#the power is written in her blood. what is she doing about it?

[allseeingdirt]

me :

me : bloodline magic as an allegory for inherited privilege send post

[friendrat]

The problem with the church today is that so many "Christians" do not actually believe in redemption.

[kentopedia]

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ SAFEGUARD — dazai, chuuya, akutagawa

summary . . . they save you after you've been injured and captured by an enemy.

contents . . . sfw, f!reader (chuuya & dazai) and gn!reader (akutagawa), violence / blood, threats, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, and it's pmboss!dazai bc i can't help myself — 3.5k total

notes . . . i got this request so long ago lol. not my best work, but i have been in the worst writing slump ever and just wanted to finish something. i've also never written for akutagawa before so pls be nice <3

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .

there are very few times that chuuya feels he’s been outsmarted. he knows he’s not the mastermind of the port mafia, but he certainly isn’t a fool. when it comes to you and your well-being, though, his mind short-circuits, half of his intelligence draining away while his emotions take hold. 

your relationship isn’t a secret to anyone in the port mafia, which means that it isn’t a secret to your enemies either. and while most people know it’s hard to land a finger on chuuya directly, his pretty little girlfriend doesn’t have the power of a god nestled inside of her.

the rage sparks through him, growing fiercely into the blaze of a forest fire, until all he can think of is getting you home safely. he thinks of your sweet smile as he rips the door of the enemies’ base off the hinges, crushing it into a million pieces with the force of gravity. 

the men are quick to react, but chuuya hurtles the crushed door towards them, knocking three of them to their feet. another group charges at him, but their guns do little against his skill. after years of fighting some of the strongest ability users, simple criminal organizations are as easy to step over like ants. 

chuuya kills them all — except for one.

the man’s knees are wobbling, hand shaking around the gun as he realizes that these will be his final moments. there is fear in his eyes, brown ones that rest wide open, and chuuya almost hesitates. his remorse doesn’t last long, though, before he’s wrapping a hand around the man’s throat, thrusting him backwards. 

“where is she?” chuuya asks, voice sharp and commanding. 

he can feel the man swallowing. 

chuuya knows that backup is probably on the way, but it won’t matter whether they show up or not. he’ll crush the rest of his enemies just as he’s crushed the last twenty men. the poor soul in his leather hold seems to know that as well. 

“i-i’ll take you to her,” he rasps, dropping his gun to claw at chuuya’s hand. 

he drops him, lets him take a few heaving breaths and coughs, before he’s kicking at him, forcing him back to his feet.

the young man takes him up the elevator, weaves him through a hallway as chuuya leaves a scattering of bodies in his wake, not hesitating to kill a single man that gets in his way. there is nothing that can keep him from you. 

how fiercely and loyally he loves you — it drives him to near insanity. 

finally, with blood coating his face and his clothes, the young man enters a room, locked with a code, revealing you. 

chuuya’s rage is almost as blinding as his corruption, as he gazes at the sight of you. bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair, so visibly harmed. his hands clench into fists. “get the fuck away from her,” he says to the man who seems to be monitoring you.

“what are you doing in here?” the men left in the room panic, but they don’t have time to react before chuuya throws them back at the wall, so quickly, with so much force, that their spines snap. they hit it with a sharp crack, skulls shattering against the plaster, the wall crushing beneath the weight of them. 

limply, they fall to the floor. 

chuuya rushes over to you. 

the young man that led him here disappears, but chuuya isn’t worried about him. he’s a coward; he’ll likely flee from the country and never look back. the men that truly hurt you are already dead, and he’ll burn this building to the ground once he’s gotten you away from it. 

“hey,” chuuya says, cradling your cheeks gently, trying to coax you back awake. he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion, blood loss, or the obvious head trauma that caused you to pass out in the first place. but you’re still breathing, so he counts that as a blessing. 

“hey,” he whispers again, kissing your forehead, like it will heal all your ailments. “wake up, baby. we gotta get you out of here, okay?” 

it takes you a few seconds to come to, eyes glazed over and shell-shocked as you blink at him. “chuuya?” you say; your voice is so hoarse it makes chuuya want to keel over and vomit. “is it really you?” 

guilt gnaws at him, almost crushing, at the fact that thirty-six hours passed, and you’re delirious enough not to recognize him. you probably haven’t eaten, either. 

he should’ve been there. no one should’ve ever had the chance to hurt you, yet…

“it’s me, i’m here,” he says, kissing your lips, your temple, brushing your hair away from your face. the strands are sticky with blood. “shit,” chuuya nearly shouts, pulling a knife from his pocket, sawing through the thick ropes around you as quickly as he can. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry.” 

he can’t get you free fast enough, and you smile at him, drowsy, your eyes fluttering shut once more. “it’s okay, chuuya,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “you’re here now.” 

“you have to stay awake,” he says desperately, realizing your head is still bleeding. he doesn’t know how hurt you are. chuuya’s no expert when it comes to medicine, but he’s smart enough to know that internal injuries could be even worse than the external ones. 

“stay awake for me, okay, honey? i’ll get you back to the boss and we’ll find you a doctor. you’ll be just fine.” 

“okay, chuuya,” you hum, weakly gripping his back. seconds of silence pass before you mutter, “i just want to go home.” 

"i know." his heart pulls, and he almost lets out a cracked sob. but he refrains, knowing that there is plenty of time to drown in his sorrows later. 

finally, he gets the ropes under, lifting you from the chair. you’re so much lighter, weaker, and it makes him sick as he carries you. “let’s get you home.” 

𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀. . .

the call comes just as akutagawa is getting ready to head home for the evening, his tasks completed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. 

normally, he doesn’t stick around to say any goodbyes, sneaking off into the darkness of the night like a shadow, blending right in. but, something about the evening, so gloomy and drizzly with spring rain, feels off. 

with a heavy knot in his chest, so much different than an incoming fit of coughs, akutagawa heads back up to mori’s office, if perhaps to only ensure that everyone else’s jobs had been completed. he’s a lot of things, but he’s never been a slacker; and he’ll do what it takes to ensure that his position in the mafia is eternally secure.

though, he doesn’t have the opportunity to get all the way upstairs before he run into the boss, who is calm, but with an air of irritation clouding him. 

he explains the current situation to akutagawa in a clipped tone, bored — an enemy group has kidnapped you, holding you hostage. 

“how rude is it to bother a man, just as he is getting ready to go to sleep?” mori says, sighing histrionically.

but what is a minor inconvenience to mori sends an entire wave of dread through akutagawa, his entire body feeling as if it’s been dipped in ice. he can’t explain the horror that washes over him, not really, because he shouldn’t feel so panicked. it is rare for him to get worked up about the danger his subordinates find themselves in, save for his sister, of course. 

but you… you’re different. 

“can i trust you to diffuse the situation?” mori asks, impatiently glancing at his watch as if that will change anything. “i can call someone else, but they will not be so quick.” 

akutagawa doesn’t even think before he accepts the job, hating the way he sounds pathetically desperate for more details. his hands flatten the edge of his cloak, as if his ability is going to take on a mind of its own. 

he calls for a driver, calm but breathing so heavily that an aching cough rises up in him. his throat feels as if it may begin to bleed, but he swallows, glances away from the driver and gets himself under control.

there’s a ransom — bring them the money and they’ll return you, mori had told him. you’re only a lower ranking member of the mafia, and someone that makes for a pretty poor bargaining chip, so the motive is questionable. 

mori probably would’ve let you die, akutagawa knows, his teeth gritting together, so much so that a splintering sound comes from it. but the boss, in his infinite, concerning wisdom, seems to also know that his loyal dog has an soft spot for you. 

as regrettable as that may be.

akutagawa has no doubt that whoever the enemy is, they are no match for him. still, a twinge of anxiety settles in his stomach, fingers jittery as the driver, despite the decreased traffic of the hour, seems to drive impossibly slow. 

“are we not in a rush?” akutagawa snaps, leaning forward.

“apologies,” the driver, says, not daring to even look at akutagawa from the mirror. but the car speeds up, enough for akutagawa to be able to notice, at least. it cools the simmer that has already begun deep in his chest.  

even so, the car seems to go at a snails pace, minute upon minute flying by, with you in the clutches of an enemy. 

akutagawa doesn’t care who they are. he doesn’t care why, or how they captured you. he wants them dead. he’ll rip them apart, easily, and he’ll make them suffer — they’ll be alive for all of it, for every second that he peels the skin from their bones, ripping the smaller ones out of their sockets. 

what he feels for you… well, it’s too hard for him to admit to himself. he has no experience with what it means to care for another person, doesn’t even know if that’s his goal. he just knows he wants to protect you.

and he can’t do that if you’re dead.

finally, the car pulls up to an old warehouse, one at the very outskirts of the port, beyond the docks and the shipping carts. it’s tucked far back, an obvious lair for some villainous organization that doesn’t want to be found. 

akutagawa gets there, but there is nothing. he hears nothing, feels no signs of life as he trudges through the puddles left behind from the earlier rain. 

a small string of panic begins again, as he wondered if maybe the call that mori had told him was only a ruse. maybe this entire time had been a distraction, a way to lure him away. there are other skill-users in the mafia, but none quite as dangerous as him. 

though, he hears it, then. a small little sound, muffled and hoarse, full of pain. 

he ducks into another corner of a warehouse, and you’re there — bound with chains and a gag across your mouth, one of your eyes blackened with bruises, your nose bleeding. 

his heart aches. never in his life has he so quickly made his way over, used the sharp edges of his ability to shear through the chains, falling to his knees as he unbinds the cloth from your lips. 

“where are they?” he rasps, mouth opening and closing, hating the sound of his own voice. he recognizes his desperation, his anger, but the affectionate sound that clips at the end is unfamiliar, as he shakily pulls himself closer to you. 

you glance up at him, eyes glossy and wide, and though you are scared, hurt, he’s so thankful you are alive. his heart flips once, as you grasp at his cloak, the material that has the blood of so many staining the threads. 

“gone,” you say, throat chalky, words nothing more than a note against the wind. “they fled when they heard it was you coming.” 

“and left you?” he asks, jaw clenching, as he hopes that the emotions aren’t as visible on his features as he thinks they are. “were you not a ransom?” 

“no,” you swallow, hard, as if in pain. he notices bruises around your neck, the shape of fingerprints indented there. “i was bait.”

anger rises up in him like a wave, engulfing him, wholly and relentlessly. he is no stranger to that, like he is the kindness you show him, the way you look at him as if he is your protector, rather than a bringer of destruction. “i’ll go after them. where are they headed? they’ll pay, i’ll slaughter—”

“ryunosuke,” you say, reaching for him as he stands, expression pleading as he backs away. “stay.” 

he has half a mind to ignore you — the enemy escaped, after all. but your voice. your eyes… you look so small sitting there, bloodied and bruised and broken. 

“please,” you try again, near tears, and though he has never been good with obvious displays of emotion, something within him snaps at the desperation in the word. 

he nods, slowing his pace as he returns to you, lets you wrap yourself in him, cling to him. his hands fall, naturally, to your waist, somehow knowing where they belong, even if akutagawa never has a clue what he’s doing with you. 

“i’ll call hirotsu,” he says simply, before pulling out his phone, not bothering to untangle himself from you. 

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .

dazai is not a forgiving man, and will never learn to be. forgiveness is not a luxury he is often able to indulge in in his line of work, and his heart has hardened enough that until the end of time, those that are branded his enemies will remain his enemies. 

though, in his blackened heart, one soured over the course of time, you have carved out your own little space, lit it up with golden rays of light that are fiery enough to melt the stone casing of his chest. 

his only love — his only weakness. but it is a weakness that his enemies know about as well. 

dazai tries his best to keep you safe. he always has, and he knows that, sometimes, his grasp on you can be a little too tight. that the way he tries to keep you under his watchful eye can sometimes be stifling, frustrating. 

but he can’t always be there to protect you. and it is in times like these, that he regrets letting you go without a bodyguard. he regrets that he listened to your insistence that you could keep yourself safe. 

he should’ve at least told you to take a friend. 

“boss,” his subordinate says, bowing his head, his voice pleading, desperate. “i’m so sorry. your wife—”

“if anything… anything happens to her, you will be the one responsible, do you understand?” dazai says, his eyes cold as he glowers down at the man, only a few inches shorter than him, but feeling so much smaller. “i will personally see that this act does not go unpunished.” 

“of course, sir,” the man says, and he, at the very least, has the decency to sound resigned. to accept his fate and suffer the consequences, for allowing the boss’s wife to get herself into such a situation. 

and dazai means it, every last word; if he finds you in a state closer to death, anyone who put you in harm’s way will be torn apart from the inside out. he isn’t able to think of anything but bringing you home safely, his hands shaking with rage as he sends more than enough people out on a search to find you. 

with all the strings he’s able to pull as the mafia boss, it doesn’t take long to find you, for those that have bravely — or stupidly — used his wife as bait to come forward, and offer an attempt at some sort of negotiation. 

there’s little of the conversation that dazai remembers on the phone, even less that he remembers after that. the anger bubbles up in him and grabs hold of his conscience, the emotion directing his movements with a mind of its own. 

he’s already sent out every last one of his people into the field, ensuring that the organization that had the gall to threaten you is wiped off the face of the earth. deleted from every corner of the world, buildings flattened to the ground. by tomorrow, they won’t have ever existed. 

today, he doesn’t care what happens as long as he finds you alive. 

you’re held hostage by two men — so completely beaten that they’ve given up on any restraints. whatever they wanted from you, you seemed to refused to have given up, lip bleeding, eyes swelling so badly that you can’t even open them. 

dazai doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger on the first man, then turning to the other, shooting the hand that holds the pistol. the man recoils, shouts, and drops the weapon completely, as dazai lands another bullet to his knee, causing him to fall. 

slowly, dazai walks up, firing again to his other arm, a loud snap echoing throughout the room. the man winces, trying to crawl to the gun, one last desperate attempt to stay alive. 

he kicks the gun away, watching, as, pathetically, the expression in the enemy’s face changes — any of his remaining hope vanishes. 

“you told me she was unharmed,” dazai says, bending down, his coat flaring out behind him as he squats. 

the man coughs, gasping for air as the blood seeps out of him. “we lied.” he smiles cruelly, and though he shares the same sort of darkness as those in the port mafia, there is something even more twisted in his smile. 

dazai hums. “you the leader?” 

the man doesn’t give an answer, but the slight twitch of surprise on his face is all dazai needs. he’s no one — just a grunt whose life was put on the line to guard you. 

“didn’t think so.” dazai shoots him once, straight through the forehead, instantly killing him. but he is vindictive, angry, and the man he truly wants to destroy, the one who took you, is nowhere to be found. another bullet lands, tearing apart the flesh of his temple, then another, and one more, his skull beginning to cave in from the force of it all. 

dazai heaves, letting the gun clatter to the ground as it runs out of bullets, and then he realizes, all this time, you’ve just been watching him. the ugliest side of him — the worst side of him. 

you’re no stranger to it, of course. how can you be, when you’ve shared a life with him for years? but that doesn’t mean he wants you to see it, see how bloodthirsty he can become. 

he stumbles over to you, where you’re still sitting on the ground, your wrist in your lap, bent at an angle that he knows isn’t right. bruises are littered across your skin, and your hair is matted from the blood that pools at your temple. 

it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stay calm, a million feelings swirling under his skin. ones that he was never familiar with until he met you. 

“i’m sorry,” he says, taking your face in his hands so, so softly, worried that he’ll hurt you even more. “i’m sorry, darling. i should’ve — i should’ve been there.” dazai notices his hands are shaking and he balls them up into fists, leaning back. “fuck. fuck — i’ll kill them all, just tell me who it was. anyone who laid a finger on you. i’ll cut them down one by one.” 

“osamu,” you say, and your voice is raspy, cracking, as your unbroken arm reaches for him, squeezing his shaking hand. “i—”

you open your mouth to continue, but only tears come streaming down your cheeks, over your bloodied lips, saltiness soaking your jawline. no words don’t leave you, but a soft sob chokes itself up your throat.

“hey, hey, hey.” dazai’s voice softens, every muscle in his body relaxing as he draws you nearer to him, into his chest with a touch that’s barely there. “you’re safe. i’m here, okay? they’re not going to hurt you again, sweetheart.” 

you sniffle, barely making a sound, but he can feel the tears drop onto his clothes, soaking the material.

“can you walk? are you hurt anywhere else?” 

you hesitate for a moment before answering; he’s not sure if there’s a reason you only answer the first question. “i can walk.” 

dazai nods, and though the rage is still bubbling there, underneath the surface, there is a coolant streaming through him at the vision of you alive. the men who did this will pay the price, but he still has you — and that’s all that matters.

thank you for reading !!! ❤︎

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

Hi sweet angel, I have to admit that I'm new to your profile, but my obsession with your writing is almost as great as my obsession with snow, I have a request that changes the story a little bit.

Coryo is completely obsessed with the reader, but she thinks he is just an affectionate friend, both become mentors and instead of snow falling in love with lucy, it is the reader who falls in love with her tribute, and begins to move away from Snow, he can not accept this and manipulates the games, Not for lucy to win, but rather, to get rid of the reader's tribute. (Sorry for any mistake, English is not my mother tongue, so I use Google translator)

Slipping Through My Fingers || Young!Coriolanus Snow x reader

GIF by i forgot sorry :( divided by @firefly-graphics

A/n: this took me forever to finish idk why 😭 also this has to be the longest fic i've written so far.

Warnings: mention of blood, possessive coryo, mentions of death

Wc: 2,975

Coriolanus Snow Masterlist

"Can I see you tomorrow morning?" Coriolanus looks down at you with hope in his eyes, you open your mouth but close it before sighing. "I can't, sorry. My parents want me to be home when my grandparents are there," You lie through your teeth as he hums, nodding.

"That's fine, tomorrow afternoon then?" His hand touches your waist as you smile up at the boy. "Of course Coryo, I'll see you then?" You touch his hand that was at your waist as he nods. You give him one final smile before disappearing around the corner.

You felt bad for lying to him but you didn't know how he would take it if he found out that you were actually going to meet your tribute first thing when his train from the districts arrived in Panem. Your tribute, Dean, from district 8 intrigued you. You couldn't keep your eyes of the screen when he appeared. He caught your eye immediately.

