#night fury's shoulder the sky au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fioiswriting · 1 year ago

Text

Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew.

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded. He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt. It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation. A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges. And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled. Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it. He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell. Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost. King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you. Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor. You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back. It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead. It must have been your imagination. You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest. Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets. And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal. You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you��shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him. You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be. You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you. You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin. Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall. Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench. You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him. A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly. Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind. A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy. Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion. You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit. He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him. He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence. You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious.

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.

He doesn't let go of you.

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him. It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him. You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other. Your hands are buried in his long silver hair. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry. You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.

You need him.

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears. You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him. It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting. For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth. You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie. You know you should lie. To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years. You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not."

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye. It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words. You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath.

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe. It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity. Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him. You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know." Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence. He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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boxofbonesfic · 5 months ago

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Title: Brave [8 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve struggles to lead the pack after their losses.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore

A/N: whew, two updates so quickly? maybe i’m getting back to my old ways (hopefully). i really hope you all enjoy, and as always, reblogs and feedback of all kinds are appreciated and always welcome! thank you! mind the warnings ❤️

It is another four days ride before you see the sun again, briefly, the shimmering circle appearing for an instant between the black, roiling clouds. It is a pale shadow of its former self—much like the pack. You number so few now that even you are aware of the stark, bare place that has been left behind by the fallen. The thick cord of riders had once stretched back into the grass sea like a formidable chain, and now it is only frayed and fragile thread.

In the distance, the storm rumbles as if in reminder of what lies behind.

You can still pick out the outermost bands of it; dark spiraling arms set against an even darker sky, stretching back the way you had come for uncountable leagues until it fades into the horizon. The earth is still pitted with its fury.

Steve rides at the front. He presses forward with a persistence that leaves even the pack struggling to keep his pace. He has spoken little since the pass, regarding all but the most important of tasks with grim disinterest. You have not stopped riding since the first night, since the fire, and you wonder if he intends to allow the pack even a moment’s respite. A single rider breaks away from the loose formation, and you recognize Carol’s choppy braid from the back as she steers her horse away and forward, falling in line with Steve.

You do not quite know what possesses you to follow suit—you bear no rank, no true role in this pack—unless you count being the spoils of war, and you do not. But you follow suit, steering the horse with your knees until you’re close enough to catch snatches of their conversation over the wind.

“We’re off course. You know that. We haven’t seen the stars in days, brother.”

You watch the muscles in Steve’s back go rigid, and you imagine his hands tightening on the reins. This is the first time you have ever seen anyone come even mildly close to reproaching his decisions, and you can tell that Steve takes the incursion with as little kindness as he can manage.

“Kez fin tor tuzor ugani.” You don’t understand the harshly uttered, guttural syllables, but you do understand the way his lips curl back from his tusks, and the sharp points gleam white in the midday-gloom. Carol doesn’t back down, nor does she shrink away, regarding him as calmly as ever. Steve scoffs at her.

“We will find our way.”

“But will we find it before water runs out? Or food?” She gestures behind her at the pack, dutifully marching along behind them. “They need time to rest. Time to grieve.” She seems to hesitate. “You need time to grieve.” At this, Steve whips around to face her, his teeth bared.

“Tread carefully.”

“As should you.” Carol grimaces. Dry grass rustles and snaps beneath the hooves of your horse. You wince, staring down at the reins as you will the earth to open beneath you to save you the embarrassment of your eavesdropping. It does not, and your face warms as you shoulder the weight of their respective gazes.

“How kind of you to bend your ear, Sweetmeat.” Steve says dryly, his lips pressed into a thin, unamused line. His icy eyes fall to Carol, who looks no happier than he. “I suppose you, too, have words for me?” Suddenly, you are aware of how exhausted he looks, the way it lines his features, pressing down on him with almost physical weight. Carol is right, you cannot help but think it. He does need time to grieve. You flounder, your mouth opening and closing as your face heats.

“O-only that w-we—the pack, I mean. They’re tired, like Carol said—”

Steve looses an irritated growl, raking a hand through his sandy hair.

“Let me speak plainly, little human. There is law, here.” His blue eyes are dark, angry. He looms over you, even on horseback, and your skin prickles. In the weeks since you had been taken, you’d almost forgotten what it was to fear him, to see the predator wearing man’s clothes, speaking man’s language—almost.

“Should you choose to challenge my law again, Sweetmeat, you will know the price for doing so—and you will learn that it is dear.” He inhales deeply, licking his lips like he can taste the scent of your in the air, before digging his heels in below the saddle, and turning the horse sharply away.

“We ride until nightfall.” The command is so loud it carries out over the grass sea, vibrating in your bones like thunder. Steve narrows his eyes at Carol, and then you. “Then we wait for star-sign.”

—

The persistent ache in your legs and back from the days and nights spent in the saddle are enough to make you wince as you swing down from it and plant your feet firmly into the dirt. Your face still stings with heat from Steve’s admonishment, and as the rest of the pack begins unsaddling and setting up camp, you avoid him as best you can, setting up your bedroll on the far side of the fire. As you’re laying it down, Carol clears her throat behind you.

“I should thank you,” she says, sighing. “He mightn’t have stopped if I’d been the only one.”

You grimace, your expression souring. “You heard what he said. He sounded like—” You pause, biting your tongue.

“Bucky.” Carol finishes it for you, and you wonder if all orcs have such an innate sense of brazen impropriety or if you have been simply blessed to meet them all in this particular raiding party. “He… Steve was chosen. Dethak. To lead us, to lead this pack. He feels responsible.”

You scoff. “He couldn’t have known! The storm, the, the…Zhat?”

“Zhut.” Carol reaches out to press her fingers around your mouth as you attempt to imitate her, unyielding even when you flinch. “Yes.” She nods when you have repeated it satisfactorily, but then her face falls as she is reminded of the pass.

“And… yes.” Carol sighs. “He could not. But would you not feel responsible? Burying only the idea of your kin?” She pats your shoulder, and then tugs aside what remains of your sleeve to look at the wounds bandaged beneath. “Let’s get these cleaned, shall we?”

—

It’s past dark by the time you shoo Carol away, gritting your teeth as you reassure her that you know how to change the dressings on your own. She’s worse than mother. You shrug back into your dress’ single remaining tattered sleeve, regarding it with only a moment’s worth of regret. It is the last thing that remains of your home. It’s fallen into ragged disrepair, now, The bodice shredded down to the under-layers, your legs visible between the surviving strips of cloth that now form your skirt. Once, you would have been terrified to feel the grass trail against the skin of your calves for fear of being stoned for your wanton sin—but no one remains in the village to cast stones at you now.

You’re sitting down on your bedroll when you feel him, your skin prickling as Steve approaches you. You have never been quite so aware of anyone before, but Steve’s gaze always makes the hair at the back of your neck prick up. He clears his throat.

“I would speak with you, Little One.” You clamor back up to your feet, your cheeks stinging. You prepare yourself for more harsh words, staring hard down at your tightly clasped hands. “I would… apologize. For my words.” You can tell he does not enjoy humility. “You spoke against me out of desire to protect the pack, and for that I cannot fault you.” You peek up at him from between your lashes.

“I admit did not look forward to your punishment.” You reply, and he snorts.

“Ah, we come to the truth of it. Stubborn, aren’t you?” Steve chuckles deeply. “With an attitude like yours, Sweetmeat, I expect you knew the village stockade quite well.” Your cheeks flush with heat, but it doesn’t stop your lips from pressing into an irritated line as you glare at him.

“This is a rather poor apology,” you grumble, crossing your arms as you glare back toward the camp. A fire rages at the center, and the scent of cooking meat is carried over by the cool breeze. You turn back to him, and something akin to lightning zips up your spine as you find him staring at you.

“Then I am sorry for that, too.” Commotion draws both your attention.

“Look, sky!”

“I see sky!”

You look up. The air above still swirls with misty clouds, but it clears with each passing moment, starlight pricking through the black. In the village church they told you that those were Halith’s eyes—thousands and thousands of them, gleaming like diamonds in pitch. The eyes through which she looked down upon the world, through which she would cover it in her light. But you did not feel Halith’s presence in the church, and you do not feel it here in the grass sea.

Your mother had told you they were something else—other places, other worlds. Other lives, and when you died, you got to go up into the sky and see them, one by one forever if you wanted.

Your father called it heresy.

“What are they to you?” You ask, and he hums. “The stars.”

“The ones who came before.” It is the first time you’ve seen the sky clear in days, since before the pass.

“Like heroes?” You ask, and Steve shakes his head.

“Not quite. Those who have done right by the people, by the clan—they rest there.” He points. “That, there? It is the handle of an axe, is it not?” He asks, and you tilt your head, squinting.

“I suppose?”

“It is Molroch’s axe, the blade that split the sea so that the grass could grow.” It is as though the hard years melt from his face to reveal the boy beneath. “He led the people well.” There is a sour note you can taste in his praise.

“It’s not your fault. What happened in the pass—you must know that. It isn’t.” You do not realize you’re touching him until you are, your hand brushing the skin of his arm before you snap it back.

For uncountable seconds, the only sound is the shifting of the grass around you. Steve turns back toward the camp, his large hand warm on your shoulder.

“You should rest.”

“You should too.” He does not answer you, squaring his shoulders in a way that tells you that the conversation is finished, at least for now.

to be continued…

next chapter

#chris evans fic #chris evans fanfiction #cevans #chris evans #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers fic #steve rogers au #steve rogers smut #orc!steve rogers #marvel fic #dark fantasy #marvel au #boxofbonesfic #brave fic

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myeagleexpert · 8 months ago

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕻𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝕳𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕬𝖜𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗

And if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

Howl's Moving Castle x Twisted Wonderland Au

The starry night at NRC was a spectacle of beauty and mystery, with the meteor shower painting the sky in shades of silver and gold. Yuu walked through the dark corridors of the Ramshackle dormitory, lit only by the flickering light of candles and a few points of failed electric light. Grim, the talking cat monster with dancing fire flames, followed beside her silently, his yellow eyes glowing with an unusual intensity and worried for his friend.

Today had been one of those days for the young woman without magic: Waking up late and almost late, she was intercepted by Crowley who had given exhaustive work that he himself had not done, the chemistry test that she and the infamous ADeuce had was a disaster, her crush had given the cold shoulder, Grim got into a totally unnecessary fight with some idiots from the fourth year and as a result they lost their lunch and got some scratches, and the front of his beloved Ramsharckle dorm collapsed, the damp and old wood had given way. The bitter taste in the mouth was not enough to bring a revolt from within Yuu so that she raised a scream of fury and stepped on the floor, her tired body just looked at the mess and walked straight past, the dejected soul took a shower where she hoped for the deep in her fragile heart, the shampoo would clean the dirt she felt and the tears would mix with the hot water.

At least I Tsunotaro will come today.- the only hope she could have that night was to see her dear friend. She put on her less tattered pajamas and sat at the study table waiting for the famous green fireflies to appear.

Unfortunately he didn't show up, the prince didn't answer the call.

The lack of Malleus's gentle presence made schoolwork become heavier and the lump in the throat tightened more and more, the clock was counting down the seconds to….

“Henchman, are you okay? Your eyes are red” with the little self-control he had, Yuu nodded, avoiding his feline friend's gaze and focusing on the blurry letters of school work and just in time the light in the dorm was cut off.

“NYAAH” “It was just what was needed!” Could it be Crowley's irresponsibility? The electricity bill? Was it an attack? A short circuit? Either way, it doesn't matter anymore.

The tired body got up and silently searched for the candles until strange lights passing through the window caught the girl's attention. Ah, the meteor shower. Like a leaf carried by the wind, Yuu's steps, even without hope, led her to the front part of the ramsharckle, the same part of which fell and collapsed. Pushing aside some wood, the girl sat down on the floor and Grim followed her shortly after, not trusting that her friend would be okay alone.

“Henchman, what are we doing here?” "I don't know…"

Will I ever really go home? Will I live forever in this place being this weak? I would do anything to see my family again… I myself will find a way to find my way back, whatever the cost.

Loneliness and anguish weighed on Yuu's heart, like chains that tied her to a distant past, an overwhelming longing for her homeland. She longed for a home, for a place where she could be truly happy. Home….my home….my family….The starry night shone with a unique and mysterious beauty, the shooting stars cutting across the sky like tears of light. Each meteorite that fell seemed to echo the loneliness and anguish that Yuu felt inside her.

As she watched the shooting stars cut across the sky like sharp blades, one of them stood out, shining with a disturbing intensity that seemed to whisper Yuu's name as the golden ball of fire quickly fell towards the ground. Without knowing why the girl just followed her heart and with an irresistible impulse, Yuu ran towards the shooting star, her mind filled with a mixture of despair and hope that she didn't know where it came from.

The powerful ball of fire broke apart and reflected various colors and when the star finally fell into her hands. As she held the star in her trembling hands, Yuu felt a wave of magical power envelop her, making her tremble with emotion and fear. A magical energy enveloped her, and in an instant, the star fell apart, disappearing into her body. A warm feeling filled Yuu, and she felt her heart beat faster than ever. The star, now resident in her being, revealed its mysterious and enigmatic personality, whispering ancient secrets and dark promises in her ears and finally a deal was made between the magicless human and the fallen star.

As Yuu absorbed the star's powers, the old Ramshackle dormitory began to shake and transform in sinister and fascinating ways before his eyes. Walls contorted, furniture came to life, and the abandoned place metamorphosed into a lively castle, with sparkling towers and enchanted gardens. The magic of the falling star had awakened the true essence of the place, revealing its hidden beauty.

The animated castle, now filled with the dark aura of the shooting star, rose majestically from the ground, its dark towers rising like sharp claws against the starry sky. The enchanted garden has turned into a maze of thorns and shadows, where unknown creatures lurk in the shadows, watching with glowing, hungry eyes.

“H-henchman! What is happening??"

With an enigmatic smile on her lips, Yuu looked at Grim, whose gaze reflected a mixture of fear and confusion. "Let's go home," she whispered, her voice echoing like a whisper of unknown magic. The cat nodded silently and ran to the girl's shoulders, saving his questions for later, because maybe later Yuu wouldn't be looking like a crazy woman with a flying Ramsharckle.

The old Ramsharckle dorm floated to where the two were and the door opened waiting for the two to climb up to finally grant the previously magicless girl's heart's desire.

“I'll come back to say goodbye later”

Who knows if she would come back who knows if not

She looked back one last time, remembering her adventures with the troublemaking cat and all the friends she made there. And with a firm step the girl went up in her castle and felt more ready than ever to embark on this adventure.

As the castle floated toward the distant horizon, the lights of shooting stars and meteorites hovered above them, shrouding them in a veil of mystery and intrigue. Yuu felt a shiver run down his spine, but also a sense of determination and courage that had long been forgotten.

And so, enveloped by the darkness of the starry night and the sinister magic of the falling star, Yuu and Grim set out on a journey into the unknown, where ancient secrets and intertwined destinies awaited them in the shadows of their path. Amidst the darkness and starlight, Yuu and Grim's journey was just beginning, with the power of the shooting star guiding their steps towards their final destination.

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Every like, repost and comment is very welcome and appreciated. ♥

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callmelola111 · 1 year ago

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color me purple ♡ part three

✄ - - - - part 1 , part 2 , part 3 - - - - soundtrack - - - - ♡

synopsis: it’s summer and you’re back at camp stillwater. as a counselor you mean serious business and you’ll do whatever it takes for your cabin to come out on top. the only thing in the way of that; ellie williams and her crazy antics.

| 𓆣 | pairing & wc: ellie williams x reader. wc: 3.4k

| ❀ | cw (by part): 18+ themes (MDNI), modern au, fem reader, some angst, ellie and reader fight, sweet love confession, !!SMUT WARNING!! (minors plz steer clear of this fic + dni), swearing, dom!ellie, sub!reader, whipped cream play, slightly public??, fingering (e receiving), oral (r receiving), scissoring (e + r), pet names (princess, sweet girl, baby, etc.), praise, edging kinda, some aftercare (lmk if i missed anything!!)

a/n: hello lovelies!!! i apologize for taking a whole ass week to get out this last part, i was on vacation and not feeling very inspired. finally though, i present a nasty, sweet ending that i hope you all love. so fun to write and read back, like why am i all hot and bothered rn lol. like always, thank you for the support!! ♡~ lola

That night Ellie replayed your words over and over in her head trying to dissect their meaning. Had her player-esque persona finally caught up to her? If so, why did it matter to you?

Through some deep speculation, she began connecting the dots. There seemed to be a real possibility that you liked Ellie as more than a friend, just as she did you. There was no way to be sure though, not unless she asked. But, the task seemed daunting considering it felt as if she had already ruined what she didn’t know was there.

The image of your tear stained face was seared into Ellie’s mind and proved as motivation to confess, apologize, explain. As long as you’d listen she’d repair the damage done to your heart. A tinge of regret hit Ellie as she thought about the meaningless hookups of summer's past. It was her way of dealing with unrequited love. But of course, now that that love doesn’t seem so unrequited, her mistakes have come back to taint it.

♡

The following morning kicked off bright and early. 8:00am to be exact. The sky was pure blue with no fluffs of white to shade from the fury that was the sun. In virtue of the rising temperatures the expansive lake beckoned masses of campers into its waters. Just in time for the kayak relay race about to take place.

Each team lined up in number order spanning across the weathered wood of the dock. At the very end stood teams 11 and 12, you and Ellie heading your rows of campers. With the sting of yesterday's interactions you continued giving Ellie the cold shoulder.

It took everything inside to void your gaze from her, trying to focus on the games, while Ellie lacked the self control to look at anything but you. She studied your glowy skin and the way your sweat gathered at the nape of your neck from the sweltering heat. She took note of the stray hairs that clung to the moisture you produced and the way your brows remained furrowed as you fought every instinct urging you towards her. It felt like absolute torture and although neither of you said a word, there was a mutual understanding of the shared pain. However, before the tension could beat down on you any longer a loud whistle blew, signaling the start of the race.

Each counselor kicked off the relay heading straight for the finish. You slipped into your kayak, gripping onto the red double-bladed paddle that propelled you forward. Ellie’s boat was in line with yours sending aggressive ripples in between the two hunks of floating plastic. The course stretched over 500 meters and as you reached the 400 meter mark you were still neck and neck with Ellie, fighting for first place.

This is usually how it went but something about today was different, something in Ellie’s eye’s hinted towards a more complicated journey towards triumph. She suddenly jerked her boat to the right, straight towards yours. The pointed tip of her kayak rammed into the side of yours rocking it side to side and throwing you off course. Knowing her abilities, you recognized this as a pursuit at instigation.

“HEY FUCK OFF!” you shouted with anger before swerving your boat to the left, hitting hers in retaliation. Ellie continued to push back.

“Oh so now you’ll speak to me?!”

“Are you serious right now? Stop fucking with me Ellie!” You attempted to continue forward, but as multiple racers passed you and Ellie blocked your path, it felt like no use.

“You can’t be mad at me forever!” her voice was desperate rather than angry and this left you baffled at her exact motives.

“Oh yeah? TRY ME!” Ellie took your words as an invitation and used her paddle to scoop at the murky water sending it your way. You screamed in irritation as it hit you right in the face, soaking your once dry body.

Before you knew it, you were rising from your seated position to catapult even more water back at her. Ellie then stood up right with you, continuing the petty fight and reaching across the edge of her floating device to grab ahold of your paddle. At this point the both of you were blinded with vexation playing tug of war with the rod of plastic. Your boat rocked back and forth, more and more violently each time as you began to lose balance. With one last wave of water and the pull of Ellie you both tumbled into the lake in a mess of arms, legs, and curses.

You quickly shot up with the help of your life jacket, now drenched. Screams and laughters erupted along with the violent blowing of Mrs. Campbell’s whistle to halt the race and deal with the trouble you and Ellie caused. The both of you had been sentenced to kitchen duty and expected to sort out whatever drama had ensued. With the weight of your decisions, you were then banished from the lake and sent off to prepare lunch in place of the usual cooks.

♡

The double doors of the mess hall swung open with attitude as you and Ellie waltzed in. The air was shockingly cool compared to the barren heat just outside. Your wet hair became a nuisance as its once cooling effect now left you cold and miserable in the air conditioning.

Ellie led the way into the sterile looking kitchen and you followed in silence. Little words had been said between the two of you since your rage filled water fight. Although now, all rage had dissipated, leaving only feelings of shame and heartache in the air you shared. The silence grew heavy and the things left unsaid began bubbling up.

You reached for a ratty gray apron hanging on the dull walls trying to focus on the assigned task of cooking lunch. Staring at the chipped paint, you fumbled at the strings behind your back trying to tie them but to no avail.

“Uh- do you want some help?” Despite Ellie being the only one in the room, her voice startled you. She inched closer waiting for your permission to assist and you obliged. Ellie’s hands reached to the contour of your waist, gripping the fabric. The brush of her knuckles across the small of your back sent a parade of chills to your skin. Her touch was slow and agonizing. Part of you wondered if she’d purposely made such prolonged contact as she tied the strings into a sloppy bow.

Although Ellie’s duty was done, you both remained still, you facing the wall and her facing your back. She reached once more to your familiar waistline and quickly flipped you around towards her.

“There… all done.” she murmured. In that moment with just inches between each other, eyes locked, you finally felt sure of her feelings, and your feelings, and the fact that you couldn’t keep pretending to hate her. The universe would stop at nothing to bring the two of you together and it was time to surrender. Ellie’s emerald orbs were full of you and only you and she knew she had to say something. If not now, when?

“I’m so fucking sorry. For everything. Please– forgive me.” You collapsed into her body like a house of cards. These were the words you needed to hear. Voice cracking, you called out her name in desperation.

“Ellie-” She urgently completed the other half of the embrace. Your face nestled perfectly into the crick of her neck like it was fate. Pine soap and earthy lake water wafted through your senses as you took in a deep inhale of relief. The following breaths were rocky and unsteady as all your pinned up emotions rose to the surface. Still stuck in Ellie’s crevice you began a gentle cry.

“Hey- hey- look at me. Don’t cry bunny.” She pulled your damp face in the cradle of her hands and guided you into contact with her glassy, green eyes.

“Els, you- you have no idea what you do to me.” you struggled through the vulnerable sentence. Ellie pulled you back into the warmth of her body squeezing you even tighter like she was worried you might float away. Your words sat in the air waiting to be tended to until finally Ellie acted.

“I think I might.” Her answer was like a warm blanket around your heart. You looked up from your sanctuary in her frame and she stared back. You played a cat and mouse game of glances from eyes to lips and pressure rose.

Ellie took a deep inhale and asked the anticipated question, “can I kiss you?” With no time for words you dove into her soft mouth. Your top lip slotted perfectly in between hers, sealing the gap of yearning that had amassed from years of rivalry.

The peck was hard and long. It’s tenderness evoked cries of queer happiness from the both of you. Your tears mixed with hers was an act of love, and a long-awaited one at that. Ellie’s lips began to wander down to your neck and then your collarbones evoking sweet giggles from your throat.

“Ellie- Ellie- enough. We do have to cook, you know.” A disappointing realization but true nonetheless.

“Fine, fine.” Ellie’s kisses halted but you could still feel each one radiating off your skin. Your smile didn’t falter once as you and Ellie whipped up lunch for the campers. Who would’ve thought punishment could be this fun?

♡

After the 12 cabins passed in and out of the mess hall, consuming the meal, you and Ellie followed behind to clean up. After the kitchen was tidied, you both ventured into the dining area to wipe off the tables scattered throughout.

You dipped your sudsy rag into the bucket of cleaning solution and swirled it across the laminated wood. The table was long and wide forcing you to bend over the edge to extend your arm towards the hard to reach parts. Your ass up in the air was like a bright flag waving for Ellie to come over and assist, but not with the cleaning. She snaked both arms around your waist connecting them at your tummy. Her groin then pressed at your hips with reverence. She admired your shape and the way you somehow always slotted perfectly into her.

“Ellieeee…” You drug out her name nice and long, disguising your pleasure with annoyance. She began planting more kisses in the same pattern as before.

“What? Do you want me to stop?” You sat up now parallel with her body, ass still against crotch. Breathy air escaped from your mouth as Ellie gently nibbled at your ear, sending your head into a spin. You gulped out a string of “nos”, adamant about how much you needed her. And how you needed her now.

Your expression of desperation triggered Ellie’s strong hands into action. The 5 digits dragged up the right side of your ribs causing the soft red fabric of your shirt to bunch up, her firm motions stopping at the underside of one of your breasts. Ellie kneaded hungrily at the mound of fat, reveling in your braless form and hardening nipples.

“C’mere, turn towards me. I wanna see your pretty face.” Her request flowed from her blushed lips like a symphony and you quickly obeyed. The table dug into your back leaving a mark as Ellie towered over you in desire like an animal. You tugged at the hem of her blue T-shirt sliding your hand under the linen. You were just as needy. Her abs flexed with the exploration of your eager hands. Wanting more, she leaned in close to deliver the message.

Her hot breath tickled you ear as she whispered, “you wanna make purple?” No matter how hot and bothered the both of you were, Ellie still found time to insert in her stupid humor. The cheesy sexual innuendo made you snicker but only for a moment before you were pulled back into her world of desire.

You nodded fervently to urge the escalation of this interaction, so she scooped you up by your pillow soft thighs and whisked you away to the kitchen. The stainless steel countertop where Ellie had positioned you was cold and left the back of your legs moderately numb. Overflowing with lust, you went for Ellie’s lips but she quickly pulled away before you could reach them.

“Ah, ah, ah.” she tsk’s before dashing away to the large industrial fridge, sending the double doors flying open with her pull.

