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[raidante]

update on life I got diagnosed w a very rare genetic disease that causes me to have random episodes of paralsys and permanent muscle damage each time I have these episodes!!!!!!!!!!

[fioiswriting]

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.

[im-a-writer-sometimes]

Thank You, Doctor (Miguel O’Hara - Part 1/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Word Count: 3k

Description: After being snagged from your own universe and put to work in the med bay in the midst of spider society, you catch the notice of one Miguel O’Hara.

Warnings: blood, probably language, ignoring the ATSV worldbuilding for the sake of my silly little plot

A/N: Are there plot holes? Yes. Do I care? Yes, so please don’t bring them up, I might cry. There’s an occasional Spanish interjection from Miguel, but I am not at all a fluent Spanish speaker, so feel free to correct me on anything if so inclined! Translations are at the end. Also, it includes a roundabout ode to my dearest love, Oscar Isaac. If you know, you know.

🕷

Not every anomaly was kept in a cage. Some, like yourself, had made use of your idle hands, hands that for one reason or another, could never again touch your own universe. It had taken some convincing, but after Lyla had heard enough of your requests from the neon red confines of your prison and carried them to whatever faceless spider person led this operation, you’d been let out. Your cage hadn’t disappeared per se, but it had widened a little. If your return to your own reality would cause its inevitable collapse—as you had repeatedly assured it would—then this was more than you could ask.

You made use of your figuratively-shackled hands in the med bay. You’d been a medical student when you’d been stolen from your universe, and you knew enough to patch up the wounds that came through your work station with ease most of the time—sometimes, after skimming a medical textbook and winging it. So far, no one had died on your watch, and you called that a success.

But your confidence, it seemed, may have been overinflated.

When a group of spiders rushed into the med bay with a large, tattered body strung between them, you felt profoundly out of your depth for the first time. But they couldn’t know that, lest you ended up caged once again.

“Put him on the bed,” you instructed. “Stomach down.” They heaved the body onto the bed, and you could make out the navy and red lines of a shredded suit, as well as a mess of brown hair, matted with blood you were hoping wasn’t his own. “Do you know exactly where he’s wounded?” you asked, running hands over the expanses of skin you could see, trying to make out where the various bloodstains were coming from.

“He was sliced along the back,” answered a breathless spider. “Stabbed twice in the abdomen as well.”

“Help me turn him on his side,” you said, to no one in particular, but there were suddenly several sets of hands helping you turn the man over. “You,” you continued, nodding to the spider standing across from you. “Grab a towel and keep pressure on the wounds on his abdomen.”

You conducted as thorough an examination as you could with your heart fluttering like a hummingbird in your throat, so many eyes trained on your shaking hands. The man had a few other shallow cuts and bruises, but as the spider had said—the biggest concerns were the slice along his back and the two stab wounds in his stomach.

Several of the spiders lingered as you worked, offering tools and towels and anything you needed to speed up the process. And then, in a half hour that felt like a handful of seconds, your work was done. If you had been asked to recount your actions movement for movement, you’d only be able to offer up a breathless blur of adrenaline and then the sudden empty stillness in the room after you'd managed to stabilize him. 

He was laid face up on a bed, covered by a blanket since you’d had to cut portions of his suit off of him. He couldn’t quite put a pin on his age, but he was handsome. You’d done your best to wash the blood out of his hair, and it fell in half-dry curls over his forehead. The angles of his face were severe, but they were soft, even kind somehow. At least in his sleep.

And then, to your great misfortune, he woke up.

At first it was a fluttering of eyelids, and you stood sharply from your chair, trying to look busy, as if you hadn’t just been sitting there staring at him. And then it was a few quiet groans as he tried to readjust himself. 

“Don’t sit up,” you said at the sight of him trying to push himself into a seated position. “You’ll rip out your stitches.”

He just blinked at you. “Who are you?”

“The person who saved your life,” you said, bristled by the gruff, mumbled annoyance in his tone.

He shook his head. “I have enhanced healing, I don’t need anyone to—” He was cut off by his own sharp gasp as he tried to haul himself off the bed. He went still and then avoided your eyes as he slowly lowered himself back down onto the mattress.

“You were saying?” you said, a smile curling your lips. You turned to the counter behind you, pulling a roll of gauze and medical tape from one of the cabinets. “You had a severe laceration on your back. You’re lucky it missed your spinal cord.” You turned towards him, gauze in hand, as you sat and scooted your stool towards the edge of your bed. “And that’s not even mentioning the two stab wounds.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, scooting away at your sudden closeness. 

“Your stab wounds were still bleeding when I finished, so the gauze likely needs changed,” you said. He lifted the blanket from his torso, peeling aside what was left of his suit to find two bandaged wounds, with—as you’d predicted—red-drenched gauze. He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t protest as you reached out and began to peel back the tape. After a minute or so of quietly working, he finally spoke again.

“You’re human,” he said.

You smiled down at his abdomen, not pausing your work. “Are enhanced deduction skills part of the wide cache of spider abilities? Because you are remarkably observant.”

You could feel his eyes on your profile, but you didn’t turn to face him, not even when he quietly finished his thought. “You’re the anomaly.”

“I was under the impression there were more than one,” you said, pressing down the last stretch of tape and pulling the blankets back over him.

“You’re the anomaly I let out,” he clarified.

“Ah,” you said, standing and walking to the sink to wash your hands. “So you must be the big man in charge. The one who ordered me to be stolen from my bed.”

“There is much more—”

“I know,” you said, turning back towards him, hands braced behind you on the counter. “It has been explained to me plenty. My father was from another dimension and never should have jumped into mine and knocked up my mom, and I never should have been born.” He watched you as you spoke, scanning your face for any sort of malice, but you merely shrugged. “Wish I could have told my mom that’s why he flaked.”

“You’re not upset?” he asked.

“And who would I be upset at besides him? You?”

The man simply blinked at you, hand mindlessly reaching to brush his abdomen, the expanse of skin you’d just bandaged. The carefully stitched wounds answered the question of any lingering resentment towards your captors.

“It would be natural to hate—your circumstances,” he said eventually.

You turned back towards the counter, quietly putting away your supplies. “You should rest until the end of the week.”

“That’s not—”

“In bed for the next two days, and no missions until the stitches come out.”

“But I have en—”

“Enhanced healing. Believe me, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” you said, finally tuning to face him. “But like it or not, you’re still just as human as I am.”

“I’m only half as human as you are,” he said, and it was the clearest he’d spoken since he’d woken up. At the slight flash of fangs with the lift of his lips, you understood why.

🕷

The next morning, you found him fast asleep where you’d left him. It was more instinct than choice, your gut churning with curiosity, that led you to slowly reach out your hand and pull up the right side of his lip, confirming you hadn’t in fact been hallucinating. He had fangs. Before you could pull away, his hand shot up and caged your wrist before his face as his eyes waned open.

“I have to ask,” you started.

“No, I’m not a vampire,” he said, keeping your wrist in his grip, his voice deadpan, as if he’d answered this question a million times before.

“What are you then?” you asked, pulling your hand from his.

“Half spider.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “A spider bite made you half spider?” you asked, but he simply stared. You could tell by the low drop of his brow that he’d already told you more than he would have liked, so you simply turned away, prepping your space for whatever spiders might come through your station that day.

It turned out to be a slow day. Only two spiders came through, both needing minimal attention, and you sent them on their way about as quickly as they’d turned up. And the whole time, you felt a set of red, half-lidded eyes watching you. You would occasionally slip over to his bed to redress his wounds, answering negative to his questions of leaving. “Bed rest until the end of the day,” you said after the second spider had left. “And then I’ll fit you with some crutches and help you to your room.”

“I don’t need crutches.”

“What you don’t need is that attitude,” you said, lifting your eyes to his. “Or else I’ll send you home without a sucker.”

He tilted his head, entertaining your humor but never cracking a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Y/n. Y/l/n.”

He blinked at you as if he was familiar with the name, but all he said was, “Not Doctor Y/n Y/l/n?”

You clicked your tongue. “I was two years from being Dr. Y/l/n.”

He nodded down at his bandaged abdomen. “You seem like a doctor to me.”

“And you don’t seem half spider,” you said. “Appearances can be deceiving, Mister…”

“O’Hara. Miguel O’Hara.”

You nodded and turned back towards your station, beginning to slowly clean up for the day.

“I’m sorry,” he said, making you go still. “That you can’t be in your own universe.”

You turned back to look at him, offering a wry tilt of your lips. Not quite a smile. “That’s alright. I imagine you're similarly displaced for the sake of your noble mission. You just had the luxury of choice.”

“Would you have chosen to stay?” he asked, a sudden sharpness in his voice that made his fangs flash from behind his lips. “Knowing your universe was collapsing?”

“I didn’t say that,” you said, eyes narrowing at the sudden malice. You turned back towards your station, tucking supplies back into cabinets. “I guess I should thank you for letting me work in the med bay. I was losing my mind in that cell.”

“Don’t thank me for that,” he said. “Just makes me feel worse.”

You turned back towards him with a smile and a sucker held between your fingers. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

🕷

An hour or so later, when a spider with basic first aid training—a.k.a. the only kind of medic they’d had before you—came to relieve your shift, you helped Miguel out of bed and onto a set of crutches, carrying an armful of medical supplies behind him as he trudged to his room. If people stared at the sight of him limping, sucker in his mouth, they received a look from the man. You couldn’t see said look from behind him, but you could see the way it had people turning—occasionally running—away. 

Once you got to his room, he seemed annoyed at the way you slipped in behind him, but he said nothing as you laid out medical supplies on his nightstand. 

“You’ll want one of these in the morning and one with dinner for the pain,” you said, jingling the orange bottle you set down.

“Don’t need it,” he gruffed out.

“Alright, well then I imagine you don’t need help getting into bed,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

He leaned the crutches against the wall. “Now you’re catching on.”

You gestured to the bed beside you, stepping away so he had enough room to climb up onto it. It was slow, sliced up by the occasional grunt or half-swallowed gasp of pain, but he got up there, tugging the covers over himself.

“Bet you’re regretting that decision,” you said, and he only huffed. You took that moment of silence to look around the room. It was all black and gray angles, not a touch of personality anywhere. Not a picture frame or flower vase, no posters or art.

“You know, having some kind of general joy or cheer in your room might speed up your recovery,” you said, walking over to the window to peer out at the street below.

“Now you’re giving interior design advice?” he said, face half buried in the pillow. He was likely still groggy from the pain medicine you’d given him before.

“I’m just saying, maybe try getting a hobby or two,” you said, pulling the curtains on his window closed.

“My hobby is saving the multiverse,” he huffed out. You turned slowly from the window, eyebrows raised as you met his eyes.

“Was that—a joke?”

He huffed, turning over onto his side. “Good night.”

You started towards the door. “Oh, of course, you’re welcome, Mr. O’Hara. I was so happy to patch up your bloody wounds and gently tug you from the precipice of death. Saving such grateful spider people like yourself is truly my calling in life.”

You stopped before the door, hand lingering on the knob as you glanced back at his figure, curled away from you on the bed. He gruffed out something inaudible and you stepped closer.

“What was that?”

“Mujer implacable,¹” he cursed, before turning over just enough to meet your eyes. “Thank you, Doctor. Now get out of my room.”

You smiled and reached for the door. “Good night to you too, Miguel.”

🕷

It was midnight when Miguel woke up again. The dull buzz of the pain meds had worn off, and the sharp ache of his limbs pulled him sharply from sleep. And then, shortly after, the rumbling of his stomach had his feet hitting the floor.

He told himself he’d simply go to the cafeteria and grab something to eat, but it proved to be easier said than done. With a few curses muttered in Spanish, he sunk against the set of crutches you’d provided, letting out a breath at the sudden lack of pressure on his wounds.

When he made it to the cafeteria, he found it not empty, as he had been hoping. A singular figure was sitting in the corner of the room, the tray before her stacked neatly with various food. Of course. Of all the people to witness his shameful hobble into the cafeteria, it had to be you.

You glanced up as he entered, eyes going wide for a moment.

“You look like someone who didn’t take their pain meds,” you said, lips curling into a smile at the grunt he offered in response. You watched him fumbling with a vending machine around the awkward angle of his crutches and stood, crossing the room to come up beside him.

You didn’t wait for him to ask for help, you simply gestured before you, silently asking what he was trying to reach. He stared at you for a moment before nodding towards a pack of flamin’ hot cheetos. You fetched it for him with ease, before carrying it away from him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching as you sat back down at your seat and set his cheetos at the spot across from you. You didn’t respond, you simply watched him with raised brows, waiting. Eventually, he grunted out something in Spanish and joined you, grabbing a bottle of water on the way.

“What does mujer implacable mean?” you asked.

“What?”

“That’s what you called me.”

He ripped open his cheetos and sat back in his chair, watching you as he took the first bite. “Relentless woman.”

“Hm,” you said, smiling. He watched as you stood up and grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the counter, eyes narrowing as you sat back down and offered them to him.

“What are those for?”

“They keep you from getting cheeto dust on your fingers,” you said, smile growing as his eyes widened.

“Mujer brillante,²” he breathed, taking the chopsticks and ripping them open. Something adjacent to a pleased smile overtook his features as he sat back, chopsticks in hand. And then he seemed to remember who was talking to, and his smile flattened out.

“Why are you awake?” he asked.

“Oh, I was just crushed by the weight of endless, multiversal knowledge trying to fit within a mind only equipped to handle the existence of one, pondering the meaning of my birth without a clear place in a singular universe and a purpose only carved out by my own inability to accept my multiversal irrelevance.”

He blinked.

“Also, I’m an insomniac,” you said, and he shoveled another cheeto into his mouth. 

“I don’t think anomaly equals irrelevance,” he said, and he wasn’t quite sure if he believed it. You didn’t seem irrelevant though, and he was going off of that.

“Then what does it mean?” you asked, and there was no humor in your voice. No malice either. Just a sharp curiosity.

“It means that the universe is delicately balanced, and you, mujer implacable, are a wrecking ball.”

“So I’m relevant, just not in any of the good ways.”

He shook his head. “In your old life, maybe. But you can be whatever you like here. Relevant. Irrelevant. Whatever suits you.”

“I think I’d like a healthy middle,” you said.

“Midrelevant,” he said, almost smiling.

“Exactly.”

The conversation was sparse as you both ate, but something soft opened up before you within Miguel. You’d already seen him at his weakest, so he had no reason to hide from you. And as you helped him back to his room, he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

🕷

Part 2

(1) “Relentless woman”

(2) “Brilliant woman”

[heylittleriotact]

WIP Wednesday

I've been tagged by @xxnashiraxx (I appreciate you for keeping me so on my toes with these! More Dragon Age though, I'm afraid 🫠)

There is a mighty hunger circulating the Dragon Age fandom for all sorts of angsty and painful creations centred around a certain necromancer's handling of a certain event that happens in act 3. It's currently in the rambly-word-vomit phase where things get dumped on paper with little thought as to whether or not they're relevant or interesting or even make sense. Under the cut so as to avoid spoilers <3

Moribund

adjective

1. near death

2.  stagnant; without force or vitality

Because you’re worried about me, or insecure about you?

We’ll talk back home, Emmrich… I promise. 

The accusation and the assurance cycled through his mind relentlessly from the exact moment she ceased to exist in their world, sent physically into the Fade by the Dread Wolf. The words had been careening through his head for days now, along with the ones he had spoken that had set the whole affair off: One of us needs to consider my mortality. 

A foolish assertion in hindsight: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s. If life was a sentence in a book, death was simply the appropriate punctuation that marked the end of it: without it, the sentence lost all of its weight and meaning. 

