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cup1drul3z · 1 month ago

Text

★ — Salt in her lungs

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1 : ᴅʀᴀɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴇ

ᴘɪʀᴀᴛᴇ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ᴍᴇʀᴍᴀɪᴅ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 5.7ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Age gap, Mermaids, Pirates, Fantasy world, set in 1600s, blood mentioned

A/N : another fic that has been collecting dust in my docs

Summary : A curious mermaid princess saves a drowning pirate, breaking centuries of secrecy between their worlds. Sevika can't forget the girl beneath the waves, haunted by her even in someone else’s arms. Now, both are searching for each other—drawn by a connection neither fully understands.

Long ago, before salt crusted the corners of maps and before ships carved paths across the sea, the oceans were ruled by song.

Mermaids—known to themselves as the Thalassari—were not the glittering fairy tales whispered to human children. They were warriors, mystics, daughters of tide and storm. Born with sharp teeth and sharper tongues, they shaped the ocean’s mood with their voices: lullabies that calmed tempests, laments that mourned lost ships, and siren-songs that could drag a fleet to the bottom of the world. They lived deep in the trenches, in palaces carved from coral and whale bone, protected by magic older than the moon.

But once—centuries ago—humans and merfolk did meet.

The stories say a fisherman’s net tore through the kelp curtain guarding a mermaid nursery. Curious, the humans came closer. They captured one. Dissected her. What they didn’t understand, they feared. What they feared, they destroyed.

A war followed. Not one of armies or flags, but of quiet ruin. Ships lost with no trace. Islands swallowed by sudden tides. Harbors cursed with empty nets and dead water. In retaliation, humans built stories—legends to bury the truth. Mermaids were dismissed as sailor myths, drunken mirages, hallucinations brought on by thirst and madness. A convenient lie. Over time, belief faded like a tide pulling back. Mermaids became fantasy.

Below the surface, the Thalassari wove their own stories. Humans, they said, were extinct—burned out by their own fires, vanished into the sky. “Surface ghosts,” they were called, used to frighten little mermaids into obedience. Don’t swim too close to the shore, or the ghosts will steal your voice.

Generations passed. The sea kept its secrets.

Until now.

Until you.

You, the youngest daughter of the Sea King—mouthy, reckless, and far too curious for your own good. You’ve always wanted to see what was beyond. Not just the reef wall or the border tides, but the world above.

You weren’t supposed to be awake this late.

The reef pulsed with sleepy biolight, soft and dim, like the whole sea was breathing slow around you. Your sisters had long since curled into their shell beds, and even the guards stationed at the edge of the inner currents had grown lazy—hovering with half-lidded eyes, tridents drifting just slightly out of reach.

Perfect.

You moved silently through your chambers, brushing past strands of sea-silk and coral trinkets. Your father had filled the place with gifts. A necklace of blood-pearls. A singing conch from the Mariana Trench. A polished mirror carved from obsidian that always reflected you looking smaller than you felt. They were all meant to distract you. Soften you.

But none of it mattered when your heart was pulling toward something outside.

You ran your fingers through your hair. Tugged on your travel wrap—lightweight kelp-thread woven for speed, not elegance. No crown. No sign of royalty. Just you. Just the water.

You moved to the back wall of your chamber, where a curtain of kelp swayed lazily over the outcrop. It looked like just another patch of rock, but if you pushed it just right—there—the shimmerline faltered.

Just a flicker.

Your heart thudded in your chest, a rhythm too fast for deep sea calm.

One look over your shoulder.

Empty room.

You exhaled.

Then you slipped through the crack in the reef—outside Sanctum for the first time in your life.

And the sea felt different out here.

Colder. Wilder.

Free.

“You call that a tie-down? That knot wouldn’t hold a drunk mermaid’s panties, let alone a cannon!”

The deck of The Harpy’s Grin was chaos—ropes whipping in the wind, gulls screeching overhead, crewmen scrambling like wet rats as the sails snapped angrily above. The storm had passed hours ago, but its temper still echoed in the waves. And Sevika, captain of this barely-floating beast, was not in the mood.

She stalked across the creaking boards with heavy boots, the scent of brine and old smoke clinging to her coat. The sun caught the steel of her mechanical arm as she grabbed a dangling line and yanked it tight with a grunt, shooting a deadly glare at the nearest crewman.

“Reefbreak’s balls, if you lot can’t manage a basic lash, I’ll start tossing you overboard one by one and see who floats best!”

“Cap’n, the wind changed too fast—�� one of them started, eyes wide and voice shaking.

“And the wind’ll break your jaw next time you whine instead of workin’.” Her voice was rough as gravel, but cold. Controlled. She didn’t raise her voice unless she meant it.

The man shut up real fast.

Sevika took a slow drag off the half-chewed cigar clenched between her teeth, squinting out at the horizon. The water stretched out, glittering like spilled coin under the sun. Endless. Boring. Predictable.

God, she hated calm days.

“Where’s the chart?” she barked, already heading for the helm.

“Below deck, Cap’n!”

“Well get it! I’m not lettin’ this damn ship drift like a tavern whore waiting for a kiss.”

She took the wheel in one hand, metal fingers tapping restlessly on the polished wood. Her jaw worked against the cigar, tension in her shoulders she couldn’t seem to shake. Not from the storm. Not from the crew.

From the feeling. That gnawing itch behind her ribs like something was coming. Something that didn’t belong on the sea.

She spat overboard.

“Fuckin’ sirens,” she muttered.

Except she didn’t believe in sirens.

Not really.

Sevika barked one last order and turned back toward the wheel, the wind catching her coat as she narrowed her eyes at the far edge of the water. Something shimmered there—a ripple too smooth for open sea, a flicker of color where none should be.

Probably nothing.

But her gut said different.

And Sevika had learned long ago to trust her gut more than gods, ghosts, or gossiping crewmen.

She took another drag from her cigar and growled, “Bring up the scopes. I want eyes on the wreck fields.”

A crewmember scrambled up beside her, already raising the scope to his eye. He adjusted the focus, then stiffened. “There’s... something in the water, Cap’n.”

“‘Something’?” she snapped. “That’s real fuckin’ specific.”

“Not a fish. Too big. Looks like... maybe someone fell overboard?”

Her cigar twitched at the corner of her mouth.

“Lower the rowboat,” she ordered, voice flat. “Two men. Careful hands.”

Oren hesitated. “You think it’s a survivor?”

“I think I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she said, turning on her heel.

But as she walked away, she muttered under her breath, just quiet enough not to be heard:

“Or a goddamn lure.”

You’d gone too far.

You knew it the second the light changed—the way it bled through the water in slanted, unnatural beams, not the warm shimmer of Sanctum’s safe magic but the sharp, raw glare of the surface world. The current had tugged you past familiar coral shelves and singing stones. Now, the water was colder. Still. Heavy with silence.

And wreckage.

You kicked gently through the murk, weaving past twisted metal and splintered wood, ghost-ships swallowed by barnacles and age. Sails shredded like jellyfish skin. Harpoons rusted and bent. A graveyard.

Your brows furrowed as you muttered, “Why would there be so many here...?”

You’d always been told humans were myths—surface ghosts that vanished long ago, burned away by their own greed. Old stories. Scare tactics. Tales told to mares to keep them close to the reef. No one you knew had ever seen one.

But the wreckage told a different story.

You drifted lower, nearly brushing your belly against the ocean floor as you approached a strange shadow ahead—huge, looming, far too intact to be part of the graveyard. Not a reef. Not a creature.

And then you saw it.

Half out of the water above: a massive dark shape, long and wide like a sleeping leviathan. Wooden skin. Metal teeth. Some kind of strange… hump-backed whale?

Right next to it, floating just beside the beast, was a smaller one. Sleek. Smoother. Almost cute, in a crooked kind of way.

You froze, breath catching in your throat.

“...What are those?”

You stayed low, heart thudding as you pressed into the sand, eyes wide and glittering with curiosity. Whatever they were, they hadn’t moved yet. Maybe they were just strange surface creatures. Maybe they were whales. Maybe this was why your father forbade you from leaving.

But gods help you—you had to know.

The rowboat rocked gently beside the ruins of the old wreck, creaking as it drifted in the lazy current. Sevika stood near the bow, one boot up on the edge, arms crossed, cigar tucked behind her ear. She was squinting into the water, watching the way it shimmered around the rotted timbers below.

“See anything yet?” she muttered.

“Hold on,” one of her men called back, leaning farther over the edge. His fingers gripped the railing as he tried to peer past the sun glare. “I thought I saw—wait, yeah—somethin’ shiny. Looked like—”

The glint was gone before he finished the sentence.

A plink broke the stillness.

They all froze.

The man’s hand went to his bare chest like he’d been stabbed. His face twisted. “No—shit! No!”

“What now?” Sevika asked, already annoyed.

“My necklace—!” he barked, voice cracking. “It—it was my late wife’s—shit!”

And then he jumped.

Straight off the side.

“Godsdammit!” Sevika cursed as water splashed over the side.

“Man overboard!” the second crewman yelled, standing and nearly tipping the whole boat in his panic.

Shouts rang out from the main ship—sails snapping above, boots pounding on the upper deck. Sevika didn’t wait. She tore off her coat and dove in.

The water swallowed her whole.

She cut through it like a knife, teeth clenched against the cold. The man was below her, flailing, reaching toward the shimmer of silver glinting just above the ocean floor—lodged between sharp black rocks. Stupid, reckless bastard.

He grabbed it, fingers closing around the chain.

But then he panicked.

His chest heaved. His eyes went wide.

Sevika reached him, shoving him upward with both hands. Her grip was strong, steady. “Go!” she yelled, voice lost in a stream of bubbles. “Get up!”

He kicked off, disappearing toward the surface.

She turned to follow—and pain lanced up her leg.

Her boot had caught.

She yanked, hard. The rocks didn’t budge.

The pressure was already building behind her eyes. Her lungs were screaming.

She kicked again, twisting, trying to slip free—

Still stuck.

Still sinking.

The decision wasn’t a decision at all. It was instinct.

One moment, you were crouched in the sand, hidden beneath a ledge of coral and bone, eyes wide as the strange surface woman thrashed against the rocks. The next—you were moving.

Your tail snapped once, twice, and you shot forward through the murk.

Her foot was caught tight between two slabs of stone. You yanked on them, fingers digging into the crevices, but they wouldn’t budge. Too sharp. Too strong. The woman’s dark eyes locked onto yours—wild with confusion and quickly clouding. Her mouth parted, a stream of bubbles escaping.

And still—she fought.

But something else moved behind you.

A shadow.

The shark.

You felt it before you saw it—the ripple through the current, the low thrum of hunger. It circled from far off, but closing fast, drawn by the shimmer of your scales.

You cursed under your breath.

Too shiny, stupid tail, stupid.

You twisted, diving down just as it cut through the water in a flash of grey muscle and hunger. Sevika flinched as it passed—still trapped. Still vulnerable.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers found the knife strapped to her thigh—slick and cold, the leather sheath wrapped in thick cords. You yanked it free, spun, and darted directly toward the open mouth of the predator.

It came at you fast.

You were faster.

With a sharp flick of your tail, you spun to the side and drove the blade into the beast’s eye with all your strength.

A hiss of blood spiraled through the water. The shark jerked, convulsing, and fled into the gloom.

You turned back, breathing hard. Sevika was struggling against the rock again—and with a final wrench, she broke free. You caught her as she kicked off the bottom, her strength already faltering.

She was slipping.

You could see it in the way her limbs moved—slower, heavier, like her body was made of stone. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to stay conscious.

You grabbed her hand.

Your fingers locked around hers as you pulled, kicking hard toward the surface, dragging her up through the light and salt and silence.

When her head broke the surface, she gasped—choking and sputtering—but you were already gone.

Back beneath the waves.

A shadow disappearing in the blood-tinged blue.

Rough hands pulled her from the sea.

“Got her! Cap’n—breathe! Come on—damn it—”

Water spilled from her mouth as she coughed, hacking and heaving onto the wood of the little rowboat. Her chest burned. Her lungs felt like they were made of rust. Her limbs, heavy and half-numb, barely moved as someone braced her shoulders.

“Is she bit?” someone asked. “Shit, there was blood—a lot of it.”

Sevika blinked, vision blurry with salt and sun. Her throat felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper.

“Wasn’t mine,” she rasped, voice like gravel dragged across stone.

The two crewmen looked at each other. “You sure? Looked like a fuckin’ massacre from the top deck.”

Sevika coughed again, this time spitting over the side. She sat up slowly, her shirt soaked and clinging to her, the weight of the sea still wrapped around her shoulders like a ghost.

“I said it wasn’t mine,” she muttered, jaw tight. “Shark came in. Got chased off.”

“Chased off?” one of them echoed, brows lifting. “By what, a fuckin’ miracle?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t have one.

There’d been something in the water. No—someone. She remembered flashes. A face. A grip on her arm. Eyes wide and unafraid. No legs. Shimmering skin. A tail.

And then—nothing.

The rowboat bumped against the side of The Harpy’s Grin, ropes lowered to haul her up. Voices crowded her ears—more concern, more confusion—but she didn’t register a word.

She stumbled onto the deck with help, boots squelching against the boards. Her mind was still half-drowned.

“You hit your head, Cap’n?” someone asked. “You’re out of it.”

“Fine,” she growled, brushing off a hand from her shoulder. “Fine.”

But she wasn’t.

Because when she looked down, just before the crew peeled her soaked coat away, she saw something wrapped around her wrist—delicate, green, and glinting like sea glass.

A strand of kelp, knotted into a perfect little braid.

And Sevika never tied things pretty.

You didn’t realize it until you were almost back—until the shimmerline came into view, flickering faintly around the outer reef like a curtain of moonlight.

The knife was still in your hand.

Your breath caught. You paused in the current, tail curling beneath you, the knife suddenly heavy in your grip. You turned it over, saltwater glinting along the blade’s edge.

It wasn’t just any weapon.

The handle was worn but beautiful—wrapped in aged leather, darkened by years of salt and heat. Carved into the metal beneath were delicate engravings: waves, stars, a compass rose. On one side, stamped into the base near the hilt, was a name in old surface script:

Sevika Vexley.

You mouthed it soundlessly, letting the letters roll through your mind.

That woman—she wasn’t like the stories. She wasn’t shriveled or monstrous or cursed with fire-skin. She was strong. Broad-shouldered and wild-eyed, all sharp angles and tension, even as she drowned. And... gods. She was attractive. In a terrifying, deeply unfair way.

You shook your head, cheeks heating. This was not the time.

And yet—your fingers didn’t let go.

You could’ve returned the knife. Left it near the surface. Let it sink back into her world. But a part of you didn’t want to. A part of you needed to keep it. Not just as proof that it happened—but because it meant something. She had a name. A face. A voice. A life.

Humans aren’t real, you’d been told. And if they were, they’re long gone. Dangerous. Violent.

But she didn’t feel like a ghost.

She felt realer than anything you’d ever touched.

You sighed, slipping the knife carefully into the folds of your kelpwrap and turning back toward the shimmerline. You passed through the magic, your tail tingling as you crossed the barrier and reentered Sanctum.

Guards drifted lazily nearby, none of them noticing you.

You exhaled in relief. No one saw. No one knew.

And no one would believe you anyway.

Your chamber was dim and still when you slipped back in—just as you left it, though your heart was hammering like you’d been gone for days instead of hours.

You crossed quickly to the corner near your bed, where the coral flooring dipped slightly beneath your vanity shell. With a careful glance over your shoulder, you knelt and pried up a loose tile of polished shellstone. It had cracked months ago, but no one had bothered to fix it. Lucky you.

