worked.”

Tyland sighs. “Partially. Her letter only mentioned that they’ve been married and she’s working on amassing a small Lannister force and securing Northern allies. She was free to leave Winterfell as Lord Regent Bennard did not know of the marriage and, as Lady Stark now, she can gather Lord Cregan’s bannerman for him. Within the next few weeks, they will topple Lord Regent Bennard, peacefully or with force, and reclaim Winterfell for its trueborn line.”

“Do you think the marriage will leak?” You ask, mind whirring with possibilities. If it did and Bennard thought to retaliate, Cerelle’s blood ties to the Westerlands would keep her safe. If any harm came to her, your father would call his banners and go to war. Her marriage with Cregan would guarantee that the North did the same.

Tyland hums. “I imagine it already has. Bennard cannot move against Cregan himself. He would become a kinslayer and would forfeit all rights to Winterfell with it. He could have used Cerelle to force Cregan’s hand but she’s already slipped his grasp. I imagine most of the North knows by now that Cregan Stark has taken a Lannister bride. Soon, the rest of the realm will know.”

“Which means you must be careful now, sweetling,” Jason warns and you look back to your father. His green eyes are watching you carefully. “The tea with the Florents would have been a waste if it did not prove to us that tell of Tyshara and Lord Tarly has leaked. Soon, the court will know that Cerelle has married hastily - without us there. That will bring her virtue into question. There’s naught that can be done about it now, not with a marriage already in place, but the gossip will begin.”

“If Cerelle has been married so quickly and Tyshara and her Lord Tarly are already rumored to have a wedding all but planned, people will begin to wonder about you and your prince. If he has taken the same liberties with you that they will think your sisters have taken with their men,” Tyland continues, voice low to not be overheard. “The court has already seen the high regard in which he holds you in.”

Your mouth drops open as you look at the two of them, feeling your cheeks blaze even as you recognize the truth of what they are saying.

“We cannot afford for you to fall under suspicion,” Jason says, voice firm. “One hastily married daughter is a mistake. Two is a tragedy. But three? That is an insult. That is a failure within House Lannister. A marriage would afford you protection but Jeyne and Joy would suffer the brunt of the gossip. Their marriage chances would be shot. I’d be begging a minor lord to give them a household knight at that point. Do you understand? You already have the attention of all of King’s Landing but after this, you will have their scrutiny as well.”

You feel a shiver run down your spine. I came here for Jeyne and Joy, to get the power to give them the marriages they deserve. If not me, who?

After a moment, you nod, thinking of your little sisters as you agree.

——————————–

The instant you step into the tent, you feel yourself relax if only a little bit. Here in the tent, you’re safe, away from the Florents and the court. It’s only people you trust and who trust you in return. No one is watching you to see if you falter, to see if you fail, and for that alone, you allow yourself a moment’s respite.

At first, no one notices your entrance, too caught up with one another. Aemond is in the corner of the tent, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes, as Alicent and Criston crowd him, both of them spouting off advice that you’re not entirely sure is helpful. Daeron is next to them, ignoring them all completely as he bows his head over his brother’s breastplate, polishing it with such a fervor that you’re sure that as soon as he’s done, the black steel will gleam as a mirror. Aegon, predictably, is drinking, looking vaguely amused as he watches his family run around like chickens with their heads cut off.

Helaena spots you first, playing with her bug toy as normal, and, when she calls out your name, everyone stops and swivels to stare at you standing at the entrance.

More out of instinct than anything else, you drop into a curtsey, bending low in an apology. When you rise, however, everyone is still staring at you and, suddenly feeling shy and awkward, you shift awkwardly.

Perhaps I should have just headed to the royal box instead.

You don’t get the chance to linger on that thought, however, since Helaena promptly approaches you, stopping right before you, a hair’s length away.

“A dragon’s treasure,” she announces, loud and clear in the quiet of the tent, and, though her eyes are blank and empty, it doesn’t feel like a prophecy. Your cheeks burn and you duck your head, feeling oddly embarrassed and called out.

After a moment, you look back up, finding your control. “I-uh… Is everything going well, Helaena? Or should I find a way to sabotage the melee?”

Helaena smiles hesitantly, coming back into herself, and blinking fast as if to speed up the process. “I think everything is going fine,” she says after a moment. “Though I think Mother would be comforted if you could somehow secure, without a doubt, that Aemond will emerge from this unhurt.”

“If I could, I would have done so already,” you reply wryly, laughing slightly. She nods, somewhat solemnly. She knows you well enough to know that if you could somehow fix this without harming Aemond’s pride, you would have done it by now and granted yourself and the rest of his family some peace of mind. As it is, you halfway wish you could have poisoned Victor and all the other opponents Aemond will have to face if just to end the matches before they could ever begin.

He’s a mighty warrior, you remind yourself, digging your nails into your palms. Ser Criston Cole trained him and there’s no living knight stronger than him. Aemond will be fine. He has to be.

As much as you repeat that fact to yourself, you still can’t find it in yourself to fully relax. Your brain is constantly catastrophizing, filling your mind with terrible images of Aemond lying on the ground, bloody and broken. For a moment, you almost wish you could beg him to back out, to leave things as they are. A crown from the wrong man is a momentary embarrassment. A dead man is something you can’t fix.

“Things will be fine,” Aegon insists as if he can read your mind. On his chaise, with his chalice in hand, he looks like the carefree noble the smallfolk love to scorn and you feel a flash of resentment. Even in your annoyance, however, you can tell that it’s a wholly unfair assessment since even you can see the tightness around his eyes, the way his grip is strong on his wine. “Everyone is worrying more than Aemond is. He’ll come out of this a better man or whatever it is the singers say.”

Alicent makes a small noise, torn between scolding her eldest or fussing over her middle son. “We’re free to worry, Aegon. This is the first time any of us have participated in a tourney.”

Daeron clears his throat, peering up from the armor with big purple eyes. “Uncle Gwayne is always participating in tourneys,” he unhelpfully reminds, shrinking back slightly as his mother shoots him a look. “B-but he’s always fine and even he would admit Aemond is the better swordsman.”

“That’s different,” Alicent replies, somewhat mutinous. Even from your spot, you can see her grip tighten on Aemond’s arm, her voice growing thick with worry. “I did not think I would have to worry about tourneys for quite some time. Before now, you were my only son interested in competitions.”

Aemond huffs, finally reaching his limits with his family’s antics. “If everyone could find some peace, I would much appreciate it. Your worry will hardly help me.”

“It might remind you to be cautious,” you say, your words forcing themselves out of your mouth. Aemond’s eye swings to you, narrowed, but you refuse to back down, determined to say your piece. “I’ve heard tell of what happens in the arena. Bloodlust takes over. The crowd’s urging becomes demands. Perhaps… Perhaps if we worry enough, you’ll remember that yielding can be just honorable as winning. Ser Harrold Westerling has yielded in melees before and he’s Lord Commander.”

Bringing up your uncle may not be the best move, not with another member of Kingsguard here to serve more readily as an example, but you barrel forward. There is honor in knowing when you’re down for the count.

Of course, judging by the look in Aemond’s eye, he knows you’re not as honest as you’re putting yourself forth to be. You don’t know when to quit and Aemond certainly does not know either. If someone were to corner him into surrendering, he knew as well as you did that you would rise up in revenge.

Not now and not soon.

“She’s not wrong, my prince,” Criston says, voice steady. Aemond swings to stare down the Kingsguard but the knight does not show even a hint of wavering. If anything, he looks exasperated. “For your mother’s sake, I implore you to be aware of the consequences of not yielding.”

“And perhaps,” Aemond grumbles, his eye flashing in warning. “I’m also aware of the consequences of not winning. If I am forced to yield, I am forced to yield. But I will not enter the grounds already believing I must.”

Alicent nods. “Of course,” she agrees, more out of placating her son than truly believing in what she’s saying. “Of course, Aemond, I just… I worry. You know I do.”

Something in Aemond’s face flickers and he softens slightly, hand coming up to grip his mother’s arm in a show of comfort. “I know, mother. I would not do anything that would bring you undue harm.”

The Queen looks up at her son and, though you can’t see her face from here, you can only imagine the look on her face. You wonder if it is anything like it had been on Driftmark, when she had first realized she was helpless to protect her children.

He was a boy then, you want to tell her. And even then it took four others to beat him down. He’ll be safe. He’ll be fine.

Instead, you keep quiet and, after a moment, she nods her head, slow and shaky. “May the Warrior grant you strength and guide your arm.” She lingers for a moment, holding onto her son for a second longer, before she finally lets go, sweeping out of the tent with Criston right behind.

There’s a moment of silence, where all of you wonder what to say next, when Aegon lets out a loud sigh, throwing his head against the back of the chaise. “I never thought Aemond would cause mother’s next nervous breakdown. I really would have put money down on me or even Daeron.”

Daeron looks back up from his work, quick to rise to his brother’s defense. “She’s just worried but she has faith in him. She’s always bragging in her letters about how well he can fight.”

Aegon frowns, sipping from his chalice as he rises to his feet. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions and you would have to be blind not to see the jealousy flash across his face. It disappears fast enough as he forces a grin. “Sure, sure. Never meant to imply otherwise.”

He walks over to Aemond, slapping his brother hard on the shoulder. Aemond doesn’t even shift, simply looking down at his older brother with annoyance and disdain. “Make sure to win, little brother. I’ve got a good bit of coin riding on these results.”

“I thank you for your confidence,” Aemond responds, his voice coldly courteous.

Aegon’s grin turns real, more teasing. “Of course. You’ll win this tourney, crown our shining lady of Lannister Queen of Love and Beauty once more, and then, at the end of this, I’ll have a nice pot of gold to use to bet on the next time some other Victor Florent makes the ill-thought-out decision of chasing after Lady Lannister.”

You roll your eyes. “Save your coins and buy yourself more wine instead. I doubt there’ll be many, if any, others after this. It’s hardly worth all this scandal.”

Helaena giggles, soft and sweet. “Perhaps there will be others. You could be the face that launches a thousand tourneys.”

You scoff, even as Aegon expresses his confusion at the name. He turns to Aemond but his brother merely nods his head over you, clearly passing the buck, and Aegon looks at you, plainly expecting an answer. Even Daeron looks up from his work and you sigh.

“There’s a story in the Westerlands of an Ironborn king who stole away a Lannister queen because she was so beautiful.” You explain, fighting to keep your face stern even as Helaena laughs cheerfully, plainly delighted by your reluctance to clarify her joke. “It led to a gruesome war that lasted ten long years. At the end of it, she was returned to her husband though her return was paid for by countless lives. Her name is lost now, if she ever did exist, but she’s known as the face that launched a thousand ships.”

“I’d ask you not to start a thousand tourneys,” Aemond says, his lip curling in amusement when you shoot him a look. “Mother is already having a hard enough time with just one.”

“That would pad my coffers nicely,” Aegon muses, squeezing his brother’s shoulder before he lets go. “Get that stamina up, would you? Seems you might have quite a few fights ahead of you and I aim to make a killing.”

“At some point,” Daeron cuts in, rising to his feet, finally finished with his work. “It would be easier to have Vhagar fight your battles. I’m sure she’d enjoy the exercise.”

Helaena hums. “I don’t think the singers would like that - not nearly as romantic.”

“Sounds like a miserable song,” you grumble, finally breaking into a grin when Helaena bumps you with her shoulder, beaming at you. Aegon meanders back to the chaise, grabbing slices of bread from a table as he does so, and you watch with interest as Daeron then descends on Aemond, scurrying around him as he fits his older brother with a suit of armor.

It’s relatively plain armor - not at all like some other ostentatious suits of armor you have seen at tourneys past. Thanks to Daeron’s efforts, it’s a nearly impossibly shiny black, so polished that it reflects the light perfectly. On the chest, the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen sigil is embossed into the steel, an unnecessary reminder that the wearer of the armor was of royal blood.

It’s simple armor.

Yet you can’t drag your eyes away from him.

You’ve never seen Aemond in armor before - last night had been the first time you had ever even seen him fight as a grown man - and the sight of it does something to you. Low in your belly, you feel a hot ache, and the heat, for the first time in your life, causes you to shift awkwardly, searching for a moment’s relief. It doesn’t come, however - it won’t come, not if you’re just standing here staring.

For half a breath, you indulge yourself in a fantasy of ordering everyone out, of convincing Aemond to leave the melee and giving yourself to him completely in return. You don’t even know what that means, what it entails, but you want him to show you.

The fantasy leaves you quickly enough and you burn with shame at your own indecency even if the heat only gets worse.

Pointedly, you look away from Aemond, turning towards Helaena and pulling her into a conversation about beetles, trying to pull away as far as you can from the sight of Aemond in his armor. The princess eagerly complies and soon your mind is whirring with her long-winded speech about the Braavosi beetles her grandfather had imported in as a wedding gift to her and how she’s trying to adjust them to the much more humid environment of King’s Landing.

It works. For a time.

Then Daeron announces he’s finished and has to run to help Lord Ormund like he’s supposed to be doing and Aegon trails behind him and you’re left alone with Helaena and Aemond.

And then Helaena, beautiful, blessed, mischievous Helaena grins at you and ducks towards the entrance of the tent, staying inside to save you from the public consequences of knowingly being alone in a tent with a man who is entering a melee in response to another man’s suit for you but giving you enough space that you’re functionally alone with Aemond. You look over at him in time to watch him buckle his sheath around his slim waist, his silky hair falling like a curtain around his bowed head.

The heat flares back to life and you could swear if it wasn’t so embarrassing.

You sigh, playing with your sleeves to give you something to do to try and expel your energy. “How worried was your family last night?”

“I tried my best not to find out,” he replies, his uncovered eye gleaming with mirth as he watches you squirm in place. “I made sure to stay out late training to avoid any confrontation.”

“You got rest though, right?” You ask, stepping closer, your earlier embarrassment leaving you in favor of scolding him. “Training is helpful and all but if you didn’t get any rest, you’ll suffer for it on the field.”

He smirks at you, his amusement clear, and you bristle slightly, approaching him to stand in front of him with a scowl. “If it brings you any comfort, it wasn’t that late since everyone was still up so they could… offer me advice.”

“Dare I ask what the advice was?”

“Daeron was the only one with actual helpful things to contribute,” he says, leaning against a table. “My mother and Helaena, less so, and Aegon? His advice had nothing to do with the tourney.”

You cock your head in question. “And what was his advice for?”

“I’m afraid I can’t repeat his words to an unmarried maiden who isn’t, at the current moment, betrothed to me without breaking several rules of etiquette. Your father would want my head and my mother would be inclined to give it to him,” he replies, voice low and rumbling, and your cheeks flare in embarrassment.

“She wouldn’t,” you manage out after a moment. “At least, not right now. Right now, she’s rather concerned with keeping your head on your shoulders.”

Aemond watches you before letting out a small laugh, shaking his head. He reaches out for you, his armored hand catching on the sleeves of your dress as they wrap around your own hand. The cold metal is a relief against your warm skin and you step closer, squeezing his hand in return. “How was the tea?” He asks eventually, teasing gone from his voice.

You sigh, glancing down at your feet. “Tedious. They made a serious offer for my hand but my father rejected it on the grounds that my older sisters aren’t married yet. I doubt the Florents will ask again unless Victor decides against his better judgment - though I’m not sure he has any - to crown me again today. We… We have just found out, however, that Cerelle has married Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. She’s Lady Stark now.”

“Trade negotiations went that well, did they?” He asks and you look up to meet his knowing gaze. He knows full well that it wasn’t trade that sent Cerelle Lannister (Stark you harshly remind yourself) up into the frigid North and he knows that you regret not being able to be there for her wedding, even if he does not know that it was your plan and your scheme that sent her there to begin with.

“Exceedingly,” you respond eventually, forcing yourself to sound more enthusiastic. You know by the downturn of his lips that you fail but you move forward past the hurt, forcing a smile. “I don’t have any advice to offer you for your matches except, perhaps, an observation. I can’t see that Victor Florent will be at his best today. He might be easy to rile if you’re lucky enough to face him today. If you wish to rattle him, mention finding his place or maybe even how Lord Tarly was able to claim a Lannister daughter while he can’t.”

He tilts his head, a slow sly smile coming to his face as he takes in your words. “And I imagine you had something to do with him being that sensitive?”

You shrug, your own smile becoming genuine. “Your battle with him will be on the grounds. Mine was this morning. I tried to help as best as I could.”

“I could almost pity the man if he weren’t such a craven liar,” Aemond responds, humor evident in his tone. “Your own bite is probably worse than most injuries he could face on the field today.”

“Most?” You ask.

“Most,” he echoes. “As fierce as you can be with your tongue, there are still quite a few things that could happen to him on the field that may prove to be worse.”

You throw your head back, laughing gleefully. Your amusement, however, is short-lived since even inside the canvas walls of the tent, you can hear a horn blow, announcing that the melee is set to start soon. It brings you crashing back into reality, back into the truth that Aemond will be risking his life today in order to answer an insult done to you. It’s sobering and you take a deep breath as you pull back slightly.

Before you can say anything, however, Aemond brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss onto the knuckles, and you realize with a start that this must have been what all the songs were talking about when they mentioned a lady sending her knight off into battle.

You wonder if the ladies in all those stories found it as bittersweet as you did.

“May the Warrior guide and protect you,” you murmur and he only nods in response.

——————————–

You enter the royal box arm in arm with Helaena, an astonishingly sober Aegon leading the way. The court all turns to stare openly at you and, in the crowd, you can see Tyland nodding at you, seated next to Lords Beesbury and Wylde. You don’t nod back, however, keeping your head held high as you and the Targaryen siblings walk towards the seats you had sat in only the day before.

Like yesterday, a head of white hair awaits you. This time, however, it belongs to Baela Targaryen who watches your approach with interest. You glance over at Helaena but she merely shrugs in response.

When you reach your seats, Aegon drops in his without so much as a hello, eyes trained onto the grounds ahead, leaving you and Helaena to greet her. At first, you wonder if Princess Rhaenys has ordered her to sit up front in order to forge a relationship with her kin but, when you sit and she leans towards you, you realize that this seating could only have been her idea.

“You’re all they’ve been talking about, you know,” Baela says in lieu of a true greeting, jerking her head backward to indicate the rest of the court. Your eyes flicker over to glance back and even now, you can see some Velaryon ladies whispering to each other as they watch you speaking to their cousin. “The dragon’s treasure from the Rock and the fox foolish enough to try and steal it.”

“Are they? I haven’t noticed,” you reply dryly and she laughs. “Did you sit here to see if the rumors were true?”