She always spoke so romantically about the inevitability of that final mystery - the peace and freedom from pain and fear that would come with it, and the comforting guarantee of an end in a world where one could seldom rely on the guarantee of anything: food, fortune… love. It was a beloved natural order, responsible for everything from the stars in the sky to the worms in the dirt. She was enchanted by mortality.

He dragged his hands through his disheveled hair, hunched over an old and fragile tome, whose text wavered and blurred. A tear splashed on the page, and not wanting to damage the delicate paper even in his state, he wiped it away with care. 

Never mind the apology he never got to make: he never got to tell her how much he admired her for that… how he envied her maturity and well-organized mind, and the fact that even despite his countless accomplishments and years of experience, she possessed an enterprising confidence he could never educate himself into.

“We go to sleep each night operating under the assumption that we’ll wake up in the morning,” she said to him not a week earlier. “Skipping out on sleep because I might die in the night is only likely to hasten my demise… and I might end up choking to death on my breakfast anyway. Ugh.” A shrug and an indulging smile, and she had breezed past him, leaving him to ponder that thought, the scent of cedar, peppermint, and rosewater in her wake.

“Oh darling…” He said to no one, “I’m so sorry…”

He forced himself to turn the page and continue reading even though all of the words had blended into incomprehensible nonsense days earlier, and he was little closer to finding a way to free Rook from Solas’ trap. It had been a fortnight already - was she even still alive? Had she languished away alone, her mortal body unable to sustain itself in a prison designed for immortal gods? 

If she had died, were those final moments peaceful, like drifting off to sleep? Or were they desperate seconds that stretched into eternity as she realized her impending and unavoidable demise, her entire being gripped with loneliness and terror as life slipped from her grasp like the finest of sand…

“No.” The assertion possessed defiance he didn’t think he was capable of. “I cannot think like that.”

She isn’t dead… she can’t be dead for the simple fact that there’s so much I need to say to her…

Denial, this was called, and it was a common coping mechanism amongst the bereaved. The mind was tremendously skilled at protecting itself during times of immense emotional and psychological strain. Comforting rationale would parse itself into a neatly packaged alternative that was easier to confront than the truth - a temporary neurological repair not meant to last forever, but rather allow one to withstand the immediate shock of a loss. But was he suffering the rigors of grief, or was he on the right path with his stubborn refusal to accept anything that didn’t result in Amina warm and safe in his arms?

“If anyone can get her out of that dreadful place it's you, Volkarin.” He heaved a sigh and straightened in his chair, his spine protesting at the sudden shift in positioning. He ran a hand pensively over his chin as he stared at the pages of the book, decently lengthy stubble rasping under his skin. He normally wouldn’t be caught dead with even a day’s growth shading his jaw, but these were extenuating circumstances indeed. 

That’s what he told himself at least, knowing that the truth of the matter was that he couldn’t even bear to look at himself in his shaving mirror for the guilt that he carried. 

[serickswrites]

Hi Serick!! Hope you've been okay. I've been keeping track of once and for all and 👀 so curious to see how it'll end!

But I want to say I really liked Flutter By!!! I love love love when whump takes a more poetic turn, it's so hhhg. I like to think that that whumpee was eventually rescued and is now safe, recovering and living with their caretaker. And that they sometimes will just sit at the window and stay there admiring the beauty of a world they now can see much clearly. Probably they have a little garden on the window. And caretaker will quietly sit by their side and contemplate the world with them. Thats just my headcanon, at least. hehe

Uh, I don't know if I have anything specific to ask. Maybe if you want to write a piece with a whumpee that's been locked in a tower (fairy-tale style and all) who's bruised and sad and receives a letter from caretaker, who says they're going to rescue them? That'd be cute :3

Have a good day/night!

-Blue

Hello Blue! I hope you enjoyed the ending of Once and for All (little sad, I know).

And thank you for your compliments about Flutter By! It was a fun one to write. I hope that Whumpee is doing ok, too, lol!

Absolutely I can write this request. Please enjoy!

Warnings: captivity, magic, bruises

Whumpee stared at their reflection in the mirror. Besides the window, it was the only thing they could stare at in their tower prison. But they hated staring. Hated seeing their sunken eyes. Hated seeing the mottled bruises on their face. Hated seeing the life slowly get sucked from their reflection.

Whumpee almost hated staring out the window just as much as staring at their reflection. They hated that they couldn't squeeze through the bars of the tower. Hated that they wouldn't survive leaping from the window anyway. Hated seeing the world change around them.

Without them.

Whumper, the most vile and evil sorcerer in all the land, had been particularly cruel locking them in a tower so tall and with such a view. Whumper had been cruel capturing them and locking them up. But to give them a chance to see what the world was like. To see how life continued, that had been the worst of their torture.

Whumpee sighed. Things were not going to improve. It would only get worse. They watched the door with its spelled lock, waiting for the inevitable time that Whumper would walk through and add to the bruises on their face. On the rest of their body.

But Whumper didn't come.

Not yet at least.

There came a tapping on their window. Whumpee whirled round to see a swallow carrying a letter on their leg. The swallow tapped the window once more. Whumpee opened the window, taking the letter from the bird's outstretched leg. The swallow flitted away and out of sight before Whumpee could register that a bird had delivered them a letter.

Whumpee tore open the letter and gasped. Whumpee, the letter began, I am on my way to free you, my love. I have found you. And I have found a group that will help me spring you from that tower. Hold strong, my love. I will be with you soon. And I will take you from that place. And keep you safe. Always, Caretaker.

Caretaker was coming. Caretaker was going to rescue them. Whumpee would be free of the tower, free of the mirror, free of the window! And most of all, free of Whumper.

[bracketsoffear]

Here is my submission that didn't get in!

In MAG 134: Time of Revelation, Adelard Dekker describes the Extinction including “Technology will strip us of what it means to be human, and leave us something alien and cold.” The band STARSET takes that concept and creates an intricate and interwoven story told through various media, but mainly through music. It tells the story of a dystopian society where technology has subjugated humanity. New and advanced technology created by their own hubris, hoping it would benefit humanity, but instead, that technology is used to corrupt them and bring about their own end.

“Cascading waves of change…The things we think to be inconsequential, can affect the future unintentionally. Once you had the power to effect monumental change, would you let fear consume you? Or would you overcome? We sent a message, A warning [of man's imminent demise.] We have that message. The following [was inspired by] that message. Though this story is not inevitable (Inevitable), and a society does evolve… We can change our fate. We can change the future. We can change the past.”

– “First Light”, Transmissions

In 2015, Aston Wise intercepted a mysterious signal emanating from Barnard's star system in the Ophiuchus constellation. His self-made telescope array had collected a faint transmission containing only a simple string of binary corresponding to a single ASCII code:

48 45 4C 50.

Decrypting it, it read: HELP.

“This place is a desert for the mind, devoid of emotion and barren of thought. No real thought, at least. It's no surprise – most minds here have long since atrophied from lack of use. They wait in flatline for the next rushing jolt of synthetic stimulation. The real world can't compare, even if it were allowed to. Contemplating the real world leads to seeing the world for what it is: a prison. A cell for the mind, body and soul. All my life I've been a prisoner, cowering at the idea that I might be capable of unique thought, terrified of what my own instincts might lead to. So how could I blame them? But it hasn't always been this way. I've heard rumours – filtered, distant, faded – I seek to know the truth.”

– “A Brief History of the Future”, Divisions

In 2049, NEW WEST’s Brain Machine Interface (BMI) is the foremost technological advancement. It looks like three dots on your left temple that glow when in use - which may not look like much, but it is very powerful. The BMI downloads your memories into something called the ARCHITECTURE, which in turn makes a personalized world just for you to wander around and to relive all of your favorite memories.

However, there is a band of rebels who see the BMI for what it is: a prison, a cell. The BMI restricts people’s mind from “contraband thoughts or ideas” forcing people into mindless, endless work. ("Hard work makes a powerful nation" and “Unity Through Allegiance” are popular slogans for NEW WEST propaganda). If anyone tries to deviate while a BMI is implanted in their skull, they shut you down, leaving you trapped within your own mind while it deteriorates, while your physical body remains absolutely inert and lifeless – almost like you are dead to the world. When this happens, the 3 dots on the person’s temple turn red. [Music videos: Manifest, Where the Skies End, and The Breach.]

According to secure transmissions shown during STARSET’s demonstrations, it is revealed that Aston Wise is the true Architect of the BMI – very much lending credence to the Extinction’s whole “We are the architects of our own destruction” thing…

DESTROY THE ARCHITECTURE. DESTROY THE ARCHITECT.

DESTROY THE ARCHITECTURE. DESTROY THE ARCHITECT.

ASTON WISE IS THE ARCHITECT. DESTROY THE ARCHITECT. DESTROY ASTON.

It is an Ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail, a closed loop. Aston first discovered the distress call from the future, and if Aston is the narrator behind at least some of the songs – as some of the lore suggests – he seems very much like a Garland Hillier-type (if Hillier was an avatar or at least had the markings of one). Lost in his own obsessions about the future, in trying to warn the human race of its fate, created the technology capable of supplicating humans and replacing them with mindless drones waiting in flatline for the next rushing jolt of synthetic stimulation, until the Message is sent backwards in time to the present once again.

--

I may try submitting the BMI for the Web, as I found myself trying to keep my argument from leaning too close into the territory of having control over someone... but yeah!!! Sorry about the length. 💀

My new propaganda for y'all is please listen to STARSET <3 Their music is so damn good, their songs are oops all bangers. Check them out especially if you like a bit of LORE with your music (looking at you, Mechs fans 👀)!!!

.

[thymelines]

yeah well. I guess it's just an excuse to try and put this thing inside me into words. I mean this can't be considered poetry, really. it's a cry of outrage, a plea - I have no idea who I'm pleading with, honestly, don't know anything other than I am crying as I'm typing this up on my phone, still safe and comfortable in my tiny apartment, I mean

at least there's no threat of bombs falling onto my head, see - I happen to have been born on the other side, the one that does the bombing & calls it an act of liberation. the one that jails people who dare to say as much as a simple 3-letter word publicly. as if refusing to call it war would make it into something noble. a holy quest, its success certain and inevitable. a lie, a lie so blatant and obvious I still cannot believe there are actual real people who don't see right through it

but like. I'm staring at a court house photograph, where a sixty-year-old man sentenced to seven fucking years in prison for saying just that is holding up a sign that says "do you still need that war" & there's a wall of uniformed bodies in front of his tiny plexiglass cell, trying to block him out, faces turned away, mostly, but. not all of them. I look at one and I keep looking at them all and I just cannot comprehend, this is something I'm never gonna comprehend - this is, right here on the picture, a human being. a real person who keeps doing his job, not being bothered at all by the fact that his job is to detain and jail people for speaking.

and there are so many, not just him - there are so many of them here, the ones working for the system, wearing the uniform, wearing every uniform there is, beating and torturing and raping and murdering, and the ones cheering them on from the sidelines, just as eager for the blood and the violence and fuck!!!  

this whole damn country should come with a trigger warning, not just this not-poetry which doesn’t get any, anyway, too late for that - every day I look at these photographs, at bombed out cities and bodies in the streets and people detained at protests and the smug sadistic faces of those doing the bombing and the murdering and the beating and I feel so alien cannot breathe, a mermaid thrown out of water, an altogether different species of sentience treated like a fish, to be gutted and served at dinner in case I’m stupid enough to get caught

it’s not a question of stupidity. it’s not having access to open waters - or any waters, really, just a splash and a puddle on a rainy day, barely enough to gulp it down, save for later - and this thing, right here, this powerless rage, this inability to breathe, the incomprehensible horrors treated like acts of heroism make me question my own humanity, see

if this is what being human means, I don’t think I want any.

.

.

.

@nosebleedclub july prompt list viii. mermaid

[sylum]

This is a Part 2 of the Philza x Daughter!Y/n headcanon that my dear Apollo Anon and I correlated on in @helliontherapscallion discord! (Also pretend that the confrontation of Dream happens after Wilbur gets revived, I know that's not technically what happens but the plot in the story works if its like that)

imagine, if you will: (spoilers for the recent headcanon)

When wilbur is revived, reader is left alone. her seeing eye friend is gone, and wilbur doesn't have the time to be there all the time. too busy hatching plans with his "hero", dream. so reader is left with friend for a while. then, y'all know what happens to friend. so after both of reader's companions are gone, they're left with no way to see, noone to talk to, and no family that's strong enough to be there for them. as an afterthought, when reader (inevitably) dies, Philza is heartbroken. he knows he couldn't be there, but he had hoped that his son would at least try. even tommy, but he was too busy plotting against dream. Techno wouldn't have been able to help, he was with phil, and phil was beyond the point of forgiveness for the reader. phil's gut-wrenching sobs for his second-favourite child would haunt wilbur forever, as he was half-heartedly scolded at the funeral by a grieving father and family. Tommy wouldn't be able to speak, already blaming himself, and techno wouldn't really know what to do. (he was never one for emotions, and he was never really there in reader's life). Wilbur would cry with phil, finally realising exactly how he massively fucked up. reader would be buried by l'manhole. leaving their body by the rest of the wreckage that cost them their sight and flight. Phil and Wilbur would never heal, I'm not sure about Tommy, but I'm sure he'd linger on it. Techno would move on. and reader's grave would be decorated with sunflowers on their every birthday. they seemed to randomly appear, but if you lingered, you'd see the annual reuniting of a broken son and father, coming together to mourn.

Y/n is an immortal so when she dies I believe she'll go back to Mumza (Kristin) and she'd hold Y/n as tight as she can crying golden tears and apologising for everything that everyone else has done to her. Y/n missing the of touch from another human being just completely breaks down as her Mum cradles her. I think then Kristin would make her the God of Judgment, (like the Statue you'd find in Greek Mythology with the blindfold over their eyes and holding the scales) and meet Dream XD and during the point in the SMP where they go and confront Dream, Y/n would appear in their God form and pass judgment on Dream sending him to Pandoras Box. Tommy and the rest of the server stands their shocked as she waves Sam forward to escort him to the prison, and Tommy reaches out croaking out Y/n's name and when she turns to look at him, she doesnt say anything but just nods affectionately to him because she acknowledges that out of all the members of her family Tommy was the only one who never really wronged her. She then disappears in a silver flash leaving everyone to tell people who weren't their what happened.

Word reaches Philza who cries out in both joy and pain, glad to know his child was with his better half knowing she would take better care of her then he ever did, and could only hope she would forgive him for the mistreatment of his daughter.

Now back in the Inbetween, you're sitting on your thrown when a have totem half shark man appears, smiling from ear to ear.

Aaaanndd ima end it at that for right now hehe will there be a part 3? Maybe!

As before please ignore any spelling errors I'm an artist not a writer lmao.

[acourtofsnakes]

Tor - Rogue, Chapter 3| The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader (f)

Summary: A little bit of Mando pov for you all!! It’s a shorter chapter, just kind of the same as the previous but from our Space Dad’s point of view this time. Though there may be a little hint of your decision at the end…

Warnings: Injury detail/blood, swearing, angst? Hints of fluff?

AN: There’s a very small ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ reference to a certain Dornish prince and his nickname in here too. Wonder if you’ll find it? 👀

Also, thank you to @ithinkwehitametaphor​ for sending me the gif! i couldn’t for the life of me find it and you honestly saved my life 

Wordcount: About 3465

Rogue Taglist: @snipskixandbeskar​  @weirdowithnobeardo​

Rogue Masterlist | Introduction| 1: Solus| 2: Arir | 3: Tor | 4: Gaa'tayl ​

Mando’a Translation: Tor – justice 

He always thought it would end like this. Never in some big blaze of blaster fire or with his ship, but in some back alley, bleeding out, alone. 

