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chispas-and-broken-bindings · 3 years ago

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Chispas Does a Meta, Pt. III

Murders & Miracles! Yay!

(Watch me make a liar of myself and not use a single pun)

Welcome back! If this is your first time watching me meta, let me send you back to Part I and Part II of Chispas does a Meta...because apparently I’m long-winded, and can’t get my point across in one post.

Now, for those of you who know what’s up…

Should we do a murder?? OR TWO?

We’ll go in chronological order. Daenerys, show me what you’ve got:

“Is it so far from madness to wisdom?” Dany asked. “Ser Jorah, take this maegi and bind her to the pyre.”

“To the . . . my queen, no, hear me . . . ”

“Do as I say.” Still he hesitated, until her anger flared. “You swore to obey me, whatever might come. Rakharo, help him.”

Way to speak truth to power there, Jorah, you weasel. Sidenote - someone asked me a long time ago to write about the differences between Jon and Dany’s anger, and...sorry anon, this is the probably the closest you are going to get from me...which is not close at all.

The godswife did not cry out as they dragged her to Khal Drogo’s pyre and staked her down amidst his treasures. Dany poured the oil over the woman’s head herself. “I thank you, Mirri Maz Duur,” she said, “for the lessons you have taught me.”

Once again...Dany going the extra mile. She’s practically a Stark. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Eh? Anybody? Anybody? Fine, the jury is out on whether Ned would be proud here.

“You will not hear me scream,” Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing.

Mirri is an actual bad-ass and I will never get over this not cluing every reader in on what to expect from D.T. from this moment forward. Shut up, Chispas. Don’t pull a Jon “we’d be pretty old” Snow and ruin the mood. Shut up, Chispas. How dare you bring show quotes into this very serious book meta!

Apologies everyone. Sorry, Dany. Proceed with the murder:

“I will,” Dany said, “but it is not your screams I want, only your life. I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life.” Mirri Maz Duur opened her mouth, but made no reply. As she stepped away, Dany saw that the contempt was gone from the maegi’s flat black eyes; in its place was something that might have been fear. Then there was nothing to be done but watch the sun and look for the first star.

When a horselord dies, his horse is slain with him, so he might ride proud into the night lands. The bodies are burned beneath the open sky, and the khal rises on his fiery steed to take his place among the stars. The more fiercely the man burned in life, the brighter his star will shine in the darkness.

Jhogo spied it first. “There,” he said in a hushed voice. Dany looked and saw it, low in the east. The first star was a comet, burning red. Bloodred; fire red; the dragon’s tail. She could not have asked for a stronger sign.

Maybe Dany is taking a page out of Mel’s playbook. This is some grade A showmanship. I think she might stick the landing, yet.

Dany took the torch from Aggo’s hand and thrust it between the logs. The oil took the fire at once, the brush and dried grass a heartbeat later. Tiny flames went darting up the wood like swift red mice, skating over the oil and leaping from bark to branch to leaf. A rising heat puffed at her face, soft and sudden as a lover’s breath, but in seconds it had grown too hot to bear. Dany stepped backward.

As long as you don’t look back, babs. Then you are lost.

The wood crackled, louder and louder. Mirri Maz Duur began to sing in a shrill, ululating voice. The flames whirled and writhed, racing each other up the platform. The dusk shimmered as the air itself seemed to liquefy from the heat. Dany heard logs spit and crack. The fires swept over Mirri Maz Duur. Her song grew louder, shriller . . . then she gasped, again and again, and her song became a shuddering wail, thin and high and full of agony.

Maybe I’m weak-willed, but this is truly heinous isn’t the best time I’ve ever had...

And now the flames reached her Drogo, and now they were all around him. His clothing took fire, and for an instant the khal was clad in wisps of floating orange silk and tendrils of curling smoke, grey and greasy. Dany’s lips parted and she found herself holding her breath. Part of her wanted to go to him as Ser Jorah had feared, to rush into the flames to beg for his forgiveness and take him inside her one last time, the fire melting the flesh from their bones until they were as one, forever.

Shit. I almost forgot this is a two-for-one deal. It’s a murder and a funeral. I can’t wait to stop reading about Dany taking a dead man’s penis inside of her, though. (How many books before my man, Daario, shows up again?)

She could smell the odor of burning flesh, no different than horseflesh roasting in a firepit.

I have a bone to pick. (oh no. Is that a whisper of a pun?) When you burn a whole-ass body, it does not smell like your run-of-the-mill backyard barbecue!

It smells rank.

But go on:

The pyre roared in the deepening dusk like some great beast, drowning out the fainter sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s screaming and sending up long tongues of flame to lick at the belly of the night. As the smoke grew thicker, the Dothraki backed away, coughing. Huge orange gouts of fire unfurled their banners in that hellish wind, the logs hissing and cracking, glowing cinders rising on the smoke to float away into the dark like so many newborn fireflies. The heat beat at the air with great red wings, driving the Dothraki back, driving off even Mormont, but Dany stood her ground. She was the blood of the dragon, and the fire was in her.

She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but the brazier had not been hot enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and children learn.

Damn, Dany. Look at this teenager changing the game. We’ve got a murder-funeral-WEDDING combo going on. What’s she gonna pull next?

She just jumps right into the fire (and I do mean literally this time).

Our FIRST Miracle

Her vest had begun to smolder, so Dany shrugged it off and let it fall to the ground. The painted leather burst into sudden flame as she skipped closer to the fire, her breasts bare to the blaze, streams of milk flowing from her red and swollen nipples. Now, she thought, now, and for an instant she glimpsed Khal Drogo before her, mounted on his smoky stallion, a flaming lash in his hand. He smiled, and the whip snaked down at the pyre, hissing.

She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, yet dimly through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder.

Only death can pay for life.

I appreciate that Dany is still gauging her audience’s reaction, even as she is maybe about to burn to death. I do not appreciate GRRM’s fixation on women’s nipples. Also, I do not appreciate the murder.

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.

DAMN. This is a birth, too??? Girl, spread out your life events, why don’t you. This is going to be an HR nightmare.

The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.