The knife slid in perfectly.

You let your fingers linger on the handle—just for a second—before pressing the tile back into place and smoothing the sand around it. You exhaled. Safe. Hidden.

But before you could rise—

“Where were you?”

You froze.

His voice filled the room like a wave crashing against the reef—deep, commanding, too calm to be harmless.

Your father hovered just inside the entrance, broad-shouldered and impossibly regal even without his crown. The water shimmered faintly around him, a sign of his rising temper.

“I asked you a question,” he said, slower now. “Where. Were. You.”

You turned, schooling your face into neutrality. “Nowhere.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “I just... went for a swim. I stayed within the boundary.”

“Don’t insult me,” he growled, his tone sharp now, dangerous. “Your scent is soaked in brine and blood. You reek of the outer currents.”

You stiffened. “I’m not a child.”

“No, but you are my daughter,” he barked, surging forward. “And I did not build this sanctum just for you to go wandering into cursed waters where things that shouldn’t exist still might.”

Your jaw tightened, hands curling at your sides. “So I’m supposed to spend my whole life locked in a cage of pearl? Singing at court? Smiling for foreign envoys? That’s not living.”

His face twisted. “That is safety.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. “Then maybe I don’t want to be safe.”

The water between you crackled with tension. Silence hung, thick and bitter.

His voice, when it finally came, was low. “One day out there will get you killed.”

You turned your back on him.

“One day here will kill me slower,” you muttered.

You didn’t look as he left. You couldn’t.

Because your hands were still shaking.

The reef was asleep again.

Soft glows pulsed through the coral towers like slow heartbeats, and the palace was quiet save for the faint echo of guards’ tridents tapping stone. You lay still in your bed until their patrol passed your chamber door—then you moved.

You slipped from the silkweed sheets, every motion careful, quiet. The room was still dim, only the bioluminescent drift-lamps casting gentle light across your floor. You knelt by the vanity again, fingers brushing over the loose tile. It popped free with practiced ease.

The knife was still there.

You pulled it out slowly, cradling the handle in your palm. The engravings were cool under your fingers, familiar now. You traced the name again.

Sevika Vexley.

There was no going back. Not really. Not after today. Not after her.

You needed to know more. You needed to see her again. Ask what she was. What the surface was. What the truth was.

You slid the knife into the belt of your kelpwrap, letting the folds hide it from sight. You glanced once more toward your door. Still quiet.

You slipped out.

Through shadowed halls and gently swaying curtains of sea lace, past the silver fountains that never ran dry. Past your sisters’ chambers. Past the court’s main hall. You moved like a shadow, like a whisper. Like you weren’t the king’s youngest daughter.

Like you weren’t royalty at all.

Except—you forgot.

The moment you passed the final shimmerline, leaving Sanctum behind, you felt the cool rush of wild sea against your skin—and a gentle tug at your temples.

Your crown.

You hadn’t even realized you were still wearing it—so familiar, so constant it felt like a part of your body. The delicate chains brushed your cheeks as you swam, gold glinting faintly in the dark, seashells and crystal pieces catching what little light filtered from above.

The teardrop gem gleamed like a beacon.

If someone saw you—

You swallowed hard, but didn’t stop.

The knife was secure at your hip. The water was cold again.

And somewhere out there, above the wrecks and waves, was a woman who should not exist.

And you were going to find her.

The dock buzzed with noise as The Harpy’s Grin pulled into its usual berth, ropes thrown and sails furled with practiced speed. Salt clung to the air, and the wood of the pier creaked beneath hurried boots as the crew began unloading barrels, crates, and whatever scrap was worth selling from the old wrecks.

Sevika stood at the gangplank, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the chaos below. Her coat was back on, sleeves damp, and the braid of kelp that had been wrapped around her wrist was gone—tucked somewhere deep in her quarters where no one could see it.

She didn’t say a word as her crew barked and grunted, lugging gear onto the docks.

“Hey!”

A familiar voice cut through the noise.

Sevika looked up just in time to see Vi weaving through the crowd, her usual cocky smirk in place and a gleam in her eye. The crowd parted for her. It usually did.

“Finally,” Vi said, coming to stand beside her. “Took your sweet time.”

“Storm slowed us down,” Sevika muttered, voice low. “Got caught in a wreck field.”

Vi looked her over, brow twitching. “You good?”

There was a pause.

Sevika scratched the back of her neck, eyes flicking toward the crates being hauled off her ship. “...Fell overboard.”

Vi blinked.

“You what?”

“I said I fell overboard.”

Vi stared for a beat—then barked out a laugh, loud and obnoxious, smacking Sevika on the shoulder. “You idiot! I told you to stop standing so close to the damn edge when you’re brooding like a cliché.”

“I wasn’t brooding,” Sevika grumbled.

“You were,” Vi grinned. “You always are. Gods, you're lucky you didn’t drown. I’d be stuck drinking alone, and you know no one else can keep up with me.”

Sevika huffed a soft laugh through her nose, shaking her head.

“So?” Vi raised a brow, already turning toward the street. “We doin’ our usual, or what? I got us a table at the tavern.”

Sevika didn’t answer right away.

Her gaze drifted over her shoulder, back to the sea. The waves looked calm now—unbothered. Innocent.

But she could still feel the ghost of fingers wrapped around her wrist, dragging her toward the surface.

Not human. Not a dream.

Her jaw tightened. “...Yeah. Sure.”

She turned and followed Vi into the crowd.

But her mind stayed on the water.

The tavern was warm and loud—clanking mugs, the low thrum of music from the back corner, sailors laughing too hard over nothing. It was the kind of noise that usually helped Sevika drown out her thoughts.

Not tonight.

She sat at the booth, half-drunk cider sweating in front of her, boots kicked out under the table. Vi was mid-story—something about a guy trying to barter with a dead jellyfish and calling it “enchanted”—but Sevika wasn’t really hearing it.

Her eyes had drifted to the far wall, where a faded mural stretched across the plaster. It was chipped in places, water-stained at the corners, but still vivid enough to make her pause.

A mermaid. Painted in swirling blues and silver, hair flowing like seaweed, mouth slightly open in song. A fairytale. A warning. A joke.

Except it didn’t feel like one anymore.

“—and then the guy actually licked it, I swear on my—wait—”

Vi snapped her fingers.

“Hello? Not talkin’ to myself over here.”

Sevika blinked. Her gaze flicked to Vi, then back to the mural, then back again. She shifted in her seat, leaning back with a quiet sigh.

“Sorry.”

Vi raised a brow. “You good? You’ve been weird all night.”

There was a long pause.

Then Sevika just said it.

“Do you believe in mermaids?” she asked, voice low. “Or… sirens?”

Vi snorted a laugh, lifting her drink. “What, like the fish-girls with seashell tits and magic songs? That kind of mermaid?”

But Sevika didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink.

Vi’s smirk faded slowly. She lowered her mug and leaned in a bit, watching her friend’s face.

“…Did you see something?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away.

Vi scooted closer across the bench. “Sev. What happened out there?”

Sevika stared into her drink, fingers drumming once against the side of the mug. Her jaw worked like she was chewing on the words, deciding whether to spit them out or swallow them whole.

“I saw something,” she finally said, voice quiet enough that Vi had to lean in more to catch it.

Vi’s brows knit. “Like… what kind of something?”

Sevika hesitated.

“Something in the water,” she said. “When I was stuck. Thought I was gonna black out. Then she was there.”

Vi blinked. “She?”

“...I don’t know what she was,” Sevika muttered. “Had no legs. Fast as hell. Got me loose. Dragged me up. Then gone.”

Vi sat back slowly, mug forgotten. “You’re serious.”

Sevika nodded once, slow and deliberate. Her eyes flicked to the mural again.

Vi followed her gaze, then let out a low breath. “And you think—what? Mermaid? Siren? Sea spirit?”

“I don’t know,” Sevika repeated. “But she wasn’t a hallucination. She had weight. Heat. A face.”

Vi was quiet for a moment, chewing on her lip. Then she scoffed softly. “Well, damn. I thought I had a good story tonight.”

That finally earned her a ghost of a smile from Sevika.

“You still do,” Sevika said, lifting her drink. “Just not as weird as mine.”

Vi shook her head and grinned, clinking her mug against Sevika’s.

“You’re buying the next round,” she said. “And if this ends with you falling in love with a sea creature, I better be the best man at the wedding.”

The water was darker here. Colder.

You'd been swimming in circles for what felt like hours, trying to retrace the path from earlier. The wrecks weren’t where you remembered. The currents were different, pulling wrong, whispering strange things around your ears.

But you had to find it. Find her.

You darted around a cluster of sunken crates, eyes sharp, heart thudding with a mix of urgency and hope. You couldn’t stop now—not after what you saw. Not after what you felt.

Then the current shifted. Cold. Heavy. Familiar.

Your blood ran colder than the sea around you.

You turned slowly, and there it was. The shark.

The same one from before, its wounded eye now scarred and clouded with rage. It hovered just a few body-lengths away, tail swaying in slow, predatory rhythm. It had followed your trail.

Of course it had.

You backed away, body tense, hand reaching for the knife at your hip—but you knew you couldn’t outswim it in open water. You were fast, but not that fast. Its nostrils flared. It inched closer. Closer.

It opened its jaws.

And then—

“Tch. That’s enough, fish-breath.”

The voice came from behind you. Smooth. Teasing. Dangerous.

The shark froze mid-lunge.

Its entire body trembled before it spun, darting off into the gloom with a ripple of panic you could feel in the water.

You turned.

Floating just a few feet away was a woman.

A mermaid, but not like anyone from Sanctum.

Her hair was long—long—a brilliant, electric blue that shimmered even in the low light, trailing all the way down to where her deep indigo tail began. She was tall, lean, and wore a grin like she knew every secret the sea had ever whispered. Sharp teeth glinted behind her smile.

She cocked her head at you.

“Hey, kid,” she said, voice curling around you like silk. “Wanna turn into a human?”

Your eyes went wide.

The tavern was even louder now.

The music had swelled into a full reel, all frantic strings and stomping boots, and the crowd had doubled since sunset. Lanterns glowed low and golden above the bar, casting warm light over sweat-damp necks and flushed cheeks. The air was thick with the scent of spiced rum, woodsmoke, and something fried and probably burnt.

Sevika was drunk. Very drunk.

She was slouched in a chair near the back, one boot kicked up on a barrel, her coat half-falling off her shoulder. The smoke from her cigar curled lazily above her head, ignored entirely as her attention was focused on the woman seated across from her.

She had a voice like honey, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other idly playing with the end of Sevika’s collar. She laughed too loudly at something Sevika said—and Sevika smirked, leaning in, words low and slurred just enough to soften her usual edge.

From a distance, she looked like any other pirate relaxing after a haul—flushed cheeks, hooded eyes, the swagger of someone used to getting what she wanted.

But if anyone looked close enough, really close, they’d see the difference. The way Sevika’s gaze flicked—not quite focused on the girl in front of her, but through her.

Because the girl wasn’t her.

Not her.

The girl was close, sure—dark hair, delicate mouth, a laugh that danced in the air—but her eyes were too pale, her chin too sharp. Her hands were wrong.

Still, Sevika played the part. She leaned in, voice rough and low. “You always drink like that, or are you tryin’ to impress me?”

The girl grinned, tipping her mug. “Maybe a bit of both.”

Sevika laughed, mouth curling around the cigar, smoke exhaled through her nose as she tilted her head. “Dangerous game.”

“And you’re the warning label?” the girl teased, inching closer, eyes glinting. “Please.”

Sevika took a slow sip of her drink. It sloshed slightly as she set it down, the amber liquid nearly gone. Her elbow hit the table harder than intended. She blinked a little too slow.

“Just sayin’,” she muttered, “You got no idea what I’ve seen. What I’ve touched.”

She didn’t mean to say it like that, but the words slipped out anyway, thick with drink and memory.

The girl’s brows rose, but she was still smiling, amused, leaning in close enough that her perfume—citrus and sweat—brushed Sevika’s senses. “Then maybe you should show me.”

A smirk ghosted across Sevika’s mouth. Her hand drifted forward, fingers brushing against the girl’s wrist. Her touch was practiced, steady, but her eyes…

Her eyes were miles away.

The other woman leaned in like she was expecting a kiss.

But Sevika didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because all she could see, in the flicker of candlelight on this stranger’s face, was another face—wide-eyed, glinting with seawater and moonlight. That tail. That mouth when it opened in shock. The shimmer of scales, the cut of a jaw that didn’t belong to any myth she knew.

Sevika blinked again.

The illusion cracked.

“You alright?” the girl asked softly, drawing back just an inch.

Sevika rolled her jaw, wiped a hand down her face, and laughed—low and hollow.

“Fine,” she muttered, tossing back the last of her drink. “Just thinkin’ about someone who ain’t here.”

The tavern blurred as the night deepened—faces blending into laughter, music thickening into static, the hum of drink and desire drowning out all reason. Sevika didn’t remember leaving exactly. Just the heat of the girl’s mouth on her neck, her fingers tangled in Sevika’s shirt, and the way the air outside felt cold against her flushed skin as they stumbled down the uneven cobbled streets toward her place.

They barely made it inside.

The door slammed shut behind them, the girl giggling as Sevika backed her into the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh. Their mouths met—hot and hungry, the taste of rum and desperation between them.

It didn’t matter that her name was wrong. That her voice was wrong. That the curve of her back didn’t fit Sevika’s palm quite the way she wanted it to.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to.

Didn’t let herself.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the moonlight bleeding in through the thin curtain. Clothes came off. Hands roamed. The girl made all the right sounds, said all the right things, wrapped herself around Sevika like she meant it.

And Sevika gave in to the rhythm—fast, rough, breathless.

She chased the high, moving harder, deeper, fingers gripping, mouth biting, needing something to burn out the feeling gnawing at her ribs.

But just as she tipped over the edge—

Just as her breath caught, her eyes squeezed shut—

She saw her.

Not the girl beneath her. Not the one gasping and moaning and clawing at her back.

Her.

The girl from the water. From the wreck. From somewhere else entirely.

Except—this wasn’t a memory.

It was an invention. A split-second fantasy.

The mermaid—you—laid out beneath her, body slick and glistening like she’d just surfaced, hair tangled in seawater, eyes wide and dark with pleasure. Your mouth open, lips parted around Sevika’s name—not Captain, not help, but Sevika, like it belonged to her.

Her expression was soft. Overwhelmed. Beautiful.

It wrecked her.

Sevika came hard, breath torn from her chest, muscles tensing as the world went silent except for that imagined sound—the voice of someone she didn’t even know, someone she couldn’t possibly forget.

And when it was over—

When the girl curled up beside her, pressing kisses to her shoulder, sighing into her skin like she meant it—

Sevika just stared at the ceiling.

Eyes open.

Jaw clenched.

Haunted by a fantasy she hadn’t meant to have

comment to be added to the taglist!

#arcane #arcane sevika #sevika #lesbian #sevika x reader #wlw #wuh luh wuh #sissormetimbers

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aeristudios · 1 month ago

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2099: A Seventeen Series

50 years ago, the milky way as we know it was destroyed, leaving the remaining human population to find find shelter in another galaxy—deemed The Shattered Nebula. Now it's 2099, and with civilization spawning across several planets, we will follow the lives of the thirteen souls of Seventeen as they carve their paths through love, danger, destiny, and the beyond...

Genres: fluff, angst, smut, sci-fi au, dystopian au

General warnings include heavy topics, depictions of violence and murder, talks of murder, uprisings/rebellions, morally grey characters, recreational drinking, use of guns, etc. Each story will be explicitly tagged and will be 18+ ONLY.