She shakes her head, still looking amused even as the knights begin to march out onto the field for the presentation. You look away from her, eyes immediately finding Aemond in the procession. He’s not in the first listing, thank the gods, but a weight begins to sit heavy on your shoulders.

Please, you pray, wishing you had made a stop at the sept to light a candle for the Warrior before you had come to the tourney grounds. Please keep him safe.

“I decided to sit here because I was curious. It’s been quite some time since a Targaryen has participated in a tourney - not since my father has it happened,” Baela finally answers and you tear your eyes away from Aemond to look over at her. Otto Hightower stands to do his customary speech but you keep your gaze on her. “I decided I wanted a better view. However this goes, I imagine there will be quite a few songs written about it. I figured I should get to see the action so I can describe it well to Rhaena when I write to her about it.”

“Did you now?” You drawl, curiosity driving you to poke at her and try to find her real reason for sitting by you. “Did the Princess Rhaenys ask you to get a better view as well?”

She tilts her head. “My grandmother wishes for me to know my kin. The Targaryen side at least. She was… pleased by my choice.”

You nod and not one second later, the horn blows for the first match to begin. You watch it with disinterest. It’s a Mullendore knight against a Connington and, even to your untrained eye, it’s clear neither of them has the skill necessary to last long in the tournament. Still, the Connington is, at least, faster on his feet, and soon enough, he has the Mullendore knight knocked on his back with a sword to his throat. The crowd jeers, bored by the bloodless match.

The next match, however, quickly proves satisfactory to them. Both knights are from houses so below your radar that even you, after years and years of studying all the noble houses in Westeros, struggle to identify them. For one of them, it turns out that you shouldn’t have even bothered. The taller and bulkier knight (Five black starfish - it’s House Ruthermont of the Vale) swings his mace and catches the other man by the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground in a spray of blood and teeth. The other man, lost in his own pain, scrambles upwards, clambering for his sword, having lost it in his fall, but the Ruthermont knight doesn’t give him the chance. With one final swing, he brings the mace down heavy on his opponent’s back and, with a sickening crack that you can hear even over the screaming and cheering, breaks the man nearly in two. The nameless knight doesn’t even get to scream before he dies; not with the way the mace is buried in his back, straight through his lungs and pinning him to the ground. Blood pours out of the wound, drowning the dirt around him, and the crowd roars its approval.

Next to you, Helaena lets out a whimper, recoiling backward in her seat, and, when you turn to face her, her eyes are screwed close. Gently, you grab her hand and she squeezes it so hard that you swear you won’t have one after.

“It’s alright, Helaena, it’s alright. It’s over now” you comfort and her eyes snap open to bore into yours.

She leans in close, her nose nearly brushing yours. This close, you can see how her pupils are blown out, the amethyst color so dark it’s almost cobalt even in the sunlight. “Shadows in the wall,” she insists, sounding near hysterical. “Shadows in the flame. There will be no choice. No choice at all.”

You stare back, stunned, but she blinks hard and it’s Helaena again. Scared and worried Helaena and she leans back in her seat, shaking her head as if to clear her mind. Next to her, even Aegon looks alarmed as he looks at his sister, and, with deft fingers, he pulls out her familiar bug toy from her pockets, offering it to her.

“To save Lady Lannister’s hand,” he says and Helaena barely manages a grateful smile as she drops your hand to grasp the toy, shaking slightly as she does so. You meet Aegon’s eyes and, after a moment of mutual understanding, he looks away, snapping his fingers for a servant to bring him wine.

You relax back in your chair, watching her for a moment as she loses herself in the toy, murmuring under her breath as she twists it in her hands over and over and over, the repetition soothing her.

The horn blows again and you look over at the grounds in time to see servants dragging the body away from the field just as Aemond steps out.

You freeze, heart in your throat, as you watch him ready himself, bouncing slightly in place as if to warm himself up. He’s chosen to fight without a helmet and, though you understand why he wouldn’t want to limit his field of vision any more than it already is, you find yourself praying he had worn one if only to calm your nerves.

You immediately recognize his opponent as Ser Raymond of House Marbrand and your mind races to remember everything you know about him. The nephew of the current Lord Marbrand. He used to visit Casterly Rock when his uncle had wanted him to get closer to Cerelle in hopes of securing a marriage. He has a bastard son living in the Crag. Your own father had knighted him for his service in suppressing Ironborn raids along the coast.

You try to remember if he’s skilled but your mind comes up horrifying blank.

The horn blows again and you squeeze your hands tight, nails digging into your flesh. Raymond does not waste any time, rushing Aemond immediately, but the Targaryen is quicker, spinning out of the way, his hair streaming through the air. He jabs out with his sword and lands a hit. The herald barely has time to announce it before he swings again, landing two more in quick succession.

Raymond lets out a grunt, more out of anger than any real pain, and feints toward Aemond’s blind spot before swinging his sword toward the prince’s knees. Aemond dodges but, in the moment right after, Raymond slices upwards, catching Aemond on the sleeve.

You bite your lip hard to prevent yourself from gasping or cursing, but behind you, you can hear the Queen murmur a prayer.

The gods must hear her since, angered by the hit, Aemond moves even faster and lands the additional three hits he needs to win. The herald announces the prince’s victory and you clap hard, your palms stinging, as you rise to your feet. Aegon whoops, screaming something about his money being safe, and even the Queen is cheering in her relief.

Aemond looks up at the box and nods his head and you can tell, even from here, that he’s pleased with the results. The crowd cheers him, satisfied by a match where the men actually landed blows unlike the first one, and you grin wide.

When you sit back down, the horn announcing the next competitors coming out onto the field, you look over at Baela. Her eyes are glued to the field watching Aemond’s retreat, analyzing.

“Has he met your standards?” You ask and she looks over at you, frowning slightly.

“He’s… Improved since we last met,” she says, reluctant to praise him.

You smile. “Prince Aemond has always been skilled. Even in his childhood, it took more than one assailant to ever do him much harm.”

Baela’s eyes narrow at the remark and she opens her mouth to shoot back a retort when the horn announces the beginning of the match, calling both of your attention. It’s Victor Florent vs a Blackwood knight and you roll your eyes when you spot the handkerchief still tied around his bicep.

During the actual fight, however, Victor seems almost vengeful in his maneuvers, moving fast and hitting hard. He slices the Blackwood knight behind the knees, sending the man toppling to the ground where he hastily yields. Victor looks up at the box and his expression is dark as he meets your gaze.

He wears no helmet - as if he wants you to see his face.

He’s angry, his expression twisted with wrath, and there’s no longer that glazed look in his eyes when he sees you. It’s sharp and fierce and angry and it’s all at you. It’s more than you not wearing a crown or your father turning down his suit. He’s angry because you rejected him, harshly and without even a hint of regret. He wears the handkerchief still, not to proclaim that he loves you but to proclaim that you will be his since it is his right to claim you.

You don’t frown down at him or scowl or even furrow your brow. You simply meet his gaze steadily, no emotion slipping onto your face because he’s not even worth that much.

Victor’s face twists again and he stalks off the grounds, clearing the way for the herald to announce the next match.

He’ll die today, you promise yourself. By my hand or Aemond’s, he will not live to see the morrow.

The matches go in a flash and you watch with mounting anticipation as Aemond readily defeats his opponents. He even beats Tygett and your cousin claps him on the shoulder afterward, laughing loudly, as friendly and pleasant as he always is.

Next to you, Baela seems wholly invested in the fights, nearly leaning out of her seat, and, when it becomes clear that the current match will end in a death that you’re not eager to watch, you turn towards her.

She doesn’t hear you when you first say her name and it’s only on the third time that she rips her eyes away from the battle, just as Edwyn Sand drives his lance through his opponent’s torso. “What?” She asks, irritable and snappish at being distracted, and, despite yourself, you smile.

“Do you wish you were on the field as well, my lady?” You ask, leaning slightly closer so she can hear you over the roar of the crowd.

Baela eyes you, her amethyst eyes scanning your face for any sign that you might be using this to poke at her. “I do,” she finally says, having evidently weighed the dangers of telling you this and finding them lacking. “I imagine I could do a mite better than most of these men.”

“I have no doubt you could,” you readily agree, finding that you mean it. For better and for worse, she is Daemon Targaryen’s daughter through and through. She’s more cautious than the Rogue Prince ever was, more aware of her surroundings, but you can easily see her with a sword in her hand. “Have you trained with weaponry?”

“I did,” she says after a moment, her eyes slightly hazy as she frowns. “Back in Pentos. I… My father taught me. He said a dragonrider should know how to wield a sword.”

You nod, ignoring the crowd’s jeers behind you as a match ends bloodlessly. “Did you learn much under his tutelage? I imagine the Rogue Prince has much to teach his daughters.”

“Daughter,” Baela corrects, almost as if on instinct. “Daughter. I, uh… He only taught me. I’m the only dragonrider daughter he has. Rhaena has always been too sweet to wield a sword anyways. She’s always preferred dancing to anything else.”

Despite her immediate excuse for her father’s actions, you can see how her frown twists with anger and how she clenches her fists on her lap. She’s furious, you realize. Daemon Targaryen ignores her sister and she hates him for that insult more than she does for anything else.

Baela Targaryen is loyal, fiercely so, and her sister is the way to gain that loyalty for yourself.

“I see,” you say after a moment. “I think I would rather enjoy meeting your sister then. She seems like a kind lady and I’m afraid I’m not as skilled at dancing as I’d like to be. I’m sure she has much she can teach me.”

She looks you over, openly appraising you, and you simply bow your head before turning back to face the melee.

The battles drag on and on, knocking men out of the competition faster than you can even register, until you’re only three matches away from the finale and you realize, with a dull sense of surprise, that the finale will almost certainly be Aemond and Victor. You can’t see it going any other way and you start to pray to the Warrior and the Stranger, pleading with them to protect Aemond and take Victor in his place.

You don’t know if they hear you but you beg that they have.

The final matches go exactly as you had expected and when the herald announces the final matchup, the crowd grows nearly rapturous in their excitement. At your back, you can hear the court gossiping, swearing up and down that the singers of King’s Landing had to have had a hand in the matches for it to go this way in a manner that would most serve their purposes.

“Seems you won’t be able to stop those songs now,” Aegon drawls but you’re too caught up in staring down at the grounds in nervous anticipation to even register his words.

Aemond and Victor make their way onto the field and, if you had thought Victor was angry staring you down earlier, he’s absolutely incandescent now, glowering at Aemond as if he could light him on fire with only his eyes. For his part, Aemond only stares coldly back, his eye focused solely on Victor, ignoring the screams around him. His silver hair is dyed red in parts from the blood of earlier matches, some of it having streaked onto his face, and that, combined with his eyepatch and scar, makes Aemond’s indifference look almost as frightening as Victor’s rage.

The horn blows and, for a moment, both men stand still as they stare each other down.

Then they move.

The clash of their sword is swallowed by the crowd’s instant screams and you pitch forward, hands flying to grab the edge of your chair. You’re deaf to everything around you, solely focused on the fight in front of you.

The men are equally matched but Victor is stronger, bulkier. Each swing of his sword sends Aemond rocking back on his heels, teeth gritted as he fights to stay grounded. Victor is relentless, however, moving forward and forward, each move intent on driving Aemond back until he can have him pinned in a corner.

But as strong as Victor is, Aemond is as fast and, twisting his sword so he can knock Victor to the side, he frees himself from the path the knight had been intent on driving him on. He thrusts and catches Victor on the torso but no one can even hear the herald over the frenzy of the crowd.

What you can hear, however, is Victor’s roar of absolute rage. More beast than man, he advances on Aemond relentlessly, his swings growing impossibly stronger and stronger. Before you can even register what’s happening, a swipe from Victor drives Aemond to his knees and the Florent swings his sword heavily, aiming directly for Aemond’s neck.

You gasp, rising to your feet in an instant, distantly aware of the Queen’s scream behind you and Aegon and Helaena standing up as well, but Aemond is faster than all of you, reacting before any of you can finish what you’re doing. He ducks, saving his neck but earning a cut across the ear for it.

His blood drips onto the ground, joining all the rest that has been shed through the melee, and you find yourself wishing that Vhagar would rise from wherever she is and descend upon the grounds to cook Victor alive for daring to harm him. But she won’t come - not when her rider is doing well enough for his own.

Aemond rolls across the ground, dodging another desperate thrust, and stands up in one fluid motion. He keeps low to the ground, crouched with his sword up by his chest. His own blood covers the side of his face, staining his pale skin and dripping down onto his own armor. He only stays like that for a breath, before Victor dives forward with a roar.

But Victor Florent is sloppy in his rage, too caught up in his anger to think ahead.

Aemond, however, does not suffer the same problem.

Just as Victor reaches him, Aemond crouches even lower, leaving Victor’s sword sailing right above him. With a twist of his feet, he plants himself behind his opponent and, without a moment’s hesitation, drives his sword toward Victor’s neck.

There’s a moment when you think that Victor will avoid it. He twists his body around, arm flying out as if to stop the blade right in its track, but Aemond’s strength, while weaker than Victor’s, is nothing to scoff at. He impales the sword straight through Victor’s exposed wrist, between the gap between his gauntlet and the rest of his armor, driving it straight through all the way to Victor’s throat.

The two men stare each other down, Aemond breathing heavily as Victor struggles to even breathe. But then the knight stumbles down to his knees and, from your vantage point, you can see him struggle to say something, to gurgle out one final remark, but he can’t, not with Aemond’s sword keeping the words trapped behind it. In the next second, Victor falls flat to the ground, slipping off the sword and landing heavily on his side, twitching as he does so but soon enough, he stops, his eyes going cold and empty.

There’s quiet on the grounds as Victor Florent breathes his last.

But soon it erupts.

The roar of the crowd shakes the very ground beneath you and you yourself cheer, screaming out your relief, your delight, your joy. Next to you, even Baela is clapping and Helaena is smiling even as she covers her ears with her hands. Aegon is absolutely frothing at the mouth, spilling his wine all over himself as he raises his fist in the air in victory

Aemond looks dazed by it, moving away from Victor’s body while staring up at the stands as if he can’t quite believe that the cheers around are all for him, and you laugh, delighted.

Yes! You want to scream down at him. It’s you, it’s all for you!

You dimly register Otto Hightower approaching the railing, raising his hands as if to try to silence the crowd and you manage to reel yourself in, still clapping to the point that you’re sure your hands will hurt tomorrow. Out on the field, Daeron runs out to his brother, carrying a pillow with a crown of golden roses on it and you laugh out loud, imagining all the other squires Daeron must have fought for the honor of being the one to hand out the prize.

“My deepest congratulations to Prince Aemond Targaryen for defeating all of his opponents and winning the melee event,” Otto proclaims, barely audible over the stare exuberant crowd. “Alongside the pot of gold, you have won a crown to give out. Who shall you crown your Queen of Love and Beauty?

Even in a crowd of thousands, even with the sun in his eyes, Aemond looks up into the royal box and you know he sees you, you as you truly are, and your heart could nearly burst with it all.

“I crowd my Lady Lannister, the Lioness of the Red Keep,” he announces, voice clear even over the impossibly loud cheers.

The crowd screams out its approval and you almost don’t hear them, too preoccupied with staring down at Aemond, your heart beating loud in your chest.

He’s claimed you, in front of the royal court and all of King’s Landing. He’s claimed you.

You didn’t know it was possible to feel this much love toward one person.

With a none-too-gentle push from Baela, you finally move, dimly aware of Helaena reaching out to brush her hand against yours and Aegon laughing with more glee than you’ve seen him have in years. When you look over at the crowd, even the Queen is standing on her feet, clapping for you with a small smile on her face, her eyes guarded even as she congratulates you.

Her son has proved that he is a dragon once, that his way is one of fire and blood, and Alicent’s worries about dragon blood have all come true.

All thoughts of Alicent, however, leave your mind as you look past her to your Uncle Tyland and he’s grinning so wide and clapping so hard that, for a moment, you want to break away from walking down to the grounds just to hug your uncle. He’s happy for you, so genuinely happy, and your heart swells.

But you need to reach Aemond and, moving quickly, you reach the tourney grounds, walking out onto the field to the screams of the crowd.

His hands are bloody, you realize, as you walk towards him. His face is smeared with blood, some of it his but most of it not, but his hands are absolutely covered in it and it stains the golden flowers in his hands.

Red and gold, you realize with a shock. The Lannister colors as they’re meant to be seen.

You break out into a grin, so wide it almost hurts, and as you stop right in front of him, you drop into the lowest curtsey of your life. You sweep the ground, head bowed low, and, just like in the songs, Aemond places the crown on your head and the cheers of the crowd reach a crescendo. As you rise to your feet, Aemond grabs your chin, forcing your head up so you can meet his eye.

His gaze is hot and, as he stares down at you, you realize that’d be wrong to describe him as satisfied. He’s far from it. His blood is up and, high on the battles he has won, he wants to continue his rush. He wants you and not in any way that remotely resembles chastity. He wants you and, if he could get away with it, he’d claim you here in front of the whole of King’s Landing. He wants the world to know that you’re his and his only. Any man that would attempt to pull you away from him would meet the same fate as Victor Florent and choke on his own blood as the realm cheered around them.

He’s close to it - even you with all your inexperience can tell. His grip is firm on your chin and, from the look in his eye, you can tell he’s not far from kissing you hard in front of the world. For a moment, you entertain letting him do it. For a moment, you entertain pushing yourself up onto your tiptoes and doing it yourself.

But your father’s voice is loud in your head.

You already have the attention of all of King’s Landing but after this, you will have their scrutiny as well.

So instead, you bow your head, closing your eyes as you reach up to grip Aemond’s wrist. There’s time yet for all you want to do.

Still - the kiss he presses onto your forehead feels like a triumph nonetheless.

#reader and aemond are a match made in hell tell me otherwise <3 #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you

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ridingtorohan · 1 year ago

Text

𓇻 ft. aela the huntress x werewolf gn reader 𓇻 content. graphic murder and werewolf transformation, gore. 𓇻 summary. after being inducted into the Inner Circle and blessed with the werewolf curse, Aela comes forward to request your help with hunting some members of the Silver Hand. 𓇻 extra. crossposted to dA + ao3. this one was written in 2015 and unedited. descriptors like e/c were used so feel free to use the custom reader insert tool. 𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, share, reblog or send in asks!