Hell, maybe he deserved it. He’d killed enough people to warrant this end, slumped on the floor, too weak to save himself. 

He didn’t deserve a warrior’s death, a Mandalorian’s death. Not after all he had done.

Of course, it was his duty, his honour as a Mandalorian and a bounty hunter but… that sacred Creed did nothing to stop the thoughts that plagued him at night, the whispers that hissed in his ear during his waking hours. 

He almost laughed at himself. 

The Creed was all he had. 

Until…. Until the kid had come along. 

Until he saw that little wrinkly baby in the crib and… it had all changed. 

He couldn’t kill it, him, couldn’t take it back to the Client or his Clones. 

One look at that damn little silver ball, and eveyrhting went straight out the window. 

Fuck the Guild code. He would never kill a child, an innocent being that couldn’t even talk, could only make those little cooing sounds that even he had to admit were adorable. 

Rescuing him… it had given him something to live for. Something to fill his days and a reason not to go hurtling helmet first into danger with no regard for his own safety. 

Except… well, no. That wasn’t strictly true was it. He’d become more reckless since that moment, the rules that his bound his life for so long were slowly coming undone bit by bit. All of which made him so reckless, so… desperate?

You only had to look at the sheer amount of people lining up for his and the kid’s head to prove that. 

So maybe he didn’t always make the smartest decisions, but they were still alive, weren’t they? Had friends to help them if he needed it. 

In a short time, he’d gone from being Judge, Jury and Executioner, to being the person that people called when they needed help. Sometimes people didn’t even call him. He just showed up and offered his services. 

And truth be told… he liked it. He liked people looking at him with hope and admiration, rather than fear and jealousy. He liked the way people fussed over the kid, asking if Mando was taking good care of the child. Like they were a family. 

A Clan.

The sigil on his armour said as much. Him and the kid. A unit of two rogues. 

That’s what it all came down to, in the end. Everything was to keep Grogu safe. That’s why he stuck to the Outer Rim, taking jobs that would draw him further away from those that relentlessly hunting them, those who wanted to harm the Child. Besides, he needed the credits that came with the big jobs. Taking care of the little womp rat was expensive. Not to mention there was always something falling apart on his ship. 

So, when that guy in the hood had cornered him in the bar, given him the fob and told him about the bounty that no one could catch, he’d taken it without a thought. He’d had so many over the years that were supposedly uncatchable that the word had nearly lost its meaning. And this stranger had obviously sensed that, explained that it was true. Reeled off the sheer amount of hunters that had been sent that way, Imps, Trandoshans, Empire workers, IG-11 robots, even another Mandalorian. After hearing that list, Mando had expected some high-level bounty. An escapee from the deepest pits of the darkest prisons, someone who had done terrible, terrible things.

So… when he’d activated the puck, and the hologram of a woman’s face had come up… he was shocked. This woman… she was beautiful. Still young. She didn’t look like she bathed in the blood of her enemies, or killed children and babies, she looked… well, not exactly harmless. There was a glint in her eyes even on the hologram, a spark that warned of danger, promised pain to anyone that tried to hurt her. 

A survivor’s look. 

Something niggled at him, a feeling he couldn’t quite place. It might have been hesitation, but he ignored it. The bounty over her head was enough that he could take Grogu to one of those sanctuary planets and lay low for a few weeks. Maybe even a few months. The kid deserved it, to be able to play and explore. 

And himself… Maker, he was just so tired. 

So, he’d pocketed the puck and the fob, didn’t ask who the client was, went back to the Crest and then he was on his way to Sorgan. 

Maybe it would take him a little longer than usual to bring the girl in, but it was nothing that he hadn’t done before. After all, stealing back the kid, breaking into a prison, everything else that had occurred recently… this was a walk in the park. 

He still believed that, right up to tracking you. Even when he chased you. 

He had to admit, he did love it when they ran, even if his back was killing him. 

Something about the chase, the frantic fear of the prey as he hunted them down, the conclusion inevitable. It thrilled him. 

But… this felt.. different. 

You were different. You fought like it was a dance, whirling across the clearing and around his punches like there was a song only you could hear. And you were taunting him, laughing as you did. You lived for this, like you had been bred for it. No… you’d been shaped by it, shaped by the choice of cowering or turning into a wolf. A wolf, like those he’d seen in Lothal.

You were strong, you fought well, he had to give you that much. He knew he would have to work for it, but with the promise of safety lingering, he matched you move for move, determined to hold this out as long as it took. 

He’d read your file, read what had happened and used that to his advantage. The words had come easily, even though they had stirred something inside him, perhaps a mirror of the feelings he was encouraging in you. 

But then… then you just gave in. Straight away. And not like the others did. Not in the way that they had, thinking it would make him go easier, change his mind.

No, you had completely, utterly given up.  He saw it in your eyes. Saw that survivors glint gutter out, a wolf tamed back into her cage with her tail between her legs. 

And… it threw him. He had touched something, caught something deep within you as he taunted you. Something broken… that again whispered to his own deepest thoughts. Like calling to like. 

He’d ignored it, pushing that thought back into the part of his minds where his darker thoughts lay slumbering – for now. He’d carried you back to the Crest, shackled you to the wall and had made to leave you there. 

Only, he had seen that the wound on your shoulder was torn open again, ripped by your fight and his jamming with the rifle. It was bleeding through your tunic, and even with unconsciousness heavy in your body, you still looked somewhat pained. 

He’d hovered there, staring at the bleeding wound and having some kind of internal battle. 

It wasn’t fatal. It was just a recent injury that had torn open. You’d be fine. He nodded, turning around and making all of one step. 

But. A Trandoshan had been the last person to hunt you. They relished in the hunt, had probably fought dirty and used a poison. It might be infected. What if you died on his way back to dropping you off? Or got really, really sick?

Nevermind. The messenger for the Client stated you had to be brought back alive. Alive didn’t mean whole. He carried on walking, trying to focus again on something else… only to pause a couple of metres away. 

Help her. 

The Mandalorian had turned back around to look at you, a frustrated grunt slipping from his lips. He moved through the ship, grabbing a med-kit and then practically stormed back to you, nearly ripping your tunic as he’d eased up the sleeve. 

It wasn’t too bad, a deep wound but it hadn’t been infected, yet. He cleaned it up, spraying it with the last of his bacta-spray and binding it with the last strip of bandages. He’d have to get some more soon, dig up some credits from somewhere. 

A cruel reminder of why he took this job. What you were. A bounty. That’s all. 

Muttering a string of curses, he finished binding your wound, wrenching his hands away and then made his way back upstairs. 

A bounty. A means to an end. The way to getting a break that his aching body craved for. 

He was hunter. You were prey. 

That was the mantra he had to keep repeating to himself when he’d brought you up to the cockpit. 

Had to keep repeating when you were teasing him, which simultaneously ground on his nerves but also made his skin tighten in a way it hadn’t for a while. 

It had been a long time, so long since he’d that kind of verbal play with someone. 

Hell, it had been a long time since he’d had any kind of play with anyone. He just didn’t have the time anymore, not with Grogu and not when everyone knew who he was. How could you trust someone enough to sleep with them when nearly everyone wanted to kill you?

His new mantra had echoed in his head when you began to verbally poke at him, hitting home about being lonely. He wouldn’t have been surprised if you knew you’d hit a nerve. But thankfully you stopped. 

But not before that broken thing had called between you again. Your words were spoken with too much ease and casualness, someone who knew all too well the loneliness and starvation for touch and companionship. 

Maker, he had to get rid of you soon. 

It had almost been a relief to find the small bounty on this planet. You’d been asleep, the kid asleep too so he’d gone. He didn’t need to wake either of you up, you knew why you were here - he’d told you so this morning. 

Besides, it was a small planet, easy prey to catch when everyone here feared the dark. He’d be back in a few hours. 

With the way he was so wired, he’d probably be back in two. 

That’s the way it was meant to happen. 

Track down the bounty, disarm, bring him back, freeze him in carbonite and Mando would have you back in the sky before you’d even woken up. 

And it had happened that way initially. He followed the sharp tailed bounty from the fighting pits to a cantina. Had to sit and listen as he boasted about some girl he’d bedded the night before and had screaming his name. He then, of course, launched into detail of said night, drawling about this girl in such a derogatory way that it took all his training and restraint not to just shoot this creep in the head there and then and be done with it. 

But, the Mandalorian had endured it. Sat there for an hour or so and then followed him out into an alleyway. Mando kept hidden as the bounty had spoken to a friend, talking about another girl he’d seen. Apparently, this one was even better than last night. He had it on good authority that this girl would be game for anything he wanted to do and more. 

And then Spikey had started describing again, in detail, what he would do. And Mando had been disgusted, angry that this creep was talking about a woman this way, such sick and derogatory things. Spikey’s friend asked if this ‘slut’ had a name. 

And then…

Your name. That’s what he said. 

And that’s when it went wrong. 

Your name had barely come out of this animal’s lips when a red haze clouded over the Mandalorian. Everything in him screamed violence and his body went on autopilot, attacking this vile waste of space matter so quickly he hadn’t had time to breathe. Mando didn’t even notice the friend bolt, running away. He was just so focused on taking down the bounty, ripping him apart for what he’d said about you. This one would be brought in cold. He would say that it put up a fight, tried to kill him so Mando acted in self-defence. 

His previous mantra of the last two days was forgotten, overtaken by a need to defend you, make sure this guy stayed the hell away from you. Bring him down, freeze him in carbonite and get off of this planet. He fell back into that haze, relying on his skills and instincts. 

Except… except that when the haze cleared, he wasn’t leaning over the body. 

No, he was the one being pinned against the wall by the bounty, with a strength he hadn’t realised Spikey possessed. What the fuck was he?

Escape training came to him now, but before he could disarm and kill, the bounty began to spew those vile thoughts about you again. About how Mando was keeping you tied to a bed, for his own pleasure. How he was going to take you, ask to keep you, use you-

And then for the first time in his life, Mando forgot his training. He forgot about blocking and defensive maneuverers. He forgot about the myriad of weapons on his body, the Whistling Birds, the flame-thrower. 

He reached out in a blind fury to throttle this creep. 

He left himself open to attack. 

That was the first time he royally fucked up tonight.  

Pain had suddenly become a living thing in his side and waist as he slid down the wall, and then his only thought wasn’t of survival, it was of the kid, and you. 

You were back in the ship, both of you safe at least. Maybe you would know how to fly, know how to get yourselves out of there and run, escape. That’s what he’d hoped. You were smart, you were a survivor. You’d take the initiative and get yourselves out. Besides, he might not have admitted it, but he trusted you with Grogu. 

And then like he’d fucking summoned you… there you were. Launching into Spikey Tail’s side and getting him away. He could only watch as you engaged him in the fight, taunted him with that same tone you’d used on him. Only this time, he could watch you. 

Beautiful. 

There was no other word for it, as much as he might not have wanted to admit it. You fought like it was a dance, that prowling wolf in you giving way to a viper, striking and falling back with all the grace of dancers he’d heard about performing in Coruscant. 

He was almost breathless as he watched this deadly game – though that might have been the blood loss and blow to his head. 

He thought he might be sick when the sound of your ribs shattering bounced off the slick metal walls, the muffled cry of agony it tore from you. 

But still, the taunts kept coming, and he couldn’t help himself when you complained that Spikey Tail talked too much. You had possibly two broken ribs and yet you were still a cocky little shit. The impressed, huffing laugh that came from his lips was loud enough to be heard by you. 

And that was his second fuck up of the night. 

What started as an unexpected burst of warmth in his chest as you turned and smiled at him, had immediately frozen his lungs as Spikey slammed you against the wall, strangling you. 

Fear shot through Mando, colder than his body had begun to feel. He tried to get up, tried to help you but he couldn’t move. His limbs wouldn’t respond to him. 

He couldn’t save you. 

He was going to watch you die defending him. 

Just like his parents. 

No, no, no. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do that, not again. He swore against his body, gathered every remaining ounce of strength that he had and reached for his blaster, just as those sick comments of degradation and ugly lust began to fall from your attacker’s lips. 

All he needed was to give you an opening, just one tiny opening and you would do the rest. 

Spikey’s lips were creeping toward yours, fear bursting in your eyes as you scrambled for the vibroblade sheathed against your thigh. 

An opening, that’s all he had to do. 

And he did. He managed to haul his body back from the edge of death long enough to shoot the guy in the back. 

You took your opening. 

He saw the flash of your vibroblade, heard the muffled, wet noise as it sunk into his bounty’s neck. 

The guy fell to the floor in a dead weight. You dropped too and he managed to see you gasp for air, assure himself you were mostly okay before that flame of energy guttered out so quickly, he saw stars. 

Darkness hovered around the edges of his vision as he felt his life slip through his fingers – literally, his other hand was pressed to his side in an effort to try and staunch it but he didn’t have the energy to. 

This was it then. 

The way he would go. 

Nothing noble, or heroic. 

Bleeding out in a back alley. The creatures in the dark would take him soon enough. 

At least you would be able to take the kid and run now. At least there was that. 

And then he felt hands knocking his way, significantly smaller hands push into the wound. He couldn’t even make a noise of pain; it didn’t hurt anymore. His vision cleared again and there you were once more, leaning over him with blood sprayed over your face, falling from a cut on your cheek. 

No. No. 

What were you doing?? 

You were supposed to escape. You were supposed to flee the mess he’d bought you into and take the kid and run. 

He tried to speak, to convey these thoughts to you but his lips had stopped responding. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. But somehow, it was like you got what he meant. 

Your hands began to lift, and he had a weak wave of relief that was marred by the fresh soaking of blood that oozed out of his side. How much had he lost now?

Too much, by the cooling temperature of his body and the trembling that had begun. 

He had come close to death before, so many times before but this felt different. This felt like he was losing something. Something that was just within reach but he hadn’t had the chance to grasp at yet. And it was being wrenched away, taken from him and trickling over the stones beneath him in a deep, scarlet puddle. 

Maybe he’d begun to hallucinate too, because you were back, leaning over him, hands pressed into him again like they could stop the blood. He lifted his eyes and something in him curled up and panged when he saw that you were already gazing at him. 

Gazing right into his eyes. 

How you knew where they were, how you looked through the blackened visor without seeing, he didn’t know. But he could read the war raging inside of you, the battle off stay or go. 

Go.

Mando tried to talk again, but only managed a faint noise, a croak that sounded so pitiful, he might have cringed at himself had he not started to hear a ringing in his ears. Time was nearly up, ticking away his life and that glimmer of something. 

So, he instead just looked at you. You were clearly not made up yet, so he did something selfish. 

He put his life in your hands. 

If you left him here to die, he deserved it. It was justice. Justice for every ounce of pain he’d caused. The grief he’d doled out to mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, children. 

Justice for the life of treachery he had all but dumped Grogu into. 

Justice for letting his parents die for him and not save them. 

But, if you let him live…

Then he would try harder. He would repent for his mistakes. 

He would make sure you were dropped somewhere safely. You couldn’t stay with him, he wrought death and destruction to those around him whether he meant it or not  

But he could take you somewhere safe, maybe to Greef and Cara. 

Then he would hunt down whoever came after you next, giving you the respite that he was going to keep for himself. 

They were the options. 

A deserved death, or a new determination to set right his mistakes. 

These thoughts swum through his hazy brain at a surprisingly rapid pace, only a few seconds worth of time as he still watched what you would do with this choice. He could see that you understood, understood the choice he had selfishly bestowed upon you. 