Coryo couldn’t stop complaining all day about his tribute from district 12, Lucy Gray. Saying that she would not last a second in the game. Unlike him, you had faith in your tribute.

So here you were, standing on the platform waiting for the train to come to a halt as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. A smile on your face, dimples on display as the doors open revealing Dean. He was taller than you imagined, but nonetheless, he looked surreal. There was no denying that Dean was good looking, incredibly good looking which you would imagine would play a role in the amount of donations he would have.

"Dean. Y/n Y/l/n. I'll be your mentor." You extend your hand out in front of him as he looks you up and down before shaking your hand. His shake was firm, his fingers calloused. An indication that he was a hard worker.

"Are you supposed to be here? I don't see other people like you around here," He says as he looks around the train station. You notice Coriolanus' tribute, Lucy Gray walking by and staring at the two of you questioningly. You make eye contact with her before clearing your throat and looking back at Dean who hadn't kept his eyes off of you.

"No. I'm not supposed to be here." You confess, your hands fidgeting with the ends of your skirt as Dean raises an eyebrow at you. "Then.... what are you doing here?" You pause. What were you doing here? You could have waited like the others for tomorrow to meet him.

"I uh- I wanted to welcome you to the Capitol." You offer him a smile. Silence. "Can I be blunt with you Dean?" Your head slightly tilts, a habit of yours when you ask questions. "Sure," He shrugs. "I see potential in you," You hold his hands in between yours as he glances down at your intertwined hands with an expression you couldn't quite figure out.

"You can win this hunger games. And I will do everything in my power to make sure that you do. Such potential like you for a bright future shouldn't be wasted," You solemnly smile at him. Dean stays quiet for awhile, his hand still in yours before a peacekeeper roughly pulls him away from you.

"Hey!" You shout as you follow the two. "It's time for them to go Miss." The peacekeeper says as he throws Dean into the back of a van. Just as he walks away from your view to close the door, you jump into the van along with the rest of the tributes. "What are you doing!" Dean whispers yells at you as you stay hidden behind him.

You let out a sigh of relief once the doors close. "What's this? Is this your mentor, Dean?" A girl you recognised to be Carol asks with a sinister smile. You push past Dean and extend your hand out for her to shake. She looks at your face then your hand and lets out a laugh.

"Why would I shake hands with someone like you." She spat as a few others laugh alongside her. You notice Lucy Gray once more, sitting there silently. "Why do you get special treatment Dean, huh?" Carol pushes you backwards catching you off balance as Dean catches you.

"I could kill her right now," Carol chuckles like a maniac. Dean moves you behind him, "Leave her alone," He voices out, his tone screaming authority. Before Carol could respond, the van shook violently as you all lose your balance. You let out a groan as you felt your body slam against the van door before it flies open, causing you all to roll out onto hard rocks.

You let out a groan as you slowly lift up your head, squinting your eyes at your surrounding before you hear Dean's voice. "Y/n! Are you alright?" He asks worriedly as his grips your bicep, aiding you to stand up as you realise where you were. You were at the zoo cage.

You place a hand on your head as you let out a low groan. "Excuse me! Hello! Over there! Can they not hear me in there?" You hear a familiar voice belonging to Lucretius Flickerman. Dean takes a hold of your forearm, helping you keep balance as he whispers to you, "Own it." You look up at him with a small smile. He offers his arm to you as you link arms and walk towards the iron bars.

"Y/n Y/l/n, one of the mentors for the 10th hunger games." Lucretius says to the camera as he then directs his gaze towards you. "The game makers did tell you to jump into the cage with them," His tone was skeptical. Dean looks down at you as you glance at him before looking at Lucky.

"They didn't tell me not to. They just said it was a mentor's job to introduce our tributes to the citizens of Panem, and I thought well if Dean is brave enough to be here, then why shouldn't I be too?" You say with confidence, "For the record, I didn't have a choice," Dean butts in.

"What is Y/n doing there?" Arachne gasps as she ctaches the attention of Snow and the others as they look to the screen. There you were, linked arms with a tribute, looking awfully comfortable with him to add. Snow furrows his eyebrows at disbelief that you were there.

You told him that you were to be at home, but clearly not. Coriolanus watches with intent as you look at Dean when he spoke. His fists bawl up as Clemensia makes a comment. "You alright Coryo? You look.... bothered," Her hands rest on Snow's upper arm as he pries her touch off of him.

"I'm fine," He snaps as he leans forward on his seat. He was bothered. Very bothered seeing you so close with a tribute. "He's obviously not fine, he's bothered seeing Y/n so touchy with her tribute, isn't that right Snow?" Arachne teases as he slams his hand on the table causing her to shut up. "Shut it, Crane." Coriolanus says through gritted teeth as Arachne puts her hands up in surrender.

"They look really close. Can't blame Y/n honestly, she got a good looking one," He hears Clemensia quietly say before he had enough and stood up, storming off.

~

"Coryo," You call out as you catch up to him, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you offer him a smile. He says nothing, his face stern as he continues to walk, not bothering to look at you. "Hey listen, I'm sorry I stood you yesterday, I just got super busy-" "Yeah I saw, busy with your tribute right?" He gives you a sarcastic smile as you scrunch your eyebrows.

You were all making your way to the enclosed cage to talk to your tributes. "What?" Snow rolls his eyes at you, finally stopping. "I saw your interview with Flickerman. Looked awfully close to your tribute," You let out small chuckle as his face shows no sign of amusement.

"Coryo, I was just introducing myself to him and getting to know him that's all. I have faith in him that he will win and I wanted him to know that. Wouldn't you do the same with your tribute if you had faith in her?" You touch his arm as he looks at your hand.

"Right?" You try and get a response from him as he sighs, "I guess," Is all he says before intertwining his hands with yours. You look down at your hands, a sweet gesture from him. When you both get closer to the tributes, you unclasp your hands with Snow and walk towards Dean who has already seen you and was making his way closer to you.

"Hey," You greet Dean as you look through your bag and find the half of your sandwich and cookie which you put away for him. You hand it to him as he thanks you, immediately taking bites as you watch him. He could feel your stares as you look away. Your eyes land on Coriolanus and Lucy.

He was talking to her about something as Lucy looks towards you and Dean. Snow finally looks at you, his expression cold as you gulp and look at Dean who was already looking at you. "He your boyfriend or something?" He asks as he takes another bite of the cookie. Your eyes widen. "Who? Coryo? No." You laugh as Dean stares at you.

"He's just a close friend of mine." You say as he nods, unbothered. "Do you? Do you- uh- have a-" "No." He deadpans as you slowly nod. From afar, Snow was watching the two of you interact the entire time. "Do you want to win Lucy Gray?" He turns his attention from you to his tribute.

"Do you think I can win?" She asks him as he thinks. "Honestly? no." He admits as Lucy scoffs. "But if you listen to what I say and do what I tell you to do, you will." His tone was stern as Lucy nods, her eyes following his eyeline which led to you and Dean. "That your girlfriend? That girl who was with us yesterday in the van."

"Her and Dean seem to be close, don't you think?" Lucy watches Coriolanus' face, his jaw clenching at the mention of the two. "They're not close, she just knows how to play the game," Coriolanus snaps before standing up and backing away from Lucy Gray.

~

You hadn't spoken much to Coriolanus the past couple of days. You were with Dean quite a lot, making up strategies and scenarios for when the games started. "I care about you, Dean. A lot." You take his hands in yours, the sound of his iron shackles making you cringe as you look him the eyes. Dean looks around the room before caressing your hand.

You and Dean have gotten very close over the past days. You both had faith in each other, trusted one another. Coriolanus narrows his eyes at the two of you, 2 desks away from him before his gaze settles on your touching hands.

He lets out a quiet scoff as Lucy Gray looks over to you and Dean. "Do you know him?" Snow asks her as he cocks his head towards Dean. Lucy shakes her head. "You want to win, don't you?" He leans in close to her.

Lucy hesitantly nods her head, "Yes. Yes you do Lucy." He answered for her, his gaze hard on her as she squirmed under his stare. "You need to kill Dean first. You need to before he kills you. He's a strong competitor, I can tell, that's why you need him out first. Then, it will be a piece of cake." He smirks as he leans back on his chair. "What do I need to do?"

~

“Y/n,” Coriolanus calls out as you turn your head to his direction, a small smile on his face as you beam at him. You run to him, throwing your arms around him as you hug him tightly. Coryo was caught off guard but eventually hugs you back.

“Good luck,” You say, although it was slightly muffled against his shirt. “You too,” He says back, his hand rubbing your back as you pull back, giving him your pearly white grin that only a few were able to see. Coriolanus felt a pull at his heart for he knew what was going to happen would break you.

Your other classmates arrive as you get settled for the 10th hunger games to start. Your eyes were trained on the screen as you watch Dean kill 2 people. You bite your fingernails as you continue to watch it play out infront of your eyes. Coriolanus offers his hand as you take it, squeezing it as you watch Dean.

A couple hours pass by and everyone sits up when they watch Coryo's tribute, Lucy Gray being corned by a few of the others, Dean included. In the corner of your eye, you watch Coryo come up to his screen and rapidly click.

Your eyes flicker back to the screen as drones of water come flying at the tributes, knocking them out as the room erupts in gasps. "These drones are not very good," Flickerman comments. "Hey! What are you doing?" Vipsania shouts as she stands up.

"You can't attack the tributes Coryo!" You snap at him. "I'm just sending water," He coolly says as you shake your head and scoff. Dean managed to dodge them luckily. You watch as Lucy Gray runs, Dean chasing after her as your leg bounces.

She manages to hide in one of the vent holes as you notice Snow let out a sigh of relief. Dean punches the vent in anger as he eventually leaves her. A few more hours pass by as you fell asleep, the sound of banging wakes you up. Coryo was nowhere to be found.

Your eyes focus on the screen as Dean and Coral stand underneath a vent pipe. Coral's pitchfork was reportingly stabbing at the vents above. Dean follows the noises, his gaze on the vent. "Coral. Coral she's right here," He whispers to her as she continues stabbing at the vent. Coriolanus then runs in, "Lucy Gray, is she okay?" He says out of breath.

"She wont be for long," Festus comments as everyone's eyes are trained on the screen. All of a sudden, Dean touches his nose as he looks confused. You immediately stand up on your feet, "Wait, what's wrong with Dean?" You move closer as he falls on his knee making your heart race.

"Did Coral do something to Dean?" You panic as Dean starts spazzing out on the floor. Coryo glances at you. Lucy Gray did what he told her to do. He had snuck her rat poison to use, if a small amount was to be inhaled, it would be deadly.

You cover your mouth as your eyes widen. Dean was laying on the ground, not moving at all. You flinch at the sound of a buzzer going off, indicating that he was in fact dead. Dean was dead. And you didn't even know how it happened. You storm out but before you could, Coryo grips your arm, "I'm sorry," He says as you furrow your eyebrows at what he meant before snatching your arm from his grip. "Dean is down. Good afternoon Miss Y/l/n," Flickerman calls out.

You storm out with rage. Dean was supposed to win. He was supposed to make it out alive. You even promised him he would come out alive and go back to his family. One moment he was perfectly fine, and then the next, he's on the floor spazzing out and then dead. Your mind drifts back to Coriolanus' words, I'm sorry. What did that even mean? You assumed he was just apologising that your tribute was dead.

~

Lucy Gray had managed to win. You were happy for Coryo of course. But Dean’s recent death still plagued your mind. “Y/n,” Coryo breathed out the moment you opened your door to him; he reached out for you, pulling you against his chest.

It caught you by slight surprise before you hugged him back. The pent up emotions finally releasing the moment he rubs your back affectionately. “Shh” He softly shushed you as waterfalls fall down your cheeks. Everything was chasing up to you.

“I-I don’t even know what happened to him,” You sob in his embrace as he traces shapes on your arm. You continued to rant to him as he brought you to your living room.

You rested your head against his chest as he listened, sometimes he would bite his tongue at the things you were saying about Dean. "He was just a tribute y/n-" "He was not just a tribute." You snapped, lifting your head up as you stared at his blue irises.

Coriolanus rolls his eyes the minute you turn your head back around. "He's human, just like you and I. He had dreams, he had a family to go back to Coryo, do not just sit there and tell me he was just a tribute. He's more than a tribute," Coriolanus listened to every single word that came out of your mouth.

He did not agree with most of the things you said but for the sake of it, he said nothing. When you spoke about Dean, it grew on Coriolanus that you infact liked him, alot. Perhaps even more than like. And that was why he felt the need to kill him. You were his, only his. And after all, he couldn't have some lowly district boy taking over your body and soul.

[igbylicious]

under the new moon [yunsan x reader]

pairing: yunho x f reader x san

rating: 18+

genre: werewolf au, smut, hurt / comfort

summary: an altercation with a hunter leaves you wounded, trapped in an aggressive frenzy, but Yunho and San know exactly how to safely bring you back home to them.

wc: 2.9k

general warnings: established relationship, supernatural werewolf strength for everyone, she/her pronouns for reader, pov switches, mentions of blood & injury, reader killed a werewolf hunter in self-defense, a pinch of angst, reader is literally feral and tries to fight yunsan first, they calm you down w/ sex yay

smut warnings: dom Yunho & San, feral sub reader, rough sex, manhandling, scratching, choking, biting, breeding kink, belly bulge, they got big dicks ofc, cum inflation, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, knotting, DP (vaginal & vaginal / anal), vaginal / anal fingering, bodily fluids as lube, unprotected sex, pet names (good girl, darling)

a/n: idk yall, it’s not even themed for the mv i don’t know what happened??? maybe it was San’s fur coat maybe it was just the wolf living in my chest cavity. either way this was written in an unedited frenzy in the dark hours of the night, have fun! ( ˘ ³˘)♡

The forest is dark. Only stars shine overhead, the new moon casting no light on the trees and underbrush. Two large wolves prowl through woods, their path guided by the thick, metallic scent of blood.

The forest is quiet. Even during a new moon, its wildlife knows better than to cross the two predators. Even when unable to tap into the full height of their powers, they are dangerous.

Even more so when they are agitated with anger — and worry.

Yunho sniffs at the blood streaked over the bark of a felled tree. It’s still fresh. It’s yours.

San whines in concern, pressing his snout into Yunho’s neck to hurry him along. His black fur makes him near invisible in the cover of night, yellow eyes shining in the darkness. Usually the younger wolf is too rash, but tonight his impatience is justified. They don’t know how badly wounded you are. How much time you still have.

They found the hunter about two miles back, or what was left of him. Torn apart; a gaping hole in his abdomen opened by furious claws, his neck shredded by sharp teeth. (Deservedly so, Yunho had thought with quiet rage, when he saw a bloodied spearhead by the hunter’s side. The wooden shaft was shattered to pieces.)

Your trail leads them deeper and deeper into the forest, the night cold doing its best to penetrate Yunho’s thick silver fur. He tries to keep his head clear, to focus on finding you. He can’t afford to be distracted now, not by anger, not by fear, not by guilt.

It was a mistake, to let you go off on your own tonight. He knew the pack would be vulnerable tonight, he knew the human village nearby has been restless.

But Yunho can punish himself for his regrets later, because he also knows two other truths; the blood is still fresh, and you are strong.

They will find you. Alive. They will.

San growls in frustration when your bloody trail dissolves into a shallow river, the scent lost. The two wolves shift back into their human forms, wrapped in large fur cloaks, the ones they can take with them even when they turn. San’s pitch black, Yunho’s streaked with silver, matching the colour of their fur; and now their hair.

“She’s close,” San murmurs lowly, restless as he looks around the seemingly abandoned forest. “I can feel her.”

You are close. Closer than either of them realised.

The underbrush rustles, and San doesn’t even have the chance to blink before a shape pounces him from the shadows, snarling wildly. San curses as bloodied nails claw at his face, grabbing at his assailant to hold them at bay — to hold you at bay.

Yunho’s eyes widen at the sight of you, feral and growling; your body human, but pure primal aggression in your mind. Fur cloak tattered, skin covered in scratches and bruises, an ugly gash on your shin. The injury does nothing to slow you down, momentum and surprise on your side as you pin San to the ground.

Yunho swears under his breath, leaping forward to help San to subdue you.

Fuck. You went too deep.

Had to push yourself too hard under this new moon, dug too deep for the power you needed to survive. Your wolf has overtaken you; and she is too frenzied to recognise friend from foe. To recognise her mates.

You yowl when Yunho grabs you by the scruff, yanking you away from San. You instantly turn on Yunho, scratching at his chest while you try to bite at the hand on your neck.

“San,” he grunts, hissing at the red marks your nails leave on his skin. “Now.”

San throws himself around you, pressing against your back as he grabs your wrists and locks his arms around your waist, engulfing you in his black furs. You snap at him, teeth flashing, but Yunho’s hand slips around your throat and he forces you to face him.

“Calm. Down,” Yunho growls, his own wolf instinctively rearing up against yours.

You can’t calm down. You can’t. Something is familiar about the two figures surrounding you, their scent like an itch in your memory — but it can’t penetrate the feral haze that’s taken over your mind. Your wolf trashes against their hold, howling danger, pain searing through your injured leg.

The bleeding has stopped by now, your regenerative powers feeding off your frenzy, but no matter how you struggle, you aren’t strong enough to break free from the two men and their strangely enticing smells. The hand on your throat tightens, your growls forced down to a weak wheeze as your body sags in their hold.

“Good. Good girl.” The hand relaxes, but does not release you entirely. Slowly they go down on their knees and lower you to the mossy forest ground, keeping you propped up between them. Long fingers brush up against a scarred patch of skin in the crook of your neck, and sudden heat lashes through you at the touch, drawing a sharp moan.

The one behind you groans and presses his nose into your hair, breathing in deeply. “Yunho…” he rasps, pulling you closer into him. Familiar name. Familiar scents. Familiar touch, fire licking sharply at your core. He is naked under his furs, same as you — and the growing hardness that twitches against your lower back is not unknown to you either. “F-fuck, she’s…”

“Yeah,” Yunho murmurs, rubbing his fingers into the mating bite he left on your skin years ago. “Her body remembers who she belongs with. Come, Sannie, let’s help her mind remember too.”