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‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ───※ ·❆· ※───‎‏‏‎

You jostle yourself awake when you hear the door creak open. Your muscles twitch tightly in alarm, before a familiar scent calms you. Pine needles, sweat, and feathers from arrows seem to be Aela's trademark scent, only all the more prominent the day you tasted her blood on your lips - a fierce stab of bitterness that you'd never have guessed. She stands in the doorway, staring into the room, scowl prominent on her face. Ria and Njada were sleeping already, Torvan was snoring away, whereas Athis watched from the safety from his bed.

"(y/n)," Aela says, voice scratchy from trying to be so quiet. Usually she was loud and rambunctious, ever throwing taunts and offering to brawl with you, not caring if one of you got hurt. She had only started acting this way when she gave you the werewolf blood, because she knew you could handle it.

You say nothing to the Dark Elf as you get up from your bed, knowing he is watching and may or may not tell Kodlak later, depending on if it suited him. You dress quietly into your armour, only looking up after you tie your boots, only to notice she is gone. It makes no difference; you can always follow her scent trail - fresh and enticing, always setting your blood roaring when you were near her. You would have been able to locate her blindfolded.

The cool night air presses against you, cooling your warm body. Ever since you were given the wolfblood, your body heat was remarkably high - which wasn't so great when you had to wear heavy armour and thick clothes to persuade the other companions not of the Circle that you were very much affected by the cold.

You pass through the streets of Whiterun, nodding at the night guards patrolling, who seem to recognize you and utter a simple and curt, "Companion," as a way of a greeting.

You spot Aela beside the well, arms crossed and looking almost like an indistinguishable shadow, although you would never have doubted it is her.

The guards let you two pass through the gates; the walls are too high for you to climb over them, even when transformed, and with these guards around, you do not risk it. You aren't particularly fond of accidentally killing innocents either, when your bloodlust controlled you - or at least, not anyone that you knew.

Aela is quiet as you both trek down the pathway and beneath the archways that guard the entrance to Whiterun; it is only after you two pass the stables that she rounds on you, eyes remarkably bright in the starlight. "Can you feel it calling, [sibling]?" she smirks, fingers noticeably twitching.

"I have followed you, haven't I?" you respond, cocking your head in an arrogant way. She bares you her teeth, but you recognize it as a more primitive smile. She turns away from you and breaths in the air, her breath puffing out in front of her when she exhales. You blatantly stare at her, waiting for her to respond.

“The wolfblood cannot be controlled,” she says, finally, voice rising despite the fact that this requires high levels of secrecy. But a quick sniff of the air lets you know that you are alone with her, even though you are both standing beside the road, just upwind of Whiterun Stables. “Some nights, Hircine calls us to hunt for him. Vilkas and Farkas ignore this,” she continues, sounding remarkably upset with them. “Skjor and I are the only ones who accept this.” She eyes you out of the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable. “Then you came along. You take to the wolfblood remarkably well.” There is praise in her voice, and it takes you a moment to realize that you are leaning in towards her. “Will you run with me tonight, (y/n)?”

“Of course.”

She flashes you a triumphant look, arrogance and pride flashing through her emerald eyes. “Good,” she says, mouth twitching into a slight smirk. “Come with me; the road is far too open a place,” she frowns then, eyes darkening. Without so much as another word, she saunters off, feet stepping silently across the stones with practiced ease, starlight glinting off of her auburn hair. There is no moon tonight - not that either of you need it to see.

“Why didn’t we transform in the Underforge?” you dare ask.

She doesn’t spare you a glance over her shoulder when she responds, “It would have drawn too much attention.” She doesn’t elaborate, and you suppose that is alright.

It takes far too much time to get to a shielded area, with trees lining the sky and shadowing your steps. You only have so much time left, you know. Something inside of you feels more at ease, beneath the shelter of the tree tops, an insatiable hunger gnawing at you. “Aela,” you try, but she has already stopped, face pointed towards the tree tops, shoulders hunched. She knows.

“You can hear him call to us,” is all she says. She strips herself of her armour, underclothes doing little to stop your mind from wandering. The pieces of cloth are dumped unceremoniously onto the ground with a soft whump. “We will bring him glory, [sibling].”

She looks over her tanned shoulder at you, her eyes glinting an inhumane yellow. She does not cry out in pain; she only folds herself backwards with an echo of bones snapping, vertabrae making themselves visible along her spine. She falls forward, russet hair draped along her front this time.

All you see is her backside; her body visibly breaks out into a sweat, shivers overtaking her form. The crackling of bones that once sounded sickening are deafening loud on your heightened ears. Gore is what meets your eyes next as she sheds her human skin; it is enchanting to watch, no matter how sickening it is to see. You turn away when she looks like some form of twisted monster.

You have to shed your own clothes; you are stark naked, the air of Skyrim breezing through your hair and over your shoulders and in other nameless places. You pull on that instinct that is roaring fiercely in you; when nothing happens, you think of asking Aela -- even though she is underway of her own transformation and isn’t likely to understand you at the moment -- when your knees snap backwards and you fall forward, ankles twisting before reverting back then twisting again.

You let out a shrill noise of anguish, because nothing could ever describe the pain that is transforming. You muscles are constantly contracting and relaxing, knuckles popping and moving in a jarring sensation. Your stomach empties itself, contractions fiercely stabbing through your body. You’ve only had a few transformations that you could count on one hand, and it never gets any easier for you, no matter how smooth Aela or Skjor tell you it is.

Whatever noise you are making is cut off when your vocal cords shred themselves, blood convulsing past lips that are no longer your own. The pain almost blacks you out, the darkness would have been comforting.

Hircine is not a merciful Daedric lord, however; you are aware of every sensation that tears through you, although it all blurs together in blacks and reds. You are not aware of what happens for the rest of the duration, but the next moment you are aware and conscious of what is happening, you are still hunched over, long limbs in your vision.

Aela has never been one for comforting, but a soft growl still meets your keen ears, (y/n)? You shift your weight backwards onto your haunches and hindlegs, strong muscles rippling beneath your skin.

Blood and human skin litters the ground - your sharp nose detects it both easily. Your long fingers grapple at the ground, digging through the soil that once felt hard underfoot that so easily tore now. You pivot unsurely, awkward and gangly as you peer over at her.

Aela? you ask. Her green-yellow eyes glint at you, even through the darkness. Recognition floods through you. Aela.

The wolfblood was always hard to control at first; but recognition had flooded through you faster than when you had transformed with Skjor. Your muscles twitch, remaining in your hunched position as your trot over, snout poking at her shoulder.

Aela, Aela, Aela, Aela, you repeat, sounds vibrating through your throat with each jab of your snout at her shoulder. She does not retaliate; she only watches you with keen eyes. If you had ever thought she was beautiful as a human - which you have thought many times before, admittedly - you thought she was stunning now. She was in her element, tall and lanky, reeking of power and bloodlust. She was more confident in this body than she ever was as a mortal. Your wolfblood keeps thinking alpha, alpha, and your conscious self felt inclined to agree.

[Sibling], is her response, and she tips her muzzle briefly to your own, ears flickering. You do not speak to each other in the sense that you would as mortals - you growled out sounds at each other, words and meanings heard beneath each grunt and whine. It was a language just between you two. An intimacy that you loved to share with her.

We honor Hircine tonight, she reminds you, when she catches your eyes wandering. We will tear a group of Silver Hands asunder, her lips peel back in a feral grin. You return the gesture. In a fortnight, I will help you attack another; Skjor will go ahead of us. Do you understand? She has spoken to you of this mission a couple times before, but now was not the time to worry about it.

Hunt, hunt, kill, kill, comes the simplist mind of the wolfblood, demanding sacrifice. You would never deny Aela though, so you give a jagged nod of your head. Let us taste their blood on our tongues, and smell the fear from their bodies, then, comes a jagged noise that would have amounted to a wolfish laugh.

She turns tail and lopes off, picking up speed as she went along. You chase after her, easily catching up to her, the unfamiliarity of running on four limbs almost causes you to stumble, but you catch yourself numerous times. The wind whips across your [h/c] fur, the chitters of the flying owls and clacks of nearby mudcrabs whistling in your ears. Freedom tastes sweet on your tongue, face turned toward the sky as you run with her, both of you free.

* * *

There they are, cowering like cravens, Aela sneers, hunching over the encampment of the Silver Hands. There are only five of them; young blood by the smell of it, with one older. It is likely that they are new recruits with the older man teaching them the warning signs of the lycanthrope. Hah! Do they not know of us here? Are they really so ignorant? [Sibling], shall we go and give them a greeting? She turns to you, eyes not wavering from your face.

Yes, you grunt, blinking slowly at the few mortals; only a few of them were awake. They would be easy prey. Yes; let us hunt them, Aela. You tense your muscles along your haunches, coiling your muscles and leaning forward. Your steps are light as you tear down the slope, giving out a warning howl.

The Nords jostle themselves, raising cries of alarm and surprise. You jaws are parted; their fear tastes like victory in your mouth, and it is easy to tear through their flesh, blood tasting like copper running through your jaws and past your teeth. It is satisfying, seeing the young Nord’s eyes go bright with feverish fear and an instinct for survival, a pleasing crunch of bones meeting your ears as you grip his forearm tighter and wrench backwards. His muscles spread apart like sinew, and the shrieks that wrench from his lips are delicious. If the three others were slumbering before, they were surely awake now as your victim screamed.

It is easy for the wolfblood to grow tired, though. You tear through his jugular and take sick pleasure in seeing his blood pulse outwards, matting your fur and blood spraying across your muzzle.

Aela is already on her next victim, gnawing on his ear in a teasing way before she sprints away, leaving a raspy survivor in her wake. She pivots on her sharp-toed feet and slashes her persuer across the face, claws marking his face like a grave. He instinctively drops his weapon and raises his hands to his face, a guttural cry of surprise rising. She lunges forward and wrenches his ribcage open, gore spreading across the ground in a matter of seconds. He is dead within minutes.

The remaining two try to make a run for it. You give chase, jaws snapping at their heels as they scampered away like scared deer. The eldest of the group suddenly turns and brandishes a blade, sinking it into your shoulder and wrenching a surprised howl from your maw. How dare he!

The silver burns like liquid fire through your veins. You growl at him, springing backwards in high leaps, blood pulsing from the wound, heat flashing through you.

How dare you, you growl out, furious and ferocious all in one heartbeat. You lunge towards him and snap at the hand that bears the blade, snapping it in a quick twist of your jaws. He gives a half-hearted jerk, although there isn’t much of a surprised scent coming from him. The blade catches the corner of your lips, a red hot fire bleeding through you.

He will pay. They will all pay for hunting down your kind.

You tear into his face, blood blinding you; hot and sticky dampening your face further before you retreat. A quick snapping sound resonates through the clearing, and you pivot, [e/c] eyes blinking in surprise at the sight of another Silver Hand going limp, eyes rolling into the back of her head.

Aela stands tall behind her, hand clenching from where the other’s neck was moments before. The Silver Hand had held a silver dagger, dangerously close to where you were, blinded and incapitated. She would have killed you if Aela hadn’t been there.

Thank you, you say, more of a breath than actual sounds or words. Aela tilts her head, before she turns. You both leave the bodies, trekking through the forest. The smell of gore is still fresh in your mind, although that could also be due to the fact that it was smattered across your maw and between your eyes.

Aela is always a few strides ahead of you. You do not demand to stride beside her. Protect the alpha, is what your blood sings of.

The wolfblood is what made you mercilessly kill the Silver Hand, you know. Or at least you hope so. It is what comforts you when you think of what Aela asks of you, at least.

The wolfblood is also what whispers to you - things that you think you wouldn’t otherwise think of the Huntress. Protect, is what is echoing, deep in your flesh and bones. The instinct is not unwelcome; it gives you strength, the power to be brave and courageous and every bit of the Companion that Aela seems to think you are.

You nearly bump into her, so deep in your thoughts you are. Aela? comes your whine. She says nothing, only lopes forward again and splashes into the river that you recognize as the one that tears into the earth beside Whiterun.

There isn’t much cover nearby, but at least it is close to where you two transformed. She sinks beneath the shallows, or at least, as much as she can. She has no shame in rolling over to get her back, and as soon as she deems herself clean enough of the gore that had once stained her fur, she instructs you to wash off as well.

You emerge soaking wet, fur matted close to your body. Aela gives a sharp bark of laughter at the sight of you, even though her russet coat isn’t much better.

The sun will rise soon, she explains as she moves again, silent as ever. You pad alongside her, tail brushing against the undergrowth as you let out soft huffs of air. The other Companions will suspect something if we are not back soon. Especially Athis, you respond, thinking of how the Dark Elf watched you leave. She looks over at you, making a quizzical sound but does not otherwise question you.

When you arrive at the site of where you transformed, you both simply stand quietly. Aela quickly becomes restless and moves around the clearing, simply enjoying the last bit of freedom she has before she transforms.

You like being a werewolf, you observe.

Yes, she responds without looking at you. Her gait quickers before it stops altogether, and she turns her snout towards you. There is no worry of how others will react to what I say or do. I am my own person. I own everything; nobody can hold me back. I am free. You decide you have nothing to say to that, so instead you return to watching her pace.

You do not know how much time has passed before she suddenly stops and looks at you, an amused glint in her eyes. You are always watching me, [sibling]. Am I? I haven’t noticed, you reply wryly, offering a quick session of barked laughter. ..It is hard not to.

She hesitates, eyes keenly watching you. You are interested in me, she says boldly, although with a very confused accent underneath.

You are an interesting person, you confirm, although you know that is not what she meant. Her ears fold and she bares her teeth. She trots forward, a warning growl ripping from her throat.

Your ears fold and you tuck your head quickly, wolf instinct whispering harshly, alpha, alpha. You are tired of it telling you what to do, what to think of her. You never let yourself be subjected to your more primal nature; it tells you to rebel and challenge her, even though it remembers her as alpha. You wish to be her equal, in more ways than one. She has always called you [sibling], or even, once with a sneer, ‘pup’. Aela is an enigma; power in her movements and grace in her steps. She is mistress only to Hircine, daughter of the wild. She is untameable, untouchable, unreachable. These intimate night strolls with her is all you have to seeing her carefree gestures, the only time you listen to her howl freely and without care. Subconsciously, you had been watching her - judging her movements, watching her reactions. The primal instincts first saw her as a challenge, a rival for prey and territory, but now it saw her beyond the folds and safety of the pack. She has since achieved the title of ‘alpha’ - surpassing even Kodlak. She was the only one you answered to.

She was the one who had given you the wolfblood; she was the one whose blood coursed in your veins. She was always there, scent thick and choking, something that you reveled in. As your forebear, she was more intimate with you than anyone else could be.

Aela, you say, and this time she flickers her ears. This time she listens to you. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. Aela, Aela, Aela, you say, her name rolling through your throat and past your lips. You are dizzy with the sensation of knowing that only Skjor and you have the privilege of hunting with her. Of being with her. You are the only one who I could be interested in.

She offers a wolfish grin, and lopes a bit closer to you before bumping muzzles with you. I am inclined to agree, [sibling]. She does not elaborate, and while your blood hums with the knowledge that what she’s just said implies means that she feels the same doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s carved in stone.

Tonight, you are alive. Tonight, all you want to do is live with her, in this moment where you are eternal beings and only the moon is your witness.

I am glad to hear that, Aela, you rumble back. Taking the initiative, you continue, There is still some moonlight left; do you want to walk with me, still?

She laughs, ears folding and lips peeling back in a grin. There is nothing that requires my assistance. Let us go.

The night welcomes you like lost lovers, your blood roaring to know that you are safe with Aela by your side. There is nothing that could stop you; just the inner wolf roaring and making you twine beside each other as you pace the earth.

For now, all is well.

#skyrim #skyrim x reader #aela the huntress #aela x reader #werewolf #skyrim imagines #the elder scrolls v: skyrim #aela #aela the huntress x reader #gender neutral reader #reader insert #x reader #werewolf lover #monster x human #monster x monster

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meowkavian · 1 year ago

Text

Getting Into Knives (Final Choice)

Crossposted from AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49311451

(You can't give me back what you've taken/But you can give me something that's almost as good)

The final meeting of Cazador and Astarion. Astarion makes a choice, and Eustace is a witness. Spoilers for Astarion's personal quest/ Act 3 of Baldur's Gate 3, and TW for violence. May continue this at a later date.

They see the potential for power in him, have seen it from the beginning. Astarion has always been a viper, a slick-fanged creature all slanted smiles, and when snakes are hurt, the venom comes to the front of the tooth.

Standing beside him, Eustace can practically feel the vibrant fury seeping from his every pore, can taste the coming storm of violence as sweet as petrichor on their tongue. They touch the death-mark on the back of their neck, more to soothe themself than to draw on the power of the divine.

Cazador stands before them, resplendent in red and black, lording over his dungeon’s depths. The thralls which came to their camp mere nights ago are already held in place by arcane bonds, ready to further the Black Mass, but Astarion pays them no heed. His focus is on the vampire lord before him, the emblem of his two hundred torturous years, and his fingers twitch at his rapier. He is seconds from his resolve fraying and driving headlong into the man--no, not a man anymore but a creature--before him, damned be the cost.

Eustace sends their vision down the parasite bond to him, doing their best to rein him back; the icy nothingness of the grave awaits anyone who dares go forth without thought.

Astarion steps back, once, twice, but his eyes burn bright red in reflection of his former master’s magic.

“So this is our prodigal son, come at last,” the man finally croons.

His voice hits Astarion like a knife to the chest. After weeks of not hearing it, not being forced to listen, being practically free from his bonds, here it is again. He feels like a child, like some sort of feral animal, like an insect about to be crushed by a boot. His shoulders curl, at once ready to pounce and cower.

“Do not slouch, boy! Have I taught you nothing? Have you no self-respect?”

His back straightens for a fraction of a second before he catches himself.

“You should be begging for your family’s forgiveness, on your knees, after what you have done. Abandoning the poor wretches you kept as siblings, and your master--” Cazador’s voice raises higher, nasal, disgusted.

“I owe you nothing,” Astarion spits. “Forgiveness? Hardly, after how you treated me. Treated all of us. Punishing us for the slightest error, torturing us, carving blasphemy into our skin.”

“It made you stronger, but not strong enough. Never strong enough. Despite how hard I worked to perfect you, you have not met my expectations. Piteous thing.”

The rage roils up again in him, tangible. It would be easy to give into blind fury, to make a sudden swing of his rapier, or a dagger, rend his skin even for a moment-- but before he can dash ahead, before his hand can even grasp his weapon, Eustace steps forth from next to him.