If you would like to sign up to be tagged for each story when it's released, you can sign up here.

✦ Thank you @hobeemin for the banner and dividers ✦

See You, Space Cowboy

✦ ⋆ ࣪. With a bounty on your head, you are determined to get your revenge at all costs… even if it means losing the man that you love.

pt. 1 pt. 2 visual concept 1 visual concept 2 playlist

Girl With The Spider Tattoo

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Jeonghan doesn’t do feelings. He runs his business, takes care of his sister, and lives his life attachment-free. He was okay with that until you showed up, too perfect and careful lies. But despite that, he wants you anyway.

coming soon

Like Wildfire

✦ ⋆ ࣪. She was someone soft from his past, a dreamer who longed to be with the stars—someone who had no business surviving in the bloodstained world Soonyoung lives in. She disappeared during an uprising, and he assumed she was dead. Now, years later, he finds her with the rebels, with eyes like wildfire, ready for revenge.

coming soon

Lucid Dreams

✦ ⋆ ࣪. After a near-death experience, Investigator Jun starts seeing you in his dreams, someone he doesn’t know but feels deeply connected to. When he tracks you down in real life, you claim never to have met. But each night, the lucid dreams grow stronger… and your reactions start to change.

coming soon

The Fixer

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Chan is a fixer—always ready to please, trained to obey… except for when it comes to you.

Sleeping With The Enemy

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You're the daughter of a rebel general, forced to marry the crowned prince Joshua to unite the warring factions. You hate each other and it's no secret. But an attempt on your life forces you to share chambers with him, and you aren't so sure you hate him anymore.

coming soon

What Lies Within

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You’re hired to investigate a string of murders tied to relics once held in the now-destroyed Oracle Vault. Minghao, a famous ancient artifact curator, agrees to help you, but only if he gets to keep the relics. The deeper you go, the more disturbing the truths become, and you find yourselves fighting for your lives— and running into each other��s arms.

coming soon

Save Me

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You're a prisoner from Mechara for a crime you did not commit, locked in a floating penitentiary. Injured during a riot, you’re taken to the infirmary, where Seokmin, the resident medic, treats you under strict surveillance. He’s gentle, careful, too kind for this place. And as much as you don’t want to, you start to trust him.

coming soon

T.K.O

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Seungkwan is a smooth-talking promoter who runs underground fights. Everything was going fine until you entered the ring and knocked him off his feet.

coming soon

Cordis

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You’re the sole survivor of an explosion from a chemical lab in Zoie City. Jihoon rescues you, bringing you to his station. He monitors your vitals daily as you recover, watching your heartbeat stabilize in sync with his own. He insists it’s clinical. But he’s lying

coming soon

Erased

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You sell memories on the black market—sliced, edited, and projected. Vernon is your most loyal client, always buying memories that don’t belong to him. One night, he brings you a memory chip he found—a forbidden one—and asks you to watch it with him. It’s a memory of the two of you: laughing, kissing, saying goodbye. You don’t remember it. But he does. And someone out there wants that memory erased—for good.

coming soon

Need You

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You overheard something you shouldn’t have, and you’ve been on the run ever since. Almost at the end of your rope, you turn to the one person you know would drop anything to save you—even though you still hate him for breaking your heart.

coming soon

Peaches

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Seungcheol is at the top of the world as the head of The Organization. He’s respected, feared, and if you are an enemy? Run. But once a month, he returns to his serene hometown to visit his mother… and buy peaches from the girl who doesn’t flinch when she looks him in the eye.

coming soon

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venusbyline · 7 days ago

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The Blood of the Lamb (prologue)

chapter one

— summary: During a few weeks, you thought that the idea of getting in one of your late father's cars and driving without any sensible planning to the distant farm where your uncles lived might be a good idea. You thought that their invitation for you to stay there for a while had been out of pure, genuine kindness. Then you chose to ignore any suspicious situation that could have prevented you from being there, almost on the verge of death and thrown in the middle of the forest.

— pairing: vampire!Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader x vampire!Aegon II Targaryen

— type: dark, smut, 1930s AU

— chapter's warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, human!reader, dark!Aemond, dark!Aegon II, Targcest (uncles/niece), threesome FMM (female/male/male), rape/non-con, age gap (older men/younger woman), oral sex (female receiving), cunnilingus, blood drinking, blood and injury, nipple licking, dacryphilia, unconscious sex, non-consensual somnophilia, free use, sadism, dark content, 1930s AU/vampire AU, porn with plot. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: This is my first story involving vampirism. I love vampires since when I was 8 (thanks Bram Stoker's Dracula and IWTV movie), but I had never written a HOTD fanfic about this content until I watched Sinners and received an anon ask a few weeks later 💕💕 I hope you guys like that, I don't now when I'll write the next chapters, perhaps it'll be soon!!!

— author's notes²: The Blood of the Lamb is a series involving vampirism, Targcest and sexual master/slave themes.

— author's notes³: Each chapter will contain its own trigger warnings.

— author's notes⁴: If you want to be tagged for the next chapters, tell me!!! <3 <3

❥ Aemond masterlist • Aegon II masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

Your mother had warned you to stay away from your uncles since the family had become completely estranged for years. However, your stubbornness got the better of you and you got into the wrong path because of a stupid fight with Jacaerys, your older brother.

During a few weeks, you thought that the idea of getting in one of your late father's cars and driving without any sensible planning to the distant farm where your uncles lived might be a good idea. You thought that their invitation for you to stay there for a while had been out of pure, genuine kindness. Then you chose to ignore any suspicious situation that could have prevented you from being there, almost on the verge of death and thrown in the middle of the forest — all the nights they left without warning and came back with some strange stains on their clothes, all the looks they gave you when you got too close to them, those constant dilated pupils, the lack of any sunlight in the rooms...

"You look so pretty like this, little niece, crying and writhing like a lamb while my brother licks your cooze..." Aegon purred in your ear, blood still dripping down his chin from the most recent bite he had given your neck.

No matter how much you tried to move away from both of them, you found yourself too weak to fight again, fang marks all over your arms.

"S-Stop, uncle... Please." You looked at Aegon with those wide, vulnerable eyes, being interrupted by the loud scream as Aemond sank his teeth into your cunt.

The feeling of the blood being sucked out of your body was overwhelming, making it impossible for you to stay conscious for long, passing out and coming back every five minutes.

"Poor little thing..." Aemond teased, his fangs soaked with the crimson liquid, as was his entire chin. He caressed your bruised clit, enjoying watching your legs trembling even in your sleepy state.

Aegon moved his bites down to your breasts, squeezing one of the soft mounds while his mouth focused on practically ripping off your nipple. "Maybe we should keep her locked up in the barn, so we can have more fun with that little pussy."

Aemond frowned, stopping his licking and considering the idea of keeping you as a sex slave who would also serve as their frequent feed. After a few seconds, he nodded. "Yeah... maybe that could be more arousing than just sucking all her blood and throwing her corpse somewhere in the forest."

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softpascalito · 8 months ago

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Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter I

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Spoiler-Free Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. Both have taken vows that make sure their paths may never cross. Until they do.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x F!Vestal!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 37k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn(ish), Injry, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, More tags to be added

AO3 I Series Masterlist I Masterlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

guys, where do we even start. i can't live with his end so i am rewriting it. enjoy <3

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house posticum - a servant's entrance cubiculas - roman bedrooms

You didn't think it would lead to this.

A beloved General, a just man, kneeling in front of his opponent in the sand that covers the arena floor, the cloud of its dust settling onto the two men facing each other. The particles glisten in the scorching heat of the relentless sun above you, just as violent as the battle you have just witnessed.

It is not something you have ever truly enjoyed, hearing the last gasp of a dying man, seeing the moment a blade enters his stomach. Watching the winner shout with glee. Watching the dead body be dragged away.

But sitting in the specifically reserved area near the Emperors is good custom. Custom keeps one alive.

Custom is also hard to uphold when the man your heart is set on is fighting to keep his life mere feet below you.

You see Acacius’s lips move, see the pleading look in his eyes.

And then a soft thud echoes through the Colosseum as Lucius drops his sword and falls to his knees across from the General.

You wipe your hands furiously on your white gown, trying to keep your hands from sweating as your heart pumps wildly in your chest. You wonder what would happen to it if the sword would've found Acacius’s torso instead. Or his neck. Maybe it would've just given out, unwilling to beat any longer if his was not doing the same.

“No! Kill him! Soldiers!” The Emperor's cries reach you even through the uproar of the crowd, which is unwilling to accept any match that doesn't end with death. Rome always wants death.

“Archers!” He yells and you hold your breath as they draw their bows in unison, tips pointed right into the middle of the arena where the two men are still kneeling.

“Move,” you whisper under your breath, almost as if you believe Acacius can hear you. But he doesn't. He stays on his knees, upright, seemingly waiting for the arrows to hit. An archer to your left releases his arrow with a slight tremor in his arm–and misses by inches. It hits the sand behind Lucius instead, a small cloud of dust rising around it. But your eyes are drawn to the gentle movement of the General as he raises his arm.

“Hold.”

He doesn't have to scream the command. But his deep voice still travels throughout the Colosseum with urgency. The voice of a man who knows how to instruct his soldiers, how to make himself heard even on the battlefield, in the face of death. Even if it's his own that is imminent.

His reminder rings out in your head.

“How many of them will be loyal to you?” – “All of them.”

The archers hold their fire, no arrows following the first one. You turn your head to catch a glimpse of the twin Emperors, both practically jumping up and down with fury as they yell at the archers, at the guards, at anyone who will listen. “We'll have his head! We'll have the General's head for this! How dare he defy us–”

The bows are lowered as soldiers march into the arena, roughly placing cuffs around both men's hands. Acacius doesn't try to intervene with their orders this time, slowly rising to his feet and letting them lead him back towards the gate, though you don't miss the small stagger in his step. It makes a wave of worry wash over you.

“We’ll have your head, General! You will not live to see another battle! You will not even live to see another sunrise!”

Your blood runs cold at that and you stand up abruptly, your head bowed as your feet carry you back into the outer corridor of the Colosseum, a light breeze greeting you as the angry yells and curses from inside the arena grow more quiet.

You have given everything for Rome. Your vows, your service. You will not give him.

***

The moon is hiding away behind a large cloud when you slip out of the house and onto Via Nova, the sounds of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog filling the night. Having fulfilled your duties for the evening and claimed that the scene at the Colosseum gave you a dull headache, you retired early. When the sounds of the other women in the house died down, you took your chance.

It isn't far to the domus Acacius and Lucilla reside in, your own quarters located just below Palatine Hill. On a clear day, you can see the stone walls of his house from the garden you use to grow herbs.

After about fifty feet, you turn, following down a more narrow path that allows you to travel in the shadows. A few minutes later, it leads you to the posticum of the noble home, an entrance off to the side, used mainly by the servants–or visitors unwilling to be seen. Acacius has taken to keeping it unlocked whenever he knows you are coming. You pray that it still is.

A light push against the wooden door is all it needs to swing open with a small creak, making you hold your breath as you place one careful foot in front of the other. The last thing you need is to alert any guards to your nightly visit.

But you’ve learned how to walk in the shadows and which streets to avoid. You know that the second step from the bottom creaks if you put too much weight on it. It feels like the stone walls of his house are silent witnesses to the amount of time you have spent tip-toeing to his quarters after everyone else has retired for the night.

You distantly wonder if they have allowed him the comfort of his own bed as you enter the atrium, already turning right towards the cubiculas–and pause when your gaze flickers around the open space.

Acacius is hunched over on a chair, a thick metal cuff sneaking around his ankle, the chain fastened securely around one of the columns that line each side of the open room. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice that he is wearing nothing but his red tunic, the gold details on the edges already worn and fading. He shivers in the cold night air, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He looks so different from how he did in the arena just mere hours earlier. Smaller, somehow.

When you step forward, his head turns, eyes widening as you step into the dim light and recognition flickers over his face. “Dulcissima.”

You try to give him a smile but you're sure it fails miserably. Instead, you lessen the distance between you, passing the fountain in the center. “Acacius–”

“By the gods, what are you doing here?” He whispers, his soft brown eyes looking up at you. He sounds scared, his voice quiet but rough. Up close, you find that not only have they left him chained up in his own atrium but they have also not tended to his wounds. Caked blood and dirt decorate his skin, a part of his hair matted down with something that you hope is the latter.

You ignore his question. “They sentenced you to death.” No matter how hard you try, you can't keep your voice from shaking.

“They sentenced me to death the moment they learned about the plot,” Acacius mumbles quietly. “You know this. It was always going to end this way.”

“Where is Lucilla?” You ask quietly, casting a quick glance around yourself, almost expecting her to step forward from behind one of the columns. Even if you know you have nothing to fear from her. In fact, she may be the only person who understands what you are currently feeling.

“She is with two of the men. On their way to Lucius,” he admits, turning his body a bit more into your direction, which immediately forces a small grunt out of him. You suck in a sharp breath, though you're not sure whether it's in response to his injury or to what you just learned.

“He may already be dead.”

Acacius glances up at you with a look you can't quite place. Then he nods. “He may be.” He shakes his head ever so slightly. “But he has friends in the Colosseum. You forget whose son he is.” The General pauses again, his eyes searching your face as his whisper becomes more urgent. “Why are you here?”

A small sigh escapes you as you take two more steps towards Acacius. “Because you forgot who I am.”

It takes a few moments before recognition flickers in his eyes–and he understands. That as a Vestal, you may pardon with a touch of your hand. Even slaves. Even those sentenced to death.

He has seen you do it, once or twice. When prisoners called out to you as you passed by them with the jug of holy water. Begged you to place your palm on their head, to allow them to live. And they did. But this? This is different.

“No.”

“Marcus,” you say softly. “It’s the power they have given me, the role they have cursed me with. I may as well use it for good.”

“Dulcissima, they will know,” he protests, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight onto his legs and stands up. “They will know about us. They do not even need proof to put you on trial.”

“I do not care if they put me on trial,” you blurt out, taking a step forward just as he takes two back.

“Do not lay your hand on me,” he warns, raising his hand not unlike the way he did in the Colosseum earlier.

“Marcus. Please.” You’re begging more than asking. You don't think you could take it. A Rome without him.

His back hits the marble column and he curses under his breath just as you reach him. The chains meant to keep him from escaping turn into chains that make sure you can save him. Even if he does not want saving.

The tremor that has been a constant in your hands since seeing Acacius fall to his knees in the arena has disappeared, your fingers stretching slightly as you stand on tiptoes to reach for his head.

Soft, dark curls greet the tips of your fingers and you sigh in relief, mumbling a prayer as your hand comes to rest on his head like a crown. A shuddering breath leaves him, his eyes cast downward. Tension bleeds from his body, his shoulders sagging. A softness his soldiers never get to see.

It is a reminder of the nights you’ve spent together, always hidden and always too short. With whispered promises and silent prayers to Vesta to forgive you for loving him. You do not know how not to. And you don't ever want to find out.

But the way you bend upward, lips meeting his forehead–it simply comes more naturally than it should.

notes: thank you for reading! feel free to follow me on here or twitter/ao3 for updates on the next chapters! also, i would love to hear yalls thoughts so feel very free to leave a comment <3

! when commenting or reblogging, please make sure to hide spoilers from others !

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius / reader #marcus acacius / you #marcus acacius x you #general acacius #general acacius / you #general acacius / reader #gladiator II #gladiator 2 #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #hurt/comfort #vestal virgins #ancient rome #softpascalito

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months ago

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The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 2: To Judge The Living And The Dead]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 5.7k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

Here is the story of Saint Agatha of Sicily.