“Els? What are you doing?” you questioned, feeling the ache between your legs amp up. You weren’t sure how much longer you could wait for her touch.

“I’m hungry.” she answered simply, pulling out a large red canister of dairy. Confusion was your prominent emotion but you didn’t dare to question her methods. Shaking the metal up and down vigorously she ran back, popping off the cap on the way. Your clenched thighs were quickly peeled apart by Ellie as she made room for herself between your dangling legs. In one hand she hoisted up the whipped cream and with her other she took your chin, angling it upward.

“Open.” she commanded. You separated your lips in obedience but it wasn’t enough.

“Wider.” Ellie’s hand cradled your jaw as it dropped even further this time. With this she squirted the milky, white cream down your throat.

“Now swallow,” she instructed until your compliance, “good girl.” A cocky, power hunger smirk painted Ellie’s face as she watched you melt into the palm of her hand. You were sure that the thin cotton of your panties was now far from dry.

“We’re gonna have some fun now... hands up.” With assistance from the girl in blue, you shed a layer of clothing. Your tit’s instantly perked up with the frigid air of the kitchen now surrounding them. Ellie watched in awe as dozens of fantasies played out in her head. It was a struggle just deciding what she wanted to do to you first.

The whipped cream assisted her next steps as she sprayed it across your remarkable chest. You gasped in pleasure at the cold, wet sensation. Drips of white began to trickle down your stomach as Ellie played clean up with the help of her tongue. The pink muscle pressed flat to your sternum collecting a heaping of cream and then venturing back to your own mouth. Teeth clashed and tongues wrestled as the white liquid swirled between the exchange of salvia. You left the kiss just for a moment to let out an urgent mewl. Ellie’s attention was then diverted back to your beautiful, beautiful body. She continued lapping up the sweetness taking time in between to suck on your erect nipples.

“Shit- baby, it got all over your cute little shorts,” she continued, her voice smooth like butter, “we better get these off of you then, huh?” Your bottom lip quivered in sexual agony, anticipating the future promises of friction. Ellie took her built arms and hooked them around the back of your legs. Upon swift movement she pulled you to the edge of the counter, stealing your shorts and panties in the process. Frigid steel made contact with your puffy clit aiding in some sense of satisfaction while you pleaded with Ellie.

“P-please, n-n-need you Els.” You bucked your hips demonstrating the amount of discomfort you were feeling. Ellie played dumb.

“Need what?” She teased your aching cunt with gentle brushes of her fingers at your thighs and you yelped.

“Need your fingers- your mouth- something- pleassee.” The words came out in a long slur but Ellie knew just what you were begging for oh so desperately. Having fun with her little game, she brought back the canister of white fluff, this time dispersing it across the heat you held between your inviting thighs.

Red plump lips belonging to Ellie planted deep into each bit of your flesh before eventually reaching their final destination. Your exquisite folds were glazed in milk and sugar like a special treat waiting to be devoured. For just a few seconds everything was frozen as Ellie was trapped by your fantasy-like beauty. Saving the image to memory, she dove into your crotch like it was her first, last, and only meal. Her tongue swirled through every crevice of you, taking only a few beats to express words of praise…

“My sweet, sweet girl.” , “You’re all mine” , “You taste so fucking good princess.”

Although, her affirmations could hardly be understood over your exuberant cries of pleasure. In your case, sentences were the last thing being formed as your bliss began to reach a fever pitch.

“Close,” you mumbled, “so close.”

Ellie halted all movements, not wanting it to end.

“You think I’m gonna let you cum that easy? No way baby, we still have more fun to be had.” She shook her head taunting you. No matter how much it hurt, Ellie was in control and you clenched hard trying to prevent any further acceleration to your orgasm. You wanted to be the very best girl for your very best girl.

“Come on, let’s take this to the pantry.” She hoisted you up off your place in the kitchen and assisted you there, your slick dripping down the innards of your legs as you walked (it was really more of a wobble and hop).

With a glistening face of your wetness, Ellie then commanded you again, “Lie down for me pretty.” You did so as Ellie stripped herself down, meeting your bareness. She dipped into your form on the cold tile but the heat of your bodies was enough to distract from all the outside factors.

Purple and blue welts appeared across your neck and breasts as Ellie sucked every bit of skin she could in between the wrath of her teeth. With her parallel to you, your hands reached down to confront the mess that was Ellie’s folds.

“So wet.” you whimpered in satisfaction. Knowing how just your sole pleasure could do that much to her drove you mad. You couldn’t help but slip a finger inside her tight little hole, trying to give back even just a sliver of the bliss she gave you. Ellie gasped as you filled her up, releasing the bit of flesh in her mouth that she had been suctioning to.

As much as she reveled in your pleasure, you reveled in hers. More whipped cream squirted between your bodies, mixing with the influx of sweat being produced. After many sloppy, in-and-out pumps of your digits you pulled them out to taste.

Ellie took this as an opportunity to grab your hips, holding them still for her own to align just right. You both began rocking against each other, unsteady at first, but with practice you gained a perfect rhythm. Clits bumped as heaving breaths and loud groans shot through the air. The mess hall pantry has become heaven on earth.

“Fuccckkk, I think I’m gonna…” Ellie erupted and you followed.

“Mmmmm.” Your back arching and her hips bucking chaotically, Ellie assaulted your sensitive ball of nerves with her own. The stars aligned and the angels sang as the both of you reached the climax of your lives. It was euphoric. White flooded your vision as you continued to ride out this high with the girl of your dreams. Sweet, sweet Ellie Williams.

Finally, the ravenous movement and desperate attempts at pleasure caught back up, leaving you limp and fucked out. Ellie lay next to you with a firm grip on your hand, maintaining contact as a sense of comfort and slight fear that if she didn’t hold on you’d vanish into thin air. You rolled to your side scattering gentle pecks on her arms and torso.

“My special girl” you whispered into her skin, just loud enough for Ellie to hear. She smiled at you and then let out a large sigh of release, kissing you back.

“God, you’re sticky. Wonder how that happened??” A stupid little grin was stamped on her face as she teased about the recent sexual escapades.

“Let me clean you up, yeah?” You nodded with adoring eyes. She was an angel in bed and out of it. With a wet rag Ellie cleaned up the sugary, sweet mess, giving an occasional kiss of tenderness. It was all you could’ve ever asked for, and it continued that way for the rest of the summer and many more to come.

✄ - - - - part 1 , part 2 , part 3 - - - - masterlist - - - - ♡

taglist...

@endureher @gold-dustwomxn @alexpritch @4rt3m1ss @robinismywifee @sophlovesbooks @97cityy

(taglist is for all callmelola111 works, if you'd like to be removed just kindly lmk)

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ficfinder-general · 1 year ago

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I'm new to Codywan. Doyou have a list of Must Reads or Fandom Classics or anything like that? (Bonus points for longfic!)

Funnily enough, I'm not sure I'm an expert on Fandom Classics, but I do think that the long Clone Wars rewrites/fix-its are a perfect way to start! (And then you can move on to shorter fics and crazy AUs haha) So these are all longer, and can be fit into TCW continuity, even if they diverge at some point because the writers can't help themselves and will fix canon (as they should).

{recs under the cut, please mind the tags listed on ao3}

in our hearts some ancient song by whimsicalimages (@keensers)- Fives discovers the chips, he's on the run and gambles his life on the assumption that there's something going on between Cody and his general, so they would help him. Some amazing lore in this fic. 40k words

Golden Shield of Brightness by NerJetii (@nerjetii)- Soulmate AU, your soulmates' (romantic and platonic) names are written on your wrists. "Only" 15k, but I would recommend it even if you're not a fan of soulmate AUs (=they don't fall into each other's arms just because they're soulmates). Focuses on Obi-Wan, mostly, but we also learn a bit about how the Kaminoans treated the clones.

I am teaching myself how to be free by tattooedgreenhouse (@gershwyndl) - this might be THE Clone Wars rewrite for me because the author has taken upon themselves to literally retell the whole series from Cody's AND Obi-Wan's POV. It's ambitious, I'm pretty sure it's technically canon compliant, but we do get our happy ending. Appropriately, it's 113k long.

i'll orbit your flickering star by sunskippa (@sunskippa) - Also a Clone Wars rewrite (by this I mean that it goes through the events of the series from Cody's POV), also canon compliant, 78k words. Might be my favourite ending in the genre, beautiful. I don't even know how to sell this, but it's a must-read imo

|to failure sweet victor| by littlekaracan (@cillyscribbles)- 20k words. In case you've read all those rewrites and you just want to skip to the part where Cody leaves the Empire and they find each other again on Tatooine *with a twist*

you read my mind, I'll read yours series by sospes - This is very much canon divergent. Starts off as a mission fic, Cody and Obi-Wan discover an artefact that creates a Force-bond between them. Misunderstandings ensue. Look at the tags/ratings, some of the works later on are spicier/angstier. But you could also read the first one and call it a day if those aren't your jam. (The whole thing is 166k long at the moment.)

will you be an anarchist with me? by a_alene (@birdiedoessw) - an outsider POV (Rex's) on Cody's and Obi-Wan's relationship. With the extra twist that they can't stand each other at the beginning of the war. This is something I would've loved to read when I was getting into codywan, it's a great way to start. (25k words)

shoulder the sky series by Night Fury (@shootingstarpilot) - Last but not least, an ongoing series (all but two works are finished, more than 200k words atm). You'll have to "get through" the first work to read the more codywan-focused fics (and I don't mean this in a bad way because the story is a m a z i n g. Just so you know.) To be honest, I think it might be a bit confusing to read at the moment because as far as I can see a work was removed from the series, but it's still up? I'm not sure what happened there, but I suppose you could simply read all the author's works in chronological order :D This series is pretty much Obi-Wan AND clone troopers focused and relies a lot on the Jedi Apprentice series (which isn't canon anymore) but you're gonna be fine if you haven't read it.

(If anyone reads this, please feel free to add your own suggestions!)

#codywan fic recs #long fic #fix-it #retelling #rewrite #canon compliant #whimsicalimages #tatooedgreenhouse #nerjetii #sunskippa #sospes #a_alene #night_fury #littlekaracan #completed work #WIP

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fungusmaster · 2 months ago

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⚠️ Rol content ⚠️

In this AU, Priya – a mute zoologist – and Ruth – a marine with progressive blindness – get involved in a story similar to Jake Sully's. They arrive on Pandora with nothing to lose, sent to that planet to die for the lie of a special mission.

Ruth – under the command of Quaritch (presumed dead) – infiltrates the scientists under the guise of being a "special guard" and meets Priya, a follower of the ideals of Dr. Grace Augustine. Both use a different avatar than the ones Parker financed, since they are now adapted to survive in the sea, in addition to being equipped with what their human bodies have lost.

After many events, both end up related to the Metkayina clan, having to learn their customs and to be a true Na'vi. They manage to adapt little by little with the help of the Sully brothers and the optimism of the sweet Tsireya.

Love for the land arises, fear takes hold in hearts, and an important decision will cause both missions to fail. Eywa is merciful, with her forgiveness, what will happen?

╔═════════════╗

Priya: Her feet clenched in rage and betrayal, but nothing was enough to stop her eyes from reflecting her fury as soon as an unwanted voice reached her ears.

She suddenly launched herself at that soldier, and although she knew that in a hand-to-hand fight she would lose, she just wanted to feel that nothing was bad.

She hit that face, pressed her strength into her shoulders and screamed angrily.

—It’s your fucking fault!— she said without stopping.

Ruth: She didn't even protect herself, she wasn't going to hit someone she cared about, especially when that aggression towards her was more than justified, but there came a point where she had to speak so that at least the biologist knew that she was willing to correct her mistake.

—I know!—

She shouted as soon as she could grab the other's wrists to stop the blows.

—I know it's my fault! And I don't justify myself, I screwed up big time… At first I didn't care if all this disappeared, I didn't care at all, I didn't care about the forest, I didn't care about the sea, I didn't care about the people, I didn't care about you and I didn't even care about myself—

Her voice trembled as she spoke, her body and face hurt from the blows and attacks received that day.

—But all that changed, I fell in love with that I feared so much, I fell in love with the forest and the night sky, after living 23 years alone I finally had a friend and someone who didn't treat me like disposable scum because of my condition… I didn't want to lose all this either but I hadn´t choice!—

She said with crystallized eyes and trembling hands.

—I wanted to find a way for you and the clan to be safe without harming the Tulkun, but Quaritch became suspicious because of the lack of my weekly reports and threatened me, he told me that if I didn't give him the migration routes he would attack the village directly, starting with you and Jake's family—

╚═════════════╝

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #avatar au #my art #navi oc #avatar oc #avatar roleplay #avatar frontiers of pandora #sully family #tsireya #miles quaritch #loak sully #neteyam #rol content #rolplay

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ms-spkhd · 2 years ago

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okay look: this blog may be deader than a doornail, but by god am i going to revive it so i can ramble on about a steddie how to train your dragon au

now hear me out--Eddie, obviously, is hiccup. an eccentric, outcast underdog of the highest degree. he may not be looking to prove himself like hiccup is, but the idea still works. what really matters is that he's different. he doesn't fit into the mold of what a dragon-killing viking should be, and maybe he takes a lot of pride in it.

what he doesn't take a lot of pride in, however, is his absolutely mortifying crush on Steve Harrington, the local dragon-slaying overachiever, chief's son, and all around air-headed jock whose confident douchebaggery has Eddie reeling at the very idea that he very much is attracted to him.

besides his humiliating crush on Harrington, Eddie sets his sights on two things more productive: discovering whatever there is to know about the dragons his village is so obsessed with killing, and aiding his uncle Wayne's blacksmith shop. and Eddie loves wayne, odin's beard he does--he calls Eddie his fucking son--but the old man puts a lot of belief on his beanpole excuse of a viking nephew.

like, wayne looks Eddie in the eyes with those sad, tired eyes of his, calls him son, and asks him to carry on his life's work. and who is Eddie to say no to him? he likes building shit. he has an eye for the artistic. he'd give the whole world to that old man just to make him the slightest bit proud of him.

case in point: he's hauling an actual catapult to the top of an empty hill in the middle of the night so he can give one of his newest builds a little test run. launch a spare bola into the forest, why not.

so, once he heaves the bola into the mouth of the catapult (which does a real number to his pissant limbs), his eyes wander to the inky night sky above him. they trace the blinking stars, and he feels this odd calm wrap around him. he can't even place the last time he's felt this at peace before in his life. it's never been so quiet.

he dashes the thought once he sees a blot of black nothingness engulf the stars, bit by bit in quick succession. like a shadow soaring through the night sky. something is out there.

a fucking night fury.

"shit." Eddie's hand slips, and down goes the lever. out goes the bola.

"shit!" clearly, it hits. a bellowing roar echoes from the sky, and there's a great rustle and thud as the dragon makes impact with the forest's trees.

Eddie stumbles backwards in shock. his mind is racing, positively buzzing like a hive of bees in his head. he hit a night fury. like, actually shot it down from the sky. using one of the bola catapults that he built.

now, Eddie, non-conformist that he is, wouldn't usually want to brag about taking down a godsdamned night fury with his own catapult to the common viking, Harrington be damned, but this. this is a real achievement. he can hold something above his stupid head and his beautiful hair. his ego demanded it.

and even if he wanted to stay tight-lipped about the situation, wayne still has to know.

and come the morning, he's got to prove it somehow.

"can't son," wayne says gruffly. he lugs the axe head he's been diligently hammering on into a bucket of cold water at his feet, then looks at Eddie with those droopy eyes. "someone has to keep shop, and I ain't discouragin' you from your little..." he trails off, yanking the steel from the bucket, "adventures."

frigg bless his heart for at least encouraging Eddie's bullshit, even when he's not an active participant. and maybe that's the worst part of their relationship, Eddie thinks, that wayne would very gladly shoulder all that burden, all that extra work just so Eddie could..well...be himself.

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, even when he knows his uncle is right, but wayne shakes his head. he's got a solemn look about him, worn and frayed on the edges. it shuts Eddie up real quickly.

it's a wordless agreement.

so, Eddie turns heel, ready to make his way to the forest, and promptly collides with Harrington. the asshole probably sidled up behind him to collect whatever weapon Wayne's making without even considering that his nephew was trying to goad him into seeing a night fury. which said nephew took down himself mind you.

whatever. asshole.

"odin's beard," Harrington huffs, running a hand through his, sigh, perfect hair, "do you ever watch where you're going, munson?"

"apologies for not making way for royalty, cheifling," Eddie snaps, and stomps off. he can practically feel Harrington's dumbfounded stare even when he's out of sight. chiefling. that's a good one.

what he really should be focusing on is the night fury in the forest. the forest that he's lost in. the night fury that he shot down that's in the forest that he's lost in.

jord help him.

"--and you really went and did it, Edward," Eddie mumbles to himself, tone manic. he digs the toes of his boots into the soil as he walks, "you hit a dragon and you fucking lose it. you do something right--then poof! gone into thin air!"

"classic. fucking. munson"-- he kicks a sizable pebble on the ground in frustration--"blunder!"

it makes impact with the trunk of a fallen tree.

no--the tree is snapped in half. like something heavy fell against it. like a dragon. like a night fury.

quickly, he stumbles over the broken tree, over a few rocks, and he finds the body of the night fury, bound at the legs by the launched bola.

it's still. dead still.

Eddie swallows, hand unsteadily reaching for the knife at his side.

the night fury is a stark black, sleek and scaly. Eddie imagines how smooth it would be if he slid grazed the dragons skin with his hand. atop its head is a smatter of grey spots, from the tip of its head to its snout. kind of like dust.

Eddie blinks.

it's so...fragile looking. and, gods, he fucking killed it.

"look at it," he whispers to himself, half in pride and half in utter, stomach churning despair. "look at what you've done."

breath caught in his throat, Eddie pokes the belly of the dragon with the toe of his boot, just to make sure.

its eyes shoot open, belly sucking in quickly as it takes a sharp breath. it's leg pushes against Eddie, shoving him backward onto his ass.

"shiiiiiiiit!" he chokes out, quickly bringing himself to his feet. his legs wobble like a newborn lamb, and he crowds his back against the rock behind him.

his stomach pools with fear, and obviously, he does what he does best--

Eddie's halfway through a pathetic attempt to climb over the rock to get the fuck out of there, when the night fury whimpers behind him. his head turns slowly, heart beating like war drums, and he finds the dragons eyes trained on him.

Eddie thinks he might die.

he slides down the rock, grunting as he lands on his feet, and he stalks carefully toward the beast. he's white-knuckling his knife as the night fury's eyes keep following him 'til he ends up at its feet.

chest heaving, Eddie raises the knife, and the night fury drops its head in defeat.

but Eddie resolves not to kill the dragon. instead, he takes the rope binding the night fury's wings and begins cutting it, putting a whole lot of elbow grease into the effort.

and when he's done, the dragon stirs, pushing Eddie to the ground with its front legs, the pressure almost crushing the bones of his shoulders into powder.

it roars, spittle landing all over his face, and Eddie screams in response. using his entire chest.

the night fury reels backwards in surprise, blinking rapidly, then staggers further into the forest, leaving Eddie in the dust.

Eddie's shaky hands meet his shoulders in an attempt to sooth the pain. the shock. the confusion of it all.

Eddie--he...he did something. something incredible. he built a bolas and shot it into the night sky and hit a night fury. something no other person has ever done. not even perfect Harrington and his perfect hair and his perfect resolve when slaying dragons.

he hit a night fury--black and spotty--and found it in the woods. near death.

and he freed it.

if he were Steve Harrington, would he have freed it? would he have felt a sliver of empathy for the creature, or would he follow in the footsteps of his father and put it out of his misery?

does Eddie even want to be like Harrington? no. he doesn't. not in a million godsdamned years. he may be beautiful and strong and capable, but Eddie is nothing like the chiefling. and he's proud of it.

Eddie stares out into the mess of trees in front of him, listens to the distant stomping.

without scooping up his knife, he turns and runs.

#the best part about this au is that it 100% can be applied to ronance as WELL #speaking of robin i will definitely find a place for her here #also if anyone can't tell toothless is supposed to be dustin. yes this will be expanded upon if I have the time #stranger things #stranger things 4 #steddie #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #wayne munson #dustin henderson #alternate universe #httyd

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 2 months ago

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Mind & Heart

Summary: Augusnippets 2024 Day 31. Set in a Modern AU, Sci-fi AU. Mind Full AU. Toothless can feel what Hiccup is doing.

Warnings: Implied/Referenced near Death

Rating: Teen and Up

Dead Dove: No

Words: 483

Prompts: Bonus Day - Write whatever you want.

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless

Pairing: /

Author's Notes: And so "write whatever you want" is what I did. :) My final day for Augusnippets, posted on time! An immediate follow-up to Day 30's "This Choice Is His".

Enjoy!

-XOXOX-

Toothless hated the humans, he hated them. After the loss of his tailfin, he should be glad that he’s alive he supposes, but he couldn’t even bring up that much. He’s a downed dragon, he’ll never touch the sky again, he’s meant to die. And if it wasn’t for these humans keeping him captive in this sorry excuse for a man-made den, he would be already. His suffering and shame would’ve ended, they should’ve just let nature take its course.

Hiccup thought differently.

In the middle of the night, when Night Furies are supposed to be the most active, he sneaks into his den. Toothless growls, already disliking the boy. The humans think he’s so weak, so bad at being a dragon that they think this small boy is nothing to him?!

“Ah, ha-hey, um…” But Hiccup is rightfully anxious, fumbling with a lengthy roll of paper in his hands and keeping his wide-eyed gaze on the Night Fury. He’s scared and yet he’s here.

Toothless can tell that he’s like his mother, there’s a pull to him that he usually only feels with other dragons. It’s untapped, like a barrier. Humans would consider it a plastic wrapping someone should poke a hole into to get to whats inside.

“I-I made this and, uh…” Hiccup unrolls the roll and shows it to him from far away. Toothless grows silent as he takes a look. Not bothering to get up until he thinks he recognizes what’s on it. It looks like his tailfin.

“I-I have this mentor and he- and he- and he teaches me things and, uh… I think I can help you fly again.” Hiccup explains, anxiety growing as the very dangerous Night Fury quietly steps closer.

Toothless reaches out to him, grabs hold of that unseen pull, pokes a hole through that proverbial plastic wrapping and finds only genuine intention. Hiccup doesn’t want him to waste away in this fake den, a fate all the other humans have already resigned him to. There’s a brilliant head on his shoulders and he wants to use it for good.

Toothless hasn’t let go of that pull since. He’s kept tugging and tugging, until they’re able to practically read each other’s minds without even trying.

-XOXOX-

Five years later in the middle of the night, Toothless shoots awake. The cause? A debilitating emptiness in the corner of his self reserved just for his human. Something is wrong, he knows there is. That spot fills with a kind of dread he has never experienced before.

He begins clawing on the door and the one-way window, he needs to get out of here. Something is wrong and he needs to fix it. He charges up a plasma blast strong enough to tear through the mostly iron hull hidden by fake foliage. He can feel Hiccup slipping away and nothing will stand between him and saving his human.

#augusnippets 2024 #httyd fics #httyd movies #httyd 2 #how to train your dragon 2 #au #alternate universe #modern au #sci-fi au #mind full au #hiccup haddock #toothless #hicctooth #my fanfics #mind & heart

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abhainnwhump · 9 months ago

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IMYM: Chapter 18 Guardian of Nothing: Ribbon

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It wasn’t Nightmare’s fault Ribbon suffered from graphic dreams that night. It was his aura and Ribbon’s over-creative imagination.

Ribbon wandered by himself in the castle gardens. The sky was cloudy and stormy, but that didn’t bother him. It was always gloomy in Nightmare’s AUs. The farther he walked, the more the flowers wilted. He wanted to turn back, but something kept pushing him forward. Everything was fine until he closed his eye sockets.

A hand shot out and covered his mouth with a chloroform rag. He struggled and screamed which only made him breathe more of the poison. Ribbon cried out. Whoever grabbed him had a rough grip and a strong smell of butterscotch. The doll couldn’t process it as he passed out.

Again, Ribbon blinked, and the next thing he knew he was in a bedroom. Wait, this place looked familiar . . . The Star Sanses’ Clubhouse, oh. He was in the guest room, which was one of the most boring rooms. The walls didn’t have any color but beige. The only furniture was a queen-sized bed, a nightstand, a mirror, and a lamp. Ribbon stretched and got off the bed. The poison in his lungs made it hard to breathe.

Ribbon walked through the familiar hallways. Something was different, but he couldn’t tell what. His memory of the full clubhouse was fuzzy, it’s been a long time since he was here. It was hard to explain, but despite that, something was off.

“We have no other options but this. What else is there to do? Wipe his memories and retrain him to be a hero? That doesn’t excuse what he’s done. We have to send him away. It’s the only way we’ll be safe. Ink deserves it for his betrayal.”

Ribbon froze when he heard Core Frisk’s voice. He peeked around the corner at them, Blue, and Dream. Dream had his face in his hands. Blue kept his hand close to him, but he looked away from him.

Blue spoke. “They’re right, Dream. We can’t trust Ink anymore. He’s not our friend, he’s a monster, I don’t care what he says. He worked for Nightmare! He murdered people! He left us for him! He abandoned his job! And he’s so dependent on Nightmare that he can’t even take care of himself!”

Dream moved his fingers aside so his left eye light was exposed. “Is that the plan? Leave him alone in the void to die? That would be torture!”

“I know, but we have to! What if Ink is spying for Nightmare? It’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Core put a hand on Dream’s shoulder. “Ink is dead, Dream. The person in the guest room is someone else. Someone evil. Someone who doesn’t deserve a second chance.”