Not ominous at all.

When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful hair all crisped away . . . yet she was unhurt.

The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.

I’m speechless. I feel like Stefan. This murder HAD EVERYTHING! A funeral, a wedding, a birth, and three motherfucking DRAGONS!

Whaaaaaaaaaa. I can barely catch my breath. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to dwell on this miracle just yet, because we need to check in with that other murder. Capitalism, right? Just back-to-back meetings all the time. What a grind.

Come on, Melly-belly! DO YOUR THING!

“FREE FOLK!” cried Melisandre. “Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness!”

The Horn of Joramun burst into flame.

Wait, but how? Where is the torch? Is there no torch? Is this...magic? Melisandre is bringing it right from the start. Color-me-intrigued.

Jon, are you impressed?

It went up with a whoosh as swirling tongues of green and yellow fire leapt up crackling all along its length. Jon’s garron shied nervously, and up and down the ranks others fought to still their mounts as well. A moan came from the stockade as the free folk saw their hope afire. A few began to shout and curse, but most lapsed into silence. For half a heartbeat the runes graven on the gold bands seemed to shimmer in the air. The queen’s men gave a heave and sent the horn tumbling down into the fire pit.

Inside his cage, Mance Rayder clawed at the noose about his neck with bound hands and screamed incoherently of treachery and witchery, denying his kingship, denying his people, denying his name, denying all that he had ever been. He shrieked for mercy and cursed the red woman and began to laugh hysterically.

Jon watched unblinking.

Hmm..our newest lord commander is playing this close to the vest.

The horn crashed amongst the logs and leaves and kindling. Within three heartbeats the whole pit was aflame. Clutching the bars of his cage with bound hands, Mance sobbed and begged. When the fire reached him he did a little dance. His screams became one long, wordless shriek of fear and pain. Within his cage, he fluttered like a burning leaf, a moth caught in a candle flame.

Once again, this is truly awful maybe not what I would choose to do on a Saturday. But, what do I know? I’m soft.

Let’s check in with Jon. Is he impressed yet?

Jon found himself remembering a song

Spoiler: it’s The Dornishman’s Wife. Someone smarter than me needs to explain why it’s this song.

He found himself thinking about Sam and Maester Aemon, about Gilly and the babe. She will curse me with her dying breath, but I saw no other way. Eastwatch reported savage storms upon the narrow sea. I meant to keep them safe. Did I feed them to the crabs instead? Last night he had dreamed of Sam drowning, of Ygritte dying with his arrow in her (it had not been his arrow, but in his dreams it always was), of Gilly weeping tears of blood.

Okay Jon, you absolutely should be feeling guilty about what you did to to Gilly, but...

There is a time and a place for self-doubt and daydreams. Not sure this is it. Don’t pull a dad move and nod off during the encore of the concert. THERE IS A MAN BURNING ALIVE IN FRONT OF YOU.

Are you sufficiently in awe? Does this transcend regular old murder, and perhaps even feel like a wedding??? or a birth??? Is there a dragon stirring inside you?

Jon Snow had seen enough. “Now,” he said.

Ulmer of the Kingswood jammed his spear into the ground, unslung his bow, and slipped a black arrow from his quiver. Sweet Donnel Hill threw back his hood to do the same. Garth Greyfeather and Bearded Ben nocked shafts, bent their bows, loosed.

One arrow took Mance Rayder in the chest, one in the gut, one in the throat. The fourth struck one of the cage’s wooden bars, and quivered for an instant before catching fire. A woman’s sobs echoed off the Wall as the wildling king slid bonelessly to the floor of his cage, wreathed in fire. “And now his Watch is done,” Jon murmured softly. Mance Rayder had been a man of the Night’s Watch once, before he changed his black cloak for one slashed with bright red silk.

Whenever someone disappoints her, my mother likes to sing “every party needs a pooper, that’s why we invited you.” If Mel were my mom, she’d absolutely be singing that to Jon right about now.

What do you have to say for yourself, young man?

(someone who wishes to remain unnamed made this specifically for me, and I am extremely grateful. I also totally understand why they want to stay as far away as possible from this hot garbage. I still love you!)

Due to Jon Snow’s untimely interference, I’m interrupting scheduled miracle programming to talk about POV Trap

First we have Daenerys. Alas, she is not the unreliable narrator I want to discuss. She’s knows who she is:

She was the blood of the dragon, and the fire was in her.

She knows what she wants:

the Seven Kingdoms that by rights were hers

She even at least until the point in which she jumps into the fire has a grasp on what everyone is thinking about her. It would be hard not to, seeing as they are pretty up front about it.

When she asks Jhogo, Aggo, and Rkharo to be her bloodriders:

Jhogo took the whip from her hands, but his face was confused. “Khaleesi, “ he said hesitantly, “this is not done. It would shame me, to be bloodrider to a woman.”

Aggo accepted the bow with lowered eyes. “I cannot say these words. Only a man can lead a khalasar or name a ko.”

“You are khaleesi,” Rakharo said, taking the arakh. “I shall ride at your side to Vaes Dothrak beneath the Mother of Mountains, and keep you safe from harm until you take your place with the crones of the dosh khaleen. No more can I promise.”

She nodded, as calmly as if she had not heard his answer, and turned to the last of her champions.

Three strikes and you’re out right? I’m told that’s how these things work. But then, we’d be leaving out poor Jorah, and we don’t want to hurt a slave trader’s feelings, do we?

And I would ask for your oath as well.”

“You have it, my queen,” Ser Jorah said, kneeling to lay his sword at her feet. “I vow to serve you, to obey you, to die for you if need be.”

“Whatever may come?”

“Whatever may come.”

“I shall hold you to that oath. I pray you never regret the giving of it.” Dany lifted him to his feet. Stretching on her toes to reach his lips, she kissed the knight gently and said, “You are the first of my Queensguard.”

Jorah is such a simp. It’s pretty clear from the rest of them, however, that they aren’t buying what Dany is selling (so far). And she knows it. Dany isn’t crazy. She’s doing a murder with all her wits about her.