Only it was too late. 

Heavy darkness thundered over him in an unrelenting tidal wave and with a choked gasp, he was dragged under, so deep he might have imagined your arms winding around his battered body, hauling him to his feet as much as you could. 

His brain giving him one last reprieve, perhaps, or maybe a cruel taunt to what might have been before he was sucked under and everything went numb. 

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[alynnl]

Cloaked in Mystery preview post

So the idea for my next upcoming long fic has been in the works for a while, but I wanted to make a proper preview post for it.

Its first concept is here and the chapter titles are here.

But now, for the summary that will go on AO3!

In pursuit of a book containing all manner of forbidden knowledge, Cyrus arrives in Stonegard.  Determined to fulfill a promise he and the scholar made to protect one another, Olberic joins him in his quest along with Alfyn and Therion.  The group of four encounters friend and foe alike in the Highlands city as Cyrus gathers clues about the lost tome and the one who is abusing its power.  When his party is inevitably pulled into a dangerous conspiracy, Cyrus will have deduce a way for all of them to make it out alive.  AU of Cyrus’s Chapter 3.

Notable canon divergences:

The original Fellowship (Cyrus, Olberic, Therion and Alfyn) meet H’aanit in the Stonegard tavern. They hear the story about her master when getting refreshments for themselves, offering to lend the huntress an ear.  H’aanit joins the party when Cyrus offers to help her find answers that will lead to a cure for Z’aanta’s petrification.

H’aanit knows she can trust the guys, since Linde seems to like them.  Linde is especially attached to Therion, who is the most cat-like.

There is a missing person in Stonegard, the owner of the Provisioner’s shop who is an apothecary.  This reminds Cyrus and the rest of the party of the gruesome business in Quarrycrest.

The missing shop owner is Dominic's friend, and Cyrus mentioning the apothecary’s name is what gets Dominic to open the door.

Cyrus is more cautious, and has low-grade paranoia after his encounter with Erhardt in A Reason to Fight.  This makes him wary of the figure who is following him and his group, and this ultimately leads him to be distrustful of Lucia.

Because of the above point, when she finally reveals herself, Cyrus is hesitant to follow Lucia and consults his comrades within the safety of the inn.  Even though the situation appears grim, H’aanit decides she’ll join the group in their efforts to prevent anything terrible befalling Cyrus.  In their meeting, the group devises a plan.  

Therion and Cyrus will switch cloaks, and Therion will confront Lucia in Cyrus’s place.  Therion’s reasoning is that there isn’t a single dungeon, trap or prison cell that could hold him, and he’ll be able to escape on his own. He tells Cyrus that his job is to continue unraveling the mystery behind the missing apothecary and the original text of From the Far Reaches of Hell.

Cyrus remains in the inn to not blow Therion’s cover.  H’aanit trails behind Therion as a scout, reassuring Cyrus that she will return to get the others for back-up if anything untoward happens to him.

Cyrus is pacing back and forth in the inn room, much to the worry of Olberic and Alfyn.  Olberic finally stops Cyrus in his tracks and encourages the Professor to use his reasoning instead of filling his own mind with doubt and worry.  He is grateful for the reminder, Cyrus starts going over the details of Yvon’s suspicious rise to power fifteen years ago, and Lucia’s presence.

Cyrus goes into more detail about Lucia, and how she’s always by Yvon’s side.  But she’s not hanging on his every word, she is cold, calculating and scrutinizing.  Cyrus comes to the realization that Lucia is lying, and she’d never betray Yvon.

Around the same time Cyrus is figuring this out, Therion goes to confront Lucia.  He has her fooled at first imitating Cyrus’s voice with the hood concealing his face, and he follows her cautiously.  He goes ahead of her, asking where they go now, only to be caught by surprise when Lucia pricks him with a dagger with a strong sedative.  (Therion recognizes it as one of Alfyn’s concoctions, a strong mix with Sleepweed.)

Therion wakes up in the dungeon.  To his horror, he finds the body of the missing apothecary, and it looks to be a completely empty husk.  Shortly after, Yvon shows up to gloat.  He knows Therion is not who he pretended to be (because the hood fell off when he was trapped.)  Therion expresses anger about Yvon murdering someone for his experiments, and Yvon laughs it off, claiming that all the bravado in the world will not save the thief, and he’s certain that Cyrus let Therion take the fall for him, and will leave him behind.

The dungeon door closes.  Although Therion has some doubts, at first, as to whether Cyrus and the others will come for him, he thinks about all the chances they had to leave him behind, but they didn’t.  He doesn’t understand why they stayed with him,but he knows he has his own word to keep, that he could escape any cell that tried to contain him.  He starts to observe his surroundings and tries to come up with a plan to free himself.

H’aannit and Linde alert Cyrus and the others that something has gone wrong, and Therion was dropped through a trapdoor.  Around the same time the group mobilizes, Therese was watching in the distance, not hearing what’s going on, but only seeing what appeared to be her professor trapped in the mansion.  She approaches with a rope in hand, ready to do her part to help.

Cyrus’s party and Therese come upon the mansion at the same time.  While Therese helps Therion up, there is a moment of confusion where Therese is looking at “two Professor Albrights.”  (Therion with the cloak, Cyrus showing his face.)  Cyrus briefly clears up the confusion and switches his cloak back with Therion’s.

The light hearted moment is short lived as Yvon shows up to take Therese hostage.  Olberic catches Cyrus when Yvon throws him against a wall with a strong gust of wind magic.  Yvon stalls the others temporarily and escapes under a smokescreen.

Cyrus and Olberic recover from being stunned, and give pursuit.  The two of them are on the front lines, dealing out pain to the monsters that were lured there and defeating Yvon’s unpaid researchers.  The others follow close behind, with Therion reminding Cyrus not to be reckless after what he just witnessed in the dungeon.  (The empty husk of a man.)

Before the battle, Alfyn gives the rest of the party some of his potions, in case he’s unable to reach them for whatever reason.  That he wouldn’t put it past Yvon to try and separate them somehow to get the upper hand.

Yvon’s battle has two phases.  After a verbal confrontation, the boss fight ensues.

The first phase, Yvon is human with scholar magic of the first and second level.  He is formidable, especially against those who don’t have the best magic defense (such as Olberic and Alfyn.)

Cyrus counters Yvon’s spells, and at some point, appears to completely miss Yvon with his aim.  However, his ice spell strikes against the bonds holding Therese, freeing her from where she’s strapped down.  Cyrus catches her and quickly hands her off to Alfyn, asking that he get her to safety.

H’aanit and Linde accompany Alfyn, so that he won’t be waylaid by the monsters still lingering in the mansion. When Yvon tries to prevent their escape, he’s met with a combination of Cyrus’s ice, Olberic’s spear and Therion’s wildfire.

Wanting to get rid of Cyrus once and for all, Yvon takes out the blood crystal at a safe distance and transforms.

He becomes much quicker, and hits much harder in demon form.  Because he used a forbidden draining spell to absorb the life force of an apothecary, he has some self-healing properties.  Normal weapons like Therion’s dagger or shortsword leave a cut, but they heal quickly.  Cyrus’s fire magic does some damage, but his staff is ineffective.  Olberic is unable to land a hit at first, because of the demon’s inhuman speed.

When Cyrus finally slows Demon Yvon down with a spell, Olberic hits him with a Cross Strike with his sword of Hornburg steel (anti demon, anti magic alloy.)  Yvon is unable to regenerate and flies into a rage, specifically targeting Olberic and ignoring the others.  Eventually he knocks Olberic’s sword aside and pins him against the wall, beginning the chant for the draining spell.

Out of desperation, Cyrus and Therion try to free Olberic, but are knocked aside.

Cyrus recovers first, wondering how he can save Olberic from the monster.  He hears an otherworldly voice, implied to be Alephan, encouraging him to focus.

Cyrus gains a focus he’s never had before, and says the incantation for Fire Storm.  With the first hit, he strikes Demon Yvon’s arms, forcing him to drop Olberic.  In the second hit, he essentially fries the demon alive, hearing his last words about how he must go (somewhere) to receive more power.

Exhausted but alive, Cyrus asks his comrades if they’re alright.  While Therion mentions he’ll be up in a minute, Olberic tries to reassure Cyrus that all is well, but can barely speak.  Cyrus goes to tend to Olberic, helping him drink a potion made with healing grapes.  

With great determination, Cyrus wraps Olberic’s arm around both his shoulders and proceeds to go to Therion, not wanting to leave any of his friends behind.  Therion gets up just as Cyrus closes in, claiming Alfyn’s earlier potion worked its miracle.  He proceeds to help Cyrus carry Olberic to safety, with the flimsy excuse that “if you both keeled over and I went back alone, Alfyn would never let me hear the end of it.”

After Olberic is getting bed rest, Cyrus has to temporarily leave his side to see Therese.  Therion opts to stay with Olberic, again with (a not so very good) excuse.  “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Cyrus gives Therese a pep talk and applauds her courage, and encourages her to go back home and study to be “part of the bright future of Atlasdam.”  Although he doesn’t return her feelings of affection, Therese is inspired by this, and takes Cyrus’s books he leaves for her as a get-well present.

Alfyn and Therion talk, and Alfyn is able to put Therion’s mind at ease with kind words and a remedy to help him sleep.

When Alfyn and Therion have gone to bed, Cyrus and Olberic have a heart to heart of their own, thankful that they made it out of the battle alive.  Cyrus is stubborn and refuses to come away from Olberic’s bedside, and Olberic doesn’t wish to see Cyrus fall asleep in the uncomfortable chair.

Cyrus and Olberic reach a compromise, with Olberic making enough space in the bed for Cyrus to lay down beside him.  They end up cuddling in a mutual reassurance that they’d both be alright.

The next morning after waking, Olberic has regained his strength, thanks to Alfyn’s remedies.  After he and Cyrus talk once more, they head out into town where they find Alfyn, Therion and H’aanit.

The travelers attend a funeral for the once-missing apothecary.  Dominic is also in attendance.

At the end of the funeral, Dominic approaches Cyrus, mentioning that he’s going to do his part to help his late friend Henrik’s widow and son at the provisioner’s shop, and that he was of no use to anyone staying shut in as he was.  The scene is bittersweet, as Cyrus couldn’t save the shopkeeper, but they gave him a good send-off and his actions inspired Dominic to step out of isolation.

The travelers meet again at the tavern.  After their reassurance that they will continue helping Cyrus and one another on their quests, they set out for new horizons.

[littlemisspascal]

The Last Mandalorian

Chapter One: The Warrior in Carbonite Part 2

Fandom: The Mandalorian / Pedro Pascal

Eventual Pairing: Din x Togruta!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3,400

Rating: G

Summary: A series that is a mixture of Mandalorian, Star Wars, ATLA, and my own imagination. The Imps have seized control of the majority of the galaxy, including your homeworld Shili. You and your sister Ahsoka have developed a daily routine despite the stormtroopers keeping your village imprisoned. One morning you make a startling discovery that will change the course of your lives forever.

Warnings: plot plot plot, mild descriptions of violence, worldbuilding, dialogue heavy, sloooooooooooooow burn – seriously, we’re just getting started so it’s gonna be a bit before feelings are involved, reader is 17 and Din is 19 so I’m going to warn this as underage even though nothing sexual or even vaguely romantic happens in this chapter.

Author Note: The plan right now is for there to be 3 parts of Chapter 1. Tumblr isn’t doing a good job notifying my taglist, so I apologize if I bother anyone reblogging this a few times trying to get it to work. Thank you everyone out there for each like, comment, ask and reblog! The support means the world to me 🥰

Part 1 Part 3

Cross-posted on AO3

The village is a small community with less than a hundred citizens living there total, yet it is visible from miles away due to the bright paints used to decorate the houses. Murals depicting the village’s history and its residents adorn every house with details added by each new generation so that no one is ever forgotten. Back when visitors would pass through, they would always compliment the village’s beauty, but there is nothing beautiful at all about the electric fence the Imps erected shortly after seizing control, emitting shocks harsh enough to kill.

Originally the stormtroopers said it was to protect the village from threats, but nobody believed the lie. The only threat to the community was the Empire. They don’t bother making up excuses anymore, now they like to remind everyone the whole village is their prisoner, usually by a show of violence so unbelievably malicious it stuns everyone into compliance.

There are some horrors time will never erase from your mind.

Juni trees grow beside the fence outside the perimeter, the only species of tree amongst the shrubbery and turu-grass, and they are tall enough for their thick orange branches to extend over the uppermost wire. In the mornings, Ahsoka climbs out your bedroom window, slides down the sloped roof of the house and leaps onto a nearby branch. You follow after her, trusting that she won’t let you fall when you stretch out your hand for her to catch you and lift you up using a bit of Force to give you a boost. The two of you sneak back inside the village using the same tree, only instead of leaping at the house, you drop the short fall onto the ground beneath. Five years and the stormtroopers haven’t caught onto your trick yet. 

Except now the tree isn’t an option. Not when you both are half-carrying, half-dragging two-hundred pounds of flesh and metal. 

Hiding behind a clump of coyal bushes, you and Ahsoka scout the entrance booth where a pair of stormtroopers dressed in their characteristic white armor stand guard, holding blaster rifles. There are others on patrol, walking along the fence and checking its integrity, gradually stepping further and further out of view, but they will be back eventually. Your window of opportunity is limited. 

You adjust the warrior’s arm over your shoulders, quietly groaning when your muscles protest the heaviness. “What are we going to do? Stormies might share one brain cell, but they’re definitely going to notice this heap of metal we’re carrying. And as soon as they find out we don’t have passes, they’re going to start shooting.”

Passes are only given to a handful of the community’s traders each week. It is a three day ride on a repulsorlift speeder to the capital where they have a short span of time to sell their goods and then return home within the week with essential supplies. To ensure no one tries to run away, the Imps set up strict rules. If the traders are late, even if only by a few minutes or due to reasons outside their control, the rest of the villagers pay the price. Usually the punishment is a public beating, but sometimes the stormtroopers get creative and tie their chosen victims to a pole overnight by their head-tails. 

Nobody, not even the younglings, sleep those nights.

“We’ll be fine,” Ahsoka answers, firm and confident, gaze fixed upon the gate. “Just follow my lead. I’ve got an idea.”

She doesn’t spare you a second to protest, stepping out into the open and forcing you to follow or else drop the warrior’s body. 

The stormtroopers spot the three of you immediately, relaxed postures stiffening with alarm, and you have to remind yourself over and over to breathe, to not let them see any hint of the anxiety buzzing beneath your skin.

“Hold it right there!” One of the stormtroopers orders when the distance between you and them has shortened to a mere three feet. You freeze at once, heart pounding as fast as a thimiar’s seconds away from being eaten. A quick glance at Ahsoka reveals no fear in her expression. She stares at them indifferently, as if she is about to talk about the weather. 

“Explain yourselves.” It is not a request.

You squirm, nearly knocking your head against the warrior’s bowed head, on the verge of losing your composure, when you notice Ahsoka lifting her arm.

“You will let us pass,” she says, adopting a suggestive tone while waving her hand in front of their visors.

They respond in unison, seemingly entranced. “We will let you pass.”

You bite your lip as you and Ahsoka pass between the stormtroopers and through the gate, not wanting to break the spell by letting loose the barrage of questions forming on your tongue. What your sister had done was as amazing as it was frightening. She had manipulated them with such confident ease you are certain this isn’t the first time she has performed the trick on someone. 

“When did Aunt Shaak teach you that?” 

“She didn’t,” Ahsoka replies lowly, casting a quick glance around. “I taught myself.”