He pushes your tattered furs away to drop on the ground, and San takes immediate advantage to lap at his own newly exposed mark on your shoulder. You jolt in his hold, your wolf pulled in two directions. Yunho instantly tightens his grip again when you snarl and try to bite at San again — but he can smell your other, stronger instincts flare to life. His free hand finds wet slick when it slides between your thighs, a strangled whine torn from your obstructed throat.

San whines at the soft squelch when two of Yunho’s long fingers press inside you. Relief and hunger melt together inside him. You’re safe, back in his arms. They will take care of you now.

A primal need stirs in San’s blood as his teeth scrape over your skin, suckling at his old mating bite like his tongue can tease the memories out of you. Maybe it can. Or maybe it won’t be enough — maybe he needs to fuck them out of you. He groans, feeling dizzy on your scent, and ruts harder against your backside.

You’re trembling, gasping sharply as you’re pushed deeper on Yunho’s fingers by San’s humping. Every noise only fuels San’s need to fill you up, to ram his cock into your leaking hole until his knot catches, reminding your sweet cunt how the shape of him was made to fit inside you.

“Wanna touch…” he groans, gathering your wrists in one hand so he can reach down the other. Weakly you squirm against his hold; but it’s barely a fight, your aggressive haze subdued by your two mates.

Yunho grunts at the sight; he can’t deny it, his wolf preens at your submission. An animalistic urge to claim you, like he’s mating you for the first time all over again. Blood rushes down to his cock, revelling in your whimpers when San pushes another finger into your sopping cunt alongside his.

He watches how your stomach tenses and your thighs shake, telltale signs of a budding release, and he knows damn well his hand on your throat has long become unnecessary. He does not take it away.

Instead Yunho tilts up your head and he leans in, slotting his lips over yours. He groans when your lips part willingly for him, desirous for your mates. You whine as Yunho filthily licks into your mouth, adding another finger as he and San stretch you open for them. They’ll both take you tonight. Together. It hasn’t been said, but Yunho knows that San also knows this.

Mindlessly you grind into the fingers opening you up. You pant into the heated lips pressed against yours, a greedy tongue mapping out the wet cavern of your mouth. Wanton moans spill freely, growing louder with every added finger to your twitching cunt. Every time you think this must be your limit, and every time they prove you wrong, sending your head spinning.

You’re chasing something, barely knowing what it is, but hunting it down with every buck of your hips all the same. Something familiar again, pulling taut inside your aching cunt. It pulls, pulls, tighter and sharper until finally the strings snap. You cry out a ragged yowl as electrified heat tears you asunder, convulsing in the strong arms that hold you up.

You don’t even notice those hungry lips pulling away from your mouth — not until two pairs of teeth sink deep into your shoulder and neck, into those two scarred spots that make your heart sing like it can finally come home.

With a wretched sob you clutch onto them, your hands finally released from San’s iron grip. He presses rough, reverent kisses against the broken skin of your shoulder, clumsy with urgency as he slips his fingers out of your cunt and grabs onto your waist. He barely waits for Yunho to pull his hand away, too frenzied to finally sink his cock into the wet hole where it belongs.

Yunho chuckles with dark fondness at San’s impatience, running his slick fingers through San’s hair as he presses a kiss on his matted forehead. “That’s it. Show her,” he whispers, and San whines at the encouragement, fingers digging harder into the meat of your hips.

“Y-you too,” he grunts tightly, strained as the last shreds of self-control slip through his grasp. “Our mate— she needs you too.”

Yunho hums in acknowledgement, pressing another kiss on San’s forehead before he pulls back. He takes your arms and loops them around his neck, and his cock twitches at how pliantly you let him move you, nuzzling into his chest. Still trapped in your delirious haze, but your wolf tamed and rendered docile by their command over your pleasure, willingly surrendering you to them.

You whine beautifully, your glistening folds parting to make way when Yunho guides his thick cock inside your loosened cunt. For all their efforts to stretch you open, both of them are big, and Yunho groans when he sees how your stomach bulges as he presses deeper inside. He takes San’s hand and guides it so he can feel the swell of them in your belly.

And something snaps inside of San.

He bares his teeth with a wild snarl, bucking his hips as he fucks into you recklessly. Fresh bites litter your shoulders, future bruises forming under his grip on your waist. You’re jostled by his rough thrusts, whimpering loudly as you claw at Yunho’s shoulders.

Yunho growls at the sting of your nails, meeting San’s violent pace. You’re moaning helplessly against his chest, hiccuping soft “ah ah ahh”s as they hit deep inside your needy, sopping cunt.

“Gonna fill you up,” San growls, lost in his frenzy. “Fill that belly with every drop of seed we got. Not gonna stop until we got you stuffed and bred. Won’t even know whose litter it is, won’t even matter. Ours, you’re ours.”

You whine in mindless agreement, trembling between them.

“You like that, hm? Like the thought of carrying our pups?” Yunho chuckles, though it comes out more a groan. You’re still so tight around him, San’s cock sliding against his in the snug space they made for themselves inside you. “You remember who you belong with now?”

His last question causes a hesitation in your squirmy moans, but it only spurs Yunho on harder. He can’t feel his knot begin to swell yet, so he just slams into you, drowning in every wet squelch of your leaking hole, only needing a few hard thrusts before he groans and spills inside you. Yunho hisses when San does not slow down — but his own cock does not soften. This night is far from over.

San moans at the smoother slide as he fucks Yunho’s seed deeper inside your hole. It does not take him long to follow, his hand on your stomach feeling every thrust as he buries himself into you, hips stuttering when he comes with a low growl. He pants against your shoulder, nosing at his mating bite, barely even slowing down through his release. Yunho starts moving again too, drawing fresh moans from your lips.

You feebly gurgle something against Yunho’s chest, the foggy haze in your mind consisting of nothing but white-hot pleasure now.

It’s overwhelming and yet you can’t get enough of it; addicted to the stretch, to the fullness that grows every time they cum inside you, until you can’t take more, their seed leaking out past their thick lengths and bubbling at the rim. You’re losing count, just as you’ve lost count of all the times you’ve clenched around them, milking their cocks as another orgasm was ripped from your worn-out cunt.

You can’t tell anymore where you end and where they begin, their hands and cocks melded into your body — until one hand wanders, first down to your sodden folds to slick up his fingers, then back to your ass. You whine as a thick finger eases past the tight muscle; but your body is so pliant and relaxed, melting away in the haze of pleasure, and soon the slight burn only makes you greedy for more.

San groans when you weakly press your ass back into him, two fingers now working you open, and then another. He will knot soon, he can feel it pulsing at the base of his cock; and no matter how well they prepped you, they will tear you apart if they both knot in your cunt.

But San does not mind taking your ass instead — he can feel the beautiful swell of your stomach, distended from the sheer amount of cum that you took so well from them. He did his part there, now happy to bury himself between your plump asscheeks.

You whimper when San pulls out, a sudden emptiness at the loss of him, but bite down a gasp when he pushes back inside your other hole. His cock is slick with cum, smoothly continuing his rough pace.

Yunho sighs contently at the loose and easy slide of your cunt, using this chance to fuck harder into you. He pulls you away from his chest to sit upright, and holds your chin to steady you. He tilts your head up, giving himself a good look at the blissed-out expression on your face. Nothing but empty pleasure behind your teary eyes, all your earlier fear and aggression wiped clean. Leaving yourself vulnerable and exposed between them, knowing you are safe here. That you can let it all go.

“Got one more for us, darling?” he grunts, trying to hold back a little longer. “Show us how good we make you feel?”

It feels like the words are coming to you through a thick fog, but you heed them all the same. You can’t help it, not when nimble fingers suddenly press against your clit, pinching at the swollen, oversensitive nub. Your entire body seizes up with a strangled cry, and you sob at the pure, overwhelming fullness as two knots swell up inside you, plugging both your holes.

You’re shaking, tears spilling down your cheeks as you slowly come down. Four hands move warmly over your body; rubbing your back, your shoulders, the distinct swell of your belly. One of those hands cups your cheek, lifting you up to meet a pair of shiny brown eyes.

Yunho’s eyes.

He smiles tiredly with rounded cheeks, long fingers gently caressing your jaw. Your breath catches at the recognition, staring back at him with wide eyes before you whip your head to look back. There, San gives you a slow, satisfied grin, his cheeks flushed and sweat beading on his forehead.

Relief breaks through your haze, and the sudden outpouring of emotion is too much for you to carry.

San startles when you hiccup a weak sob, and he immediately presses soothing kisses on the scattered bites he left on your shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. We’re here,” he murmurs. “We got you.”

“I know, I know” you snivel, grateful for Yunho carefully wiping away your tears. “You found me. I knew you’d find me.”

“Of course we found you,” Yunho smiles as he gently rubs his thumb over your cheekbone. “You wouldn’t let us lose you. You always find your way back to us.”

Your shoulder shake silently as their arms wrap around you, engulfing you in their body heat. You slump into their solid, strong frames and relish how they’re still connected inside you. It will take time for their knots to come down, and they fully intend to use every second of it to lavish you with tender affection. You sink away into the comfort of them, knowing you are safe and home again.

[miryum]

An arranged marriage with James Potter

Something had happened over the summer that made James Potter the most love-sick fool in all of Hogwarts. Purebloods being purebloods, it wasn’t uncommon for children to be paired up early on to secure the bloodline. While this happened mostly between the old-arching Slytherin families, an example being Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black, every once in a while, the other houses would participate too. 

Such was the case with James Potter and Y/n L/n. The L/n’s had spanned generations, stretching back to even the Gaunt’s time. But, such as the Gaunt family, the L/n family had run into some bad luck. Stocks didn’t go the way they wanted or something of the sort and now they were in ruining trouble. 

Euphemia Potter was usually one to scoff at arranged marriages, wanting the children to find love for themselves, blood status be damned. However, the L/n’s were good friends of hers and James had written home multiple times about their daughter. From his letters, it seemed as if the two were already dating. It was a perfect coincidence. Euphemia and Fleamont agreed instantly, lifting the weight of a thousand bricks off of the patriarch of the L/n household. 

However, James and Y/n were not dating. Much to James’ annoyance, the only thing between them was his unrequited infatuation towards Y/n. 

So that’s where the pair found themselves at the beginning of seventh year. Y/n L/n trying to fly under the radar and not draw any attention to herself or the new ring on her finger, and James Potter doing everything in his power to show off their relationship and spoil her in front of everyone. 

It began at the start of the year feast. James had an arm around Y/n’s shoulder the entire time. When a third year nervously asked if the two were dating, staring reverently up at James, the boy grinned and looked to Y/n. “I don’t know, love, are we?”

Y/n pushed James’ arm off her shoulder and indelicately said, “no. Take him.” The third year blushed and mumbled their way out of the conversation as James clutched his wounded heart.

During classes, James would loudly correct the professors from Miss. L/n to Mrs. Potter. It earned him wry smiles from McGonagall and Sprout, chuckles from Slughorn and Flitwick, and a cold glare from Y/n. The students all looked a bit confused whenever this happened, but chalked it up to the usual antics of James Potter. 

In the courtyard or by the Black Lake, James would lay his head on Y/n’s lap, even if she pushed him off or was sitting with her knees up. There were roses on her bed and notes in her bag and it got to the point where Y/n didn’t even question how James had snuck into her dorm. 

If Y/n ever went to Hogsmead, James was sure to follow. No matter what she bought, he would pay for. Even if she got frustrated, he would slip the galleons up onto the counter, grinning at the cashier. He wanted to show her that he could provide for her and give her a nice home. As she would walk from shop to shop, he would point out colours of shops, saying, “oh, that would be a good colour for our bathroom. Look at that little cuckoo clock! Y/n, we have to get it.”

He would follow wherever she went, asking what seemed like meaningless questions. Have you ever had any pets? Do you like the country or city better? Any aspirations for your career? What’s a place you always wanted to visit? Y/n thought nothing of it, but to James, her answers were slowly sculpting his future. Would she want a dog or a cat in our home? Where should our house be? I would like the country so our kids could run around more, but we can easily make the city work if she wants. Should I be a stay-at-home dad? Or could we juggle two careers? Where should our honeymoon be? 

Quidditch games were no better, because after every goal the chaser scored – and he scored a lot – he would look to the stands, find his fiancée, and blow her a kiss. Before every match, one of his spare jerseys would be laid out on her bed, a small note attached, begging her to wear it. She never did and he always gave her a pout when he realised it. And God forbid she didn’t go to the games. Once, she had been studying for an upcoming exam and hadn’t been able to make it. James had thrown a fit. Sirius had to drag him away from Madame Hooch before he secured an entire year of detention, but the boy still refused to get in the air. Madame Hooch threatened to start the game and make Gryffindor play a catcher down, but thankfully Remus and Peter had just found Y/n and dragged her to the pitch. The moment James saw her, he beamed and kicked off, broom now in the air. They had ended up winning. James spent the afterparty with his head on Y/n’s lap, arms reaching up to encircle her waist. He continuously reminded her how awful it would’ve been if she hadn’t shown up and only shut up when she began running her fingers through his hair.

And every night, no matter if he went to bed first or she did, James would always go over to Y/n and give her a soft kiss on the forehead and a whispered, “sweet dreams.” No matter where she was, this became a daily occurance in Y/n’s life. At first, she tried to avoid it by sneaking off to the library whenever James began yawning and tossing around the idea of going to bed. But he would find her. She tried the kitchens, hoping he didn’t think to look for her there. But he would find her. She tried being in a group with her friends, in animated conversations. But he would weave his way through the group, step in front of her, and still say goodnight. It was like he had this magical map that told him where she was at all times. It was bloody infuriating. 

Much to James’ dismay, no progress seemed to be made. At least she was staying faithful to her fiancé, the Marauders reassured him as James griped and moaned. He would sling himself onto a common room chair, conveniently in the earshot of his dearest. Y/n would just roll her eyes. 

The majority of Hogwarts didn’t know what to do with them. The girls would swoon when they heard the new thing James Potter had come up with to woo Y/n L/n. The boys would huff and grumble about needing to step up their own game when it came to their girlfriends. James was setting the bar too high. The teachers would sit around, taking time to sip a well-deserved drink, as they complained how if L/n didn’t soon see the boy that was right in front of her, helpless to his love, then Potter was going to have a breakdown.

Yet, Y/n continued to push him away. James could be patient. He had been waiting practically seven years – he could wait a little more, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt whenever she brushed him off. She could’ve said no to the engagement. She could’ve punched or hexed him. It didn’t seem like she truly hated him, more like she was embarrassed and tired of him. 

“I don’t get it,” James said finally one night. He laid out on his bed, long limbs stretching over the place as Peter and Sirius played Exploding Snap on the floor. 

Remus was reading on his own bed. The werewolf sighed, knowing where this was going. “What don’t you get, Prongs?” 

“Why doesn’t Y/n like me?” James murmured, looking at his friends with large, hurt eyes. 

“Mate,” Sirius said. One of the cards exploded, making Peter flinch. “Listen. She likes you, yeah? How else are you able to get close to her? I swear, you were practically on top of her a couple days ago.” He scoffed and laid down a card. 

James groaned loudly and exclaimed, “but I’ve tried everything! Hell, we’re literally engaged! I can’t go through an entire marriage like this. Especially not with the woman I love.”

Peter piped up, smiling sincerely at James. “Hey, I’m sure she’ll realise it soon enough. I think she loves you back. She’s just scared.”

“But I’m me!” James shouted out. “I’m not scary!” He looked around wildly at his friends. “Am I?” he asked pathetically.

“I think if you have to ask if you’re scary,” Remus pointed out, “then you’re not scary.”

Sirius grinned. “Excellent point, as always, Moony.”

Remus sighed and gave James a pointed look. “Perhaps, the best thing to do is talk to her. Since she is your future wife, after all.” 

“I do talk to her!” James argued. “I ask her about her day and tell her about our pranks. She- she responds. She’s very sweet, you know, but she never shows any affection.”

“Maybe you’re pressuring her,” Peter commented. “By being all lovey-dovey. You could try being her friend first?”

James didn’t think he could do that. He already thought of Y/n as his wife. He already thought of her as one of his best friends. But what else could he do to get her to feel the same way?

The next week, James took Peter’s words into consideration. Instead of leaving flowers in her dorm, James asked if he could join her in the library for a study session. Instead of blowing her kisses during Quidditch games, he just waved. Instead of envisioning their future, he focused on the present. 

It wasn’t until three weeks had passed that James noticed the results. Y/n began coming to him with some questions on schoolwork. Y/n waved back at Quidditch games, shooting him a thumbs up in encouragement. Y/n wouldn’t fiddle with her engagement ring nervously, as if worried someone would spot it. 

The girl noticed her changed behaviour too. On a random Thursday, when James came to kiss her goodnight, she paused her conversation and whispered back, “sleep well,” angling her body so he wouldn’t have to reach as far to kiss her temple. Soon after, she excused herself from her friends, flustered. Y/n paced around her dorm, twisting the ring back and forth. 

A knock came at the door. “Hey,” James murmured as he pushed open the door. “Are you okay?”

Y/n turned to face him. “You actually care about me, don’t you?” she whispered. 

James couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course,” he replied. “Why on earth would you think otherwise?”

She shrugged. “It seemed fake, you know? Like this one big prank to single me out. But then you actually seemed excited and willing to marry me, James. Marriage. This is the rest of our lives and we haven’t even kissed!”

James cracked a smirk. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I can fix that really easily.”

“But you think you’re in this for the long run?” Y/n asked desperately. “For- for the fights? The late nights? The chores? And we haven’t even talked if we want kids or not!”

“Love,” he interrupted her spiral. “Have you thought about the waking up every morning in my arms? The dancing in the kitchen for no reason? The anniversary dinners where I profess my love over and over again?” He stepped forward, placing his warm hands on her arms soothingly. “And if you want, I would love to have mini replicas of us running around, waking us up in the middle of the night because of a night terror. I would love for them to disrupt our dancing in the kitchen by demanding they want to dance too. And I would love for them to groan when they see me being all sappy towards my wife.”

How could any girl say no when James Potter was standing before her, promising her endless devotion? The kiss was slow, James’ lips slowly moving against hers. He revelled in the warmth of her body and how her head tilted to him as he cupped her cheek gently. All short and lovely and sweet, the kisses were exactly how James had dreamed. 

The couple parted and the boy stared down at her. His finger went up to brush her bottom lip before murmuring, “will you marry me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

[novaursa]

The Flames We Share

- Summary: You tell your son the truth. He has more than the blood of dragons in his veins.