Enough about Dany, though. As I said, she isn’t the unreliable narrator I’m interested in.

I want to discuss Jon “I don’t know who my mother is and it makes me sad” Snow, instead.

JON. Back up. You don’t even know who your father is. If you don’t know yourself, how do you expect me to trust anything else you say/think/do/brood about?

You don’t even know who is actually getting burned alive, you little dum dum. (Reminder: it isn’t actually Mance*. For everyone waiting for a canon Benjen Stark/Mance Raydar romance, hope lives!)

You don’t know who you are

You don’t know what’s going on

And yet, we’re stuck with your moody little bitch perspective for the best bonfire in the North since Hardhome blew itself up six centuries ago!

Chispas, you’re asking, what do you mean by “moody bitch perspective”? I’ve been sprinkling in it, but let lay out the evidence of Jon’s badditude.

A. This is his castle, and yet he’s not even doing the murder. Weak.

B. Not only is he not doing the murder. He goes out of his way to try and persuade Stannis not to do it. Buzzkill.

“Mance knows the haunted forest better than any ranger,” Jon had told King Stannis, in his final effort to convince His Grace that the King-Beyond-the-Wall would be of more use to them alive than dead. “He knows Tormund Giantsbane. He has fought the Others. And he had the Horn of Joramun and did not blow it. He did not bring down the Wall when he could have.”

His words fell on deaf ears. Stannis had remained unmoved. The law was plain; a deserter’s life was forfeit.

C. When that doesn’t work, he becomes quite judgmental about the execution of the execution. Rude.

Mance Rayder wore only a thin tunic that left his limbs naked to the cold.

They could have let him keep his cloak, Jon Snow thought, the one the wildling woman patched with strips of crimson silk.

Small wonder that the Wall was weeping.

Oh, Jon.

It is too cold for this mummer’s show, thought Jon.

For a man who chose to live his life on the Wall, Jon sure does complain about the cold a lot.

D. Most damning of all, Jon interferes with proceedings and kills Mance/Rattleshirt, before he’s even properly burned to death. Saboteur.

Up on the platform, Stannis was scowling. Jon refused to meet his eyes. The bottom had fallen out of the wooden cage, and its bars were crumbling. Every time the fire licked upward, more branches tumbled free, cherry red and black.

Jon’s interference does not however stop Mel & Stan’s big plans. They are professionals, after all, and the show must go on.

Bring forth a Miracle!

The red woman’s robes of deep-dyed scarlet swirled about her, and her coppery hair made a halo round her face. Tall yellow flames danced from her fingertips like claws. “FREE FOLK! Your false gods cannot help you. Your false horn did not save you. Your false king brought you only death, despair, defeat … but here stands the true king. BEHOLD HIS GLORY!”

Stannis Baratheon drew Lightbringer.

The sword glowed red and yellow and orange, alive with light. Jon had seen the show before … but not like this, never before like this. Lightbringer was the sun made steel. When Stannis raised the blade above his head, men had to turn their heads or cover their eyes. Horses shied, and one threw his rider. The blaze in the fire pit seemed to shrink before this storm of light, like a small dog cowering before a larger one. The Wall itself turned red and pink and orange, as waves of color danced across the ice. Is this the power of king’s blood?

Okay...okay...for those of us who watched the previous performance, I have to say a flaming sword is perhaps not quite as dramatic as birthing three dragons, but you know, Jon wasn’t around for performance #1.

Is he properly impressed now???

Cold, he thought, and getting colder. This mummer’s show has gone on long enough.

I’ll take that as a no.

What does Jon “never mind about comets” Snow need to see to be impressed? (if one of you filthy jonsas** responds with a radiant Sansa quote, I swear I’ll...kiss you on the lips)

So all of this begs the question; why did GRRM write one ritual murder sacrifice from the POV of the murderer Chosen One™ in Book I, and then go and write a second ritual murder sacrifice four books later that follows many of the same beats but from the perspective of a skeptic killjoy, who just happens to be considered the other Chosen One™ of the series?

What is ol’ Georgie up to?

As you may suspect, I have some thoughts. Once again, you are going to have to wait for them though, because the night is long and full of terrors, and I need a coffee break.

Also, said thoughts are decidedly less fun than the party mood of parts I, II, & III of this meta, and I don’t want to pull a Jon Snow, and ruin the vibes.

---

*If Jon knew it was Rattleshirt, do you think he would still have put him out of his misery? I guess we'll never know!

**it would be disingenuous not to admit that the author is also a filthy jonsa. Absolute sincerity at all times is a key tenet of Chispas’s personal philosophy.

#dark daenerys #valyrianscrolls #stark vs targaryen #asoiaf meta #parallels #AGOT #ADWD #Chispas does a meta #dark dany #murders and miracles oh my #the strikethroughs are obnoxious #I'll admit it

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pinkfruitgender · 3 years ago

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do you think you could recommend some fairycore / angelcore / lovecore names please and thank you? ^^

sure thing anon. if these dont fit what you want, let me know and ill try again.

fairycore names

winnie

meadow

spring

nyx

briar

cricket

stone

aqua

buzz

sparkle

glitter

robin

venus

sapphire

dandelion

oriole

windy

citron

jade

ember

rhubarb

garnet

pumpkin

petunia

soleil

eve

buttercup

flix

bumble

timber

twig

dew

dusk

comet

bear

stormy

spark

lapis

tidal

angelcore names

gold

feather

heaven

divine

halo

daniel

joshua

azriel

anahel

zophiel

amriel

suriel

zerachiel

ariuk

sabrael

rasiel

dalquiel

amitiel

jeremiel

laurette

nahaliel

yofie

nuriel

tadhiel

felice

anahita

adelphi

lovecore names

cupid

scarlet

pink (the best name?)

blush

rose

chocola

arrow

heart

amor

amias

agape

lev

valentine

lover

glow

beat

kiss

love

red

white

berry

eros

#names #lovecoric #fairycoric #angelcoric #xenogender #mogai #lgbt #anon #ask #nonbinary #transgender

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

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Whenever mention about how azor ahai plunging sword in Nissa Nissa heart she writhes in pain and ecstasy, people assume it about having sex. So people assume that azor ahai reborn will plunge his dick into his Nissa Nissa and lightbinger aka their child will born. But how can one writhe in ecstasy when sword passed through their heart. I think it is made up by rh'ollo factions to promote blood sacrifices. What do you think?