As ever, they radiate frigid calm, but Astarion knows that beneath it they’re as angry as he is. The evening talks they’d had over the weeks speak to that fact. Eustace had joked about flaying Cazador alive when he had first spoken of his master, all the while sharpening the bone dagger they kept at their side. How many nights had passed since the day they spoke of the webs fate spun for them, the un-lives they both were chained to? What had they said, when they told him of their own secrets?

“I would want, for once in my life, to have a hand in my own fate.”

And his hand seeks to change his own, so very badly.

Eustace continues their slow walk forward, dark eyes glinting in the light of the mage-lit thuribles, and when they speak, it is with a tone he isn’t sure he’s ever heard from them. Some power, some resonance that is unfamiliar to his ears, but from the corner of his eye, Astarion sees Shadowheart stiffen and brace for a fight..

“You have escaped death for centuries, Cazador Szarr, while visiting myriad horrors on this city, this world. So too, have you escaped justice.”

“What is this, boy, that you allow to speak for you? A cattle that professes justice? What disrespect you have brought into my home, and yet, I should not be surprised.”

“I am a bringer of no law but the divine ending, the completion of a cycle. You are due.” Eustace says simply, and draws their blade.

“I gave you everything, and yet, that did not suffice. I will wring your body free of insolence with my bare hands, and when you are bound and broken, you will burn in the divinity of my ascension!” Cazador’s voice echoes off the dungeon’s walls and falls into the chasms below him. Before he can entrap Astarion’s in his arcane lock, in the fraction of a moment, Eustace pushes the pale elf backwards, so he falls among the rank and file of his fellow companions. He readies his rapier, tips it with poison just for luck.

At once, crowds of bats fly screeching towards them, horrible abominations of wolves leap from their stations and make to pounce, Cazador fades into a red mist-- Astarion’s compatriots leap to the ready, spears and arrows and daggers lining up in defence.

And calm, quiet Eustace, Eustace who can stop an argument with a dark look and a quiet word, Eustace who has never met a battle they can’t strategize around, is stepping to the front of the line, before Astarion--

Necromantic energy pulses out of them in torrents of icy waves, eyes black as when they faced Ketheric Thorm, knuckles white enough to echo the bone dagger in their hand. They walk, and then they run, hurling spells with barely a whisper. Karlach leads the charge of the rest of them, screaming bloody murder as she frenzies, and the rest fall into alignment like a well oiled machine. Astarion can’t help but be swept up in the battle tide, slashing any creature coming close; the bloodlust, the promise of sweet vengeance fills his head, as he howls and plunges dagger and rapier into the oncoming storm. The day is here, and it is his, and he will win .

When Cazador retreats to his sarcophagus to regenerate himself, Astarion rips off the stone lid with a strength he wasn’t aware he possessed; throws the vampire lord to the ground and relishes the hiss of furious pain he hears.

“Get your hands off me, you pathetic worm.” Cazador grits out, but Astarion mocks his hateful words with a quick retort of his own, and comes to stand over the man’s body.

Eustace stands meters back, watching with an inscrutable gaze as Astarion rounds on his former master.

“I can kill you. I can do it here and now, and finally, I’ll be free of your torment. I won’t have to be afraid of you ever again. And if I take your place, I’ll be free of fear entirely. I’ll have the world at my beck and call.” he says, ragged.

“You idiot child, do you think I could let anyone usurp me? Those scars of yours mean you’re a part of this ritual too. You try it, you’ll burn just like the rest of your kin.” A wheezy cackle oozes through broken ribs.

Astarion makes a hiss of fury, and turns to face Eustace. His face is haunted, determined.

“I need your help to--to carve my scar markings on his back. So I can replace him. I shall ascend in his place.”

The elf’s eyes are wide, half deranged in their anger, in their anguish.

Eustace knows that desperation well, the search for some scrap of power that can turn the tide of fate. From the search for an escape from the bargain their mother made for their soul, to the moment they knew no god would help them, to the moment they found they were infected with a mindflayer.

How easy it could be, to tell him they would do it. For him to relinquish what humanity he had left, into the sweet waves of devilish power. How easy for Astarion, to give himself over, to be remade a god-king.

“Eustace, please. I need your help. Answer me.”

They have never heard him beg before, not truly. Not like this. It will hurt, they know, whichever path he chooses.

Eustace walks with silent footfalls over the stone to his side. They wave a hand over Cazador’s body where he lies on the ground, enveloping him in black tendrils to gag him and keep him in place. Turning to Astarion, they do not touch, as much as they could reach out a hand to steady his shaking form.

“You think this will bring you your freedom,” they say to the man before them.

“Of course it will, are you mad ? What has all of this been for, if not for freedom? For power?”

“The two are not the same.”

“I can make him nothing, I can make him less than nothing. I can be so much more than he is, if you’ll help me ,” Astarion pleads.

“You’ll be consumed,” they respond.

“No, that’s the point, I’ll replace Cazador in the ritual, and he’ll take my place, that way I can--”

“Astarion.” They let his name ring in the silence until the echo quiets. “You will be consumed, if you take part in this. Not by a death or sacrifice, but by your own power.”

They cast a glance to the vampire lord struggling against his bonds.

“As it devoured him,” they speak with disgust, “it will devour you wholly. You may become something of a god, something of a new being, but you will be empty . A shell of who you were. You will bring no end to your suffering.”

Astarion lets out a mirthless laugh, venomous, but they continue.

“You will become him. Not in name, but in spirit, in ideal, searching for power over all else. Is that what you want? To follow your master, eternally?”

“Gods but I want him dead , I want him to suffer, I want to be-- I don’t want to be afraid anymore,”

Astarion whispers to them, his hand gripping a claw into their shoulder.

“If you want him dead, then kill him. Kill him any way that brings you pleasure, brings you peace. But do not kill yourself in the process.”

They stop a moment, gathering their thoughts, and then cover his hand with their own, touch firm but voice breaking. “Astarion, you are more than what he made you, and you--you have a choice, you can change your fate . You don’t have to become a god to do the impossible, right here and now.”

The words pierce into his skull, and he wants to bat away the thoughts and feelings and bring back the blessed clarity from moments ago. Eustace always had a way of worming their way into people, hells, into him . All the way back on the beach after the nautiloid crash, when he had pinned their body onto the rocky sand and put a knife to their throat, he had faltered at the look in their eyes; as if they stared at death and found it lacking, unafraid and almost curious. The look they give Astarion now could not be further from the one he saw then-- Eustace’s eyes are far from emotionless, there is a bitterness, evident in their gaze, but all the same, a longing desperate hope.

The words unsaid hang in the air. Do what I cannot.

Karlach, Shadowheart and the rest watch carefully from a distance, eyes pinned to Cazador as well. Several moments pass, where the tension is strung tight, a bowstring ready to snap.

Astarion lets out a strangled breath, shrugs off Eustace’s hand. They let it and the tendrils keeping Cazador in place fall away. The elf stands alone over Cazador, the fated roles reversed.

“You don’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.” He spits out, teeth bared. “But I’ll enjoy the moments we have as much as I can.” He takes Cazador’s dagger, the one he kicked away from him as soon as he threw the vampire to the ground. Hefting the weight in his hand, he crouches so close that if the vampire lord could still breathe he would feel the breath on his face.

“You have no power over me, nor anyone else. I am not your shadow anymore.”

The blade plunges deep into the flesh, rending and tearing and ripping, and no screams have ever sounded so sweet as Cazador’s. Knife into heart and stomach and anything he can reach, over again, and down the bond Eustace feels the flood of agonizing victory, the culmination of two hundred years of torture and madness as Astarion carries out his bloody work.

Minutes pass. The screams stop, but when Astarion weeps bitterly and cries out to the heavens, Eustace feels as if they are the one being murdered.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fic #astarion x mc #astarion x tav

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catgirl-catboy · 2 years ago

Note

I don't think total drama's writing is bad just when it comes to ships this fandom is a mess, they still argue Duncney vs Gwuncan like rabid dogs

Total drama Z? I never heard the new season I'm a total dingus, I will watch it

And I read you like Tenko -my bi queen- can I take a Tenko analysis before I go watch total drama Z?

And well I guess we quite get along well, I'm happy about it. Autistic to autistic communication ig? Lol

Yesss! A fellow Bi Tenko headcanoner! I am pro headcanon whatever the fuck you want, but the fact that lesbian Tenko is the popular headcanon disappoints me because it is the most shallow way to read Tenko. "She hates men because she's a lesbian" is boring. I want to hypothesize a different explanation, because why take her at her word when you can overanalyze her so much. It got long, so I put it under a readmore. By long, I mean 2000 words. Honestly, I might crosspost this to ao3 later, since I legit love this.

The love hotel is dubiously canon at best, but ideas from it are shown in her FTEs and character development in chapter three, so I do think it works for me. That being said, if you are part of the fans that hate it I do get why.

Elephant in the room for a lot of my thoughts on Tenko... I think she was abused by her master. I actually have a lot more evidence than the Kiyo was a victim of abuse headcanon, which I also subscribe to!

She shows a lot of symptoms of abuse that were played for laughs. In her intro we get the line:

"If any degenerate tries to touch me, my reflex is to grab them and throw them across the room."

That could just be because shes an Aikido master, but it paints a very disturbing picture with the rest of the context.

In her first FTE with Kaede, we get the line "Master told me degenerate males always have perverted fantasies running through their heads!"

So her master is intentionally telling her bad things about men. He must know about her sexism. He probably even encourages it!

In the same FTE, when she talks about attacking Shuichi, she describes it as "pre-emptive self-defense" small problem, wouldn't it be pre-emptive defense of others? It was brought up in the context of protecting Kaede. Honestly, I really wish I knew Japanese so I could see the original text for this line.

I don't think it was the first time she used this logic/excuse.

There's Tenko's repeated insistence to Kaede that she doesn't consider herself cute reeks of low self esteem. If her Aikido master was like a surrogate parent to her, shouldn't he have caught on to this negative self talk? Should he have told her she was cute, since she's basically his daughter.

If you tell her that her passion is her secret weapon, we get the line "My passionate energy, huh? I have been told that it gives people headaches!" Her parents haven't been in the picture from a young age, so who would be telling her this?

Onto Shuichi's FTEs, we get this line after Tenko attempts to provoke him by growling. "Give me a reaction already! I don't know what else to do!" She acts out for attention, and will thrive on negative attention and positive attention all the same. Remember that. Its not related to my Tenko abuse theory/headcanon, but its interesting that someone who thrives off other's reactions to her falls for the least emotive character.

(I don't think she's as oblivious with Himiko as she wants us to think. I think, on some level, she knows.)

This next bit of dialogue is a reach even for my standards, but its fun to think about.

Tenko: I am calm! Upset, but still calm! Shuichi: You don't seem very calm. Tenko: It may not seem like it to a degenerate, but I'm super duper calm for a girl!

If she's currently under the impression her master was a woman, than she might be emulating him here. I don't think her master was a very calm person, so she has unreasonable standards of calm.

If you try to apologize to her, you get "Do you think you can fix it just by apologizing!?" which is totally something an abusive parent would say. HOWEVER, if you tell her to be quiet...

She legitimately gets scared. This is the same face she makes when she discovers a body, so its not like this sprite is always used ironically.

In order to try to calm her, Shuichi touches her shoulder and gets thrown. In Tenko's defense, she did try to set this boundary earlier and was clearly scared.

They talk about it in the next FTE:

"Shuichi… About before…I'm sorry for throwing you. But it's because you're a degenerate male. Blame yourself for being born that way."

You can write this off as trademark Tenko sexism, but why would she apologize when she clearly isn't sorry. Its a step she takes to appease him, in case he wants to hurt her worse. I think this apology comes from a place of fear.

Then we get something really interesting.

"I woke up in bed… Did you carry me back to my room, Tenko?"

"I didn't want to…but I couldn't just leave you there. It was bothering me."

Tenko is okay with touching men (even if she doesn't like it) so long as she initiates the touch. She also did not have to do this, and I don't think she would if she hated men as much as she claims to.

I think its more accurate to say she's afraid of men. That better describes what I'm seeing.

We get this line in the same FTE

"Yeah… My parents told me I used to have anger tantrums similar to an exploding volcano." Told her. Not tell me. They don't currently tell her. She hasn't improved her temper in the slightest, so why won't they still tell her this?

According to Tenko, her parents were worried she wouldn't be able to fit into society... so they sent her to live in an isolated temple? The logic is questionable. The timeline is also questionable. If she "used to have" tantrums, then why send her away now. Did she stop and then start again?

Her parents are never mentioned again after this. I think Tenko was abandoned by her parents.

This is another reach, but if we assume Tenko had one mom and one dad, I think it is interesting that it's never mentioned she had beef with her bio dad. (a heteronormative assumption, but Danganronpa tends to stick to traditional family structures unless specified) It is possible that she didn't hate men at that age yet.

Despite all of this, Tenko praises her parents and clearly cares for them.

These lines are also noteworthy:

"During my mental training at the temple, I called the head priest, "Master.""

"Master was very pleased about this and added a new rule to the temple. He declared that he was the Master of martial arts!"

So this guy gets called Master once, gets an Ego, and then decides to appoint himself in a position of power. Shuichi speculates on her master's nature, but this paints a pretty clear picture.

In the next FTE, she tries to teach Shuichi Neo Aikido. Her methods are incredibly harsh. She plans to engage Shuichi with no explanation of any moves, and little warning. You could argue that she is just doing this to Shuichi because she's sexist, but she specifically says "Whaaat? There's no such thing as "basics" in Neo-Aikido!", implying this is how she was taught as well. Reminder that we don't know how old Tenko was when she first came to the temple and met her master.

Since we never actually get to see this sparring match, we have no idea what Tenko's definition of sparring is. Except we do in the main story, when we unlock Tenko's lab. Where she attacks Shuichi with no warning... again. This is a pattern. Shuichi cries out in pain from the resulting attack, implying she did not go gentle.

In this scene, we get a disturbing line.

"instead of training, we just fight head on!"

In case you were wondering if this is just Tenko's sexism kicking in, she does the exact same thing to Himiko right after.

That paints a very disturbing tone for Tenko's sparring with her master. Allow me to re-quote her introduction to you...

"If any degenerate tries to touch me, my reflex is to grab them and throw them across the room."

Reflex. Not desire. She specifically states its a reflex.

The next FTE is where she tells you about all the supposed limits of Neo Aikido. Namely that "If you get too excited about Christmas or Valentine's Day, your moves become weaker!"

I find it odd she mentions Valentine's day, such a romantic holiday. It usually isn't considered a main holiday, and something like her birthday would make a lot more sense to mention.

What does she follow it up with?

"In my case, my moves become weaker if I interact with males."

this is the second time she mentioned her master instilling these ideas in her. Also, despite this (perceived) limitation, she still chose to carry Shuichi to his room.

The next line says it all for me.

"I will master Neo-Aikido! That's why I can't be touched by males!"

What happens if she masters Neo Aikido? Her training sessions with her master might slow or stop. But since she's just a child, and still learning... her master must have thrown her all the time, just like we see her doing in her lab.

In her mind, this creates an endless cycle. So, if she represses information about her master's gender, maybe she has a chance at winning. Of being free of her training.

Speaking of her training, during one of Tenko's anti-male rants, she drops this line.

In Neo-Aikido, you can use weapons! You can even attack before the match starts! Those are Master's teachings! Now do you see how invincible it is!?

Tenko... did your master use weapons on you? Did you have to use weapons to defend yourself from your master?

In the beginning of her last FTE, she drops this line. At this point, it could easily be referring to her master, but it also makes sense if its just like,,, random men that saw what's going on.

"Thank you, but I know males actually have an ulterior motive when they give sympathy!"

If her master taught her that specific line, it specifically discourages her from listening to any male that tells her the way she is treated is wrong.

Also, contrast this

with this gem from FTE two.

(Tangent, from what Tenko demonstrates, its okay for males to throw her to the ground with little warning, but Tenko feels the need to do a strained apology when she does the same thing before taking on the "Master" role with Shuichi.)

The conclusion of Tenko's arc in her FTEs?

She begins to question her master's teachings, but then comes up with an explanation that lets her keep her existing worldview.

Even Shuichi's thoughts cast what she's saying into question.

Even despite their heart to heart, she's still scared of losing her Aikido abilities by shaking Shuichi's hand. She's still too scared of getting caught in that infinite loop, but she's starting to doubt if its real.

To end this meta, I'd like to circle back to where we began...

Her extremely controversial love hotel.

It starts like this:

I think that Shuichi being senior is important here. Specifically, I think Shuichi is a standin for her master in a universe where she masters Neo Aikido and surpasses him.

Does this make the whole thing very Freudian? Yes. and? This love hotel was brought to you by the creators of the Kiyo incest plotline.

Also, thicker than blood. Interesting choice of words there.

If you buy into my theory of Shuichi being Tenko's master in this, then the fact that Tenko perceives him as male is vitally important because it suggests on some level that she does understand her master's gender.

Shuichi's thoughts in this role reversal likely mirror Tenko's own thoughts.

But even in this perfect fantasy for Tenko, she still gives Shuichi the power in this situation. You'd think this is the opposite of what she wanted.

Her master is mentioned in this, but I don't think its a deal breaker because Shuichi is a standin for an idea rather than her actual master.

In the context of fights, "the winner can do anything he wants to the loser" has some dark implications considering who she fights with in canon.

Even when Shuichi protests he doesn't want to do anything to her, Tenko encourages it. She expects something to happen. She expects abuse.

Can I remind you that during the fight where Tenko throws Shuichi and later apologizes for it, she specifically asked if shutting up was an order and then started panicing? This bet feels a lot like ordering someone around, even if the word was never used.

These are the most interesting lines in the whole thing. You can interpret them one of two ways:

1.) This is Tenmiko shipping fodder and acknowledgement that she understands Himiko doesn't feel the same way about her.

2.) This is about her master, and the fact that she on some level gets that his only love was for the power he had over her. Either way, there's this theme of Tenko preferring negative attention over no attention.

I'd like to leave you with this one line from the love suite.

If that doesn't sound like an abuse victim pleading for forgiveness I don't know what does.

#ask tag #danganronpa meta #danganronpa analysis #danganronpa #drv3 #tenko chabashira

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miramizar · 1 year ago

Text

@aphfrukweek

Day 4: Pets (sorry I’m a little late!)