Born in the time of the Roman Empire, when Christians were still being burned alive and fed to lions in the Colosseum, Agatha rejected the suitors she attracted as a beautiful daughter of a wealthy family. Instead, she pledged herself to Christ: a life of simplicity and service, a vow of chastity. No man could sway Agatha from her chosen path, not even the Roman governor Quintianus, who aspired to take the fifteen-year-old maiden as his wife. So Quintianus endeavored to change her mind.

First, Quintianus threatened Agatha with torture and death. When that proved ineffective, he had her put to work in a brothel. Yet after a full month of violations, Agatha was no closer to surrendering; on the contrary, her faith only seemed to grow stronger. She prayed to the Lord for courage; she proclaimed that to be His servant was the greatest possible freedom.

Quintianus was running out of ideas. He imprisoned Agatha and ordered his torturers to devise new and terrifying forms of punishment. Bloody and mutilated, Agatha was thrown back into her cell without food or medical attention, but the Lord did not abandon her: Saint Peter, Christ’s apostle and the first pope of the Church, appeared to comfort Agatha and miraculously healed her wounds.

Four days later when the torture resumed, Agatha knew that her short time on earth was ending. She prayed aloud: Lord, my Creator, you have always protected me from the cradle. You have taken me from the love of the world and given me patience to suffer. Now receive my soul. She died in prison in the year 251.