Hi anon,

yes, the phrasing of the story certainly draws heavy on the swordplay sex metaphor suggestion, but it’s likely nothing as direct as “hero and lover have sex and fire sword baby comes out to save the world”.

There are layers to both ecstacy, aguish, death and the concept of the sword.

Jhogo spied it first. "There," he said in a hushed voice. Dany looked and saw it, low in the east. The first star was a comet, burning red. Bloodred; fire red; the dragon's tail. She could not have asked for a stronger sign.

Dany took the torch from Aggo's hand and thrust it between the logs. The oil took the fire at once, the brush and dried grass a heartbeat later. Tiny flames went darting up the wood like swift red mice, skating over the oil and leaping from bark to branch to leaf. A rising heat puffed at her face, soft and sudden as a lover's breath, but in seconds it had grown too hot to bear. Dany stepped backward. The wood crackled, louder and louder. Mirri Maz Duur began to sing in a shrill, ululating voice. The flames whirled and writhed, racing each other up the platform. The dusk shimmered as the air itself seemed to liquefy from the heat. Dany heard logs spit and crack. The fires swept over Mirri Maz Duur. Her song grew louder, shriller … then she gasped, again and again, and her song became a shuddering wail, thin and high and full of agony.

And now the flames reached her Drogo, and now they were all around him. His clothing took fire, and for an instant the khal was clad in wisps of floating orange silk and tendrils of curling smoke, grey and greasy. Dany's lips parted and she found herself holding her breath. Part of her wanted to go to him as Ser Jorah had feared, to rush into the flames to beg for his forgiveness and take him inside her one last time, the fire melting the flesh from their bones until they were as one, forever. (AGOT, Daenerys X)

Comet, sex imagery, fire fire fire, agony and ecstacy. And murder. But the ecstacy is all Dany’s, the sacrifice is all Mirri’s.

'Nissa Nissa,' he said to her, for that was her name, 'bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.' She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.

(ACOK, Davos I)

Sex imagery, fire, agony, ecstacy. Murder. Is the ecstasy Nissa Nissa’s? Truly?

That night she lay upon her thin blanket on the hard ground, staring up at the great red comet. The comet was splendid and scary all at once. "The Red Sword," the Bull named it; he claimed it looked like a sword, the blade still red-hot from the forge. When Arya squinted the right way she could see the sword too, only it wasn't a new sword, it was Ice, her father's greatsword, all ripply Valyrian steel, and the red was Lord Eddard's blood on the blade after Ser Ilyn the King's Justice had cut off his head. Yoren had made her look away when it happened, yet it seemed to her that the comet looked like Ice must have, after.

(ACOK, Arya I)

The Red Sword is a murder weapon, the red is the fire and blood of vengeful abuse of power, its result is splendid and scary. Did Ned feel ecstatic, or did Joffrey?

I think you’re quite right that there is a mis-attribution going on. Even IF the hero is to be pitied that he must lose his love to create the ultimate weapon, the sacrifice is not his, it is Nissa Nissa’s and the assumption that she feels pleasure in the act is... problematic. The assumption that a weapon forged in this way is a force of good is problematic.

What comes out of the sacrifice and murder? Tyranny and destruction. Dragons.

It is Arya who sees it clearly. She doesn’t look at the weapon in awe, nor at the person wielding it. She looks at it in revulsion and in grief. She sees the person who was lost.

#asoiaf #asoiaf speculation #prophecy #nissa nissa #azor ahai #red sword of heroes #arya stark #anti daenerys targaryen #long post

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pokemagines · 7 years ago

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future child. (michalis x reader)

anon asked: “I'm liking the idea of Michalis, meeting his future kid with summoner...whose not only a girl (whelp goodbye firstborn son and heir), but also rides a cute lil pegasus too and is ironically scared of wyverns. (it'd be nice if you could whip up a scenario/headcanon for this, but if not that's fine too..i just needed to get this off my chest bc its simply too cute)”

a/n: haha i’m glad y’all seem to like this... series of sorts ^^ the only difficult part is coming up w “fire emblem” names for the kiddos rip! --mod touko

also (i feel like i always put an ‘also’ on my posts bc i never shut up lmao!) i got fe: warriors this weekend and just finished the main story! it was aight tho the best part about it is unlocking f!robin she’s so pretty aaaa!!!

other “future child” stories: alfonse // sharena \\ fjorm & gunnthra // loki

you had always had a fascination with the stars. they were the one thing constant in both your world and in askr -- and despite the different constellations, you could always look up at the maps in the sky and make up stories for the different shapes you would pick out. of course, alfonse would tell you what each constellation meant, but you found the stories in your head were much more interesting then the actual explanation for them.

the one story you loved, though, was the story of the goddess of night, celeste. doomed to be forever separated from her lover, the goddess of the daytime, she weeps every night, the tears falling from her face and creating the beautiful formations in the sky to lead other lovers safely home, so they don’t suffer the same fate. it was oddly beautiful, in a way most tragedies are.

you’re thankful for your love of the night, as it let you meet her.

just as the goddesses tears light the night, so does she as she falls to the earth, hurtling towards it like a comet. you quickly jump up, going to help the girl who’s passed out inside of a crater on the ground.

“are you okay?” you ask, though the answer is fairly obvious. she just fell from the sky, of course she wasn’t alright. the girl, thankfully, can stand, and she gets up weakly, looking around as if in a daze.

“where am i?” she asks, holding her head, her voice barely a whisper. her clothes are torn, and she holds her arms close to her chest, her breath visible because of the cold. “w-who are you?” she scrunches her face up, and limps towards you. you lunge forward and grab her arms, making sure she’s fit to stand, inspecting her face closely.

you can tell she’s a bit younger than you, maybe by a few years, but there are dark circles under her eyes. her bright red hair is cut at her chin, [eye color] eyes dull and devoid of warmth.