- Paring: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaenyra's younger sister and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Blood We Choose. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 5 198

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The dungeons beneath Dragonstone were a cold, damp place, lit only by flickering torches that cast shadows that seemed to dance mockingly on the rough-hewn walls. The stench of rot and mildew clung to the air, seeping into the very stones of the fortress. Gwayne Hightower sat chained to the wall, bruised and dirty from his days of captivity, but his eyes were clear and resolute, fixed forward as he awaited what was surely his fate. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—focused only on you, the woman he had risked everything for.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the stone corridors, and he looked up as the iron door creaked open. Daemon Targaryen stepped inside, a predator’s smirk twisting his lips. He tossed a crumpled message onto the filthy floor in front of Gwayne’s feet. The black wax seal was unmistakable—bearing the sigil of House Hightower.

“Your father sends his regards,” Daemon drawled, a cruel edge in his voice. “He offers to trade his traitorous son for some stronghold I care little about. Imagine that—a worthless fortress in exchange for his even more worthless offspring.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed as he studied Gwayne’s reaction, searching for any sign of weakness.

But Gwayne’s expression remained stony. “You can say what you wish, Targaryen. My fate was sealed the moment I brought her to you.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “As long as Y/N is safe, I care not what becomes of me.”

Daemon’s lip curled in disdain. “Is that so?” He took a step closer, as if to loom over Gwayne. “Safe? You think she’s safe, having fallen from the sky, bleeding and broken? You think I would allow the woman who bore my son—my heir—to suffer any harm under my roof?” There was a dark gleam of possessiveness in Daemon’s eyes, as if the very notion of another man daring to care for you was an affront to his pride.

Gwayne’s gaze sharpened at that. “I want to see Vaeron,” he demanded suddenly. There was a tremor in his voice, a desperation that Daemon did not miss. “I want to speak with my son.”

Daemon’s anger flared at the insolence of the request. “Your son?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “That boy is a Targaryen—a dragon, not the product of some dishonorable tryst! Do you think I would allow him to be tainted by the shame of what you nearly brought upon my niece, siring a child on her without even the dignity of wedlock?”

Gwayne’s eyes darkened, yet there was a hint of mocking amusement in them as he stared up at the Rogue Prince. “And you believe yourself to be the righteous one? The man who slew his first wife in pursuit of power? Who consorts with whores while claiming the love of dragons? Tell me, Daemon, what makes you any different from me?”

Daemon’s smirk faltered, his face tightening with barely controlled rage. But Gwayne continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “She was denied to me—Y/N, I mean. If your brother had seen sense, had given her to me rather than feeding your ambitions, we could have avoided all this bloodshed. The boy would have been raised in Oldtown, under the guidance of both our Houses, and this war might never have happened.”

“Nothing could have prevented this war,” Daemon snarled, eyes flashing. “It was written in fire and blood long before you or I even took breath. But do not delude yourself into thinking you have anything resembling love, Hightower. What you claim as love is mere possession—an attempt to bind what you could never truly have.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenched at the words, but he did not respond. The two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like a drawn sword. Daemon took a breath, his composure returning as he straightened.

“I’ll have the boy brought to you,” Daemon said at last, his tone laced with scorn. “You may look upon him and see the life you were never destined to have. But do not forget—he is mine, and Y/N belongs to me now. She is a Targaryen, and you are nothing more than a failed traitor.”

With that, Daemon turned and strode toward the door. Before he left, he paused, throwing one last taunt over his shoulder. “Do not hope for mercy when your father trades you away like the pawn you are, Gwayne. Your life is worth little, even to those who should care most.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gwayne alone in the darkness once more. But he did not feel defeated. Even with the chains biting into his wrists, he had no regrets for what he had done, for saving you and ensuring you were delivered safely to Dragonstone. In the end, it was not his fate that mattered—it was yours. Even in the heart of this cold, bitter place, the thought of you kept the warmth alive in his heart.

Because in the quiet shadows, despite all the titles and power Daemon clung to, Gwayne knew one truth that Daemon would never fully grasp—he loved you, wholly and without condition. And in his mind, that was a victory far greater than any throne or dragon could ever grant.

The soft crackle of the hearthfire filled the chamber, mingling with the scent of herbs and ointments from where Maesters had tended to your wounds. You sat by the window, Silverwing’s scales still etched into your memory, the pain a constant reminder of the battle you had narrowly survived. The healing was slow, but the bruises and cuts were nothing compared to the deeper ache in your chest. You weren’t sure what stung more—the death of your dragon or the desperate, foolish bravery of the man who had risked everything to save you.

A knock at the door broke your thoughts. “Come in,” you called, and the door creaked open to reveal Vaeron. The boy’s silver hair glinted in the evening light, and his blue eyes—so much like his father’s—fixed on you with concern.

“Mother,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “How are you feeling today?”

You smiled softly at him, though your heart ached as you looked upon him. “I am mending, sweetling. Stronger with each day.”

Vaeron nodded, yet his expression was troubled. He came closer, sitting on the edge of your bed, the worry in his eyes clear. “I heard… I heard Daemon talking about him,” he murmured. “The man in the dungeons—the one who saved you. Is it true he defied Ser Criston Cole and fled with you from Rook’s Rest? They say he’s a Hightower. An enemy.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. The boy was no longer the child you had once cradled; he was growing, his curiosity sharp and his mind keen. He deserved the truth.

“Yes, it’s true,” you replied, voice gentle. “The man who saved me is Gwayne Hightower. He… he betrayed his own kin, risked his life, and rode through the chaos to bring me here, to safety.”

Vaeron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But why would he do that? Daemon says he’s just trying to make amends for his family’s treachery. That he’s nothing more than a desperate fool.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s more complicated than that, my dear. Gwayne… he did it out of love, out of loyalty to someone who meant the world to him once.” You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue. The truth was a blade you’d kept sheathed for too long, and it was time to draw it, no matter how much it might wound.

Vaeron looked at you expectantly, sensing the weight of what you were about to say. You reached out, taking his hand in yours, needing the touch to anchor yourself.

“Vaeron… the man in the dungeons, Gwayne Hightower… he is your father.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Vaeron’s eyes widened, the shock raw and unfiltered in his young face. He pulled his hand away, as if trying to distance himself from the revelation. “What?” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “My father? But… Daemon… I always thought…”

You nodded, pain lancing through your heart as you watched him grapple with the truth. “Daemon has raised you as his own, and in many ways, he is your father. But you have another father, by blood, and that is Gwayne Hightower. You were conceived out of a moment we both knew would never be more than a fleeting dream. He wanted to marry me, to build a life, but—”

Vaeron shook his head, backing away as he struggled to process it all. “No,” he muttered, as if denying the words could somehow make them untrue. “Daemon’s always told me I’m a Targaryen, that my blood is pure, that I am his son, a prince of the realm. How could—why didn’t you tell me? Why now, when he’s chained beneath us like some criminal?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I didn’t want you to bear the burden of that knowledge before you were ready. You were always meant to be strong, to carry the legacy of the dragons. But Gwayne… he isn’t just a Hightower, he’s the man who saved my life when no one else dared. Whatever his blood, he does care for you in his own way, even from afar now.”

Vaeron’s lips trembled as he stared at you, his confusion and hurt palpable. “I need… I need to think,” he stammered, turning abruptly and nearly stumbling over himself in his haste to leave the room.

“Vaeron, wait—” you called after him, but he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed in the emptiness of the chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Your chest tightened with regret. You had known this moment would come eventually, but you had hoped it would be under different circumstances. There was so much more you wanted to tell him, so much more to explain. But for now, all you could do was hope that he would find a way to understand, to see beyond the conflict of bloodlines and names.

In that fleeting moment before he vanished, you had seen the storm raging behind his eyes—a storm you knew would not settle easily. And in that storm, you glimpsed the boy he had always been and the man he was becoming, torn between the truths that defined him.

But you could only wait, knowing that the choice between dragons and towers was his to make, even if it broke your heart in the process.

Vaeron’s footsteps echoed through the winding corridors of Dragonstone as he fought to steady his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a heavy drum drowning out the world around him. The truth his mother had just revealed rang in his ears like a cruel jest—Gwayne Hightower is your father. The words were a blade lodged deep in his chest, twisting with every thought, every doubt that now swirled within him.

He turned a corner, the air cool against his flushed face, and found himself in the dimly lit dining hall. The large table at its center was set for the evening meal, though the room was mostly empty save for one figure seated at the end, absently twirling a goblet in his hand.

Jacaerys Velaryon looked up, catching sight of Vaeron. His dark curls fell loosely over his forehead, and his brown eyes narrowed in concern as he took in his cousin’s strained expression. “Vaeron?” he called out, his voice low but filled with the warmth of kinship. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

Vaeron stiffened, his gaze flickering away as he hesitated at the threshold of the hall. The weight of the revelation clung to him like a shroud, and for a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to bury it, to pretend that nothing had changed. But Jacaerys’ patient eyes, filled with genuine care, drew him in like a tether.

With a resigned sigh, Vaeron walked over and slumped into the chair opposite Jace, the firelight casting shadows on his troubled face. He didn’t speak for a moment, merely stared at the table as he tried to gather the words that had lodged like stones in his throat.

Jace leaned forward, the lines of worry deepening on his brow. “Vaeron, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

“I…” Vaeron’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “I just learned something that changes everything.” He finally looked up, his eyes rimmed with uncertainty. “The man in the dungeons—the Hightower who brought Mother back from Rook’s Rest… He’s my father. My real father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes widened in shock, his goblet nearly slipping from his grasp. “What? But—Daemon’s always—”

“I know,” Vaeron cut in, voice strained. “I thought Daemon was my father, too. I grew up believing I was his son, a true Targaryen. But Mother told me just now that Gwayne Hightower is my sire. I’m… I’m a bastard.”

The word hung heavy in the air between them, laden with shame and confusion. Vaeron felt his chest tighten again, the sting of doubt gnawing at him. What did that make him now? Was he even truly a part of this family? A dragon in name only, born of a union that should never have been?

Jacaerys’ expression softened as he saw the pain in Vaeron’s eyes. He set down his goblet and leaned closer, trying to find the right words. “Listen to me, Vaeron,” he began, voice steady and laced with a touch of empathy. “We’ve both been raised with more lies and expectations than most people could handle. But if anyone understands how it feels to question who you are, it’s me.”

Vaeron blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jacaerys gave a rueful smile, leaning back in his chair as he stared into the flames. “I’ve heard the whispers, the taunts—people saying I’m no true Targaryen because of my questionable blood. They mock the fact that I don’t have silver hair or violet eyes, that I look more like a commoner than a prince. And sometimes… sometimes, I wonder if they’re right.”

The honesty in Jace’s voice caught Vaeron off guard, pulling him out of his own turmoil. He had always admired Jacaerys—his confidence, his sense of duty. He had never imagined that his cousin carried doubts of his own.

“But you’re still recognized as one of us,” Vaeron murmured, brow furrowed. “You’re still heir to the Iron Throne, still a dragon. No one would ever dare deny that.”

Jace nodded, but his gaze remained distant. “True, but that doesn’t erase the whispers. Even with the dragon blood flowing through my veins, I’ve always felt like I had to prove I’m worthy of the name Targaryen. But you…” He looked back at Vaeron, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look like a Targaryen. No one would ever question your blood—silver hair—you were born a dragon, even if your father wasn’t one.”

Vaeron’s breath hitched at the kindness in Jace’s words. But it didn’t soothe the ache gnawing at his heart. “Does it even matter, Jace? If I’m truly a bastard, what does any of this mean? My whole life, I’ve been told I’m meant for something great, but now… now I don’t even know who I really am.”

Jacaerys’ expression grew firm, his voice taking on a rare edge of command. “It means you choose who you are, Vaeron. Blood alone doesn’t decide it. You were raised in this family, loved by your mother and Daemon alike. That is what makes you one of us. Not some Hightower who’s rotting in a cell.”

Vaeron’s throat tightened at the thought of Gwayne, the man who had defied his own House, who had thrown everything away to save the woman he loved. Did that make him worthy of being called a father? Could that kind of loyalty outweigh his bloodline, or was it too little too late?

“I need time to think,” Vaeron murmured, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… a lot.”

Jacaerys reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Vaeron’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, cousin. You’re not alone in this, alright? Whatever you decide, you’ll always have me and the rest of your family behind you.”

Vaeron nodded numbly, grateful for Jace’s support but still lost in the sea of confusion and emotions swirling within him. The questions gnawed at him relentlessly, leaving him torn between the man he had always believed himself to be and the truth that now threatened to shatter that identity.

The tension clung to the air in the dining hall like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Vaeron sat in silence after Jacaerys left, lost in the maze of his thoughts, unable to untangle the twisted knots of his emotions. His whole life had been built on one truth: that he was a Targaryen, son of Daemon, a prince destined for greatness. But now that truth had shattered, and he felt like a child cast adrift on a stormy sea, unsure of where to turn.

The sound of footsteps approached, measured and deliberate, and Vaeron looked up to see Daemon entering the hall. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept over Vaeron’s troubled face. For a moment, the prince said nothing, merely studying his son—his real son in all but blood—with a calculating gaze.

“You’re brooding,” Daemon finally said, his voice low and tinged with an edge of dry amusement. “A trait you didn’t inherit from your mother, I’d wager.”

Vaeron clenched his fists on the table, unable to meet Daemon’s eyes. “Everything I’ve ever known about myself is a lie,” he muttered, his voice thick with anger and confusion. “How am I supposed to believe anything now?”

Daemon’s gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. “You think this changes who you are?” he asked, stepping closer. “You think some whispered secret about your parentage wipes away the blood that runs through your veins? You are still a Targaryen, still my son in every way that matters.”

Vaeron’s eyes snapped up, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “But I’m not,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I’m not truly your son, not by blood. I’m just… a bastard. A mistake.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, and he took a seat across from Vaeron, his presence commanding and unyielding. “Is that what you truly believe?” he asked, his tone both gentle and sharp. “That blood alone defines who you are? You were raised in the shadow of dragons, with the legacy of kings and conquerors shaping your every step. That is no lie. I’ve taught you, guided you, prepared you for the world because I chose you as my heir, not because of whose seed sired you.”

Vaeron looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “But… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice a whisper now, tinged with the pain of betrayal. “All this time, you let me believe…”

Daemon sighed, his gaze growing distant as if recalling a memory long buried. “Because you needed to grow up without that burden,” he said quietly. “What good would it have done to burden you with a truth that might have only confused you, made you question everything? You were born a Targaryen in all the ways that matter. I’ve treated you as such, and so has your mother. That will never change, no matter who your true father is.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother, and he shook his head. “But now I know, and I can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter. That man in the dungeons… he’s the reason I exist, and yet he’s a stranger to me. How can I make sense of that?”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wood. “Gwayne Hightower might be your blood father, but that doesn’t mean he has any claim over you,” he said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “He made a choice back at Rook’s Rest—one that I don’t entirely understand myself. He risked everything to bring your mother back here. Perhaps he thought it would redeem him somehow, or maybe he truly cared for her in his own way. Either way, he’s asked to speak with you.”

Vaeron stiffened at the words, his heart lurching in his chest. “He wants to see me?”

Daemon nodded slowly. “He does. He requested it, though he knows the choice is yours to make. I told him I’d send you, but the decision is yours. You can go to him, or you can ignore it and leave him to rot where he belongs.”

Vaeron’s mind reeled, torn between the curiosity gnawing at him and the fear of facing the man who had upended his world with his very existence. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I can’t. Not today. I don’t even know what I’d say to him… what I’d ask.”

Daemon studied him for a moment before nodding in understanding. “That’s your right. You don’t have to face him until you’re ready—if you ever are.” He reached out, placing a hand on Vaeron’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “But know this, boy: whoever sired you, you are still my son. You bear the Targaryen name because I have claimed you as my own, because you were raised with fire in your blood. No man, be he Hightower or otherwise, can take that from you.”

Vaeron looked up at him, searching Daemon’s face for some trace of deception, but all he saw was the fierce loyalty and pride that Daemon had always shown him. For all his faults and ruthlessness, Daemon had been the only father Vaeron had ever known. And in that moment, the boy clung to that truth like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” Vaeron murmured, his voice small but filled with genuine gratitude. “I just… need time. To sort through it all.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a rare, almost affectionate smile, one reserved for the few he held dear. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly. “But remember, you are a Targaryen, and no truth will ever change that. Not in the eyes of those who matter.”

With that, Daemon rose from the table, giving Vaeron a final nod before turning to leave the hall. Vaeron watched him go, the conflicting emotions still swirling in his chest, but there was a newfound clarity in his heart. The path ahead was clouded, and the shadow of Gwayne Hightower’s existence hanged over him like a specter. But for now, he knew where he stood—with the family that had shaped him, that had loved him despite the secrets and lies.

But deep down, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he knew that one day he would have to face the man who had saved his mother and who claimed the title of his father. Just… not today. Today, he would hold on to the identity he’d always known and trust that, in time, he would find his way through the tangled web of blood and loyalty.

For now, he was still Vaeron Targaryen, son of Daemon—trueborn or not, dragon or not, he was still a part of the legacy that burned brightly in the heart of House Targaryen. And that was enough to anchor him, at least for tonight.

The corridors beneath Dragonstone were dark and damp, the oppressive chill seeping into Vaeron’s bones as he made his way toward the dungeons. It had been a week since his world had been upended, a week of wrestling with the truth of his parentage. He had tried to push it aside, to focus on the training sessions with his cousins, the books his mother insisted he study, the words of comfort from Daemon. But every night, when the candles burned low and the castle quieted, the thought gnawed at him: if he didn’t face the man in the dungeons, he would never truly understand where he came from—or who he was.

So here he was, descending deeper into the belly of the fortress, the iron doors looming ahead. A guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing him entry. The door creaked open, revealing the shadowed cell where Gwayne Hightower sat slumped against the cold stone wall, chains rattling faintly with his every breath.

Gwayne’s face was bruised and gaunt, the days of imprisonment leaving their mark on him. But his eyes, so strikingly similar to Vaeron’s own, flicked up the moment the boy entered. Surprise and something softer—something like hope—flashed in his gaze.

“Vaeron,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his lips. “You came.”