Long venerated as a martyr and a saint in her native Sicily, Agatha was officially canonized by Pope Gregory I in the 590s. Her feast day is celebrated on February 5th. She is invoked against a myriad of horrors; among them are volcanic eruptions.

~~~~~~~~~~

“But you don’t really believe that, do you?” he says on the beach at dusk. Your parents keep telling you it’s time to go back to the hotel, and you ask for five more minutes which turn into ten which turn into twenty. You are showing Aemond your rosary, red glass beads, a sterling silver chain; he is sitting behind you, his arms reaching around so he can study the artefact with his own fingertips, his chin resting on your shoulder. When the wind blows, his blonde hair tickles your cheek and your throat; when you shiver because the sun is vanishing, he pulls you in closer. “That there was some magical guy who could heal people and walk on water and then came back from the dead? I mean, Mother’s a Catholic, and she’s always trying to get us to ride the ferry over to Rhodes for Sunday Mass. But even when I go, I can’t take it seriously.”

“I guess I don’t care if it’s true,” you decide. “I just like how it makes me feel. I like being protected, I like how simple everything is. Be kind, be humble, help others, that’s it. And I think all the different saints are neat. There’s always someone to pray to, no matter what problem I have.”

Aemond snorts. “They only added them to get the pagans to convert.”

“What are pagans?”

“People who worshipped trees and rocks and stuff. Like the Vikings.”

He thinks I’m stupid, you think, and you’re already sensitive about this; Aemond is older, taller, more clever, more sophisticated, more strong. You don’t want him to think you’re some naïve kid who does whatever your parents tell you to. You really don’t; they find your conviction just as baffling, far beyond their middle-class, tangentially-Catholic expectations: a weekly appearance at Mass with a frilly dress and tidy hair, Mum having a yarn with the neighborhood wives afterwards, sometimes Sunday roast, back to real life by bedtime.

“But, you know, maybe you’re onto something,” Aemond says, backtracking. “If it makes you happy, that’s what matters. Maybe I’ll give it another shot. Next time Mother drags me to Rhodes I’ll try to listen a little bit instead of reading a Stephen King novel the whole time.”

“Do you think I’m a drongo?” you ask timidly.

He laughs. “A what?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, I don’t,” Aemond promises. “I think you care about something. And that takes courage.”

He’s still inspecting your rosary, running the smooth red beads through his fingers. “Do you want it? I’m getting a new one for Christmas. I already found it in my parents’ closet.”

“Sure,” he says, perhaps just to be polite. But when he takes the rosary in his own hands, he’s smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~

“We should have a pond like this at home,” Rhaena says as she helps you cast palmfuls of pellets that smell like the ocean—fish and brine shrimp and spirulina—into clear rippling water. Because the temperature is around 12 degrees Celsius, the koi are only somewhat active, skimming around the algae-covered stones at the bottom and nibbling halfheartedly at the food pellets.

Home. Here is what she means: a convent on the quiet northside of Sydney, Mass each morning, prayers before bed each night, sprawling fruit and vegetable gardens, a colony of stray cats you’ve adopted, offices where you take prayer requests and calls from desperate people in need of help, a shelter the sisters operate for survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking, cooking meals together, singing songs, lighting candles, playing games, watching rugby and cricket on a massive tube tv from the 90s, book clubs, knitting circles, hosting visitors from other convents, always decorating for the next holiday. This is why you became a nun. As a child, you were never as close with your sisters as you wanted to be—your interests were too divergent, your temperaments mismatched—and then as they dissolved away into their boyfriends and their unis, you felt like the house was suddenly so empty. But to be a nun is to have a perpetual sisterhood, and they love the Faith as much as you do.

You tell Rhaena: “Let’s talk to Mother Maureen about a koi pond. Maybe we can get funds and pay our guests in the shelter to help us build it.”

“Just like we did with the gardens.”

“Righto.”

“I’m kind of obsessed with these habits, too,” Rhaena says, spinning around in her loose white wool. The Sisters of Charity of Australia have been wearing modest yet casual clothes since the 1980s. You each have a white habit or two stowed away for formal occasions...but here in the Vatican, expectations are very traditional.

You chuckle and shake your head. “Yeah nah, I’m not helping you with that. I miss my Levi’s.” You point at the koi pond. “Check the corners, make sure I haven’t killed another one.”

Rhaena darts around the perimeter, peeking through bushes of red chrysanthemums. “I’ve been praying all morning. I’m so worried about Sister Augustina.”

“Why? She’s the person who needs your prayers the least. She’s with our Lord and Savior. She is at peace, she is home.”

Rhaena looks at you grimly. “Is she?”

You burst out laughing. “It takes more than getting a bit aggro to be damned to Hell.” You don’t believe Hell exists at all, but you keep this to yourself. Rhaena is rather dogmatic. Nonetheless she smiles to herself, reassured.

You glance around the Vatican Gardens, knowing exactly who you’re looking for; but you don’t see Aemond. There are other cardinals walking the tuff pebble pathways, red planets revolving around the ancient gravity of this place—first Neolithic settlements ten thousand years ago, then kings and a republic and back to kings again, and finally the Church rose up from the ashes of the empire to grow like dauntless ivy into the hearts of over one billion souls—some contemplative and alone, others entangled in weighty discussions. Cardinal Seaborn is rushing around frenetically, his scarlet cassock blowing in the wind. Cardinal Bogdi Marcu, he of the prehistoric age himself, is clinging to Sister Nuru’s arm as she patiently accompanies him through the gardens.

You spot Lucky talking to Cardinal Gideon Saati of South Sudan, a large but soft-spoken man who is ideologically moderate and therefore a possible consensus candidate if neither the conservatives or liberals can win the vote; and this makes him dangerous to Aemond. Cardinal Saati is nodding and dabbing at his eyes with a white handkerchief, Lucky has a hand resting gently on his shoulder. They are rarities here, and they understand each other. They both know the pain of having a homeland that is no longer a country: no functioning government, no reliable infrastructure, inescapable violence, war zones where faith feels so powerless.

Rhaena says: “Do you think we’ll be back home by Christmas?”

“Oh, sure thing. No conclave in the past two hundred years has taken more than a few days.”

“Beautiful. We can’t miss the singing and presents. I know how much you love Christmas music.”

“One conclave in the 1830s took a month and a half.”

“Nah, yeah?!”

“Deadset, mate.”

“Wow.” Rhaena blinks. “I wouldn’t trust this lot to not resort to bloodshed by then.”

Now you see them strolling towards the koi pond, disrupting sand-colored tuff pebbles with each step: Aemond, Lando, and Kazi, who is puffing on a square-shaped vape, white and red, the colors of the Polish flag. You realize that you’re smiling as Aemond approaches, then force yourself not to. You’re supposed to be somber; you’re supposed to be sad. Still, you cannot look away from him. You gaze at the destruction on the left half of his face—ropes of scar tissue, the frayed ruins of his eyelids stitched together to close the emptied socket—and you wonder what that must have been like, waking up in his hospital bed half-blind and with clamoring journalists filling up the lobby downstairs, bouquets of flowers arriving from Alpha TV, Mega Channel, the Hellenic Broadcasting Corporation, CNN, BBC, Deutsche Welle.

“Dead nun, dead pope.” Kazi sucks on his vape bleakly. “Inauspicious.”

Lando is pained and crosses himself. “Kazi, please.” Then he turns to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, I am so very sorry for your loss. Sister Augustina is with God now, let that serve as some consolation. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

You bow your head. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“We didn’t really know her that well,” Rhaena says.

“Will they have a funeral here?” Aemond asks you, like he’s trying to find an excuse to make conversation. Rhaena is gawking at him, wonderstruck; Aemond gives her a polite smile.

You answer: “No, Sister Penny told us she’s being sent back to Germany. I guess there’s a cemetery near her hometown she wished to be buried in. A plot beside a child’s.”

Lando and Kazi nod and murmur sympathetically, an acknowledgement of the life Sister Augustina had before she took her vows, forever shrouded in mystery, only shadows glimpsed through the veil; Aemond peers into the koi pond, his expression distant and troubled.

Lucky arrives, trudging across the volcanic pebbles that clatter under his red leather shoes. “Saati says he doesn’t want it.”

Kazi rolls his eyes. “Every cardinal says they don’t want it. And yet when the time comes, he’s out on that balcony waving to the crowds.”

“I think he’s sincere,” Lucky says, lighting a cigar and drawing in a mouthful of smoke. “He’s telling his supporters to look elsewhere.”

“To Aemo?” Kazi asks hopefully.

Lucky hesitates. “Saati is impressed that Jake lost four fingers in the service of our Lord.”

Kazi waves at Aemond. “He lost an eye!”

Lucky chuckles in a deep, gruff rumble. “Becoming pope is not a contest of misfortune, my friend. Otherwise more of them would be Haitians.”

Cam comes jogging over; being in his mid-forties, his knees are still good. He announces excitedly: “We have Micallef and Barraza!” Here’s who he means: Cardinal Xandru Micallef of Malta and Cardinal Juan Barraza of El Salvador, both pilfered from the dwindling pool of moderates.

Lucky exhales smoke. “I thought we already had Barraza. He’s on the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development with me and Aemo.”

“He told me he was considering Saati.”

“Saati doesn’t want it.”

Cam is confused. “Doesn’t everyone say that?”

“Okay, so who’s going to talk to Jake and figure out if he’s willing to steer his votes our way?” Kazi says between vape hits, and then, when Lucky raises his eyebrows at him: “It can’t be me. He hates me.”

The others groan. “What did you do?” Aemond asks, grinning.

Kazi is reluctant to share. “It was nothing.” He vapes as the others stare at him, waiting. “I asked if he was going to get a robot hand like Darth Vader.”

“Jake is very committed to his mission in Iran,” Lando muses softly. “I have a hard time believing he’d want to leave it.”

“Yeah, he does a lot of orphanage stuff, right?” Kazi says. “Lando, you should talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” Lando agrees, then looks to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, once again, I am so sorry for your loss and I will be praying for you and Sister Augustina.” He starts down the pathway and soon vanishes behind a row of tall laurel hedges.

Now Cam is relaying gossip he’s heard about the conservative faction: cardinals shifting from do Carmo to Jahoda, anxiety surrounding Aemond’s growing support. Your gaze catches on Aemond again, and you can’t look away. He keeps stealing glimpses of you too. Surely he could have had a plastic surgeon do a scar revision to make it less noticeable, and open the wound so he could insert a prosthetic eye; but of course Aemond would not want that. No one can see him without remembering what he did on Nea Kameni. He wears the proof of his miracle on his face.

You notice that Lucky is watching you as he smokes his cigar, his dark eyes kind yet intrigued, and then they rove to Aemond. You avert your attention elsewhere. On one of the narrow paved roads that wind through Vatican City, you see a white Fiat Panda zoom by on the other side of the foliage, employees running some errand.

“If I have a heart attack or choke on a fish bone or something, wait for the ambulance, don’t put me in one of those,” Kazi says. “They’re fire traps.”

“We’ll just throw you down the nearest manhole,” Cam assures him.

“Cardinal Targaryen!” a voice booms—ostensibly friendly, undeniably threatening—and it is Cardinal Jahoda, passing by with his ever-present companions Cardinal Auclair and Cardinal Ferrari. Across the gardens, red-swathed men stand up straighter and observe intently. “You enjoy the company of women so much, perhaps you have chosen the wrong vocation.”

Aemond smirks tauntingly. “Well, the celibacy requirement might soon be done away with, as you know. One of so few ways in which Cardinal Auclair has proven himself a progressive.”

Auclair scoffs. “Are there even any Catholics in Greece?”

“There are more than there were three years ago.”

“Cardinal Nowak,” Jahoda says to Kazi. “You are a Slav. Poland still lives under the gloom of Russia’s shadow. It disappoints me more than I could ever express, seeing you standing here with men who wish to usher in disorder, degeneracy, alliances with despots.”

Kazi sighs. “Brothers, not everything is communism.”

“Ah, you are too young. You do not remember what it was like.”

Auclair’s cold blue eyes skate over Cam and Lucky. “Mongolia. Haiti. Who would wish to follow the examples of your countries?”

Lucky explodes: “Why don’t you atone for what France did to my people?!”

“The prime minister acknowledged that the independence debt was an injustice—”

“And where is the apology? Where are the reparations?!”

“Still begging for money two hundred years later,” Auclair sneers. “Still sniffing for scraps like dogs. Perhaps it is time to look inwards and interrogate your own behavior. It is not a shortage of funds that ails Haiti, but a deficit of morals.”

Lucky drops his cigar and lunges for Auclair, but his friends stop him: Kazi and Cam fill the space between them, Aemond throws an arm across Lucky’s shoulders and whispers something to him as Cardinal Jahoda and his companions continue on through the gardens. Auclair looks back once and gives you a critical, probing glare. Kazi trots after Cardinal Ferrari making race car noises: vroom vroom vroom.

Cam mutters as he cleans his eyeglasses: “Mongolia is on the rise. It’s a capitalist democracy.”

“They’re not white, so it doesn’t count,” Lucky says, collecting himself. Then he checks his watch, a small face with a simple leather band. “The next general congregation is beginning soon.” He starts to leave with Kazi and Cam in tow, but not Aemond. Lucky turns around. “Aemo?”

“I’ll catch up to you,” Aemond replies. Lucky nods; but now when he looks at you, his interest has turned to trepidation.

Aemond shouldn’t be talking to me, you think, you know. But perhaps he is willing to risk it. Perhaps he believes he is invincible.

Now the two of you are alone except for Rhaena, who is gaping at Aemond as if still trying to convince herself he’s real and not a celebrity entrapped in a photograph, a screen, a myth.

“You must be very busy with your responsibilities here, Sister Rhaena,” Aemond says.

“Oh yeah, it’s hard yakka.” Then she realizes he’s waiting for her to leave. “Have a good one!” she calls over her shoulder as she hurries away, doubtlessly in great anticipation of all the stories you’ll tell her later. But you won’t share everything.

“Should we walk?” Aemond asks, his hands behind his back, his large gold cross gleaming on its chain, a whisper of a smile on his lips. Of course you should; you follow him, the tuff pebbles crunching under your shoes. And when he speaks to you now, he is not stony like he is sometimes around the other cardinals, or barbed or coiled or sharp. He is that boy from the beach again. He listens, he cares. “Are you really alright?”

“Yeah. I only knew Sister Augustina for a week. It was a shock to find her like that, and now Sister Penny is under the pump trying to take over for her, but we’ll manage.”

Aemond is studying the marble statues you pass as you wander together: Saint Rita, the patron saint of impossible causes and suffering women, Saint Catherine who freed herself from the breaking wheel, Saint Lawrence who was roasted alive. Fountains trickle and evergreen shrubs rock in the brisk December breeze: boxwood, rosemary, myrtle, oleander, holly with vivid blood drops of berries. Aemond stops when he finds a statue of Saint Agatha and gestures to a nearby stone bench. Once you sit down, he joins you.

“It’s your saint,” Aemond says. He reaches into one of the pockets of his cassock and produces a lighter and a pack of Karelia cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No wukkas. Half the nuns in my convent smoke.”

Aemond smiles to himself as he lights his cigarette. “No wukkas,” he echoes, amused.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“What led you to the Church?” you say. “Now that all the memories are coming back, I recall you being...skeptical.” That’s a gentle word for it. You imagine him: a boy, sullen and convinced he is too smart for religion, dragged to the cathedral by his Mother, flipping through a copy of Cujo or The Shining or Pet Sematary.

“Once I opened my mind to Catholicism, I found it sort of inspiring. The Church sponsored Michelangelo and da Vinci, founded the first universities in Europe, shaped the political landscape of the world. And for people without other routes to safety and status, it provided that. I never really felt seen by my parents. The Church gave me a new family.”

He didn’t say he loves the Faith. Saint Agatha gazes impassively down at you, her arms crossed protectively over her own chest, so young, so vulnerable. “Do you ever regret becoming a priest?”

Aemond shrugs, like he’s wrestled with the question so many times it no longer interests him. “The more conversations you have, the more confessions you hear...the more you realize that everyone regrets things. Mothers regret their children. Childless women regret adoptions and abortions. Married people regret the cage that vows begin to feel like after the novelty has worn off, single people regret their loneliness, the poor regret not selling their souls and the rich regret not defying greed to become artists or musicians or actors. There is no escape from regret. You must learn to feel at home in whatever cage you’ve built around yourself.”

You smooth the white wool of your habit so you have something to preoccupy your hands with. “I wasn’t entirely truthful about my reasons for being here.”

Aemond furrows his brow. “You’re assisting with the conclave.”

“Yes and no.”

He takes a drag and tilts his head to the side as he waits for you to continue. He does this a lot when you’re alone with him, always curious, always silently working things out, and you are struck by an abrupt and violent attachment to him—every gesture, every word, the blue of his eye, a lungful of smoke—and you think nonsensically: What if we had never left that beach?

You admit: “I’ve been having doubts.”

“About the Church?”

“About being a nun.”

Aemond is watching you, an intense sort of focus, like the Second Coming and the resurrection of the dead are over and you’re the last two people on earth. “You’re thinking of leaving?”

“I’ve heard this is the hardest time,” you say, smiling a little ruefully. “When you’re young like Rhaena, everything is new and exciting, and you’re so relieved to have all the answers to life’s questions that you don’t really feel the opportunity costs. And then when you’re in your fifties or sixties, you’re settled down and complacent, and you’re not interested in abandoning your work and the friendships you’ve made. But I’m thirty-eight...and that’s kind of my last chance to start over, isn’t it? At least when it comes to...certain things.”

Aemond is trying to understand, but he seems bewildered, maybe even alarmed. His cigarette has burned down to ashes, but he hasn’t noticed yet; when it singes his fingers, he flicks the end of it away. “Do you feel called to be a mother?”

“Not exactly, I just...I feel...” You pause to decide how to explain it. “I have this sense that there is something else out there for me. Someone else, I guess. And it wasn’t like this for a lot of years. I thought I was at peace with never being married. I used to see couples or families walking around and not feel anything but joy for them. But now there’s...there’s yearning, I think.” Then you chuckle nervously. “And I don’t just mean the physical aspect. That’s part of it, of course. But what I’m really missing is the...the emotional closeness, the bond that’s shared between romantic partners. All the sudden there’s an absence I wasn’t aware of before. And the only time I’ve ever experienced a pull like this was when I knew I wanted to be a nun, so I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Now Aemond’s hands are knitted together, tense and rigid, as if he is trying to resist wringing them. There is pink in his cheeks, a faint gory bloom, a rare disclosure of his mortality. He’s made of blood, not stone, not light, not predestination. “I suppose there is always some...temptation in the unknown.”

“Oh no, I’m not...” Again, you laugh. “I didn’t take my vows until my twenties. I had jobs, I took classes at the TAFE, I’ve dated, I’ve been to clubs, I’ve downed more pornstar martinis than I could possibly count. I’m not innocent.”

He seems relieved and relaxes a bit. “Then we had a similar path.”

“Because I wanted to...you know...I wanted to be sure I was alright with giving up that part of my life. I liked those blokes, and we had fun together, but I never felt it was something I couldn’t live without.” You stop for a moment; your next sentence comes out in a rush. “And then I had a bad experience with a boyfriend, and after that I was positive I could give it up, so.”

“A bad experience?” Aemond waits for you to elaborate. You don’t. His eye flicks from your face to your medallion, to the nearby statue of Saint Agatha, back to your face. He isn’t just searching. There’s a low, arcane wrath like chambers of magma scorching beneath the earth.

“Anyway, back in Sydney I confided in Mother Maureen about how I was feeling, and when the Holy Father passed she suggested I come to the Vatican. She said that if being here at the heart of the Church during such a joyous time—seeing the rituals, meeting the cardinals, witnessing the inauguration of the next pope—didn’t renew my commitment to my vows, then I would know it was the right decision to leave.”

Aemond is still distracted. “And has God spoken to you?”

“Oh, He’s saying something. But I’m not sure what yet.”