Dream looked up at them. His eye lights flickered from upset to angry. It was too quick for him, or was Dream always like that? Ribbon couldn’t remember well. “Fine, if that’s what’s best for him . . . fine. I’ll tell him tonight and we can take him-”

Ribbon let a whimper slip, though he didn’t remember opening his mouth. The three turned in his direction. They looked angrier than he’s ever seen. Especially Dream, whose sympathetic gaze turned to fury.

“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?” Dream stood up. “WEREN’T YOU?”

“I-I didn’t mean to . . .” Ribbon’s voice broke as Dream towered over him. He was taller than Ribbon remembered. “I’m sorry. Please don’t punish me.”

Dream raised a hand and Ribbon ducked. He would never even think about running from Nightmare, but Dream was different. At least Nightmare’s punishments were done out of love. Ribbon slipped beneath his arm and ran down the hall.

“Ink! Come back! That’s an order!” Blue shouted.

He didn’t listen and kept running. He made it to the entryway and pulled on the door. It was locked. Ribbon tugged on it until Dream, Blue, and Core showed up. Oh stars, what did he do? Maybe he could smash through a window?

Ribbon tried to break the window only for his left arm to nearly get yanked from its socket. Core and Blue grabbed them and kicked his legs so he kneeled. He fought to break himself free, but they wouldn’t budge. Blue crushed his left foot under his boot with a sickening crack. Ribbon bit his cheekbone to keep from crying. It hurt, it hurt, it HURT-

Dream stomped up to him and punched him in the jaw. Ribbon’s vision blurred as he struggled to stay quiet. His limbs tingled. He wasn’t sure if Dream liked begging the way Nightmare did and didn’t plan to risk it.

“We’re going to lock you away and there’s nothing you can say or do about it. You betrayed the entire Doodlesphere for a crush, my brother of all people!” Dream wiped his eye sockets. “I can’t believe you, Ink! Why would you do this? You were the good guy! And now you’re no better than Nightmare and his team.”

Ribbon cringed away. Don’t yell at me. Please stop yelling at me.

Blue summoned a bone attack and shoved it through his arm. Ribbon yipped and tears ran down his face. Why did he ever think they were his friends? Tsk, who was he kidding? A dumb toy wasn’t worth that kind of kindness.

Core twisted his wrist. The hurt was weird and distant, but he still felt some kind of white-hot pain. Ribbon looked over and nearly screamed. His hand, oh stars where was his hand? On the floor. Of course it was.

Ribbon couldn’t hold it in anymore and cried. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Please give me one more chance! I’ll be a good doll! I’ll do whatever you want! Please let me go! Don’t send me away!”

“You don’t get a second chance, traitor!” Dream cursed. He punched Ribbon in the jaw again. “If you can’t even think of an excuse as to why you turned your back on everyone, then you don’t get . Oh, stop crying! You’re faking it!”

“I’m not! Please stop-stop!”

Another punch. Ribbon’s mouth filled with metallic-tasting blood. He “Dolls don’t say stop. You out of all people should know this,” Dream said.

Blue rolled his eye lights. “Ribbon’s not a person. Ribbon’s a toy. An it.”

“You out of all toys should know this. There. Is that better?”

“Yep!” Blue smiled innocently.

Core tied his wrists together with scratchy rope. Ribbon cried out when they tightened it; he couldn’t feel his remaining hand. He wasn’t a huge fan of Nightmare restraining him, but at least he did it with soft ribbons or his tendrils. “Everyone is going be better off without you. Even Nightmare doesn’t love you, he’s just using you.

“That’s not true! NIGHTMARE! NIGHTMARE HELP!” Ribbon screamed. He wanted his boyfriend so badly. Where was he? Why wasn’t he rescuing him? Were they right? Did he abandon him?

“See? You still choose him over us!” Blue said. He crushed his other foot. Ribbon bit his tongue. He didn’t have the energy to struggle. Everything burned. He couldn’t take this cruelty much longer. This stupid dream wouldn’t let him pass out.

Core stood taller and forced Ribbon to stand on his broken feet. He sobbed. “Okay, we’ve tortured it long enough. Let’s drop it in the void and we can start rewriting history and pretend it never existed! Everyone will forget it in a few years.”

That last sentence stung worse than his broken feet. No one would remember him? No! He didn’t want to be forgotten! Ribbon cried harder.

“Alright, let’s go!” Blue said. He sounded waytoo cheery for someone about to commit murder.

Ribbon, Core, and the Stars teleported to the Garden of Doors. They were all there at first, but after a blink, they disappeared. Only one door remained, the one that led into the void.

Not wanting to be shattered across time and space, Ribbon couldn’t help but try begging one more time. “W-wait! I can be good! You can train me to obey your orders, give me a new personality, rename me, and I’ll even let you treat me like an animal! Just don’t do this! Spare me! Please!”

They threw him into the void. The last thing he saw was Blue’s glassy, hate-filled eye lights.

“No! Come back! I’m sorry!” Ribbon called as they shut the door. He half-swam half-squirmed to it, but it was gone. All alone in the void. Again.

Ribbon’s hands began to crack as his emotions drained. How did he run out of emotions already? And it never hurt this much before. It felt like he had a vacuum on his chest, sucking out his bones and shattering them in the process. If he could, Ribbon would’ve screamed. Half of his ribcage was gone. His legs were ripped apart by an invisible force and crumbled to dust. His pelvis followed, and then his spine. It felt like he was being burned and frozen at the same time.

The doll screamed. “Someone! Anyone! Help me! I’m scared!”

Ribbon snapped awake, his body sweating. He was still in Nightmare’s bed. He turned to see him, but he wasn’t there. He panicked and shot up, only to realize he had a hand on his face. Nightmare was sitting up and studying him. He had to have heard his crying or felt his kicking. But why didn’t he wake him up?

Nightmare’s thumb stroked his cheekbone. “Are you okay, Ribbon?” he whispered. “It’s two in the morning and your aura is negative enough to give me an adrenaline rush. You were screaming my name and begging for mercy, and you’re still trembling.”

Ribbon hugged him as tight as he could. He wanted to make sure he was there and he wasn’t still dreaming. Nightmare held him, rubbing his skull and making shushing noises. The touch didn’t feel fake in the distance like with the Stars. Ribbon took a deep breath. “It was a really bad dream, but I’m a bit better now, thanks,” he said. The repeated motion was soothing.

“Would you like to tell me what it was about?”

Ribbon shuddered. “. . . I got kidnapped by the Stars. They took me from you, beat me up, told me no one loved or remembered me, and threw me into the void. I lost all my emotions and . . . and . . . I died alone. They hurt me!”

Nightmare didn’t stop petting him. Ribbon leaned into the touches, confused when he did stop and lay his hand over his foreskull. "I see. Your mind might be giving you a warning. Guardians can have dreams that predict the future. And if yours affected you this badly, well . . ."

Ribbon thought about it. He knew about the dreams thing already but . . . He looked at Nightmare's face, which was a weird mix of worry and something else. "They're actually going to hurt me?"

"That's right." He muttered something under his breath and a faint glow came from his hand. Ribbon shuddered as he felt a million cold needles in his skull. A glowing teal light shivered down Nightmare’s arm as he absorbed his emotions. He removed his hand. “There. As a thank you for the negative energy, you won’t have any more dreams for the rest of the night. Sleep well, I need you rested.”

Ribbon shifted and looked Nightmare directly in his pretty eye light. “Nightmare, do you get nightmares?”

“Constantly. But I’m used to them. Now no more speaking, go to sleep.” He brought them both down on the bed. Nightmare wrapped his tendrils around his body like an apple-scented cocoon. Ribbon buried his face in his chest, listening to the soft sound of his breathing. He felt a lot safer. Even though Nightmare sometimes hurt him, he would rather cuddle with him than be all alone.

==============================================================================

Like Nightmare said, he didn’t get any more dreams, which relieved him. But Ribbon couldn’t stop thinking about the one he had. In his head, it made perfect sense. Dream, Blue, and Core were all peace protectors. Ribbon worked with the biggest evil team in the multiverse. Maybe they’d been wanting to beat and banish him all along, but it was easier now that he was softer.

No wonder Nightmare wouldn’t let him leave the castle without him. The world outside was so scary, how did he never see it before?

But that was all a week ago, he was fine now. Ribbon stayed inside, busying himself with chores as he was told. He dusted off the fireplace and living room. When he was with the Star Sanses, he hated chores. He used to do them as fast as he could and called it a day. But this was soothing. Maybe that came along with embracing this new lifestyle.

He wished he could do more for Nightmare. He wanted to make up for his kindness. He was so good to him, much better than he should’ve been to a dumb little doll. Well, he did have another training session today, he could do a great job at that. Ribbon looked at the grandfather clock in the room. He had ten minutes to finish his chores since Nightmare wanted him in there at exactly one o’clock. Sharp. He wouldn't like it if he wasn't there.

And before he knew it, the time flew by and Ribbon was back in that training room. Nightmare held a thin flashlight up to his eyes lights, like a cat laser. They were working on his stillness again. Specifically on mastering a permanent slow blink and his head tilts. Etiquette lessons could actually be fun when he wasn’t messing up and needing punishment.

“Slower, slower, too slow. Try to put two seconds between opening and closing. That’s it. Good . . .” Nightmare said as flickered the laser between his eye lights.

An itch inside Ribbon’s head didn’t like this. He wanted to kick his feet or mess with his hands but he knew better. Good dolls didn't do either, they didn't even think about doing either! He had to fix that about himself. Ribbon kept his breathing slow the way Nightmare liked. The blinking was tricky, his eye sockets didn't want to comply and blinked on their own, but he got the hang of it.

“You have been doing so much better, my little lamb. I’ve been taking notes of your progress and your last month's record is so much worse than now. You used to never be able to sit still. In fact, you’re being so good, you're ready for a little test I had planned.”

Ribbon tilted his head and looked up at Nightmare. “A little test?”

Nightmare nodded. “Yes, you've proven you won't run away from me, so the next logical step is to see what you can do without my guidance."

"You're going to leave me?” Ribbon breathing caught as panic built up in his chest. What did he do wrong? He must have done something wrong!But he couldn't think of anything he did wrong.He squeezed his upper arms. “Why- why aren't you going with me? I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave me on my own, I won't last without-”

“Shh, did I say anything about this being permanent? No.” Nightmare tilted his chin up, covering up his neck charm so Ribbon wouldn't pull it again. “You're overreacting, it will be for no longer than a few hours. I have an assignment set up for Killer, Horror, and Dust and you will be going with them. You’re getting supplies because we're running low on medicine, then you're coming back home to me.”

Ribbon took a deep breath. Nightmare rubbed his cheek with his tendril and Ribbon leaned into it. He loved how cold it was, it was like one of those cooling packs wrapped in a soft blanket.

Once Nightmare saw he wasn't freaking out anymore, he continued to explain. “Three nights from now, you’re going to help them in a supply run. I have work to do, so I unfortunately can’t go along. It’s a simple enough task for you. You shouldn’t need to commit any violence unless someone attacks you first. But you must still bring your parasol. There won’t be an issue, will there?”

Ribbon shook his head. “No, there won’t be an issue at all. I’ll be good and listen to them, I promise.”

“There’s my good little doll. Oh, you still have your paints to take, don't you?” Nightmare pat his head. Ribbon nuzzled his head into his hand. Nightmare stood up and walked over to his vials. He took a glass and mixed all the colors together. He even added extra yellow as a treat. Nightmare came back and pushed the glass up to Ribbon’s mouth. “Open up.”

=================================

Ribbon waited on the castle step for the other three to take him. He adjusted his pink beret and drew pictures with Blossom on the ground, he decided that as the name of his parasol. He didn’t want to leave without Nightmare. All the other times, except the once when he was disobedient, Nightmare was with him. He never left on his own since then. He liked the MTT, but it wasn't the same as-

A loud boom snapped him out of his thoughts and he screamed. Ribbon ducked and hid his face in his parasol, peeking from the side. Killer held a red popped balloon in one hand and his knife in his other.

Killer stared at him in surprise, blinking his wide eye sockets. "Holy shit, he wasn't kidding. You are really easy to scare now." His shock turned into a weird laugh. Ribbon smiled and pulled his string to giggle with him. It had to be a little funny if Killer thought so. He was still shaken up, but he pushed the thoughts away.

Dust and Horror teleported behind him. Horror stared at the balloon in Killer’s hand and ripped it out. “Boss isn’t . . . going to like that . . . you did that.”

Killer mumbled something under his breath that Ribbon couldn't hear. Dust sighed at whatever it was he said and walked away.

Dust held something in his hand. It was a bottle with black liquid inside. Oh, Nightmare’s magic! Of course! He didn’t know he could do that, but Nightmare was really powerful. Ribbon wondered what else he didn’t know about his boyfriend.

“Boss gave us just enough of his magic to get us to Fellswap and back. We can’t waste anything.” Dust half-muttered half-told the group. Ribbon nodded, even if he didn’t like the idea of Dust being the one with the portals. He didn’t want to be anywhere he was when he was holding scary things. The vial looked too much like a syringe for his liking. Hopefully, Horror and Killer would keep him far away from him.

Dust measured out the vial with his finger and poured half of it onto the ground. The liquid churned until a darker swirling gap appeared inside the liquid. Ribbon looked back at the castle as Killer leaped in first. Horror was next. Ribbon looked into the portal and gulped. He hesitated. His team was safe, his team was good, nothing-

“Get in.” Dust said with a firm expression. Ribbon jumped in. He landed in Fellswap’s Snowdin. The cold snow soaked through his shoes and socks. Ew . . . .Ribbon jumped onto a rock to keep himself dry.

Killer and Horror brushed themselves off. Horror passed Killer an envelope. The murderer snatched it and opened it up to a list. Ribbon peeked over at it, but he couldn't read anything on it. A lot of the stuff looked fancy and specific too. Killer cocked his head.

“That’s how . . . Boss gave it to me. Don’t know, he’s fancy like . . . that.” Ribbon nodded in agreement to Horror’s words. But it did make him miss Nightmare already, even if they just left. He stared at the portal.

Dust jumped through the void and landed on the edge. He kicked snow and dirt over the portal until it faded away. He stared at it for a long time until he sighed and looked at the team.

“Come on, let’s make this quick.” Dust said. Killer summoned one of his red knives as defense and Ribbon messed with Blossom. The four began to walk through Fellswap's Snowdin. It looked almost exactly like Undertale, but in shades of gold and red. There weren't many citizens in the town-- most of them didn't like each other --but the ones that were there made Ribbon scared. They all wore leather jackets, spiked collars, and chains. Some of them glared and growled at the team, while others whispered and ran.

Horror held the blade of his axe on Ribbon’s side and nudged him away from the monsters. He was wandering too far off. That included Killer and Dust.

The shop was tucked behind most of the other ones. It was a run-down black building with almost no decorations, nothing but a scary sign with the word SHOP on it. He wouldn't be surprised if sharp claws scraped out the sign, or a rusty knife.

Ribbon pulled his string to talk, and his first sound was a small cry. "Is- is this the right place? It doesn't look right . . ."

Killer nodded. "Yep. Relax, it's not as bad on the inside! You're going to be fine."

It smelt like cigarette smoke on the inside. Ribbon stood out with his bright pink colors in the musty gold and black shop. Food and healing items covered an entire wall. Bottles of liquid lined the walls and weapons scattered across the ground and on hooks. Ribbon moved not to step on a spear tip. The entire building only had two lightbulbs and no windows. He wanted Nightmare more than ever. A single monster worked in the shop. Their entire body was covered by a cloak with only a scorpion tail and claws for hands. Ribbon stepped back.

"Different guy than normal . . . eh, it's fine." Killer walked straight up to the counter and slapped the list down. The clerk turned around and tensed up. Killer didn't budge and unfolded the paper. "Hello. I got a little order from Lord Nightmare Joku, ASAP."

Dust held his gun up to the store clerk’s head as he hesitated. “And don’t even think about screamin’ for anyone to intervene. The only reason we’re payin' instead of robbin' is because Boss insisted us to.”

The clerk went pale and he took the list from Killer’s hand. He looked over it and skitted around the store, gathering things.

Dust turned from the clerk to Ribbon. He lowered the gun because he was getting what he wanted. He pointed toward the door. “Ribbon, go watch over the spot we came in through the portal so no one touches it. The magic works better when we're close to the original summonin' spot, it's sorcery memory."

Ribbon lit up at the order and nodded, anything to get out of this creepy place. He ran out the door and back to the spot. He made it there without trouble, and luckily without running into anyone. But that was probably because he spent the time sneaking through the shadows and alleys. He sat down on the same large rock as before, waiting for the MTT to finish the supply run.

As he sat, Ribbon spotted a movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked down. It was a stray piece of magic left over from the first portal. It must've escaped Dust, poor little guy. Ribbon crouched down and poked at it. It was the closest thing to Nightmare and the closest thing back home, so it made him happy.

His fingertips went cold with magic. Against his will, paint shot from out of his fingers and mixed with the goop on the ground. The two powers mixed until a small portal formed, which grew bigger until it was the perfect size for Ribbon. He jumped back and stared at his hand in confusion. Did he . . . influence the portal magic? How? And where? Ribbon had so many questions, but the biggest one was where the portal went.

Ribbon gently reached for the doorway and touched it. The colors got clearer and opened to a strange AU. The doll hesitated, but he stepped outside; his curiosity was too strong. He crawled through and looked around. Unlike Fellswap, this AU had a lot of colors, rainbow splatters covered the walls. The entire floor drowned in a layer of paper packets. Ribbon's eye lights immediately went to the shiny glowing ball in the center of the room. It was so pretty, but he could've sworn he heard whispering. It must have been the wind.

“What . . . what is this place? Why . . . no, it’s okay, it’s okay, it's alright. I’m okay. Someone will come for me.” Ribbon looked around. He was sure he could figure this out. It kept tugging at a spot in his memory, but he couldn't think of what. It was so close too . . .

He walked around the rainbow place. It was small, too small, and too colorful. The messy rainbows hurt his eye lights. Whoever lived here had terrible taste in colors. Wait, that was too judgemental. Ribbon didn't know who was here before. He touched the beanbag with his gloved fingertips.

Then there was the pile of papers for AUs, even though he wasn't sure how he figured it out that quickly. It overflowed and spilled onto the ground. Ribbon picked one of them up and flipped through the pages of drawings. Characters, designs, worlds they were pretty, but how was he supposed to bring them to life? He knew he needed Broomie, but Broomie was gone. Some even had notes scrawled on them such as 'Where are you? It's been 3 weeks and you haven't made a single new universe!'

That's when he remembered. This place was his doodle AU he made new AUs in! He used to spend so much time in here. He hadn't done this job for so long that he forgot how to do it. It was back when . . . oh. No, bad thoughts.

He kept searching the room until he stumbled across a massive pile of pictures. He picked up the top one off. It was of a skeleton who looked exactly like him. Ink flashed a peace sign in front of Horror, who was beaten up on the ground. Ribbon pressed his teeth together. He would never do that. Why was Ink so rude? Ribbon pushed past more pictures until he gasped at one. It was a drawing, a battle plan, and it was a plan to take advantage of Nightmare's sludge and freeze him alive. And Nightmare was . . . hurting. That had to be it.

This wasn't him. Ribbon had some of the memories, but they weren't his own. He wasn't part of the Star Sanses. He was on Nightmare's team! He was Nightmare's lover! Why was Nightmare the bad guy in all of these? Was he- no, no. It was a lie, a trap. The kidnapping was out of love, the pain was out of love. Nightmare made a terrible mistake by thinking he could be on his own. Ribbon couldn't, he couldn't, he

Ribbon shook, panicked, and tore the picture up, throwing the shreds on the floor. He grabbed another one of the AUs and ripped it too. It felt like the only way he could calm down and make it stop. He destroyed another, another, and another. The nasty feeling in his chest only got worse.

He wasn't Ink.

He was not INK!

Ribbon's attention went toward the magic glowing sphere in the center of the room. He could feel the power from here and it was calling out to him, wanting him to become a protector again. He couldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't be bad. It was all a trap. He was in trouble-

Ribbon screamed and stabbed the magic sphere with his parasol. “Come on, die, die, die! Stop it! Stop telling me what to do! Stop making AUs! I can’t help, just stop!”

With a loud crack, the sphere shook. Then it shattered into shiny translucent pieces across the floor. A shudder ran through Ribbon’s spine. The lights in the place began to flicker. He looked around. It was over. Ribbon shivered and closed his parasol up. Before he could process what he did (and the ramifications of it), the doll ran back through the portal. he landed back in Fellswap's snow. And right in front of the MTT. Dust was working on resummoning the portal and Horror held a massive sack bag. They all looked nervous.

Killer was the only one with his hands open so he grabbed Ribbon by the shoulders. “Ribbon! Where the hell have you been? We leave you alone for two minutes and you go missing! I thought boss was going to have our heads!”

Ribbon looked up at Killer and hid back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Something happened and . . . " He looked behind himself. Something kept him from telling the truth. "I'm really sorry, but I'm okay. Can we go home . . . pretty please?"

==============================================================================

Later that evening, as Ribbon took off his beret by one of the castle balconies, then he paused. A sudden wave of weakness took him over. It wasn't sleepiness, no. It reminded him of his nightmare when he had that vacuum feeling, sucking his magic dry. His chest ached and he leaned against the wall. He saw two different archways swirling around.

Ribbon took a heavy breath of air. He tried to pull his string to ask for help, but he couldn’t. His nonexistent ears rang and he raised his shoulders to cover them.

"Ribbon, is- Ribbon!' Nightmare sensed the negativity and caught him before he collapsed. He had been walking down the hall before seeing him fall over. Ribbon shivered and clung to his suit. He coughed and shivered, having no energy to stand up. He was freezing cold too. Did he get sick? Poisoned? Cursed? How? Could he fix it? He had to know something.

"What's the matter with you?" Nightmare set his hand on his head and felt around. “You don't have a fever." He adjusted Ribbon and held him in a comfy bridal carry. Ribbon held onto Nightmare tightly. Nightmare didn’t even look down at him as he sighed.

Ribbon closed his eye sockets as Nightmare carried him. Having him around was enough to make him feel better. He tried to sit up and got dizzy again. Nightmare’s tendril nudged him back down. The doll didn’t fight.

Nightmare opened the door to Ribbon’s room Ribbon caught his reflection in his vanity mirror. He wasn’t as pretty as he was supposed to be. His pink eyes lights were dim, his breathing was labored, and his face was pale. The blush on his cheek bones stood out more.

Nightmare lay hum in his soft bed. He covered him up and Ribbon clung to the teddy bear Nightmare gave him. It was white and little with big black eyes. Ribbon coughed. It sounded too scratchy and raspy for a doll. He wasn’t even coughing right!

Nightmare looked around Ribbon’s walls as he put him in bed. His tendril touched the baby pink walls and the blue, purple, and yellow flowers Ribbon painted on. He wasn’t all done, but he had his entire front wall covered in flowers. All the side walls had were sketches, sketches of fuzzy animals, and more flowers. Ribbon still couldn’t decide what he wanted the back wall to be yet. But it already felt better than the boring and dark walls the room used to have.

“Do- do you like it? Is it pretty?”

Nightmare looked closer at the walls before focusing his attention on Ribbon. He traced his fingers along his chest and lay his palm down. “It is pretty. I enjoy this new side of you. Keep drawing like this. Now be quiet so I can find out what happened to you.”

Ribbon went silent. He even muffled his coughs. Nightmare summoned a bit of teal magic and held it in on his chest, close to where his soul would be. After a while, he hummed. Nightmare set his hand on his forehead, then on his cheek. “Oh, oh well that’s fascinating . . .”

"What is?" Ribbon took deep breaths and tried to stop his spinning head. “Am- am I going to be okay? What’s wrong with me?

“Your magic . . . it’s fading,” Nightmare said. His calm expression began to twitch. “Well, let me correct myself, your guardianship is fading. Your symptoms are similar to a normal monster's magic loss, but I never thought it could happen to you. I don't even understand why it happened now. Your team replaced you, Ribbon.”

Ribbon gulped, which turned into a cough. He groaned and leaned into his pillow. He hadn't seen the multiverse since the mission, was it really that bad? He hasn't told Nightmare about what happened in Ink's doodle AU, he was too scared to. "Am . . . am I going to be okay?"

“Oh, don’t fuss too much. It’s just like losing blood. If you lose too much, you’ll get sick and need rest. Most of your magic came from being the Guardian of Creativity. Without that . . . you may only be half as strong as you once were.” Nightmare looked away from him at that.

Ribbon’s eyes widened and he bit his lower jaw. He squeezed his bear tighter. “How . . . how bad is that? Can it be fixed? Am I broken?”

“Your guardianship? No, only if whoever they gave your powers away perishes or gives them back. I doubt either will happen. I once tried to do it with Dream, but I’ve never seen this happen before.” He looked down at Ribbon and sighed. “Yes, it can be fixed. I will give you a small transfer until you start healing yourself.”

Nightmare took a deep breath, held his hand to his chest, and rested it on top of Ribbon. Ribbon felt the tingling almost immediately, and it was good! Even better than good! His breathing steadied and he leaned into Nightmare’s hand. He rubbed his face in it, adoring his kindness.

With a sigh, Nightmare pulled his hand back. Ribbon could breathe easier thanks to the transfer. His head felt less cottony. He looked up at Nightmare. His eye darkened and he took heavy breaths to recover.