Vaeron stood just inside the threshold, tension thrumming through his body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—anger, indifference, desperation? But all he felt was a tangled mix of emotions that refused to settle.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally took a few steps closer, his voice tentative as he asked, “How could I not? I had to face you… or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Gwayne’s expression softened, a flicker of pride and sorrow crossing his face. “You’re braver than most would be in your position,” he said quietly. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of his wounds and restraints. “How… how is your mother? Is she recovering?”

Vaeron’s heart tightened at the genuine concern in Gwayne’s voice. Despite everything, despite the shame and anger swirling within him, he could not deny the sincerity of the man’s question. “She’s getting better,” Vaeron replied, a hint of guardedness still in his tone. “But her injuries are still bad. The fall from Silverwing was…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Gwayne nodded, his jaw clenched as if in shared pain. “She’s strong. She always has been. I knew if I could just get her here, she’d fight her way back.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion, and he averted his gaze for a moment before looking back at Vaeron. “Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint drip of water echoing through the dungeons. Vaeron swallowed the lump in his throat and finally spoke the question that had been burning in him since he decided to come here. “Daemon says you’re a traitor,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “That you can’t be trusted, that you’ve betrayed your family and your House. But… you saved my mother. You risked your life, your honor, everything.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t change, but something deep and resolute flickered in his eyes. “Daemon’s right—I am a traitor to my own kin, to my House. I turned my back on everything I was raised to uphold. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The simple conviction in his words struck Vaeron like a blow. He could see the truth of it written in every line of Gwayne’s face, in the quiet determination that had driven him to this point. Vaeron wanted to challenge him, to demand answers, but instead, he found himself asking, “Why?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “Because she was worth it. Your mother was worth more than any loyalty to my House, more than any honor I might have clung to. You see, I loved her long before any of this war came to pass. I wanted to marry her, to build a life with her, but your uncle, King Viserys, had other plans. When she was given to Daemon, I knew my place would only ever be on the outside, looking in.” He paused, eyes darkening with the weight of old wounds. “But that didn’t change how I felt. When I saw her falling in battle, when I saw Silverwing plummet… I didn’t think about anything else. I just acted. I’d rather be a traitor and live knowing I saved her than be a loyal man and watch her die.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened, torn between resentment and reluctant understanding. “You say that like it was noble, like it justifies everything. But it’s still treason. You abandoned your family. You betrayed your own.”

Gwayne’s expression grew more serious, his voice a low rumble in the dim light. “Yes, and I will face the consequences of that. I know what I’ve done, and I’ve made my peace with it. But you must understand, Vaeron—whatever Daemon tells you, whatever anyone says—you are my son. I know I have no right to claim you, not after all these years, but it doesn’t change what you are to me.”

Vaeron felt the words hanging in the air like a challenge, daring him to acknowledge the bond that existed between them, even if he wished it didn’t. He looked down, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know what I am,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I was raised to believe I’m a Targaryen, that I’m Daemon’s son. Now everything feels like a lie. How can I be both?”

Gwayne’s gaze softened, the hardness of his demeanor giving way to something almost tender. “You are both,” he said quietly. “You were raised as a Targaryen, with all the fire and pride that comes with it. That is a part of you. But you’re also my blood, whether you like it or not. And you get to decide what that means for you.”

Vaeron’s mind spun with conflicting emotions—anger, guilt, a flicker of something like pity. He wasn’t sure if he could ever see Gwayne as his father, not in the way Daemon had been. But he couldn’t deny that the man who sat before him had risked everything for his mother, for the chance to protect her even when all seemed lost. And for that alone, he couldn’t simply dismiss him.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally shook his head. “I can’t face you—not today. There’s too much I don’t understand, too much I still need to figure out.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting the decision without protest. “I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give,” he said softly. “But know that I’m here, for as long as they allow me to draw breath. And whatever choice you make, whatever path you choose—I will always be proud of you.”

The words stung, leaving Vaeron with a raw ache in his chest. He wanted to respond, to say something more, but the weight of everything—his own confusion, the war, the fractured loyalties—was too much. He turned abruptly, leaving the cell without another word, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of conflicting emotions.

As he walked away, the echo of Gwayne’s voice lingered in his mind, a reminder that some truths, no matter how painful, couldn’t be ignored forever. But for now, he needed time to reconcile the man he had always believed himself to be with the truths he couldn’t yet fully accept.

And so, Vaeron returned to the world above, leaving the man who called himself his father to the shadows, knowing that one day—perhaps too soon—he would have to confront the reality of who he truly was.

[andy-15-07]

Heyyy , I love your blog❤️! Can you do a fic with Feyd Rautha, where y/n gives birth to their first child

Seraphina

masterlist ! pairing:Feyd Rautha reader

Dune Masterlist

In the dimly lit birthing chamber of House Harkonnen, the air was thick with anticipation as Feyd-Rautha stood by your side. The momentous occasion had arrived, and the echoes of your shared breaths reverberated through the room. The Harkonnen legacy was about to be expanded, and the weight of the future seemed to rest in the hands of the next generation.

As the contractions began, Feyd-Rautha, usually an enigmatic figure of political maneuvering and calculated decisions, displayed a rare vulnerability. His gaze never wavered from you, his eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and anticipation.

The midwife, clad in the rich fabrics of Arrakis, guided the process with a calm authority. "Lady Y/N, the time is near. Brace yourself for the final push."

The room seemed to hold its breath as the culmination of your love and lineage unfolded. Feyd-Rautha, known for his unwavering confidence, now stood at the edge of uncertainty, his hand tightly gripping yours.

With a final, intense push, the cries of a newborn filled the air. The midwife's hands worked swiftly, placing the newborn in your arms. Feyd-Rautha's eyes widened with a mixture of awe and overwhelming emotion as he caught a glimpse of your child.

"Our child," he whispered, his voice filled with a depth that transcended his usual stoicism.

As you cradled the newborn in your arms, a wave of love and protectiveness washed over you. "Our legacy, Feyd-Rautha. She carries the blood of House Harkonnen."

The newborn, wrapped in the regal fabrics of Arrakis, squirmed in your arms, her eyes opening to reveal a gaze that seemed to hold an ancient wisdom. Feyd-Rautha, a formidable presence in the political landscape, now knelt beside you, his eyes locked on the tiny being that symbolized the continuation of House Harkonnen.

"What shall we name her?" Feyd-Rautha pondered, his usually sharp mind momentarily softened by the enormity of the moment.

You exchanged a knowing look, a silent agreement passing between you. "Seraphina," you suggested, a name that carried the essence of grace and strength, a name befitting the union of your love.

"Seraphina," Feyd-Rautha echoed, a rare smile playing on his lips. "A name worthy of our House."

As the newborn Seraphina rested in your arms, Feyd-Rautha by your side, a newfound sense of unity enveloped your family. The once-feuding houses were now intricately connected through the birth of this child, a symbol of love prevailing over the shadows of political intrigue.

In the birthing chamber of House Harkonnen, the cries of a newborn marked not just the beginning of a new life but the dawn of a future where love and legacy intertwined. Feyd-Rautha, the enigmatic figure of power, now stood as a father, embracing the vulnerability and joy that came with the arrival of his firstborn. The legacy of House Harkonnen continued with a new chapter, written in the cries and whispers of the newborn Seraphina.

[sarahghetti]

blood on your lies; m.s.

pairing: marc spector x reader centric, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

-

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

-

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It��s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

-

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

-

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

-

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

-

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

[nyrasvoid]

A Knight’s Prize pt.2

Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

Summary: you overhear a scheming conversation between Otto and Alicent Hightower, leading you to doubt Ser Gwayne’s true intentions.

Warnings: none i think?? if you find any let me know

A/N: this second part was written based on one of the comments of part one

- Word count: ≈3.5k

Part 1

The day after your encounter with Ser Gwayne, you find yourself wandering the corridors of the Red Keep. You wore a teal dress, a perfect blend of Velaryon blue and Hightower green, with gold embroidery down the fabric. A simple gold tiara adorned with tiny pearls rests on your head, while a silver pendant shaped like a dragon, its eyes gleaming with emeralds, hangs around your neck. Your heart flutters with a mix of hope and anxiety as you walk, your thoughts consumed by the image of Ser Gwayne. You can’t help but wonder if your paths will cross today, if perhaps he might seek you out again, this time not as a competitor but as a suitor.

As you turn a corner, the sound of voices pulls you out of your imagination. You recognize them instantly, calculating tone of Lord Otto Hightower and the softer voice of Queen Alicent. You pause, turning around and hiding behind the column where they could not see you.

From your position, you peeked around the corner and saw them standing near the entrance to the library. You feel your pulse quicken as you lean closer, trying your best to hear their conversation.

"Father," Alicent begins, her voice filled with worry. "This match between Gwayne and the Princess... it troubles me."

Otto watches her calmly, his expression unreadable. "And why should it trouble you, my daughter? The girl is a Princess of the realm, of Velaryon and Targaryen blood, and a potential queen one day. A union between our houses would solidify our influence over the Iron Throne."

"But she is a bastard," Alicent argues quietly. "The rumors about her parentage... they are known throughout the court. If Gwayne marries her, it could stain our house, taint the Hightower name with whispers and scandal."

You feel a chill run down your spine, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your dress. The word 'bastard' feels to you like a knife, a painful reminder of the whispers and glances that have haunted you all your life.

Otto remains calm, his tone firm and decisive. "Alicent, you must understand the greater game we are playing. Whether she is a trueborn daughter of Ser Laenor Velaryon or not, she is still the granddaughter of King Viserys and the heir to the throne after Rhaenyra. To have her as a daughter-in-law would elevate our house beyond any stain that her lineage might bear."

Alicent hesitates, her gaze fixated towards the ground. "But what of Gwayne? Does he know of these ambitions? Has he agreed to be a pawn in your game?” she paused and took a deep breath. “If he is to marry a bastard and stain our name, he must at least have a say in this.”

Otto smiles, a cold, calculating smile that sends a shiver down your spine. "Gwayne knows his duty, as we all do. His personal feelings are of little to no matter, compared to the power our house could gain. He will do as he is told."

You feel as though you have been betrayed. Could it be true? Is Ser Gwayne merely a pawn in his father’s game? Have his charming words and tender touches been nothing more than a farce, a way to secure your hand and, with it, the power that comes with your name?

You take a step back, tip-toeing slow and carefully to avoid being discovered. Your thoughts becoming a storm of confusion and hurt. Is this the true nature of the man who seeks your favor? Does he see you as nothing more than a prize to be won?

Just as you’re about to leave, you hear Alicent speak once more, her voice filled with doubt. "But what if she learns of this? What if she refuses him? The Princess has her mother’s spirit and the blood of the dragon. She will not be easily controlled if she feels betrayed."

Otto simply responds - "Then we must ensure she does not learn of it. The Princess is young, and like any young woman, she is vulnerable to the charms of a skilled and handsome knight. Gwayne will win her over with affection."

You finally decide to retreat, wanting to hear no more words of their scheming. As you walk through the halls of the Red Keep, you can’t stop thinking about Gwayne. How could you have been so blind? Could Ser Gwayne be part of this plan, or is he a victim of his father’s ambition too?

The sounds of the tournament grow louder as you approach the field, but you no longer feel the same excitement. You watch as Ser Gwayne enters the field, facing the famous Ser Loras Tyrell. Ser Gwayne’s armor gleams in the sunlight, a shining steel plate adorned with the green fabrics of House Hightower. His cloak, bearing the Hightower sigil. A plume of green feathers decorates his helmet, making him stand out against the other knights. He carries his lance with confidence.

Ser Loras, wearing an armour decorated with the golden roses of House Tyrell, sits on his horse, his gaze fixed on Gwayne with a look of superiority. The two knights lower their lances, and at the signal from the herald, they charge.

The first clash is brutal, their lances meeting with a deafening impact, both knights remain mounted. The crowd roars in excitement, eager for more. Again, they charge, and again their lances crash together, breaking into pieces. But neither man yields.

On the third pass, Ser Loras leans slightly into Gwayne’s track, his lance striking against Gwayne’s shield. With the force of the blow, Ser Gwayne is knocked from his horse. He hits the ground hard, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

You rise from your seat, your heart pounding in your chest as you lean on the gallery’s fence to see what is happening on the field. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange looks, as they notice your concern. They have not forgotten the disrespects and insults of the Hightowers towards your family, and your growing interest in Ser Gwayne is not something they view favorably.

From behind your seat, Otto Hightower watches with a smirk, his eyes catching the worry on your face. He seems almost pleased by your reaction, his mind already thinking about your betrothal to his son.

As you slowly sit back down, your brother Jacaerys, seated beside you, leans in and whispers, “Do you have any interest in that Hightower cunt?”

You glare at him, your voice low as you reply, “It is of no interest to you, Jace.”

He frowns but says nothing more, his gaze returning to the field as the match continues.

Ser Gwayne, rises from the ground and calls out to Ser Loras, his voice carrying across the field, “Dismount, Ser Loras, and face me with steel if you dare!”

The crowd murmurs in excitement as Ser Loras hesitates for only a moment before dismounting. The two knights draw their swords, the clash of steel ringing across the field.

Ser Loras is fast and agile, but Ser Gwayne fights with a relentless ferocity that soon begins to wear his opponent down. You watch in distress, worrying for Gwayne, your earlier doubts momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Finally, with a powerful strike, Ser Gwayne forces Ser Loras’s sword from his hand, sending it to the ground. Loras stumbles back and Gwayne presses the tip of his blade against the Tyrell knight’s throat.

“Yield,” Ser Gwayne commands, his voice firm.

Ser Loras meets his gaze for a long moment before finally lowering his head in surrender. “I yield,” he says.

As the day’s events draw to a close, you retreat to the gardens of the Red Keep, seeking solace in the cool evening air.

You reach a secluded corner of the garden, where the scent of blooming roses fills the air, and there, waiting for you, stands Ser Gwayne. His armor has been removed, he smiles as you approach, but the warmth you once felt in his presence is now overshadowed by the coldness in your heart.

"Princess," he says gently, "I've been looking for you. Is something the matter?"

You hesitate, your mind racing with the memory of what you overheard in the library. The scheming of his father and sister, the way they spoke of you as if you were nothing more than a pawn in their game. You swallow hard, unable to meet his gaze fully.

"Nothing is the matter, Ser Gwayne," you reply, your voice cold and distant.

His brow furrows, sensing the change in your behaviour. "We are betrothed now," he says, "Should we not start spending more time together? I want us to know each other, to trust each other."

"Trust?" you echo, your tone filled with sarcasm. "Trust is a rare luxury in a place like this, wouldn’t you agree?"

He looks taken aback by your sharpness but remains calm. "Princess, I understand your apprehension. But we are to be married. We must find common ground, if not for our sake, then for the sake of our houses."

The mention of your marriage—the idea of leaving your family, your mother, your brothers—. You glance away, "It’s not so simple, Ser Gwayne.”

He steps closer, his voice softer. "Should I come to your chambers before the dinner to accompany you? We could speak more... openly."

You nod, though your enthusiasm is lacking. "Very well, Ser Gwayne. If it pleases you."

You return to your chambers, there, you prepare for the dinner. The thought of marriage, the thought of leaving behind everything you’ve ever known to go to Oldtown, fills you with sadness. And then, of course, there’s the matter of children—something that makes you sick to your stomach just thinking about it.

As you finish dressing, you hear a light knock on your door. You take a deep breath and open it to find Ser Gwayne waiting for you, dressed in elegant dark green attire.

"You look beautiful, Princess," he says with a small smile, his eyes tracing the lines of your gown as he extends his arm offering you to hold onto it.

"Thank you, Ser Gwayne," you reply, your voice polite but distant as you accept his arm.

As you walk together through the corridors of the Red Keep, he tries to make conversation. "I’ve been thinking about Oldtown," he begins, his voice calm. "It’s a beautiful city, with a rich history. I think you will grow to love it there, as its Lady."

You nod, but your thoughts are elsewhere. "Perhaps," you say, not wanting to engage in the conversation.

He senses your hesitance and changes the subject. "And what of children?" he asks gently, "I imagine we will have many, strong and healthy. You will be a wonderful mother, I am sure."

The thought of children—of bearing his children—unnerves you. "We shall see, Ser Gwayne" you reply coolly.

As you enter the grand dining hall, you take your seats beside each other. The hall is filled with the noble houses of the realm, and King Viserys announces your betrothal with a smile. There are cheers and applause.

Ser Gwayne turns to you, "Would you honor me with a dance, Princess?" he asks, his voice soft.

But the last thing you want is to dance with him, not after everything. "I’m afraid I do not wish to dance," you reply, turning away from him.

Moments later, Ser Loras approaches and asks for the honor of a dance. Despite your earlier refusal, you accept his offer, rising from your seat and allowing him to lead you to the dance floor. You can feel Ser Gwayne’s eyes on you, a mixture of hurt and confusion in his gaze, but you ignore it.

When the dinner finally ends, Ser Gwayne is there to escort you back to your chambers. The walk is silent, tension in the air. As you reach the door, he stops, his hand gently grabbing yours.

"Princess," he begins, his voice low and strained, "why have you been so distant with me? And why did you dance with another when I asked you first?"

You pull your hand away, feeling the anger within you begin to boil. "I am not distant," you say, though the lie is evident in your voice.

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "We should not start our marriage based on lies, Princess. If something is troubling you, tell me. We are to be husband and wife. We must trust each other."

The pressure of his words, finally breaks you. "You want to know what’s wrong, Ser Gwayne?" you snap. "I overheard your father and sister speaking in the library. They spoke of using me, of marrying me off to you to gain power, to strengthen their hold on the realm. How can I trust anything you say?"

Ser Gwayne’s eyes widen in shock. "I had no idea," he says, "I swear to you, Princess, I was not aware of any of this. My feelings for you—my desire to marry you—are my own, not theirs. You must believe me."

You turn away, tears threatening to spill over. "How can I? How can I believe anything when everyone around me is filled with ambition?"

He reaches out, gently turning you back to face him. "Because I will prove it to you," he vows. "I will confront my father and sister. I will not allow them to manipulate us, to use you as a tool for their own gain. I promise you that, Princess."

You stare at him, a storm of emotions going through your mind. Without thinking, you reach up, grabbing his face in your hands. The softness of his skin under your fingers sends a shiver down your spine, leaning in to press your lips against his.