Your skin prickles as you also become aware of the increasing number of eyes staring at you. With the sun fully awake and bringing morning light with it, several villagers are carrying on with their daily routines outside of their homes. Most of them seem a mixture of confused and concerned about the stranger, but you spy the Elders looking displeased by the new addition amongst their ranks. 

You are not looking forward to being inevitably summoned and interrogated by them.

“How?” you ask, copying her hushed cadence. Then, a pulse of panic blooms in your chest. “Have you ever—?”

“No, I haven’t messed with your mind before. Never even considered it,” Ahsoka interrupts, sensing your worries. “I don’t practice often, but when I do it’s just harmless little suggestions. Like convincing Huno to give the younglings an extra sugar biscuit when he has some to spare or persuading Jaelee to go to bed early when I know she’s been overworking herself. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really sure the trick would work on those bucket heads since I’ve never tried it on two minds at once before. Lucky us, right?”

You nearly trip over your own feet. “What?”

Is she being serious right now? They would be dead right now if her gamble hadn’t paid off.

Ahsoka pretends not to hear you, nodding her head towards the blue-painted house up ahead. “C’mon, Maar probably already knows we’re coming.”

Maar Vashee has been the village’s healer for a little over fifty years. The purple-skinned Togruta helped deliver you and Ahsoka, and was considered by your mother when she was still living to be a dear friend. Her connection to the Force is especially sensitive due to her intricate relationship with the flora of the planet, using various herbs and plants to create remedies, and as such she developed a type of sixth sense where she instinctively knows when her skills are needed.

Entering her home that doubles as her clinic, you find Maar had indeed anticipated your arrival and set up a cot to place the warrior upon. Once he is laid down, you roll your aching shoulders, biting back a wince as the movement irritates the headache lingering at the back of your head. 

The warrior hadn’t made one noise the entirety of the trip bringing him here. Even now as he rests on the cot, his breaths are so quiet you would fear he wasn’t breathing at all if not for his chest moving. You touch his hand impulsively, laying yours over his gloved one. There is no response, not a twitch or spasm.

A sharp gasp of surprise has you whirling around, eyes landing upon Maar standing in the doorway between the clinic and her living quarters. She clutches a glass jar of spotted red herbs labeled nysillin against her chest, staring at the warrior like she is looking at a ghost. 

“Maar,” Ahsoka calls out softly, coming to stand by your side. A long moment of silence passes before the older Togruta manages to drag her gaze away to focus on you and Ahsoka, green eyes a bit too wide-eyed and haunted. Your sister’s gentle tone remains when she inquires, “What’s wrong? Do you...do you know him?”

Maar chokes out a brittle noise sounding like a cross between a dry laugh and a derisive scoff. “Personally? No.” She moves closer to the cot, the white circular markings around her eyes softening with what you confusingly identify as sympathy. “I’ve heard stories of his kind though. Years ago, many considered the Mandalorians the only ones capable of defeating the Imperials.”

“Holy frak,” you gasp before you can stop yourself.

As a youngling, your mother used to tell you stories about the fiercest fighters in the galaxy known as Mandalorians. They lived on Mandalore and had a special connection with their weapons, a bond nobody else could understand or mimic, trained to handle guns and knives as soon as they could walk. They defended the galaxy from unlawful rulers and the threat of enslavement, unafraid to spill blood when they knew peace would follow. Your mother told you they never lost a battle. Defeat was a word unknown to them.

At least until—

“Mandalorians were wiped out during the Decimation of Alderaan,” Ahsoka interrupts your thoughts, voice pitched high with disbelief. “And the few who lived were hunted down shortly after. The Imps made sure there weren’t any left to challenge them.”

As if triggered, you recall a detail from your brain glitch, a thought that had crossed your mind when you were flying through the storm. You had been looking for Aldera, the capital of Alderaan. 

It’s just a coincidence, you think. But a voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like your Aunt Shaak counters, there are no coincidences. 

And as much as you loathe admitting it, that voice is right. Having the image of a mudhorn slip into your brain shortly before you find a warrior—no, a karking Mandalorian of all people—with the same creature on his armor? It is too precise to be a coincidence. Your paths were meant to cross each other.

If only you had the slightest clue as to why.

Maar sets the jar down on a nearby table, then picks up the Mandalorian’s wrist to check his pulse. “That is what we all thought,” she agrees after a minute of counting has passed, dropping his hand. “His armor is characteristic of their kind. Nothing in the galaxy is as strong or valuable as their beskar. Let’s pray to Ai our beliefs about the Mandalorians’ extinction are mistaken,” she nods towards the unconscious warrior, “especially for his sake.”

Realization creates a sickening pit in your stomach. 

Regardless of the status of his kind, when he wakes up his whole world is going to be flipped upside down.

__

Three hours later, not much has changed except the room is brighter, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window, and smells sweet due to the bowl of herbs Maar left simmering on the table near the Mandalorian’s head, explaining the aroma will cure him of his hibernation sickness as he breathes it in.

“He’ll wake up when the marg sabls open tomorrow,” Maar told you with a gesture towards the potted red-and-pink flowers in the windowsill. They grow all over Shili, popular because they open their petals in a sunburst shape every morning. 

Ahsoka comes and goes, blessedly not criticizing your decision to sit at the warrior’s bedside when you have a list of chores to complete—doubled now that you lost your bet with Ahsoka earlier. She intercepts curious younglings hoping to sneak a glimpse of the Mandalorian whose presence has become known throughout the village. Nothing stays a secret long in the community. Gossip spreads as quickly as colds and takes twice as long to get over. 

If the stormtroopers catch on, the consequences will be disastrous. For once, Ahsoka shares your fears, admitting she isn’t capable of tricking a whole platoon. 

“The Elders aren’t happy,” Ahsoka says in-between sips of bone broth. “They think it’s too dangerous having him here.”

You swallow your mouthful, shaking your head. “I think it’s the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

Averting your gaze towards your lap, you scratch at an imaginary stain on your leggings. “Just a feeling I have.”

Ahsoka leans forward in her seat, pointing an accusing finger at you, causing your head to jerk back up. “The Force connected with you again, didn’t it? I knew you were acting weird before we found him.” She frowns, hurt flickering in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I never wanted to be special, Ahsoka,” you reply honestly. “I never wished or prayed to have visions, to have these random details pop into my head, to feel others’ emotions so strongly it’s like I’m trapped inside their bodies. There is nothing cool or entertaining about it. It’s…” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, forcing you to take a pause. You inhale a shaky breath. “It’s terrifying.”

“I had no idea you were struggling so much,” your sister murmurs, voice soft with contrition.

“How could you when I didn’t even want myself to acknowledge that I was?” you counter, feeling as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders as the truth sinks in. “I tried to ignore it all as best as I could. If not for meeting our friend over here,” you tilt your head in the Mandalorian’s direction, “I’d probably still be in denial. But I can’t ignore the Force this time. Not when the message is this important.”

“What is it?”

“We were meant to find him. To bring him back with us. I think—I believe he’s important. Remember what Maar said? About how people used to believe Mandalorians would beat the Empire?”

Ahsoka’s brow furrows incredulously. “You really think one warrior can defeat Emperor Gideon’s army? The rebels have been trying for years and the Emperor is always one step ahead.”

You can’t help deflating a bit, shoulders slumping. “Well when you put it like that…”

“Have you considered an alternative reason why he’s important?” she asks. When you don’t answer right away, she takes it as a cue to continue, “Maybe you’re right and he is going to change the galaxy for the better. But he could also be a warning. The Imps wiped out his kind, what if they plan to do the same to us?”

Your lips part to respond, only to close again wordlessly. You thought by accepting your brain glitches as messages from the Force they would become clearer, easier to understand. A lantern guiding you through this maze of darkness epitomizing your life.

But you have never felt more lost.

__

Falling asleep is a mistake. 

You didn’t know this when you rejected Maar’s suggestion to head home and sleep in your comfortable bed instead of curling up on her spare cot that squeaks whenever you move. The prideful side of you believed it was best if you were the first face the Mandalorian saw when he woke up because he would remember you and the promise you swore. He would trust you to explain everything to him.

Within a second of waking up, you realize how naive you were to think you had even a shred of influence over him. 

The sound of something shattering has you nearly tumbling off the side of the cot, jerking awake with a sudden burst of fear. You blink rapidly to clear the haziness of sleep from your vision, struggling to make sense of what you are seeing.

Pieces of Maar’s ceramic bowl litter the floor along with bits of charcoal and ash. Ahsoka and the Mandalorian stand on opposite sides of the room, staring each other down, poised to fight. The Mandalorian has a vibroblade clenched in his hand, while your sister crouches low, fists raised. You know Ahsoka can hold her own in a fight, even without the advantage of a weapon, but fear winds its way down your spine, cold and slimy, when you can’t help but notice how small she looks compared to him. Not only because he is a few inches taller, but because he also exudes an undeniable aura of intimidation: his unwavering silence, the skilled manner he wields his knife, even the sharp gleam of his beskar pieces reflecting the pale morning light has your chest tightening with dread.

The clinic’s lights flick on right as Maar announces her presence by cocking a blaster pistol. It is the Mandalorian’s own weapon, removed from his holster when Maar examined him earlier. “Alright,” she says to the room at large as she fully enters, dressed in her sleeping robe. “Let’s all settle down. Blood isn’t an easy stain to clean and I’d prefer it if none was spilt.”

You see the moment the Mandalorian decides to comply, shoulders loosening beneath the pauldrons and stance shifting from defensive to neutral, as he processes he doesn’t need to fight his way out of here. The vibroblade is sheathed within his right boot in one fluid motion and it is startling, truly, how quick he transforms from a dangerous threat to a potentially dangerous threat. 

Ahsoka is reluctant to yield, staring him up and down for a drawn out moment that does little to soothe your frayed nerves. Only when Maar pointedly clears her throat does your sister finally obey, straightening to full height with a hand propped on her hip, the picture perfect image of nonchalance. In another life she would have made a fantastic actress in a holovid drama.

“That’s better.” Maar nods, satisfied. “Now why don’t we—”

The Mandalorian moves so quickly that you jerk in anticipation of attack, eyes widening to the size of moons as you watch the pistol fly out of Maar’s hand and straight into his outstretched one. Your lungs seize up, a single thought flashing through your mind. This is it, the moment we all die. 

Except instead of shooting, he re-engages the safety mechanism and promptly holsters the gun at his side where it belonged. Without saying anything.

Ahsoka’s slack-jawed expression would have been comical if it hadn’t matched your own stunned face. Even Maar, who has witnessed over fifty years worth of shocking spectacles, looks awed by the unexpected display. 

You recover first, somehow managing to piece together the right words to ask a coherent question. “Are you a Jedi?”

It is only because you are staring directly at him that you notice the virtually imperceptible tilting of his head. “I’m a Mandalorian,” he answers bluntly, oblivious to how your heart skips a beat. “Weapons are part of my religion. It’s important to earn their trust.” He addresses Maar then, adding, “Especially if they’re stolen from us.”

His baritone voice has changed from when he spoke on the ship. Without the exhaustion wrapped around his vocal chords you are able to hear his normal timbre. Due to the modulator in his helmet, it has a husky quality, an intriguing mix of smoke and honey. But that is not what has your montrals prickling and your spine straightening. 

“I disarm all my patients,” Maar replies, back to being her cool, calm, and collected self. “I would have given it back—”

“How old are you?” 

You don’t realize you have spoken until two pairs of eyes and an expressionless visor look at you. 

The Mandalorian’s fingers curl and uncurl at his sides once, twice. “Nineteen,” he answers after a few seconds of lapsing silence.

“Oh Ai,” Maar murmurs, vocalizing your own thoughts.

All this time you have been thinking of the Mandalorian as a man beneath the amor. A hardened and seasoned fighter who has seen a lifetime of bloodshed and violence. But the reality is he is only two years older than you. Standing right on that thin, blurry line between being seen as a teenager and being considered an adult. 

“Who are you?” the Mandalorian asks, glancing first at you then your sister and back to Maar. Frustration and wariness blend together, sharpening his voice. “Why am I here? What happened?”

Ahsoka meets your eye with a question in her gaze, one you don’t have the answer for: where do we even begin?

Series Taglist: @pedro4ever​

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[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without Context

Ravenloft Edition, Lamordia Arc Part 3

WARNING: May contain mention of abysmally terrible mental institutions like the kind that used to charge money to gawk at the prisoners. "Kept any axes handy in case those tree branches decide to get too friendly. Or start singing, that creeps me out." Jonni: “Lore say if she’s hot?” Nyx: "Jonni, business first." Jonni: “This is business. I am willing to reward her quite well for services rendered.” Gorebash: "Also it's you, Jonni. You tried to seduce ghouls. Would you honestly let appearances deter you all that much?" Jonni has pressed the button 37 times just to be contrary. “Hi, Jonni Humantorch . We need a body.” "I'm very busy just now. How desperate are we talking here?" "We need everything except a brain." "My brother needs some body. Not just any body. Help." Gorbash: "Ah the Straitjacket came back in fashion. Perhaps I should have worn mine." “He’s also got a glowing ‘fuck me’ spot we can attack for massive damage.” “Aight. Ya’ll are real dumb and I’m only coming to say I told you so before you all die.” "Your told you so dibs are noted." Gorbash: "As I've said before, we are a pro-'I told you so' organization." "Porcelain mask...I've seen enough of those to know there is an 80% chance of nothing good being behind it." “Oh, never, but it’s kinky until they take it off.” “We need him to be a dude. I mean, I assume he still wants to be a dude. Dunno if he’s picky. You picky Cy?” "Yes I'd prefer to be a human male if at all possible. That being said at the moment I don't think I can afford to be too picky. So I'll take dealers stock." Gorbash: "So what does a replacement body cost these days?" Internal thoughts: <Don't say an arm and a leg, don't say and arm and a leg.> "It will take me some time to get the pieces together. In the meanwhile we can discuss the subject of payment." “Gold, service, or a night of unbridled passion with one of this planes greatest lovers of women?” Gorbash: "Ah, standard almost-certain-suicide mission." "Is there any information we can have about the lay of the land, or known dangers?" “The ghosts of the last three groups dumb enough to go there?” Gorbash: "Standard survival paranoia. We assume everything is out to get us and respond to anything that rears its head with overwhelming force." And suddenly, Poom is there. Sudden pooms are welcomed pooms. “By the way, maids? Clock work? Flesh golem? Kinky mind control thing?” “I was asking for me. I needed to know if they had agency or if it was gonna turn into something that means sudden but inevitable betrayal when I found out mid coitus.” Poom: "Dark pool of weird stuff. Might be a relative." Anyway you guys have an uneventful night, in the morning you are served some thin gruel. Azathoth: "Breakfast of champions!" "It is not the breakfast of champions! Wait, are you talking out loud through Poom's mouth or am I picking up your voice somehow?" Azathoth: "Wibbly-wobbly timey-whyme." "Marshal, creepy guy in pink bunny costume stained with blood was in the alley and put up another wanted poster for you, he waved and disappeared around a corner. Should we try and find them?" “You want me to kill them all while you talk to the guy?” "We're armed. They will likely confuse us for staff." “Also, as a magic user my shade will be wrathful and retain all of my spellcasting abilities.” Jonni: “Crocodile man, plant lady, nightmare clown, you got the hat trick.” Poom: "I ain't kissing no man-bats." Jonni: “You got any holiday themed serial killers?” "A couple actually." Nyx: "They are missing the man who is scarred on the whole left side of his body though." "Oh great, killer on the island. We need to get a giant wheel with all the options for the type of killer we will face and just spin it, probably as good as odds as guessing or asking questions." Jonni: “I have a sexy plan.” Poom: "Do you have any other kind?" Jonni: “Yes. They often involve fire.” Nyx: "If she kills you I will find a temple to get you raised from the dead just so I say I told you so, Jonni." Jonni: “Oh, that’s fair. I’m just saying, you can’t seduce after you’ve killed them, so might as well try that first.” Nyx: "Oh, very well. But first sign of her attacking you we all are jumping in." Poom: "Ew." "Bleeding hearts of the world unite. There's only one road to mental health. Jagger, fetch the ice water." Jonni:

Gorbash stands up. "Two questions. How many of your patients leave this place with a clean bill of mental health?" Marshal: "Second, how much to release him unto our care?" Gorbash: "Actually second was going to be how many slams it would take for me to put you through one of these walls." Doctor: "No more random beatings, no more filthy cages, its time to start treating our charges with dignity and respect that they are afforded as sapient beings?" Jagger pouts "Aw, so no more breaking into their rooms at night with fright masks going 'Boogah boogah'?" Doctor: "Well, let's not get crazy...." Jonni: “I can set things on fire with my mind. Your junk is a thing.” “Thanks because she very sneaky. You won’t see me coming because I’ll set fire to your house in the middle of the night.” “You guys adopt more kids than Owlbear Man.” “Oooo! Do you have any Medusa aphrodisiac?” "We can make something and tell you that's what it is." [rolls poorly on monster identification] "Its a goofy goo-ber." Poom does the clock thing at the animate fish guts. "It's mind is inhuman!" "It's Rancid GOO! What were you expecting?" The guys are surprisingly efficient as they take the globster apart and take the buckets over to a large building that reads "Fries/Cobblepott whaling company." Poom: "Remind me not to eat there." "...It's not a restaurant. It's a place where they render down whales to make oil and perfume." Nyx: "Oh good, because whale meat is far too chewy anyways." Jonni: "I need to get off this planet." Poom: "I know beings. Only cost is your sanity." Gorbash: "Ah, where the tonguing is done. Don't say a word Jonni, its an actual whaling term." Nyx: "Why is everyone staring at me? I said dad used that viewing crystal into other realities as a babysitter for years. The one with a man who dressed like a bat and the costume criminals he faced was a favorite of his." “That’s dumb. Why a Bat? Owlbears are way scarier.” Poom: "I'm familiar with it. There's a distant relative of mine under some kind of hospital over there." OOC: Yes, the further adventures of Owlbear Man. OOC: I'd better see that Wellerman joke I snuck in there when we do the "out of context quotes".

[blossom-hwa]

hi! i really liked your sungyoon fanfiction, light the pyres—apocalypse aus are great. very nervous to ask for your 4th anniv event but could i perhaps get kang yeosang + the title "3 of hearts?" (if anyone reading here knows what show it's from ily!)

hi love! light the pyres is actually one of the works I'm most proud of so it makes me so happy to hear that you liked it! thank you for your request - I'm not sure what 3 of hearts it from lol (maybe one of my followers does), but I hope you still enjoy this!

4 year anniversary drabble game: send me a Stray Kids/The Boyz/Golden Child/Ateez member + a prompt (check out the post for ideas) and I’ll write a drabble for you!

I guess this could be seen as a sort of spinoff of Kingdom (read the series here) - I haven’t posted the next parts yet, but this takes place in the Queendom of Hearts, which is where Checkmate is set :D like Kingdom, it’s heavily inspired by Marissa Meyer’s book “Heartless” - the story of a queen who went mad over love >:)

Uh so TXT Yeonjun is technically here but please don’t take my characterization of him as anything even close to who he is irl.... just think of it as me taking just his name and slapping it on a character I made I’m sorry

~

Title: Three of Hearts

Pairing: Yeosang x gender neutral!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Triggers: mentions of blood and death (semi-graphic)

~

They said you were born under the three of hearts, a spell of kind fortune, a card of good omen. "Your child will be beautiful," the diviner said when she placed you in your mother's arms. "They will love deeply, and in return, they will be loved greatly."

It was a blessed birth for the Kingdom of Hearts, whose rulers, though loved, had not been able to secure an heir for many years. Already the conception of a child was a miracle - to have you born under such an auspicious card only heightened the excitement, cast even more light on a day already filled with laughter and joy. Your parents showered you with love, and as the years passed, you grew in blissful happiness, surrounded by those who adored you. And truly, it seemed you were the three of hearts personified - for with you were two boys, Yeosang and Yeonjun, your best friends, who followed you everywhere you went. 

It was inevitable, then, people whispered, that at least two of you would fall in love. 

At the age of six, seven, ten, even twelve, you could ignore this. You could play the innocent card that came so easily to those born under the three of hearts, bat your eyes and cock your head and ask “What do you mean?” in reply to the questions people asked - do you have a crush? I’m sure you do. It must be on one of the boys you’re always running around with, yes? But as you grew older and the question of to whom you would extend your hand in marriage became increasingly important, your eyes began to fixate on soft blond hair and warm brown eyes, smile widening in the presence of a deep, gentle voice accompanied by the loveliest sparkle in his eyes. 

The traits of a certain best friend and heir to the Kang family fortune. 

He offers a courtship under the flowering wisteria tree just under your window, pale cheeks tinted with blush as he stutters his way through a short confession. Your heart warms, lifts, bursts with joy as you accept with a smiling nod, rejoicing that you have found a match who will love you as much as you love him. Three of hearts, you think giddily - I will be loved as much as I give it.

The stages of courtship seem to pass by all too slowly and at the same time, all too quickly. Caught up in a whirl of fine clothes and presents and ceremonies, you fall asleep every night eager to wake at dawn, if only to see Yeosang’s face the next day. Every moment with him seems too short, and every moment with him feels too long. 

One afternoon under the wisteria tree, you complain of this. Yeosang laughs at your indignation, though when you go to hit his shoulder, he catches your fingers with soft, warm hands, before kissing your forehead gently. “It will be all right,” he murmurs, pulling away just enough for you to see the sparkle in his eyes. “We’ll have a lifetime together, after this.”

A lifetime. Born under the three of hearts, destined for a life of love and happiness, you believed it. 

So much, in fact, that you forget to watch out for the second best friend at your side. 

It never occurred to you to take caution with Yeonjun. He was your best friend. Even upon the announcement of your engagement, he only ever smiled and congratulated the two of you, knocking your heads together teasingly when you got too mushy for his taste. Yeosang even asked him to be one of the groomsmen when the wedding date was set. 

So you never notice the way Yeonjun’s gaze always lingers on you a little too long, the way his eyes darken whenever you place a chaste kiss on Yeosang’s lips. You do notice that he spends more and more time away from you, away from Yeosang as the wedding approaches, but it’s easy to put it down to affairs of the Choi family that you simply aren’t privy to. Perhaps something has gone wrong. Yeonjun would tell you about it in due time, wouldn’t he?

On the night before your wedding, you and Yeosang dance together under a sea of sparkling stars, white engagement outfits shimmering under the night sky. The people cheer. Your parents wipe away tears. You almost cry, too, wrapped in the warmth of Yeosang’s arms around your waist, his eyes smiling into yours. 

You part ways with promises of tomorrow and a lifetime hanging on your lips. When you finally fall asleep, it is to dreams of a beautiful future, complete with Yeosang by your side. 

Instead, you wake up in a world where he is dead.

They say the servant who found the body went mad afterward. You don’t blame them. When you saw the body covered in its rips and stains of red, it felt like a part of your mind simply disappeared. Scrambled. Something. All you could see was the body splashed with blood, unseeing eyes wide open and glassed with the sheen of death. 

And there’s no time to grieve, either, because the next day, the Choi family storms the castle with shouts of a coup and rebellion on their lips. 

All you can do is stare into Yeonjun’s stony expression as he orders the execution of your parents right before your eyes. 

He finds you in your rooms a week later, a beautiful prison of silk and satin that they took away so you wouldn’t hang yourself before he came. His eyes soften upon seeing you, but when he reaches out a hand, you slap it away. 

Only one word leaves your lips. “Why?”

Love, he says. Love for you. Love that burned fierce, hot, so unlike the soft warmth of Yeosang’s hand, love that burned so bright it couldn’t stand to fall second to the gentleness of Yeosang’s smile. His heart burned for you, beat for you, enough to plan all of this, enough to ask, even now - 

“Will you marry me?”

The wisteria tree outside your window is in full bloom under a bright, cloudless sky. A mockery of the day Yeosang asked for your hand and you gave him your heart. 

In the absence of blades and bullets, no one should underestimate the power that fingernails can do to raw skin and bone.

“You worthless, worthless human being,” you snarl, even as guards drag you back from Yeonjun’s bleeding face. “Worthless - worthless - I will never marry you -”

“You will,” Yeonjun snarls back, now a safe distance away from the blood caking your nails. “You will or you will die.”

You don’t die. You almost do, jamming the lock on your door and smashing the fortified window with a superhuman strength you believe Yeosang and your parents have lent you for one night, just one night before leaping into the branches of the wisteria tree, crashing to the ground in a heap of branches and flowers and glass. They nearly catch you - an arrow pierces your shoulder and another streaks so close it almost cuts off your ear - but you escape. And hide. For days, weeks, months...

Until you return with a sword and murder in your eyes, slashing through every guard on your way into the castle until you come across Yeonjun sitting upon your father’s throne, the crown of your family on his head. 

“Would you?” he whispers, the tip of your sword positioned over his heart. “Would you, truly?”

A blank smile curves your lips. “Of course,” you whisper. “Just the same way you would.”

They crown you queen with triumph in their eyes, songs of a royal who avenger their lover’s death when a jealous suitor got in the way. You listen to it with stony eyes and teeth gritted behind your lips, especially when they speak of the three of hearts, blessed above all, destined for a life of love -

There is no love left in your heart that wasn’t taken away with the death of Yeosang and your family.

You execute the Chois. You execute their allies. You root through the kingdom, imprisoning those with even a semblance of a relationship to the man who killed your love, who took the blessing of your card away. The songs die away, replaced by whispers of a queen gone mad with the loss of their love. Triumphant shouts of a blessed three of hearts turn into murmurs of a curse, a new meaning to your card - perhaps not one destined for love, but one whose life will end in tragedy. Pain. Suffering.

They are wrong. Your life was full of love, love that you gave on your own and love that was given by those around you. It was the cause of your happiness and the reason for your suffering - love killed Yeosang and your family, just as it killed the last bit of humanity in you. 

The words of the diviner mock your grief. 

“Your child will be beautiful.”

Not as beautiful as he ever was. 

“They will love deeply.”

Where did that get you? 

“And in return, they will be loved greatly.”

Where did that get him?

No longer do they speak of the three of hearts as a blessing, as a sign of blissful omen. Instead, they speak of it as a curse, a curse of love, a curse of madness, a curse of tragedy to follow at every bend. 

Good. They’re right.

The love that the heavens wrought never brought anything more than pain, anyway.

[hanguangbuns]

mdzs wip wednesday #1

soo i've been working on a fic lately, its pretty much taken up all my time lol. ive posted snippets here and there, but this will be the first for this blog! please enjoy<3

fic summary: At 21, Wei Ying is sentenced to life in prison for murder. On the 13th year, he walks free

in this preview: Wei Ying volunteers in his last semester of high school, then graduates

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The most fun part of the day, however, was working with straight-faced Lan Zhan in the rabbits section.

It seemed as though Lan Zhan had been volunteering here for a while, for every time Wei Ying came to see him, the other boy would always be alone, petting the rabbits and feeding them daily. Unlike Wei Ying, who was friendly and charming and easily approachable, no one seemed to want to even talk to Lan Zhan, probably scared out of their wits of the stone-faced boy. They didn’t understand, Wei Ying thought. Lan Zhan was so interesting and fun to tease!

For the most part, Wei Ying would watch the other boy and chat his head off about anything. Lan Zhan would mostly never reply, only work with a blank expression and ignore the chattering boy. But, he also wouldn’t tell him to go away like he used to.

Curious.

“Lan Zhan! These rabbits, do they eat carrots? They don't, right? I knew it~”

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! What did you think about class today? Our poor teacher didn’t know how to answer that dumbass’s question, ha ha ha! Wasn’t it funny!?”

“Lan Zhan! Let’s hang out after this, there’s a snack shop that just opened~!”

It was like this, till the day of their graduation.

Wei Ying wasn’t as nervous as he thought he’d be when the day came. For although he got in so much trouble with the school, he still came on top tied for valedictorian till the end, and as such, gave the valedictorian speech with the person he tied with.

Of course, that person was Lan Zhan. It seemed inevitable that it would always be Lan Zhan.

The speech was written by the school administration, carefully crafted so that the two of them said exactly what they wanted. Neither of them liked this idea, and of course, the more someone told Wei Ying to do something, the more he didn’t want to do it.

Sitting on the plastic chairs onstage next to Lan Zhan, waiting for the time to recite their speech, Wei Ying couldn’t help but sneak a little peak to the boy next to him. Over the 3 years they’ve known each other, they have both grown quite a lot. Lan zhan was growing quite fine, and becoming a handsome young man. He was much taller now, grown a little more built into his lanky limbs and broad shoulders, a protruding jaw and a heavy air of elegance around him. Of course, Wei Ying had also grown considerably as well, about the same height, similar broad shoulders, a natural curve to his mouth, with a sharp jaw and sharp eyes. The two were of similar stature and build, one who was aloof and cold, always maintained a perfect posture and perfect air of dignity, while the other always had a charming smile and easy-going personality… they were both very handsome… but completely different on the surface!

As Wei Ying gazed at Lan Zhan’s profile, the tassel of the graduation cap hanging elegantly, his heart quietly skipped a beat.

So handsome, he thought. Surely, everyone else would also feel their hearts quiver when they looked at him.

He quickly looked away before he would get caught.

Instead, he thought about the look on Lan Zhan’s face when he executed his Master Plan.

There would be no scenario in which Lan Zhan, who practically worshiped the rules, wouldn't be immensely angry.

He smirked to himself and geared up to get on the stage. Lan Zhan would give his part of the speech first, then he would follow up afterwards. It was a mundane, boring speech that droned on and on about how wonderful the school was, how the student body was lively, to thank the teachers and their parents and everyone else that supported them. That the role of valedictorian wasn't just for one person, not just for two people, but for everyone in their graduating class, all kinds of meaningless words that had that sort of politically centrist outlook Wei Ying couldn't help but want to break into hives at.

They agreed for Lan Zhan to go first, at his insistence, and when it was time for Lan Zhan to take the podium, Wei Ying sat patiently on the chairs behind.

Scanning the crowd of graduates, he caught Jiang Cheng’s eye in the front row. He smirked at him. Jiang Cheng gave him a look that said don't you fucking do it.

He grinned even wider. The more Jiang Cheng was angered, the more excited he was. Usually, he did somewhat do what Jiang cheng told him, for the sake of the Jiangs, but this time this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. They were both growing up—wasn’t it time to take a stand against people who only ever wanted them to stay quiet? Jiang Cheng didn't understand, but he will soon enough! If their peers were worth anything, they’ll probably take his advice! 

And the looks on the school administration’s faces will be fucking hilarious.

As Wei Ying daydreamed about the embarrassed looks on the faces of the people he was sitting next to, Lan Zhan started his speech.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Eye of the Storm 17

Warnings: nonconsensual sex; paddling.

This is dark!Thor and dark!Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a new servant at the palace of Asgard but the job isn’t so easy as you thought.