Nightmare saw him staring and sighed. “Rest. I’ll bring you water. You must stay hydrated, I can’t have you lose any more magic.” Nightmare covered him up with his blankets to make sure he wasn’t cold. “Don’t stand up, keep your movement to a minimum, and sleep. That's non-negotiable. ”

After giving him a little kiss on the head, Nightmare left the room. Ribbon lay back in his bed. He didn’t even try to stand up, instead cuddling with his teddy bear. He had his doubts, but Ribbon knew he made the right choice. Nightmare had been so much kinder since he had no reason to punish his dollie anymore. And Ribbon didn’t want to change a thing.

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illwynd · 1 year ago

Text

A Song in the Key of Death

It's still Halloween, so here's a new spookyfic!

Human AU, teen outcast Loki and dead rocker Thor. Loosely based on Trick or Treat (1986). 3.3k words.

“You should be loyal to your heroes. They can turn on you.” - Sammi Curr

Contents: thorki, underage sexuality, bullying, violence, mentions of death

(Read on AO3 or read below)

Hero worship is easy when you’re a high school outcast. Especially when your hero is Thor.

Loki lies in bed, headphones on his ears, Thor’s voice loud in his head. Drums thrash, guitars scream, and at the center of it all is Thor. He has Thor’s poster on the opposite wall, where he can look at it as he’s falling asleep.

Thor’s music speaks to him.

His parents disapprove. His classmates call him a freak, a weirdo.

Loki doesn’t care.

He’s bought all the magazines with pictures of Thor in them, and he’s bought all his albums, and he’s watched all his videos. Loki’s dreams at night are filled with the way Thor moves, sleek black leather clinging to his legs, the torn shirt practically falling off his shoulders, so much bare skin, and he bares it as if daring anyone to say anything. His eyes are piercing and lined with kohl and his hair is long and messy and his body is thick and powerful. Anyone could want him. He could want anyone. Clearly, neither of those possibilities bothers him. In the realm of metal, Thor is a god, above all the petty prejudices and small-minded fears.

Loki thinks about it and he writes letters he doesn’t send.

Thor, if I ever met you, would you want me?

No one else seems to.

Loki watches as the media tries to tear Thor down, calling him satanic, calling him depraved, calling him obscene, and he feels like he understands, the way no one else could. They’re both misunderstood. They’re both mistreated. The only difference is… Loki longs for Thor with a ferocity that only a lonely 17-year-old can muster, and Thor doesn’t know he exists.

Loki dreams and he plays Thor’s records obsessively and he knows every song by heart and he writes still more letters. Letters he would not ever admit to writing.

The week Thor dies, Loki is in a daze. He hears about it in a brief mention on some news show his mother is watching, and he doesn’t think it can possibly be true. A freak accident. A fire in his hotel.

Loki doesn’t remember anything about the next day at all. Or the day after that. Even the bloody nose and bruises he gets from a couple of the more brainless of the high school assholes when his inattention gets him in trouble, even that barely registers. The shove at his backpack at the top of the stairs, barely catching himself from going down face-first but catching himself wrenches his shoulder on the banister and practically breaks his arm, and the laughter of his classmates all around at his pale sweating face and pained gasps. Then being the one to get a detention when he leaps up and lashes out at the one who had pushed him, driven by fury. His hero's dead and this is the shit he has to deal with every day and nothing is ever going to get any better. And even that fades into the dull grey of bitterness like a fog in his mind, until none of it seems to matter.

And then it’s Friday, and he stays up late because there’s a storm coming and he suddenly wants it. He wants to hear the sky tearing itself apart.

The wind howls and the clouds race past the distant stars and he goes for a walk, not even bothering with an umbrella or a slicker, just pulling his hoodie up to cover the earphones, and Thor’s voice rings out over the rumble of the storm.

The smell of ozone. Metal on his tongue. The feeling of the hairs on his neck rising.

Loki realizes what it means half a second too late.

It is the brightest light he’s ever seen, and the loudest sound he’s ever heard, and as it passes through him, too sharp and sudden to even be called pain, he is sure he is going to die.

He wakes up in a hospital bed. He knows it from the subtle but pervasive odor of disinfectant, the unsettling feeling of an IV drip taped into a vein in the crook of his arm, the warble of distant beeping machines.

Below that sound, even softer, though, there is music. He can hear it. He doesn’t know the song. But then Thor starts singing.

He knows Thor’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere. And it is not a song Loki has ever heard before. Loki tries to find out from the nurses—only once, though, after the way they look at him when he asks about the music.

He’s discharged the next day, with some painkillers for the burns and an order to call them if anything gets worse, and he goes home and frantically Googles all the lyrics he scribbled down. Surely it’s some unreleased material, right? Some songs that never made it onto an album. That happened all the time, and it's possible he was hearing, oh, strains from some orderly's headphones amplified through a vent near his bed, something weird like that. Isn't that possible?

But he turns up nothing about the lyrics, if so. Dejected, he goes to the kitchen to find something to cram in his face.

The toaster shocks him when he tries to make toast. The coffee pot sputters and gurgles and dies. The clock on the microwave flashes 6:66.

At least peanut butter smeared on a slice of bread doesn’t require electricity.

Soon after, Loki lies down to sleep in his own bed, with a sigh, and he stares up at the poster of Thor. Loki would feel like more of a creep, studying every inch of Thor’s body in the picture, except for the look in Thor’s eyes. He feels like, somehow, they already know each other.

He slips into dreams and Thor is there. Above him on a stage, growling into the mike, screaming the melody, hips gyrating. Then the stage is gone and it’s just them, and it’s so real he can smell Thor’s sweat. There’s nothing sweet about it. Thor between his legs, and it’s sharp and real and he’s never felt so alive.

He wakes up slowly the next morning. Late morning. Saturday. The house empty and echoing with the distant sounds of lawnmowers and cars going by on the street and kids playing in the neighboring yards. He lies there with his eyelids glued shut, groaning under his breath. Throws an arm up over his head to hide from the creeping sunlight for as long as he can, and he’s half dozing when the music starts up again.

The strange thing, though, is that this time it sounds distorted, the way a record sounds when you spin it backwards. He’s heard of that, bands doing it as a joke or a way to mess with all the most credulous parents and preachers and journalists who are deeply concerned with the forces leading the youth astray. The corner of his mouth curls up reflexively.

But the difference is that there’s no vinyl under his fingers. The disjointed rhythm and jolting vocals are coming from nowhere, drowning out all the more prosaic sounds from beyond his window, and there's no logical theory he can invent this time for where it could be coming from.

And as he listens, his body feeling like he’s drifting, floating, and impossibly heavy all at the same time, he begins to make sense of the sounds. Begins to pick out the words.

Pentagram circle – lightning struck – bring me back – bring me – obey me – bring me – obey me – pentagram circle – lightning struck

Loki breathes slowly, hearing his heart beat in his ears.

He does it that night, alone in his room. He’s researched as much as he can and he’s put together the rest by feel, by intuition. He draws the pentagram on his floor in ashes, with black and red candles burning at the five points. He plays Thor’s albums on his stereo while he recites an incantation he found on the internet, elaborated with a few of Thor's lyrics to make it sound cooler. But nothing happens until he switches his stereo off, falls silent, feeling foolish for having tried. He presses his hands against his eyes. When he opens them again, his gaze lands on the plasma ball sitting on his shelf, a toy he had barely thought of in years.

He was already lightning-struck and still has the burns to prove it. But the feeling, the taste in the air as he clicks it on…

He can hear music again, softly.

He kneels beside the pentagram, and as the music grows louder he tries to hum along. He can hear words and he sings the chorus, his hands on the plasma ball, the tickle of electricity on his fingertips.

He should be more surprised when a shadow fills the center of the symbol on his floor. Tall black leather boots. Sweeping upward, torn black skintight denim. Mesh over pale, muscled abdomen. More leather over the broad, massive shoulders. Tendons of the neck and the strong, set jaw. Long black hair, messy and animal. Fierce eyes…

The scars on his face, his arms—those take a moment to register. Burn scars, deep and gnarled.

“Thor,” Loki says, the name filling his mouth as his eyes are wide with awe. It’s the moment he’s always dreamed of. And this, this is something he never would have thought it could be. It is Thor in his bedroom. Because he called him back to the world of the living. Because he resurrected his hero from death.

He thinks of his old lust-sodden fantasies and he knows that they were nothing compared to this. They were sad and desperate, begging for a single scrap of attention or acknowledgment. Once, just to breathe the same air as Thor, he’d have considered his whole life fulfilled. Once, he’d written so many secret longings, in the terribly certainty that Thor would never know, would never see them, would never care. Hopelessness had been safety, and despair.

Now, he watches as Thor frowns down at his kneeling form.

And he watches as Thor takes in the sight of everything else around him and seems to come to a conclusion in a moment, striding forth, breaking free of the pentagram’s boundaries with a shiver of blue-white lightning crackling all over his form.

Thor strides forth, seeming not to notice him at all.

The dark figure of him slips into the shadows and disappears.

All the candles go out.

Loki lies on his bed for the next day and a half. He lies curled around his radio, weakness immobilizing him.

The news pours in. Electrical storms. Freak accidents in which dozens of people were injured or died. Speakers, amplifiers. Live mikes. Event sound systems.

Loki lies there listening, and inside him a fury is growing. He has been loyal. He has never been as devoted to anything or anyone as he is to Thor. To Thor’s music. To his message. To… to him. He has been loyal!

He thinks it like a scream. He can feel it in his throat, searing.

It was Thor who lied, who deceived. It was Thor who used him.

Why had Thor simply… walked over him, not even glancing at the one who had brought him back? Why had Thor not even noticed him?

Loki girds himself and prepares. He loads up his parents’ car (the one nobody really drives often, the terrible old sky-blue Cutlass just sitting out in the garage with rust in its wheel-wells and a cassette deck that eats tapes every full moon) with his backpack and camping gear from his brief truncated scouting days and a bunch of junk food and torn paper maps, and he hits the road, intuition still pulling him along like a current.

He still just wants Thor. But now there is more than that.

His hero has turned on him. And though he is not stupid or naïve enough to believe in fairness in the universe, it is a situation that calls for action.

Thor is somewhere out there, killing people, breaking things, wreaking havoc. Loki figures he can find him, can let the same feeling deep inside pull him along like a tide to wherever his hero is. And then there will be a reckoning.

It is a foolish thought, perhaps. One that only a dejected 17-year-old could have conceived.

Being too young and dumb to know what is impossible is an advantage sometimes.

He drives with the radio turned low and the windows rolled down, the air off the highway buffeting in his face and stirring the hairs on his arm, fighting against the heat of the sunlight. Smell of asphalt and diesel exhaust and the endless fields along the roadside. He’s been driving for hours, barely aware of the mutter of “Crazy Train” through the speakers. When the song cuts out in another two and a half minutes, the station turns over to a news break, a radio announcer’s impassive description of the inexplicable trail of mayhem that has struck over the last few days. No one wants to say it, no one wants to admit that the string of incidents is connected. No one wants to acknowledge the obvious.

That, at least, is a problem Loki doesn’t have. He knows exactly who is at the center of the storm.

And maybe that’s why he’s the only one who seems to notice that… the body count isn’t what it should have been. The last few, particularly.

But it’s hard to think on that too deeply when the music inside him is welling, drowning out the monotone of the newscaster entirely.

The song has been growing louder since three exits back, and his hands grip the steering wheel. His knuckles creak. His heart thuds in his chest. He shifts his hips on sky-blue leather, a subtle motion of his driving foot to relieve the tension that has built up in his body.

What will he do if he finds him? What will he say?

He’s still wondering when the air rushing over his arm grows cooler, the sunlight abruptly gone, clouds closing in overhead.

The song grows louder still as the first drops pelt down on the windshield, and he curses and hits the wipers as the rain brings down all the dust with it, splattering the car with crud, smearing it grey-brown across the glass.

“You don’t play fair, man,” Loki murmurs, grumbles. His lip twitches. “That’s okay. I'm used to it.”

He knows the place instantly when he sees it. The music has been growing louder for the last hour, until the rhythm of the drumbeat has taken up residence in Loki’s core and the shriek of the chords travels along his every nerve. He jolts the steering wheel sharply to the right, veering off the highway, down the side road, onto what can barely be called a driveway, into a dirt lot that’s already half filled with vehicles even older and more beat-up than his.

It’s gonna happen here. He knows it, even as he slams it into park and yanks up the emergency brake. He has to sit there shuddering for a few moments, the car still trembling beneath him in sympathy.

Screaming metal, a song in the key of death, battles against the sounds of pedal steel guitar in a whining country tune.

The door hinges squeal likewise and nobody even notices when a 17-year-old wanders into the bar, and for that he supposes he should be a little bit grateful. He takes in the smells of spilt cheap beer and cheap bar food and too-infrequent bathing and various varieties of road dirt. He takes in the sights of an entirely different sort of leather boots and sticky-topped tables and the chicken wire surrounding the whole stage area, walling it off from the jeers of flying glass. There’s a band up there now, just getting tuned up for the evening. It makes Loki think of the “Rawhide” theme for a second, and the idea makes him laugh.

He’s got his hand in a bowl of free peanuts and pretzels when Thor shows up and takes over the stage. The musicians around him jolt at first with electricity, pain written across their faces. A few resist it, fight back. They’re the ones that slump to the ground soon after.

The rest go along with it, and their bodies begin to play their instruments in a way they never would have before. A tune they do not know. A stubborn energy that doesn’t come from their tired bones.

There is lightning crackling over everything as Thor’s form appears in the midst of them, limned in spotlight blue. Chains glittering. Leather glistening.

Loki wants to see it. Part of him just wants to be part of this. He never got to go to one of Thor’s live shows when he was, well, alive. He can’t miss the chance now, and he pushes forward through the press of hicks and bikers to get closer to the stage.

Another part of him, though, is burning. His hands clench at his sides.

If Thor is going to be going around exacting revenge like this, he at least owes it to Loki—the reason Thor is alive again—to bring him with. Loki has plenty of his own revenge that he’d like to grab.

That is what infuriates him the most. The fact that Thor had dismissed him without a thought. Walked past him and turned away after everything Loki had done for him. After how much Loki had wanted him and everything he was.

When the first bolt of lightning shoots from the neck of Thor’s guitar, Loki can taste it in the air. Revels in it, in the sight of some wannabe-cowboy burning to a crisp not twenty feet away from him.

Another bolt shoots out. Another.

People are screaming, running, fleeing. Suede fringe and bolo braids flying.

Loki is ducking between them, toward the side of the room—he’d spotted it when he first came in, a door that barred the way to the stage area.

The knob turns under his hand.

When he makes it up onto the platform, there’s nobody else left alive in the building. Dead musicians and dead patrons and dead barmen.

Thor is still there, panting hard under the bright lights, guitar still slung on a heavy chain over his shoulders. Sweat glinting. The lights hot and still.

Loki approaches, fearless, and he feels himself smiling.

“You need me. It’s all been falling apart, hasn’t it?” he says, thinking of the newscaster's bland monotone. Feeling the fading bruises on his own body from school. The feeling. The feeling that has driven him. The vengeance and rage and betrayal.

Thor plays a broken, sorrowful chord before the pick falls from his fingers. His face turns sharply to where Loki stands.

“I brought you back, Thor. You owe everything to me.”

Thor stares at him, brow twisting.

Loki spreads his hands, welcoming. “Come here, beautiful.”

Thor strides closer. And in the empty bar, Loki reaches up and trails his fingertips across Thor's scarred face.

“Your music will live forever. The legend of you will keep it alive. No one will ever be able to forget,” he promises. “At least, that’s how it will be if you have a good manager. One who believes in you.”

Thor gazes at him. His kohl-lined eyes pierce into Loki’s core, and the feeling is like nothing he has ever experienced. It’s like everything he always dreamed. Everything he could have ever hoped, writing desperate, aching letters into the darkness.

Thor stands before him, and Loki pushes down on his shoulders until Thor kneels before him. Hands he has watched in videos countless times come to rest on his waist, fingers splayed. Wrapping around the sharp angles of hipbones beneath denim.

There in the middle of the wreckage, Thor presses his brow against Loki’s abdomen, bowed as if in prayer. It is a chaste gesture, and it makes Loki’s blood burn hotter than his own sweatiest wet dreams of a month before.

Then Thor’s face turns upward. His eyes intense and staring back into his.

Loki buries his hands in Thor’s hair, feeling the softness of it.

“We will do great things together,” Loki murmurs, swept up in pleasure. “Just you wait.”

#thorki #my fic #spookyfic

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sparklecryptid · 1 year ago

Note

Re: Regis was late on purpose because he wanted Fleur to leave - an AU where Fleur decides to leave before they get there. Regis would be a little bit smug about this.

Except.

They keep on running into each other. All. The. Time.

Regis and co are sitting in some roadside bar eating lunch and Fleur just walks through the door.

Fleur is turning in a mark from her hunt and counting money when those guys pull up in their car looking for quick cash.

Regalia breaks in a middle of nowhere and guess who just fucking happens to be passing by on her bike.

Regis would suspect a Conspiracy except it's obvious that Fleur finds all those coincidences just as infuriating as he.

(Fleur, who was reincarnated several times and remember being a meddling god-like being, wonders which one of her old Convocation buddies is responsible for This. And why are they being so fucking insistent. On. This. Particular. Outcome.)

(It's Hydaelyn-now-Eos.)

The first time it happens Fleur and Regis stare at each other for five seconds - Fleur’s expression one of fury - before Fleur rolls her eyes and turns her attention to the cashier behind the counter.

“Hey,” she says and takes a seat at the counter, “Got a strawberry milkshake?”

“For you?” The cashier laughs - they’ve known each other a long time after all, “Of course.”

Regis is still staring at her.

“Talk about bad luck,” Clarus mutters.

By the sixth time Fleur runs into Regis and his assorted retinue it’s when they’re being pinned in by both daemons.

Fleur debates leaving them.

She doesn’t because it’s night and they are very likely to die if she doesn’t do something.

Fleur calls down stars from the sky and has them surround the wounded group, acting both as a barrier between them and the daemons and providing relief for their wounds. The daemons attention turns toward her just as Regis and Clarus’ eyes drill a hole in her head.

She ignores them and pulls out a pair of chakrams. After that it’s easy to reduce the daemons to nothing.

Just in time too, the stars surrounding the Prince and his retinue glow brightly and then burst into a picture of the sky above them.

Fleur pretends not to notice how they tightened their hold on their weapons even as the stars healed their wounds.

“Anyway,” Fleur says and is totally not judging them for being in suits in the wilderness, “Don’t travel at night, get clothing that will actually protect you, and for fucks sake don’t leave people waiting for you when they’re supposed to teach you how to survive in the fucking wild dumbass.”

Fleur spins on her heel and begins to walk away. Her annoyance at continually meeting these assholes weighing her down and when there’s the sound of footsteps behind her and a hand grabs her shoulder she does the one thing that comes naturally to her.

She punches a prince in the face.

“I don’t like him,” Hades announces in the lifestream.

“You don’t like anyone who’s tried to court our daughter,” Hythlodaeus says while admiring his nails.

Hades scowls. “With good reason-“

“Now, now,” Venat once known as Hydaelyn says, “We all know the successor to my Seat on the Convocation is dear to us. But what was that expression? If you love someone set them free?”

Hades stares at her.

“I spent eons attempting to bring our world back for the mere chance of seeing my daughter again, and I’m supposed to let some third-rate prince court her?”

“If she wants him too.”

“No. I refuse to allow it, why are they meeting so often anyway?”

Venat smiles.

Hades’ eyes widen.

“You-“

#what you’re made of verse

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titisorriso · 2 years ago

Text

Chapter 7/To Be A Hero (Wild Skies AU)

The wind howled once more over the edge of the mountain. Berk was not the biggest island in the arquipelago, but it sure had some tall rocks for its size. Astrid's hair was getting a bit longer than she normally would allow it to be, and it flowed towards the horizon as she attempted to clear her mind.

Three weeks ago, Hiccup kicked her and her friends onto an island that was within reach to the patrols of Berk. She was rescued, and for a long while, Ruffnut and Snotlout did not utter a word to her. Then one day, Stoick asked to see her privately, showing her both a letter proposing an alliance with the south and a report delivered by Snotlout implying that the warrior was betraying the Hooligans. Stoic gave her a choice, either deal with her treason and put her on trial or keep her as the commander responsible for ensuring a diplomatic encounter with the south; to make sure any rumors of betrayal were thrown away.

The choice was obvious. Her own friends believed her a liar, a traitor, they were hurt, and if a trial happened, she would end up exiled, or banished from the place she called home, and yet... As she read over the south's proposal for truce, there was the clause that would ensure no one thought that she was working with the dragon lover.

"The termination and imprisonment of the Night Fury and the rider known as Night Stutter."

She was short of breath, wanting to hurl her stomach out and feeling like a thousand tiny glass pieces were clattering and shattering in her mind. Stoick noticed the paralyzed woman, getting up and speaking with what almost felt like hatred, an air of disappointment, a look of disbelief.

"I don't know your relationship with that rider, but whatever it is, know that it will end once he is publicly executed."

He reached forward, putting a hand to her shoulder as he could no longer hold his affection back.

"Astrid... This village needs a leader, and you are all i have left. All we have left. We can't win a war with the south; they have weapons that we've never seen before... Exploding metal and inventions that we can't beat with arrows and axes."

He sat down on his council spot. Leaning back as he dismissed her. She clutched the letter, shoving it on her belt.

"... I won't fail."

"You better not."

The response was sent to the south, and today they would arrive. She took a deep breath in. All her issues seemed futile. Everything could be solved if she would just say it, the identity of the Night Stutter, the reason she was alive, the reason why she hadn't killed a dragon in weeks. Astrid still felt no sympathy towards the beasts, but killing them... She was scared that he would see. She could never tell when Hiccup was nearby, if he was still watching, if maybe he was waiting to come back, if she wouldn't have to do any of this, and out of the kindness of his heart, he would come out by himself.

- I'm pathetic.

She whispered to herself, laying down and staring at the sky. The clear morning almost felt like the gods taunting her, showing that the world went on even with her world crumbling. The things she felt, the things that she was terrified to name, they took up everything inside. Every corner and curve. What was it? She hated him, hated him to the point it hurt to do so, because it didn't feel right. It didn't feel right to hate him, to call him enemy, that shy stupid boy from when she was a child was now a wild man with the same naive intentions and worldview he always had. He wasn't perfect, but he didn't claim to be. He wasn't always right, but he was so willing to admit his wrongs. In the end, what really bothered Astrid was how, there was no way, in any version of their meeting that she created in her mind, that he was the bad guy. Hiccup was not the evildoer, the threat to Berk, the problem of the arquipelago. He helped people, he didn't kill anyone that didn't deserve it, and he preached peace.

Peace.

A viking speaking of peace and tranquility was a crazy thought, but Hiccup was never like the other vikings anyway.

No, what really made her curl up, cry, shake and feel wrathful was the simple question that came with all this wondering. If he was not the bad guy, and he is her enemy, then what is Astrid?

Days and nights she spent remembering all the gruesome things she had done, all the people she had lost, and no normal viking would see those as bad things, but she felt weirdly evil for doing them. She blamed Hiccup. Even before she knew he was alive, she blamed the boy that died speaking of doing things a different way. With each kill, each dragon felled, she would hear that voice, in the back of her neck, whispering in fear.

"Am i doing the right thing?"

She got up, breathing heavy, she couldn't afford doubt. She stared onto the horizon, remembering all of Hiccup's stories of different lands, different people, all these things she would never get to experience, all because of how rotten her heart was. At the end of the day, that's what it always came down to. A heart like hers couldn't be saved, and whatever would happen, there was no turning back. At least that's what she believed.

At noon, they arrived. Led by a man named Johann, the dragon hunters of the south arrived. Intricate weapons and chains, boats bigger than Astrid had ever seen, harpoons coated with some sort of green liquid and always pointed at the sky. The man was cunning, she immediately could tell his sweet words towards Stoick were always hiding wicked intentions. His men looked as mean as they come, no expression or emotion as they observed Berk as if it was nothing but a piece of land. Behind Astrid were her friends, with newfound confidence, happy they would work with the south instead of against them, but the valkyrie was having none of it.

- Ah! I assume this is your fearless commander! - He approached Astrid, extending a hand- I hear you have some exciting information about the Night Stutter.

Astrid stared at his palm, her characteristic frown deepening while she forced herself to shake his hand. Everything in the name of diplomacy.

- He's stronger than you think. Your weapons wouldn't even touch him.

He let go of her hand, staring at her with a weird glint in his eye:

- Ha! The way you say it, it almost sounds like a threat.

Stoick put an arm around his shoulders. Taking his attention:

- Come, Johann. I will show you around the island. Afterall, today is Astrid's ascension to the title of thane! She needs to prepare. Fishlegs, Tuffnut, with me.

The two went to give the man his tour. Fishlegs already spouting about the history and legacy of Berk while Tuffnut spoke about the festivities and ale. Ruffnut scattered to do something else, but Snotlout stayed behind.

- Hey, Astrid...

She turned to him, her frown softening.

- What? Do you need anything?

Snotlout started to rub the back of his neck, embarrassed, ashamed.

- I... We've been fighting together for years. You've saved my hide more times than i can count and... And i know that you don't like people going over your head.

- Speak, Snotlout.

She didn't have time for his self-pity. There was already too much on her plate, this man's feelings did not need to be added to her load.

- I'm just sorry, okay?! I'm sorry i doubted you, i'm sorry i thought you would ever betray Berk it's just...

He looked at her, waiting for her to interrupt him, but when she showed no signs that she would do so, he continued.