(Takes place somewhere during the post-roman era)

~~~

Bonnie

Francis is in the garden again.

You may find it a bit odd, but for being a personification of a country he really isn’t that interested in battles, politics or even in expanding the borders of what is to become the Frankish kingdom. No, the young man loves beautiful things alone, and among them he loves his garden the most - he can spend literal hours in the clearings that are surrounded by lush forests and sparkling rivers, and he feels no shame in admitting that the meadows overflowing with pretty flowers are his biggest source of happiness.

But today there is something strange about the garden.

It is as he twirls in the grass that he notices something out of the corner of his eye; something bright and shapeless, and.. unnatural. He stops to look around, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. That should calm him, but it doesn't - Francis hasn't seen anyone for years, if you don’t count the conquerors that pass through every now and then, so for something to appear silently like this is quite alarming.

There!

He’s quick to react and grabs whatever it is that slithers across the ground near his feet, and immediately he is pulled forward, the power behind it forcing him to push his heels to the ground to avoid toppling over. After taking a couple of seconds to catch his breath, he turns his focus to the thing he is holding onto, which turns out to be a long, twisted rope with a loop that encircles a white horse’s neck. A surprised gasp then escapes the youngling’s lips as he looks up to see the horn located on the animal’s forehead.

“A unicorn?”

Then he is once again pulled forward, this time with such force that he loses his footing and finds himself being mercilessly dragged away.

He somehow manages to keep his hold on the rope until the unicorn slows down, and moments later he hears a cry of joy.

“Unicorn! Where have you been?!” Francis looks up from where he’s been dropped off and sees a mop of golden hair, green eyes and thick eyebrows that are raised high upon the little boy noticing him. “Who are you?”

Despite it sounding more like gibberish than words of an actual language, Francis understands enough to know that he has to introduce himself, which he does after tidying himself up enough to look presentable. “My name is Francis. Is the unicorn yours? It was in my garden - wait, I think we still are in my garden.”

He forgets his confusion when the boy leaves the unicorn and steps closer, squinting a little - because that’s when Francis recognises him.

“Arthur?”

It’s been ages since he last saw his immortal friend from across the sea, and he takes in the boy’s appearance, curious to know just how much he’s grown since then. Arthur on the other hand seems to become bashful under his gaze, running back to the unicorn when a hand is reached out to touch him. And yet, those big, beautiful eyes never avert from his and it doesn’t take long before they’re both smiling.

So if you notice something peculiar about the garden today, or rather it’s inhabitants, fear not - they simply got the nicest surprise of the century, all thanks to a certain magical creature that only the two of them can see.

~~~

(crossposted on AO3)

#manga #anime #hetalia #hetalia axis powers #hetalia world stars #hetalia fanfiction #aph france #aph england #hws england #hws france #fruk #frukweek #frukweek2023 #miri's writing

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deada55 · 11 months ago

Text

When the River Meets the Sea - Chapter 10

crossposting: ao3

work summary: A nine-year old in Tomahawk, WI gets glaucoma surgery over Christmas break.

chapter summary: Pickles goes under.

tws: hospitals, body sensations

The car ride was slow and painful, drawn out by the hit radio stations playing too much rock n’ roll for Molly to be able to stand for longer than a couple songs before changing the frequency to something fuzzier and slower until it barely sounded like music. The seams of his coat pockets didn’t have anything to make the car go faster, or to make his mother turn around in her seat and call the whole thing off. Even the linings of the pockets were tacked into the coat, so he couldn’t turn the corner in and fiddle with it. As his saliva got thicker and thicker, he kept swallowing and swallowing until he was drinking air. When the car door opened, he heard a single, loud toll of a cathedral bell somewhere high over the parking lot.

The check-in desk was manned by a smiling, casual nurse with dark hair and tilted eyes who flipped through a magazine while they waited for an intake nurse to come and take him down the hall. The other people waiting went in first, leaving them alone with the rising buzzing of the phone and screeching, scratching pens streaking ledgers. Only then did Molly take Pickles’ hand in hers, and her cold fingers reminded him that crying couldn’t do anything but make her take her hand away.

When a nurse summoned him, his mother grabbed his duffel bag and ushered him by the shoulder into a small exam room to meet with the surgeon after his height and weight were taken.

Pickles climbed on top of the exam table immediately. Without his coat, Pickles felt blanched and small, made worse by poor posture as his body crumpled like the paper he sat on. His still legs pressed his hands flat until they went numb so he’d stay cooperative-looking until a phlebotomist came by to take some blood and handed him a cup for a urine sample.

Dr. Newcomb came into the room like a May breeze slapping a funeral procession with an even complexion, a budding cold sore, and a pile of chapstick on his mouth.

“Good afternoon, well… almost. How are we feeling today? Ready to get started?”

“Yeah,” Pickles replied, with all the vigor and enthusiasm of a shed snakeskin.

“Mom, we’ve had nothing to eat or drink today, right? Just our inhaler?”

“Yes, doctor.” Molly played her part with her hands neatly folded.

“Ok. Any questions?”

“How long will the stay be?”

“We’ll call you as soon as we know, but probably until the 26th or after, and we usually discharge in the morning.” Dr. Newcomb talked through him while taking yet another bright white look into his pupils.

As the adults talked, they gradually looked further and further away from Pickles. When Dr. Newcomb turned to put his ophthalmoscope away, it felt as if the exam table were slowly rolling backwards and the back walls were sliding like a drawer being pulled out. The second Pickles started to feel a little green, Dr. Newcomb cleared his throat and the room snapped back to normal, although the lights buzzed with a new fury.

“Ma’am, we have a few more forms for you to fill out,”

Another nurse walked in with a clipboard and an open hand that Molly pushed Pickles’ bag and coat towards, bobbing it up and down until the nurse took them under her with a huff.

“Pickles, I need you to go with Nurse Bierenbaum and get ready. We might catch up with you later, but you might beat me to the operating room, ok? See you soon.” Dr. Newcomb nodded in her direction and ducked out of the room, but the nurse stayed in the doorway.

“Are we ready to go?”

“He’s ready when you are. I think I’ll go to the lobby instead, thank you.”

“Ma’am, you’re more than welcome to come and get him settled in–”

Pickles slid off of the exam table and walked up to Molly like he were approaching someone to dance with at the world’s most miserable cotillion. She’d worn her pearl earrings and her gold jewelry today, over a light blue turtleneck.

“Bye, Mom.”

Molly bent down and guided him into her arms. When she felt his face press into her chest, she rubbed his back, then moved her fingers up to stroke his thick hair. She had to pull away in the interest of time. Although Pickles’ tried to linger, he stood straight when she took him by the shoulders.

With his round cheeks in her hands, she looked down into Pickles’ hazy, dusk-circled eyes and gave him a kiss over the apple of his freckled cheek.

“Be good, Pickles.”

“I love you.” The crackling of his voice was low and soft.

Molly heard the nurse shift her weight between her feet. “I love you, too. See you soon.”

He walked with the nurse alone down the ward, past men in casts and yellowed uncles sucking in air through gaping grimaces. Once he’d been dressed in a gown covered in smiling baby clowns, he rested against the raised head of the bed and looked out at the wall like a doll.

Or, like the impression of a doll, at least. Trying to let go would help, right? Soon there would be a razor edge peeling away the layers of his eyes, can’t do nothin’ about it, and his nerves were wound tightly around the weird half-death of a sleep that not even knives would wake him out of. Dr. Newcomb seemed nice, but so did principals and kidnappers. What remained of his life was laying in a stranger’s hands, without his mother to be steadfast and un-negotiable and strong and tell him not to be scared, without anybody—

He ached for her stiff hand, but he could only imagine her driving home, knuckles white, driving fifteen over the speed limit, flying north faster than Santa’s sleigh. What did her arms feel like a couple minutes ago? Did he remember if she was warm? What did she smell like? His bag of underwear and socks sat on the little cabinet beside the bed unpacked.

When he let go of the breath he was holding, he felt something boil in his throat and force a burp so narrow and sour into his mouth that it made his eyes bulge. Dr. Newcomb walked into his curtained paddock with another two nurses. “Ok, Pickles. Any last questions?” He shook his head and forced himself to swallow until his mouth was empty.

“Ok. you’ll see me again soon, I just need to get ready. Nurse Pinkett is going to take you to a different room in a couple minutes, and that’s where we’ll do the surgery.”

Dr. Newcomb leaned back with his hands in the pockets of his white coat instead of leaving. “So… are you scared?”

“No?” Pickles leaned back in the bed, pale and shaking all the way.

“Are you sure? Plenty of kids are scared about surgery.”

“I’m not.” While he trembled, Dr. Newcomb pulled a stool beside the bed.

“Pickles,” His voice softened, and his deep brown eyes angled lower to close the vertical distance between them. Dr. Newcomb’s hands wrung one another as he spoke. “If you were scared, I’d tell you that we want to take care of you, and I want to help you see as best as you can. If there’s anything we can do to make it easier for you, I want to know about it. Ok?”

“Alright,” Pickle's voice had tightened into a croak.

Dr. Newcomb took a slow, deep breath through his nose and asked again, carefully, “Do you have any questions before I go?” Pickles had already laid his hands on top of his stomach, ready for a wake. A bell rang down the hall.

“What happens if I cry?”

“It wouldn’t be good for your eyes if you cried a lot, coughed a lot, or rubbed your eyes, so it’d be best if you tried to keep calm and rest.” The doctor looked away from the empty chair against the wall. “We’re going to give you medicine so it won’t hurt, and you can watch lots of television and play games while it heals up. Uh, is that all?”

“Alright, well, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

When Dr. Newcomb left and two new nurses tried to ask him questions, he could barely speak between wheezes and an awful feeling of choking, until he started to feel like he couldn’t get any air at all they gave him a nebulizer. But, almost every time a doctor or a nurse touched him, they had to do it again: nothing they did seemed to help him for longer than fifteen minutes.

As bad as he felt for making everyone wait, it wouldn’t stop. The longer the cycle of feeling constricted and being relieved by powder inhalers and aerosols went on, the more it made him lightheaded and the less he could hide it with so many people standing around grabbing his hands to look at the bluish beds of his fingernails. Someone pulled his gown off entirely to listen to his chest. Oh God, oh God…

Eventually, the head nurse, a round, wrinkled woman with a white bun and the starchiest cap in the ward, came around and let him lay on his side after taking another couple deep breaths of bronchodilating fog, taped oxygen tank cannula securely to his cheeks, and put a blanket over his shoulders. While she took his hand away from a trainee nurse and tucked it under the covers with him, her other hand rested on his shoulder and pressed down a little bit, which helped his stomach unclench. After a little while, the rubbing on his back became a stethoscope searching around under the blanket. At least, laying down like this, now that it was the same couple of people standing around him and less in-and-out, it felt a little bit better than before. By the time they got him to breathe well sitting up, the surgery had been delayed an hour and a half.

The anesthesiologist, a short blonde man, came in with a nurse and a new tray, and worked with a syringe and a vial while the head nurse stealthily came around to his bare arms. “I heard you just had a lot of medications, but I want you to hold your arm out for a moment. This medicine might make you a little sleepy, but it’ll make the other anesthesia work better. It might come on fast…” He was being injected before he could look over.

“Good boy. If you feel sick, tell us, I’ll see you in the operating room.”

When he left, there was a quiet workflow among the two nurses as they picked up the used syringe and updated his charts.

“That was… five milligrams of diazepam?”

“Right.”

The journey to the operating room, armed with all kinds of bells and whistles from what looked like a shower cap to an IV line, was a short trip down the hall on wheels. The overhead lights scanned by and he pretended the gurney he laid on was empty, like he was nothing but air, like he were rolling on an empty cart in Aunt Carol’s foyer, soon to become a holiday minibar. He was too dizzy to lift his head, but the quiet whirr of the gurney’s wheels was enough to soothe him to sleep if only the operating room doors were a little softer. A different doctor introduced himself amid the chatter and the sound of aluminum carts squeaking into formation. With the nudging of three more scrubs, he scooted himself onto the operating table… which was more like another bed than a butcher’s block. Whoever supported his side held half his weight until he could be eased down onto his back. Why did he feel warm…?

“When I put this mask on your face, I need you to breathe deep and slow, ok? Ready?”The thick smell of the gas quickly faded into a soothing levity of his whole body, like his spirit was a glowing mass in a lava lamp. The tension and the trouble that had made him ache for weeks sparkled away, out of his forehead. The gloved hands around his face pressed the black rubber mask a little harder over the bridge of his nose, and another deep breath plunged him into sleep could remember the word “tired.”

#metalocalypse #pickles the drummer #metalocalypse fanfic #mtl fanfic #molly metalocalypse #my writing

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the-ragingenby · 1 year ago

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AO3 Crosspost:

As much as it behooves me to do these prompts out of order, the thing I got planned for the second one is like an extra epilogue thingy for the fic I gotta finish. So. It’ll come out when it comes out.

Anyway. Here it is. 20 minutes late.

Don’t ask why, just enjoy.

@flufftober

Prompt: “Wait, you love me?” - “I always have.”

~3350 words

“Wait, you love me?” - “We always have, you dork.”

“Did you hear that Mic and Eraser are together now?” Thirteen announced from their desk in the teacher’s lounge. Midnight rolled her eyes.

“That’s old news. Anyone with a working pair of eyes knows that by now.” Midnight snickered. “Though, it was kinda funny watching Ms. Joke flirting with Aizawa.”

“Well, I felt rather sorry for him, the poor guy.” Toshinori murmured, mostly to himself. He’d known about Hizashi and Aizawa for ages, which still surprised him a little. He didn’t think they trusted him much, especially with something as personal as their relationship status, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

“You are just too sweet, Toshinori!” Midnight gushed. Toshinori felt his mouth twitch, but he kept his polite smile. He wasn’t sure if she was just joking around…or maybe it’s at his own expense. “You’re a much better person than me. I’ll be making fun of him for ages.”

That’s not necessarily true. Toshinori sighed softly. I’m not that great of a person at all.

“I wish you people would find something better to do than just gossip all the time.” Eraser grumbled as he stalked into the teacher’s lounge, fixing them with his usual glower. His glare eased slightly though, as he caught sight of Toshinori. “Oh, good morning, Toshinori.” There was the faintest ghost of a smile on Aizawa’s face before he turned away to get what he really came in here for: another cup of coffee.

“Toshinori,” Midnight whined, draping herself over his shoulder. “How’d you do it? You got him to smile. He won’t even acknowledge the rest of us, that jerk.” She directed her words mostly towards Aizawa, who was pointedly ignoring her now.

Toshinori shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure.” He really wasn’t. He, Aizawa, and Hizashi had started hanging out together after school when they realized they lived in the same apartment complex.

At first, it was just out of politeness, but once Hizashi started crashing his place to insist that Toshinori makes the best bento boxes and Aizawa tagged along, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake them.

Which has now resulted in the predicament he’s currently in. He may have, perhaps, developed a little crush on the both of them. Just a small one that’s totally not eating up his remaining brain cells. Of course I couldn’t settle for just one, but I just had to want both of them. Maybe I’ve lost it. “It’s because he’s just a big sweetheart. I mean, look at him!” Present Mic piped up, materializing in the doorway and skipping over to Toshinori.

He nudged Midnight away, taking her place draping over Toshinori’s shoulder. “Booo. That’s such a basic answer. Everyone knows that.” Midnight huffed, twirling her whip in her hands. Present Mic stuck out his tongue at her.

“So childish, the both of you.” Eraser chuckled, heading over to plant a gentle kiss on Mic’s cheek before escaping from the lounge.

“Awww. Gross.” Midnight pretended to gag, laughing as Mic fixed her with a halfhearted glare from behind his shades.

“See you later, Toshinori?” Mic asked, pressing his cheek to Toshinori’s own. Toshinori felt himself grow warm with embarrassment.

“Uh, y-yeah. Sure.” Mic smiled and tapped Toshinori’s nose with a finger playfully, before darting off to pester Eraser.

Toshinori pressed a hand to his mouth to contain the little scream that threatened to escape. Sometimes, he wished he could be part of what they had. The little affections the pair gave each other throughout the day, Toshinori could admit he was just a little jealous. But that isn’t right. You have to be happy for your friends. Even if it hurts.

“You okay?” Midnight interrupted his thoughts, her head tipped gently with concern. Toshinori tugged his hand away, pulling on his usual smile.

“Yeah. Never better.”

“–and that’s how far I’ve gotten with my training for One For All. I’ve gotten a little better at using Air Force, but I’ll need a little more practice with the gloves. Oh, and I’ve been able to keep One For All consistently at thirty-percent! I think that’s a pretty good accomplishment and…All Might, are you listening?” Izuku blinked, wide-eyed, at Toshinori, who was jolted from his thoughts.

“Oh! Um, of course, young Midoriya. I was just thinking about…something.” Toshinori tried to smile, but it faltered as Izuku stared at him. His eyes were bright, searching and trying to figure out how to help. How to save him.

Toshinori felt a newfound fondness for his successor wash over him. Young Midoriya is really doing his best. This time, though, there isn’t anything he can do. I’d better not worry him. Toshinori smiled brightly, reaching out to pat Izuku’s head. “Not to worry, young Midoriya! It’s nothing All Might can’t handle!”

Izuku smiled. He believed him. Of course he did. Now if only I could believe me.

After listening to the rest of Izuku’s updates, Toshinori let him go, encouraging him to enjoy his lunch with his friends. “Are you sure? I can stay, if you’d like.” Izuku murmured. Toshinori could only laugh.

“Go on, young Midoriya. Enjoy yourself.” Toshinori insisted. With a bright smile, Izuku nodded and left the room, leaving Toshinori alone with his thoughts.

“Geez.” He whispered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I really need to pull myself together.”

“Toshi! This is where you’re always hiding, huh?” Toshinori froze, slowly turning to see Hizashi and Aizawa peeking in through the doorway.

“Ah, um, well…” Toshinori looked away, a little embarrassed. He wasn’t sure why, but even the pair just being near him made him feel all fluttery.

“Don’t mind him. Think he’s had a bit too much coffee today.” Aizawa sighed, sitting a respectful distance from Toshinori on the couch. Hizashi quickly took the spot of his other side, leaning gently against Toshinori as he began nibbling at his lunch.

“Sorry.” Toshinori felt the need to apologize. I don’t want them to feel like I’ve been avoiding them or anything. Even if I kinda am. “I just wanted to give you guys your lunch time together, at least.”

Hizashi snickered, shoveling a ball of rice into his mouth before thoughtfully pressing his chopsticks to his lips. “We get plenty of time together. But we wanna spend time with you too.”

“If you don’t mind.” Aizawa quickly tacked on, eyeing Hizashi reproachfully. Hizashi stuck out his tongue in response. Toshinori blinked, a little surprised at the sentiment, but managed a mild smile.