The kiss is desperate, filled with all the confusion you’ve been holding back. His lips are warm and firm against yours, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the sensation. His hands come up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss.

When you finally pull away, your breathing is uneven, your heart pounding in your chest. He looks at you, his hands still resting on your waist.

"We must wait," he says gently, his voice tinged with both desire and restraint. "I do not wish to dishonor you, Princess. We should save this for our wedding night, as it should be." He takes your hand, lifting it to his lips and placing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

You nod, unable to say anything, but before you can even try to speak, Ser Gwayne steps back, “Goodnight, my lady," he murmurs, "I will see you tomorrow."

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing at the doors of your chambers, your heart pounding in your chest.

Slowly, you retreat into your chambers, closing the door behind you. You move toward the vanity, removing the silver pendant from your neck and placing it carefully on the table. Your hands are trembling. You slip out of your dress, replacing it with a simple nightgown. As you slide into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, your thoughts race.

You try to push the events of the evening from your mind, but it’s impossible. Ser Gwayne’s words echo through your mind, his touch still lingering on your skin. He seemed sincere.

Your thoughts go to the future, to what it means to be Lady of Oldtown, to be married to a man whose family you cannot fully trust. The idea of leaving your mother and brothers fills you with a deep sadness. Perhaps, despite everything, Ser Gwayne might be different. He could be a good husband, a good father. He could make this marriage something more than just a political arrangement.

Pt 3???

[athenamikaelson]

Written in the Stars

Klaus Mikaelson x Reader!Soulmate x Elijah Mikaelson PART 1

Word Count- 4.3k

Warnings- Swearing, blood, death, panic attacks, mentions of the confederacy (ew)

A/N- This will be a slow-burn series.

The reader has a brother, I know it’s not very X Reader, but it’s to help the storyline.

I brush down the black tie my younger brother is wearing, the satin fabric making me slightly cringe. 

“Are you sure you’re not going to go? We can go show those stuffy old bitches how to really party.” I let out a small huff at Theo’s question, shaking my head amusingly. 

“I’d rather not spend my Friday night with a bunch of Mystic Falls’ elite. Hearing them talk about how they’re so proud of their southern heritage,” Both my brother and I let out sounds of disgust, “the Confederates lost get over it.”

Theo stands in front of the hallway mirror and goggles himself. Where I am rather introverted, my younger brother is most likely the most self-confident person I have ever met. He has called himself, “A gift to the human race,” on more than one occasion. So it takes him about a good 9 minutes to gaze at himself in the mirror before we walk out the front door to the car. 

We drive in silence, or I drive in silence as Theo hypes himself up in the passenger side mirror. 

After a 10-minute drive that seems to have taken at least twice that time, we finally reach the long driveway of the mayor’s house. 

“Why are you even going to this masquerade thing anyways, you hate dances,” I ask him as we wait behind a line of cars.

“Tyler is my football captain, and this thing is to honor his father, I’m here for my fellow man,” Theo presses a fist to his chest and puts on a fake sympathy look.

“So you’re actually doing it because you want to get on Tyler’s good side so he puts you on Varsity?”

Theo’s sympathetic look drops and is replaced with a shit-eating grin, “You know me so well.”

As we get to the front of the line of cars, I hum along to the Coldplay song playing on the radio.

“So what are you going to do while waiting for me?”

I pull my car up to the front of the “house” which is really just a mansion. 

“I have a feeling you won’t be here very long, or stay out of trouble so I’m just going to park somewhere and wait for you.”

My brother does a look that looks like he agrees with me about him getting into trouble and nods his head in agreement. I put the car in park and Theo unbuckles his seat and gets out, straightening out his suit as he goes.

“Bye nerd, don’t wait up!” Theo yells as he climbs the stairs walking past Mystic Falls’ elite. I let out a sigh and pull away to find a parking spot. 

—

My fingers graze the pages of my book as I glance at the time, Theo has been here for over an hour now and hasn’t shown any signs of leaving. I bring my back up to continue reading when a figure in the distance catches my eye. I lean forward and catch a glimpse of who I believe is Elena Gilbert. Elena’s a popular girl in my grade, who I’ve probably had two interactions within my short time here in Mystic Falls. I don’t know much about her other than that she’s dating some guy named Stefan, her parents died in a car accident and her brother is in the same grade as Theo. Theo and Elena’s brother don’t hang out either because Theo says he’s a “stoner emo.” Theo’s never been one to keep his thoughts to himself. 

Elena seems to walk with a slight limp which makes me slightly concerned but nothing to make me go out and try to talk to her. I hate talking to people in general, especially kids my age. Elena has always seemed nice but I’m not taking the risk.

 Or at least I wasn’t until I saw a man in a mask start following behind her. I may hate interacting with people but I would never let another girl get attacked if I had the power to stop it. The next thing I know I’m hopping out of my car and jogging behind them. 

“Elena behind you!” I yell to her, but I freeze as the man hits her and knocks her to the ground. I let out a yelp as I turned to try to get help but a sharp pain hits my skull and everything goes black. 

—-

“Y/N, can you hear me?” A voice comes from above me and a wave of nausea washes over me. My eyes open and close a dozen times trying to get used to the bright light before I can focus on the person in front of me. Elena Gilbert. Why is Elena Gilbert in my bedroom?  I mean she’s really pretty and all I just thought she had a boyfriend. I’m not a homewrecker. 

“Oh thank god you’re awake!” Elena whisper-yells to me as she brushes a piece of my hair behind my head and grimaces when she looks at my forehead. She brings her hand back and a wave of fear and disgust washes over me as I see her hand covered in a red liquid. Blood. My blood. I try to bring my hand up but Elena stops me.

“Don’t exert yourself we don’t want it to bleed more, okay?” She gives me a small smile but something about it makes me feel uneasy. I don’t understand why until I turn my gaze away from her and look at our surroundings. Dirt-covered walls, glass-covered floors, and a mildew stench are what take focus. I’ve always been sensitive to smells but with the addition of my raging migraine, I am fighting the urge to keep down the rising bile in my throat. 

My breathing starts to quicken and I can feel the start of a panic attack starting to make an appearance. 

“Elena, where are we?” I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t understand what I was saying since my words seemed to be jumbling together. 

Elena glances around us and gives me a solemn look.

“I don’t know, I woke up here a little while ago before I was knocked back out by the people that took us. I’m truly sorry about this Y/N, I would never wish for you to be a part of this.”

I furrow my eyebrows at her last comment as if she were responsible for the reason we were taken.

“It’s not your fault,” I shake my head and start tapping my fingers together one by one. It’s a thing I do whenever my anxiety gets too strong, almost as a way to ground me. 

Elena’s eyebrows mirror mine and she goes to say something but a young man with shaggy hair walks in.

“Oh goody, the other ones awake. How are you doing sleeping beauty?” 

The man starts to walk over to me with a look in his eyes that makes the bile in my throat inch even closer to the surface. But within another second Elena stands from beside me on what I can see now is a couch and blocks me from the man’s view.

“I’m the one you want, Y/N is innocent, just let her go.” 

I want to back Elena up and defend her too but with the migraine and the onslaught of emotions I’m feeling right now being verbal isn’t something I see happening in my current future. 

“You’re right Dopalicious, she’s not, but I can’t just let her go, what if she were to go and warn those friends of yours? Can’t let that happen now can we?” 

Elena goes to stand her ground but within a blink of an eye, Elena is shoved backward and lands on the other side of the couch. I jump backward at the action which gives the man the opportunity to come in front of me. I start trembling as I look up to him I try to push farther back into the couch but I’m squished into it as far as I can go. 

“Stay away from me,” Finally able to find somewhat of my voice again. This doesn’t seem to scare away the man, and honestly, I don’t blame him. My voice sounded like it came from a scared 5-year-old. 

“Just a taste, I’m starving.” My mouth opens to question what he says but a millisecond later I feel myself being grabbed and a sharp piercing attacks the left side of my neck. I’m hyperventilating and screaming at the same time somehow as I hear Elena’s yells from beside us. 

“Don’t touch her!” Elena’s yell comes from beside us and I’m thrown away back onto the couch. I’m disorientated as I look up to see the man before me rubbing his cheek and Elena standing next to him holding her right hand. She’d punched him. My vision strays from Elena’s red knuckles back up to the man, who has something dripping from his mouth. My chest feels like it locks up as I stare at the liquid dripping, everything seems to be going in slow motion for me as I watch the drops start at the man's chapped lips to the drops of blood falling onto the cracked hardwood floors. Wait, blood. He has blood dripping from his mouth. Had Elena punched him that hard? I start to believe that possibility until I feel a wetness drip between my chest. 

My already shaking hand comes up to my chest as I swipe a finger along the liquid. My vision blurs as the red liquid drips from my fingertip down into the palm of my hand. I can’t register Elena’s voice as she kneels in front of me and presses something to my neck. The blood coating my hand is all I can see and smell. 

“Y/N….Y/N! Just focus on my voice ok, breathe. I think you’re having a panic attack.” A cool hand is pressed onto the side of my face and I close my eyes at the embrace. 

“Ok that’s good, I’m going to stand you up to get a better look at your neck ok?” 

I feel like I’m running on auto-pilot or something else is controlling my body and mind as I stand up and grip Elena’s upper arms to keep myself steady. Elena returns the pink fabric from my neck and leans down to glance at the wound.

“Ok, it’s not as bad as I had originally thought. Just keep this here and it’ll help control the bleeding.” 

I must still be in shock because Elena has to bring the shirt to my hand, wrap my fingers around it, and finally press my hand into my neck. The shock of pain washes through me and brings me back to reality. My vision can’t seem to focus on one thing for too long as my eyes keep darting from the blood on the floor, my blood, to the look on Elena’s face, to the man standing behind us with a scowl on his ugly face. Blood, Elena, man. Blood, Elena, man. Blood, Elena, man. This sequence continues until another person enters the room, a woman.

“He’s here.” The woman with a pixie cut says, her voice seemingly scared.

The man next to us shifts his scowl into a look of pure fear.

“This was a mistake,” He rushes over to the woman and shakes his head. 

“No, I told you I would get us out of this. You have to trust me,” She tries to talk him down which only seems to freak him out more.

“No! He wants me dead Rose,”

The woman points at Elena, “He wants her more.” I glance to Elena who is standing in front of me slightly as if to hide me from the two strangers or cannibals. Since I’ve calmed down momentarily and I’ve begun to stop the tears that had unbeknownst to me had fallen on my cheeks, I’ve realized that I’ve been kidnapped by cannibals, that being the only reasonable explanation I can come up with.

The two cannibals start arguing about some man but I turn to Elena who looks almost as scared as I feel. 

“What’s going on Elena, who’s coming?” I whisper to her.

Elena turns her head slightly to me and gives me a frown and a shake of her head. 

“A man named Elijah, but don’t worry ok,” Elena grabs my free hand and holds it in her own, “I’m not going to let them hurt you anymore ok?”

I nod trying to find comfort in her words but the girl in front of me is 17 years old and maybe 120 pounds I don’t see how she’s going to protect us both from two cannibals and whatever mega cannibal these two are terrified of. I don’t know if the other guy is a cannibal but using context clues I’m guessing he is. 

“What are we?” The woman’s voice brings my attention back to them as I see her grab his arms. This seems to calm the man down. 

“We’re family. Forever.” 

I might’ve found this endearing if it weren’t for the fact the man had my blood drying on his upper lip and they were literal cannibals. 

A loud knock startles all four of us as Elena and I both shoot each other wary glances. Our hands are still intertwined. I don’t usually like being touched but given the circumstances I can let this slide. 

The woman looks over at Elena and me as Elena slightly turns her head, “You’re scared.” Elena comments. The woman says something else to her friend and then runs up the stairs 

—

What seems like forever of waiting and pacing around is broken up by footsteps coming from the top of the banister. I can feel Elena freeze up from beside me as we both look up to see a man in a suit staring down at her. The man has dark hair and eyes and a chiseled face. Why is this cannibal not ugly? Wrong Turn had it all wrong. We all stand there watching Elena and the suited cannibal stare at each other. I can feel Elena’s shaking hand in my own and try to comfort her by squeezing her hand to let her know I’m right beside her. That is until the man transports himself from the top of the banister to in front of Elena in the blink of an eye. The movement has me losing my balance and falling back onto the couch. 

No one seems to notice me as my panic attack starts to build up as I try to understand how this is possible. How could he have been that fast, it’s impossible. Oh god, I'm going to throw up. 

“And who is this?” A deep voice comes from above me and my stomach flips at the sound. Defiantly going to throw up. 

“She’s no one. She has nothing to do with this, just please leave her alone.” 

Hearing Elena’s voice makes me raise my head and I regret it instantly because I lock eyes with the suited monster who is now standing above me staring down at me. The man’s face instantly goes slack as his eyes meet mine, a look of recognition seems to pass through his dark eyes as they move fast across my face. The man opens and closes his mouth many times as if he can’t quite find the right words to say. The slack expression from before softens into something that makes my stomach flip again. This guy is so going to kill me when I throw up on his expensive ass shoes. His soft, dark pink lips curve up at the corners slightly.

“You’re real.” 

These are the first words to come out of the man’s mouth. Everyone else in the room seems to know just as much as me with what he’s talking about because they all have looks of confusion on their faces. Feels somewhat comforting to be on the same page as everyone else for once. 

The man doesn’t once take his eyes off of me this entire time though, “What is your name, Elskan?” 

I freeze under his stare and try to avert my eyes, this gives Elena the ability to step in for me. 

“Her name is Y/N,” I look to the man as he mouths my name slightly to himself as if he wants to know how it sounds on his tongue, “Please don’t hurt her Elijah, she doesn’t even know about the supernatural, I’ll go with you willingly.” 

Elena’s words make me freeze up. What does she mean by supernatural? I flinch as the man, Elijah, brings his hand up. This stops him for a moment. 

“I would never harm you. You have my word on that.” I can only sit there frozen as he cups my face with his hand and uses his thumb to brush a stray tear away that must’ve fallen during one of my many panic attacks. He seems delighted at the moment until the soft expression he has on his face darkens into something that makes that bile rise even farther up. His eyes dart from the top of my head and drag themselves down to my chest and neck. I try to move away but his hand has a soft but firm hold on my face. 

“Who did this to you?” 

My eyebrows furrow at his question, and I must’ve not answered quickly enough because he turns to glare at Elena. Which makes her flinch.

“The head injury is from the kidnapping and then the bite is from um,” she glances towards my neck and then to Trevor who looks like he’s about to internally combust. She goes silent again at Elijah’s stare and he turns his attention back towards me. The glare was long gone and replaced once again with a softer look.

“I see. Here,” I have to swallow back down the bile as I watch the man rip into his wrist and put it in front of my face expectantly. I sit there in horror and quickly look to Elena who doesn’t look as surprised as she defiantly should given that this man just BIT HIMSELF. 

“It’s true Y/N, it’ll heal you.” 

I open my mouth to say something which must’ve somehow been an ok to the man as he presses his wrist to my open mouth. I’m about to push him off, or at least try, but stop at the heavenly liquid that spills into my mouth. Elijah brings his other hand up to brush back my fallen hair.

  “Good girl, Elskan.” 

Elijah removes his wrist and I sit there silently staring at my lap as I realize what I had just done. I just drank fucking blood, and I liked it?!??! Oh god, does this make me a cannibal now?

Elijah seems to be fighting an inner battle as he moves his eyes away from mine and onto the man behind us. Elena and I watch before us as Elijah approaches the scared man/cannibal thing. Thing because I’m not sure what the actual hell is going on here. 

“I’ve waited so long for this day, Elijah. Truly very sorry.” 

Trevor says with a bowed head as Elijah circles him. Almost how a predator would circle its prey. 

“Well, no, your apology is not necessary,” Elijah responds but something in his tone doesn’t sit right with me.

“Yes, yes it is. You trusted me with Katerina. And I failed you.”

“Well, yes, you are the guilty one,” Elijah glances at him and then up to the woman, “And Rose aided you because she was loyal to you. That I honor…”

Elijah comes to stand in front of the man, “Where was your loyalty?”

“I beg your forgiveness.”

The oxygen in the room seems to be dwindling as everyone watches the interaction.

“So granted.” 

The deep breath I was to let out is replaced by a scream and I can only watch in horror as Elijah throws his hand over to the man who decapitates him. A heart-wrenching wail comes from Rose and I can’t seem to take my eyes away from the body-less head that is lying in front of me. 

“I’m going to-” Vomit spits from my mouth and onto the floor in front of me, the burning from the back of my throat causes tears to build up and block my vision. I feel someone lift my hand and hold it away from my face. For a second I thought it was Elena before Elijah’s voice came from beside me.

“I’m truly sorry, Elskan. I shouldn’t have done that in front of you.” 

I lift my head to stare at him and find him kneeling right next to me. He reaches into his front pocket grabs a fancy napkin and wipes my mouth with it. Not seeming disgusted just saddened. He wraps his hand in my mind and stands me up. 

“We can leave now, we have quite the journey ahead of us,” Elijah leads me over to where Elena is standing and motions for her to follow.

“No! What about the moonstone?” She questions him.

He stands in front of her with a small scowl, “What do you know about the moonstone?”

“I know that you need it. And I know where it is. I can help you get it”

Elijah nods his head, “Tell me where it is.” 

“It doesn’t work that way.”

Elijah’s eyebrow twitches in annoyance as he glances back at Rose, “Are you negotiating with me?”

Rose just shakes her head and tells him she doesn’t know anything. Elijah then turns back around to stare at Elena for a moment before scowling and reaching up to her necklace, ripping it off. 

“What is this vervain doing around your neck,” He throws the necklace behind him and grabs Elena by the neck, dropping my hand in the process. I go to try to get her away but Elijah shoots me a warning look that has me freezing in place, “Tell me where the moonstone is.”

In a monotone voice, Elena replies, “In the tomb underneath the church ruins.”

“What is it doing there?”

“It’s with Kathrine.”

The rest of their interaction is cut short when a glass shatters from somewhere upstairs. Elijah comes over to me and grabs me by my waist bringing me into him almost protectively. 

“What was that?” He asks Rose.

“I don’t know.”

“Who else is in this house?’’ To which he gets the same response. 