- I've been your friend for very long, and not once have i seen you... Look at someone. For a moment i thought you were incapable of affection!... And then there was the island and... Astrid, your eyes were... So bright.

She punched him, he fell back, yelling as he held his cheek:

- OUCH!! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!

He looked at her and froze. Her face was unsure, scared, a realization that she didn't want to have been just forced by Snotlout.

- Astrid?...

Tears started to fall from her eyes as she clutched her fists close to her chest. It had finally been too much.

Snotlout slowly approached her, his hands holding her shoulders as he kept a safe distance, mostly for his safety.

- Astrid, are you okay?... What's wrong?

Astrid didn't cry. At least not in front of anyone. Snotlout stared at her, not knowing what to do or say.

A vase shattering made them flinch, Astrid suddenly gaining her composure back, and wiping away her tears. She pushed Snotlout back.

- I'm fine.

He wanted to say something but knew that wasn't the best choice. Astrid started walking towards her cabin, but for a moment, she turned to Snotlout again.

- ...The thing about friendship, Snotlout, is that, sometimes, it requires us to break some rules. Clearly, that wasn't something you were willing to do.

Astrid stared at the water basin; her reflection scared her. The woman in the water looked soft, weak, needy. She couldn't afford that, not if she wanted Berk to thrive. She grabbed her knife, the sharp blade gleaming against the light. Sharp cuts through her hair, the length decreasing once more, dark coal was smeared under her eyes, other tints and paints doing the ritualistic marks necessary for the ascension. She stared at the basin once more. She hated that face, but at least this one she was used to, it felt right, familiar.

She held her knife as she left the cabin. The pyre, the rumbling of the drums, the chants and the smell of ale. It was suffocating, but it felt intoxicating at the same time. As if the entirety of the party was moving inside her. She closed her eyes, feeling it all muddle together. Stoick pulled her near the council, putting her in front, her dazed eyes focusing as she put on her façade. The chief's voice boomed over everyone, the silence falling on his people as they paid attention to each word uttered.

- When a warrior proves themselves, the gods show us that strength, wit and power come from the rage we allow ourselves to carry in the name of those lost. We put our lives in the battlefield, hoping that the axe that fell us will aid us into Valhalla. Today, we accept as thane our most prestigious fighter. Our valkyrie, who showed promise since the moment she was born. Swinging her axe around, showing her skills and mastery, she proved that the dragons are beasts with no heart, honor or mind. The Exterminator! The Savior of Berk! The Tamer of the Scorching Plague!

Her heart thumped inside her chest, straightening her back, she faked pride, her scowl growing as to intimidate anyone that would accuse her of anything other than happiness. She started counting the seconds, wondering how long she would have to stay here, looking at the faces of everyone she was lying to. Her people, her family, her clan. She closed her eyes, the noises growing louder. Stoick's voice broke through:

- And! To show us her prowess, as our ancestors have done before us, the thane will fall a beast in front of our eyes!

Her eyes shot open. This was a tradition, but one they haven't done in years, and not like this, not in the middle of everyone. Many thanes had come, but none were asked this unless the arena was available. She turned to Stoick, oblivious of her despair, he gave her a warm smile. She looked down, staring at the knife she clutched so tight. The blade was no longer shining, only reflecting the space. The heat of the pyre was becoming too much, her breath got caught in her throat, her eyes felt heavy, her face felt numb. Then, as if to wake her to the situation, a pained melody that was quickly silenced.

There was the Death Song.

Surrounded in chains, covered with pins and metal. It seemed younger than most Death Songs. Johann laughed delighted:

- Oh, it was such a privilege to have seen these beauties in their natural habitat. Did you know they encase their prey in amber?! Even eat other dragons the nasty things. This one is on me, by the way. To show our commitment to an alliance with the Hooligans! Go ahead, thane. Have at him!

Astrid shivered. Many of Johann's men held down the dragon, the beast trying desperately to flee. Desperate. She knew that feeling. Knew it a bit too well. A viking pushed her forward, she took it as a sign to start walking. Everyone yelled and cheered, begging for blood, for the death of this dragon. The warrior took careful steps forward, looking the creature dead in the eye. The dragon started looking back.

He stopped struggling.

The mounds of viking felt like walls of shadow, like a barrier stopping her from deviating from her fate. This fate.

She kneeled in front of the Death Song. The dragon's pupils grew, hope filling his face. His eyes then saw her still holding the knife, and suddenly, Astrid wondered if dragons would cry if they could. She looked around... and touched her forehead to the dragon's horn. People slowly stopped cheering. Stoic observed, with a certain annoyance and uncertainty. Doubt sprouted in his mind as he realized what was happening.

Slowly, the Death Song closed his eyes, accepting his fate. Astrid whispered rites, a prayer to help him reach Valhalla, the vikings were silently observing, their tone suddenly changing.

No longer was this the death of a beast, but the execution of a warrior.

- Let the warriors here, in the hall come forth, Thine and mine, for the need is mighty, If haply the queen from death they may hold, Till her fearful thoughts with time shall fade.

The sound of flesh being cut, the sound of liquid spilling onto the floor. The dragon had stopped moving. Astrid slowly rose, hands and blade stained. She slowly turned, her eyes finding Johann, and then seeing Stoick, his face said everything she needed to hear. His anger was no longer turned to her, as he realized what he was about to accept. The Valkyrie cleaned her blade against her big gloves, staring at Johann with a fire in her eyes.

- We are vikings. We are people of tradition and religion. We recognize the power and fight in our foes. We hunt these creatures, but they will always fight back, they will always give us battle and honor. What that man is proposing... It is not about our protection, it is not about our tradition, it is about money.

Johann looked around, noticing the sudden shift in emotion. He got up, slowly moving towards his group.

- I... I have no clue what you are talking about! If dragons die, won't it help you?! So, what if we get some natural resources from them on the meantime! These creatures have no soul, no essence to walk into Valhalla or whatever idiotic beliefs you have!

Stoic took a step forward, his frame being enough to get Johann to run behind his people.

- I was so blinded by the prospect of protection, of getting some sort of leverage over these creatures that i forgot who the dragon hunters were. Your efforts were what almost extinguished our sheep, what almost ruined all the forests and farming land throughout the arquipelago. We might be at war with these beasts, but every single Hooligan will die before denying them the right to fight. What happened here today did prove Astrid's capability of being Thane, it did show her how deserving she is of the title... And she proved so by showing me who you truly are.

Stoick stepped closer to him, two of his men tried to push the man back, only to get themselves throw out of the way without struggle. The chief looked down at an angry Johann:

- Leave, you rat. There will be no peace with the south. If you want our lands, you will have to take it from us.

Johann scowled; it reminded Astrid of when her mom told her stories of gremlins who would get upset when they failed their trickery. The man snapped his fingers, his people taking the Death Song's body away as he retreated to his ship. His last words reverberated in the Valkyrie's mind:

- We'll see where your alliance truly lies when your village burns, Thane.

Astrid put her hand on the tree, trying to find balance, puking from the nerves of everything that had happened. Her hands and clothes were still stained with blood. They invited her to stay, to enjoy the festivities, saying that it was her day, but all she could think about was the oncoming war. She walked to the forest, far from the music and drinks and people. She walked towards a small lake on this area, inside a crater. Climbing down, she stopped holding back the tears, taking off her gloves and her cotton shirt to wash, throwing the heavy armor to the side as the salty droplets fell down her cheeks.

- Shit... Shit...

The blood refused to wash off. She knew how to wash blood off, but her brain was so confused she wished the gods would give her a miracle and save her the trouble. The warrior wanted to erase this from her mind.

A sound of branches breaking made her hold still. With a slow motion, she put her shirt back on. Astrid already knew who it was. Her voice came out weaker than she wanted it to be. Scared. Scared of what he would think of her after that:

- ... How much did you see?

Quiet steps approached. She started wondering if it really was him, if it maybe was someone else, maybe one of Johann's men followed her, maybe it was Snotlout wanting to apologize once more.

Then his hand reached her shoulder. He kneeled behind her, his forehead resting against her neck. His voice was quiet and gentle.

- ... I'm sorry.

His arms wrapped around her waist, fully hugging her as she weakly heaved.

- You could have just come back... None of this would have happened if you came back...

- I know... I'm sorry... I'm sorry...

They stayed there, waiting, enjoying this rare moment of respite, where they allowed each other to cry. The two unbreakable and immovable forces letting themselves be soft for one another. They felt it again, as if they were trapped in time, as if the rest of the world had gone away for a single second, just so they could feel that peace, that comfort they had been craving for so long.

Astrid had finally stopped crying. Feeling slightly embarrassed by her position, she shook him off. He cleared his throat and sat looking at some other spot, body fully turned away from her. Astrid was the first to break the silence:

- We're at war with the south.

- Yeah... I'm pretty sure i told you to not do that.

She chuckled. Noticing her amusement, she quickly changed her expression again. They might be civil now, but they were still enemies. She wondered if anyone else in the world had to constantly remind themselves that.

- So, still not helping i assume?

Hiccup sighed, almost bored, as if the question was tedious.

- I have been helping, and i will continue to do so, but that's not really the question you're asking, i assume.

The Valkyrie clicked her tongue annoyed. He knew her too well, and it was infuriating. She started splashing the lake. Hiccup spoke with a smile:

- You know... This is the place where i tamed Toothless.

Astrid looked up, taking in the surroundings of her secret spot, but apparently not hers at all.

- ... You told me about it... I wonder if maybe i didn't feel that this was your spot.

- Feel? What do you mean?

She sighed, hugging her legs ashamed, but not feeling the urge to hide her feelings.

- When you... Disappeared. I felt myself going to places you liked. It was... Cathartic. Sometimes it felt like... Like you were still here.

Hiccup turned towards her, moving a bit closer.

- If it... makes you feel better... My heart always was. I-i mean, i know that won't change all the pain i caused you and... Everyone but... I never forgot you.

Astrid looked at him, a scoffing smile tugging at her lips:

- Hah! That almost sounded like courting, Night Stutter.

- I love you.

What? She laughed before processing the words. Turning away to throw some water at him, but he stayed unmoving. Serious. Her smile slowly disappeared. She started stuttering, as if her mind was no longer there. He repeated it:

- I love you, Astrid Hofferson. Always have.

She moved back instinctively. He stayed still, observing her reaction, trying to decipher her expression.

And then, she kicked him in the chest.

- OUCH!! That hurt!

She got up quickly, Toothless came from the darkness, rushing towards the rider to check on him and quickly realizing he was fine. Astrid screamed, frustrated:

- How-- How DARE YOU!!

- Wait, what?! What did i do wrong?!

Hiccup got up, catching his breath. Astrid started pacing:

- I-- YOU-- WE AREN'T--! I HATE you!

Hiccup laughed humorless, scratching his head:

- Well, that's a bit harsh.

- No, no, you don't understand! We're enemies!! You can't... I won't... SHUT UP, HICCUP!!

She started marching away, going back to the village, hiding her beet red face.

- Wait, Astrid! Just... Just wait a moment, did i do something wrong?! Why are you angry at me?!

She whipped to look at him, he stopped, noticing he fucked up.

- You help dragons. I kill dragons. You have no responsibilities. I have a whole VILLAGE to take care of! You can't love me. You can't love me while going against everything i am! Everything i believe!

He scoffed, a bit annoyed:

- Oh, really? Do dragon killers cry after murdering one of them? Do they second guess and give them their rites before sending them to Valhalla? I saw you waver, i saw you... I saw you talking to Snotlout about me. About the way you look at me; and although i don't appreciate him getting that close... He did help you realize what you feel about me.

Boiling anger. Astrid took a step closer, her whole demeanor shifting as Hiccup felt like he stepped on a trap. If there was one thing the woman didn't appreciate, was being stalked like deer.

- And what, pray tell, is it that i feel for you?

He gulped as Toothless whimpered and took a step back, predicting what Hiccup was going to say.

- Well, you... Love me too... Right?...

Astrid basically growled at Hiccup, turning back and walking with purpose towards the village. Hiccup sighed, shaking his head at his social interaction and looking at his buddy, who looked pained with cringe.

- Oh, shut up. At least i'm trying. Where's your love interest?

And he started following Astrid.

- Astrid, wait.

- Go away!

- I'm not going to follow you into the village. I'm not that stupid.

She stopped. Silence fell onto the forest. She felt herself shiver, wondering what she could do, what would it take to get him back, to get him to willingly show himself to everyone. His voice broke through:

- ... Why didn't you... Why didn't you just let him go?... You clearly didn't want him to die, you saw his eyes, you saw how afraid he was.

She felt their bubble bursting, reality seeping into their relationship. Whatever softness she felt before, now gone as she noticed how mournful he was about the dragon. Not about their bond, not about abandoning his family, but about the beast dying.

- Well, Hiccup...

Her words were lathered with venom, she both didn't want to say this and wanted to yell it out to everyone. She remembered every interaction they had, every moment of coziness, of insecurity, of embarrassment; she also remembered all the years she spent crying, looking for revenge, all the people she lost during Stoick's crusade against dragons. The Valkyrie turned around, her icy eyes piercing Hiccup's previous confidence, all his "sures" becoming "maybes" in seconds.

- Sometimes people must die so you can prove a point.

She didn't need to spell it out for him. He could interpret it just fine.

"It's all your fault."

She went back to the village, knowing now that she was a hero, any insecurities or doubts gone from her mind. She did what she should have done, what was right, and just like that, all the regret disappeared. She looked at her knife, a bit of blood still attached to it, but it shined more than ever before.

The second crack of hatred was carved into her heart.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Welp, i’ll be fully honest, i forgot i had this AU! College has been difficult and i ended up forgetting a lot of the stuff i posted on this tumblr, but i still have the drafts for this fic all ready, i just need to reread them and post them! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, there will definetely more coming soon. (As long as i don’t forget)

#wild skies au #wild!astrid #wild!hiccup #httyd #astrid httyd #hiccup httyd #Astrid Hofferson #Hiccup Haddock #how to train your dragon #alternate universe #fanart #fanfic #wild skies #toothless

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foggyfanfic · 2 years ago

Text

Love and Fury

Fic Summary: A misunderstanding leads to Bruno getting out of the house more. Pre-Movie AU. Rape is a theme but none is shown “on-screen”.

Chapter 1 Next Master List

CH 2 Bad Luck Bruno

Saturday morning, the day after the quinceanera, Julietta told her mother what had happened while Bruno was in the shower. Late Saturday afternoon Alma and Julietta left Casita, Julietta carried her usual basket of food so Bruno didn’t think twice about it, he was too busy acting out scenes from Pepa’s favorite book while she sat curled up in her rocking chair, a blanket draped over her lap and a smile slowly growing across her face. Just as Saturday afternoon became Saturday evening Alma Madrigal reached the goat herder’s house in the mountains.

She knocked on the door and was greeted by Leandra Lopez.

Leandra was beautiful in the way that young women tend to be. When she was younger, she had looked very similar to Alma’s own daughter Julietta, however Leandra spent most of her time outside and it showed. The sun had dyed her skin a dark golden brown, her hair had been lightened from black to almost auburn in the right light, she seemed to gain ten new freckles a day, and often smelled of the sunscreen the apothecary carried or the herbs she used in her soap. She wasn’t what anyone would call a “delicate” beauty, she spent too much of her time hauling a wagon full of soap and cheese up and down a mountain for that, in fact, Alma had once seen Leandra beat Agustín in an arm wrestling contest.

Today, like most days, Leandra wore a very simple blouse, this one had pale pink flowers embroidered around the collar, and a faded skirt that had once been red with teal vines embroidered around the hem, but was now pink with light green vines. She had a stained burgundy apron on, and her curls were held back in a ponytail through the combined teamwork of a green handkerchief and an undecorated hair clip.

“Is Pepa ok?” she blurted immediately.

“She will be, thanks to you, apparently,” Alma responded, “I would like to hear the night’s events from your point of view.”

By the time the lazy summer sun had set, Alma Madrigal had the full story, not only of the night before, but of the night Rosalie’s life was turned upside down.

“I-I don’t know for sure that Cicero is the one that did it, but-.” here, Leandra had trailed off, nibbling at her lip.

“But you strongly suspect so,” Alma filled in for her, “have you been keeping tabs on him?”

“Si, well… only at parties, I don’t have time to follow him around all the time,” she’d shrugged. She had chores to do, and he mostly didn’t.

“Have you ever seen him slip something into any other girl’s drink?”

“I… don’t know. There have been a couple times when,” she sighed and shook her head, shrugging again, “when it was definitely possible? Probable, even. I-I didn’t actually see anything extra enter the drink, but the girls he takes to parties all tend to get ‘drunk’ way quicker than usual.”

Alma had sighed, nodding slowly, “Has he taken any of these girls home?”

“No. Both times I got a member of the girl’s family to take her home. I’m not letting any other girl suffer the way Rosalie has.”

Alma had left shortly after that, Leandra had taken one look at the darkening sky and had pressed a lantern into Alma’s hand. She had offered to escort Alma down the mountain herself, but Alma had refused anything more than the companionship of Leche, an old Mountain Dog that helped Señor Lopez watch over the goats.

The dog stuck by Alma’s side as the narrow road back to town ambled its way through trees and down hills. When she was back to the main road the well trained dog turned and returned home.

She sighed once more, watching him go. Her shoulders felt heavy as she wondered, not for the first time, how she had ended up the de facto leader of this village. She knew, of course, it was because she guarded the miracle. Her family protected the village from storms and drought, healed the injured, and warned of coming disasters. In the early days, her house was the only shelter these people had, and so she had offered it without a second thought.

And now? Now the villagers trusted her. Plain and simple.

But why couldn’t anything ever actually be plain and simple? The unfortunate truth was that although they lived in a paradise, some evils had followed the refugees into their Encanto. Like rape, or the tendency of men and women alike to look down on the victims of sexual assault. Especially when the assaulter was a man like Cicero.

Cicero’s father, Señor Gutierrez, was Encanto’s only winemaker, and Cicero Gutierrez was his father’s only heir. Encanto would need much more than the word of a herdsman’s adopted daughter before they were willing to banish a Gutierrez.

Alma shook her head and kept walking.

She spoke to the other two women that Cicero may or may not have drugged on Sunday, after church. Neither of them had anything concrete to add, although they both swore that they’d only had one or two drinks before they’d suddenly found themselves blacking out. They also both admitted to not feeling safe around Cicero.

On Sunday afternoon, while Bruno was in his tower giving a vision to an extremely ungrateful baker (who was destined to lose this year’s baking contest to his competitor across town) Bruno’s new arch enemy infiltrated his home. Leandra “Reina” Lopez stopped by with a basket of Pepa’s favorite creams and soaps, she offered to replace the dress she had spilled food on and had been relieved to hear that Bruno had saved it. When Pepa had hugged her and rain had soaked through her shawl, Leandra had rubbed Pepa’s back and insisted that she just wished she’d thought of a more graceful way to handle the situation.

“Honestly,” Leandra had said, wringing the rainwater out of her shawl, “I’ve spent more time than is probably healthy thinking about what I would do if I caught that gilipollas in the act, but when I actually did, I just… panicked! I’m so sorry.”

Pepa had chuckled and waved her off, somewhat bitterly reminding her that her quick action had saved Pepa from something a lot worse than a lap full of food. They’d spent a bit of time chatting then had hugged one more time and parted ways.

Seconds after Leandra had left Bruno walked out of his room, being followed by the baker who was insisting that “well clearly you saw it wrong”.

He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Oh did I? Well, in that case why don’t you look into the future and see it better.”

“What was that?”

Bruno cleared his throat, his mother’s voice ringing in his ears, reminding him that he had just delivered some bad news and he should have a bit of empathy for the recipient, “Nothing Señor, I was just… noticing the wind. It looks iffy, I-I should probably uh consult with Pepa, make sure that no big storms are about to, you know, cause problems.”

“Oh,” the baker had frowned doubtfully at the window but ultimately agreed. Bruno and Pepa had been able to mitigate the damage of a hurricane that would have otherwise destroyed the town when they were thirteen years old, ever since then, Bruno had been able to use every puff of wind or wisp of cloud as an excuse to escape uncomfortable situations.

If you asked him, it was the real miracle.

With the baker gone, Bruno had sought Pepa out, and was pleased to find she was already with Julietta. The triplets had left Casita and met up with Agustín for a picnic by the river. Felix had eventually strolled out of the bushes with a fishing pole thrown over his shoulder and he had been all too happy to join them.

Monday passed in its usual array of chores and magic. Bruno was happy to note that Pepa seemed to be doing better, although he still felt she was owed an apology. Leandra was unhappy to note that when she and her father walked into town to have dinner with the Sanchezes, Cicero had briefly abandoned his friends in the town square to lavish her with unwelcome attention.

A few hours later Alma, who had stopped by the Apothecary earlier to ask them if they stocked anything that might be mixed into a young woman’s wine to make her vulnerable, had intercepted Leandra on her way out of town to ask what exactly she had seen Cicero put in Pepa’s drink.

In short, Leandra had spoken to one of the Madrigals about Friday’s incident every day since it happened, so you can imagine her surprise Tuesday morning when Bruno marched up to her stand in the market, planted his hands on the wooden counter, leaned in close and told her, “You need to apologize to my sister”.

Her response was to stare at him for a solid minute

She didn’t mean to gape the way she did, but she had just sort of assumed that Bruno knew what happened. She hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest. Bruno seemed like a nice enough guy, and the triplets were close in the way that triplets tend to be. Why wouldn’t he know?

Bruno, personally, had been expecting a slightly bigger reaction, maybe a sneer or an arrogant toss of her hair. He had spent the entire walk over here psyching himself up for this confrontation and her complete lack of reaction was a bit of a let down. It was almost enough to make him worry he was missing something. He scowled deeper and forced himself to hold eye contact.

He couldn’t let her get to him, he had to be strong. For Pepa.

“What?” Leandra finally said.

“Pepa, you owe her a real apology,” Bruno hissed, “you and I both know you didn’t trip.”

“Do we?” she asked, doubtfully, because it really didn’t seem like Bruno knew what was going on.

Bruno, who indeed did not know what was going on, gestured sharply as he spoke, “Don’t try to act innocent, I was standing right there, I saw you throw that plate of food. Deliberately.”

Leandra stared at him some more. Was there any particular reason nobody had explained the situation to him? Did Pepa not want him to know? What the hell was Leandra supposed to do now!? If Pepa didn’t want Bruno to know, then obviously Leandra couldn’t tell him, but then what was she supposed to say?

On the one hand, she could just tell him what he wanted to hear, on the other…

“Did I?” She drawled, leaning forward and smirking.

On the other, she’d never seen this side of Bruno Madrigal before. She had to admit, she was curious where he was going with this.

“Yes, you did. And you’re going to admit that, you’re going to march right up to Pepa, and you are going to give her the apology she deserves,” he crossed his arms and stared down his nose at her. It involved tipping his head back, since he wasn’t the tallest of men.

She cocked her head, “Or what?”

“Or I’ll ruin any and every chance you have with Cicero.”

Leandra froze, eyes going wide in what Bruno assumed was fear. In truth, she couldn’t believe such a wonderful opportunity had fallen into her lap. Cicero had shown up earlier to “help her set up the stall” and had happily ignored all her insistence that she didn’t need his help, and really she didn’t want to keep him, and she would understand completely if he had someplace else to be. He had slapped on his snake charmer’s smile and told her how kind she was, apparently assuming she was being shy. Come to think of it, he had only left when he saw Bruno coming.

It was never a good idea for a young woman to incur the wrath of a known rapist, but if she could find some way to avoid him without making him angry; if, for whatever reason, the town’s bad omen started following her around and scaring said rapist away from her…

Leandra flipped her hair off her shoulder and did her best to look evil. Bruno stood a little straighter.

“Bruno,” she purred, “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. I always thought you were a bit of a push over. But this, this is a whole new side of you. Confident, imposing even. I like it. Brings out the green in your eyes.”

“Wh-what?” he almost took a step back in his shock, La Reina Malvada wasn’t supposed to compliment him. In the play the evil Queen had, naturally, ignored the princess’ bodyguard and had flirted with her prince.

Apparently unaware that she was breaking the rules, Reina stood from her chair behind the counter, and leaned into Bruno’s space, “Too bad it’s pointless. I’m not going to apologize to Pepa. I have done nothing wrong.”

Bruno’s scowl returned, “You dumped a plate of food on her so you could steal Cicero from her.”

“And how easy he was to steal, he’s been following me around like a puppy ever since. You think you can chase him off? Hah! You’re welcome to try,” she sat back down and leaned back in her chair, looking as smug as she could manage.

“Oh, I will do more than try.”

“Wonderful.”

“Yes. Yes it is!”

There was a pause, silence stretching between them as Bruno did his best to look imposing and Leandra tried to maintain her evil smirk. Eventually he cleared his throat, and she shifted in her seat so she could sit more comfortably.

“Would uh, would you like to sit, or something?” she asked.

“No,” Bruno declared, putting his hands on his hips.

There was another long pause.

Bruno’s feet began to hurt.

“Actually, I would like to sit, so I can um… save my energy for scaring Cicero away,” he said, in the same grandiose tone.

“Claro, come on back, you can sit here, oh do you mind dogs? Leche is back here,” she pulled up a stool for him as he marched behind the stall to join her. Leche lifted his head and his large tail beat against the ground as Bruno got close.

It was a far cry from the stony growls and displeased huffs the dog had made when Cicero had tried to insert himself behind her stall.

“Dogs are fine,” Bruno sat down on the stool and spent some time trying to figure out how to hold his arms so he looked the most scary. Eventually, Leche sat up and put his head in Bruno’s lap, so Bruno gave up on being intimidating and petted the dog instead.