“i’m [name], i’m the tactician and summoner of the army of askr... i could ask the same to you... what is your name?” she grits her teeth, looking to the left as if trying to rack her own brain of thoughts, but ultimately finds nothing. she grips onto you as if trying to steady whatever was going on in her mind. you wrap an arm around her shoulder, taking out breidablik and summoning a portal back to the castle.

“i-i’m not sure... i don’t remember anything.” you look at her, searching her eyes and seeing nothing but sincerity. you smile softly, making a stupid decision to trust this stranger who could easily kill you. studying the freckles on her face, you realize that some look like your favorite constellation.

“can i call you celeste?”

celeste quickly falls asleep under the care of the healers working the night shift, who just happened to be mist and sakura. they assured you that she would be fine in the morning, she only had a few scrapes and a dislocated ankle (nothing a stave couldn’t fix), so you could turn in for the night. despite their words, though, you couldn’t bring yourself to fall asleep when you had so many questions about this girl. so, you resign yourself to sitting by the door, waiting for her to wake up.

it’d been a few weeks since celeste crash landed in askr. she still didn’t have her memories back, but was quickly becoming very attached to you. not that you minded, she was a total sweetheart who loved animals viewed the world with wide-eyed optimism. she even got herself a pegasus and started training to become a pegasus knight, with some help from caeda. she seemed to be naturally talented with a lance. (you suspected that she might’ve been a pegasus knight before she lost her memories, but nothing was certain).

“isn’t she adorable?” you ask, watching her train from afar. michalis lowers his head, crossing his arms. “she’s growing into such a strong young woman already, despite only being here for week. i wish i had resolve like that.” you let out an airy laugh, the macedonian king seemingly listening to you, but his eyes focused straight ahead.

“children should not be utilized on the battlefield.” he says, eyes flickering down to look at you, “leave the fighting to the strong ones.” you hum, opening the small journal in your pocket where you keep notes on the units.

“you’re right,” you reply, flipping to a page where you had kept notes on michalis. “children have to grow up far too fast here, i mean, kana and sanaki are barely even teenagers and yet they have to fight. it’s cruel.” you doodle yet another drawing of the red-haired wyvern rider, this time smiling and happy with little flowers surrounding him. he takes notice, and doesn’t seem too amused, but says nothing of it. “did you train as a child, too?” michalis merely nods, obviously not wanting to share that part of him with you just yet. you knew not to press him, as he opened up to you little by little, and pestering only made him close up more.

“[name]!” you hear celeste call, bounding over to the two of you, with a grin stretching from ear to ear. she jumps into your arms, heaving trying to catch her breath, but still beaming nonetheless.

“i’m getting so much better! miss caeda is SUCH a good teacher! i think i’m almost ready to be on the front lines, what do you say, mother?” she says, so excited that the words come so fast you can hardly keep up.

“i don’t think you’re ready qu-- wait, i’m sorry, what did you just call me?” you question, and see michalis shift beside you. the first thing that comes to your mind is that this is probably just a slip up, like calling a teacher ‘mom’ on accident, but she just smiles in response, confident in her words.

“nope! as i was training, i think some of my memories came back to me!” she’s practically bouncing, shifting from heel to heel with nervous energy. “i saw a glimpse of you helping me get over my fear of wyverns, telling me something about how you used to fear them, then you met someone who helped you get over that fear!” she giggles, and you feel your heart hammer in your chest. you knew exactly who she was talking about, but your feelings for him weren’t up in the air yet. you glance at him, and his frown deepens, as he turns on a heel and leaves. your heart is telling you to follow him, but you couldn’t leave your daughter hanging.

forcing a nervous smile, you say: “please, tell me more.”

word travels fast around the castle, the news of celeste being your daughter being the topic of everyone’s conversations. chrom had offered you a few words of advice, as he was one of the few people who could relate to your situation, and you were grateful for that.

though, the speculations about who was the baby’s other parent were rampant as well. since celeste had red hair, it seemed every hero with a streak of red in their hair was rumored to be your “future spouse”. some heroes didn’t mind, such as the fearsome tactician saias and the candy thief gaius, but others, minerva, anna, and cordelia, quickly shot down these rumors, as though they did enjoy the summoner’s company, it was merely a platonic relationship between you two.

deep down, you knew who it was. it couldn’t be anyone else, you were sure of it, but you couldn’t seem to tell him. it’s only when celeste falls off her pegasus and bumps her head that she remembers herself.

“it’s michalis!” she laughs, almost maniacally. “my father is michalis! we have to tell him at-- ouch.” celeste winces, rubbing her head. you tell the girl to go to the healers while you took care of the matter yourself, (half because you didn’t know how he would react, and it would kill you if he denied her), and she acquiesces.

“michalis?” you knock on his door, anxiety swelling with each tap you make. you hear him respond with a quiet yes. “may i come in?” he doesn’t answer, and you know that means you can.

“what is it?” he responds sharply, not even bothering to look up at you as he scans through some war book at his desk. you clench your jaw, not knowing how to bring up the topic at hand. usually, you always knew what to say, but words often failed you when you needed them most. letting out a deep breath, you decide that it’s now or never.

“it’s about celeste, you--” he cuts you off mid-sentence.

“if it’s about who her father is, i couldn’t care less.” his voice is icy in a way you hadn’t heard since when you first met him.

“no, just--”

“oh, you haven’t found out yet? the list must be very long considering that you flirt with half of the army.” your eyes water, gods, he always knew just the right words to say to make someone hurt, you just never thought it would be directed at you. he didn’t mean it, your brain told you, he’s just hurt and trying to push you away like he does with everyone else, but it still stings that he would think of you that way. you hadn’t flirted with anyone but him for the longest while, he was just too much of a recluse to notice. it’s then he finally glances at you, noticing that you’re holding back tears.