There is the sound of harried footsteps on the pebbles, and Sister Penny sprints into view. Strands of frizzy red hair have escaped from her veil; her pale freckled face is flushed. “Sister!” she cries, gasping for air. You leap up off the bench and rush to her.

“Sister Penny?”

“Where on earth did Sister Augustina keep the laundry detergent? I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find it, and I have a million other things to do, and I’m going absolutely mad—”

“I know where it is,” you say. “It’s in one of the cabinets in the kitchenette. I know, it’s odd, I’m not sure why she put it there. Here, I’ll help you.”

“And Cardinal Kelly lost his room key, so I gave him my copy but he forgot to return it and I don’t know where the spares are—”

“Shh. She’ll be right, mate.” You’re rubbing her shoulder. Sister Penny is in her fifties, very kind, very sensitive, not a particularly gifted administrator. But she has the most seniority after Sister Augustina, and so she has inherited her responsibilities whether she likes it or not.

You return with Sister Penny to the Domus Sanctae Marthae, but first you peer back at Aemond and give him a wave, subtle enough that Sister Penny will not notice. You aren’t supposed to be friends with a cardinal; that’s like a mouse befriending a lion. Aemond, now standing, waves back. But on his scarred face is something you rarely see from him, a doubt that is bone-deep and powerless.

Soon you’re sweeping through the cardinals’ rooms with Rhaena, tidying things up, making beds, wiping down bathrooms, beard hairs clogging the sinks and stray piss drops on the floor. But Aemond’s room is immaculate. You send Rhaena into the bathroom to see if he needs more shampoo or conditioner or toothpaste, and in the few seconds she’s gone you lean down over Aemond’s bed and breathe him in: smoke and cologne, vanilla and amber and cinnamon, and salt too, like something made him sweat through his clothes.

The stomach is an elastic organ—the more you eat, the more it wants—and lust is the same way, so you try not to feed it. On the rare occasions you find yourself too...distracted, that is easily remedied: a detachable showerhead, a hand slipped under the elastic waistband of your pajama pants. But now it all comes pouring back in, fifteen chaste years’ worth of longing, perhaps a lifetime’s worth, and you try not to imagine his hands covering you: a white veil gliding over your hair, sand on wet skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night, and you are in Saint Peter’s Basilica, closed to the public until the conclave has concluded. You are here because the acoustics are good: you can hear the crowds out in the square singing The First Noel as they hold their candles and their handmade signs—God bless the Holy Father, Miracles are real, Pro-life and proud, Cardinal Targaryen for Pope—and you close your eyes as you listen. You love Christmas music, and without phones or radios, this is the only way you can get it.

The vaulted stucco ceiling is plated with gold. The floor is made of white marble and sand-colored travertine and crimson porphyry, red like lust or wrath or pride. Here is a fountain held up by cherubs, there is a basin taken from Emperor Hadrian’s tomb, there is monument to Pope Alexander VII adorned with the personified virtues of Truth and Love. And everywhere are depictions of keys; Saint Peter is the keeper of the keys of heaven, given to him by Christ. The leadership of the Church changes hands again and again, but the mission lives on, eternal, divine, pure despite the complexities and failures of mankind.

Occasionally, you hear the shuffling footsteps of cardinals as they pace the echoing corridors seeking God’s guidance. Cardinal Marcu, stooped and shaky, stopped to have a yarn with you perhaps half an hour ago; he seemed to be under the impression that Barack Obama is still the president of the United States. You are grateful that cardinals aged eighty and older are not permitted to vote in the conclave.

Your eyes are still closed when someone brushes up against you, a hand grazing across your hip, too light a touch to be intentional. You instinctively gasp and flinch away.

Aemond steps back, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says uncertainly.

You laugh when you see it’s him, pressing a palm to your pounding heart. “No, I’m sorry, I just startle really easily.”

He’s still bewildered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I thought I barely—”

“No, really, it’s alright. I just...when people touch me and I can’t see it coming, it just freaks me out. But I’m fine now.”

His eye travels down to your medallion—Saint Agatha carved into plain, unprecious iron—and then he turns fierce. He moves towards you, drops his voice, demands as he stands so close his smoke and cologne seeps into your lungs: “Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter, Aemond.”

“It does. What was his name?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.”

“So you can have him murdered?” you mock, and Aemond sighs and rubs his scarred forehead. “You aren’t asking for honorable reasons.”

He shakes his head and stares at the wall, centuries-old marble and gold, hot blood in his face, rage pulsing in his carotids and his jugulars.

Your voice is calm, because this is a truth you’ve lived with for fifteen years; it’s a part of your mental scenery, something you know happened but not something you feel anymore, aside from primeval muscle memories that never seem to die. “It wasn’t something I could have proved in court. He said if I told anyone, he would kill me. And then he got pulled over for drunk driving, and when they searched the car they found unregistered guns, and while he was in jail I packed my things and moved down to Sydney and showed up on the doorstep of the convent. And everything was okay after that.”

“He should have suffered,” Aemond seethes.

“I moved on. I had to. And that saved me, having a life that was mine. That I chose, that I had always wanted. The Lord tells us: Refrain from anger, abandon wrath. Do not be provoked, it brings only harm. And that’s true.”

“But what if you didn’t join the Church for the right reasons? What if it was just an escape for you, or some sort of trauma response—?”

“Why did you join the Church, Aemond?” you say. “So a billion people would love you?” He turns away, exasperated, but he doesn’t object. “You don’t get to question my motivations. Not when I have felt called to the Faith since I was a child.”

He breathes deeply, touches his palm to the gold cross that hangs from his neck, and looks at you again. “If I was the pope, I would help people. Lucky knows that. They all know that.”

“But that’s not why you want it.”

Several long hushed moments slip by like sand through your fingers. From outside, you can hear the crowds are now singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. Aemond says softly: “I shouldn’t have left you.”

He can’t mean that. It’s preposterous. “What, when you were twelve?”

He doesn’t respond.

Now your words are gentle. “I’m alright, Aemond. Really. You just caught me by surprise, I’m fine now. I’m not afraid of you or anything. Here, look.”

You reach out and take his hand, and instantly you know it was a mistake. There is a blazing light that fills your skull, a burning martyr, a revelation: you can feel him pulling you in and the heat of his face beneath your fingerprints, soft lips, rough scar, his palms circling your waist, your white veil falling away as he pulls the pins from your hair, the thirty-three buttons of his cassock unfastened and then—

But before any of this can happen, you jolt away from each other, Aemond clasping his hands behind his back and you clinging to your iron medallion. On it are engraved Saint Agatha’s words to God: I am your sheep, make me worthy to overcome the devil. And from across the space between you, a few footsteps that might as well be twenty-nine years, you and Aemond gaze at each other with terror, with wonder.

You don’t feel too old to start over.

You feel like your life is just beginning.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fic #hotd fanfic

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sweetfwr · 2 months ago

Text

(TEASER!) IN THE HEAT OF THE SUMMER ˒˒ psh

the hot, humid summers of your youth usually meant practicing at the ice rink ‘till you dropped or manning your parent’s video shop. park sunghoon, who lived next door’s summers usually meant delivering newspapers and taking every odd job possible. in the heat of the summer of 1998, your paths finally crossed for the first time.

pairing) news anchor!sunghoon x figure skater! reader

tags) fluff, angst, comedy, slice of life, SLOW BURN, set in 1998-onwards, growing up together, sunghoon is an angsty teenager before he's absolutely down bad, inspired by 2521, happy ending!

wc) SOON

now playing) SUMMER - BROCKHAMPTON

1998

your youth was simple, your naive, 16-year-old days so worry-free of the responsibilities of bills, a career, children, and the nosy press that they blurred together in pure, uncaring bliss, even if you didn’t know it at the time.

on days you weren’t slaving away for hours at the ice rink under the scrutiny of your vicious coach, jumping, spinning, and gliding through the ice like your body weighed nothing then you were manning the counter at your parent’s humble video shop, greeting customers when the chimes on your door sounded and offering promos to those who rented more than two movies at once.

and naturally, manning the counter meant looking out for him, the only son of the park family who lived next door, and the neighborhood’s resident newspaper boy.

not that you’d tried to notice, but he’d leave the house at 6:30 a.m. on his scooter every morning, right when you opened up the video shop before heading off to practice. in the quiet tranquility that came with summer mornings, you exchanged no words, the only thing hanging in the air being the sounds of your keys jangling and park sunghoon’s scooter being set off before he would speed off without a word.

on the days you left for practice and came back later to man the shop when your brother couldn’t in the later hours, you’d find the daily newspaper neatly placed on the doormat or tucked in the doorknob before you picked it up and brought it with you inside the store to go about your work day.

the days when you manned the store in the mornings and your brother in the afternoon, however, were a different story altogether. newspapers were flung—almost violently—onto the glass walls of the store, potted plants out front, or sometimes just the dead center of your feet as you stood sweeping the sidewalk. no smile, no wave, no greeting, just the smack of the folded newspaper as it landed wherever sunghoon pleased and the sharp screech of his scooter’s wheels on asphalt as he sped off like you had wronged him somehow.

slowly but surely, the throws began to feel personal, and you could never seem to figure out why. he’d never given you any solid reason to think he hated you other than the unlucky newspaper placement, and you had never given him any real reason to hate you. but the more he sped by the store in the morning, a bitterness in his posture and a tightness in the way he pressed his lips into a line, you were beginning to think that maybe it wasn’t just bad luck that was causing wads of newspaper to assault your family’s store every morning.

one morning, you decided that you had had enough.

“NOONA!!” your then 14-year-old little brother wailed, bursting into the quiet fog that settled in the video store, a hand to his throbbing head and another wrapping around a newspaper.

“what, wonnie?” you groaned from the counter, initially busy typing something down onto the blocky old computer until jungwon said something that made your blood run cold.

“the newspaper hit me!”

potted plants and the glass right beside your head most mornings were one thing, but park sunghoon chucking a freshly rolled newspaper at your idiotic (precious) baby brother was another thing entirely. you only looked up at him with a fire in your eyes before snatching the newspaper from his hands, wordlessly rushing out of the store and into the morning air.

“nice aim, jerk.” you deadpanned, waving sunghoon’s weapon of choice in his face before he could adjust his bag and scoot away. “my brother’s head? seriously?”

“It was an accident, i was aiming for your face,” he muttered, and you could’ve sworn the tips of his ears turned red as he tried to walk off.

“you do this to everyone in the neighborhood?” “no, just you.”

“then what the hell is your problem with me?” you seethed, shoving the daily paper into his toned chest, to which he took back from you with a rolled eye.

“you wouldn’t understand,” he spit back, a finality in his words that told you he didn’t wish to speak with you any further. and then, without another glare or crude comment, he was off on his scooter once again, his wheels screeching on the concrete as they always did.

you stood there, fists clenched at your sides and heart pounding in your chest from the adrenaline of a confrontation. you didn’t understand, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to explain his unexpected anger towards you.

as much as you hated it, for that day, and that day only, you accepted defeat and wordlessly retreated back into the video shop.

like for tag once released!

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grudgecollector · 4 months ago

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hii dear, you think you could write something with daryl and reader who has a really curly and volumous hair and one day daryl get home and see her straightening a few parts of her hair and he gets sad cause he really likes her curly hair and thinks that she is gonna straighten all of it, but in reality she is just doing that for a hairstyle that wanted to try, sorry if its sound silly but i never see something for curly haired girlies😔

Curled Around You | Daryl Dixon x Reader

Words: 2k

Tags: Season 2 Daryl, not proofread before uploading (sorry), slight angst but not really, fluff.

A/N: Hai nonny, thank you so much for your request. I had a lot of fun writing this, and honestly I'm surprised I was able to crank it out as quickly as I did.

And it doesn't sound silly at all! Everyone deserves to be able to read stories where you can immerse yourself, and that's what I'm here to do as a writer. I hope this story lives up to your expectations 💖

I decided to do season 2 Daryl because I'm still on my rewatch after almost eight years of not picking the show back up (it's Negan's fault). Hence why this won't take place in Alexandria, cause I don't remember any of the people from that place etc etc.

This went a little bit off from the initial requests path in order to pad it with a small plot, but still has the idea in mind.

Also I was not expecting this to be as long as it turned out to be. Post apocalyptic settings really get my gears turning, I guess.

The inside of Hershel’s bathroom was a little stuffy, even with the door open. You were so used to open spaces after all these months on the road, so used to it that now the closed off room made you feel claustrophobic. But you knew there was a sense of safety you couldn’t take for granted.

Hershel had been kind enough to take in your group. Permitting a temporary stay on his beautiful farm while Carl recovered from his gunshot wound. It was a tragedy blanketed by a miracle. Plus it gave everyone more time to scout the surrounding areas for Carol’s lost daughter, Sophia.

The Greene family was kind, humble, a man taking care of his family. You felt drawn to them, especially after a particularly nice conversation you had with Maggie. She had asked you about your relationship with the group, more particularly Daryl Dixon.

The man you had stuck beside ever since he found you inside that convenient store. You were surrounded by dozens of biters. You didn’t think you would make it out alive. This was just a few weeks after everything fell. And not long after Daryl, Merle, and you found a group of survivors camped out around an RV.

The both of you were practically stuck together ever since, your tent always next to his, then when your tent got badly damaged during a storm you had moved into his. He tried to keep his distance at first, practically pressing his body up against the flimsy fabric wall. You didn’t push him, not wanting to breach some unspoken boundary he had set up.

“Aren’t you scared?” Maggie had asked during your conversation, “Of losing him?”

“I’d be lyin’ if I said no.” You said quietly, head bowed down as the mere thought of him being bit graced your mind.

It sickened you in all honesty, even if you had only known him for just a few months, you cared for him deeply. That much was obvious with how you had freaked out on Andrea for almost killing him. You still felt ashamed of your outburst, but you were terrified. If she had just been a better shot at that moment, Daryl would be dead.

The hair straightener in your hand sizzled quietly as you slowly brought it down another small chunk of your usually curly hair. You looked at your hair with a small huff, hoping that it would stay straight for at least a few hours. With this humidity, though, you knew that wasn’t likely, but you still wanted to try.

You were so busy fiddling with your hair that you almost missed the sound of footsteps coming up to the door. Dazzling blue eyes met yours in the mirror, Daryl raised an eyebrow as he watched you. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching your movements carefully as you went to pick up the straightener again.

"You ain't doing that to your whole head, are you?" He asked gruffly.

“Would it make you sad if I did?” You teased, smirking a little as he let out a scoff.

He shook his head and looked down at his boots for just a second, “Just like the curls is all. It’s pretty on you.” He cleared his throat suddenly.

He looked at the back of your head instead of meeting your eyes in the mirror again, nervously chewing on the inside of his lip. Daryl always had a funny way of carrying himself around you, at some points he almost seemed timid.

You suspected the thought of intimacy scared him, and you couldn’t blame him. Seeing how his brother and him interacted, you assumed he probably didn’t have much time in his life for romance. He already had enough to deal with when it came to blood, why throw another thing into that messed up mixing pot?

“You don’t gotta worry about it, I’m just testing somethin’ out.” You smiled at him sweetly.

“A’right.” He nodded, pushing himself off of the door frame.

You turned towards the man a little more, “Did you need somethin’, Daryl?” Your voice was soft as you spoke, hand coming down to rest on your hip.

“Rick just told me you’d be here. Thought I’d come check on you.” He swayed a little, “And I found somethin’ for you on my run.”

That perked you up a little, intrigued at what he could have possibly found. It could be anything when it came to him, he always had a knack for surprising you. Gifting you things that reminded him of you. The last time it was a small porcelain cat, impractical in the world you lived in now, but cherished by you nonetheless.

Daryl didn’t give you time to reply before he started walking back towards the living room. His boots echoing through the empty house, followed by the creaking of the screen door that leads to the porch.

You were quick to finish with your hair, tying it up to match the picture in a magazine you found inside an abandoned salon. You glanced down at the picture sitting on the counter, then back up to the mirror with a shrug.

“Close enough.” You muttered before unplugging the straightener.

During the end of the world you figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least try and experiment. There were no bystanders to be insecure about anymore, and you doubt the group would so much as try and put you down for doing something so harmless.

“Well, look at you.” Shane said as you walked past him in the hallway, “Got a hot date or somethin’? What’chu all spiffied up for?”

“Just wanted to try somethin’ new, Shane.” You were short with your answer, his lingering gaze making your skin crawl as the days went on.

While you knew it wasn’t you he was truly after, that didn’t stop you from being uncomfortable around him. He was losing his grip, being irrational, that trip he went on with Otis really messed with his head. It stirred him more than any other death in your group, you wanted to be suspicious, but you chalked it up as just being pessimistic.

“You seen Daryl?” You asked after a beat of silence.

“He was out by the RV last time I saw him.” Shane glanced over your shoulder towards the front door, “Was talking about going out to look for the girl tomorrow morning.”

You sighed softly, heading towards the front door. It didn’t surprise you one bit, Daryl has really stepped up over the past few months, truly making his place amongst the group. He didn’t want to lose anyone else, especially someone as vulnerable as a child.

The wind brushed through your curls gently, making them tickle against your exposed shoulders. You glanced down at the torn fabric on your blue tank top, you’d have to sew it up sooner or later.

“So what’d you find for me?” You asked while walking up behind Daryl, he was crouched down next to the RV, carefully examining the squirrels he caught to make sure they were good enough to eat.

“It’s in my tent.” He replied before standing back up.

Daryl stopped once he turned around to see you, his eyes scanning over your face and hair. He was quiet, swallowing and nodding towards his tent. You took that as a sign to lead the way. Your shared tent wasn’t far from the rest of the group, but far enough to where Daryl didn’t feel smothered. He liked his space, and apparently he only liked when you were in it.

“Close your eyes.” Daryl said over his shoulder, unzipping his tent.

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, “Seriously?” You questioned, unable to resist the urge to laugh a little. But you obeyed anyway, your eyelids sliding closed.

The man moved the flimsy flaps aside and fished through his backpack for a few seconds before standing up with his hands behind his back.

“Figured you’d like something like this.” Daryl said, watching as you opened your eyes, “Can you guess what it is?” There was a smirk ghosting his lips, oh how you hated when he did this.

“Come on, Daryl.” You groaned, “How the hell am I supposed to guess?”

This was a usual game Daryl liked to play with you. A guessing game for your gift, even though he usually always gave it to you whether or not you got it right.

You started to strain your mind for any possible thing it could be, small enough to hold behind his back, maybe another porcelain cat? No, he wouldn’t be that predictable. Possibly a new hair brush? If it was that he would have just given it to you. It must have some sort of sentimental value for him to-

“You wanna hint?” Daryl chuckled quietly, shifting from one foot to the other subtly.