Customers came and went, some of them eyed Bruno but nobody asked why he was there. When lunch time rolled around Leandra shared some of her lunch with Bruno, who hadn’t planned on this being an all day affair.

Maybe he should have brought his own chair, the stool was better than standing but not by much.

“So,” Leandra said, drumming her fingers on the wood top, after they had been sitting in silence for most of the day, “the future, huh?”

“Yep,” Bruno replied, then paused to wonder if he should have hissed or growled his answer at her. He really wasn’t an angry sort of guy, and honestly, it was only his love for Pepa that kept him in that stall. He hoped Reina would apologize soon, he couldn’t imagine trying to be angry for longer than maybe a week at most.

“Anything…, I don’t know, anything fun? Or, or weird? In the future I mean.”

“Man will walk on the moon, eventually.”

“No kidding, really?”

“Si.”

“Huh. That’s amazing.”

Leandra looked up at the sky, even though the moon wasn’t out.

Bruno twiddled his thumbs for a while. If she hadn’t apologized by Thursday he would have to bring something to entertain himself.

The baker who was destined to win that year’s baking contest showed up and Leandra chatted with him as she helped him load his usual order of cheese onto his cart. He asked her if she could use some of her herbs to flavor a special order for him, so he could start experimenting with flavored cheese before the contest.

“He’s going to win,” Bruno blurted, as soon as the baker left.

“Si? Good for him. He’s such a hard worker.”

“Yeah.” He had never shown up at Bruno’s tower, demanding a vision of victory, unlike other bakers Bruno might name. If Bruno wasn’t horrible at remembering other people’s names, that is. There were six bakers in town and he really only knew them by their bread and the visions they had asked for.

The baker that had just stopped by loved to mix things into his bread like cheese, honey, or jams in order to test out different flavor combinations, so Bruno called him Experimental Baker. The guy who visited Bruno for a vision on Sunday leaned heavily into his European heritage for his recipes so he was European Baker. Not to be confused with Croissant Baker, Croissant Baker’s family had moved from France to the Caribbean then Colombia, and he had adapted his grandmother’s croissant recipes to make cheap lunches you could eat quickly. There was Pastry Baker, and Better Pastry Baker, whose names were self explanatory, and finally Dead Dog Baker.

Dead Dog Baker loved dogs and hated surprises. He was a good man, and adopted retired working dogs so he could make the rest of their lives as comfortable as possible. Every time he got a new dog he’d ask Bruno how long he would have with his new pet. If Dead Dog Baker wasn’t constantly asking Bruno to watch dogs die, he’d be Bruno’s favorite repeat customer. He always gave him a thank you basket full of bread, honey, and cheese. It almost made up for how depressing his visions were. Almost.

“Can you hand me my bag?” Leandra pointed at the bag hanging on a hook under the counter, Bruno gave it to her and she pulled out a pen and a notebook. He watched her scribble notes for a little while, then put the notebook away. She hung the bag on the hook on her side of the stall. After a second she reached back into it and pulled out a bag of nuts, offering him some then tossing a handful into her mouth before putting it back.

Bruno fiddled with his ruana for a little. He wondered idly what they would have for dinner that evening.

He glanced at Reina and debated asking her what her name was, but shook the idea off. It’d be too weird to ask after he’d been sitting with her all day. Besides, she would apologize soon enough, anyone who was willing to cross Pepa for a boy must be desperate.

Movement caught his eye, Cicero was standing across the street staring at him. Bruno scowled, crossing his arms. Cicero glanced back and forth between Bruno and Leandra, face pale. Eventually he waved at her then turned tail and fled.

She felt like cheering but did her best to pout for Bruno’s sake. Bruno smirked at the other man’s back, satisfied.

“See, if you don’t apologize to my sister, I’ll make sure that he never comes near you!”

“You can’t guard me all the time,” Leandra pointed out, going for haughty but landing a bit flat. She had explained some of the situation to her father so he officially retired Leche from herd guarding and insisted that she not go into town without him. All the same, she couldn’t help but worry that Cicero would catch her alone somewhere somehow.

“Myeh,” Bruno shrugged, “I don’t have to. Just when you’re in town. Cicero is pretty lazy when it comes to courting, he never once went out of his way for Pepa.”

Leandra nodded, it had been the same way when he was pursuing Rosalie. Belatedly she realized she was supposed to actually like Cicero.

“Hey, watch it! How dare you, you… you uh jerk,” she did her best to look outraged. Sadly, this was her first acting role.

“I’m the jerk?! You threw a plate of food at my sister!”

She pressed her lips together, usually he’d have a really good point, but there were extenuating circumstances here. Fortunately, he didn’t give her time to blurt that out before he steamrolled on.

“Honestly, who even does that? A-and for Cicero of all people. You know that guy chases a different skirt every month, what could-, why would you even-, you don’t actually think he cares about you, do you?”

Another really good point. Leandra scowled at him and sucked on the inside of her cheeks. God, why didn’t Pepa just tell him what happened? Leandra hated lying and she didn’t really want to pretend she was head over heels for that monster if she could avoid it. Then again, Bruno’s presence was the only thing keeping Cicero away, and she didn’t see Bruno offering to guard her if he only knew half the truth.

Time to distract him.

“Oh, come on Bruno, there’s no need to be jealous,” she grinned at him, watching him through lowered lashes. She couldn’t fake outrage, but she didn’t have to fake the mischief in her eyes.

“Jealous?! Me? Of him?” Bruno almost laughed, the idea was so preposterous, “I am not jealous.”

Honestly, he was sort of disgusted by the other man. The skirt chasing, the fact that he never seemed to do any real work, and now the way he’d jumped from Pepa to Reina at the slightest provocation, it didn’t paint a pretty picture of the guy’s character.

“No really, you could easily get just as much attention as he does, if you put a bit of effort in.”

“Wha-? Wait, what?”

“Sure! You’re a very handsome man, I’ll admit, your reputation is a bit of a hindrance, but I’m sure you could work around it,” she snapped her fingers and sat up straight in her chair, “Oh, oh, oh! Or you could use it to your advantage. Play up the whole forbidden fruit angle.”

“Forbidden-. H-hold on, I-I think we’ve gotten a bit off topic here.”

She ignored him and instead held her fingers out in front of her so they framed him like a scene she intended to paint, “Look at that bone structure, the dark lashes, even the way your hair falls into your eyes. You could totally play the bad boy.”

Bruno gaped at her, cheeks growing steadily warmer. He searched for something to say, something that would get his quest for justice back on track.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she hummed, like he’d just made a cleverly crafted argument instead of flapping his jaw uselessly, “you’re way too big a gentleman to pull the bad boy thing off.”

“Hey,” Bruno said, before his brain could stop him, he was about to defend his acting skills but just barely remembered his priorities, “I-I know what you’re doing.”

“Do you?” she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“Yeah. I mean yes. You’re trying to flatter me.”

“I’m mostly trying to amuse myself,” she said with a shrug, “but sure, why not. That too.”

“Well, it won’t work,” Bruno wagged a finger at her, “you can flatter and flirt all you want. I’m not leaving you alone until you apologize to Pepa for what you did to her.”

“How about pouting and begging? Do you like begging?” she retorted, giving him her most sultry pout.

He sputtered intelligibly for a second, then scowled at her.

“What? You said I could flirt all I wanted,” she made a show of blowing him a kiss and wiggling her fingers at him, “and honestly, I really enjoy flirting. It lets me show off how witty I am without hurting somebody else’s feelings.”

Bruno snorted, “Where was your concern for the feelings of others when you threw food at my sister?”

That gave Leandra pause. She immediately regretted bragging about her wit, because now it was failing her. She really needed to practice this whole pretending to be evil thing.

Bruno tapped his foot impatiently against the leg of his stool, “Well? If you care so much about not hurting people, why did you embarrass Pepa like that?”

“I wanted to get her away from Cicero,” she finally told him. It was the truth, even though he would misinterpret it.

He huffed and shook his head, no longer worried about holding on to his anger, “You two deserve each other.”

Leandra grimaced, but reminded herself that (for some reason) Bruno didn’t know Cicero was a rapist. He definitely didn't mean that the way it sounded to her. She bit her tongue and turned away from him so he couldn’t see the discomfort on her face.

They sat in tense silence until the market closed.

#Bruno Madrigal #Bruno Madrigal x oc #Bruno Encanto #Love and Fury #Bruno fanfic #fanfic #LF2

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yeoldontknow · 3 years ago

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the light keeper’s daughter | jhs (m)

A/N: written as fulfillment for the july house games at @bangtansorciere ❂ To The Lighthouse ⁂ Hosted by: Professor Bee @inkedtae through @bangtansorciere AU Type: Trident’s Tides (soulmates) Themes: God/Goddess (goddess reader); Secret Relationship Kinks: clit biting; pain kink; size kink; masturbation; degradation; overstimulation; dirty talk; cum play; panty sniffing

↝ Creative Content Contributor: @jamaisjoons for this incredible banner. its literally so stunning ;~; ↝ Pairing: Lighthouse Keeper!Hoseok x Goddess of Light!Reader (oc; female) ↝ Genre: soulmate au; secret relationship au; gods/goddess au; mentions of an arranged marriage; heavy angst; smut; romance; pining ↝ Rating: NC-17 | 18+ ↝ Summary: For years, you’ve kept your relationship with Hoseok a secret. As the daughter of the God of Light, you are destined to marry anyone who slays the beast in the Gloaming Isles in your honor. When that day finally comes, you go to Hoseok to tell him your relationship must end and you are set to be married. One last time, Hoseok reminds you no one will love you as eternally, as enduringly, as he. ↝ Warnings: explicit sex; explicit language; pregnancy; unprotected sex; creampie; masturbation; clit biting; oral sex (f receiving); pain kink; size kink; overstimulation; light degradation; a brief handjob; impreg kink; dirty talk; cum play; panty sniffing; crying; biting; marking; scratching; brief mentions of blood ↝ Word Count: 14.7K ↝ special thank you to @softyoongiionly and @kithtaehyung for reading through this and being amazing betas! if there are any mistakes left over they are absolutely my own and the fact that 98% of this was written while sprinting owo

Looking at Hoseok, you think, is exactly like being struck by lightning. Which is to say, every time, all the time, looking at Hoseok means you feel him everywhere, all over and all at once.

Inside the lighthouse, there is no escaping him.

Pressing your back against the rough concrete of the small light room, you tilt your head to the side as the totality of Hoseok’s warmth, ardor, and fidelity blossoms over you. He flowers deep in the nodes of your lungs, your breath constricted as you take him in, studying the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose, the way he wears the night as though he is the stars.

In the distance, waves rush to the shore, kissing the land with the same enthusiasm you wish to be kissing him, only to pull away from land; the water shy, anxious of the earth’s response to its affections. Over and over, the sea rolls like thunder. Every now and then, the light that spins overhead refracts downward, illuminating the blood that has rushed to his cheeks. Flushed, his lips part as he processes the words you have just told him, all red and red and red with understanding.

As though he is burning, as though you are not burning for him, your hands clinging tightly to your skirts as you hold your knees against your chest. It should be utterly unfair, you think, for him to appear so beautiful, so exquisite, even as he remains painfully stricken by your words. The searing ache in your chest germinates alongside your love, mind racing with the apologies he deserves. Your bones tremble with the force of remaining still, prepared to reach out and hold his face and tell him it was a lie. You want to smile for him, want to tease him, want to say you’d been terribly silly and that such jokes are best kept for nights when the sky is not clouded, not cold, and instead warmed by your shared rapture.

How you would like to give him all the kindest, all the softest, words in the world.

‘It can’t be true.’

He’s said this twice, the disbelief in his voice only just winning out against the grief. Hoseok repeats it again, taking a step towards you, eyes cast down to where you have slunk in shame and sadness. Hands limp at his sides, his fingers quake, torn between balling his hands into fists or running through his hair, their resting place for his worry. Deciding on neither, he simply stands tall and stoic, appearing so small in the light that cascades around the room.

You’d glow for him if you could, if you felt like you deserved to illuminate any part of him at all.

Looking away from his woefully dejected expression, you turn your attention to the small gap in the wall beside you. A window once blocked the wind - stained glass, exquisite. It shattered during a storm, on a night when he pressed himself so deep inside you traces of his essence lingered on your tongue. He was deep enough it hurt, rolling into you with enthusiastic vigor. Tonight, the breeze smells of low tide, acrid in the back of your nose and sour, just like your mood.

‘We knew this would happen,’ is your quiet reply.

A weak and pathetic excuse, you hate the words even as you say them. Shameful, you think with a grimace, to have pretended that you could have a happy ending, that convincing your father would have been simple. The lies you told yourself and Hoseok, the platitudes that fell from your lips to comfort him, turn on your now, betrayals stacked against you that weigh heavily your judgement. You’ve been childish, so childish, to assume you could have ever been happy.

Hoseok shakes his head, refusing to accept your answer. All fury and rage, he comes to stand before you and lowers to his knees, demanding you look at him. His presence is a live wire, the heat and energy from his skin is vital, a pull against yours that makes you regard him once more, confronted by his enduring beauty. Flooding your vision, he is all you see, all you can fathom, your world beginning and ending with his pleading eyes.

‘But it’s been years,’ he argues, the high pitched tone of his voice wavering and taught with emotion. He’s older than you, physically, but at this moment he has never been so young, so small, so gloriously human. ‘Centuries even. It’s unfair to you.’

A huff of breath rushes through your nose, your scoff ripe with bitterness. ‘Someone finally slayed the Sydral, as archaic as this ritual actually is. My father said I should have always expected it.’

‘And so now…’ Hoseok’s voice drifts, falling back onto his knees crestfallen. The corner of his lips drop into the beginnings of a deep frown, all manner and will to fight rapidly dissipating.

‘I have to marry them,’ you nod, answering his unspoken question.

For a long while, you hold his gaze, allowing yourself to get lost in the umber of his irises and missing the mirth that usually ignites their sparkle. It is just his breath that cascades over your skin, just the waves that rush beyond the light room, just the world that seems to turn onward, without you, time passing without either of you truly acknowledging it. In this silence, you see your history, your every moment spent with him: the day you met; the day he could not help himself any longer and kissed you soundly, without restraint; the first moment you told him you loved him; the first moment he said he needed you; the plastic ring he won at the pier arcade - extraordinary in all its ugliness - and the gentle, reverent, way he slid it over your finger, calling it a promise of fidelity.

In Hoseok, you see it all.

Similarly, he drowns in you, the pink of his cheeks deepening to rose with each passing breath. Posture falling slack, the strap of his ride suspender slips from his shoulder, the collar of his linen shirt loosening with the lack of restraint. A sliver of his collarbone becomes exposed, golden and rich, a tantalizing patch of skin you would caress and kiss if only the circumstances had been different. You wonder idly what he remembers of you, what he sees in your own dispirited expression. You wonder if he remembers the way he loved you, the way he loved you beyond your light and into your darkness.

You wonder if he remembers the way he ate your shadows - with his whole mouth, with fervor, with pride. You wonder if he remembers the way you devoured him just the same.

‘This is ridiculous,’ he announces, finally. Turning to look out the window, he regards the sky solemnly, the curve of his profile imposing in its majesty. Eyes narrowed, it is the harshest he has ever looked, devoid of forgiveness. ‘It’s supposed to be me.’

Swiftly, you shake your head, adamant in your disagreement. You reach for him, leaning forward to rest your hand against his chest, against his heart where it thunders in his sternum. Warmth from his skin radiates into your blood, taking root between your joints. Hoseok worms his way into pieces of your spirit long left abandoned, and you swallow thickly, wondering if such affection as this is normal, if it’s always this way.

‘I’d never have let you.’ Your dispute is biting, sharp enough Hoseok turns his eyes back to you, jaw clenched and tight with silent fury. ‘You’re human. It would have killed you. And then where would I be?’

‘You’d be sitting where I am,’ he argues, emphatic.

Reaching for your hand where it rests, he covers it with his own, lifting it slightly to twine his fingers with yours. Unable to help himself, he inches closer, running his thumb over your knuckles and sending shivers along your nerves. Like always, his touch is a wildfire, the electric kinetic energy needed to set you aglow. Your mind swims with him the same way your body becomes whelmed by his devotion, but he does not let himself become distracted.

‘Do you even understand?’ Voice little more than a whisper, Hoseok’s gaze is penetrating, a bite to his veneration that demands your complete attention. Tilting his head to the side, he continues. ‘You think I wouldn’t die for you?’

You squeeze his hand with tenacity, acknowledging his sentiment, but he does not see all the things you have witnessed. He does not know the true menace of the Sydral, does not know its tricks, its many heads, its speed, its cunning; Hoseok would die for you, and death would find him quickly.

Instead, you offer him a small smile, one that is so fragile and close to breaking. Hoseok’s intensity burns within your chest, transforming his softness into the valor of a man that leaves you breathless. Salvaging your own strength, you lower your gaze to the white collar of his shirt, to the soft linen and the expanse of his throat where he swallows. This you can regard with pleasure, can regard without fearing you may shatter.

And so you smile, finding the will to fight him once more. ‘The problem,’ you begin, hoping the earnestness of your smile is enough to cool the rage that boils in his throat, ‘is that I know you would. And I would live my life alone, married to him while knowing you are gone. Would you really condemn me to such misery? My darling, I would die to keep you safe.’

This feels like anguish; this feels like dying, you think to yourself, growing ever more despondent the longer you feel Hoseok pleading with the emptiness that lurks behind your eyes. You can’t bear to face him, not when the tightness in your throat becomes a threat, tears lingering on the precipice of spilling. Every time his gaze meets yours it is brutal in its honesty, violent in the way your love and lust tumbles so completely into grief.

‘How long?’ he manages, breathing life to the very question you’d been hoping to avoid.

Your future is still so far away, distant enough it makes this moment, and every moment to follow, heavy with the pain of imagination. Still, you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

Once more, you turn to view the window, regarding it with a vacant expression as though you are regarding time itself. ‘You know this is the last time I can see you.’

‘I know,’ he bites out, unwilling to let you dodge the answer. ‘I mean how long until...you’re not mine anymore.’

‘That’s...not possible,’ you offer gently, casting him a solemn, detached grin. ‘I am always going to be yours. Even when I’m in his bed, even when I’m thousands of miles away, even in death, I am yours.’

Hoseok pulls you against him, compelling your complete attention. Eyes wide, you study his face - the resolution of his passion fierce enough to be an earthquake against your sternum, a collision of meeting worlds. His arm winds itself around your waist while he still clutches your hand, the strength of his grip stinging against your knuckles. You tremble against his powerful frame, inhaling the deep scent of cedar and ambergris that always clings to him, the salt of the ocean that lingers on his skin, the dust that has saturated his shirt from the lighthouse, and you; your vanilla and lemon, the brightness of your own natural scent that emanates from your light and always seems to find him, not unlike rays of the sun.

Your mouth waters at this closeness, his own eyes darkened to a rich black as he studies you seriously. You’ve wounded him - worse, you’ve denied him - and he presses the tips of his fingers into the soft muscles of your back, ensuring you cannot leave him. Not until he is ready to let you go.

‘You know what I mean,’ he breathes, words lowered to a hiss. If he were a vengeful sort of man, he would be full of venom. Instead, there is only remorse in his insistence.

Closing your eyes, you sigh. ‘Months, most likely. Tomorrow the rituals begin - the seven days feast, the Fate Tying, the Blood Gathering.’

When you look at him again, your lower lip begins to quake. Saying the words makes it all feel immediate, tangible, as though your father stands in the dark corners of the light room casting his judgements. You almost feel him there, his presence always so sinister for a man blessed to command the light; he resides in the silent places, giving birth to shadows, prepared to pull you from bliss at a moment's notice.

‘All this pomp and circumstance from eras bygone,’ you continue, grounding yourself in the firmness of Hoseok’s arms and chest. The bones of his knees press into your thighs; your hand caught between your twin heartbeats; you immerse yourself in the pain of this connection and remind yourself it hurts because he was always meant to be yours. ‘It’s been centuries since a goddess has been married off, and yet somehow I’m the first for such a sentence. The wedding won’t be for at least five months.’

‘Then we have time.’ Hope saturates his words, his hold on you growing ever more unyielding. ‘You can still come to me, we can still see each other,’ he explains quickly, speaking in a rush. ‘No one will have to know.’

Biting your lips, you raise your hand to the soft strands of his hair, carding your fingers through it. All silk and satin, you relish the texture as his desperation soaks into your pores.

‘I wish that could be true.’ Even as you speak, you focus on his hair, committing these small details to memory. The curve of his bang in the center of his forehead, the deep amber and dark sienna and all the golden highlights that come to life in the daylight, the way all of him, every piece, is soft enough to break you. Yes, you focus on it all. ‘All the Old Gods will be gathering in Teylim. There will be more eyes on me than ever before. Ladies coming to fuss over my hair, my clothes, the oils I wear; men worshiping Daeus like he’s some kind of king when, really, he’s just lucky enough to be half of a god. I won’t be able to get away.’

Hoseok’s eyes roam your face, wild and storming, waiting for you to amend your answer. When you do not speak, his brow furrows and he exhales, a small whimper released from the center of his breaking heart. ‘So this is it, then? This is really it?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ you whisper, moving your hand from his hair to cup his cheek.

He presses himself into your touch, turning just slightly to kiss delicately at your palm. The sweetness of his tenderness splinters the last of your courage, the tears you’ve so valiantly held back starting to burn as they spill over to your cheeks.

‘I wish it could be different,’ you plead - with everyone and no one at all. ‘I wish for it everyday. Hoseok, I can’t -’ Distraught, you choke on your own words, and Hoseok pulls you firmly against him, resting your head against his shoulder. ‘I can’t breathe without you. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.’

Hoseok says nothing at all as you dampen his shirt, tears spilling into the linen as you struggle not to collapse against him completely. When you are finally alone, you will succumb to the sorrow that has learned to occupy every chamber of your heart. When you are finally alone, you will eat the spirit of rage with teeth and fangs, and you will let the darkness have you, refusing to let the light erupt from your skin. But for now, you let the tears arrive of their own accord, aware that you are suddenly too sad to even weep, tears dripping into his shirt as means to remain a part of him.

Against you, Hoseok’s breath becomes uneven, his own shoulders shuddering as he minds his own heroism, fighting back his own tears. He quivers against you, his stuttering breath exhaled through his nose as he maintains his composure. The light room becomes almost too quiet, the blood rushing your ears drowning out the sound of the sea, narrowing your focus to just the shared heat between your bodies. You inch closer, removing any space that could exist between you, extinguishing any oxygen that would dare to separate you from him. What you would give for a thunderstorm, any sound at all to give life to the end of love, to the start of the war of loving.

Unable to stomach the quiet any longer, your mind seems to become unhinged. All the tiny, miserable little thoughts Hoseok’s love kept locked away worm their way past your lips, erupting to life as though your heartbreak has given them permission to persecute you.

‘I wish you never found me,’ you mumble, almost incoherent. Your tongue fumbles with the words, caught between weeping and speaking, making a mess of so much more than just his shirt. ‘I wish you never saw me. I could love you like that, on my own, from a distance. I could be strong enough to move through life not knowing you, loving only the idea of you. You’re so much more than anything my mind could have fabricated out of childish desire. The reality of you is heaven. And now, I’m hurting you. I should die for such a transgression.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Hoseok pulls, easing you back and lifting both his hands to cup your face. Briefly you mourn the loss of his fingers and knuckles so rough against yours, but cradled between his palms, your skin tingles, making a festival out of this contact and celebrating the nuance of his fingerprints. He looks down into you, deep enough you feel him taking root in the center of your belly. You love him most when he looks like this - fierce and unforgiving - and you cannot help the way your body responds, aroused simply by the passion of him. ‘Don’t you dare wish that,’ he commands, voice thick. ‘The day we met was the day my life started.’

‘But...’ you struggle to find the words, drifting off with the implication that, now, his life is surely ending.

‘I don’t want to know who I would be without you.’ Hoseok takes his time as he speaks, an art you cannot comprehend.

Behind his eyes, his mind races, words living and dying before they can reach his tongue. He has so much to say, so many more promises to make, so many more words of affirmation he’d like to give you. You see them all, recognize them all - for they mirror yours, are born from your own likeness; you know them all so well, you feel as though you could reach out and touch them.

‘I can’t fathom it, I won’t even consider it.’ Shaking his head, he denies this completely, holding onto your stare with a fixation that borders on zealous. ‘You came to me, and it felt like I could breathe. You came to me, and I felt like myself. Loving you makes me better, loving you is partly why I am alive.’

It’s difficult to swallow around the lump in your throat, its size and prowess growing ever larger in the wake of his words. In the oncoming quiet, you wish he hadn’t said it, wish he hadn’t reminded you of the way you the oncoming storm of his presence before you met him. One look at him and you had seen it all, a life designed by the Fates - marriage, children, hope, happiness. In death he’d have joined you in Teylim, youthful, young, yours. With eternity before you, you’d bask in the rapture and the joyful silliness that comes with forever.

He felt it, too, saw it in your eyes. On your fourth meeting, he held you against him and promised you his life.

‘I will put my child in your belly,’ he announced, deliberate in the way he enunciated his words. You waited for the shock of such an exclamation to overtake you, but it never came. ‘I can’t explain it,’ he chuckled, amused by his own enthusiasm, ‘but I’m certain of it. I see my unborn children in your eyes. I think this is what the elders mean when they say there is always a plan, and you will always know it the moment you find it. I’m so certain my whole life is tied to yours.’