Note: This is a lot of smut but I promise y’all, we are close to a conclusion. Don’t give up on reader just yet.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The door was locked. Loki barely said a word as he left you in the king’s chambers. Alone. You would have been thankful for the solitary in any other circumstance, but this was more penance than peace. Not only was the prince angered by your attempt at flight but he now held it over you. If he should reveal it to the king, you would surely face a wrath far worse than Loki’s silent brooding.

Several days passed, a week maybe. In a perverse way, your wish for isolation had come true. Only the maid appeared to bring your meals and to clean up the barely touched remnants. You didn’t do much but stare out the window or at the wall. You couldn’t decide which you dreaded more, Loki’s inevitable appearance or Thor’s foreboding return.

The prince woke you. As the first time he’d appeared thus, you were on the couch, in a troubled and tenuous slumber which he swiftly broke. You sat up slowly as you touched your forehead and your vision cleared slowly. You blinked away your fatigue as Loki paced back and forth behind the couch. You looked over the back at him and he barely seemed to notice you.

You turned your legs over the edge of the sofa and were startled as something slapped harshly against the back. You stopped and looked back. The wooden paddle rested threatening against the upholstered frame. A snake head was carved into its face and it’s long tail wound around the handle, gripped in the prince’s pale hand.

“Obedience.” He said staunchly as he turned the paddle. “That is what you must learn. While your little acts of resistance are entertaining they can be rather exhausting.” He brought the paddle to your cheek then slid it down under your chin and forced your head up. “Trust me, darling, this will save you much trouble. Not only with myself but my brother as well.”

“Your highness. I--” You stammered as he lifted your head higher. “I have thought on my transgression and I am so very sorry. I understand that what I’ve done--”

“You do not understand.” He insisted as he pushed on the paddle and you were forced back until you were on your feet. “You do not understand that the queen left because I allowed it. That she did invite you because I suggested it. That you fell into my trap because I knew you to be underhanded.”

“I was scared but I--”

“You be quiet,” He hissed as he brought the tip of the paddle to your lips. “I did not come to break that precious face.” He let the paddle drop as he stepped around the couch. “Only the last of your cursed obstinacy.”

Your lips trembled. You couldn’t understand why he would aid Calla. Why should he let her go and not you? Well, certainly he had more use in you than a wife not his own.

“Come on.” He slapped the couch cushion with the paddle. “Hands flat.”

You stared at him and he lifted the paddle. He brought it around your back and nudged you towards the sofa. You did as he bid and he leaned the wood against your ass. He spun it and rubbed it against you.

“I did not bring the queen to be an ally to the king. I chose her because I knew she would be an easy foe, especially with my oaf of a brother.” He slithered as he stepped closer and pulled up your skirts. “I don’t expect you to comprehend my methodology but surely you can guess my intent… my brother’s arrogance has always been his greatest flaw. He is a sore loser.” He bared your ass and stepped back. “Ever since we were children. And to lose to me… a greater tarnish upon his pride.”

“Please--” Your voice caught in your throat as the wood cracked across your ass and your legs gave out. You cried out as you crumpled to the floor and reached back to touch your tender flesh.

“Up!” He barked and jabbed you with the paddle. “Count.”

“Ow,” You whined. “I can’t. Please don’t--”

“I will double the mark, dear, so stand and take your punishment with some degree of dignity.” He snarled.

You rose, shakily, drawing yourself up with the couch. You bent over it heavily and braced yourself as your legs continued to quake. You took a breath as the wood met your flesh again before Loki pulled back. The next strike made you yelp, and the next, and the next. With each, you counted, pained grunts which barely left your breathless chest.

When you reached twenty, tears crawled down your cheeks and nose and fell onto the cushion below. You waited for twenty-one but it never came. Instead, Loki pushed on your lower back until you lowered yourself down to the floor, careful to keep on your knees as your ass reverberated with pain.

“I did promise my brother to keep you in line,” Loki said as he placed the paddle against the wall. “He did not clarify in which way I should do so but whatever is most effective, I suppose.” 

He neared and pulled you up by your elbows, your skirts falling over your legs once more. You were barely able to stand on your own strength and you sniffed back your sobs. You’d never felt a pain so intense and it lingered as your flesh was already bruising.

“You do know if you were to tell him of the ways in which I’ve kept you submissive, he will do worse.” He turned and sat on the sofa as his hands slipped your arms. “You must know that I have shown you mercy but you would rather not have him prove it thus.”

You scowled down at him, somehow numb and entirely agonized all at once. He grasped your waist as he drew you between his knees until your legs met the couch.

“So, what have you learned, darling?” He asked.

You stared down at him as his fingers crept up and down your sides. You choked as you searched for your voice.

“To listen. To be obedient.” You quavered.

“To be silent.” He added as he pulled you into his lap. “To do as you must, not as you want.”

He tore your skirt from beneath you as he slid you closer. He kept you on your knees, just above him as he felt around between your bodies. He unlaced his breeches as his other hand brushed your skirts back behind you. He freed himself from his pants and you felt him prodding along your cunt. He gripped your hip and forced you down impatient and sighed as he tossed his head back against the couch.

You sat atop him, your ass burned as you settled in his lap. His hand fell from you and he spread his arms across the back of the sofa.

“Do as you must,” He purred. “You’ve learned much, darling. Surely you needn’t my guidance any longer.”

You inhaled as you began to rock. You grasped his shoulders as the friction of your skirts against your ass caused you to tremble. He stayed as he was, watching you past his long nose, as you sucked in your lip, in agony and reluctant pleasure. Despite the fire in your veins, the singe along your flesh, you felt that familiar tingle. That one which wasn’t really you but that baser, instinctual weakness within.

You kept your pace slow but steady, afraid to further agitate your tortured ass. You hung your head, wishing, praying, for it to end. The listlessness, the loneliness, the purgatory of these chambers, you had taken it for granted. You hadn’t appreciated any of it and this is what came from it.

Your orgasm rolled through you but you only let out another pathetic whimper. You focused on keeping your hips tilting until as a flood of warmth filled you. Until Loki’s voice rose sultry and dusky around you. You stopped and without thinking, fell forward until your head rested beside the prince’s. Your breath came shallow and shaky. 

“Get off me,” He growled as he shoved you.

You sat up and lifted yourself from him, falling back on the cushion beside him with a grumble. It hurt worse than before. Not just the welt from the paddle, but your soul; your very being. He stood and strode away, ignoring your existence as he searched for something to clean himself with.

You remained on the couch, curled up in a heap, barely hearing or seeing him as he moved around the chambers. You only sensed his shadow as he came to loom over you.

“I will not be so patient again.” He bent and grabbed your chin until your lashes fluttered up at him. “Your novelty wears thin, my dear.”

🌩️

Loki did not return for another week. You were thankful he did not bring the paddle but his visit went as any other. The next day, the door was unlocked. You opened it but did not leave. Not for another week after that. More than a month since the king had left. You didn’t long for his return only for the similar absence of the prince.

You felt sick often, your stomach cramped most nights, and you’d begun to bloat. Was it stress? Surely the unending tension that encased your entire existence was wearing on you. That morning was worse than most. You were overtired, your head hurt, and your breakfast made you queasy.

So you decided it was finally time to leave the chambers. You needed some air. You needed to be free of the walls of your prison. You needed to forget, if even for a moment, a second. You could just pretend, just a little, that this all had been a bad dream.

You stepped out into the corridor. The guard stood straight and watched you as you passed him. He followed a few feet behind. Loki’s man? Thor’s? Did it even matter?

You went to the garden, the only place you could think of to go. The only sanctuary in this inferno. You passed by the flower beds around the stone bench and the low hedges near the front of the courtyard. The bushes got higher and higher and trees came to be framed by rose bushes and lines of tulips and lilies. 

You were a fawn, lost in a forest of wolves. You were a fae searching for the magic root that would free you. You weren’t you, you just were. Only the guard, your personal shadow, kept you bound to reality.

You knelt by a patch of golden daffodils and daintily felt a petal. The scent of pollen made you think of when you’d been a child. The bunches of violets you’d gathered and give to your mother as a present. You smiled.

“I wondered where you were.” Your heart caught at the deep tone; quiet but suffocating. You looked over your shoulder as Thor dismissed the guard with a glance. “I admit my greater fears did come to mind.”

You withdrew your hand and stood. Was it truly him? Was this some trick again?

“My king.” You breathed. “You’ve returned?”

“I was longer than I expected,” He said calmly as he neared. His scarlet cape was stirred by the gentle breeze, his expression was a mix of fatigue and frustration. “But I prevailed. Ormheim has been subdued and I return to you, pet, wanting.”

You lowered your chin as he came up before you. He took your hands in his and drew you to him.

“You look… even more delicious than I recall,” He hummed as he cupped your cheek in his hand. “Did you miss me as I missed you?”

“Yes,” You lied. “Every day.”

“And night, I’m certain,” He grinned. “How long I’ve waited to see you again. To see this face.” His arm wrapped around you and he hugged you to him. “To feel you.”

You tried to smile but it felt more a wince. You recalled Loki’s warnings, the queen’s escape, and your own guilt. Even if he did not learn of his brother’s mischief, he would not be happy for his wife’s departure.

“I cannot wait,” He snarled as he leaned in, his large hand stretched over your jaw as he raised your head. “I thought to take you back to the chambers but my patience is little.”

He pressed his lips to yours and clung to you. You kissed him back, perhaps hoping to prolong the inevitable. Perhaps hoping to live in your delusion a little longer. He might be the keeper of your cell but you could pretend he was another. Pretend you wanted it so bad as him. You did want it; you wanted to leave it all behind. You wanted to be happy so why not fake it…

He bent closer and his arm slipped down your back. His other hand fell from your chin and he grabbed the back of your thighs. He lifted you as easily as he would a feather and wrapped your legs around him. He groaned into your mouth as his hand blindly searched your skirts, bunching them up in each other as he bared your ass.

You clung to his shoulders as he felt beneath you and tickled your cunt. His lips left yours and he bent his head into the crook of your neck. His mouth brushed along the collar at your throat and his warm breath seeped into you. He guided himself with two fingers to your entrance and he sank into you slowly. He gasped and dragged his lips along the skin that bordered the golden choker.

He impaled you completely and you moaned. You tilted your hips as you pushed your head back and he kept his motion with sharp, short thrusts. You let out pathetic mewls with each rock of his pelvis and you tightened your hold on him.

“You really did miss me, pet,” He rasped in your ear. “Mmm, all mine.” He purred. “The nights must have been long all by yourself.”

“Very,” You breathed as you let him use your body and turned your face up to the hot sun. “Oh, my king.”

“So sweet,” He groaned as he sped up, hooking his arm under your right leg and drawing it up as he hooked his fingers over your shoulder and his other stayed wrapped around your back. “Fuck, it’s been so long.”

You panted as you felt the pressure mounting. As the coil twisted inside of you and urged you on. As it pushed away every ounce of doubt and resent. As you forgot the sickness which had woke you early and the melancholy which had coloured your life. You exclaimed as your orgasm took over and you let yourself surrender to Thor’s body. Accept his gentleness while you could, his cruelty would not be far behind.

He slammed into you harder and harder. His growls grew deeper and louder. He snarled against your cheek and crashed his hips against you. He jolted your body as his motion grew sharper and more deliberate. He rocked through his orgasm as he roared in pleasure, fucking you until his seed was dripping out around him.

His chest rose and felt against you and he stumbled around with you still in his arms, still buried inside of you. He sat on a stone bench beneath a tree with great green prongs. He sighed and ran his hand up and down your back as he embraced you.

“I needed that,” He said. “Were you a good girl when I was gone?”

“Yes, my king,” You uttered as leaned against him. You felt his power, remembered it. Visions of his wrath tinted those memories and you shuddered. 

“Let us stay like this,” He played with your skirts as he spoke. “Just for a time. I’m not so ready to be king again.”

[anika-ann]

WINSoD - Epilogue

We’re Tied Together (Always and Forever)

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2, part 3)  

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader  Word count: 3750

Summary: In which you reach the end of the line. Is it though? The end?

Warnings: battle with Thanos no.2, blood and violence, character death, religious motives, mention of afterlife, language

A/N:  Do you ever look at your fic and are like… you know this was supposed to be a cheesy one-shot, right? Soulmate meet-cute one-shot to be precise. Well. That work out splendidly... Anyway, here – the epilogue! Enjoy! Oh, and prepare tissues :-*

Part 6

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Waking up in a comfy bed was surreal; mostly because you knew that after falling – or half-jumping – from a cliff, this wasn’t what was usually happening. You didn’t have much experience, but you still had some common sense left.

Right?

Why did nothing hurt?

“Hello, Little One,” a voice greeted you, startling you enough to roll over and fall from the bed – only to land back in the cushions, confusing the Hell out of you – or perhaps you should have thought Heaven.

Because this was positively Castiel‘s voice. Castiel as an angel. Angels, as far as you were concerned, belonged to Heaven.

Was it possible that… that- this was--?

“Yes, you’re in Heaven… again,” he hummed nonchalantly as if it was perfectly common to just die twice and he seated himself on the edge of your bed.

“I killed myself,” you blurted out the first thing that came to your mind, instantly slapping your palm over your mouth. It sounded terrible, hearing yourself say it out loud, just throw it out in the open as if it was not a big deal.

Which in fact, it was. Since when suicidal people went to Heaven? You never had been good with the whole faith thing, but this sounded a bit sketchy.

“To save half of the Universe,” Castiel questioned, frowning. “Or would you say your soulmate belonged to hell after had once forced the plane down, expecting to die in exchange of saving millions?”

Silently admitting he had a point, you let the issue alone for the moment. Instead, you blinked, taking his appearance in. He was wearing his typical trench-coat, making him look like an accountant, dorky for a celestial being. He fitted in here though – bright room, white sheets, no windows…

“You’ll get a better room soon, less prison-like,” he explained as if he could hear your thoughts. Which he as well might, because he was an angel, you were in freaking Heaven, again, which what the Hell, if you had been before, how could you not remember that-- and everything was so confusing and… lonely. “But I thought you’d like to see your soulmate first.”

Your heart stopped. Later, you would question why did you still have a fucking heartbeat, or why did it feel like it, but did he just say-

“What the Hell is Steve doing here?!” you shrieked in horror and Castiel sighed, possibly at your swearing, but you didn’t give a fuck. What was Steve-

“He’s not here. But a battle with Thanos occurred and I thought you might like to see.”

You ran your hand down your face tiredly, relieved beyond words. Steve was alive, still on Earth – probably.

Christ. Castiel sure didn’t know how to talk to a girl who had a superhero for husband. Or he in fact did, since he was willing to show you.

It took one single snap of Castiel’s fingers and a scene of horror – fire, ash and blood – unfolded in front of you. There was nothing but smother from the debris where the compound had used to be, the Titan with an enormous space ship probably the one to blame.

And barely three defenders of Earth stood against him and his endless rows of army, thousands of monsters ready to take the half of population one by one, just waiting to be released from the ship.

Where were the others? And… Thanos! They killed him! What-

“How-“

“The Avengers gathered all the Stones. Hulk snapped this time, bringing everyone who had died in the original Snap back. Unfortunately, a spy infiltrated the team and led Thanos from the past to the present,” Castiel explained patiently, but you were anything but patient, suddenly angry as gnawing fear bit into your stomach.

“Then why are you here?! There’s… there’s Tony, Thor and Steve, three people—sorta people – facing a fucking ARMY FROM SPACE!” you yelled at the angel, a being powerful enough to drag your ass from Heaven – which you didn’t care for in the slightest.

How could he just... sit here with you?!