“I appreciate it.” He murmured, leaning back on the couch a little, with Hizashi moving with him, only shifting a little to get more comfortable.

“Have you eaten yet?” Hizashi asked once he’d finished most of his lunch. Toshinori hesitated for a brief moment before replying. I mean, I didn’t but I’ll do it later. I don’t want to worry them.

“Uh, yeah.” Apparently his hesitation gave him away, because now they were both eyeing him suspiciously. I forgot how hard it is to lie to them. Without a word, Aizawa took one of his lunch containers, which happened to be empty, and portioned out some rice and sausage from his own lunch.

Hizashi dragged the newly filled container over and slid on a few assorted vegetables and sacrificed one of his sushi rolls. “Toshi, you need to take care of yourself properly.” Hizashi chastised playfully, booping Toshinori’s nose with his chopsticks.

Aizawa pulled out a disposable set of chopsticks and placed them beside Toshinori’s newly obtained container of food. “Here. Eat up, okay?” He encouraged gently, glaring fiercely when Hizashi was about to subject the poor guy to another prod, seemingly freezing him in his tracks. “And, if you want, we’ll take you out to eat later. My treat.”

Toshinori didn’t know what to say. He was already having a hard time holding back his tears. Why are they just so damn perfect? “U-um, no, t-that’s alright. You two have done so much for me already.” Toshinori opened the chopsticks and took a mouthful before he could make more of a fool of himself. I’m an idiot. But I don’t want to interrupt their date either. Hah, why is this so hard?

“Toshi, you’ve gotta say yes.” Hizashi whined, putting down his now empty container to cuddle himself more snugly into Toshinori’s uninjured side. “Shota’s been mean and has been depriving me of sweets. You’ve gotta come and bully him into getting me something. He’ll do anything for you.”

“Hizashi, behave.” Aizawa grumbled, though he did not refute anything his partner was saying, Toshinori realized after a moment. He closed his eyes to take a moment to collect himself, and stop himself from spontaneously combusting. When Toshinori reopened them, Aizawa met his gaze with a soft fondness, before his eyes quickly darted away to look elsewhere. I want to but I can’t. They’re together, plain and simple. I don’t want to get in the way of that.

Toshinori plastered on his best smile. “I don’t want to intrude on your, uh, outing? Date, maybe?” He looked away, not wanting to see whatever expression was on their faces. “But thank you for the meal. It…means a lot.” He added more quietly.

That evening, Toshinori was dragged out of his apartment by Aizawa and Hizashi to go out for dinner anyway. He could find nothing to complain about, which in turn made it even harder for him to keep his feelings bottled up, pushed into the bottom of his being to make sure it would never see the light of day.

It had been about two weeks since that dinner outing, and if anything, the couple seemed to be growing even closer to Toshinori. Not that he was complaining in the slightest, but now he was acutely aware of every one of Hizashi’s teasing touches or Aizawa’s reassuring pats. It was a little overwhelming to say the least.

“Oh, Toshi!” Hizashi called, lounging on Toshinori’s couch as he walked into the room. “There you are! I’ve been missing you.” Toshinori rolled his eyes.

“I saw you less than an hour ago.” Toshinori chuckled, settling into the small space Hizashi had left for him on the couch. He immediately shifted to rest his head in Toshinori’s lap, humming contentedly.

“Still wayyy too long.” Hizashi huffed, huddling closer. Toshinori couldn’t help but reach his hand down, carefully running it down Hizashi’s back, sort of like petting a cat or a small dog, now that he thought about it. “Your hand feels nice.” Hizashi murmured, a little sleepily, after a few minutes.

“Uh, I’m glad?” Toshinori hesitated, unsure of whether he should take his hand away or–

“Nooooo.” Hizashi whined, arching his back a little into the touch. “Don’t stop, you meanie.” Toshinori swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a brief moment to gather himself. Calm down. This doesn’t mean anything. Just think of him as an oversized, yellow haired, sunglasses-bearing cat.

Shakily, Toshinori continued his massage, if you could call it that. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the bell soon rang, signaling the start of classes. Toshinori nervously cleared his throat. “Um, I guess you’ve got to go now.” He said, gently shaking Hizashi to wake him up fully.

“Mmm. I knowww.” Hizashi stifled a yawn, sitting up just a little. “I’ll see you later, Toshiiii.” Before Toshinori could react, Hizashi planted a soft, chaste kiss on his cheek. Toshinori sat, stunned, as Hizashi got up properly and managed a drowsy wave before slipping from the room.

“W-what??!”

That evening, Toshinori left the school grounds without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. He headed straight home. What am I going to do? Is Hizashi…cheating on Aizawa? With me?? I’m so confused. But I also don’t want to talk to him, because I know I’m going to do something stupid and just make things worse. But then again, he was super sleepy so maybe he didn’t know what he was doing? Maybe it doesn’t mean anything? But what if it does?

Toshinori fiddled with his keys for a brief moment before pushing them into the lock and stepping into his apartment. I just don’t know what to do. When do I ever know what to do? With a heavy sigh, he collapsed onto his couch in the living room. On the bright side, it’s the weekend. So all I need to do is just avoid them until school starts again. That sounds easy enough.

It was not, in fact, easy enough.

Toshinori opened his door the next afternoon to find, lo and behold, Aizawa standing outside. “Toshi…hey.” Aizawa blinked at him, his tired eyes alight with worry and concern. “Hizashi and I were wondering if you’d like to come over to our place for dinner. We’d like to talk, if that’s alright.”

Toshinori froze. Shit. I knew this was gonna happen. Maybe I should’ve gone on an impromptu trip to Europe or something. “Um…”

“And before you say anything, I want you to know that we aren’t mad at you or anything and both Hizashi and I have things we’d like to admit to you.” Aizawa continued before Toshinori could outright refuse. “...Please. We, I, really want you there.”

Toshinori let out a soft sigh. These guys really make it hard to say no to them. “Alright.” He relented. Though maybe it was all worth it to see that brilliant smile Aizawa had, even if just for a brief moment.

“Come by in a few, okay?” With that, Aizawa bowed a little before leaving. Toshinori closed the door with a soft click, running his hands over his face. I’m in too deep now. I’ll probably be losing some of my closest friends, but that’s okay. I want them to be happy, even if that means I can’t be around to see it.

Toshinori fixed himself up the best he could and made his way over to Aizawa and Hizashi’s apartment, which was only just down the hall. Shakily, he managed to knock once before the door swung open, revealing a Hizashi with his hair down, resting at his shoulders. A black and white cat sat at his feet. “Toshi! Hi.” He greeted warmly, though his smile looked a little tense. “Uh, thanks for coming. This is Cat.” Hizashi gestured to the ball of fur that turned and made its way farther into the apartment.

“Your cat is named Cat?” Toshinori asked, his apprehension momentarily forgotten. Hizashi laughed.

“Yeah. Well, it was all Aizawa really. He’s like super bad with names. I tried changing it, but Aizawa said he’s got custody or something. It’s grown on me a little though.” Hizashi stepped out from the door frame, motioning for Toshinori to enter. “Please, come on in.”

Toshinori carefully made his way through the couple’s apartment, eventually coming to a dining table that Hizashi encouraged him to sit at, before taking a seat next to him. Toshinori couldn’t bring himself to talk about anything else, instead waiting with bated breath for Aizawa to appear.

Hardly a minute had passed when Aizawa came into the room, setting bowls of rice in front of each person, including the chair he had claimed on Toshinori’s other side. On top of each were neatly sliced pork cutlets. “Hope pork cutlets are okay.” Aizawa murmured. “I can’t make them as well as you can, but they’re edible. So.”

“You’re an excellent cook, Aizawa. No need to sell yourself short.” Toshinori insisted, opening up a new pair of disposable chopsticks and taking a small bite. As I thought. It’s very good.

They ate in silence for a while, with Hizashi finishing the food first, as per usual. Once the dishes had been cleared, Toshinori began to excuse himself, half hoping to escape without having to really talk. “Hang on, Toshi. We…gotta talk now. If you’ll let us.” Hizashi said, strangely serious. Toshinori hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Whatever will be, will be.

“‘Zashi told me about what happened in the “secret” teacher’s lounge, where we normally have lunch together.” Aizawa began, meeting Toshinori’s eyes. “Although I didn’t mind, I’ve told him a million times not to be so forward. That he needs to work up to things like that.”

“But that’s not how I roll.” Hizashi snickered, clamping his mouth shut when Aizawa fixed him with his usual glare.

Carefully, Aizawa took one of Toshinori’s hands, holding it gently. “Although we’re in a committed relationship, and have been for ages, we also have quite a soft spot for you. We’re, uh, enamored, to put it in other words.”

“What he’s trying to say is,” Hizashi continued, taking Toshinori’s other hand. “Is that we like you a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. And we wanna date you.” Toshinori’s mouth hung open in shock. I must be hearing things. Maybe I’m going mad.

“Sorry?”

“We wanna date youuu, Toshi.” Hizashi dragged out the words, pressing his lips gently to Toshinori’s hand.

“I…but why?” Toshinori finally found his voice.

“You are…extraordinarily kind. Working one on one with students, encouraging them to push themselves, while always taking time to hear about their problems. And you’re one of the most caring, empathetic people I’ve had the pleasure of working with in a long time.” Aizawa let out a breathy laugh, squeezing Toshinori’s hand just a little tighter. “Is it any wonder why we like you so much?”

Toshinori couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s what anyone would do. I’m not special.”

“For being such a great teacher, you sure can be dense sometimes.” Hizashi sighed. “We don’t want anyone else. We want you.”

“Please.” Aizawa added softly, pressing forehead to Toshinori’s hand.

Toshinori doesn’t know what to make of it. Maybe they’re just messing with me. It just doesn’t make sense otherwise. “I don’t really think you guys would want someone who looks like he’s aged 30 years in the span of a few months.”

To his surprise, Hizashi started laughing, shoulders trembling with the effort to stifle his snickers. Aizawa fixed him with an even sharper glare before returning his attention to Toshinori. “We are truly serious about you, you know.” He whispered. “We don’t care about your looks or anything like that. We care about you.”

Toshinori opened his mouth to give them something, anything, to just refuse him and let him wallow in self-pity. Stop getting your hopes up. “Hey, no more self-deprecating talk, yeah? Otherwise, we’ll have to shut you up ourselves.”

“And how do you intend to do that–" Toshinori was cut off when Aizawa, shockingly enough, moved forward to press a soft kiss to Toshinori’s lips. Without even thinking about it, Toshinori leaned into it, following Aizawa’s lead before he pulled away.

“Sorry.” He breathed, still just a few inches away from Toshinori’s face. “I just couldn’t restrain myself anymore.”

“And you’re always telling me to behave myself.” Hizashi muttered, huffing. “I wanted to kiss him too!”

“You already got to, so it was my turn.” Aizawa shot back, before hesitating for a moment. “I’m really sorry. Was that too much? I probably should’ve asked first.”

“See? You’re just as down bad as me.” Hizashi teased. Aizawa pointedly ignored him.

Toshinori blinked, still a little stunned. “No, no. Um…that was perfect. You were perfect.”

“So does that mean you’ll date us?” Hizashi flashed his best puppy-dog eyes at Toshinori. “We promise to treat you super duper well, and spoil the shit outta you. You deserve it.” Maybe, for once, he can be selfish. Just once.

“Alright.” Toshinori breathed, and was then immediately engulfed in a tight, but careful, hug on both sides.

“Love you.” Aizawa murmured against Toshinori’s shoulder.

“Love y’all more.” Hizashi shot back.

“Wait, you love me?” Toshinori was a little stunned. Love is certainly a step up from like.

“We always have, you dork.” Hizashi was quick to reply, with Aizawa voicing his soft agreement.

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topgunmaverickbb · 2 years ago

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bangtanintotheroom · 3 years ago

Note

Can I request prompts 3, 6, and 22 with Namjoon

Yes you can! I may have gotten a little carried away with this one but it's my maaaaan 🤧💦💦💦

• Pairing: Namjoon x (F)Reader

• Genre: Established Relationship, Smut

• Rating: 18+

• Words: 3.3k

• Summary: All you have been doing was binge-watching that damn show for the past few days; your boyfriend puts a stop to it.

• Prompt(s): #3, #6, #22 (smut) “Do that again.”, “Enjoying the view?”, “Are you doing that on purpose?”

• Warnings/themes: strength kink go brrr, Joonie is strong af 🤤🤤🤤, K-drama binge-watching, stupid sexy Namjoon, slight body worship, handjobs, fingering, dirty talk, couch sex, unprotected sex (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool)

• Notes: Another day, another drabble! Thank you for the request @blxckswxnxge and a big thank you for picking Namjoon, I uh, ended up getting a little indulgent on this one ahahaha he’s gotten so buff leave me alone 💕 Crossposted to AO3 as well.

“No Hye-ji, you idiot, don’t give him another chance!” Your hand slammed on the couch as said girl nodded at the man in front of her. “Fucking dumbass!”

You shouted at your TV for the umpteenth time today, this drama you had been binging having you feeling like you were in the show itself. The main character had decided to take back her asshat of a boyfriend, unaware that he had just come from another girl’s house yet again.

“This girl, I swear…”

You were so into the show that you nearly missed the sound of the front door opening.

“Y/N, I’m back!”

Your eyes flitted over to see your boyfriend Namjoon entering before returning to the TV. “Hey babe.”

After shutting the door behind him, he kicked off his shoes and set down his gym bag before walking over to stand in front of the couch, raising an eyebrow at you. “You know, you’re in the exact same spot I left you in two and a half hours ago.”

“…so?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Please tell me you at least got up to eat and use the bathroom.”

“Mhm.”

“…you ate actual food, right? Not just snacked on the box of cookies I bought the other day?”

“…what if I did?”

Namjoon rolled his eyes as your attention was clearly somewhere else. He looked at the TV now. “Is this still that stupid show you’ve been watching since Monday?”

Only now did your eyes return to him, shooting a scowl. “Hey, it’s not stupid!”

“Really? Because I had to hear you give a lecture to one of the characters the other day on how she shouldn’t ‘take that cheating asshole back’.”

“Look-“ You sat up from your reclining position. “She’s a sweet girl but all this guy has to do is flash a smile and buy her flowers and then she’s forgiven him, it’s so frustrating!”

Your boyfriend just continued staring at you blankly, still not understanding just what it was about this show that had you enraptured for the past week. He watched the first couple of episodes with you but lost interest, deciding to go to his office and do some work on his music. Imagine his surprise when he came out hours later to see your eyes still glued onto the TV, a throw pillow held tight in your clutches.

“Baby, give the show a break, would you? You’re going to hurt your eyes staring at the screen all day.”

You pointed a finger at him. “Says the guy who’s always glued to his computer monitors.”

Namjoon scoffed as you turned it around on him. “At least I take breaks. Look, I’m gonna go shower, can we at least have dinner together after I’m done?”

“Fine, fine. Go shower, stinky.”

“Hey!” He reached a hand down and bopped your nose. “Don’t be rude because I called you out.”

His finger nearly missed being bitten by you, your chuckle coming out with mischief. “I’m just stating facts, Joonie.”

He rolled his eyes again and headed towards the bathroom, ready to wash the sweat and grime from his workout off. But while he cleaned himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t going to pause your show and sit with him at the table for whatever he ordered. Was there anything that was going to distract you?

As he shampooed his hair, a lightbulb went off in his head.

Meanwhile, you continued reclining on the couch, now giggling as the main character’s best friend ‘accidentally’ spilled coffee on the boyfriend while he was on a date with one of his side chicks. Your stomach was starting to feel the tingles of hunger, those cookies having barely held you up. Namjoon had mentioned this Thai place the other day that caught his eye, maybe you could order something from there. Hopefully it was something that didn’t require your eyes to look away from the TV too often.

“Baby, you ready to order something?”

Your tongue poked out at your boyfriend’s question. “Mm, yeah, think I’m ready for some food.”

“Good, my damn stomach has been rumbling since I left the gym.”

Hearing him approach the couch, you turned to look up at him. “You wanna try that Thai pl-“

The rest of your sentence died on your lips at the sight next to you.

Namjoon stood there in nothing but a small towel wrapped around his hips, his short dark hair and tanned skin still wet from his shower. You had been aware of how he’d been bulking up lately but the water drops sliding down his muscles made his hard work very clear. Your eyes were too occupied with his torso to notice the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“What was that, baby?”

Brought back to Earth, you forced yourself to look up at his face.

“I-I was asking if you, uh, wanted to try that Thai place you were talking about before.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea! I’ll see if I can find the menu online.”

All you could do was nod, not trusting your voice right now. You didn’t know why the sight of him was making you feel like this, not like you hadn’t seen him stark naked before. But whenever the two of you got intimate, there was usually too short a space of time for you to admire your boyfriend’s body before he ended up inside you. So you never got the chance to examine the faint outlines of abs he was starting to get, the way his chest had expanded and how his biceps were just asking to be groped on.

Namjoon grabbed his phone from the coffee table and began searching for the restaurant’s menu. He handed it over to you once he found it. “Here, pick what you want. I'm gonna go dry off.”

You nodded once more, eyes flicking to the drop of water sliding down his chest. Once he left the room, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

That bastard. Who told him to start becoming a gym bunny all of a sudden? You bet your bottom dollar that Jungkook had something to do with it.

Pushing aside those thoughts for now, you scrolled through the menu and picked an entree and an appetizer that spoke to you (at the last second, you decided to add a Thai iced tea because why not). You looked back at your TV, cursing when you realized you missed a few minutes of your show. You rewinded back to your previous spot and continued watching.

Namjoon re-entered the living room, now clad only in basketball shorts. As he predicted, your eyes were glued back to that damn show again. Shaking his head, he walked over and sat down next to you. “Decided what you’re getting?”

You nodded, still looking at the screen. “Mhm.”

Namjoon frowned when you didn’t turn to him. Coming up with a quick plan in his head, he looked through the menu for a bit before selecting two options.

“Hey Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“I found two things that sound interesting but I can’t decide, help me out?”

You stiffened when you realized your plan of not looking at your boyfriend was now moot. Slowly turning your head, you bit your lip as you took in his still shirtless form.

This man was going to be the death of you.

“O-Oh, sure.”

He gave you a dimpled smile and scooted closer to show you what he had picked. Now you could feel how big his biceps have gotten. Jesus.

You did your best to listen and nod when he explained why he couldn’t make a choice, trying not to have your eyes wander away from the phone. Thank God you were able to help him make a decision before you reached out and squeezed his pec.