The memory burns within your mind, a scorch of greed mixing immediately with longing. You wish the fire of it would incinerate it to ash, that it would vanish altogether before the Fate Tying. You can handle all of these frivolous little rituals, sure of yourself and your own strength, but the Fate Tying means to unmake you. At just the thought, your stomach begins to sink.

You will sit, hands clasped on your amber throne with the sunlight seeking your hair, your cheeks, your lips; Daeus will smile, wrapped in oak and evergreen, in the earth that flourishes beneath your light; and you will weep, watching as the Moirai unstitch your soul from Hoseok’s, peeling it apart inch by horrible inch, to thread it with the ugliness of Daeus’ strands. You will wonder, mouth dry and eyes wet, why the Moirai would bother making a man for you, would bother weaving your spirits together, only to unravel the work they had done, the love you had found.

The movement of Hoseok’s gentle caress, pads of his thumbs running across the bones of your cheeks, returns you to the present moment. Once more he whimpers, doing his best to keep you grounded with him, unwilling to lose you before he absolutely must. Digging your nails into his shoulder as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, you wallow with him, knowing that, just like him, you don’t know who you would have become without him.

‘What do we do?’ you manage, reduced to a more pathetic version of yourself as you plead with him. Anyone else, and you’d be ashamed to appear so weak. ‘How do I do this?’

‘I don’t know,’ is all he can provide. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Promise me -’ You cut yourself off, not entirely certain where the idea comes from, what part of you would willingly propose such a request, the meaning of what you had intended to say catching up to your mind the moment you heard your own voice. Hoseok waits patiently, and you lower your gaze to the curvature of his lips, wanting to kiss and kiss and kiss him, knowing your next words will scar you both. ‘Promise me you’ll find someone else. Promise me you’ll be happy.’

Without any hesitation, he scoffs, dismissing the idea altogether. ‘Don’t ask me to tell a lie.’

‘I can’t, Hoseok.’ Now, it is your turn to hold his face, cupping his cheeks with veneration. Mind reeling, you envision it, certain you could take it. You are certain you would die for less. ‘I can’t do this if I spend my life knowing you’ll be unhappy. I can’t do this knowing you’re alone.’

Slowly, gently, Hoseok lets the tip of his nose press against yours, rubbing it back and forth, back and forth. Breath a deluge down and over your lips and skin, he somehow finds it within himself to smile, empty of all amusement.

‘It’s so unfair of you to expect that I could be happy with anyone but you,’ he chastises. ‘I’d rather be alone, utterly and completely, than to be lonely with someone. They deserve better than someone who is with them out of loyalty to another person - a promise kept to the person they truly love.’

His rejection and refusal of your plea inspires a thrill in the pit of your stomach, all manner of possessive pleasure coursing through your veins. How easily he turns you into a selfish woman, how quickly his promises of fidelity make you lose all sight of strength and future vision. What sort of man is Hoseok that he should have such dominion over you, you think to yourself. But then, you know. You know as you have always known: Hoseok is your man, your lover, your soul.

Stroking his cheeks with your thumbs, just as he had done, reverently, adoringly, you bite your lip and feel your exhale shake. ‘So what will you do?’

‘I’ll do as I’ve always done,’ he shrugs, as though the very thought is not a bruise within his ribs. ‘I’ll keep the lighthouse. Every night, I’ll let the beacon burn, and keep the light on. Even on clear days, I will let the light shine.’ Hoseok smiles as he says this, the first real smile he has managed since he saw you on the shore this evening, waiting, just like always. ‘When you’re up there, perhaps you will see the light.’

He shifts his gaze to the roof of the light house, looking up and beyond, past the clouds, up to the seat of the gods. Furrowing his brow, he hardens his jaw just slightly, eyes turning dark as he demands your father witness him.

When he looks at you again, he is a changed man - a boy trapped in the throes of love, and a man on the verge of letting himself perish.

‘Maybe up there,’ he murmurs, ‘you will see my light and know that I’m burning for you, just as I’ve always been. I’ll continue to love you. I’ll be good, I’ll be pious, and maybe when I die we will meet in Teylim and even in death I’ll watch you, staying close to your light like a bird in flight.’

‘Hoseok.’ The quiver of your bottom lip disrupts the cadence of his name, besmirching it to little more than a sob.

Sucking air through his teeth, Hoseok leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours as his eyes fall shut. At such close proximity, you study the almost feminine length of his eyelashes, the pores of his skin, and wonder who or what god or demon you could barter with to stay inside him forever.

‘You’re supposed to be mine,’ he whimpers, the sadness welling up in him like a mountain. ‘You are mine, but…I will always be yours. Even when they untie us, I’ll be yours. They can’t thread me with anyone else. I don’t think my soul will allow it.’

Unable to sustain it any longer, your desire for him rises to a swell, erupting beside your sorrow - just as fervent, and even more unyielding. His words are a comfort, an echo you will revisit over and over when you have long departed, but your skin has learned how to ache for his touch, learned how to anticipate the way he moves over you like water, and you need it. You need him.

The rest of your pitiful existence looms out before you, days and months and centuries passing without Hoseok to hold you and keep you, and you despise the very notion of it. You rebuke it, refusing to let yourself continue on without knowing how it feels to have him. Tonight, you do not want him as your lover.

Tonight, you want him as your husband.

‘Kiss me,’ you announce, guiding his forehead away from yours, skin prickling with the lack of his warmth. ‘Kiss me like it’s our wedding. I -’ The tightness of your voice steals your breath, words hot and heavy in your mouth as you say them. ‘I want to know what a marriage bed truly feels like. I want to know what our marriage bed would be like.’

Mad with an unbearable passion, no longer contained, Hoseok heeds your words and lets his tongue wander over the seam of your lips. You cling to him, clutching what you can of his shape, his body, and you sigh in woeful euphoria, granting him unspoken entry to the recesses of your mouth - but he does not enter. Your lover has always been disobedient, reckless in the evening when your skin and your lips and your heart are presented to him, and tonight he is no different. Tonight, he scorns the hour, taking his time as he traces over your cupid’s bow with his tongue, rendering the turn of the earth meaningless. The heat of his breath tickles your skin, a cascade in which you luxuriate, and your eyes, blurred by the urgency of your desire, lose all sense of your surroundings until there is only Hoseok.

Hoseok - on you, around you, all over you, the rain and the wind all at once.

Only when he has had his fill of your lips does he press the whole of his mouth against yours, sucking languidly at your bottom lip. Skin growing tight, you keen into his kiss, consumed by greed. Slowly, he moves his hands down and down, letting his fingers trace indeterminate lines over your cheeks, your jaw, your bones until they rest at your neck. With his palm over your pulse, he holds you still, his touch a fever, his touch the sun, radiating deep into the caverns of your heart.

Filled with him, you think. Absolutely alive with him, Hoseok lets his palm cradle the tether of your life until you are certain he is the oxygen made to sustain your mortal form. You, living and breathing, are little more than remnants of departed touches, composed entirely of his affections, his affirmations, his adoration.

So, too, do you kiss at him, battling against him for any semblance of permanence, demanding that you be remembered. Feeling you writhe against him, insistent in your need for closeness, he hums in pleasure, a musical sound that traverses your synapsis with unhurried ease. Gooseflesh raises on your arms, either by a passing breeze or the way Hoseok leans in, harder, rougher, all manner of dominance in the way he so desperately seeks to have you, and you shiver, delighted by the peak in your senses; delighted, fundamentally, that you will commit every moment of this last evening to bodily memory.

Willing to be devoured, you surrender to him, feeling arousal leak from between your folds as though his savagery has given it permission to spill over. It soaks into your underwear where you briefly mourn the fact that it will not coat your thighs, not yet, and that Hoseok must wait to see how easily you could paint yourself in your wanting. Like always, he anticipates you and ardent your longing; perceptive and always acutely aware of the way you have grown wanton. depraved by the strength of his kisses alone.

Hoseok eases his hand to the back of your neck, determination apparent in his grip, and guides you forward to rest in his lap. Letting your legs settle on either side of his thighs, you straddle him, unwilling to break any contact he has with you, your skin, you, your hands on him. You come together like a cataclysm, the burgeoning tip of his erection firm and stubborn where it presses against your core, assertive and tantalizing even beneath the fabric of his trousers.

It’s lewd the way you crave him deep inside you, jaw dropping as your mouth opens wide to gasp in delight. Hoseok wastes no time in letting his tongue glide against yours, explorative and eager, utterly deliberate in his stroking. Slowly, the tips of his fingers move from your neck to your hairline, ever deeper and ever more intrusive. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat as he runs his tongue over yours, grazing the roof of your mouth before he forms a fist in your hair and tilts your head back, swift and aggressive.

All at once he pulls away, face hovering just centimeters above yours and gaze hooded as he explores your lustful expression. A flush creeps into your cheeks, the control he has over the flow of your blood is always surprising even if it is to be expected. Hoseok seems pleased, evident in the familiar way his eyes have become blackened by the force of his yearning and the smile that has worked its way into the corner of his lips, a secret for only you to discover. He takes a pause, disregarding his haste, to regard you: your parted lips, your heated cheeks - a fire that has spread itself over your chests and breasts.

‘You are a vision of sin,’ he murmurs, cocking his head to the side and tightening his grip in your hair. ‘What would all the gods say?’

Your own nails scratch tenderly into his scalp, gripping his hair to mirror his hold on you. Futile, you know. The strength in Hoseok is silent, a gift that makes him appear merely pretty until the seat of his power is fully revealed, a fortitude you could never mimic.

You swallow, preparing to speak, and watch the way Hoseok studies the movement of your throat. ‘They would call me a harlot.’

His gaze returns to yours, an otherwise thoughtful look turned menacing by the terror of his passion. ‘And are you?’

Tongue heavy in your mouth, you struggle with the few words you can manage. ‘They will make me out to be,’ you begin slowly, poignantly, ‘and it will be your fault. You’ve made me a slut.’

You hold onto the word - draping yourself over the “s”, tapping your tongue against the “t” - ensuring it lingers in your mouth long enough for him to taste it. It’s his fault, really, that you will be judged and scorned and shamed for coming to your new husband wholly impure, the construct of your virginity eradicated by Hoseok’s insatiable appetite. It’s his fault, you think, that you want him this much. That you love him this much. Your tongue caresses the word slut like it's your dearest companion, familiar with its shape and texture, and you lean upward, hoping to put it in his mouth.

If he is half of your soul, then he should learn how it tastes to be utterly reprehensible.

But he dodges the trajectory of your desires, moves away from your lips and your face entirely, diving down to your chest where he lets his teeth traverse the expanse of your sternum. Lifting his hand from your pulse, he trades one beat of your blood for another, fisting his hand in the collar of your dress to pull it down and expose the thin bit of flesh covering your heart. It thunders in your ears, your body a storm of his making, and you tremble as he positions himself to ravage your very spirit.

His teeth leave scars upon your nerves, eternal echoes within your pores that have you rolling your hips downward in encouragement. Again, you feel him, his cock against your core, enough to have you whimpering as though you are small and fragile, not the maker of your undoing. As punishment for your impertinence, Hoseok takes aim and bites down harshly at the slender bone of your clavicle.

‘Hoseok!’

‘I know you, Sparrow.’ The husk of his breath is an avalanche into the marrow of your bones, the memory of his teeth still reverberating into your lungs. ‘You always like it when it hurts.’

Your skin still stings, yet he is relentless. You quake in his hold as he bites at the bone once again, teeth inlaid perfectly where they had been before. Your skin bends beneath the force, ecstatic hiss descending into a low moan, giving away the truth of how well he truly knows you. The pain grounds you in the moment, allows you, too, to ignore the passage of time, the ebb and flow of the waves as though the tides have halted altogether. You are prettiest when you are red and purple, black and blue by the marks he leaves in his wake, and not once, not even when he breaks your skin to bleeding does he tarnish your light.

In his arms, you are illuminated, glowing with the same intensity as the lighthouse beacon. He’s called you the heavenly sky for the way you glow under his affections, your inability to control your power when he makes you feel so impossibly good turning you into an evening star. You often forget you are blessed with a holy gift, the goddess of light as though your title has any meaning beyond providing you a seat at the table in Teylim. You often forget this is who you really are, someone happy, someone made of magic - a light kindled only under joy.

‘I will make you ache for me,’ he breathes, pushing the collar of your dress lower and lower, threatening to expose your nipple. ‘I want you alight, burning for me. Only me.’

Hoseok kisses deftly at the supple softness of your breast, diligent and greedy. His breath comes ragged, thick in the center of his lungs where he struggles around the insurmountable longing that puts force in his handling of your body. Working his tongue over the skin, he licks the stars out of the constellations of your pores, tasting the dust, the salt, the sea. Your hands run through his hair, messing the thick strands to a state of perilous disorder in your eagerness to move downward to the comforting solidarity of his shoulders.

Grinding your hips into his lap, the tip of his clothed erection slides along your slit, and you release a whimpered exclamation as the cloth of your underwear slips between your folds. Biting your lip, you breathe deep, Hoseok’s own groan of dissatisfaction vibrates into your chest. You feel him deep in your throat, his voice alongside yours, his desire matching yours in intensity.

Hand leaving your neck in favor of your waist, his grip tightens, fingertips pressing deep circles into the muscles of your back. Thrusting upward, he teases you, laughing darkly to himself with a rough nip to your breast. The motion sends your underwear deeper into your cunt, a pressure to your clit as erotic as it is cruel. It sends a shiver down your spine, inspiring tremors in your nerves that have you clenching your walls around nothing at all, seeking the bulbous head of his cock in need.

Pleased with himself, he raises himself from your chest to work at the buttons of your dress. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your own rolling back to present you breasts to him like a preening cat. Hungry, he takes the bait, slipping a palm under your dress to cup your breast. He presses against your nipple, a small wine tumbling from your throat to mingle with his whispered expletive. Rolling your nipple between his knuckle, he regards you momentarily, studying your dazed expression. Against him, you are an earthquake unto yourself, a cosmic shift of longing ravaging your blood, and you are pleased by it, offering him a smile of gluttony.

Abruptly, he releases your breast, hands falling to your hips as he raises to his knees, keeping you against him. Hoseok pushes your hips roughly against his, cock a threatening force against your core as he guides your bodies down to the floor, careful to keep the shift in position painless. Once more, he thrusts at you, and you feel yourself becoming soaked, juices no longer dripping into your underwear but instead crawling slowly down to your ass. The concrete of the floor is chilled, cold enough your back and hips arch indelicately in retreat, causing you to carelessly meet his thrust.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters, returning his hands to your front as he sits back on his knees.

Hoseok avoids the buttons over your breasts, choosing instead to undo the buttons just beneath. Continuing onward, he takes his time unwrapping you, hungry for the pieces of your body he will mark as his. The heart of his lips parts on a silent exclamation, mouth falling open as he unveils more of your ample flesh. The light from your skin mixes with the lighthouse beacon, casting shadows of desire in his eyes, rendering him beastly. With his eyes only, he devours you; your body, the fruit of his immense craving.

Leaving your breasts covered, Hoseok exposes your hips, your stomach, your thighs. Your hardened nipples strain against the fabric, begging for release the same way your core clenches once again around nothing at all, swallowing more of your underwear in an effort to lure him deep inside you. He meant it this way, all too aware your sensitive nipples will tease you to a point of aching the longer they rub against your dress.

The sea breeze cools your skin, so much of you exposed you feel as though you have been submerged in wind and sky. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you mourn momentarily that it is not Hoseok that covers you, not yet. Still, you enjoy being naked for him like this - naked, vulnerable, safe, and his. You open your legs further, letting the wind kiss at the wetness of your cunt, your answering grin borderline salacious. How glorious to give everything and hide nothing from him. How glorious to let yourself be worshipped, his eyes starved for the pleasure of your sex. All this joy, and yet your frustration runs over, an overflow occurring with little thought.

‘It’s not fair,’ you whine, raising your arms to reach for him. ‘Let me undress you.’

Sitting up, you press your hands flat against his chest, becoming attuned with the ample hills and valleys of his muscles. Hoseok sits still and proud, lips reddened and wet from kissing you. Your light ignites the flush that dapples the tips of his ears, skin flushed by lust and longing. Throat running dry, you swallow thickly, committing his unrivaled beauty to memory. You refuse to forget a single moment of this, unwilling to relinquish a single detail of him.

Slowly, you ease the suspenders from his shoulders, humming in approval at the way the loose linen of his shirt relaxes in its newfound freedom, offering you more of his neck and collarbones. As your fingers work earnestly at his buttons, Hoseok takes his time admiring you, a piercing look both penetrative and heartsick. His hand comes to cover yours, unable to help himself, and he holds it tightly, raising it to his lips. His eyes remain locked on yours as he kisses the pads of your fingers, one by one, before slipping your index and middle finger into his mouth. Your lips part on a sigh that fades just as quickly as it came, feeling his tongue swirl over the digits with purpose.

And much the same way you did not expect his touch, so too are you caught off guard when he moves your fingers from his mouth and guides it down your stomach. Lower and lower, he guides your hand between your bodies where he slips it beneath your underwear. Your breath hitches, skin wet from his saliva and clit throbbing at the prospect of tangible contact, your own hand an ominous presence resting upon your mound.

‘Touch yourself,’ he commands.

Hoseok is so often the picture of tenderness in the way he makes love to you, always gentle and always mired in the totality of his affections. Occasionally, he is sharp and, occasionally, he is in control - only on days when he is starved, only on days when he is completely ravenous. Tonight, there is no room for argument. Tonight, he makes himself an unrelenting devil, unafraid to exert dominance.

‘Eventually we will remember little of how we undress,’ he explains, pressing your fingers over your mound, dangerously close to your clit. ‘Right now, I need to see the way you will touch yourself for me when I’m no longer around. I want to see it. I want to memorize it. Touch yourself for me.’

Removing his hand from yours, he nudges softly at your shoulder, and you obey immediately. Leaning back on your right elbow, you keep your hand in place as he grabs the band of your underwear and pulls it down. Lifting your hips, your tongue licks at your bottom lip where the skin has become dry and chapped, struggling to catch your breath as your desire becomes oppressive. Falling back on your tailbone, you spread your legs wider still, proud and impish as you slide your fingers down your slip, separating your folds to display your core.

But he sees nothing as he lifts your underwear to his nose, fisting his hands in the fabric and pressing it against his face. Hoseok breathes in deep,eyes rolling back slightly in the effort of keeping his eyes open, a growl rumbling in his chest like a warning. Exhaling into the cloth, he laughs to himself, a high pitched, small sound of amused embarrassment before he falls completely silent once more. And then, he breathes in again, just as deep, just as fervent, lips kissing at the wet patch you have created.

‘I’m keeping these.’ Easing your underwear away from his nose, he crumples the garment and buries it in the pocket of his trousers. Cocking an eyebrow in pleasure, he takes in your exposed cunt, licking his lips. ‘I’ll fuck myself with them, imagining it’s you and your wet pussy.’

‘Pervert,’ you tease, jutting your chin forward in mock derision.

‘Whore.’ Inspired by your nakedness, he begins to undress, gaze heated and focused on your wet cunt. ‘I told you to touch yourself.’

Your fingers easily breach the barrier of your folds upon their release, wet with Hoseok’s spit and your walls slick and dripping with your juices. Years ago, you would have been ashamed of being so soaked, a damp patch expanding in the concrete beneath you in visible proof. But you no longer care, not when Hoseok’s expression of thirst is so incorrigible.

You fuck yourself with your hand, fighting the urge to tilt your head back in relief - small as it is. In the heat of your lonely nights, you find it tragic your fingers never reach as deep as Hoseok’s slender digits; yours are too slim, knuckles not nearly as rough or pronounced. And when your mind drifts dangerously to thoughts of girth, your eyes drop swiftly to the pronounced shape of Hoseok’s straining cock. Swallowing the weep of appreciation that builds in your chest, your teeth chew at your bottom lip, clinging in anticipation.

Pressing the base of your palm against the hood of your clit, you whimper. Mild and meek as it is, your fingers bring a temporary relief, this satisfaction fleeting, and it will not be long before you are begging him to fill you.

‘You’re dripping,’ he comments, interrupting your thoughts and removing his shirt in one swift motion. ‘Are you sure you’re not the princess of water? If I kiss your cunt I might drown.’

‘I’m in love with you.’

While not truly a detailed explanation, the words carry the weight of your whole chest, erupting with little thought. Your mind offers the only logical explanation for your wetness it can manage while your body grapples with the implication of Hoseok’s mouth upon your core.

‘Say it again,’ he orders, hands tugging harshly at the zip of his trousers.

A slow smile spreads over your lips, head cocking to the side as you admire his eager expression. ‘I’m in love with you.’

‘Again.’

‘I’m in love with you.’

This time, you say it with venom, as though you want it to hurt and hope that it will leave scars in its wake. Hoseok tugs his trousers down his thighs, rising to his knees, appearing regal and godly. Freed from its cloth restraints, his cock springs upward to rest against his stomach, and he smirks, chest and neck flushed as your focus shifts immediately to the purpled bulbous head.

Without hesitation, you remove yourself from your folds, the ache at your core only minutely grieving the loss of your small hand. Instead, you reach for him, fingers slick with your juices as you grasp the base of his cock with a gentle squeeze. He’s heavy in your hand, rigid in the solid way that makes your walls clench and drip once more, mirroring the way your mouth waters. Slowly, you move your hand up and down the shaft, letting your thumb rub over the leaking tip with care.

Hoseok’s breath hitches, his hips thrusting slightly into your hand as you pleasure him. His own hands clutch at his discarded clothes, doing his best to exercise his dwindling patience, and you repeat motion, admiring the smoothness of the skin in contrast to the veins of his shaft.

‘I always wonder how you will fit inside me,’ you comment, moving your hand back down and studying the way your fingers do not meet your thumb. ‘You’re so thick.’

He rolls his shoulders back in the aftermath of your praise, inhaling sharply through his teeth. Hoseok is always free with his praises, showering you in worship and stating it is his duty to devote himself to the goddess in his favor. Always, he does this, and always he seeks nothing in return. But you have always sensed, as attuned to him as you are, that praise from you sets his soul afire. One word of praise from you and you are certain he could eat the god of Daeus entirely, rendering him completely human.

‘You were made for me,’ he explains, voice taught and words strained. Unable to hold back, he fucks your fist, seeking relief. ‘You will always stretch to accommodate me, just like your life was meant to. Just like your belly was meant to, stretching with my children.’ His gaze is penetrative, deeply serious for such an obscene state of being. ‘You were meant to take all of me. My true home is inside you.’

Your grip loosens slightly at his admission, lips curling into a small pout. ‘I so desperately wanted to give you a child.’

A choked sound rumbles through his chest, and his hand reaches yours, pulling it from his cock to wind your fingers together. With his free hand, he nudges at your shoulder, easing you back to the ground with a darkness in his eyes that has your throat running dry. Automatically, your legs spread wide, offering him space to settle between them. The tip of his cock rubs carelessly against your slit, and your focus fades, mind emptying with the single desire to have him inside you taking root.

‘Promise me you won’t give him children,’ he commands, words thick with purpose.

He walks his hand languidly down your body, grazing over your chest, your covered breasts, to the flat of your stomach. Beneath him, you tremble, the tectonic plates of your spine shifting beneath his touch. Splaying his hand over your stomach, he eyes your skin with parted lips and a furrowed brow. Hoseok wars with himself, his thoughts tangible behind the darkness of his irises, expression swimming with strife.

‘Promise me,’ he repeats. ‘I don’t think I could survive the thought of someone else's baby growing inside you.’

Raising your hand from the floor, you card your fingers through his hair while you squeeze your joined hands, determined to win his attention.

‘I promise,’ is your soft whisper. ‘I shall bear no other child than yours.’

Invigorated by your promise, he returns his gaze to yours and maintains it as he works his way down your body with his tongue, kissing everywhere his hands have been. Without warning, he buries his face between your legs to bite gently at your clit, this contact a thunderclap in your spirit. Back arching off the floor, your voice shatters around his name, teeth chewing over the syllables as tears prick at the corner of your eyes. Your bones hum with the stimulation, very existence stinging and resonating, while he sucks your clit into his mouth, soothing the pain into a deep, soul burning pleasure. He swirls his tongue around it, mouth greedy and impatient, the fullness of his lips a heaven unrivaled by Teylim, and your hand tightened in his hair, body writhing in passion.

Hoseok releases your clit with a wet pop before he kisses his way down to your folds, thrusting the flat of his tongue between them, impatient and hungry. Mindlessly, your legs spread wider, small gasps escaping from your chest as your lungs take in the scent of your sex and your hips roll upward, feeling your juices mix ceremoniously with his saliva. Consumed by the sheer power of your need, you feel yourself howl like a moonless wolf, rolling your hips against Hoseok’s face in erratic motions, inspired by the promise of your orgasm.

But Hoseok releases your joined hands, moving it quickly to your hips where he holds you still, growling against your cunt.

‘You shall not wander from me,’ he says, moving his lips against your slit as he presses you into the ground. ‘Keep still and let me feast on you.’

Once more, he thrusts the full length of his tongue between your walls, sucking eagerly at the juices spilling into his open mouth. He’s velvet and silk against your core, sturdy and solid while still gliding against all the places you have needed him most, and your voice careens off the ceiling, loud enough to drown out the ocean waves. Scratching your nails down the soft skin of your thighs, you fight back the desire to thrust against his face, wishing you could fuck his mouth and press yourself against the tip of his nose. All of it, every thrust of his tongue and every roll of your hips you suppress has you moaning, voice high pitched and growing erratic.