“you’re such a dastard michalis.” you curse, tears flowing down your cheeks freely, “i was coming here to tell you that you’re her father.” you want to yell at him, want to make him hurt as much as he made you hurt, but you can’t bring yourself to. instead, you add in a small voice: “i should’ve listened to minerva about you.” and then you leave, slamming the door behind you.

michalis is left with the same feeling that he had after using his sister, maria for a bargaining chip. complete and utter disgust with himself.

“you!” celeste yells, flying her pegasus in front of michalis to block his path. she quickly dismounts, standing in front of him defiantly, chest puffed out and a stubborn expression on her face. even in the darkness, he could see the resemblances to you, as you always made when he would first tell you to leave him alone. “you made my mother cry! why would you do that you jerk!” despite the fierceness in her voice, her eyes look scared.

“i know,” he responds, voice barely above a whisper. “where do you think i was going, child?”

“i don’t think she even wants to see you!” celeste replies, her pegasus glaring at him behind her. despite her words, he continues across the courtyard to the hall where your room was. “hey! are you even listening to me!” she follows quickly, the only noise besides their voices being the soft flap of her pegasus’s wings.

“i don’t care, i need to right my wrongs.” he answers, ignoring her words of warning. of course you wouldn’t want to see him, he was utterly rude to the only person who cared enough to be nice to him despite his cold demeanor (save maria), but he had to see you. what he did to his family was unforgivable, and that damage could never be repaired, but he could mend relations with you, his one beam of warmth in his otherwise frigid world.

“i don’t know what you were like in my world, but...” she trails off, “i don’t want you to hurt my mother because you don’t want me.” he’s stunned into silence, the small girl looking towards the ground, eyes watering and sniffling as if to hold back a sob. michalis mentally curses, wondering what good deed he did in some previous life to warrant him this lucky of a hand, because he was sure that he’s done nothing good in his life to deserve the love of not only you, but of this angel, celeste, whom he’s never shown kindness to in the months she’s been here. he wishes he was maria, or even minerva who, though blunt, was much kinder than he.

“you think i do not want you?” he says, clearing his throat, trying for once to say what was truly in his heart. “nothing could be further from the truth.” celeste breaks, freely sobbing as she lunges at michalis, clinging to his midsection.

“oh father!” she says inbetween sobs, “i love you!” he’s frozen in place, not used to this type of affection except from maria. he puts a tentative hand on the top of her head, slowly patting her hair.

“yes. now, let’s go find your mother.” celeste quickly reels back, quickly wiping her face off and forcing a smile.

“yes! but don’t think you’re off the hook just yet!” she giggles, eyes puffy and red, “i’m still mad at you!”

#michalis #michalis (fire emblem)#michalis x reader #michalis x summoner #michalis x kiran #fe:h #fire emblem heroes #x reader #ficlet #fe friday #mod touko #future child #this is SO LONG but i have so many feelings for michalis!!!!#i love celeste i would die for her #q

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obiwan824 · 7 years ago

Text

Notebook- Danatole x Reader

a/n: you said you wanted angst, anon, and uh- this made me upset writing it, so. this is a little different from my usual comet stuff so let me know how you like it! also this is pretty long and i think it’s kind of well-written so enjoy!!

requested by: anon

request: So I've been reading War and Peace, and it said that Dolokhov has used Anatole to get a higher status and people to gamble with him.. (at least that's what I read, I should check) and I thought what if Dolokhov did that to the reader and Anatole but fell in love in the process. The reader finds out and tells Anatole. Both are heart-broken. She liked Dolokhov as well but can't trust him anymore. He begs them to forgive him. Just some angsty Danatole 😊

Dolokhov was not a fall-in-love kind of man.

He had spent years building up his walls carefully until he was nothing but a war-hardened shell of a man, bitter and cold. The only thing left of his former self was his eyes, still bright and cheerful. He hated the way they showed his emotions.

Marriage meant nothing to him, and courtship meant nothing to him. They were just another reminder of what his life might have been like if he’d only been given a chance.

Anatole was young and innocent and bright-eyed, attention-craving and desperate for love. More than that, he trusted Fedya. When Dolokhov brushed his fingertips against Anatole’s shoulders casually, the blond would shiver and blush. When Dolokhov kissed him for the first time, Anatole made up his mind to dedicate the rest of his life to his new lover. Anatole was the perfect target, easy to prey on.

Y/N was harder. She was Anatole’s best friend, his most trusted confidante. When she met Dolokhov, she looked him up and down and stiffened, crossing her arms.

“I don’t trust him.” her voice was just low enough to make it seem like a comment for Anatole, but it was obvious that it was meant for Dolokhov to hear.

Dolokhov smirked, raising an eyebrow, but stayed silent, watching as Anatole’s face fell. He perked his ears, trying to catch the blond’s reply. A few moments later, as Anatole whispered something to his friend, Y/N sighed, forcing a smile on her face.

“If he means so much to you, Tolya, I’ll give him a chance.” Anatole grinned and walked out of the room. Dolokhov, breathing a sigh of relief, began to follow, but paused when Y/N grabbed his wrist and spun him back to face her.

“If you hurt him,” she murmured, voice low and dangerous. “You will regret it.”

Dolokhov studied her, eyes glinting with both fear and excitement at the idea of a challenge. “Don’t worry, love. I wouldn’t dare.”

…

“All alone?”

Y/N looked up. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of Dolokhov and she returned to her novel silently.

“Ah, so you’re ignoring me now, love?” Fedya stepped forward quietly, almost as if he was going to join her at her little table, but turned at the last minute to study a random book. “I suppose I’ll just have to talk to myself, then.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Y/N teased. “I don’t think I could handle listening to that infuriating voice go on without interruption.”

“You’ll just have to talk to me, then, won’t you?”

Y/N smiled to herself, hiding it with the pages of her book. Fedya was cold and hardened, but he was also loving, caring, something else entirely. She’d seen the way he held Anatole, the way he spoke to him so gently. Dolokhov seemed like the type of man who kept secrets, but she was beginning to think that he was so much more than his reputation. After all, Anatole was known as a playboy, a flirt, and she had become closer to him than anyone else. Reputations weren’t everything.

“I suppose I will.” Y/N flipped the page, still not looking at him fully.