“Alright, lemme call them.”

Namjoon got up and began pacing as he dialed the restaurant, listing off the order. You didn’t hear a word of what he said though. Your eyes were attracted to the defined muscles of his back, stretching a bit when he reached up to rub the back of his head. And…were the dimples on there more noticeable now?

Finishing with the order, Namjoon hung up the phone and turned around, blinking when he caught your eyes zeroed in on his body. You broke your stare too late to look up at his face.

“The food should be here in 45 minutes.”

You cleared your throat and nodded. “O-Okay.”

You were ready to refocus on your show until your boyfriend spoke up again.

“Enjoying the view?”

Your cheeks heated up at the way he gave you a knowing smirk. “M-Maybe…”

Namjoon chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s alright for you to stare, baby. Although, I do feel like a piece of meat right now…”

You glared at him, crossing your arms. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

He had the nerve to look taken aback. “Doing what?”

“Parading yourself around like you’re an underwear model. You rarely walk around shirtless and you can’t give me the weather as an excuse, it’s 45 degrees outside!”

That dimpled smile of his returned as he came closer to you, giving you a better view of tanned muscles. “Well…you keep ignoring me for that damn show and I figured this was a way I could catch your attention. Looks like my plan worked.”

A mild part of you was annoyed at him interrupting your binge-watching but it was overpowered by a building surge of lust. It didn’t help that he was starting to give you a look you were familiar with…

“Sneaky bastard…how long do we have until the food gets here?”

His head tilted. “About 42 minutes now. Why?”

You reached out and hooked a finger into his waistband, pulling before letting the elastic snap against his skin. “Because you need to make it up to me for interrupting my show.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened at your words, tongue running over his bottom lip. “Oh yeah? How do you want me to make it up to you?”

Your teeth flashed up at him. “Lie down.”

Your boyfriend wasted no time in following your order, lying down completely on the cushions after you stood up. His grin grew more when you straddled his thighs (shit, even those were thicker now). “So what did you have in mind for me?”

“I’ll let you know but first-” You rested your palms on the upper part of his chest. “I want to admire your hard work.”

“Ah…well, be my guest.”

You smirked at his approval, starting to let your hands roam on his skin. Even lying down, his chest felt firm, your fingers giving his pecs a slight grope, brushing past his nipples on purpose. You could feel the shudder run through him rather than see it. One of your hands went to travel up to his shoulder to land on his arm, curling around his bicep.

“Flex for me, baby?” Namjoon honored your request, making your breath catch at how the hard muscle filled up, forcing your hand to stretch out to accommodate it. “Damn…”

“You like that, babygirl?”

The use of your nickname made your grip on him tighten. “Yeah…God, how could I have missed all of this?”

Your boyfriend raised a brow. “Maybe if you weren’t obsessed with that show, you would have noticed earlier.”

You couldn’t fight back at that, your cheeks warming as your hand went back to his torso. Now they moved further down to rest on his abdomen. Your fingertips started running over each bump, wondering how many sit-ups he had to do to get to that point. Even the sides of his waist felt firm, your hands moving over to gently grope them as they traveled up and down.

“Mm, baby…you know what your hands do to me…”

“Oh?” Your head tilted in mock questioning. “What do they do?”

Namjoon gave you an eye roll before he took one of your hands, resting it on the bulge that was hidden under his shorts. “Does that answer your question?”

“Hmm-” You gave his clothed cock a light squeeze, drawing a grunt out of him. “I think so…might be better if I saw it though.”

His lips peeled back to show his straight teeth. “Well, don’t let me hold you back.”

You matched his smile before lifting your hips up to grab the waistband and lower his shorts down, enough for you to see his length, not fully hard yet but the sight was enough to send a tingle between your legs. Lifting a hand up, you spit on your palm before wrapping it around his cock, pulling a quiet groan from your boyfriend as you began stroking him. You would have liked to be more thorough with pleasuring him but the impending arrival of the food kept you focused.

After a couple of minutes, Namjoon was completely stiff and throbbing in your hand, prompting you to ask him. “How much longer?”

He glanced at the clock above the TV before panting out. “About- mnh- 33 minutes…”

Nodding, you let go of his dick (trying not to giggle at the way he pouted) before standing up. You made quick work of your bottoms and underwear, kicking them to the side before straddling your boyfriend again, this time hovering above his hips. Just as you were about to reach down for him, Namjoon’s hand came up to hold your wrist in place.

“Wait, baby…let me play with you for a bit?”

Your lip got caught between your teeth at his plea. “…fine. But don’t take too lo- ah-”

His hand wasted no time in placing itself between your thighs, teasing your folds with two of his fingers while his thumb gave feather-light swipes over your clit. “Already so wet…maybe I should walk around shirtless more often.”

“Ugh, if you do, I can’t promise- fuck- that I’ll let you leave this apartment for days.”

That dimpled smile returned as his fingers sunk into you. “Oh no…I don’t think the guys would like that you’re holding their leader hostage for sex.”

“Damn Namjoon- w-well, they’ll have to make do. Tell Jin to hold down the fort.”

He laughed. “Duly noted.”

His fingers kept working you up for a minute until you begged him to stop, the need for something thicker to fill you up growing. As soon as they exited with a wet sound, you reached down and held his cock up, lining it with your entrance before lowering yourself, your moan mixing with the groan he let out. Once your ass hit his upper thighs, you braced yourself and got ready to start moving until Namjoon’s hands gripped your hips. “Wait, wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

He ran a tongue over his lower lip, contemplating on something. “I…I wanna try something.”

You gave him a confused look as to what ‘something’ was but nonetheless, you nodded. As soon as he got the okay, Namjoon sat up and wrapped an arm around your waist before shifting to rest his body against the back of the couch, having you in his lap still. You figured he wanted to be closer to you until his hands went to grasp under your knees, pushing your legs back enough for his arms to hook under them, the position pulling a gasp from your lips as you felt him hit deeper inside. “N-Namjoon, what-”

“Shh, it’s alright, babygirl-” His hands gripped tight onto your ass as he shot you a smirk. “Let me do all the work.”

Nothing could have prepared you for how effortlessly he lifted you up before lowering you onto his dick.

“A-Ah-!”

Namjoon groaned as he repeated the motion, cursing at how you squeezed him when your skin touched his. “Fuck, Y/N, you really like this, huh? Your pussy is gripping the shit out of me…”

“Y-Yes, Joonie, I- oh God-” Your hands clung onto his shoulders when the next thrust hit you deep enough to make your toes curl. “Do that again…don’t stop!”

Your boyfriend obliged, keeping you moving up and down on him at a steady pace, loving how you were basically putty in his hands. He could only imagine how wild your mind was going at the demonstration of his newfound strength.

Oh, how right he was.

Namjoon was no stranger to lifting you up and manhandling you during sex but it was only for short periods of time. To have him keep going without showing any signs of weariness just increased your need for him, prompting you to whine out. “B-Baby…go faster-”

He growled lowly at your words, speeding up the movement of your body on top of his, reveling in the sharper cries coming from your mouth now. “That’s it, let me fuck you on my cock nice and hard-”

All you could do was look into your boyfriend’s face, those eyes boring into yours with unbridled lust, as your body bounced up and down, hands gripping tight to his muscled shoulders. Your hunger for food was gradually being replaced with a hunger for a finish that would leave your limbs weak and trembling. Your yearning was close to being fulfilled after some time, a ball of tension building up inside you that needed to be unraveled.

“Shit, Joon, I need to-!”

Namjoon was so focused on the various expressions on your face that he was surprised to hear your voice strain the words he wanted to hear. As much fun as this impromptu fucking was, the pressure behind his dick wanted to spread out. So he wet his full lips before rasping out at you.

“Come on, babygirl, do it for me. Let me feel you tighten on that dick-”

His command pushed you further along, whimpering openly until you came apart with a broken gasp, your boyfriend able to feel you shaking in his grip. Namjoon was able to last a few more pumps until he lowered you onto him completely, grunting loudly as he twitched and began filling you up with his release, hips bucking up a few times. Once the last spurt came out, he leaned into the cushions, chest heaving along with yours as you both caught your breath. He unhooked his arms from under your legs to allow you to rest them on the couch, leaning forward to bury your face in the crook of his neck, the scent of his body wash mixed with his sweat filling your senses. He felt the vibrations of you speaking against his skin.

“Wow, what have you been benching, 140?”

Namjoon gave a short laugh as his hands rubbed your lower back. “150, to be exact.”

You laughed as well, nuzzling his neck. “It shows.”

Your boyfriend gave your temple a kiss, unable to keep a smile of pride off his face. It was encouraging to see the results of his hard work in the mirror but it was nothing compared to your acknowledgment.

“Thanks baby.”

“Mhm. Now-” You brought your head up to give him a questioning look. “How much longer until our dinner comes?”

Namjoon glanced at the clock once more. “Uh…should be here in 19 minutes.”

Your face lit up. “Perfect! That means I can go back to my show!”

Namjoon’s face fell at your exclamation, feeling like his hard work had gone to waste. “Wh-What? Baby, can’t it wait until after we eat?!”

“No, it cannot, Mr. Kim.” You pouted and poked his nose with your finger. “Thanks for the sex but I didn’t say you were done making it up to me. And for your little stunt, you have to watch this episode with me now, got it?”

He knew from the beginning of your relationship that once you had that tone on, there was no arguing with you. All he could do was sigh and lean his head on the back of the couch.

“Yes Y/N.”

So much for his genius plan.

#kim namjoon #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x y/n #kim namjoon x you #kim namjoon fic #kim namjoon fanfic #kim namjoon smut #bts #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts smut #drabble #drabble request

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tiannasfanfic · 2 years ago

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Gone Away

Billy Butcher x Reader (Angst)

Summary: Relocating to New York was supposed to be a fresh start after a supe related incident took everything from you. But now, you're just wasting away in a new city. Could a random job offer from a stranger be enough to save you? (Crossposted to AO3)

Rating: Teen and Up

Author Note: I listed this as angst since it has a dark theme. This is my first attempt writing from The Boys, so I focused mainly on the reader to ease into the tone of the setting and Billy’s way of speaking. He’s quite different to write than Adrian is, so it was fun branching out.

CW: Mentions of the family's death and how but no details, severe depression and grief, self destructive behavior, alcohol dependency, cussing, Butcher being Butcher.

Word Count: 1,470

Two years.

It had been two years since your life was destroyed. Your home, your family. All gone in the blink of an eye. Literally.

What happened?

Well, that you still didn’t like to think too much about. At least, not when you were out in public. That was just asking for a breakdown, panic attack, uncontrollable fit of screaming or all the above.

That was the whole reason you moved to New York last year. While you had wanted to since you were a kid, this was a good opportunity to get a fresh start. You couldn’t get away from what happened while still in your hometown. At least in New York, no one knew who you were. You could blend in again and people wouldn’t be staring at you with sympathetic looks. Or constantly asking how you were doing. Or offering their support then not being there when you actually needed them. Or any one of the million other things people did or said to make themselves feel like they were helping without actually having to help. You just wanted a normal life again.

The settlement from Vought paid for your relocation. In all honesty, losing everything due to the richest company in the world had taken care of the rest of your life. You were living off of the interest alone, and only a portion of the interest at that. You actually had more money now a year later when you made your decision than the check had been worth.

When you got to New York, however, you ended up getting one of the shittiest and cheapest apartments. It was a one room loft in a particularly low, low-income area. You could’ve gotten something better, but in your mind, what was the point? Depression and grief had a deep hold on you. Life had taken everything good from you, so in your mind, you didn’t deserve anything better. It would just be taken from you too, you thought.

For something to do, you ended up getting a retail job at a Walgreens. You were a standard floor associate, spending your days stocking and helping customers find stuff. It was mindless work. You could do it half asleep, hung over or high, and frequently did. You couldn’t sleep unless you self-medicating otherwise, you would just lay in bed, wondering why you were still here. That was becoming a problem too, but you didn’t want to think about that either.

In all fairness, you didn’t really think about much of anything anymore except for what you lost. You may have not died physically, much to your dismay, but there wasn’t any living left in your life. You were just going through the motions at that point. Nothing held your interest; nothing was fun anymore; it was all for nothing anyway.

It was your job that led you to being recognized. You helped a man who had a French accent in the first aid section find what he needed. He didn’t instantly know who you were but knew he recognized you from tv. Something about an incident involving a supe. It didn’t take but a quick Google search on his phone to confirm his suspicions. The incident that destroyed your home with your husband, three children, and pets inside had made quite a few national headlines.

Immediately after he left, the man informed his cohorts who he had identified at the store and pitched the idea that if anyone would want to join their cause, it was you. There was a fire in your eyes that he recognized. It was very, very dim, but Frenchie felt like if that fire could be stoked higher, you’d be one hell of an ally. After some debate, it was agreed on to at least talk to you about it.

Unfortunately, they made the mistake of sending Hughie.

In all fairness, it seemed like a good idea at the time. You both had a lot of common ground. He had lost the woman he loved to a supe in the blink of an eye, you had lost the family you loved to a supe in the blink of an eye. He could empathize with you and sway you to their side. How hard could it be?

No one counted on the fact that what passed for your personality these days was the exact opposite of Hughie’s. He said all the wrong things and you ended up having your manager throw him out.

A day later, Butcher stopped by himself to talk to you.

By that point, he was starting to wonder if this was all just one giant waste of time. They were doing fine; they didn’t need anyone else. They already had one person who lost everything, and he could be somewhat of a whinging cunt at times. Sure, Hughie was useful, but the last thing Butcher needed was two whinging cunts.

You were helping a customer shade match foundation when you noticed the big man wander over into the section. He was hard to miss, especially when he had a big energy about him that was a cross between a grizzled old sea captain and one of those Hollywood police detectives you see on network tv. He just had that sort of air of authority about him, which included a healthy dose of not giving a fuck. He stepped over to the Maybelline section and started browsing mascaras.

Once you finished with your customer and rang him out, you approached the man.

“You ever wonder why people put so much stock in all this shite?” he said in an accented voice, not taking his eyes off the display of eye makeup.

“Not much to wonder about,” you said, coming to stand next to him and looking at the wall of makeup yourself. “Initially it was men that invented and wore all this crap. Same with heels and hosiery and corsets. Then at some point they decided those were feminine things. What was considered masculine and good became feminine and bad. Fast forward a few hundred years and they still try to say it's the only way to be beautiful.”

“Oh yeah?” his eyes cut over to you, you nodded, and he looked back at the wall. “Well, that’s the biggest load of bollocks I ever heard. Women don’t need all that fucking shite to be beautiful.”

You chuckled. “Agreed. It is a fascinating history though.”

“I bet,” he said, then finally turned to you. “But I can’t say I came here for a history lesson.”

“I didn’t figure,” you said, chuckling and turning to him. “Looking for a new mascara then?”

“Eh?”

You shifted your gaze pointedly to the products he was standing in front of then back to him. He looked back at the wall then back at you.

“Course not. I don’t have the lashes for it, love,” he smirked.

You chuckled. “In that case, we have some pretty affordable selection of false lashes that might be better suited for you.”

That got an even bigger smirk out of the man.

“Tell me something, love. Would you wear those?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Course.”

“Fuck no,” you said instantly. “I ain’t putting glue on my eyes, I don’t give a shit how safe they say it is.”

That got a laugh from him.

Butcher made a decision then. He had been doubtful about this whole thing, but now he saw the fire in your eyes that Frenchie was talking about. You’d be a good fit.

“I’ve actually got a job offer for you, if you’re interested,” he said.

“Pfft,” you should with a scoff, then you gestured around you. “And, what? Leave this fabulous career behind?”

Butcher chuckled. “Hear me out, at least. I think you’ll be interested.”

You studied him as you considered.

It couldn’t hurt.

“Alright,” you said. “I’m off in little under an hour. I usually go across the street for a drink after work to relax if you want to meet up there.”

At the bar, the introduced himself as Billy Butcher and you learned about his particular area of expertise. You found yourself listening to his explanation with rapt attention. For the first time in two years, you felt an interest in something. It probably wasn't the best of things to be interested in, admittedly, but something was better than nothing. You'd find out later that this man was absolute shit at pep talks, but something in his choice of words that day made you feel the fire in your blood that he saw ignited in your eyes. He wasn't even halfway through with his story when you told him you were in with absolutely no hesitation.

This is why you never send a Hughie to do a Butcher’s job.

#the boys #the boys fanfic #the boys billy butcher #the boys x reader #billy butcher #billy butcher imagine #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher x y/n #billy butcher x you #billy butcher fanfic

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glimmeringtwilight · 3 years ago

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The Lone and Level Sands Stretch Far Away - Chapter One

There's 5 chapters finished already so I'm going to spam the shit out of my unsuspecting blog with this. Updates will not usually be this quick. Formatting may be wack as hell because I'm copying and pasting it without checking formatting. I'll go through and fix it later when I have time, bear with me.

Crossposted on Ao3 HERE.

CW: Nothing to note for this chapter. Mild angst.

You meet Zhongli in your next life.

You work as a florist, so naturally, you’re not unfamiliar with the funeral parlor, who often come to you for arrangements. Zhongli was usually the one sent to ensure the quality of the followers and appraise the arrangements you made once he’d picked the best flowers you offered.

And if you were being honest? You hated him, at first. He was picky. The first few arrangements you made, he’d frown and pick apart your technique. It was… hard to accept it as constructive criticism, when it was constant and his grievances were over minor mistakes, or things that came from your lack of experience (because while you pride yourself on your work, you where by no means an expert, having taken over your aunt’s flower business only two years before.)

You’d once said to him, early on: “If you dislike my work so much, take your business elsewhere.”

It was probably unprofessional, sure. But you were tired of his scrutiny, and it’d reached a point where you’d recognize the sound of his footsteps, or you’d catch a glimpse of him standing outside through the storefront window, or you’d hear his rumbling voice as he chatted another customer’s ear off, and your mood would plummet.

Zhongli, for his part, was understanding. He had the decency to look ashamed, at least, and apologize for his criticism. He promised to stop, and said that your arrangements were always… “acceptable.” What a backhanded-ass compliment.

But you accepted his apology, apologizing yourself for your harshness. With how calmly and earnestly he responded, you felt kind of bad for snapping like you did. Maybe you overreacted…

Your problem with him didn’t end there, though. True to his word, Zhongli stopped complaining about your arrangements, but that didn’t stop the slight frown that tugged at his lips whenever he wasn’t pleased with your work. It happened slightly less often than at the start, but the frown on his face got under your skin nonetheless. You wouldn’t snap at him, not again. He wasn’t actively complaining, so you couldn’t complain either.