The feel of his tongue inside you inspires the deep desire for something larger, something thicker. Your orgasm is a threat in the center of your belly, spine tingling and tightening as each press of his tongue against your walls tames the beast of your racing heart. Hoseok buries himself between your legs with a diligence that borders on hysteria, holding you down and indulging in your

Still, his tongue only just hits the place inside your core that needs him most. You want him hard against your cervix. You want him deep enough to leave bruises on your softest pieces.

Tonight, you want the thick girth of his cock to splinter your bones. Tonight, you want his cock pressed against your cervix, a bruise you will carry for the rest of your life. Tonight, you want his cum so deep inside you it burns.

Tonight, you want him to love you and you want it to hurt.

‘Hoseok,’ you whimper. ‘Please, I -’

Hoseok thrusts two fingers into your cunt beside his tongue, silencing you with the rough skin of his knuckles spreading your walls even wider. The contrast between his fingers and tongue elevates your hips from the floor with force, disregarding the strength of his hand. You are beastly beneath his ministrations, finding yourself caught in a wild hour and feeling as though you have abstained from him too long. He forces your hips back down with the palm of his hand, groaning against you loudly enough you feel his voice reverberate up to your tongue, and you cry out, distraught.

Having left the top of your dress buttoned, your nipples strain against the cloth, sensitive and sending electric ripples down your arms, your shoulders - all along your nerves. Another breeze moves through the lighthouse, and it kisses at the sheen of sweat that has broken along your hairline.

Desperately, you want him. Desperately, you need him. But still it’s not enough.

‘God,’ you keen, ‘I need to cum.’

Hoseok hums in understanding, the vibration of it moving deep inside you once more.

‘Oh,’ you whine, so small and so close to breaking.

Hoseok’s tongue leaves your cunt, only his fingers remaining, and he moves his mouth to your clit where he sucks at the swollen nub deftly. Again, your hand scratches down your thighs, harsh enough to draw blood. Red and angry, the sting of these scores against your flesh makes you smile, a manic and monstrous expression you hope your father, Daeus, and all the gods can see. Frustrated and feeling the coil of your orgasm tighten, your other hand slaps into the ground, gripping at the linen of Hoseok’s shirt. You dig your nails into it, pretending it is him, his skin, his cock, anything substantial to torture him as he tortures you.

Against your cunt, you feel Hoseok begin to laugh, wearing the smirk of the devil as he sucks diligently at your clit.

His name begins in your mouth and dies on an exhale, eyes open wide as you stare up at the ceiling. Vision glazed and vacant, your body trembles as your orgasm lingers dangerously on the precipice of your nerves, skin growing hot and bordering on a point of pain. You hear yourself crying, you feel yourself pressing harder and harder against Hoseok’s eager mouth, and you struggle to discern if the rush in your ears is your blood as it moves swiftly to find him or the ocean that works swiftly to keep your coupling secret.

And then, without any warning at all, Hoseok once more latches his teeth to your clit.

Your orgasm takes you by surprise, a wave of heat in your blood and skin, your juice cascading into Hoseok’s waiting mouth. This orgasm is an eruption, a shockwave in your soul that leaves you trembling while his relentless motions of tongue and hand milk you to completion. The tears you have held back begin to spill, soaking your cheeks as you soak his lips, a great wave over you that leaves you breathless.

‘Come up here,’ you gasp. ‘Come up here and kiss me.’

Slowly pulling his lips and fingers from your cunt, you hiss as he eases his way up your body. Using the tip of his tongue, he traces the shape of your parted lips with careful strokes, still messy and dripping with your slick juices. At your core, his cock presses, the contact sending tremors up your spine and causing a whine of pain to splinter in your throat. Granted permission by the sound alone, Hoseok delves his tongue inside your mouth and demands you taste yourself - you, your cum; him, his breath, his spit, his flavor; all of it, mixed together. Your walls clench as you kiss him, devouring him, as your folds seek to lure his cock inside you.

Gasping against his mouth, you feel his tip press roughly against your core, your walls still sensitive but your body and spirit eager for his fullness. Hoseok pulls away from your lips to whine a low expletive, his resolve shaking and unstable, close to shattering by the force of his desire. His lips part on his sighs, breath slow and shallow, and still shimmering with you. Already, he had devoured you, drunk his fill and yet he still appears starved. As he lingers above you, Hoseok rolls his cock against your walls once more, a challenge, a reminder that he is exhausted by the prospect of not having his fill of you.

Moving your hands to his shoulders, you press your fingers into the soft skin of his back and muscles, letting them wander down and down until you grip the rounded flesh of his ass There, your grip tightens, threatening to push him inside you lest he waste any more time.

‘Hoseok,’ you breathe. ‘I need you to fuck me.’

‘You want me to fuck you?’ he mumbles, running his tongue over your jaw before biting at your chin. ‘Tell me how badly.’

‘Please,’ you whimper, rolling your hips up against his cock, a warning against the tip. ‘I need you so badly it hurts.’

Wordlessly, Hoseok thrusts himself inside you to the hilt, balls pressing against you with a loud slap. You feel him shake inside you, body shivering with the sudden heat enveloping his cock. Hoseok’s moan is a deluge, an ecstatic exclamation howled victoriously into the juncture of your neck and shoulders, and you smile blankly at the ceiling, mind empty of all things that are not the feel of Hoseok against and inside you.

His stillness is a tease you cannot endure, and so you clench yourself around him, his teeth biting at your skin as you release and repeat, urging him to move. The feel of his mouth at your skin, the feel of his heaviness pressed so roughly inside you, as your cunt leaking over him, back down into the floor where it coats your ass in its stickiness. Still, you pay little attention to anything other than his immense girth as it stretches you, your walls strained to accommodate him like always.

Feeling you drip over and under him, he pulls out and thrusts back in, a knock at the door of your cervix and the sudden feel of him so deep as you groaning his name. He challenges you, repeating the motion as your bodies slide back along the floor with the force of his thrusts, the piercing sensation stealing your very breath. You are gasping as you clutch him, breasts moving against the fabric and nipples aching with the sensation, letting him push your body to its limits.

‘Tell me you love me,’ he grits out, an echo of your earlier promises.

‘I love you,’ you choke, the words incomprehensible.

‘Say it again,’ he hisses, executing a piercing thrust that has you gasping for breath, nails digging into his skin for purchase.

Squeezing your eyes closed, your hands move to the wings of his shoulder blades and you cling to him, a flightless bird. ‘I love you.’

When you hear yourself say it, you realize you are crying, your voice a sob of affirmation around tears of grief. It should be impossible to love someone this much, with the devastating whole of your existence.

‘Tell me you love me,’ you plead, barely able to speak around the way Hoseok punishes your cervix, a punishment for abandoning him.

‘I love you.’ Equally affected, his voice warbles over the words. Face buried in the crook of your neck, he presses the words over and over into your pulse.

‘I love you, I love you.’

Slowing his pace, Hoseok accentuates his proclamations with brutal thrusts against your cervix. Slow as his thrusts may be, they are full of power and force, a pain against your walls and muscles ensuring you will never be free of him. Tears falling freely, your breath is as sharp as his thrusts, a burn in your lungs as you struggle to contain the cosmic feeling of love you hold inside.

‘I know you like it when it hurts,’ he grits out, thrusts relentless.

All you can manage is a nod, a moan, the dig of your nails into his skin, the acknowledgement that you would prefer it if he shattered you. You would prefer it if he left nothing behind of you at all.

‘I know you like it when I stretch you, when you can’t walk for days.’

‘I do,’ you nod weakly, legs automatically spreading wider - until your hips hurt, until you are certain your bones will bruise from the way you have spread yourself open just for him.

Hoseok moans as a harmonic response to yours, the sack of his balls slapping diligently at your ass. You cling to him, holding him against you in despair, the vice grip of your hands matched only by the grip of your walls. Pleasure ripples through your synapses, an overload to your very synapses, little else registering in your mind apart from the places Hoseok penetrates within your core.

‘Do you want me to cum inside you?’

The pleading nature of his tone does not go unmissed, his own anguish evident in the way his hand cups your breast and his nails scratch at the flesh, wishing for entry.

‘Yes.’

‘What if I get you pregnant?’ he muses, though he remains completely sincere. What if I fuck my baby into you? What will they do?’

‘I hope you do.’ It takes all your strength to speak without losing your breath. Once more your orgasm has started to build gloriously around the pain of taking him against your cervix, and you need him to know that you mean it. ‘I don’t care if they scorn me.’

‘I’ll do it,’ he bites out - not a threat, but a promise. ‘I’ll knock you up, fuck my baby into you. They’ll have to watch you grow someone else’s child. What a sight, huh? Bet Daeus would love to see you deliver another man’s baby.’

‘Do it.’

You see yourself, heavy and round with his child, glowing brilliantly like a constellation unto yourself. Carrying your offspring, you would be a supernova, the cradle of the very universe and you would celebrate it with every word breaking over laughter. Daeus would snarl at you, a sneer reserved for your growing belly; your father would find himself in a rage so beautiful and blinding, you think darkness would befall the earth, this winter sudden and unforgiving. The other gods would ignore you, this you are confident of and would take with pride. You’d tease them with it, finding yourself immensely confident in the power of being pregnant with Hoseok’s child.

You’d carry his child as though this were your real pilgrimage within Teylim, your true purpose.

And Hoseok, you know, would be your chosen king, god of the sun because he deserves it.

He deserves you.

‘Yeah?’ he moans, hips picking up pace as he begins to chase his own high. Still, he loses none of the strength in his motions, seemingly motivated by your affirmation of desire.

‘Get me pregnant,’ you plead, biting your lip with shame at this impossible ask. A fool’s errand, a childish plea to change the way of things. ‘Make me stay with you,’ is your final whisper.

Together, you both fall silent as he fucks you with vigor, silent and awestruck by the violence of your coupling. With each thrust, your voices become a symphony of your union. Gripping him tightly, you hope it reaches the gods, your father, all of Teylim. You hope they see the way Hoseok fucks you, absolutely unforgiving. You hope they see the way you make a mess of yourself for him, that you have already decided on a husband and he is no god, no hero, but a man who loves you as though you are the whole of the sky.

Hoseok trembles against you, and you sense his orgasm approaching in the way he gasps against your skin, thrusting harder and faster and, somehow, harder into your core. You are burning with the ache of containing him, but your own orgasm is cosmic, making its steady approach with each brutal thrust. Hoseok wanted to live inside you, wanted to give you a child, wanted to watch you swell with him alone - and it is these thoughts that send you over the edge, the universe apart from Hoseok melting into a white. In this orgasm, there is no air, no sea, no sky - only Hoseok; his breath, his smile as you cum around him, his ecstatic laughter.

You imagine yourself pregnant, learning to contain a sun inside your womb. You imagine him laughing, hands and lips at your belly. You imagine him happy. You imagine him happy, and your orgasm moves over you with the strength of a lunar tide, the same way your tears move over your cheeks, torn between sobs of bliss and sobs of grief for a life you will not have.

Hoseok continues to thrust into you with purpose, the last of your orgasm leaving you in shockwaves as the motions of his hips overstimulate your walls. It hurts to contain him, not nearly as much as it hurts to leave him, and you dig your nails into his skin, demanding all you can from him with enthusiasm. The world is tilted on its axis as he cums inside you, wave after wave of seed spilling into your core as you stroke tenderly at the hair at the base of his neck. Teeth chattering, you mumble his name, shivering as he spills himself inside you, and you pray, woefully, that he kept his word and left you with a piece of him.

‘Mine,’ he says, stilling inside you as the last of his orgasm quakes his mortal form.

As his cock begins to soften inside you, the hand at your breast moves gently to the buttons. Your skin burns with the heat of the saliva he dripped against your neck, and he presses his cheek against your neck as he unbuttons the last of your dress. Exposed, now, to the sea breeze, your back arches slightly as the wind and his breath moves over your nipples. His hand cups your breast, too tender for the way he fucked you, and you are certain he is imagining your breasts full of milk, your body heavy, his wish granted, too.

Pulling his cock free, you both grimace at the feeling, and he removes his hand from your breast to instead smear the cum from your core that leaks from between your walls over your folds. He strokes the tips of his fingers against your slit, the stimulation making you hiss and writhe beneath him in retreat, before you are crying out his name, his fingers dipping inside to scoop his cum from your center. As he pulls his hand free, his studies his fingers carefully, smirking not unlike the devil, before he guides them over your breasts and lets it drip.

And then, without warning, he begins to write his name along your breasts.

‘I am sanctifying you,’ he explains. ‘Anyone who pulls down your clothes will find me. I have already laid claim to your temple.’

Your smile is composed entirely of sadness, a hope that has made a home of despair evident in your expression. Holding his hand in yours, you guide his soaked fingers between the valley of your breasts to your stomach, where you hold him still.

‘With any luck it will be visible here,’ you offer, hoping he cannot hear how remorse has consumed you.

Hoseok frowns. ‘My biggest fear is that you do become pregnant and that I cannot see my baby grow in you. That I won’t be able to raise our family with you.’

Furrowing your brow, you tilt your head to the side in consideration, battling the new found grief that consumes you. ‘Did you not mean it?’

‘I meant every word,’ he promises, moving his hand from your stomach to cup your cheeks. ‘I’d put twins inside you if I had any control. But you are mine, our family is mine. I curse the gods for taking it from me.’ Hoseok falls silent, and you press your cheek into his hand, turning to kiss his mount of venus in encouragement. ‘The day I met you I saw my life with you,’ he continues, so quiet, and so unlike your Hoseok. ‘You are half of my soul.’

Abruptly, Hoseok lifts himself up and pulls away from you. As he rises to a stand, he is still warmed by your touch, the glow from your magic still draped over his muscles, turning him amber and yellow. He’s incandescent, as much as a god of light as you, more regal and more royal than any man who was lucky enough to slay a beast in your name. Running a hand through his hair, he regards you with dark eyes - embers burning in his rises of lust and longing, devotion and despair. He says nothing at all as he moves, naked and vulnerable, to the back corner of the room where he gathers his tools.

‘What are you doing?’ you hum. Reaching your hand out, you curl onto your side, writhing in the pillow of your discarded clothes, beckoning him back to you. ‘Come back to me. It’s cold without you.’

He says nothing at all as he roots around, pulling out a thick screwdriver and hammer.

‘He will give you rings,’ he says, more to himself than to you.

The words come softly, barely a whisper that cuts through the air. Settling in front of the fog bell on his knees, he begins to hammer the end of the screwdriver into the metal, carving and carving.

‘He will give you flowers,’ he grits out bitterly, ‘and will see your smiles in the morning. He will bring you food and nectar, and he will watch you glow your brightest. He will watch you glow each time you remember my hands on you, my lips on you. In bed, he will watch you glow, thinking it’s him, letting his own ego grow so immense he will get off on his own power rather than you. But he won’t know, not like I do. Not like we do.’

Sitting up, you don’t bother to cover your naked body, the breeze from the sea cooling your dampened skin. Licking your lips, you watch as his muscles strain with his pound of the hammer. Brow narrowed, jaw set, and hands gripping his tools with confidence, he marks the metal with a certainty born from a man learning to combat loneliness.

‘He won’t know,’ he continues, words a grunt of demand and dominion. ‘No one will know that each time he touches you, you are comparing him to me. You will be remembering me. I want you to remember me. I want you to think of me, I want you to look for the light from this beacon, and I want you to outshine the anguish. I am destined to look for you the way so many people look for the North Star. My every storm is guided by you. So don’t you dare forget.’

The fog light spins overhead, clouds passing by and changing the refraction just enough to see the shimmer against his cheeks. Hoseok weeps as he carves, jaw unflinching, and hands steady with determination. A lump rises in the center of your throat, chest tight with the pain that comes from loving someone too much, entirely too much. Gasping for air, you move towards him, wanting his body pressed tightly against yours in comfort.

On instinct, you give him light - more light, so much light. From beneath your skin, you become torchlight, neon, candle flame; wrapping yourself around his back and shoulders, you rest your head on his shoulder and cling to him, becoming sunlight and firewood, banishing the darkness from his mind and mouth, a lamp unto his feet to lead him home. Pressing your lips at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, you feel him tremble beneath you, mindlessly leaning into you for more, endlessly more.

As you turn to watch his hands, your own tears soak the corner of your eyes.

‘Hoseok,’ you breathe, regarding his craftsmanship.

‘He can’t give you light like I can,’ he murmurs, suddenly so small and so young, weakened suddenly by the ever looming distance between you. ‘He can give you all the falsehoods of husbandry, but he can’t give you light. He can’t give it back. He is not your equal like I am.’

Beneath the careful, diligent work of his hammer and screw, your name begins to take shape, just beneath his. The markings are deep, thick scratches unlikely to erode in any substantial length of time. Wind and sea will not wipe your names away, nor snow nor sand. Not even heaven, you think, could cause your names to smear.

When he finishes, the bronze bell glimmers beneath your light, your names encased in a heart he artfully crafted. You imagine it in a wedding band - silver, and not gold. Gold, you think, is too soft and too malleable. The gods prefer it, a sign of eternal wealth and glory, but gold bends. Gold is too impermanent, value placed in all the wrong places. You would give Hoseok platinum, would give him silver, would give him bronze. If you had the power to move the earth, you would give him iron and steel, anything equally as enduring as the way you will be immortalized in ardor.

‘I can’t believe this is all I will have of you.’ Hoseok stares at your names, at the jagged lines he carved into the bell, mourning. Shoulders slumped and hands folded neatly in his lap, he laments quietly to himself as though in prayer. ‘At the end of all this, this is all I have. Your name and a memory.’

Raising your hand to his chin, you turn his face to yours, biting your lip as he cries freely, tears staining the softness of his cheeks with salt.

‘No one will have me, not like you.’ ‘He can take me, he can take my light, he can take my name, but he will never have my heart. All of me belongs to you. I am yours. Swear to me that you are mine.’

The hammer and screwdriver fall to the ground at his knees, a loud clank so disruptive for the quiet paradise you have built at the top of the lighthouse. Enveloping you in his arms, he buries his face in your neck, lips at the center of your throat - a place he has been so often this night you are determined to call it his home - tugging your hair back to make space for him.

‘I’m yours,’ he swears passionately. ‘Not a single person will have me the way I’ve given myself to you. In a thousand summers, not a single one will pass in which I’m not yours.’

The conviction in his words undoes you, your eyes wide as you stare up at the ceiling, at the base of the light, feeling as though there is no difference between the moon and the sun, not anymore. For you, they are interchangeable, each burning in an hour of love; which is to say, there will be no hour that passes in which you do not love him, no hour passing in which your light does not belong to him and his does not belong to you.

‘I wish I could stay like this.’ These affectionate speeches tumble from your lips, your mind empty of misgivings, wishing to be as honest as you are naked. ‘I wish I could stay this way, forever touching you.’

‘Time is meaningless,’ he muses, detached and distant, even as you hold him. ‘For me, this is the end of my life. There will be nothing else after this. For me, it will always be this way. My arms will always be around you.’

For him, you are glad. For him, you are relieved that there shall be no other moment than this.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

The seaside feels like the edge of destruction after so long away from it, gravity pressing at your bones. From where you stand, the unchanging nature of the earth makes a mockery of your nerves, the past beating against your sternum like a second heart.

You are poised and still, relearning the way the earth is unforgiving compared to the heavens. Too long have you been removed from such a tangible feeling of living, such a tangible reminder that you, too, are made of flesh and blood and all the things that break so easily, just like ocean foam. Your toes bury themselves into the rocky shore, rooting yourself like a tether as a promise that you will not run away, that you will not leave - not again. As though it senses your presence, the sea rages beneath a cloudless sky, the sun’s rays reflecting off the water, illuminated without any need of you.

The lighthouse looms along the hilltop, and you worry your bottom lip as you study its eternal guardianship. All these unchangeable things, loyal without you, and yet you stand here, begging for acceptance. You can hear Hoseok’s words like an echo, words not yet spoken but you anticipate them, the lump in your throat sinister in its tenacity.

How dare you, he will shout, and the tears on his cheeks will be your parting gift. How dare you haunt me here when I did not expect you, when I had already worked so hard to give you up.

Promises in the dead of night are easy to make when the daylight has yet to take anything from you. The earth remains unchanged but you are evidence of the passage of time, and you are certain Hoseok will have warred with himself so completely your memory of him is little more than a ghost of a man who died the moment he woke to find you missing.

He used to be able to sense you here. Back when things were new and things were simple, back even at the end, he would sense your presence along the water and come running, a smile already at his cheeks in welcome. Stroking your naked hip with the tips of his fingers, he told you all about his skin would tingle when you were close, a static on his tongue that told him something too important to be contained by the earth was waiting for him. Even before he knew you, before he knew it was you, he felt it, as though he had been made just to know you, to find you.

It used to be the same for you, a pull to the shore and a lightness of being that always made you stand here, in this place, waiting. Weeks passed before either of you had any idea you were near one another, before you’d even introduced yourself, and now it is the same. Your body combats the change in gravity with strength, though you realize too much has changed in you for the weight to feel the same.

The hair at the back of your neck stands on end, rising in anticipation as the air becomes thick and heavy. You feel him approaching, a magnetic pull against your back that has your posture shifting, pulling you to your full height regardless how heavy all of you feels. Still, he doesn’t close the distance, and your lips part around a sigh, silently asking him to reach for you, to touch you.

But he won’t.

Not when he thinks you are the same as you were. Not when he thinks this is all just a memory.

Closing your eyes, you turn to face him, feeling tears burn against the lids. Hoseok makes no movement towards you, and, unable to hold back any longer, you open your eyes once more, weeping at the sight of him. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you study the way he looks at you, the way his gaze traverses your form with a pained expression, the knot in his brow visible even from a distance. He’s far from you, far enough you cannot touch him, but he, too, remains unchanged - still beautiful, still glorious, still the sun king himself, and you choke back a bitter cry at the way it seems only you are the one who was allowed to change.

‘Hello,’ you try, offering a weak and unsteady smile.

Hoseok says nothing as he closes the distance, eyes trained at your middle, focused enough you feel him move inside you. He lets himself get close, close enough your skin calls out to his eagerly, begging him to touch you. You can smell him on the wind, the same musk, the same ambergris, the same dust that you remember, and your hands twitch at your sides, straining to reach out to him.

‘What is this?’ he manages, not looking you in the face.

‘I -’ A small cry cuts you off, and you press your hand to your lips, forcing yourself to keep your composure.

Hearing the anguish in your voice, he raises his gaze to yours and you see the way he mirrors your pain, confused and bewildered.

‘Tell me what this is,’ he whispers, fierce and demanding.

‘It’s exactly how it looks,’ you explain, feeling terribly pathetic.

It’s so simple, you know. Absolutely obvious. Your pregnant belly sticks out far enough now it leaves a distance between you, a gap where your child grows the only thing that separates you.

‘Did you come here to mock me?’ he spits, leaning forward with venom.

‘No!’ you exclaim, holding your hand up in surrender. ‘I…’ you drift off, uncertain where to begin. You decide, perhaps, it’s best to begin with the truth. ‘The baby is yours.’

Hoseok’s expression shatters, a thousand different feelings breaking over his face before he settles on disbelief and quiet rage.

‘Why would you show me this?’ he pleads, sounding so small. ‘Have I not suffered enough? You knew I wished for this and now you tease me with it?’

‘I’m not here to show you anything, Hoseok, and certainly not to cause you pain.’ It’s shocking how tired you are becoming, putting in the effort of not reaching for him, not weeping for him, not rushing to an end you both deserve. ‘They...rejected me,’ is all you manage in the end.

Hoseok sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes watering as he lowers his focus to your belly once more. ‘They stopped the wedding?’

He speaks so softly you almost do not hear him over the rolling tide, and now, you cannot be contained. In one swift motion, you reach for his hand twining your fingers together. Your hold on him is unrelenting, not allowing him a single escape. Feeling his palm against yours is all the motivation you need, a resurgence of energy you have been missing for months.

When you continue to remain silent, he narrows his brow and persists. ‘Are you unmarried?’

‘They were going to go through with,’ you explain quickly, not allowing him any room for interjection. ‘They were going to make me marry him. Daeus even said he’d give the child to a human family, make it go through a Hero’s Journey to join us back in Teylim. Gods, the fight I put up to stop that from happening. The Fate Tying went poorly,’ you finish with a sardonic grin.

Gently, you tug Hoseok against you, forcing his stomach to bump against yours. His heated breath cascades over your skin, and you sigh in pleasure.

‘The child is completely human, my love,’ you whisper, eyes searching his face. ‘The Moirai refused to untie us.’ Incredulous, you laugh, looking out over the grassy hill in wonder. ‘The old crones are always right.’

The weight of your explanation steals Hoseok’s breath, and he falls against you, clinging to you as he sobs into your shoulder. Holding him close, you remember the last time you were in this position, your tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, your hands clutching him, unwilling to be removed. As though sensing the great wave of his emotion, the child in your belly stirs abruptly, pressing against your womb to get his attention.

You jump slightly at the feel of it, and Hoseok looks down, laughing, incandescent in his joy. He brings his hand to your belly, touching softly at where your child had just been, and he sniffles, looking to you and back down, cheeks reflecting the light you suddenly cannot contain.

‘It’s a girl,’ you state, always wondering how he would react to knowing he’d have a daughter. ‘Our daughter kept me with you.’

Falling to his knees, he holds your belly in his hands and presses his forehead against its peak, too overcome with emotion to utter a word. Instead, he simply breathes deeply, wrought with bliss. Lowering a hand to the crown of his head, you thread your fingers through your hair and think that this, this precise moment, is what it means to be a goddess.

This is what it means to truly be sanctified.

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