Elijah grabs Elena quite harshly with his free hand and guides both of us to the top of the banister. His hand never moved from the top of my hip. Once we make it to the entryway something rushes by us, Elijah pushes Elena off into Rose’s arms but never drops his hold on me. 

“Up here.”

“Down Here.”

A voice call from the top and bottom of the stairs caught all of our attention. Elijah lifts his hand from my hip and motions for me to go over to Rose.

“Don’t let her out of your sight.” He warns her as he moves to the staircase. 

A moment goes by before something flies through the air and pierces itself through Elijah’s hand. I let out a yelp but Elijah doesn’t even seem fazed. 

My vision is blurred for a moment as I now standing next to Rose with an unfamiliar dark-haired man in front of us. He motions with his finger to be quiet. Ya as if I was going to say anything anyway. 

“Excuse me,” Elijah’s voice comes from below, “To whom it may concern. You’re making a grave mistake if you think that you can beat me. And you can’t. You hear that? I repeat, you cannot beat me. So I want the girls on the count of three, or heads will roll.” 

The man who has his hands on Rose’s and I’s mouths moves his head to glance at Elijah downstairs. 

“Do we understand each other?” 

“I’ll come with you,” I perk up at Elena’s voice. Wondering what the actual hell she was doing. But the blue-eyed man in front of me shakes his head at me telling me not to move. 

“Just please don’t hurt my friends. They just wanted to help me out.”

“What game are you playing with me? Where is Y/N? I won’t be leaving without her.” Elijah’s skeptical voice questions her. There’s a sound a medal, and then a loud boom,  before Elijah lets out a yell. The sound for some reason makes my chest feel like it wants to cave in on itself. Rustling and fighting sounds come from below us before the man holding Rose and I leave. Rose runs after him, but I can’t seem to get my feet to work so I just sit there on the dusty floor staring at the wall peeling wallpaper in front of me. 

A few moments pass before I hear Elena’s voice along with two unfamiliar men, one who I’m assuming is the blue-eyed guy from before. 

“Where is Y/N,” Elena asks.

“Are you talking about that girl that smells like vomit?” A snarky voice questions her. If I hadn’t just gotten kidnapped and had one of the worst days of my life, I might take offense but I did just get kidnapped and honestly, I do smell like vomit so he’s not wrong. 

“I think she’s over there.” 

Footsteps get closer to me as I look up with tears in my eyes at Elena. She gives me a small smile before kneeling and wrapping her arms around me in a hug. 

“What is happening Elena?” 

“I’ll explain everything if you want me to ok? Let’s just get out of here first ok?”

Elena stands up and reaches down her hand for me to take, and with a deep breath, I do.

[l-artemisia-del-secolo]

You almost missed the meeting regarding the new exhibit. You had to validate a few showpieces. Books mostly this time. On one of them... what was it... runes... Red cover with rubies, one could think it was painted with blood itself.

Your own reflection in the stones was teasing you. This object was powerful, it was alluring, it was dangerous. You didn't notice how others left.

You were left with the book in the storage. Who created it and why? You were not new to artifacts of presumed witchcraft. But this... it was different. As if the blood on the cover was instantly flowing changing the shades.

Oh, it was one of those days. Time didn't matter.

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, it is." You didn't even look up. "Have never seen anything like this."

"Oh, I did. A very long time ago. This book belonged to ruthless people."

"What?"

She was a foreigner in this brightly lit room. Nonchalantly sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs. When did she come in?

"We need to close the storage. All your colleagues left a few hours ago."

Hours? Really? What was she even talking about? You checked your phone. A few missed calls and messages.

Brunette was smiling at your confusion.

"Have we met before?"

"No, I'm instead of Jeff."

"What happened? I saw him yesterday."

"Oh..." Brunette was kinda lost for an instant. "He had to leave. You know. Another department. My name's Rio".

She stood up and very officially offered you her hand.

"Pleased to meet you. My name's..."

"I know everything about you."

Rio was still holding your hand. Maybe you did see her before. Those green eyes. They were mesmerising.

______

A few days passed. You didn't have time to examine the book, but you kept thinking about it. Weirdly your thoughts were coming back to it. In what circumstances something like this could be created? What was written there?

You wanted to feel that book again. Sharp edges and ancient pages.

From the book your mind wandered to the stranger. You asked your colleagues. They knew Jeff was gone, but who was instead of him - no idea. You wanted to see her again. you wanted to lose yourself in those gentle touches again.

___

A few more days. You were giving a lecture. Confident and charming you were in your element. Until you noticed those green eyes amongst the audience. Rio was catching your every move, your every word.

"You were amazing." Brunette caught you after the class. "Truly a master of your craft."

"Well, I do have a certain area of expertise."

"What a tease."

Oh, now you were definitely blushing.

"I haven't seen you at the museum." You tried to find a more safe subject.

"I was busy with other projects. I'm kinda like a consultant for confused people."

You nodded. Why was looking at you like this? As if expecting something, as if waiting for the answer.

"Well, you did find the time for the lecture."

"I found the time for the lecturer."

"I appreciate both the time and the effort."

"Yeah, you have no idea how determined I can be."

Rio winked at you. She was busy, she had to go. She chose to leave you with just a hint of satisfaction.

"Oh, and the book., It is waiting for you."

____

Rio was right. You had to concentrate on your work. Exhibit was approaching, your input was needed. You were spending more and more time with the remains of the old times. You were spending more and more time with that damned book. Those runes were not known to you. As the symbols. Looked like an interpretation of the maiden-mother-crone myth, but there was a green halo around them.

"You need coffee."

That wasn't a question. With Rio nothing was.

"Thanks." You took a sip "Oh, double espresso. How did you know?"

"Had a feeling, you like it... intense."

"Sure."

"So..." Rio nudged your shoulder to get all the attention she always required. "How is this thing going?"

"Good."

"And this?" She pointed at the book.

"Waiting for the answer from a few colleges."

"Well, I'm sure the answer is going to be fascination. But..." She took your phone and bag without asking. "you need to be someplace else."

___

Why did you even let her command? You just blinked and suddenly you were near an old theater.

"Magic show?"

Rio had tickets for the first row.

"What can I say? I was always fond of illusions."

It was noticeable. She was cheering even for the simplest tricks. She adored theatricality and tension. Except for maybe the tricks that involved cheating death. Yeah, Rio huffed in annoyance a few times.

"Well, this is not how I expected my evening to go."

Street was completely silent. You and Rio were the only ones who decided to enjoy the autumn night.

"I can tell you how all the tricks worked."

Oh, for sure Rio knew.

"It's your hobby?"

"Let's say, I've seen these shows quite a few times."

"That would destroy all the magic part of the performance, don't you think?"

Rio stopped, snapped her fingers and in the other hand a flower appeared.

"Oh, you're smooth." You laughed at the present. "So, you're into tricks."

"No, I'm more into magic."

______

It was a book of protective spells. It was supposed to save from evil and wrong, from hungry and desperate. And not protect, it was supposed to hide from the sight of darkness. Someone was supposed to be hidden in the blood of the killed. You spend hours trying to find the recipient of this protection.

"Well, that's an interesting observation." Rio put her legs on the table. You were having a dinner at your office. "Amazing."

"I'm glad you're happy with my research."

"I truly am. Do you know how those spells are supposed to be activated."

"I assume by the blood of the protected."

"Yeah, guess it could work." Rio shrugged. "Witches were never that imaginative."

It became some kind of a routine. At the beginning you didn't see Rio at all. But now she was always near. With lunches, coffees, books and affection. And whatever she was calling magic.

Rarely you could feel comfortable with someone so close. For years you preferred to be on your own. It just never clicked with anyone. But Rio... she knew you. Your tastes, your dreams, your desires. Her affection was a given, just a fact that you stumbled into. It was a weird feeling. Like you were continuing to live something you never had.

____

"I don't think you're doing it right."

You could feel Rio was close. Her hair was almost tickling your neck. There was no need for her to stay right behind you. But it apparently was the best spot to watch you translating the text.

"You're being a little distractive, Rio."

"How? I'm helping. This sign here. It clearly doesn't mean death."

"Well, that's a woman with a skull instead of a face."

"I'd say she's more about the natural order of things.'

"Maybe."

___

You were working more, you were sleeping less. You were distracted. Your dreams changed, in them you could freely read the spells. Voices without purpose were helping you. Sometimes even Rio couldn't have you all for herself.

"I brought you something."

"Huh?"

Rio was holding a dagger. Black stones, same runes.

"Just don't play with it often."

"Where did you get this?"

"It was here all the time. Kinda lost in the mess."

"Yeah."

You didn't care whether she was lying or not. Was it the other part of the story? Was it the threat or help?

You took it. Heavy with cold and sharp with pain it fit your hand properly.

"Every witch was supposed to have such a dagger." Rio took the knife. "Usually it was carved with the symbols of a greater entity, You know for protection."

She was holding your hand, caressing the palm with the cold of a steel. Still dangerous, still deadly. You didn't dare to look at her movements.

"And what entity protected this blade?"

"I think you know. You read the spells."

You could feel your skin almost succumbing to the blade. But it was so much more unbearable to have Rio so close. She was the perfection itself. You didn't care about the blade, you leaned into her.

"Fuck." you muttered under your breath. But it was too late. Your blood was spilled.

You were her prey, Rio pushed and you and the blade cut deeper, but you didn't care. She was kissing you, she was hurting you.

Dagger fell on the floor. Without breaking the kiss Rio guided your hands to the support of the table. Your wound touched the book.

Suddenly the pain shot through your whole body. You wanted to scream, but Rio didn't let you. Holding you, making you feel her passion, brunette was only deepening the kiss.

You opened your eyes. The room was on fire. Games of the primal flame were everywhere. Everything was melting away. Instead another reality was forming.

You groaned into the kiss. It was familiar. It took all the strength you had to push Rio away. She was breathing heavily.

"What the..." you looked at your palm. It was healed. "What... what happened..."

Those voices were right. Rio. It was all because of Rio.

"It was the only way..."

Her voice was trembling. You heard this already. Her plea, her apology.

"I know you." You took the book from the table. Now those spells made sense. "Rio Vidal."

"I thought... " She was choking on her regret and doubt. "I thought I wouldn't be able to find you."

"I remember..."

Rio gently touched your cheek. You didn't feel it. Suddenly there was a wall with the thickness of centuries.

"My love..."

"It was always you, wasn't it?" Your fingers were tingling. "You were always the reason."

"I don't..."

"They died because of you."

"What? No."

You grabbed her wrist. You were strong, stronger than you remembered. Purple magic was pouring from your veins. It didn't let Rio move.

"Because of you all those people were dead. You attacked innocents."

"No."

"My coven tried to hunt you. And in return you destroyed others."

'"No, no, no. These are not your memories. It's an illusion your coven gave you."

You pushed her. Rio was the plague. You remembered it. Your sisters warned you.

"I will banish you from here."

Rio didn't even think about defending herself. She needed to let you be closer.

You grabbed her by the throat. Rio only obeyed. You needed to cut out her black heart.

You waved and the dagger appeared in your hand. You were calling for your weapon. It returned to the magic that created it. But the second you were ready to swing, it burned you.

You were holding the same knife Rio gave you. It wasn't possible. Your enemy was protecting you.

"No. It's not true..."

Yes, you didn't remember. But what if... you were holding a piece of your old life. Rio was in every cell of your body. How long were you like this? How long were you far from her? You were still washed over by hate. But not because of Rio. No, you couldn't hurt her.

"I can help you..."

You shook your head in disbelief and disappeared in purple smoke.

_____

You didn't know where to go. The life you remembered wasn't yours, just as a life you were living for the last who knew how many years.

Your sisters betrayed you, they were not the only ones. Such strong magic required the assistance of the sorcerer supreme.

It doesn't matter what you were thinking about, you always were coming back to Rio. She saved you, she broke the spell. But if she was the one lying. What if she forged the blade? No, no, not possible. Not your Rio. Your Rio? What these weeks meant for you? Were you in love?

Not only your head, your blood was boiling with magic. You forgot this feeling. You were trying to control the shaking in your hands but it was just getting worse.

"Rio." you whispered.

"Yes, my love."

She appeared in front of you. Her crown was glowing in the dark. No point in playing pretend anymore.

"This blade belongs to me."

Rio nodded.

"You're the entity that is protecting me."

Nod again.

"What happened?"

"They wanted to separate us. They were afraid that you would have special treatment. And with that become too powerful for them to handle."

"Special treatment?"

"Yes." Rio hesitated. "You were the only one who could have my... favor."

"I don't understand."

"You could be invincible. I wouldn't let anything happen to you. You were one of the more powerful wielders of magic. And that was a dangerous combination. So they hid you. Sealed you in the book. It took me centuries to find you."

Your heart was aching. If it was true, your life was taken by those whom you considered family.

"And we..." You blinked away a memory. "Did we ever have a garden?"

"Oh, yes." Rio dared to come closer. "I created a pocket dimension for us. Just us. We could do whatever we wanted."

"I also remember that Rio is not your only name."

She was dreading this moment. For her only hope was left. But for you it was finally the beginning. Not the memories, but affection was guiding you. All those memories of Rio's betrayal. You had to trust your heart. Hate wasn't yours, it wasn't real.

 Yes, it was the truth. It was always Rio. The only thing you wanted was for her to be your reason for existence. And it only could be explained with memories that you couldn't fathom.

You were gravitating towards her. It was easier for you to believe in the ghost of ancient love than lose Rio. Your Rio.

"No, it's not."

For the first time Rio wasn't looking you in the eyes. You had to lift her chin. She was barely breathing, she was barely even functioning, waiting for your sentence. Regal entity reduced to a mortal.

"I'm in love with Rio, but Lady Death..." You pulled her into a kiss. This time your powers entwined with the glow being almost unbearable to be around. "...is a part of me."

"I will help you remember. I will help you return everything they've stolen from you."

"Oh yes." You smiled into her skin. "Right after I punish those who separated us."

[heartlogan]

the story ends

✮— logan x f!reader (set in xmen days of future past)

✮— summary: the day that logan lost you

✮— a/n: again, only my second time writing for logan so be gentle pls, i specialise in angst but this isn’t my best </3 (also, could be connected to all coming back to me — my first logan fic. no reading order!)

✮— warnings: probably ooc! MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, depictions of dying, it’s set in the original timeline so it is sad, talk of loss and death, one (1) moment of affection, major angst, guilt, sentinels, canon typical violence, & gore (ish, but to be safe), BLOOD, pronoun ‘she’ used, unspecified mutant reader, lmk if theres more!

MASTERLIST

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

There are so many things you had lived to regret in your life, so many things that you had dwindled on instead of simply moving forwards. And in the end, none of it had ever mattered. No matter what you had or hadn’t done, life had led you here — to the very end of the world.

You hadn’t fought in wars like Logan had, weren’t used to the brutality of it all. Fighting, and battles, all of that you were familiar with. But not this. This was on another level.

The X-Men had been helpless to fight against this, unable to resist such a tidal wave of hatred and murder. The Sentinels had destroyed so many of your kind already, that there were barely any of you left to fight anyway. And those of you who had lived through the initial slaughters had been scattered across the globe, made to search for one another while constantly trying to evade those seeking n you out to kill you.

It was exhausting. All of it. And it wasn’t only you who felt that way — those remaining were all tired. Tired of the constant movement, tired of the constant loss, tired of the neverending chase. You could see it on everyone’s faces — Charles looked as bad as you had ever seen him, struggling to cope with the loss of almost all of his students. And Ororo, you could tell, was fighting to hold herself together. She had lost too many people, too many friends. Magneto was no stranger to loss, especially like this, but it was written all over him, too.

And there was Logan.

Logan who, in all the time you had known him, had never stopped fighting. For all of that to be in vain was clawing at him, tearing him down. There was a new age to him, and you weren’t talking about the grey hairs that seeped from his temples. He seemed far too old to still be fighting, to still spend every living moment trying to stay alive, trying to keep those he cared about safe. Everyone had lost so much since the Sentinels appeared.

“How much longer do you think we can stay here?” You asked Storm, gazing out at the sky ahead of you, glancing back towards the jet that was stood on the makeshift runway. She stayed quiet long enough for you to grow concerned and look her way, and you saw the unease to her stance. “We need to leave, don’t we?”

“It’s not safe.” She replied distantly, looking out towards the cloudy sky. Your brows furrowed instantly, and you turned to look at the clouds once more.

“Nowhere is safe, Ororo.” You stated firmly, trying not to let the emotion betray you in your voice. She seemed to come back to herself at your words, and you just about registered her turning to look at you. You hadn’t said anything that she didn’t already know to be true, but still, the delivery of the fact left her with a stinging feeling in her chest. An aching sort of pain, a longing for a home that none of you could ever return to.

She thought of the mansion, and tried to force her way past the memories of it torn apart, destroyed. It was easy to forget, in times like these, exactly how things had been before. But Storm could practically envision it all in her mind, the bustling halls between classes, the crackle of fire as the adults shared a drink after a rough battle, the constant noise of mutants embracing their powers.

That was meant to be a mutant safe haven, and it was gone. She knew you were right — nowhere was safe for your kind, not anymore.

“I know.”

You let her words settle, and chose to linger and look at the view, even as Storm turned and made her way back to the plane.

Admittedly, the view wasn’t much, but it was nice to see the sky without a plane of glass in the way. All of you spent so much time inside the jet now, barely able to land without Sentinels descending upon you. It was somewhat safer in the sky, although there had been some close calls.

The wind whistled in your ears, a welcome breath against your skin, and you easily preferred this to the way it usually whipped against the side of the jet.

You heard the shuffle of feet in your direction before you felt his presence, a warm hand coming to rest on the small of your back. It was soothing, warming you up as you let the cold breeze surround you.

“‘S almost time to go,” Logan told you, speaking quietly. His gruff voice still sent shivers down your spine, despite his warm hand on your back. He turned to look down at you after a second, eyes scanning over the entirety of you, analysing. “You ready?” He asked after another moment, knowing you always tried to take in as much of the fresh air as you could.

“I’ll just be a sec.” You responded calmly, breathing in deeply, finding comfort in the way his palm moved with your body. When he didn’t move, you turned to look at him, finding him still watching you. Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile at his loving gaze, albeit somewhat weakly. You placed a hand on the side of his face, brows creasing. “Everything okay, Logan?” You asked, concerned, because he seemed off, even though everything in the world was off. It was something more than that.