“Please.”

“Remember that conversation we had back in Atlanta?” He asked, softer this time, reminiscing on that late night discussion by the fire, just the two of you brushed against each other while sharing meat from a successful hunt.

The warmth soaked into your skin, willing away the late night chill that had settled over you inside your tent. The wood inside the makeshift fire pit cracked and popped loudly, embers rising haphazardly into the night sky before fading.

“What d’you miss? About your life before all this.” Daryl asked quietly, trying not to disturb the peace that had settled over the both of you.

You thought about it for a second. Of course you missed your family, your friends, hell you even missed your job a little. That sense of normalcy that your day to day life brought. A routine. There was a hell of a lot to miss about life before shit hit the fan.

“Hmm…” You pondered the question, mulling it over in your mind, “I used to take photos with my aunt. Nature scenes all over Georgia. Used to be the family photographer right after my aunt passed, weddings, birthday parties, all that mess.” You recalled those memories fondly, with a tinge of sadness coating your throat as you resisted the urge to cry. “There was this one place in Helen I went to once, god it was so beautiful. Some of the best pictures I ever took.”

“You still got your album?” He asked after a second of silence.

“I lost it when my house burned up.” You bit the inside of your wobbling lip, “So many memories lost.”

Your eyes widened once you fully processed what he said. That conversation was ever present in the back of your mind, the first time you ever opened up to Daryl emotionally, it was a meaningful memory to you. A brief moment like that was meant to be cherished.

“You didn’t…”

“I might have.” Daryl smirked, finally revealing a polaroid camera that was hidden behind his back.

The tears were pooling in your eyes quickly, “Oh Daryl…” A quiet hiccup came from your mouth, your hands coming up to grab the camera from him.

“That’s not it, also got this too.” He revealed the second item hidden behind his back, a small photo album.

If you had any doubts about loving the man in front of you before, this moment right here solidified your feelings.

You loved him. You loved how he cared. How he listened. Clung onto your words and remembered the small details. But you figured it must not have been small to him if he went out of his way to grab it for you.

Gently, you sat the two gifts down on a turned over log before throwing your arms around Daryl’s shoulders. He wound his arms around you instinctively, not entirely used to the touch, but accepting it anyway.

“You have no idea… No idea how much this means to me.” Your voice was muffled against his flannel shirt, tears soaking into the fabric.

He guided you back a little and softly brushed his thumb against your wettened cheek, a smile found its way to Daryl’s handsome features. His eyes looking over you tenderly. His fingers found their way to your curls, softly weaving through the coils.

“You did good with your hair, sweetheart.” He complimented, making your stomach flip, the close proximity between the two of you could almost be perceived as two lovers holding each other. And you guessed that in a world like this, you practically were.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon reader insert #twd x reader #twd x you #twd reader insert #twd fanfiction #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead x you #the walking dead reader insert #daryl dixon #the walking dead #violet writes

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utilitycaster · 18 days ago

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In seriousness I think the biggest critique of Ludinus Da'leth beyond "he literally didn't need to do all that" is that, weirdly, for all his grandiosity, he lacked vision. To be clear this is not a critique of him narratively - this is, in fact, the petard on which many, many villains end up hoisted, and it's only a few scenes in the unraveling slog that is C3 post-Solstice Split and pre Final Push that really work against him as a villain (notably the Shattered Teeth fight and whatever the fuck that was in the Feywild, and I think most of that was that Bells Hells wouldn't do anything unless you outright put a gun to their head and even then it was kind of a coin flip). It's that in a thousand years, despite incredible magical developments on his part, he really never moved past the punitive and almost childishly simple "Calamity was awful, so I will kill the gods." Not only did he fail to achieve that in the end, his path to that was repeating the exact mistakes of Calamity - destroying cities, exploiting magical creatures and people, rebuilding empires, and releasing ancient sealed evils. He claims a goal of liberation despite having lived, essentially, nearly two lifetimes of an already long-lived race actively engaging in oppression.

He is also, like many villains - again, not a bad thing for writing/playing villains - a fairly static character. He does not change much from his introduction in Campaign 2 through his ending in Campaign 3; it's just a slow reveal of what's beneath the tip of the iceberg. His scene in episode 2x97 is ultimately the crux of it all: he could have stopped Trent - easily - and he not only didn't but indeed made use of what Trent had built. He pretends to be sorrowful when one of Trent's victims manages to break free and gain a certain degree of clout, and then immediately turns around and uses those still under Trent's thumb to stalk him. That never falters. There is no care for anyone else except as tools; Liliana believes he listens to her, but given her eventual fate when she defies him, all that ever means is that she believed him where Caleb did not.

Which is why his ending in Campaign 3 rings so hollow (and why, if Tag Team at the Teeth is indeed his end, while it's later than it would have be in a better-crafted story* it is at least an immense improvement on leaving things as is): he has not changed. He has shown no evidence of change; he has not even tried to change. He has never shown an ounce of remorse. For all that Liliana shows little remorse for the lives of anyone outside her family that she destroyed, nor for her alliance with oppressive forces on Ruidus solely for her own gain and comfort, at least there is some degree of coercion involved, a (morally dubious, of unclear if any value, and far too late) attempt at resistance that at least signifies a capacity for change, and some tenuous connections to her humanity that, in my more generous moments I can grant as a start to the long process of making amends.

Ludinus simply weasels his way out. There is not even the ghost of an attempt to make amends; nor is there any indication the gods' continued existence in mortal form will placate him should he discover it. He did not want the gods to change; he wanted them dead. He was never interested in a better Exandria by the metrics of the people who actively lived in it, or even in change that wasn't his same old thirst for vengeance, and certainly didn't care about the people of Ruidus. He destroyed Molaesmyr, warmongered with the Kryn Dynasty, and above all upheld the Dwendalian Empire's oppressive structures for his own gain while happily talking out the other side of his mouth to those harmed by them; there was little if anything he would not do as a side-effect of his single-minded and ruthless pursuit. He was willing to die for his own selfish cause; but that means nothing given the thousands if not more innocents he was far more willing to sacrifice, and it's a cop-out itself: he dies and everyone else is left to clean up the mess. He dies and everyone else has to actually build the better world he talked about but had no plans for beyond shallow vengeance. There is no nobility in this death; it's just sneaking out the back door before the consequences arrive. The best case scenario for the world is simply that he hangs out, isolated, drinking tea, unaware that his plans failed utterly, until he meets a peaceful and solitary end. And because we know he can be very patient, and has at least the knowledge of how to extend his life indefinitely at the cost of others', and has recreated the means at least twice, I don't trust that that's a risk worth taking.

*this would be a whole separate post but: while actual play of course has an element of unpredictability, I do think that the most important thing to land, plot-wise, in a story that ends with a climactic BBEG fight, is understanding the motivations of the BBEG and having a satisfying resolution. Loose threads of other varieties (Sylas, Uk'otoa, etc) are fine; further information after the fact providing even more context (Nine Eyes of Lucien) is fine; but if you don't resolve at least a basic "why" and "what happens" to the BBEG by the finale and have to wrap up in a later episode, it's bad storytelling.

#i have another crit post i want to make but i feel like this is a lot so i might save it for saturday #it's not about c3 or even mostly cr though #critical role #long post #it's all vengeance and spectacle and wounded opportunism and exploitation of the pain of others to justify selfish ends #promising a better world with no plan no vision and no intention to actually participate in its creation. get his ass.

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anthony-does-art · 2 years ago

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Oc-tober day 2: New OC

The prompts:

#I don't know who my newest character actually is because I don't exactly keep track of that sort of thing but Julio's pretty new #Well comparatively #Oh frick I just relized I forgot to draw their horns #anthony's art #my art #oc art #orginal characters #marker drawing #oc tober #oc-tober #drawing challenge #story tag: the path of the living and the dead #julio

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abbysplaything · 1 month ago

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Once more to see you - part 1

Playlist that goes along with the story

Pairing: Post-canon!Abby x fem reader

Summary: Trying to pinpoint Abby’s location, a last attempt at salvaging what you once had. Unable to live knowing your love could be out there, in need, you set out on your months long search.

Content: slight violence(coercion), hurt/angst, just beginning of the story.

Word count: 1,212

Author’s Note: Please let me know if you’d be interested in me continuing this story, I’m unsure about whether this is a good idea or not. Also let me know if you would like to be tagged in more updates of this or any of my future uploads.

Foggy weather, murky skies, the coastal breeze leaving goosebumps behind on your skin. The air is heavy, faint smell of ocean. Dragging your feet through the path, trees distant yet too close, you repeat to yourself the details disclosed to you during a trade. You had asked around for her desperately, devoting the rest of your days to finding her. Since chaos had broken out in Seattle, you were torn from her, leaving you with only the distant memories of what you had. Countless settlements, groups, interactions passed, all leaving you with less and less hope, though unsure of her survival, it would be shameful to give up on the girl you had committed to loving. What seemed like a lost cause was the only thing you could focus yourself on.

Santa Barbara was peaceful, almost too still. Beautiful Spanish-style homes littered the horizon. The humidity didn’t help regulate the heat, hours of walking building up. How long has it been since you’ve rested, taken a break at all? You don’t know or care, now that you’ve finally made it, you’re not stopping until you find her. You can feel your clothes clinging to you, sweat dripping down your body, the feeling of sunburns forming on your skin becoming unbearable. The exhaustion finally setting in, there are various structures nearby, but none seem welcoming. As the afternoon begins to fade away you become even more desperate to find shelter, spending the night out on the streets is completely undesirable.

Unsure of where you’re headed, what path to take, no plan, no way of finding her. Trying not to panic you reassure yourself, you replay all the supposed sightings of her reported to you through trades, sometimes intimidation. You eventually caught wind of someone too similar to be coincidence; described like she usually would be, an ox, barbaric, blonde, this had to be her. All other leads led to dead ends, this time, you heard she had been accompanied by a younger boy, this is what made this time different. There couldn’t possibly be someone else who’d fit this exact bc description—could there? You try not to think too hard about what situation she got herself into. This area isn’t necessarily the best… you’ve had your encounters with the group around here—rattlers. Surely, Abby could take them on easy. That’s what you choose to believe anyways.

You quicken your pace, refusing to waste any more time than you already have. Your head had begum pounding along with your heart, nerves building up, anxious to finally arrive at your destination. Your mind constantly replaying memories you shared with her, her face, everything that had been stripped from you. Saying you missed her was an understatement, your world was gone, now you were set to do everything in your power to get it back. Determined, you keep walking, fatigue washing over you—not that it mattered, nothing did anymore. Throughout the dirt, dents—what could be made out to be footprints, caught your eye for a second. Maybe she could’ve gone through here too, but maybe they were someone else’s, maybe they weren’t even footprints. All these maybes meant nothing anymore, relying on luck to find her didn’t get your hopes up like it used to, you’re almost running out of faith. Nothing besides consistency was going to get you to her.

The sun is now lower on the horizon, the world around you turned into a burnt gold. Maybe you’d take some time to admire it if you could shift your focus onto something else besides recovering your other half. You can make out some sort of base, or compound nearby. As you near it, barbed wire and tall walls lining the perimeter. This place looks familiar, resembling other smaller bases you’ve based. It must been the rattlers’. Hoping it’s their main base, you walk around the outside, searching for a way in, clues as to what occurs inside.

You find the entrance gate, standing just a few feet away, you see a cluster of guards—not exactly guarding anything. Those cocky assholes don’t even bother doing their jobs, being so used to running shit. After a while they begin to disperse, allowing you an opportunity to corner one of them. Sneaking up behind him, bringing your blade right under his jaw. You drag him around a corner, hiding the two of you away from his companions.

“I’m looking for someone. A woman, she’s tall, blonde, muscular. Traveling with a kid too.” You say barely above a whisper, directly into his ear. You apply more pressure onto the area as he squirms under your grip. “Don’t try anything funny with me, I’ve taken on plenty of you”.

“Listen, I haven’t seen anything, now I—“ you cut him off, patience running thin each second. The area you pressed began turning red, raising around the blade.

“Stop fucking with me, I know she was here. Just tell me where the fuck she is.” He raises his hands up in surrender, his body tenses up, though now less resistant.

“Okay, okay—I’ll tell you, please. Just relax.” He’s begun to sweat, causing the blade to slip slightly, cutting deeper into his skin. He winces at the scraping, body jolting backwards. You almost stumble with him, thankfully you ground yourself in time. “She isn’t here anymore, some girl came through here a few weeks ago. She let all of our captives free. I promise”

You feel your heart sink to your stomach. “Where did you keep her?” You demand, feeling defeated. The grip on your blade loosening, knees beginning to give out.

“Down at the pillars.” He notices the change in your demeanor. Taking the opportunity, he tries to force his way out of your arms. Taken aback, you let your instincts take over. The blade swiping across his skin, blood pouring down to his chest. He falls forward, gurgling.

Though you know you won’t find her here, you make your way towards the back of the surrounding area. You feel your stomach twisting in knots, sweat coming down even faster. Atleast you know she was here, she’s real, she’s alive. Even if you never cross paths again, the thought of her continuing her life was enough for you rest for a least another night.

Upon reaching the pillars, you stumble down the unsteady steps, tripping over your own feet. Feet hitting the stand, you keep your eye out for her, selfishly hoping she’s still here, maybe even waiting for your arrival. There’s nothing of her left behind but that bastard’s words. You look out towards the beach. Deciding to continue your search there. Finally, after days, you let yourself stop moving. You fall into the sand, looking out into the dark skyline. Sobs spill out of you, body shaking with each breath. Your face buried into your knees, nails digging into your skin. You’ve gotten so close to her, but still too far to even make out a glimpse of her, have solid proof of her arrival.

Unsure of what to do next, you remain there. Unmoving, unthinking.

Your motives haven’t changed.

You’ll find her, you’ll find Abby.

────────── ۶ৎ ─────────

Requests - open , Masterlist - Here ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

#cece🤎#abby anderson #abby the last of us #the last of us #abby tlou #abby anderson x reader #abby x you #angst #lesbian #wlw yearning #wlw #tlou fanfiction #fanfic #angst fanfic #abby anderson x y/n #hurt/angst

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whickberstreetwriters · 13 days ago

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Celebrating the Whickber Street Writers Association community 💜

We're a discord micro-community of Good Omens fanfic writers and, last week, one of our members @prinxlegolass gave us all the most wonderful gift: a message from Maggie Service 🥰

We wanted to share it for a couple of reasons. One was that we hope other fanfic writers might also enjoy the prompt Maggie gave us! Secondly, it's a great reminder of why storytelling matters. We're going to be doing some writing soon based on her prompt but, for now, we wanted to share some of the amazing work that our members have already created (as always, please read the tags on AO3):

Among the Stacks (65K) by @rhosmeinir - Nearly a year after Aziraphale returns to Heaven, he vanishes from existence, leaving Crowley bereft on Earth. Just when the demon has finally started to heal and move on with his life, he finds his angel by chance in a library. But Aziraphale has no memory of his life as an angel, or of Crowley. How will our hero cope?

Angels Don't Dance (Rated Mature, WIP currently at 50K) by @sixshotsinatumbllr - Crowley is assigned to investigate the unexpected uptick of infernal energy being produced by Bush Doofs in Australia. He brings Aziraphale along for the ride. It goes... well, it goes about as well as you would think.

Exit Wound (Rated Explicit, 5K) by @prinxlegolass - This is a story of love, loss, coming home, and everything that never was; a re-telling of an Irish Celtic Myth that has been sanitised and long-forgotten. Taking place one hundred years into Early Christian Ireland, it weaves themes of spiritual colonisation with the ineffability of a great plan and the parts of us that are never truly lost.

Ineffable Poetry (Rated General, 4.9K) by @bl0ndwave - a collection of poems written after watching Good Omens S02 because @bl0ndwave is still absolutely hearbroken :(

The Kindest Thing (Rated General, 1K) by @bohoteacher - In the aftermath of the final fifteen, Maggie observes Aziraphale & Crowley's parting, realizing that her and Nina's interference may have been partly to blame. She feels terrible and desperately sad for Mr. Fell & Mr. Crowley. Forgiveness comes to her from an unusual source.

Last Dance (Rated Teen, 800 words) by @rcreveal - Maggie and Nina are mortal and Aziraphale and Crowley are not. Someday, the Ineffable Husbands will have to say goodbye to dear friends.

Living Fiction (Rated Mature, 20K) by @sakascal - For two years self-published romance writer Azariah Fell has been coming to this café, three times a week on a schedule. It's the view that he's coming for - but not of the street. Right across the street is the florist shop 'Serpens et Horto', and the proprietor Anthony Crowley keeps drawing his eyes. So, is it really a surprise when one of the main characters in his latest book has a striking resemblance to Anthony Crowley?

Punks without pants (Rated Explicit, WIP currently at 47K) by @playdohangel - an AU based in London around the end of 1978 to 1979 known as ‘the winter of discontent’. Strikes, protests and political upheaval were the norm. Az, an avid follower of the Northern Soul music scene, is having a pretty shitty time of it. His dads been laid off and he's had to come down to London to work for his uncle who owns the punk venue, Dingwalls. There, his path crosses with punk Crowley, a self-confessed rich, spoiled shit running from his own past...

The Season of Nightingales (Rated Teen, Podfic) by @nosferatini - A nice and accurate prophecy of the season following the parting ways of an angel and his demon—if such an Ineffable Plan were written by a benevolent God…. As the effort to thwart Heaven’s wiles is complicated by unexpected friends, an ex-Inspector Constable, a guileful Metatron, and a Heavenly floor full of the Blessed Dead—Aziraphale and Crowley find that navigating their relationship is not mutually exclusive from saving the world from Armageddon.

Set Yourself On Fire (Rated Explicit, WIP currently at 112K with one chapter left!) by @rofell - A Sapphic fic: Azira and Crowley are old high school enemies who end up as dorm roommates. They couldn't possibly have anything in common, right? A love story that spans decades, about dealing with your shit and becoming the person you were meant to be.

The Travel Sweet Illusion (Rated Mature, 6K) by @secretlywingedphantom - What if Crowley did, in fact, secretly pass something to the angel in the final 15? A somewhat-silly one shot about an angel and a demon preparing for the worst. But in the most delightful and delicious of ways.

Walk in the Shade (Rated Teen, 1.7 K) by @springofviolets - A sad man (gn) walks into a bar and... Written for the Whickber Street Writers Association Karaoke Project, an event based around the prompt: what happens when a new karaoke bar opens on Whickber Street and attracts the attention of a certain demon?