…

Dolokhov was not a fall-in-love type of man. He repeated this to himself over and over again when he looked at the two people he was “courting.” He didn’t recognize these foreign feelings- his heart beat faster, his face flushed and began to heat up, his fingertips quivered and itched to hold their hands. He didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to.

Anatole was a prince and Y/N was a countess, both with respectable families. His relationship with them had allowed him more wealth and power than he’d ever dreamed of. He’d done this before, with other young men and women looking for a companion, a lover, and were willing to pay for it. So why was this relationship tearing him apart?

As he rapidly wrote this down, the little notebook he used as a journal being his only companion, he didn’t notice his girlfriend peering over his shoulder.

“Whatcha writing?”

Dolokhov slammed the book shut. “Nothing-” he chewed his lip. “I mean, just-just a poem. It’s silly, it doesn’t matter.”

Y/N smiled, pushing his chair back slightly and perching on his lap casually. His arms came to wrap around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder, and she went for his notebook. Dolokhov pushed it away, frowning.

“Let me read it,” she insisted, reaching once more. Dolokhov picked it up and held it just out of her reach, furrowing his eyebrows. “Come on, Fedya, what kind of poem is it that you won’t show me?”

“Nothing you’d find interesting, dear,” he said nervously, feeling his free hand shake as she held it and intertwined their fingers, trying to distract him. “Y/N, stop it. Why are you so interested?”

Y/N paused before turning around in his lap to face him, leaning forward, and pressing her lips to his temple. She whispered against his skin, sending chills down his spine.

“Because I think there’s something you’re not telling me. Some big secret that you’re holding in.” her hands stretched out, letting go of his hand, and rested on his shoulders, feeling the tense muscles. “You’re so tense and stressed constantly- what is it you’re not telling me?”

Dolokhov tried to not to betray his feelings through his eyes, his damn eyes. “There’s nothing. I tell you everything, my love.”

Y/N dropped her hands, mouth turning downwards. “I know you keep things from me, but I didn’t think you’d flat-out lie to me.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m here when you want to talk.” she slid to the floor smoothly, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “But no more lies, or we’re through.”

Watching her leave, Dolokhov felt his heart drop to his feet. He was this close to losing Y/N and Anatole. For some reason, he could only think about losing them, their warm arms around him at night, their hands coming to meet his when they walked, their light kisses to his forehead when he came home after gambling.

It was only when he turned back to his desk to write down the latest development that he noticed his notebook was missing.

…

Y/N locked the door behind her when she left, glad, for once, that the doors locked from the outside. She leaned against the nearest doorway and felt for the notebook in her skirts, feeling only a morsel of guilt for stealing such a private item. Dolokhov was lying about something, or keeping something from them, and it was tearing him apart. She only wanted to help- that wasn’t a bad thing, right?

After convincing herself that she was doing a good thing, she opened to a random page in the middle, splattered with ink stains and what looked like tea or coffee.

A sudden knock on the door to Dolokhov’s study startled her. He began to bang on the door desperately, turning the doorknob rapidly.

“Y/N! I swear, Y/N, let me out of here.” more banging. “Y/N, please don’t read it- Y/N, it’s private!”

“I’m sorry.” Y/N began to read, walking away from the study door. If she heard his pleas much longer, she might just let him out.

…

Y/N went to Anatole first. He was in the bedroom, rearranging his clothes in the closet. He turned at her entrance, a smirk coming to his face.

“Hey, darling-” seeing the tear streaks and redness of her face, he softened. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t speak. Y/N pushed the notebook to him, her finger holding open the page. Anatole frowned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he took the notebook and opened it. His eyes traced the words slowly, occasionally glancing up at her.

It was an entry from when Y/N had first joined the relationship.

When Anatole had finished, he paused, biting his lip, one of his hands coming up to rub his eyes.

"Is this a joke?" he asked softly, unable to meet her eyes. He stared blankly at the page, not processing the words.

"Why would I joke about this?" Y/N took the notebook from him and shut it, trying not to cry in front of him. "He's in his study now. I- I don't know what to do, Anatole."

"Keep reading," Anatole insisted, taking the notebook back and flipping frantically through the pages. "It must be a joke, or a story, or something. Fedya wouldn't do this. Not our Fedya."

Y/N shook her head. "I always told you something was up. From the start, I told you that he was not to be trusted. But God, I listened to you- and now I've gone and gotten both of us hurt."

"Why would you blame yourself?" Anatole's eyes widened and he threw the notebook on the bed, wrapping his arms around her waist. "You didn't do this, Y/N. If I hadn't tried to sell him to you- if I didn't fall for him so damn hard- it could have been me and you, but I had to go and mess it up."

She reached her hands up to tangle in his hair and bent his head, leaning his forehead against hers. "Don't. We- we couldn't have prevented this. We loved him."

"Love," Anatole corrected, in denial. "Don't- don't act like this- it's a mistake. We'll confront Fedya, and he'll- he'll explain, and it will all be fine."

He made to move out the door and towards Fedya's study, but Y/N sidestepped and cut him off, reaching for him again.

"Tolya, please." the tears were coming now, trailing down her cheeks. "Don't make this worse. We- we should just leave. We can move back to my house, we'll leave him alone-"

Anatole tried to get out of her grasp, eyes glassy with tears. "It's not real! It's a joke! We- we have to-" he broke into sobs, turning from her and slamming his head against the wall. "He wouldn't use us. He has a heart, he doesn't show it, but-but he does love us. The money is just a perk- right?"

"You're so naive," she murmured, rubbing his shoulder slowly. "You can confront him. You can get yourself hurt. But I'm not doing this." She wiped at her eyes with her free hand. "I can't do this."

"You're a coward," Anatole whispered half-heartedly, hearing her footsteps getting farther and farther away. She lingered at the doorway upon hearing his remark.

"Maybe so." Y/N's fingers danced across the doorway, tapping a little rhythm to try and soothe herself. After a moment, she turned back. "Come on. He's in his study, like I said. I locked him in. Let's go."

Anatole thought for a minute before he walked back to her, took her outstretched hand. He smiled down at it, letting his tears fall down freely.