This went on for months.

Then, one day, you asked:

“What would you suggest I do differently?”

Zhongli looked up from the arrangement, confused. You’d done a lily and chrysanthemum spray this time, filling the space leftover with some orchids and lily of the valley. “I didn’t say it was bad.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting to keep the scowl off your face. “You didn’t have to. You always look so… disappointed whenever I present a finished arrangement to you. I know you promised to stop complaining about my work, but instead of telling me what I did wrong, you can tell me what to do right. Tell me what you’d do differently.”

Zhongli pauses, staring at you for a long moment in silence as he considers your words. It’s both flattering and kind of unnerving, the amount of thought he seems to give you. Flattering, because you don’t think you’ve ever met anyone who’s listened so earnestly and with as much interest as Zhongli. All your gripes about the man aside, he’s a good listener.

“Well… to start, I would shock the flowers in hot water– not boiling–immediately after cutting them.” That… you didn’t know that.

It was like you opened the archons-damned floodgates. Zhongli obviously prided himself on his knowledge in many things, this apparently being one of them. A very good thing, at least, that his voice was (you’d begrudgingly concede) very soothing, like warm wax, or a good wine that burns just right on the way down.

You learned a lot that day, and you took notes on every tip he shared, including certain compounds you needed to preserve your flowers better after cutting them. Some of those compounds you were able to buy from merchants by the docks, some you could make from your own personal garden (which you’d started in case you ever needed to make your own medicines, of which you had… rudimentary knowledge), and some you had never heard of before. Zhongli promised to buy the latter for you, waving away your indignant protests of “I can pay for it myself-!”

From that day on, your opinion of the eccentric but well-mannered funeral consultant improved. He stopped frowning at your work entirely, instead praising you for your improvement and offering advice where he could. You found yourself beginning to enjoy his presence in your quaint shop.

One day, he told you there was nothing left for you to improve.

“Very good, this arrangement is exquisite. I couldn’t have done it better myself.” Something about his praise brings heat to your cheeks, spreading all the way to your ears. If he notices, he says nothing, and you’re thankful for it.

Shamefully, you find yourself replaying his praise in your mind, an unfamiliar warmth blooming in your chest.

It goes much like this for the next few months. Zhongli praises your work to the high heavens, and you awkwardly accept his praise, hoping you didn’t look as warm as you felt. You started to look forward to his visits more often, perking up at the same sound of footsteps that you once dreaded.

“I’d like to treat you to dinner,” He tells you one day, interrupting the routine the two of you had comfortably slipped into.

“What?” Immediately, your face betrays you, and you can feel heat burning at the tips of your ears. Zhongli’s eyes seem to twinkle knowingly, like he knows the effect he has on you. Does he know he’s handsome, too? And just where did these thoughts start coming from?

Ever gracious, Zhongli doesn’t comment on your reddening face. “If you’d allow me… I’d like to invite you to have dinner with me. My treat. It’s the least I can do to repay you for allowing this old man to talk your ear off for so many months.”

Old man? You think, he looks the same age as me. Sure, he carries himself like he knows more than his years, but he looks relatively young, to you. Not boyish, definitely not, but not… old.

“I’d like that.” The reply leaves your lips before you have time to second guess your decision.

Zhongli smiles, amber eyes warm like the morning sun. Your heart skips a fucking beat. “Wonderful. I’ll come to pick you up tonight then, after sundown. Is that alright with you, my dear?”

The pet name sails straight over your head with how fast your heart is racing. You’re not sure it would change anything if you did catch it, anyway. Even though you were friends with him, at best, he’d never shown any romantic interest in you. You'd assumed he was married, if anything.

Zhongli, punctual as ever, shows up just as the sun dips below the horizon. You were finishing closing shop, and he smiled in understanding and waited patiently until you were done. You’ll admit, you rushed the cleaning, but you didn’t want to keep him waiting any longer and you were excited to be going out someplace for the first time in… years. Besides, morning you could worry about whatever mess was leftover.

Stepping outside, your heart racing with excitement (...to be going out with a friend, that’s it, you swear), you take Zhongli’s proffered arm and let him lead you to… the bougiest fucking restaurant you’ve ever seen.

The second you’d stepped in the doors, Zhongli holding it open for you (you’d expected no less, with how elegantly he carries himself. Of course he’s the perfect gentleman), you’d noticed the faint scent of what was undoubtedly an expensive incense. You’d smelled it once, you think, when you’d decided to treat yourself to an expensive pair of earrings. The jewelry shop reeked of it, and the smell was so strong it almost made you turn back. What made you leave instead was the disdainful stares the employees gave you. “Are you sure you can afford that? We typically sell to noble families…”

“What’s wrong? Would you like to eat somewhere else?” Zhongli asks, and you immediately realize the bitterness at the memory must have shown on your face.

“No, no,” You slip your arm from his to emphatically wave his concern away, ignoring the slightly disappointed look in his eyes when your touch leaves him, “It’s fine. This is fine. It’s just…”

You take in the décor, the gilding on the wall trim, the paintings that look like they belong in a museum, the undoubtedly expensive tapestry. Zhongli patiently waits for you to finish, golden eyes never leaving your face.

“This place looks expensive,” You finally manage to croak out. Zhongli looks confused.

“I said I would pay for this evening, did I not? You needn’t worry about the cost.”

A sigh escapes you, and you shake your head. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

He looks like he wants to press further, but you don’t look back at him, fixing your eyes forward to stare distantly at an art piece that no doubt costs more than your shop and everything in it. Thankfully, he seems to take the hint.

You’re escorted to a table, already filled with warm food, and Zhongli pulls out a chair for you before sitting across from you.

“I took the liberty of ordering ahead. Let me know if it isn’t to your liking, or if you wish to order something else.” He tells you, carefully picking up his chopsticks and setting his own plate. You do the same.

There’s too much food on the table, and much of it looks like it comes straight from a fairytale, too good to be true. There’s no way the two of you can finish off this much food, and part of you feels ashamed of the waste. Your guilt, however, dissipates the second you take a bite.

It’s the best food you’ve ever tasted. You tried some of the jade parcels and wanted to cry at how good it was. Is this what rich people ate like? It’s not like you’ve never had good food, but this was more complex and delicious than the homestyle cooking you were used to. Speaking of, just how can Zhongli afford a place like this? Isn’t he a funeral consultant? Just how much do they pay him, you wonder.

Now that you think of it, he never did bring money himself when buying flowers and arrangements from you, simply saying the parlor would cover the cost. And they did, always… But you found it odd that he never seemed to carry money with him to pay up front. You didn’t expect him to pay with his own personal funds for things he had to purchase for his work, but he acts like he’s never had to worry about money. Maybe he comes from a noble family, and he’s used to having someone to foot the bill.

It would explain a lot of his eccentric mannerisms, at least.

The two of you are quiet while you eat. He doesn’t make any conversation when you’re mid-bite, and you’re thankful for that. You do catch the amusement crinkling his eyes as he watches you eat like you’re starved, and, embarrassed, you slow down.

“Would you care for dessert?” He asks at last when you finally slow down, having finished before you.

“I… If I eat anything more I’ll be sick,” you sheepishly admit. You’d completely forgotten to save room for dessert.

“Another time, perhaps,” Zhongli rumbles, smiling reassuringly. Another time? He wants to do this again? You suppose it couldn’t hurt. You’re not going to complain about a free meal, at least.

The two of you get up, and Zhongli tells the host to send the bill to his benefactor. The host looks unamused, rolling his eyes but nodding anyway. It seems Zhongli does this often. You figured.

He offers his arm to you again and you take it without complaint, stepping out with him into the cool night. The sun has long dipped past the horizon, lanterns lighting the streets and stars shining down at you. You can’t help but feel like something’s looking back, as you peer up at the twinkling lights.

You break from your staring at the night sky to look back up towards Zhongli, who seemed to be watching you intently, and he looks embarrassed to be caught staring. Recovering, he clears his throat, motioning with his free hand towards the harbor. “Mind if I take you on a walk around the harbor?”

“Not at all,” You smile. “Lead the way.”

He does exactly that, and the two of you make your way to the harbor.

Despite it being dark, the harbor is just as lively as ever. Merchants calling out their wares to passersby, children race around the docks, laughing excitedly. As you walk, Zhongli begins explaining the history of this harbor, and some of the early mercantile traditions of Liyue. Occasionally, you’re interrupted by a particularly eager merchant, many of whom know Zhongli by name. All of them try to coax Zhongli into purchasing something, offering him bogus “discounts” that are blatant attempts to gouge him of money.

It’s… appalling, how shameless some of them are, and you hope Zhongli sees it, but… He just smiles gratefully, thanking them for their generosity and telling them he’ll come back another day. You try not to balk. There’s… there’s no way he’s that gullible, right? They’re obviously scamming him, and yet he doesn’t bat an eye.

The two of you continue your walk, thankfully undisturbed as you reach the end of the harbor, but you’ve stopped paying attention to Zhongli’s ramblings. You don’t even realize he’s asked you a question until he stops, and you turn to see him looking down at you questioningly.

“Sorry, what?”

“Are you ok? You look upset.”

“Oh.” You look down. Are you really that easy to read? How long had he known you weren’t listening? “I’m fine, it’s just…”

Your thoughts drift back to the merchants, and something coils deep and ugly inside your chest, like an old, scabbing wound reopening, You don’t know why, and it’s probably not your business, you shouldn’t pry, but the idea of people so callously using and taking advantage of Zhongli’s kindness makes an ugly bitterness rear its head.

A memory surfaces in your mind. Not yours. It’s your face, but you don’t recognize yourself; you’ve never seen yourself so… unhappy. In this memory that’s not yours (you swear, but there’s a nagging at your subconscious that insists) you watch yourself swallow back obvious tears. Someone’s talking to you. No, not that: someone’s talking down to you, tone condescending. They’re scolding you for being selfish. Selfish? You have been anything but selfish your entire life. They were the one who was selfish. They took advantage of your friendship, your selflessness.

“Can we talk? I really need a shoulder to cry on, right now.” You agreed. You always did.

“Can you do this for me?” And you would. You always did.

But the one time you came to them, needing something yourself for once, they scowled. “I don’t want to hear about it. It’s not my job to make you feel better. Get over it, stop bothering me.”

So the next time they came to you tearfully, wanting to talk to you about their troubles and hear your gentle reassurances. You refused.

“Excuse me? How DARE you. Are you really going to hold a grudge against me over last time? Get over yourself.” You didn’t budge, ignoring their harsh words.

“You know what? Fine. You should be grateful I ever was your friend, with how terrible of one you were to me. I’m going to tell everyone what you’re really like. You’re a terrible person.”

The memory fades, but the sour taste in your mouth doesn’t. Zhongli’s still looking curiously at you, concern beginning to bleed into his expression. Right. He was waiting for you to finish your sentence.

“Those merchants back there, do they… do that often? Offer you ‘deals?’”

Zhongli nods, “Yes, why?”

“You realize they’re scamming you, right?” You turn to face him fully, slipping your arm from his. He looks bothered, again, once your touch leaves him.

“Money is no object. I have no qualms paying the full price,” He reassures you, shaking his head calmly.

“That’s not the point!” You don’t mean to yell, but it just pours out of you, “They’re taking advantage of you, Zhongli. Doesn’t that bother you? Don’t you have any self respect?”

He frowns, and you wince, immediately ashamed of your choice of words. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s alright. It’s fine, I understand-” Zhongli reaches for your arm, recognizing the look in your eyes and trying to ground you. You shake your head, stepping out of his reach.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to head home. Thank you for dinner, Zhongli. It was lovely.”

“Wait-” But you’re already walking away, practically running in your haste to get somewhere private as tears sting your eyes.

You overstepped. Shame and resentment presses in on you from all sides, suffocating. You shouldn’t have said anything, and now you’ve hurt his feelings. He probably hates you, doesn’t he? Not that he’d ever say it to your face, he’s too polite for that. Where did that memory even come from? Why did it upset you so much? You don’t even know the other person in the memory, so why did it feel so real, why did it hurt so much?

The walk home is short, with the way you practically sprint there, biting out “I’m fine!” at every concerned look from a millileth, and every earnest “are you ok?” from well intentioned mothers or shopkeeps.

You make it to bed with tears pouring hot down your cheeks. In the morning, you roll out of bed, still dressed in your clothes from yesterday with a headache building behind your eyes. You consider closing shop for the day and taking a sick day, but some of your current stock can’t go even a day without being watered, and you’d have to head down to put a notice in the storefront window anyway if you were to stay home sick.

It’s with that in mind that you roll out of bed, putting on some clean clothes and then heading out for the day.

Zhongli stops by sometime after noon, thankfully after the medicine you’d taken for the headache had kicked in, but not before the nerves from the memory of last night had worn off. The air is heavy and tense as he goes through the motions with you, picking out flowers for a requested arrangement. You don’t even bother asking for payment, just handing him a slip of paper with the purchase and the price so his work can cover the cost.

Even after you’ve finished your business with him, he lingers, feigning interest in the glaze lilies proudly on display in your storefront. You try to ignore him. You know he wants to ask about last night.

Maybe if you ignore him he’ll- “So how are you feeling?” Nevermind.

Your shoulders slump, a sigh leaving you in a long exhale. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You don’t. Or maybe you do, you’re not sure.

“I don’t know.”

He hums, dropping his feigned interest in the flowers and turning to you. You don’t make eye contact, and this time you’re pretending, scrubbing at a nonexistent stain in the vase you’re cleaning. Zhongli folds his hands together behind his back as he steps back toward the counter.

“Those merchants you saw last night…” He begins, pausing when you scowl. You pretend it’s directed at the nonexistent stain, humming for him to continue, “It is harmless. I have no issue paying whatever price they ask, after assuring the quality of the goods they offer me. I will confess… I am not used to limiting how much I spend.”

Ah. So he probably is a noble, or something. He definitely comes from wealth. You decide to ask. “So what, you’re from like, a filthy rich family, or something?”

He smiles, eyes warm. There’s a conspiratory look on his face, like he knows something you don’t. “Something like that, yes.”

“Okay.” Wow, smooth. Zhongli doesn’t seem bothered by your lackluster response, at least. If anything, his smile widens. Just slightly.

“Something tells me that’s not what’s bothering you.”

“It’s not,” You confess. “But I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I understand. If you’d like to try…” He trails off. “I’m here,” remains unsaid, but you smile at the sentiment regardless. So he doesn’t hate you. At least you didn’t fuck up too terribly last night.

“I remembered something last night.” You begin, gnawing on your lip. You really don’t know how to explain this, not without sounding crazy. He raises a brow in interest, waiting patiently for you to continue. “But it wasn’t like… It wasn’t my memory. Or it was. I don’t know… It didn’t feel like mine, but it was my face and my voice, and it felt so… real. But I didn’t recognize anyone else in it, just myself.”

“I see.” Zhongli places a hand on his chin, a quirk of his that you noticed he does a lot. He seems to be giving it some genuine thought, at least.

“I really don’t know how to explain how it felt. I just- I knew it was my memory, but at the same time not. Or maybe not from this life-” Now you just sound silly. Not from this life? You’ve read too many fairy tales as a kid.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” He asks, finally, like he’s finished the puzzle in his head already. The contemplative look is there still, but replaced mostly with understanding.

“I haven’t really thought about it.” You admit. You realize you’ve stopped pretending to scrub at the vase, so you set it down and dry your hands, reaching below the counter for the watering can. “Maybe? I guess so. I don’t strongly disbelieve it.”

“Well, I think perhaps this memory of yours was from a previous life.” He pauses, watching you carefully as you let his words sink in. “Like that sense of deja vu one can get… sometimes entire memories can resurface too.”

A smile makes its way to your lips at the conviction he tells you this with, like he was telling you how the sky is blue and not discussing something as vague and subjective as reincarnation. “You certainly seem to believe in reincarnation, at least.”

Zhongli returns the smile with a small one of his own, nodding. “Of course. It’s a belief that’s persisted over the course of centuries. I’m sure there must be some truth behind it.”

That knowing look again, like he knows more than he’s letting on, but he won’t tell you. You don’t ask, instead brushing it off as one of his peculiarities.

“Well… What does it mean, if it was from a past life?”

“I’m not sure. I think that’s something you’ll have to find out for yourself.” You groan at that, standing up with the watering pail and setting it on the counter so you can put your head in your hands.

“And so it shall remain a mystery forever,” You grumble dramatically, fighting to keep your face distraught at the amused rumble that comes from Zhongli.

“You’ll figure it out, eventually. I’m sure of it. You’re plenty capable.” Is he calling you intelligent? Probably not (or maybe he is). Your heart flutters at the compliment regardless. You mutter out a quiet “thanks” in response. To be polite.

He keeps you company as you step outside to fill the watering can, quietly basking in the Liyue sunshine and listening to the chatter of the busy streets. You watch the water fill your can, trying to just enjoy the moment, but there’s something bothering you.

“Zhongli?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve been wondering… Where do you come from?” You ask, forcing the words out before you can second guess them.

“Liyue.” You roll your eyes.

“That’s not what I mean. Who are your parents? Where did you grow up? What did you do growing up?” Maybe it’s a lot of questions, maybe too many, but it’s been bugging you slightly, how vague he is about his past.

Zhongli doesn’t seem bothered. There’s a warm twinkle in his honey gaze as he looks down at you. “How about I tell you over dinner?”

You pause, turning off the water before you look up at him from where you’re kneeling. “Are you sure?” After last time?

“I’m sure. I enjoyed your company last night. And if you’ll have me… I’d like the chance to do so again.” You consider telling him no, brushing him off, to save yourself the embarrassment of potentially snapping at him again. But before that, last night was fun. You enjoyed spending time with him, and you’d hate to turn him down after how kind he’s been to you.

“Okay.” You concede, offering him a tiny smile.

“Wonderful. Same time tonight,” He tells you, and fixes his suit before taking his leave, saying something about “procrastinating far too long.” Right, he was supposed to be working, but you figured the parlor was used to his antics. With how particular he was about everything, it wasn’t uncommon for him to spend a long time picking the flowers for the arrangements.

You watched him leave, a strange warmth budding in your chest.

You’re looking forward to it.

#yandere #zhongli/reader #chapter one #the lone and level sands series #zhongli x reader #yandere zhongli #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere zhongli x reader #yandere zhongli/reader #zhongli/you #my writing #dead dove do not eat

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