He nodded as your thumb stroked his cheekbone, trying to provide some amount of comfort in a world where comfort didn’t exist.

“I’ll wait with you.”

You smiled, trailing your hand down from his face until you reached his own palm, which you gripped tightly.

Slowly, you noticed the sun beginning to shine on the horizon. You knew you needed to be gone before it had risen fully. “Don’t worry, I’m right behind you.” You said reassuringly, tilting your head and squeezing his palm tightly at his uncertain look. “Promise.” You added, and he hesitated for a moment longer, before turning away, squeezing your hand once in return before he let it go fully.

He seemed reluctant to leave your side, even as he walked away. You shook your head, grinning softly, glad for the few good things you had left in your life. Logan was everything to you — he had been for more than a few years.

You took one more glance at the rising sun, before turning away, ready to head after Logan. But then your head tilted, brows furrowing in confusion. There was a buzzing feeling in your hands, your heart speeding up its pace, and you looked around in concern.

That was when you saw it — the Sentinel heading straight for the jet on the right.

Ororo was closest, and she hadn’t seen it yet.

“Storm! On your right!” You yelled, desperation leaking into your voice as you watched her spin, finally noticing the murder bot creeping up on her. Even from this distance, you could see the way her eyes went white, lighting up as the wind picked up suddenly, rain slowly starting to leech from the clouds above that were quickly multiplying with the force of Storm’s power.

You couldn’t breathe a sigh of relief as she struck it with lightning, summoning winds to throw it over the edge of the cliff side, because you knew it wasn’t over — more were coming, if they weren’t already here.

Starting towards Logan, you only just registered the way his eyes widened and he moved towards you before it dawned on you.

You hadn’t checked your six.

Before you could even turn, you felt it.

When you looked down, you saw the Sentinel spearing you through the stomach, the wound far too big to comprehend.

Blood was tickling the back of your throat, and you couldn’t even swallow around it. It was too late, you noticed distantly, as you looked towards where Logan was trying to get to you, seeming as though he was moving in slow motion.

The Sentinel ripped its limb from your body, and your knees buckled, sending you to the ground.

It was a very far away realisation, the fact that you would die here, in mere moments. Instead, your main focus was Logan, watching the anguish and denial plaster his face. You barely heard the other Sentinels rising from the cliff side behind you, but you knew they were there.

And you knew that the others knew it too.

Storm had made her way towards Logan, and you hadn’t even noticed how close she was to him before then. She must’ve noticed the Sentinel approaching you at the same time he had. Her face was painted with grief, evident in every crease of her expression, in the very way she moved. She placed her palms against Logan’s chest, and pushed.

“Logan, it’s too late. Please. It’s too late. We need to go.” Ororo begged, her voice shaking with every word that left her mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to look at you, to see the blood that had started trickling from the corners of your mouth, painting your skin. She didn’t want to see the life leave your eyes.

“Logan!” Charles’ voice raised, trying to be heard over Storm’s power. Logan hadn’t even heard his wheelchair in the jet, too focused on the way you looked at him, your eyes dimming with every moment he couldn’t get to you.

He felt Erik before he had even realised the man had descended the ramp, felt the pull of his powers. The way he forced Logan’s skeleton to bend to his will, to step away from you. From the love of his life. The only thing he had managed to keep hold of in this apocalyptic world.

“No, no, no, no,” Logan begged, yelling for you, waiting for you to snap out of it, to just get up. “C’mon! C’mon, get up!” He yelled, trying to push against Erik’s power, but finding he couldn’t even take another step towards you. He felt Storm push harder on his chest, but he didn’t notice, too busy watching the way your head tilted, your eyes glassy, the way your lips lifted at the edges, showing just a flash of bloody teeth. You smiled at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Storm said, as Erik finally managed to pull Logan some steps back, going up the ramp.

It was the hardest Logan had ever fought against his power, which made lifting the plane simultaneously all the more difficult. But Erik focused his mind, pulling the plane from the ground as Storm finally released Logan to press the button to lift the ramp.

“She’s gone, Logan.” Charles said sadly, feeling the way your consciousness drifted from his grasp.

Logan just caught the slump of your body to the ground through the swarm of Sentinels as the ramp closed fully. Erik allowed him to fall to his knees when he realised he had stopped fighting, but kept a loose grip on the adamantium in his skeleton out of fear that he might tear apart the plane to get to your body.

A sullen silence took over the jet, everybody resigned to loss by now, but for Logan this was different. He stared at the ramp, unable to get the image of your empty eyes out of his mind. Your body, slumped on the ground, left there to rot.

And all he could think was that if he had only stayed with you, you might still be here. If it weren’t for him, you might be alive.

[rappaccini]

do we need to like. talk. about how grrm taking so long to complete asoiaf means the original subversion of daenerys targaryen's character has been basically lost.

because aside from the show massively fucking the ending up, you also have to consider the seismic shift of the perception of fantasy as a whole since asoiaf hit the mainstream and since more intersectional perspectives and deconstructions of white saviorism have risen in prominence.

like it's a good thing that we're collectively critiquing and sideeying dany's storyline for the questionable, orientalist and often outright racist elements, and that the girlboss dany idea is being challenged. but uh guys. take a look at grrm. do you really think he was setting out to write a paul atreides style deconstruction of white saviorism with dany. or is it not more likely that he put those things into his story by mistake and didn't realize those problematic elements were there until decades later-- especially since girlboss feminism didn't fucking exist when he started writing asoiaf. is it not more likely that he missed the points he was trying to make about dany being a foreigner interfering in eastern politics and the white savior vibe her story sometimes puts off is completely accidental.

people do not seem to realize what the climate of fantasy was when grrm was writing asoiaf in the 90s-00s. the moral grays and grimdark elements of modern fantasy were in part popularized by asoiaf. grrm wasn't subverting the idea of dany being a good ruler. dany being a good ruler was the subversion.

daenerys targaryen is a deconstruction and subversion of the almost comically evil sorceress-queen antagonist of a fantasy novel that would never be written today.

think through what dany looks like from the outside:

she's the daughter of the mad incestuous king who terrorized westeros only a generation ago, and she's back to get his throne for herself.

she's going to make her arrival by invading from the Savage East and killing the one true lost heir, the son of the prince everyone loves and wishes were king, who was raised among the people, who's a boy, who practices the faith of the seven and will marry a westerosi lady. and she's going to destroy the shining city that he's going to rule from.

she rides a black and red dragon that spits black and red fire. she has two other dragons with her and used blood magic to hatch them. she killed a house full of warlocks, has prophetic dreams, talks to mysterious sorcerers and witches and is linked with magic.

she comes from a family of incestuous, weird-looking, magic-using, dragon-riding conquerors who are the last survivors of an empire that conquered half the world and decimated and enslaved an entire continent by using dark magic, dragons and horrifying experiments. and her family in particular is infamous for having a tendency to go insane.

she's so beautiful men are throwing themselves at her. she dominated one husband and killed another. her dragon set poor sweet quentyn martell on fire when all he was doing was trying to honor a betrothal agreement. she has sex with both men and women where she's in control of the encounters. she had a sexual relationship with her brother*. she 'bewitched' the most powerful warlord in essos with her sexuality, convinced him to kill her brother for her, took over his following, and will come to westeros with control of the most deadly cavalry in the world who are already considered to be 'savages' -- and her association with them has already started rumors that she fucks horses because she's so insatiable.

she's infertile and sacrificed her one pregnancy (gasp, the Firstborn Son!) to hatch her dragons.

kinslayer allegations: her brother, her son, and her (fake) nephew. even her mother, to an extent.

she has very tanned skin, spooky silver hair (that's very short) and purple eyes, a tyroshi accent and wears revealing clothing that would scandalize westerosis.

she's the savior figure for a Foreign Religion that's spreading in westeros and competing with the faith of the seven.

she's either the savior figure for the 'barbarian' nomadic raiders, or the mother of their prophesized savior.

she's leading an army of foreign (brown) slave soldiers, sellswords and 'barbarians.' she's being advised by foreigners. her handmaids aren't Nice Noble Girls-- they're nomadic horsewomen who are stereotyped as unmannered and promiscuous.

and the westerosis in her camp are the ones westeros hates: pirates that just destroyed oldtown, westeros's beloved center of trade, faith and knowledge. specifically euron, who wants to marry her. the dwarf that killed king joffrey and escaped and is now back because he wants to burn down king's landing. an ugly westerosi lord from backwater bear isle who was banished for selling slaves. a westerosi knight who refused to accept the king's wishes for him to retire and ran off to serve the opposition... and probably marwyn, a controversial maester.

she destroyed the essosi economy, has sacked multiple cities, turned the ruling class out of their homes, crucified a bunch of nobles, and will probably burn the volantene tower full of nobles on her way west.

she's a woman, specifically a teenage girl, who has power in her own right, who wants to claim more of it. and who has no more powerful man to answer to.

(*edit: k this keeps coming up so i’ll clarify— yes, viserys was abusing dany. i’m not phrasing it as a ‘sexual relationship’ because i’m denying that. i’m phrasing it that way because of how it would be perceived to outsiders, the way all these other bulletpoints are being phrased. context, people.)

daenerys is the embodiment of everything westeros hates and fears to such an extent that even if she does everything right, or doesn't do anything at all, westeros will never accept her.

we spent five books following dany off on her own in essos because that plotline's all about giving you context before she arrives: here's the Evil Queen's backstory, so by the time she does what she does, the reader completely understands and empathizes with her, even if they disagree with her actions. and when all our heroes hate her, and she decides to strip them of their power like she did in essos with the slavers, we don't know what to do.

the subversion is: what if our view of this evil antagonist is xenophobic and sexist, and all the things we're scared of her for were taken out of context or twisted to villainize her. what if the foreign culture she's from isn't evil, and what if her slave army is actually freedmen who chose to follow her, and she opposes the legacy of slavery her family sources their power from. what if she's 'mad' because she's understandably angry and upset, and not ~craaazy~. what if the nobles she was killing deserved it, what if the system they depend on was evil and deserved to be destroyed. what if our system that we've been fighting to preserve isn't much better and needs to go too, even if People We Like are in charge of it. what if she's a teenager who doesn't always make the right decisions, especially when much older adults with their own motives are manipulating her.

the subversion is: what if the evil sorceress-queen who's going to invade our wonderful fantasy realm and bring all her big bad scary changes with it is a complex person with good intentions who actually has a completely legitimate reason to burn it all down.

so if dany genuinely does go evil when she gets to westeros... there's no subversion anymore because the trope is played straight. therefore, she won't. but it won't even matter. we'll know that dany isn't a monster, but nobody else will see her that way.

[thebisexualdogdad]

One Piece preferences - how they tell you that they like you (GN!reader)

Luffy -

● Luffy is not one for shame or embarrassment yet he's always nervous around you

● he always awkwardly rambles when you're near him

● and he even asks if you want the last bite of food before he takes it for himself like usual

● he goes to Usopp first for advice which Sanji and Zoro overhears and tells him to ignore Usopp's terrible advice and listen to them instead

● which then Nami overhears and calls them all idiots and gives Luffy actually good advice

● Luffy finally tells you he likes you but rambles again while talking so you kiss him to shut him up

Nami -

● she doesn't

● you have to make the first move

● even when you do tell her you like her she makes you work for it

● "I'll go out with you when we find the one piece"

● "I'm holding you to that"

● a couple months later when she thinks you've proven yourself she sets two plates of food in front of you guys

● "what's this?"

● "we're on a date"

● "I thought you weren't going to go out with me until we found the one piece?"

● "I changed my mind now start eating before I change it again"

Sanji -

● He is very confident and makes it known he likes you the moment you meet

● He flirts with you the entire time you're eating in the baratie

● "Anything else I can get for you cutie? I've been told I make a mighty fine dessert, that is unless you want me for dessert instead"

● "just the check please sweet talker"

● he brings the check to you with his number written on the bottom

● "just so you know I do accept tips in the form of a date"

Zoro -

● no matter how much Luffy points out to Zoro that he likes you he refuses to acknowledge his feelings for you

● It's not until you get critically hurt in a fight that he finally admits to himself that he likes you

● you've been unconscious for days and he never leaves your side while you're recovering

● you wake up to him sitting at your bedside and you've never seen him look this worried

● "thank God I thought I lost you"

● "you saying you care about me Zoro?"

● "yes Y/N, I care you about you a lot so please don't do that to me again"

Usopp -

● always brings you flowers and little trinkets

● "I saw this in town and thought you'd like it"

● names one of his slingshot moves after you

● all around gentleman trying to woo you

● Zoro "you know he likes you right"

● "of course I know, I just think it's sweet how hard he tries"

● the first time you kiss him on the cheek to thank him for your gift he blushes so hard and nearly faints

● he goes around proudly telling everyone that you kissed him and that he's your boyfriend now

Buggy -

● puts on an entire show for you

● pulling out all of his best jokes and stunts

● making the crowd cheer extra hard

● he does a huge speech throughout the entire performance about how you two could conquer the world together

● and how he needs you by his side to be the best pirate he can be

● for his final trick he uses his powers to send his hand up to you with a bouquet of flowers

● "what do you say Y/N? Want to be my co captain?"

Shanks -

● whenever he's in town he tells you stories of his adventures over drinks at the bar

● and always gives you part of his treasure that his crew found on their recent voyage as gifts

● "You're really giving me this? Do you know how valuable it is?"

● "There's no treasure in this world that I value more than you"

● "well Shanks it sounds like you're trying to tell me that you like me"

● "I would travel the entire ocean for you my dear Y/N and I would love if you joined me on my next adventure"

Mihawk-

● Literally kills a guy for you

● you're complaining about some jerk you ran into at the bar

● he mumbles "he shall pay for disrespecting my Y/N" and excuses himself

● he returns a little bit later with the guys decapitated head in his hand and blood on his shirt

● "you said you had a problem with this guy so I killed him in your honor"

● "Oh thats… sweet"

● "I knew you'd be impressed. So, dinner?"

Cabaji -

● always tries to look cool in front of you

● doing tricks on his unicycle

● like riding it through a flaming hoop

● or having you stand on his shoulders while he cycles around the ring

● or putting someone on the spinning wheel and throwing knives at them landing impossibly close to their skin

● "that was cool wasn't it Y/N"

● "sure was Cabaji"

● "So what do you say you and I get drinks together sometime?"

[filmsmakkari]

the tale of a princess and her fair lady

rhaenyra targaryen x velaryon!reader

Summary: The daughter of House Velaryon makes a promise to her princess

CW: None!

A/N- I have not written and published a fanfiction since I was 14... bare with and pray for me.

The chamber was silent as a young girl with silver hair knelt before hundreds of candles beneath the stained-glass windows of the starry sept. Though she had never been a believer in gods and myths before, her love and worry filled her so deeply at present that she was brought to her knees in prayer.

Lady (Y/N) of House Velaryon had been in love with Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen for the better half of a year. They’d known each other since childhood and had always been quite close. Being the only two daughters of the great Valyrian houses in the Red Keep, they’d always felt that no one could understand them as well as each other. Their relationship, which had always toed the line between platonic and romantic, had turned into an unadulterated love affair the day Rhaenyra realized that her disdain for marriage to a man had never truly been about marriage, but more so the man.

Ever since, (Y/N) and Rhaenyra had been living in pure bliss, catching each other’s eye, walking with linked arms in public, and worshiping each other’s bodies during those private moments brought on by the cover of night. In recent days, however, the girls have been slightly at odds with each other, as (Y/N)’s parents have posed a potential marriage between Lady (Y/N) and King Viserys to strengthen the realm. Rhaenyra had hardly been able to look at her lover as she could soon become her stepmother, and she didn’t want it to be more painful by prolonging their relationship until the moment (Y/N) stood at the altar.

On this day, the 13th of the eighth moon, the princess had taken a most dangerous risk in flying to her family’s seat of power, Dragonstone, to subdue her wretched uncle Daemon, who had been squatting there for a year and who had just stolen a dragon egg for his unborn bastard child. (Y/N) had gotten wind of these plans and miraculously arrived at the dragonpit just before Rhaenyra took flight. (Y/N) had implored her princess to be safe, telling her that she would not know what to do if anything happened to her. Rhaenyra, overcome by the love and emotion she had been repressing, could not think of anything else to do but cup (Y/N)'s cheeks and pull her into a kiss. (Y/N)'s eyes widened in shock for a moment, but she quickly got over it, placing her hand on Rhaenyra’s cheek and wrapping her free arm around her waist.

How lovely that kiss was, (Y/N) sighed, remembering it. Rhaenyra had left after their lips broke, and (Y/N) had been in the sept worrying ever since. Eyes closed, she murmured promises to the seven that she would never sin again if Rhaenyra was protected.

Upon hearing a familiar voice softly calling her name, (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered open. She quickly turned her head to see none other than Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her princess. The purest love in her life. Her everything.

(Y/N) ran to her lover, immediately cupping her face and kissing her fiercely. Rhaenyra met (Y/N) with the same passion, grabbing her tightly by her waist and pulling her closer. 

Two dragons burning together under the midnight sky. 

The kiss communicated everything they had been too afraid to say. “I’m sorry.” “I miss you.” “I need you.” “I love you.”

The two girls finally broke apart for air, giggling shyly in the throes of their young love. 

Suddenly serious, Rhaenyra looked deeply into (Y/N)’s eyes. A pure shade of violet only found in those with the true blood of Old Valyria, with little flecks of blue- a trait passed down from her seafaring ancestors. She then scanned (Y/N)’s entire body, her shimmering silver hair, braided at the top, loosening into long coils past her backside—the curves of her breasts and hips, the softness of her hands, and the way her brown skin shone in the moonlight.

“A true Valyrian goddess, you are,” she said.

(Y/N) looked down shyly at the compliment. Rhaenyra lifted (Y/N)’s chin with her finger and stepped closer, leaning her forehead against hers. A moment of sweetness and intimacy. 

“Kivio naejot sagon rūsīr issa va moriot,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “Dōrī jorrāelagon mirre tolie hae ao jorrāelagon issa.”

Swear to be with me always. Never love any other as you love me.

(Y/N) exhaled. “Oh, issa dārilaros. Nyke kivio, jaehossi uēpossi arlȳssī."

Oh, my princess. I swear, by the old gods and the new.