"We'll always have each other." Y/N tried to give him a grin, though her eyes were filled with tears. "No matter what."

"Always," Anatole whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Let's go."

...

Fedya banged one last time on the door, hopelessly, and collapsed to the ground. It looked like he'd be there, alone, for a while.

He thought about all he was about to lose. Sure, he'd lose his status as an almost-aristocrat from his courtship with Y/N, and the only steady income he had, being the money his partners would sometimes give him for gambling or little treasures. He couldn't care, not when he was about to lose Anatole's little smiles when Fedya complimented him or Y/N's hands coming to intertwine with his when she came to keep him company in the library. He was about to lose the people who kept him steady when it felt like his life was a lie, like he had wasted the best years of his life gambling and lying to the few people he cared for.

Fedya looked down and found one of his other notebooks and, in a spout of anger, ripped it from cover to cover, page to page until it was destroyed. In a rush of adrenaline, he grabbed one of his chairs and slammed it to the ground, watching the shards of wood scatter through the room, a few slicing through his skin. He couldn’t care. He smashed one of his bookshelves to the ground, watching with satisfaction as the books tumbled to the ground and landed in a pool of ink that had gathered there, ruining them. As he went to tear down the next bookshelf, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror hanging next to it.

He looked normal, for the most part. Hair just the tiniest bit messy, face blank, lips drawn in a scowl. But his eyes were the eyes of a madman. He couldn't quite place the look in his eyes, or why the tears were falling from them.

Fedya moved closer until his nose was pressed against his reflection's nose and squinted. He concentrated- where had he seen this look before? He'd seen it on Anatole when Fedya brought home a little treasure for him, on Y/N when Dolokhov sat beside her at dinner and kissed her cheek. He'd seen it on his mother when she'd looked at her two children, on his sister when he'd finally made enough money from gambling to buy her something nice.

Fedya realized with a start what was happening and let out a shaky breath, feeling a stabbing pain in his heart.

Fedya's eyes were the eyes of a fall-in-love type of man.

He was in love.

"Damnit," he murmured, closing his eyes. He let his forehead fall forward until he'd sunk against the mirror, unable to look at himself any longer. He'd gone and fallen in love.

He heard the click of the lock being undone but didn't process it. It was only when he looked back up at his reflection that he saw Y/N and Anatole standing behind him.

"I'm sorry." his voice was soft and rough. "I never meant to hurt you."

"You only wanted our money?" Y/N whispered, her hand protectively around Anatole's shoulders, the blond grasping her fingers for dear life.

Fedya tried to form the words, tried to tell them that, yes, once he had only been in it for the money, but now their relationship was so much more.

"No," he choked out. "I needed it."

Anatole swallowed hard. "I gave you so many chances. I tried to look past what people thought you were to who you were- but-but I guess they were right."

Fedya turned to face them, hanging his head. His hand crawled up his neck, tugging at the strands of hair there. He tried desperately to fix this, to beg forgiveness. But he was too damn proud, and he was silent.

"You're not going to explain, are you?" Y/N asked. She paused, waiting, giving him one last chance that they all knew he didn't deserve. Fedya shook his head and looked away, crossing his arms. "We're leaving. Goodbye, Dolokhov. I'm sorry that you couldn't push aside your damn greed to find love. I'm sorry that you're just as cold and awful as they all said you were. I'm sorry that you're never going to find a better life that you would have found with us just because you're too proud to put others first."

Y/N waited one last minute before tugging Anatole along behind her. Fedya could only watch the reflection of the two people he loved most leave, watching as they closed the door behind them.

"I love you," he whispered, knowing it was too late. He closed his eyes again and let himself fall once more. ...

Fedya thought he would never find himself here again. On the doorstep of Y/N's family estate, where he knew she and Anatole must have gone.

He knew he'd wasted his only chance, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. After a long debate, he knocked on the door. He focused his gaze on the floor, not wanting to see either of them right away. It had been at least a month since he’d last seen them, he couldn’t bear to keep track of time since they’d been gone, and he knew he’d be too nervous to continue if he saw them.

“Dolokhov.”

He felt his hands shaking by his sides. “Can-can I come in?”

Y/N crossed her arms, studying him. “Yeah. Be quiet, though, my parents still live here, and I don’t need them knowing I let people like you in their home.”

Fedya gulped and nodded, finally looking up and following her to her rooms. He knew the path all too well, so many memories of trying to charm her came back to him as he walked.

Anatole was on the bed, and Y/N pushed him in before her and closed the door behind him before joining the blond on the bed.

“Hey, Fedya,” Anatole said softly before Y/N lightly smacked him and gave him a condescending look.

Fedya shook his head. “I- I know I’ve been- the worst, but- I need to explain. You haven’t read the whole notebook. Do- do you have it?”

They paused, glancing at each other, before Y/N stood up and hesitantly took the notebook, passing it over to Fedya. He flipped through it quickly, finding the page he’d last been writing when all had gone wrong.

“This- this is the entry I wouldn’t let you read-” he passed the notebook to them, watching nervously as they read it.

Anatole looked up slowly. “What- what does this mean?”

“It means,” he said quietly. “That I didn’t know- that I could fall in love. I thought- I thought that I was immune to that. But then I met you- and I think- I know- that I’ve loved you this whole time. And I don’t expect you to forgive me for using you at first. But I want you to know that I wasn’t faking it. I love you both.”

Fedya looked back down at the floor, ready to leave at the slightest sign he should. For a long few minutes, there was uncomfortable silence, the only sound their breathing and the occasional flip of a page.

Finally, he felt a hand on both of his shoulders, and then Anatole’s head was on his shoulder and Y/N’s other hand was holding his. Fedya wrapped his arms around them and buried his head in Anatole’s chest, for once wanting to be comforted.

“I love you,” he repeated quietly, muffled by Anatole’s shirt.

Y/N rubbed his back. “I love you more.”

Anatole smiled, tucking Fedya’s head further into his chest. “And I love you most.”

#nick writes #anatole queueagin #anatole kuragin x reader

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