Whatever I Like Best (Rated Mature, 1.8K) by @naturallyteal - The Secret Dream Diary of a Good Omens fan (anonymous, he) who contracted a severe case of the fandom-typical brain rot from watching S1 & S2 too often, reading too much fanfic on AO3, and spending altogether too much time engaging on tumblr, digesting gifs, fanart and meta. He dreams about Good Omens every night.

Write A Way (Rated Explicit, 73K) by @angie-words - Azira Fell and AJ Crowley are both successful authors in their own right, invited to speak at the same national book festival. Despite a falling out a couple of years ago, they've never actually met - so this event is going to be awkward for both of them. Right? As it happens, it seems they share a love of a certain TV show... and being very active parts of its fandom (yep, it's Fanfic Writer Crowley and Fanfic Reader Aziraphale time!)

Lastly, @sakascal has also put together a poem at extremely short notice inspired by Maggie Service's prompt!

Spirit

Met by the warm current that surrounds all

A sense of comfort breaking any wall

Genial free smile, hopeful yet welcoming

Graced by cheery lights under lashes pleasing

Inviting arms wide open to the world

Essence of kindness for all unfurled

#good omens #aziracrow #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #crowley #aziraphale #whickber street writers association #good omens fic #good omens fic rec #good omens fanfics #long post #maggie good omens #maggie service #ineffable partners #ineffable husbands #ineffable wives #ineffable spouses #good omens 2 #good omens fandom

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xylatox · 5 months ago

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January 2025 Fic Recommendations!!

a/n: my first fic recommendation list for the year!! All these fics I have read and I have loved every single one of them; please show your love to the authors by reblogging, liking and even sharing your thoughts with them :). To the authors, I'm sorry for the tag!

Key - ☆ -series ♡ -one-shot

Tomorrow X Together

☆ Between Twilight Skies | @jjunbug ~ ongoing

wc - 7.5k+

pairing - choi yeonjun x 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, huening kai x 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾r

synopsis - in a world that's on its dying breath, the once green and lush landscapes get buried in more and more layers of ash. the once flourishing streets that were full of magic are now a dull hum. yet, there is still hope—and it lies in the hands of you and kai, the last people to possess magic. suddenly, you remember the story of a forest that watches, and a well of life that lies deep within. you're determined to save your bleak world in any way that you can, yet, you weren't expecting to end up in a brand new world entirely.

♡ Bloodbound | @beomiracles

w.c - 2.5k

pairing - vampire!taehyun x human!reader

synopsis - Oh, you. So pretty, young and alive. Blood flows within your veins, carrying all the way to your beating heart, the one he can hear from miles away. Your breath hitches when his sharp fangs brush against your neck, your eyes flutter before they widen in fear. — God it drove him insane

♡ The Scientist | @dawngyu

w.c - 21k

pairing - popular hueningkai x deaf fem!reader

synopsis - Kai, who thrived in sound. Loud noise, vibrant conversations, the hum of life. And the quiet girl that sits prettily by the window—had begun to haunt his mind—stirring his heart the way only music ever had.

There must be some scientific explanation for this... right?

♡ The Last Safe Space | @dawngyu

w.c - 30k

pairing - idol!beomgyu x fem!soldier reader

synopsis - The world didn’t end with a bang. It ended with a whisper, a deadly virus creeping through the streets, turning the living into something… monstrous.

It was supposed to be a mission. Get in. Get out. Rescue the five a-list boys holed up deep in the city of Seoul. But nothing in this new, broken world is simple anymore.

The dead don’t scare you as much as his starry eyes do—deep brown eyes that make you question if you’re the one who needs saving, after all.

♡ When The Reaper Weeps | @gyu-tori

w.c - 12.4k

pairing - grim reaper!taehyun x fem mortal!reader

synopsis - The afterlife, where death waits in shadow, Taehyun walks the line between humanity and duty, a grim reaper bound by unyielding rules and a heart he has long denied. Cold and distant, he collects souls with precision—until one last wish changes everything.

Y/N’s days are numbered, given seven days before the after life welcomes her. Her final mission is simple: mend the broken ties of her past.

As the days slip away, Taehyun’s carefully constructed world unravels. Y/N’s determination forces him to confront the emptiness in his existence. When choices arise—between rules, rebellion, and a love neither is prepared for—Taehyun must face the cost of defiance.

Will he remain the Reaper, bound to his duty, or will he weep for the first time in centuries?

☆ Supermarket Flowers | @yunverie ~ ongoing

w.c - 15.5k+

pairing - taehyun x reader

synopsis - In the quiet corners of a bustling campus, Taehyun, a once-passionate artist, finds himself at odds with the canvas. Each brushstroke feels heavier, every color muted by the weight of personal battles he keeps locked away. Across the hall lives someone just as adrift— you, a musician whose melodies have grown somber since a breakup that shattered your rhythm and dimmed your spark. Two souls, dulled by life, separated by a thin wall but worlds apart in their own silence.

Fate weaves their paths together in an unassuming art supply room, where their individual searches for solace lead to an unexpected companionship. Amidst the scent of paint and the soft strum of guitar strings, they begin to fill the gaps in each other’s lives without even realizing it. Conversations spark over spilled paints and improvised melodies, and laughter starts to echo where silence once lingered. Slowly, they start to see colors they had forgotten and hear music they thought they'd lost.

And as life begins to take on new hues, they realize that perhaps, just perhaps, love might be worth taking a chance on again.

☆ To Someone From A Warm Climate | @hyukascampfire ~ ongoing

w.c - 93.3k+

pairing - faerie!taehyun x reader, faerie!yeonjun x reader

synopsis - a life lived as a human among the fae is one hard-earned. the folk are built of indescribable beauty, and of debauchery and mischief. for some, a life lived subservient to the folk is just fine; but to those who dream of something more, they would spend their lives clawing and biting to make it happen.

you, looking for a way to escape a life as a faerie’s human servant, put a new foot forward thinking that any life could be better than that. but, when your first assignment as a king’s spy is alongside a brooding, icy faerie man, you begin to wonder what your place in this foreign world really could be.

♡ Letters of Yesterday | @gyu-tori

w.c - 9.1k

pairing - cursed writer!hueningkai x fem artist!reader

synopsis - When love is as fragile as memory, Kai is cursed to forget everything—and everyone—he loves. No matter how deeply he feels, the magic erases him, leaving only blank pages where once there were memories. But Y/N refuses to give up, even when every day brings a new heartbreak. As she clings to the fleeting moments of their time together, she fights to keep their love alive, knowing that each day could be the last he remembers her.

In a cycle of forgotten smiles and vanished kisses, can love survive when memories are fleeting? Or will the price of holding on to Kai’s love be more than she can be

Seventeen

♡ Baby | @sailorsoons

w.c - 29k

pairing - Soongyoung x f. reader

synopsis - Soonyoung had been in your life for as long as you can remember. You haven’t spoken since your wedding to someone who isn’t him, but when you uncover your husband’s plans to turn against your family, you don’t know who else to call.

♡ Cherry Picker | @gyuswhore

w.c - 19k

pairing - Hockey player! Seungcheol x figure skater! reader

synopsis - [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone.

There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

♡ agrodolce | @amourcheol

w.c - 27.5k

pairing - dessert chef! mc x dessert chef! seungkwan

synopsis - one would expect being a dessert chef to be a life filled with sugary goodness, but nothing is sweet when working alongside boo seungkwan. when the two of you are forced to create a special dessert for the winter menu together, you think the restaurant will burn down. late night planning, shopping mall snooping, and a simple dessert might just save you from your expectations.

♡ Full Throttle pt1 - pt2 | @diamonddaze01

w.c - 20.6k + 16.7k

pairing - ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader

synopsis - jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

♡ between you and me | @haologram

w.c - 40.4k

pairing - lee chan x fem!reader

synopsis - everything you've ever done, chan has been by your side - either egging you on or talking you off the ledge. after a rough year of studying, failed relationships and having chan be the insistent angel on your shoulder, the holidays roll around - and let's just say you're not too happy about it.

Enhypen

♡ Faking It | @shy2-29

w.c - 12.5k

pairing - lee heeseung x reader

synopsis - You had never liked Heeseung, and he had never liked you either. Over the three years, both you and Heeseung had become the most popular student in the university. You barely spoke to each other, just exchanged the occasional spiteful look in the hallways. You had sworn never to speak to Heeseung again—until one day, he unexpectedly asked you to be his fake girlfriend.

♡ cross the line | @heegyukeluv

w.c - 14.5k

pairing - heeseung x afab!reader

synopsis - “How do you know if someone is flirting with you?” It was Heeseung’s question to you, and you were left with no option other than to show how you do it.

♡ Falling Alone | @babeyun

w.c - 39.5k

pairing - lieutenant!lee heeseung x therapist!housewife!reader

synopsis - cold cases were heeseung’s specialty, and he cracked every single one. cold hearts were your specialty, and you have yet to make a single chip in your husband’s.

♡ grocery store receipts | @paarksunghoon

w.c - 31.5k

pairing - sunghoon x reader

synopsis - your hot neighbor seems to have everything you don’t: charm, confidence, and a sense of direction in life. you’ve managed to keep to yourself in the time you’ve lived across from his apartment but the holiday season brings brings out unresolved feelings, and you find that the best present of all has always been standing right in front of you.

♡ do you think I'm fragile? | @just-nc-tea

w.c - 30k

pairing - hockey player heeseung x coach's daughter Y/N

synopsis - A car accident has turned your life upside down, leaving you with a knee and ankle that ache like they belong to someone three times your age. Navigating college with these setbacks is hard enough, but when your overprotective dad insists you take an internship with the men’s hockey team, you’re thrust back into the world you’ve spent years avoiding. The rink represents everything you’ve lost—and then there’s Heeseung, the captain whom you somehow cannot stop thinking about.

♡ iced americano season | @just-nc-tea

w.c - 39k

pairing - hockey player jay x radio host x influencer & barista Y/N

synopsis - A simple iced americano is about to ruin Jay’s entire season. Falling for the cute barista at his favorite café means free coffee, but it also comes with unexpected complications. Between her overprotective best friend stirring up drama and the internet’s relentless spotlight on his personal life, Jay quickly learns that some risks are worth taking—even if it means skating into uncharted territory. He regrets nothing

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novaursa · 9 months ago

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I have a request! Reader is the younger sister of Daenerys! When Jon first visits Dragonstone, he mildly admires her from afar as she is her sister’s right hand advisor. But Davos warns him of the treachery and terror people tell about her. It can be a flashback, but I was thinking about instead of the Khalasar kidnapping Dany, they instead kidnapped her sister. She was the one to burn all of the Khalasar and gained the massive army for her and her sister. However rumors spread as Davos mentions her as The One who Brings Death. Jon however can’t really comprehend and is in awe of it all. He doesn’t seem turned off by it all by nonetheless is wary about the reader’s reputation. When he’s on Dragonstone’s bridge, he meets the reader and they talk. The reader is more open than her sister, wanting to maintain peace in all between the two parties. She tells him alittle bit about her story growing up and it makes Jon emphasize with her. They bond over the few days he stays on Dragonstone and he eventually convinces her to talk to Dany about joining their alliance. reader can also be bonded either to Viserion or Rhaegal.

The Death Bringer and The Wolf

Requests are closed!

- Summary: You meet Jon on the shores of Dragonstone, and he learns how wolves and dragons are the same side of the coin.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jon Snow

- Note: The reader is Daenerys' sister and is bonded to Viserion.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The salty breeze of Dragonstone whips through your hair as you stand at your sister's side, eyes fixed on the men approaching from the distant shore. Jon Snow—the King in the North—walks with purpose, his face hardened like the Northern winter. His loyal advisor, Ser Davos Seaworth, follows close behind, ever watchful.

You sense Jon's gaze drift toward you. You’ve felt eyes on you before, countless times, but his feels different—curious, not hostile. As Daenerys speaks with Tyrion, you notice his eyes linger on you, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. There's admiration there, hidden beneath the caution. He knows what you are to your sister: her most trusted, her shadow, her sword. A part of him seems drawn to that, though he hides it well beneath his stoic expression.

Jon’s thoughts are interrupted by Davos, who murmurs low enough that only he can hear, "Be careful around her, my lord. They call her 'The One Who Brings Death' for a reason."

Jon glances at him, brow raised.

"They say she burned an entire khalasar to the ground after she was captured," Davos continues, voice grim. "No mercy, no hesitation. It wasn't just dragons that won Daenerys her army; it was her sister's fire. The people say she commands death like others command swords."

Jon’s eyes flick back to you. You stand tall beside your sister, regal and composed, as if the rumors have no hold on you. He tries to reconcile the idea of the calm woman before him with the tales of destruction Davos speaks of.

The air was thick with smoke that day, the smell of burning flesh heavy in your nose.

You had been bound and beaten, the khals laughing as they paraded you around like a prize. They thought they could break you, like they did with others who crossed their path. But they didn’t know you. They didn’t know the fire that lived within your blood.

When you finally broke free, the heat of Viserion’s presence burning in the distance, something primal surged through you. They thought they could crush you with fear and chains, but you were Targaryen—a dragon, not a lamb. You had given the signal, and Viserion’s fire rained down upon the khalasar like judgment from the gods. One by one, they fell, engulfed in flames.

You showed no mercy as they screamed, no pity as they burned. You had stood at the heart of it all, flames casting your shadow long over the dead and dying. When it was over, what remained of the khalasar bent the knee to you and your sister, not out of loyalty, but out of fear. The fear of the woman who had turned fire into her weapon, who had scorched the mightiest men of the Dothraki to ash.

The stories spread like wildfire, growing darker with each retelling. Some called you a savior; others whispered of a demon in human skin. But they all said the same thing in the end—you were The One Who Brings Death.

The flash of memory passes, and you’re brought back to the present. Jon is still watching you, though more carefully now. He’s heard the stories, you’re certain, but you don’t care. What they say doesn’t matter. Only the loyalty of your sister, the strength of your dragons, and the fire in your blood hold any weight.

Jon doesn’t seem repelled by the tales. If anything, there’s a glint of awe in his eyes. He doesn’t understand, not yet. But he will.

You move with grace as you approach him, meeting his gaze fully now. "Jon Snow," you greet, your voice soft, calm, betraying none of the fire that lies beneath. "Welcome to Dragonstone. My sister is eager to meet with you."

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "Thank you," he replies, though there’s a pause, as if he’s about to say more, but Davos clears his throat, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand.

As you and Jon begin to walk toward the long stone bridge that connects the shore to Dragonstone, the sound of the crashing waves fills the silence between you. Davos lingers behind with Tyrion, giving the two of you some space, though you sense that his eyes never leave Jon’s back.

You turn to Jon, noticing the tension in his posture. "You don’t need to be so guarded," you say, your voice softer than before. "I know what they say about me, and I imagine Ser Davos has already filled your ears with those tales."

Jon’s eyes flicker toward you, a hint of uncertainty crossing his face. "He did mention a few things," he admits, his voice low, as if reluctant to offend.

You smile gently. "No doubt they paint me as some bringer of doom, a monster in human skin." You glance out at the sea, the horizon dark and endless. "But it’s not entirely true, you know. I did what I had to, for my sister... and for myself."

Jon studies you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "It’s hard to imagine. You don’t seem like the kind of person who—" He stops, clearly unsure of how to finish the sentence without sounding harsh.

"Who burns people alive?" you offer, a dry chuckle escaping your lips. "You’re not the first to struggle with that. But I assure you, Jon, war changes people. My sister and I didn’t have the luxury of growing up in peaceful times. We were hunted from the day we were born."

Jon frowns at that, his gaze softening. "I’ve heard some of your story. I know you were forced to flee when you were young."

You nod, the memories flickering in your mind. "I was barely old enough to understand what was happening when we fled. We lost everything—our home, our family, even our names, for a while. It was just Viserys, Daenerys and me, hiding in foreign lands, never knowing who to trust, never feeling truly safe." Your eyes meet his, and you see the understanding in his expression.

"I know something of what that’s like," Jon says, his voice quieter now. "I grew up as a Stark in Winterfell, but I never really belonged there. My father was honorable, my family good to me, but... I was always an outsider, the bastard."

You watch him closely, feeling a pang of empathy. "It’s a cruel thing, being kept on the outside of your own family. I’ve spent most of my life trying to prove myself, not just for my sister’s sake, but for mine. I didn’t want to be a shadow forever."

He nods, seeming to find a shared pain in your words. "It makes you do things you never thought you’d be capable of," he murmurs.

You look ahead at the imposing figure of Dragonstone looming in the distance, its sharp edges cutting into the sky. "I didn’t want war, Jon. I wanted peace, for my sister and for her people. But every time we tried to build something, it was ripped away from us. The khalasar... that was one of the darkest moments of my life, but it won us an army. It won us power."

Jon is silent for a long moment before he speaks again. "I can see why people follow you. You and your sister."

"I don’t want them to follow me out of fear," you say softly. "But I know that’s what some of them do."

Jon turns his head slightly, his eyes searching yours. "And what do you want, then?"

The question lingers in the air, heavier than the wind. "I want peace, Jon. I want this to end without more bloodshed. I’ve seen enough fire and death for a lifetime."

His gaze softens as he watches you. "You sound different from your sister."

You smile, but it’s tinged with sadness. "Daenerys and I are alike in many ways, but we’ve had different paths. She’s always carried the burden of the throne on her shoulders. I’ve always been the one fighting in the shadows, making sure she gets there."

"Maybe it’s time for her to listen to you," Jon suggests quietly.

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. "You think she’ll listen?"

"I think she trusts you. And if you talk to her about working with us, about standing together against the real threat... she might listen."

You study him for a moment. Jon Snow, the King in the North, is nothing like the lords and kings you’ve met before. He carries the weight of the world, much like Daenerys does, but there’s no arrogance, no hunger for power in his eyes. Only duty.

"I’ll talk to her," you say after a pause, your voice quiet but resolute. "I’ll try to make her see that this alliance could save more lives than we’ll ever know."

Jon nods, relief flashing across his face. "Thank you."

The two of you continue your walk toward the castle, a sense of quiet understanding settling between you. Over the next few days, you find yourself drawn to Jon more and more. There’s something calming about him, something honest. He’s not like the others you’ve had to manipulate, to outmaneuver in order to protect your sister. With Jon, you can speak freely, and that’s a rare thing in your world.

In those few days, Jon’s presence becomes almost familiar. You exchange stories of your pasts, the scars you both carry, and the hope that something better is possible. It’s a fragile hope, but it’s there, flickering between the two of you like a small flame in the dark.

And when the time comes, you do talk to Daenerys. You speak of the threat in the North, the army of the dead, and the value of Jon Snow as an ally. You remind her that the war for the throne means nothing if they all die in the coming winter.

It takes time, but eventually, Daenerys agrees. You can see the spark of something in her eyes, something that wasn’t there before, and you know Jon’s presence has shifted something within her as well.

As you stand beside your sister, watching Jon prepare to leave, you feel a strange sense of both relief and uncertainty. He has changed something in you, too—made you see the world a little differently. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure what that means.

#game of thrones #got x y/n #got x you #got x reader #asoiaf x reader #asoif/got #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow #jon x reader #jon x you #jon x y/n

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