“We cannot interfere-“

“The fuck did you just say?!” you spitted out, rising to your feet. “Aren’t angels supposed to be guardians? You-“ you continued your verbal assault in attempt to get him moving, only to freeze when a blinding lightning hit Thor’s hammers (plural?!) and the infamous trio threw themselves into the battle.

You barely had few seconds to feast your eyes on Steve in one piece; he was glorious, standing straight with his chin up, jaw clenched in determination and all you could think of was how strong he was, carrying on with the mission.

You knew it wasn’t that he didn’t miss you, that he didn’t grieve you; he was simply the bravest person you had ever met, just like you had told him before--- ugh, before you had died.

If you only weren’t so terrified for him.

Where was everyone? If the Snap worked and people had been brought back, where was the whole bunch of warriors from Wakanda? The rest of the Avengers’ crew?

Breathless, your heart pounding in both your ribcage and temples, you watched as Thanos tossed the three figures around, almost as if he was playing with them despite their best efforts.

“Get up, Stevie. God, please, get up, get up, be okay,” you whispered urgently with your throat swollen at one particular blow that had your soulmate landing on his back and lying down with his breath knocked out of his chest, his eyes closed in what could only be agony.

With horror, you saw his body turn almost limp, your nails digging into your palms.

GET. UP. Don’t you dare to stay down and get yourself killed!

He clenched his jaw, glint of something that twisted your insides in genuine fear in his eyes. This wasn’t determination anymore. This was madness. He pushed himself on his feet and you couldn’t quite make yourself to feel relieved despite him fulfilling your earlier silent wish.

Determined Steve was a great Steve. Mad Steve? Mad Steve did crazy-ass decisions that could cost him his life. You had that in common.

Your jaw slowly went slack when your very husband grabbed Thor’s Mjölnir as if it was not a mythical weapon from the legends only Thor could lift and… banged up the Titan as if he had been fighting with it his whole life.

Incredulous chuckle escaped your lips when a flash of lightning connected with the hammer as Steve… charged it, only to aim its power at Thanos.

“I told him he could lift it,” you murmured despite yourself, letting yourself to feel a tinniest bit of hope and pride.

There was only three of them now, but surely the people who had been dusted were on their way. Steve, Thor and Tony just had to keep the Titan occupied-

Then the army stood, exiting the ship in a deadly march, no, in a deadly race and Steve got himself into trouble.

You grinded your teeth, unable to look away, but present enough to be pissed as Hell at Heaven and its angels and let them know.

“Do something! He’s gonna-“

A circle of amber-coloured sparkles appeared on Steve’s left and you could cry, recognizing Strange’s handiwork. The back-up was there. The army. The King of Wakanda with his badass sister. Sam. Bucky. Strange, Peter, the Maximoffs. Carol Danvers flying through the alien spaceship as if it was made of cotton candy. Even Natasha emerged from the debris with Clint and the others, causing you to breathe out in relief.

Now the true fight would start.

You weren’t calm by any means. But you were hopeful. Just glancing at the briefest encounter of Natasha with Sam was sweet enough to bring tears in your eyes.

“Kick their asses,” you whispered encouragingly, swallowing thickly and actually praying.

It was nearly impossible to follow the battle then; too many fronts, too many people, half-people and alien creatures. You saw the gauntlet they were trying to protect, you kept your eye on Steve, finding Thanos and his momentary enemies when you had the capacity to do so.

You honestly couldn’t tell how the fight was going, if it was in your favour or not, there was so much blood and smoke and noise… and then something caught your attention with painful clarity.

Several things happened at once; Carol, literally glued to Thanos, who had somehow got a hold of the gauntlet with all of the stones in it (oh God, oh my God, this couldn’t happen again-), was thrown away as if she was nothing but an annoying fly, Tony registered a part of his armour having been ripped away – his hand-piece – and found it with his gaze at Steve’s feet as Stephen Strange raised one shaky finger towards Tony, who suddenly had an expression of utter defeat on his face.

Your slow, terror-struck mind didn’t do the math when Steve jumped on Thanos’ arm, forcing his fingers away so he couldn’t snap his fingers. Something red and flashy glimmered in the mess of limbs, but you didn’t pay enough attention to make the connection. Peter, Spider-man, managed to web the gauntlet, helping out Steve and you almost breathed out the air suffocating your lungs.

Almost.

Because the next moment, Steve was tossed away like a rag-doll, much like Carol had been.

Like in a slow motion, the infamous effect in movies to add dramatics, you saw the Titan raise his hand with a smug smirk; and you noticed, unlike him, that his gauntlet was, in fact, empty of the Stones. But-

“I am… inevitable,” he exclaimed, a dull mechanic snap following his statement.

Nothing happened, except for the huge and ugly purple head whipping towards his useless weapon in confusion.

And that was when you saw it. The glow of the stones in a red piece of armour, Ironman’s armour, that was no longer worn by its owner.

All of the puzzle pieces fell into place, clicking with a painful clack.

Strange’s gesture. Tony’s expression. Crowley’s words of one future, matching the story of the contemporary Sorcerer Supreme. And the red flash when Steve had been fighting Thanos.

“No,” you whispered breathlessly, remembering with startling clarity what Steve had told you about Thanos – the Titan, stronger than all of the Avengers together – looked like after he finished his mission. He had nearly died.  

“NO!” you repeated with more force, horror filling your very being, dimming the world around you, a violent tremble attacking your body at the glint in Steve’s eye.

It was the one that had shaken you so much before. The mad spark.

Do whatever it takes, consequences be damned.

His raspy voice broke your heart in two, tearing your soul when you realized the implication of his words:

“No. You are only dust. And to dust you shall return.”

The snap of Steve’s metal-clad fingers echoed in the room and in your head, the sound seeping into your bones as you were blinded by the streak of colours, the white swallowing the whole world for long seconds.

You were sure that this was what actual death looked like. Nothing but emptiness.

You reflected several of your last words to Steve, wanting to rip your hair out. Why had you told him such nonsense? Why would you tell him that God had wanted it this way, that you had only played your part in His grand scheme?

You finally understood the words Sam had told you so many years ago, about similar people in a relationship being a disaster in making. Steve had embraced your belief in being only a tiny wheel in the God’s great plan.

That was the meaning of the words he said. A famous line from Bible, reflecting how much he believed in God’s work at the moment.  

You are only dust. And to dust you shall return.

In the critical seconds, Steve believed he had been chosen by God to be the tool delivering Thanos his defeat.

And to very likely to pay his life as a price.

Your eyes adjusted to the once again dark scene, where the hostile army started indeed turning back to dust. You desperately searched the only figure that mattered, finding him with his back resting against a random vertical flat surface, his chest barely rising.

The sight on half of his body severely burned, multiple spots on his skin blacking as it already died, had your eyes squeezed shut, your knees giving out as the sob shook your whole body.

The scene was burned into your brain, an image carved into your eyelids, sharp and precise as if you were still watching with your eyes wide open. You whimpered, shaking your head to chase it away. Vainly.  You didn’t remember looking into his eyes, yet you saw them hollow, blue and green always so brilliant misted. Dead.

A hand landed on your shoulder and you winced, releasing another whine, sobs braking through your palm that at some point covered your mouth – whether to be silent of not to throw up, you couldn’t tell. The hand gave you a gentle squeeze that did nothing to sooth your grief.

Oh God, oh you ignorant God, why are you such a DICK?!

“Why? Why did-- it have to--- be him?!” you choked out, avoiding the post-battle sight and instead shot Castiel a glare that could murder.

Your chest hurt. They just tore your heart away, easily as that, hollow gaping space in its place and you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t breathe and hear and see-

“I don’t know, Little One. It was as it was meant to be. You wouldn’t want to see him suffer through your loss again anyway, believe me.”

“That doesn’t make it right!” you spitted out, disgusted at such implication. As if this happened to make you feel better! You were suffering. Hurting. But most of all, you were so fucking angry. With God. With Castiel. With… with yourself. Maybe if you hadn’t told him— perhaps- oh God, oh Satan, let the pain go away… let him rest at least. “What happens to him now?”

“Watch, Little One. He’s not gone yet,” Castiel encouraged you kindly, but you couldn’t- couldn’t—what was happening? Was he trying to tell you that they might be able to save him?

The flare of hope ignited in your body died as fast as it caught fire; why would Castiel say that you wouldn’t want to Steve go through losing you again if there had been a chance to save Steve still?

Steve was about to die. If he wasn’t gone yet, then he must have been in so much pain that your own, this paralyzing feeling, must have been nothing in comparison.

Why were you forced to witness his last moments? What kind of a twisted Heaven was this?

“You fucking idiot,” Tony rushed to his friend’s side, pissed and resigned at the same time.

“We won,” Steve breathed out weakly, only one eye following the movements around him. You buried your nails in the flesh of your palm, choking on your own spit as the sob tried to fight its way out of your chest.

“Yeah, we did,” Bucky confirmed softly, kneeling to his brother; they were nothing less than that. Hesitant hand curled around Steve’s seemingly unharmed bicep and he made a lame attempt at moving his arm to return that gesture. Bucky clenched his jaw, a tear appearing in the corner of his eye. “Don’t call him an idiot, Stark. That’s my job.”

His voice broke at the end of the sentence and your heart shattered as you felt his pain as your own. You couldn’t see anymore. The image was so blurry, but now new fear controlled your body, the fact Castiel never answered you and that meant something horrible awaited Steve in death and this was in fact your last moments of seeing him and— God, oh God, who had ever dared to call you merciful?

“I’m talking to God,” Tony specified and you wordlessly thanked him. “Clearly, he’s a dick for making it this way.”

“Nah. ‘s smart. S-sam?” Steve choked out, voice barely audible and the therapist (with wings now, having returned to his previous job) was instantly by his side, his eyes glassy as well.

“Yeah, Cap?”

An attempt at shake of head was given, you assumed, but barely a motion was the result. “You Cap now. Will ya’?”

If you had any capacity for being astonished left, you would have been at the request. But you were far too gone, drowning in misery.

“…yeah. Of course. I will if that’s what you want.”

“ ’sanks.”

Thor’s enormous figure took a step closer, thunderous voice uncharacteristically quiet. “We’ll remember you, brother. Both of you.”

A faint smile appeared on Steve’s lips, only one corner capable of rising, and yet he closed both of his eyes for a long moment, clearly struggling to stay conscious.

That’s a lie, your mind whispered. Not just conscious. Struggling to stay alive. And losing!

Only one eye opening, Steve managed to cast a half-lidded glance in Bucky’s direction, flickering to Tony for a second.

His next word was crystal clear. “Home.”

Natasha sobbed into her palm, but her delicate fingers curled around Steve’s arm as well, right next to Bucky’s, giving her friend a tight-lipped pained smile.

“Yeah, Steve. It’s okay to go home. To her. Tell her we say hi, yeah?” she pleaded lowly, keeping her voice without a crack despite few tears escaping her eyes.

You stopped breathing altogether and prayed. God, please, let him find peace. With me. And if not with me, at least give him the peace he deserves, I beg you.

Clint fell to one knee, bowing his head.

At first, you didn’t realize it wasn’t just grief sucking the strength out of him. No. Bucky, Sam and Nat instantly followed, mirroring his position precisely.

They were paying their respect to a fallen comrade, you realized.

You couldn’t take it anymore as you noticed everyone else doing the same. Not when during the process Steve’s chest ceased its motions, the life leaving his body.

And your heart left with him, along with your sanity.

Nothing made sense anymore. You fucked up, God himself fucked up and Castiel, and angels and Universe and-- and it hurt. Steve had said that they had won, but you lost. You lost everything.

Your vision was clouded by both tears of sorrow and anger, your body numb from all the pain.

Castiel’s hand slid from your shoulder, finally, but instead, you were pulled into an embrace.

You wanted to push away and run and punch and curl up on the floor, but the arms around you held you too firmly, your head was buried in your captor’s chest. You wanted to fight it, refuse the lame attempt at comfort, and you breathed in furiously to brace yourself to free your body-- but the sudden familiarity, faint cologne and warmth, body large enough to engulf yours, lips in your hair…

“S-st-steve?” you choked out, disgusting gurgle sounding in your throat, but in that moment, you suddenly couldn’t bring yourself to care.

The way you said his name was more a question, but you didn’t need an answer. You would recognize him anywhere.

You husband. Your soulmate. Your Steve.

The arms around you tightened, his embrace turning nearly crushing, his chest expanding with generous inhale as his face buried in your hair further. Your lips curled up in a tight smile and you let out a hysterical laugh, sorrow and joy, pain and relief.

“You’re here,” he mumbled to your scalp, hot tears following his words and you found yourself lifted from the floor, your body nearly merging with his and you could finally breathe again, your heart fluttering in your chest. One of his arms held you securely to his form while the other fisted in the mess of your hair. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here.”

“Then why did you do it?” you asked him, the anger seeping through despite the delight at the encounter you could have only prayed for. He was here. “I’m so fucking mad at you.”

“So am I at you,” he opposed, but the growling of his voice was too soft for you to believe him that his rage was larger than his relief.

And so you let go of your own anger too.

This was all beyond your control. Deep inside, you knew that. You had been just playing a part; neither of you had asked for that. You surely didn’t ask to be approached by Crowley and being given the mission, while there was little Steve could do differently when the weapon had been thrown to his feet; a literal throw of the gauntlet that was impossible to ignore.

There was a large scheme of the inevitable put in motion. Who were you to challenge fate?

No point at being mad at each other. Especially when graced with this opportunity to… whatever this was.

“Truce?” you quipped hesitantly and Steve chuckled, a watery sound that made your chest ache, yet filled it with warmth that could never be replicated. For this sensation, so unique, you needed your soulmate only.

And you had him. Forever, perhaps?

Steve withdrew a fraction, his hand caressing your damp cheek as his own glistened with salty drops, but the magnitude of his love, the amount of affection written all over his face, took your breath away, making you forget all about ugly crying.

One look into his twinkling eyes, full of devotion, and nothing else mattered.

“Yeah, doll. Truce. I love you.”

You didn’t get a chance to tell him the same, since he kissed your nose, your watery giggle having his lips spread in the boyish smile you adored.

“I love you too,” you whispered then, planting your own kiss on his lips, chaste and short.

He wouldn’t take it. His mouth locked with yours in a searing kiss instead, emotion pouring from each tiny motion of his lips against yours and you gave in, engaging in the dance of love, your fingers tangled in his locks.

Now this felt like Heaven.

“We’re okay. Everything is going to be okay,” he breathed into your mouth then, fresh tears spicing your kiss.

You didn’t care if you sounded like a child, you asked anyway. “Promise?”

Steve retreated as little as possible to be able to look into your eyes, his own still glassy, but serious and heavy with a vow.

“Promise.”

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S.R. masterlist

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Am I forgiven? Technically, this could be considered a sort of a happy ending, right? To a point, of course. I mean. Morgan still has her dad. No soulmate pairs were split… :)

Some awesome readers on AO3 suggested that the Winchesters then bullied Cas into bringing the lovebirds back to life, fixed them a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and granted them an actual happy ending. Well. If that makes you feel better, roll with that :-*

BTW, about the scene where they honour the fallen Cap: that scene (with Tony, obviously) WAS supposed to be in Endgame, how dare you, fix that at instant!

I love you if you read this till the end, till the last line. Thank you with my whole heart for your support 🤍

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Also, while I love Steve to bits (in case you couldn’t tell) and I was happy for him because of the ending he got in Endgame, understanding the arc the writers made, the more and more I think about it, it was kinda out of character and… maybe I would have been more satisfied if heStevewas the one snapping and taking Tony’s fate. I mean… I would have cried my eyes out, sure, but… but.  Sorry for the ramble O:-)